AI-Generated Graded Readers Masaru Uchida, Gifu University Publication webpage: https://www1.gifu-u.ac.jp/~masaru/a1/ai-generated_graded_readers.html Publication date: March 6, 2026 About This Edition This book is a simplified English adaptation created for extensive reading practice. The text was translated from modern Japanese into English and simplified using ChatGPT for intermediate English learners as part of an educational project. Target reading level: CEFR A2-B1 The adaptation aims to improve readability while preserving the narrative content and spirit of the original work. Source Text Original work: Genji Monogatari (源氏物語) Author: Murasaki Shikibu (紫式部) Modern Japanese Translation: Yosano Akiko (与謝野晶子) Source: Aozora Bunko (青空文庫) https://www.aozora.gr.jp/ Original Japanese text available at: https://www.aozora.gr.jp/index_pages/person52.html Both the original work and its modern Japanese translation are in the public domain in Japan. Copyright and Use This simplified English edition is an educational adaptation intended for non-commercial use only. The source text is provided by Aozora Bunko, a digital library that makes Japanese public domain literature freely available. For information about Aozora Bunko and its usage policies, see: https://www.aozora.gr.jp/guide/kijyunn.html This edition is an AI-assisted translation and simplification prepared for educational purposes. Disclaimer This edition is an independent educational adaptation and is not affiliated with or endorsed by Aozora Bunko.

Murasaki Shikibu, The Tale of Genji (Modern Japanese Translation by Yosano Akiko; Simplified English Edition by ChatGPT)

Contents

Chapter 1: Kiritsubo (桐壺)
Chapter 2: Hahakigi (帚木)
Chapter 3: Utsusemi (空蝉)
Chapter 4: Yūgao (夕顔)
Chapter 5: Wakamurasaki (若紫)
Chapter 6: Suetsumuhana (末摘花)
Chapter 7: Momiji no Ga (紅葉賀)
Chapter 8: Hana no En (花宴)
Chapter 9: Aoi (葵)
Chapter 10: Sakaki (賢木)
Chapter 11: Hana Chiru Sato (花散里)
Chapter 12: Suma (須磨)
Chapter 13: Akashi (明石)
Chapter 14: Miotsukushi (澪標)
Chapter 15: Yomogiu (蓬生)
Chapter 16: Sekiya (関屋)
Chapter 17: E Awase (絵合)
Chapter 18: Matsukaze (松風)
Chapter 19: Usugumo (薄雲)
Chapter 20: Asagao (朝顔)
Chapter 21: Otome (乙女)
Chapter 22: Tamakazura (玉鬘)
Chapter 23: Hatsune (初音)
Chapter 24: Kochō (胡蝶)
Chapter 25: Hotaru (螢)
Chapter 26: Tokonatsu (常夏)
Chapter 27: Kagaribi (篝火)
Chapter 28: Nowaki (野分)
Chapter 29: Miyuki (行幸)
Chapter 30: Fujibakama (藤袴)
Chapter 31: Makibashira (真木柱)
Chapter 32: Umegae (梅枝)
Chapter 33: Fuji no Uraba (藤裏葉)
Chapter 34: Wakana: Jō (若菜 上)
Chapter 35: Wakana: Ge (若菜 下)
Chapter 36: Kashiwagi (柏木)
Chapter 37: Yokobue (横笛)
Chapter 38: Suzumushi (鈴虫)
Chapter 39: Yūgiri (夕霧)
Chapter 40: Minori (御法)
Chapter 41: Maboroshi (幻)
　 [Kumogakure (雲隠)]
Chapter 42: Niō Miya (匂宮)
Chapter 43: Kōbai (紅梅)
Chapter 44: Takekawa (竹河)
Chapter 45: Hashihime (橋姫)
Chapter 46: Shii ga Moto (椎本)
Chapter 47: Agemaki (総角)
Chapter 48: Sawarabi (早蕨)
Chapter 49: Yadorigi (宿木)
Chapter 50: Azumaya (東屋)
Chapter 51: Ukifune (浮舟)
Chapter 52: Kagerō (蜻蛉)
Chapter 53: Tenarai (手習)
Chapter 54: Yume no Ukihashi (夢浮橋)

 
Chapter 1: Kiritsubo (桐壺)

Part 1

　Long ago, in a time far before our own, there lived an emperor. It is difficult to say exactly which emperor he was, because many years have passed since that age. The palace of the emperor was full of noble ladies. Some were called Nyogo, and some were called Koi. All of them lived in the inner palace and served the emperor.
　Among these many ladies there was one woman who was loved more deeply than the others. She was not from the most powerful family in the land. Her father had once been a great noble, but he had already died. Because of this, she did not have strong support in the court. Even so, the emperor loved her very deeply.
　This love caused great trouble in the palace.
　The other ladies came from proud and powerful families. Their fathers and brothers held high offices in the government. When they entered the palace, they believed that they would receive the emperor’s love and honor. But when they saw how strongly the emperor cared for this one woman, their hearts became filled with anger and jealousy.
　Some of them spoke cold words about her. Others showed their dislike in quieter ways.
　When the emperor called the woman to his chambers at night, the other ladies noticed. When morning came and she left the emperor’s rooms, they noticed again. They saw everything, and they spoke about it among themselves. Their anger slowly grew stronger day by day.
　Because of this cruel atmosphere, the woman became weak in both body and heart.
　She was not a strong person. She often became ill. When the palace life became too painful, she sometimes returned to her mother’s house to rest. But when she left the palace, the emperor missed her deeply. As soon as she returned, he called for her again.
　The emperor cared very little about the criticism of others.
　The nobles of the court began to worry. Even the officials who served close to the emperor felt uneasy. They hoped that the emperor would soon realize how dangerous this situation was. For the moment, however, they chose to remain silent and pretend not to notice.
　People whispered stories from history.
　They spoke of a famous woman in China whose beauty had caused great trouble in the empire. Because of her, they said, a rebellion had begun and many lives had been lost. Some people feared that the same kind of disaster might happen again.
　These rumors reached every corner of the palace.
　Because of them, the woman lived in constant fear and sadness. Yet she had only one support in her life—the deep love of the emperor.
　Her father had been a great minister, but he had died long ago. Her mother, now a widow, was a wise and noble woman. She loved her daughter very much and tried her best to protect her. Even so, without powerful relatives in the court, the woman’s position remained weak.
　Then something very important happened.
　The woman gave birth to a son.
　The emperor was filled with joy when he heard this news. He wished to see the child as soon as possible. When the proper number of days had passed after the birth, the mother and her baby were brought back into the palace.
　The little prince was astonishingly beautiful.
　Anyone who looked at him felt surprise and admiration. His face was bright and gentle, and his eyes shone with unusual life.
　The emperor already had an older son. This first prince was born to another noble lady, the daughter of a powerful minister. Because of this strong family support, everyone believed that the first prince would become the future crown prince.
　Even so, people could not help noticing the difference between the two boys.
　The second prince—the child of the emperor’s beloved lady—was far more beautiful.
　The emperor treated the two children differently.
　The first prince was respected as the future ruler of the nation. But the second prince was loved deeply as the emperor’s personal treasure.
　The woman who had given birth to him was not originally meant to serve as a simple palace lady. She had been born into a noble family. She was graceful and refined. Yet because the emperor loved her so strongly, he often called her to remain near him.
　During music gatherings or court entertainments, she was the first person invited. Sometimes the emperor even kept her beside him through the night and into the following day.
　Because of this, people began to talk even more.
　After the birth of the prince, the emperor treated her with even greater honor. Some people began to wonder whether the emperor might one day choose her son instead of the first prince as the crown prince.
　This thought created new fear and anger.
　The mother of the first prince was especially troubled. She had entered the palace when the emperor was still young, and she had long believed that her son would inherit the throne. Although the emperor respected her position, he could not hide his love for the other woman.
　This situation caused deep tension inside the palace.
　The beloved lady lived in a small residence in the northeast corner of the palace grounds. The place was called Kiritsubo, the Pavilion of the Paulownia.
　To reach this building, the emperor had to pass near the residences of many other ladies. Every time he visited Kiritsubo, the others saw him.
　This only increased their jealousy.
　Sometimes cruel tricks were played.
　Doors along the corridors were suddenly locked so that the lady’s attendants could not pass. At other times, hidden obstacles were placed along the bridges and walkways. The robes of the attendants were torn, and they returned in shame.
　These acts were small, but they happened again and again.
　The suffering slowly crushed the lady’s spirit.
　When the emperor saw how unhappy she had become, his heart filled with pity. He decided to move another lady from a nearby residence and give that building to the lady of Kiritsubo as a resting place.
　This act only created more anger in the palace.
　The displaced lady felt deep resentment, and the other women spoke even more bitterly than before.
　Years passed.
　When the young prince reached the age of three, a ceremony was held to mark his first wearing of formal trousers. The preparations were as grand as those that had been made earlier for the first prince.
　People again spoke critically about the emperor’s behavior.
　Yet when they looked at the boy, their hearts softened.
　The child was so beautiful and intelligent that no one could truly dislike him. Even the wisest people in the court wondered if such a child had ever been born before.
　But during that same summer, the prince’s mother fell ill.
　At first it seemed to be only a small sickness. She asked permission to return to her mother’s house to rest. The emperor did not wish her to leave.
　“Stay here and recover in the palace,” he said gently.
　Yet the illness grew worse.
　Within only a few days her condition became very serious. Her mother came to the palace, weeping, and begged the emperor to allow her daughter to return home.
　The emperor finally agreed.
　He feared that dark rumors and cruel magic might harm the child if both mother and son left the palace together. Therefore the little prince remained in the palace while his mother prepared to depart quietly.
　The emperor felt terrible sorrow.
　Because of his position, he could not even accompany her when she left.
　The lady, once bright and beautiful, had become terribly thin. Her face was pale with suffering. In her heart she felt endless sadness at the thought of leaving the emperor forever.
　Yet she spoke almost no words.
　That was her gentle nature.
　Seeing her in such a weak state, the emperor felt as if both the past and the future had suddenly become dark. He promised her many hopeful things for the future, but she was too weak to answer.
　At last he spoke again, his voice trembling.
　“You once promised that if death came, we would face it together. How can you leave me and go away alone?”
　The lady looked at him with deep sorrow.
　With the last strength in her body, she whispered a quiet poem about the sadness of parting.
　Her breath was weak, and she seemed unable to speak further.
　The emperor wished to keep her beside him until the end. But the priests had already prepared prayers for her recovery, and many people urged that she must leave the palace at once.
　At last, with great reluctance, the emperor allowed her to go.
　He did not yet know that this farewell would be their final meeting.

Part 2

　After the lady left the palace, the emperor felt a deep emptiness in his heart. He could not sleep that night. The palace rooms, which had once been filled with music and gentle voices, now seemed silent and cold. The emperor lay awake, thinking again and again about the moment when the lady had looked at him with her tired eyes.
　He sent a messenger to her house to ask about her condition. The emperor believed the messenger would return quickly with good news. Even while he waited, however, a strange fear grew inside him.
　The messenger returned before morning.
　When he entered the palace, his face was pale. He knelt before the emperor and spoke in a quiet voice.
　“During the night,” he said, “the lady passed away.”
　The emperor could hardly believe the words.
　For a long time he said nothing. His heart felt empty, as if the world itself had suddenly become distant. The people who served in the palace did not know how to comfort him. Many of them began to cry quietly.
　From that day forward, the emperor shut himself away.
　He remained in his rooms and rarely appeared before others. Yet one person still remained close to him—the little prince who had lost his mother.
　The emperor wished to keep the child near him at all times. But according to the customs of the court, a child whose mother had died could not remain in the palace during the period of mourning. Because of this rule, the young prince had to leave the palace and return to the house of his grandmother.
　The child did not yet understand what had happened.
　He saw many servants crying, and he saw tears on the emperor’s face. But he did not know that his mother would never return. The emperor held the boy gently and looked at him again and again, as if trying to see the face of the lost lady in the child’s features.
　Even a simple farewell between father and son can cause sadness. For the emperor, this moment felt almost unbearable.
　Soon the funeral rites began.
　The lady’s mother followed the funeral carriage with deep sorrow. She wept constantly and spoke again and again of her daughter. When they arrived at the place of cremation, she said that she wished she could enter the flames together with the body of her child.
　Her grief was so strong that the servants feared she might collapse.
　At that moment a messenger from the palace arrived.
　He carried an imperial order.
　The emperor had granted the lady a high court rank after her death. She was now honored with the title of Third Rank, a dignity usually given to the highest palace ladies.
　When the imperial messenger read the order aloud, the mother felt both sorrow and pain.
　Her daughter had received great honor—but only after death.
　While the lady had lived, she had not been given the title that her beauty and character deserved. The emperor now regretted this deeply. The new rank was his final act of love.
　Some people in the palace were angered by this honor. Their jealousy had not disappeared even after the lady’s death.
　Others felt ashamed of their past cruelty.
　They began to remember the gentle nature of the lady of Kiritsubo. They spoke quietly about her kindness, her soft voice, and her graceful behavior. Many of the palace attendants had truly loved her.
　Only now did they realize how precious she had been.
　Days passed, and the memorial ceremonies continued. Every seven days new prayers were offered for the peace of her spirit. Each time, the emperor sent gifts and offerings.
　But the emperor himself remained lost in sorrow.
　He no longer invited the other ladies of the palace to spend the night in his chambers. Morning and evening he lived only with his memories. Even the people who saw him from a distance felt sadness when they looked at his face.
　Yet not everyone shared this feeling.
　The proud lady of the Kokiden residence, the mother of the first prince, still felt jealousy in her heart.
　“Even after death,” she said bitterly, “that woman continues to disturb the peace of the palace.”
　The emperor, however, thought only of the child.
　He sent trusted servants to the house of the boy’s grandmother again and again. They were told to observe the child carefully and report everything.
　One evening, when autumn winds began to blow across the palace gardens, the emperor felt his loneliness more strongly than ever. The air had become cool, and the sound of insects filled the night.
　He decided to send a messenger.
　The woman he chose was called Myobu, a gentle and intelligent court lady. As the evening moon rose into the sky, she prepared to travel to the house where the child and his grandmother now lived.
　The moonlight was soft and beautiful, but the emperor felt no comfort from it.
　In earlier days, nights like this had been filled with music. The lady of Kiritsubo had often joined the gatherings. Her singing voice had been clear and beautiful, and the poems she composed had always touched the hearts of others.
　Now those memories returned again and again.
　Even when he closed his eyes, the emperor could see her face.
　Myobu finally arrived at the house of the late minister. The carriage entered through the gate and moved slowly into the quiet garden.
　At once she felt the sadness of the place.
　The house had once been carefully kept. The lady’s mother had taken great pride in maintaining its beauty for her daughter. But since the death of the young woman, everything had changed.
　The garden grass had grown long and wild. Fallen leaves lay scattered across the paths. The wind of the recent autumn storms had made the house seem lonely and neglected.
　Only the moonlight remained bright.
　The old mother came out to greet the messenger. For a moment she could not speak. Tears filled her eyes as soon as she saw the visitor from the palace.
　“At a time like this,” she said at last, “I should be ashamed to receive a messenger from the emperor. A mother who has lost her only child should not continue living.”
　Her voice broke, and she began to cry again.
　Myobu tried to comfort her.
　“Even a person like me,” she said gently, “cannot come here without feeling deep sorrow. The palace itself feels empty without your daughter.”
　After a moment she delivered the emperor’s message.
　“The emperor says that at first he felt as if everything were a dream. But as the days pass, his sorrow grows stronger. He wonders how he can live with such grief.”
　Myobu paused before continuing.
　“He wishes to see the young prince again soon. The child should not remain too long among people who are always mourning. If the boy returns to the palace, the emperor hopes that you will come with him.”
　The old mother listened carefully.
　“My heart is filled with gratitude for such kindness,” she said quietly. “But how could a woman like me appear again in the palace? My life has become only sorrow.”
　She continued speaking, though her voice often broke with tears.
　“The child loves his father and wishes to return. That is natural. If he enters the palace again, please tell the emperor that I will accept this decision with respect.”
　While they spoke, the young prince had already fallen asleep.
　Myobu wished to see him before leaving, but the night had grown very late. The emperor would be waiting anxiously for her return.
　Finally she prepared to leave.
　The autumn wind moved softly through the tall grass. The sound of insects filled the quiet night. For a moment it seemed impossible to depart from such a sad place.
　Yet the messenger had no choice.
　She stepped into the carriage and began the journey back to the palace, carrying with her the sorrow of the house she had just left.

Part 3

　The messenger Myobu returned to the palace late that night. The journey through the quiet streets had been long, and the autumn air felt cold against her face. When she arrived at the palace, she learned that the emperor had still not gone to sleep.
　He was sitting in one of the palace rooms that faced the garden.
　Several gentle and intelligent court ladies were with him. They were speaking quietly together while looking at the flowers in the garden, which were still blooming in the autumn night. The emperor seemed calm from a distance, but those who knew him well could see the deep sadness in his eyes.
　Recently he had spent many hours reading poems and stories.
　Most of these stories told of lovers who had been separated by death. Among them was a famous tale from China about Emperor Xuanzong and the beautiful Yang Guifei. The emperor of Japan read these poems again and again, as if they could somehow explain his own sorrow.
　When Myobu arrived, she knelt before him and reported everything she had seen.
　She described the quiet house of the dead lady. She spoke of the long grass in the garden and the loneliness of the place. She told the emperor about the old mother, whose life had become nothing but grief.
　The emperor listened carefully to every word.
　At times he turned his face away so that others would not see the tears in his eyes.
　Then Myobu gave him the letter that the old mother had sent.
　The emperor slowly opened it and began to read. The letter spoke of deep gratitude for the emperor’s kindness, but it also spoke of the endless sadness that filled the mother’s heart.
　She had even written a short poem.
　In the poem she compared herself to a small bush in a field after the strong wind that once protected it had disappeared. Without that protection, the plant trembled in the cold wind.
　The emperor read the poem again and again.
　Even though the words were simple, he understood the pain behind them. He did not judge the poem as a scholar might judge it. Instead he saw it as the cry of a heart that had lost everything.
　“How lonely she must feel,” the emperor said softly.
　For a long time he remained silent.
　His thoughts returned to the early days when the lady of Kiritsubo had first entered the palace. At that time he had felt sadness even when they were separated for only a short while. Now she was gone forever, and yet he himself continued to live.
　“How strange it is,” he said quietly. “Even after losing her, I still remain in this world.”
　The emperor also felt deep sympathy for the old mother.
　“Her husband died long ago,” he said. “Now she has also lost her daughter. Such suffering is difficult to bear.”
　He looked again at the small gifts that Myobu had brought from the house.
　Among them were garments that had once belonged to the lady, and a box containing tools for arranging her hair. These simple objects carried the memory of the person who had once used them.
　The emperor held one of the garments in his hands.
　For a moment he imagined that it might be a magical object like those in the old Chinese stories. In those stories, a magician could travel to the land of the dead and return with a jewel or a hairpin belonging to the lost woman.
　But this was not a story.
　The emperor knew that the woman he loved would never return.
　He spoke a short poem of his own, wishing that even a dream might guide him to the place where her spirit now lived.
　Night slowly passed.
　Outside, the moon sank below the horizon. The palace became quiet, and the sound of the night insects grew softer.
　Yet even at that hour the emperor could not sleep.
　In another part of the palace, music could suddenly be heard. The proud lady of the Kokiden residence had gathered musicians and was listening to a performance late into the night.
　When the emperor heard the music, he felt displeased.
　Everyone in the palace knew how deeply he mourned the dead lady. Yet the Kokiden lady seemed to ignore this sorrow completely. Her music sounded loud and cheerful, as if she wished to show that the death of her rival meant nothing to her.
　Many of the palace servants also felt anger when they heard the music.
　They thought that the Kokiden lady was acting in a cruel and selfish way.
　At last the night ended.
　The emperor finally went to his sleeping chamber, but even there he could not find rest. Memories of the past continued to return again and again.
　The following morning he felt no desire to eat.
　The servants prepared the usual breakfast for him, but he touched only a small amount of food. The large and beautiful dishes that were normally served to the emperor remained almost untouched.
　The officials who attended him became worried.
　The emperor also began to neglect his duties. The affairs of the government required his attention, but his mind was filled only with sorrow.
　Some people in the court spoke about this in private.
　They said that the emperor’s love had once caused jealousy and anger among the palace ladies. Now, after the woman’s death, his grief was harming the work of the state.
　They remembered examples from Chinese history and warned that such emotions could weaken a ruler.
　Yet time continued to move forward.
　Several months later, the young prince finally returned to the palace.
　Even as a small child he had been beautiful beyond compare. Now that he had grown a little older, his beauty seemed to shine even more brightly.
　People who saw him could not help smiling.
　The emperor felt great joy when he saw the child again.
　Soon afterward another important event took place.
　The time had come to choose the crown prince.
　In the emperor’s heart he wished that the beautiful young prince might one day rule the nation. Yet he understood the danger of such a choice.
　The boy had no powerful relatives to protect him. If he became crown prince, many people in the court might oppose him.
　Therefore the emperor kept his true thoughts secret.
　The position of crown prince was given to the first prince instead.
　When this decision became known, many people felt relief. The Kokiden lady in particular felt satisfied and calm.
　But the boy’s grandmother felt deep disappointment.
　She had once hoped that her daughter’s son might rise to the highest position in the land. Now she believed that such dreams would never come true.
　She began to pray constantly for the coming of death.
　Before long she too passed away.
　When the young prince lost his grandmother, he was six years old. This time he understood the meaning of death. He cried sadly, remembering the kindness of the woman who had cared for him since his mother’s passing.
　After the funeral, the boy returned once more to the palace.
　From that time forward he lived there permanently.
　When he reached the age of seven, he began his formal education. His teachers quickly discovered that the child possessed unusual intelligence.
　He learned his lessons faster than anyone expected. Music also came easily to him. Whenever he touched an instrument, beautiful sounds seemed to appear naturally.
　People began to speak about him with wonder.
　“Such a child is rarely born into this world,” they said.
　The emperor himself often watched the boy with pride and amazement.
　“No one could hate this child,” he said one day. “Even if only because he has no mother, everyone should show him kindness.”
　Because of this, the emperor sometimes took the boy with him even when he visited the residence of the Kokiden lady. The boy’s beauty was so great that even those who felt jealousy toward him could not remain angry when they saw his face.
　The Kokiden lady herself had daughters who were princesses of the royal family. Yet people whispered that the young prince was even more beautiful than they were.
　In time the prince became known throughout the court for his shining appearance.
　Many people began to call him by a special name.
　They called him the Shining Prince.

Part 4

　When the boy began to grow older, people at court noticed something unusual about him. His beauty was not the only remarkable thing. His mind was also very quick, and he learned new things faster than anyone expected.
　Around that time, a group of visitors arrived from the kingdom of Koma, a land on the Korean peninsula. Among them was a man who was famous for reading faces and judging a person’s future by their appearance.
　The emperor heard about this man.
　However, there were rules in the palace. Long ago, an earlier emperor had warned that such foreign fortune-tellers should not be brought openly into the palace. Because of this, the emperor decided to act in secret.
　He disguised the young prince as the son of a court official.
　Then he sent the boy to visit the place where the foreign visitors were staying, a large guest house called Korokan, where travelers from distant lands were received.
　The fortune-teller looked carefully at the boy’s face.
　He examined the prince again and again, tilting his head as if he were puzzled.
　Finally he spoke.
　“This child,” he said slowly, “has the face of a ruler. The signs on his face show that he could become the parent of a nation and hold the highest position in the land.”
　The official who had brought the boy listened carefully.
　But the fortune-teller continued.
　“Yet if I look at him more closely, I see something different. Becoming the ruler of a country may not be the best path for him. His destiny may lead him in another direction.”
　The official wrote down the words so that they could be reported to the emperor later.
　The conversation between the official and the foreign man became very interesting. Both of them knew classical Chinese writing, so they spoke by writing characters on paper and exchanging them.
　They even composed poems for each other.
　As the time came for the visitors to leave Japan, the fortune-teller wrote another poem. In it he said that meeting such an extraordinary young noble made it difficult for him to leave the country.
　The young prince also wrote a short poem in reply.
　The foreign man was deeply impressed.
　He praised the prince’s intelligence and gave him several gifts from his homeland.
　When the visitors finally departed, the imperial court also gave them valuable presents.
　News of this meeting slowly spread.
　Some powerful people in the court became suspicious. Among them was the great minister who was the grandfather of the crown prince.
　He wondered why the emperor had allowed such a meeting with a foreign fortune-teller. The prince had been treated with unusual kindness, and the minister felt uneasy about this.
　But the emperor himself had already understood the meaning of the fortune-teller’s words.
　Even before hearing them, he had been thinking about the boy’s future.
　If the prince remained a royal prince, he might one day become a rival to the crown prince. Such a situation could cause dangerous conflict in the court.
　On the other hand, the emperor could not bear the thought of leaving the boy in a weak and uncertain position.
　Therefore he made an important decision.
　The boy would not remain a prince of the royal family. Instead, he would be given a noble family name and become a member of the high nobility.
　In this way he could serve the country as a great minister.
　The emperor believed that this path would protect the boy’s future.
　Even so, whenever he saw the child’s bright face and natural talent, he sometimes felt regret.
　“It is a pity,” he thought, “that such a person cannot become the ruler of the nation.”
　Yet the emperor kept his decision.
　The boy would one day receive the name Genji.
　Years continued to pass.
　Although the emperor tried to live normally again, he could never completely forget the lady of Kiritsubo. From time to time he invited other beautiful women to enter the palace, hoping that new companionship might ease his sorrow.
　But every time he compared them with the woman he had lost.
　None of them seemed equal to her.
　Then one day a court lady named Naishi no Suke spoke to him about someone new.
　This woman had once served in the palace of the former emperor, who had been a relative of the present ruler. Because of this, she knew many members of the former imperial family.
　She spoke carefully to the emperor.
　“There is a princess,” she said, “the fourth daughter of the former emperor. She is very beautiful. In fact, she resembles the lady of Kiritsubo more than anyone I have ever seen.”
　The emperor felt a sudden movement in his heart.
　If such a woman truly existed, perhaps seeing her might ease his sorrow.
　He sent a respectful message to the princess’s mother, asking whether the young princess might enter the palace as one of his consorts.
　The mother, however, felt uneasy.
　She remembered the terrible jealousy that had filled the palace when the lady of Kiritsubo had lived there. The mother of the crown prince was known for her strong and proud nature.
　The former emperor’s widow feared that her daughter might suffer in the same way.
　For this reason she did not give an answer.
　Before long, however, the mother passed away.
　The young princess was left alone.
　When the emperor heard this news, he sent another message.
　“I do not wish to treat her only as a consort,” he said. “I would care for her as if she were one of my own daughters.”
　The princess’s attendants and relatives discussed the matter. They believed that life in the palace might comfort the young woman after the loss of her mother.
　At last they agreed.
　The princess entered the palace.
　She was given a residence called Fujitsubo, the Pavilion of Wisteria.
　When people saw her, they were astonished.
　Just as the court lady had said, she strongly resembled the lady of Kiritsubo. Her face, her graceful movements, even the gentle expression in her eyes reminded the emperor of the woman he had loved.
　Yet there was an important difference.
　This new lady was born into the highest rank of the royal family. No one could criticize her position or her birth.
　Because of this, none of the other women in the palace could openly attack her.
　The emperor found comfort in her presence.
　The deep wound in his heart did not completely disappear, but the pain slowly became softer.
　Meanwhile the young prince—who would later be known as Genji—remained constantly near the emperor.
　Because of this, he often followed the emperor when he visited the different residences of the palace ladies.
　The place the emperor visited most often was Fujitsubo.
　Naturally the young prince also went there many times.
　At first the princess was shy and careful. She tried to hide her face behind screens and curtains. But as time passed she became more relaxed.
　Sometimes the boy caught small glimpses of her.
　The prince did not clearly remember the face of his own mother. But he had been told many times that this new lady looked very similar to her.
　Because of this, the child felt a strange warmth whenever he saw her.
　In his young heart, he felt both affection and admiration.
　He wanted to visit Fujitsubo again and again.
　The emperor noticed this.
　“Please be kind to him,” he said gently to the princess. “Your appearance resembles the mother he lost. When I look at the two of you together, it almost feels as if you were truly mother and child.”
　The young boy began to bring small gifts whenever he visited.
　If he found a beautiful flower or a branch with bright autumn leaves, he wished to present it first to the lady of Fujitsubo.
　These simple acts showed his affection.
　But not everyone was pleased.
　The lady of the Kokiden residence had once directed all her jealousy toward the lady of Kiritsubo. Now that the new beauty of Fujitsubo had appeared, her anger turned toward this new rival.
　When she saw how warmly the young prince treated the lady of Fujitsubo, her old resentment began to burn again.
　Meanwhile, people throughout the court had begun using a new name for the prince.
　Because of his extraordinary beauty and bright spirit, they called him Hikaru no Kimi—the Shining Prince.

Part 5

　As the years passed, the boy who was called the Shining Prince continued to grow. Each year his beauty became more striking. His face was bright and clear, and his eyes were gentle but lively. People who saw him felt joy without understanding why.
　Even strong warriors and proud nobles could not look at him without smiling.
　The emperor loved the boy deeply. He often kept the child close to him, rarely letting him leave his side. Because of this, the prince moved freely through many parts of the palace.
　Yet there was one place that drew his heart more than any other.
　It was the residence of the lady of Fujitsubo.
　The prince visited that residence often. Sometimes he went there simply to present flowers or autumn leaves. Sometimes he only wished to see the lady from a distance.
　In his mind she was both beautiful and mysterious.
　He knew that she resembled his dead mother, though he could not remember that mother’s face clearly. Because of this, his feelings were confused. He felt respect, admiration, and something deeper that he could not explain.
　The emperor noticed the boy’s affection.
　One day he spoke kindly to the lady of Fujitsubo.
　“Please be gentle with him,” the emperor said. “The child has no mother. When he looks at you, he sees someone who reminds him of the one he lost.”
　The lady of Fujitsubo listened quietly.
　She was a noble woman of great dignity. She behaved carefully in every situation, and she tried never to cause trouble within the palace.
　Yet she also felt sympathy for the young boy.
　When the prince brought flowers or branches of bright leaves, she accepted them kindly. Her gentle words filled the child’s heart with happiness.
　This simple kindness created a strong bond between them.
　Unfortunately, this closeness was not welcomed by everyone.
　The proud lady of the Kokiden residence watched everything carefully. She had once hated the lady of Kiritsubo because of the emperor’s love. Now she turned the same jealousy toward the lady of Fujitsubo.
　When she saw the young prince visiting that residence again and again, her anger grew.
　“The boy is becoming too important,” she said to those close to her.
　The old resentment that had once filled the palace slowly returned.
　Even so, many people continued to admire the young prince.
　His beauty and intelligence were impossible to ignore. In the palace corridors people spoke quietly about him.
　“He shines like the sun,” some said.
　Because of this, the name Hikaru no Kimi, the Shining Prince, became known everywhere.
　The emperor himself also worried about the future.
　As the prince grew older, he would soon reach the age when a young noble must undergo an important ceremony—the ceremony of coming of age.
　In this ceremony a boy’s childhood hairstyle would be cut, and he would receive the clothing and responsibilities of a man.
　The emperor felt both pride and sadness when he thought about it.
　He loved the boy’s present appearance so much that he wished it could remain unchanged forever.
　Yet the laws of life could not be stopped.
　When the prince reached the age of twelve, the emperor finally ordered the ceremony to be prepared.
　The preparations were magnificent.
　The emperor personally gave instructions for every detail. He wished the ceremony to be as splendid as the one that had been held earlier for the crown prince.
　The palace officials worked for many days.
　Special food was prepared. Fine cloth and silk garments were brought from the imperial storehouses. Decorations were arranged in the great hall.
　On the day of the ceremony, the hall of the palace was filled with noble guests.
　The emperor sat in his place while the young prince entered.
　At that moment the boy still wore the hairstyle of childhood. His hair was long and tied into two loops near his ears. This was the traditional style for noble boys.
　When the emperor saw the prince in this form, he felt a sudden sadness.
　“This beautiful child will soon become a man,” he thought.
　The man chosen to perform the ceremony carefully cut the prince’s hair and arranged it in the style of an adult noble.
　Many people watched closely.
　Some of them felt tears in their eyes when they saw how handsome the young man had become.
　The emperor himself struggled to control his emotions.
　Memories of the lady of Kiritsubo returned strongly to his mind.
　“If she were alive,” he thought, “how happy she would be to see this day.”
　After the ceremony the prince withdrew for a short time to change his clothing. When he returned, he wore the formal robes of a young nobleman.
　Then he stepped forward and bowed before the emperor.
　Everyone present admired him.
　Even those who had often envied the prince could not deny his charm and grace.
　The celebration continued with music and a grand feast.
　During this feast the emperor quietly arranged another important matter.
　The prince would soon be married.
　The man who had performed the ceremony was a powerful minister of the court. He had a daughter who was known for her beauty and noble character.
　The minister had long hoped that this daughter might become the wife of the Shining Prince.
　In fact, he had already refused a request from the crown prince, because he wished to keep his daughter for this purpose.
　The emperor agreed with this plan.
　“After the ceremony,” he said, “the young prince should have someone to care for him.”
　Thus the marriage was decided.
　That evening the prince was brought to the house of the great minister. The wedding was celebrated with great splendor. Many lights shone in the large residence, and music filled the night air.
　The minister welcomed his new son-in-law warmly.
　The bride, however, felt shy and uneasy.
　She was slightly older than the young prince. Because of this she felt embarrassed about becoming the wife of someone younger than herself.
　Still, the marriage strengthened the connection between the prince and the powerful minister’s family.
　The minister himself was one of the most influential men in the country. His wife was a sister of the emperor, which made the family even more honorable.
　Compared with this great household, the family of the Kokiden lady seemed less powerful than before.
　The Shining Prince now had strong support.
　Yet the prince himself did not think much about these political matters.
　His heart was still troubled by another feeling.
　Even after his marriage, his thoughts often returned to the lady of Fujitsubo.
　In his mind she remained the most beautiful woman in the world.
　Sometimes he wondered whether he would ever meet someone like her again.
　Because of these thoughts, he did not spend much time at his wife’s residence. Instead he remained in the palace whenever possible.
　Five or six days might pass with him staying near the emperor. Only occasionally did he visit the house of the minister.
　The minister did not criticize him for this behavior.
　The prince was still very young, and everyone understood that his heart had not yet settled.
　The emperor also arranged something special for his son.
　In the palace grounds there was a residence that had once belonged to the prince’s mother—the pavilion of Kiritsubo. The emperor gave this place to the young prince as his own quarters.
　The women who had once served the lady of Kiritsubo were allowed to serve the prince as well.
　In this way the memory of his mother remained close to him.
　Outside the palace another residence was prepared.
　This was a beautiful house called Nijo no In, the Mansion of the Second Avenue. The emperor ordered craftsmen and officials to rebuild and expand it.
　The garden already had hills and trees, but now a large pond was added. The buildings were repaired until everything looked magnificent.
　The emperor wished his son to have a home worthy of his talents and beauty.
　Yet even with such gifts, the young prince often sighed quietly.
　In his heart he still dreamed of a different life—a life in which he might live peacefully beside the woman he admired most.
　The lady of Fujitsubo.
　People continued to speak about the prince’s beauty and intelligence.
　Some even said that the name Hikaru Genji, the Shining Genji, had first been given by the foreign visitor who had admired him years earlier.
　Whether this story was true or not, the name remained.
　And so the young man who would one day become famous throughout the land continued his life within the palace, shining like a bright light among all who saw him.

 
Chapter 2: Hahakigi (帚木)

Part 1

　After the death of the lady of Kiritsubo, the palace did not feel the same as before. The halls and gardens were still beautiful, and the ceremonies of the court continued every day. Yet many people felt that something gentle and warm had disappeared from the emperor’s life.
　The emperor himself often seemed quiet and thoughtful. When he looked at the court ladies who served him, his eyes sometimes showed a deep sadness. Those who stood near him could feel that he was remembering the woman he had loved so dearly.
　At the same time, the young prince who had lost his mother continued to grow.
　The boy was now about twelve years old. His body was still slender like that of a child, yet his face had begun to show the grace of a young man. When people saw him walking through the corridors of the palace, they often stopped and looked again.
　“How beautiful he is,” they said softly to one another.
　The emperor loved the boy deeply. Because the prince had no mother, the emperor felt that he must show even greater care for him. For this reason the prince often remained near the emperor’s chambers.
　One evening the emperor invited several young noblemen to visit the palace.
　These men were sons of powerful families. They were intelligent, well educated, and close to the emperor’s household. Because they were still young, their hearts were full of curiosity and lively conversation.
　The night was quiet and pleasant.
　A gentle wind moved through the palace garden. The moon was bright in the sky, and its light fell softly on the roofs and trees. The young men gathered in a room near the garden, where they could enjoy the cool air.
　Among them was To no Chujo, a handsome young noble who was related to the emperor’s family. Another guest was a thoughtful young man named Tayu no Myobu’s son, who was known for his knowledge of many stories.
　The young prince, who would later be called Genji, was also present.
　They sat together and began to talk.
　At first their conversation was light and playful. They spoke about poetry, music, and the beauty of the moonlit garden. Servants brought cups of wine, and the young men slowly began to relax.
　Soon the conversation turned to another subject.
　It was a subject that interested every young man.
　They began to talk about women.
　One of them laughed and said, “There are many women in this world. Some are quiet and gentle. Others are proud and difficult. But which kind of woman truly makes a good companion for a man?”
　The others listened with interest.
　To no Chujo leaned forward and spoke.
　“That is not an easy question,” he said. “Some men believe that a perfect woman must be noble and beautiful. But beauty alone cannot make a happy life.”
　Another man nodded.
　“Yes,” he said. “A woman may have a lovely face, yet if her heart is cold or selfish, a man will soon regret his choice.”
　The young prince listened quietly.
　Because he was still young, he did not speak much at first. Instead he watched the faces of the older men and listened carefully to their ideas.
　The conversation slowly became more serious.
　One of the men said, “Many people think that the best woman is one who is very famous. She may come from a powerful family, and many people may praise her beauty. But such women often become proud. They know that many men admire them, so they do not treat one man with special care.”
　Another man replied, “That is true. A woman who is too famous may not be easy to live with.”
　The group laughed softly.
　Then To no Chujo spoke again.
　“In my opinion,” he said, “the best woman is not always the one who shines brightly in public. Sometimes the best woman is quiet and hidden. She may live in a simple house far from the center of the capital. But her heart may be gentle, and her feelings may be true.”
　The young men listened carefully.
　One of them asked, “But how can a man discover such a woman? If she lives quietly and does not show herself in society, no one will know her.”
　To no Chujo smiled.
　“That is the difficulty,” he said. “A man must search carefully. He must look beyond the surface of things.”
　Another young man raised his cup and spoke with a playful voice.
　“Perhaps there are only three kinds of women in this world,” he said. “The highest kind, the middle kind, and the lowest kind.”
　The others laughed again.
　“Tell us more,” someone said. “What do you mean by that?”
　The man placed his cup down and began to explain.
　“First,” he said, “there are women of the highest rank. These women come from great families. They live in beautiful houses and are surrounded by servants. Their education is excellent, and their manners are perfect.”
　He paused for a moment.
　“But such women may also be difficult. Because they are so proud of their position, they may expect too much from the men who love them.”
　Another man added, “Yes, a man who marries such a woman must be very strong and patient.”
　The speaker continued.
　“Next there are women of the middle rank. These women do not come from the most powerful families, but they are still well raised. They understand good manners and know how to behave properly.”
　He smiled slightly.
　“Such women may be the easiest companions for a man. They are not too proud, yet they still possess grace and education.”
　The young men nodded.
　Finally the speaker continued.
　“And then there are women of the lowest rank. These women may be simple and lively. They may not know the strict rules of court life. Sometimes they are very charming. But living with them may bring many problems.”
　The group fell silent for a moment.
　The moonlight shone through the open doors, and the wind moved gently through the trees.
　At last one of the young men turned to the prince.
　“Your Highness,” he said with a respectful smile, “you have been listening very quietly. What do you think about these matters?”
　The young prince looked thoughtful.
　For a moment he said nothing.
　Then he answered gently.
　“I believe that every woman has her own heart,” he said. “Some women may appear perfect at first, but later they may show faults. Others may seem ordinary, yet they may possess great kindness.”
　The young men listened with interest.
　Even though the prince was younger than the others, his words showed a calm and thoughtful mind.
　The conversation continued late into the night.
　One by one, the young men began to share stories from their own experience. They spoke about women they had known and the happiness or trouble those relationships had brought.
　Some stories were amusing.
　Others were sad.
　As the moon slowly crossed the sky, the discussion became deeper and more serious.
　Without realizing it, the young men had begun a long debate about the nature of love and the different kinds of women in the world.

Part 2

　The young men sat close together in the quiet room. The doors to the garden were open, and the night air felt cool and fresh. Moonlight entered the room and fell across the floor. From far away came the soft sound of insects singing in the grass.
　Cups of wine stood beside them.
　The conversation about women continued, and the young men seemed more interested with every passing moment. Each of them wished to explain his own ideas, and each wished to show that he understood the hearts of women better than the others.
　To no Chujo spoke again.
　“Let me tell you something,” he said. “When people speak about women of the highest rank, they imagine someone perfect. They think such a woman must always behave with grace and dignity. But the truth is not so simple.”
　The others leaned closer.
　“Why do you say that?” one of them asked.
　To no Chujo smiled slightly and took a sip of wine.
　“Because a woman who grows up surrounded by praise may become proud. Everyone tells her she is beautiful. Everyone tells her she is wise. After hearing such praise every day, she may begin to believe she is above all others.”
　Another young man nodded.
　“Yes,” he said. “And when a woman becomes too proud, it is difficult for a man to live with her.”
　To no Chujo continued speaking.
　“Such a woman may expect perfection from the man who loves her. If he makes even a small mistake, she may become cold or angry. A man may find himself living in constant worry.”
　The group laughed softly.
　One of them said, “Perhaps such women should marry only the most powerful men in the land.”
　Another replied, “Even powerful men may become tired of constant complaints.”
　The young prince listened quietly again.
　He watched the faces of the speakers and noticed how their expressions changed as they talked. Some of them spoke with confidence, while others seemed uncertain, as if they were remembering their own mistakes.
　After a short silence, another young noble began to speak.
　“In my opinion,” he said, “women of the middle rank may be the most pleasant companions.”
　Someone asked, “Why do you think so?”
　The man placed his cup down and answered calmly.
　“Because such women understand both worlds. They are not so proud that they look down on others. At the same time, they have received enough education to behave with grace.”
　He continued carefully.
　“They know poetry, music, and good manners. Yet they also understand the small difficulties of daily life. Because of this, they can adapt themselves to many situations.”
　The others listened thoughtfully.
　One man said, “That sounds very reasonable. A woman who is neither too proud nor too simple may bring peace to a household.”
　But another young man disagreed.
　“That may be true,” he said, “but sometimes such women lack a certain charm. A man may admire them, but he may not feel strong passion for them.”
　The group laughed again.
　The night was growing deeper, yet none of them wished to sleep. Their voices remained lively, and the wine made their conversation more open and honest.
　Finally another young man spoke.
　“You have spoken about the highest women and the middle women,” he said. “But what about women of the lowest rank?”
　A playful smile appeared on his face.
　“Such women may not know the strict rules of court life. They may speak too freely, and they may laugh too loudly. Yet sometimes they possess a natural charm that is difficult to resist.”
　One of the listeners said, “That may be true, but living with such a woman might bring trouble.”
　The speaker nodded.
　“Yes,” he said. “At first a man may enjoy her lively spirit. But later he may feel embarrassed by her behavior. She may not understand the customs of polite society.”
　To no Chujo laughed quietly.
　“So in the end,” he said, “each type of woman has both strengths and weaknesses.”
　The others agreed.
　For a moment the group fell silent. The moon had moved higher in the sky, and its light was even brighter now. A soft wind moved the leaves of the trees in the garden.
　Then To no Chujo leaned forward again.
　“Let me tell you a story,” he said.
　The young men immediately became attentive.
　“Once,” he began, “I knew a woman who seemed very quiet and gentle. She lived in a modest house and rarely appeared in public. At first I believed she must possess a calm and faithful heart.”
　He paused and smiled slightly.
　“But after some time I discovered that she was not as simple as she appeared.”
　One of the listeners laughed.
　“Did she deceive you?” he asked.
　To no Chujo shrugged his shoulders.
　“Not exactly,” he said. “But she had many secrets. She knew how to hide her true thoughts behind a calm expression.”
　The young men leaned closer.
　“What happened then?” someone asked.
　To no Chujo answered slowly.
　“At first I admired her quiet nature. Yet later I began to feel uneasy. I realized that I could never fully understand her heart.”
　The others nodded.
　One of them said, “That is also a danger. A woman who hides her feelings may seem mysterious, but she may also cause worry.”
　The conversation continued with more stories.
　Each young man seemed eager to describe his own experiences. Some stories spoke of happy meetings, while others told of disappointment.
　The prince listened with great interest.
　Although he was younger than the others, he was beginning to understand the complex feelings that existed between men and women.
　The voices of the young men rose and fell as they talked.
　Sometimes they laughed loudly.
　Sometimes they spoke in low voices, as if remembering private moments from the past.
　At last one of them turned again toward the prince.
　“Your Highness,” he said politely, “you have heard many opinions tonight. Tell us honestly—what kind of woman do you admire most?”
　The room became quiet.
　The prince lowered his eyes for a moment.
　In his heart an image appeared.
　It was the gentle face of the lady of Fujitsubo.
　But he could not speak openly about such feelings.
　Therefore he answered carefully.
　“A woman who possesses kindness and understanding is most admirable,” he said softly. “Beauty alone cannot create happiness.”
　The young men nodded in agreement.
　The conversation continued far into the night, and the moon slowly began to sink toward the edge of the sky.
　Yet the debate about women was not finished.
　Each story and each opinion seemed to lead to another question, and the young men felt that the subject would never truly end.

Part 3

　The night grew deeper, yet the young men did not feel tired. The moon had moved across the sky, and its pale light now fell softly on the garden pond. The surface of the water shone like silver, and the quiet sound of insects came from the grass.
　Inside the room the lamps burned gently.
　The young nobles sat in a loose circle. Some leaned against the wooden pillars, while others rested their cups beside them. The air smelled faintly of wine and the flowers from the garden.
　After a short silence, To no Chujo spoke again.
　“We have talked about women of the highest rank and women of the middle rank,” he said. “But I believe we should think more carefully about how a man truly learns a woman’s character.”
　One of the others asked, “What do you mean?”
　To no Chujo answered slowly.
　“When a woman lives behind curtains and screens, we cannot easily see her true nature. We hear her voice. We read her letters. But the heart behind those things may remain hidden.”
　The young men nodded.
　In the court of the capital, noble women often remained unseen. Their faces were hidden behind screens or blinds, and men spoke with them through attendants.
　Because of this, many misunderstandings could happen.
　Another young man spoke.
　“Yes, that is true. A man may imagine a woman to be perfect simply because he cannot see her clearly.”
　He laughed quietly.
　“Sometimes the imagination creates a beauty that does not really exist.”
　The others smiled.
　One man lifted his cup and said, “So perhaps the best way to know a woman is to observe her actions carefully.”
　To no Chujo agreed.
　“Exactly,” he said. “Words alone cannot show a person’s heart. A woman’s true nature appears in the small moments of daily life.”
　He paused for a moment, remembering something.
　“Let me tell you another story,” he said.
　The group became quiet again.
　“Some time ago,” he began, “I knew a woman who was famous for her beauty. Many men admired her. Her house was elegant, and she received many letters from noble visitors.”
　One of the listeners asked, “Was she kind?”
　To no Chujo shook his head slightly.
　“At first I believed she was gentle,” he said. “Her letters were graceful, and her poems were skillful. But after a time I began to notice something strange.”
　The young men leaned closer.
　“Whenever she received attention from someone new,” he continued, “she quickly forgot the man who had been devoted to her before.”
　Someone laughed softly.
　“So her heart moved easily from one person to another.”
　To no Chujo nodded.
　“Yes. At last I understood that her beauty had brought her too much praise. Because she knew that many men admired her, she never felt the need to remain loyal to one.”
　The group murmured in agreement.
　Another young man now spoke.
　“I also have a story,” he said.
　The others turned toward him.
　“Once I knew a woman who was not famous for beauty,” he explained. “Her house was small, and her family was not very powerful. Yet she possessed a quiet kindness that touched my heart.”
　He paused, as if remembering the past.
　“She always spoke gently. When I visited her house, she prepared simple things with great care. She seemed truly happy to see me.”
　The young men listened closely.
　“But what happened?” someone asked.
　The man sighed softly.
　“In the end, I discovered that she had little understanding of the world. Her feelings were sincere, but she could not manage the difficulties of life. Gradually our paths separated.”
　The group fell silent again.
　The young prince listened carefully to each story. He felt that the world of adult relationships was more complex than he had imagined.
　After a while, To no Chujo looked toward the prince.
　“Your Highness,” he said, “you have heard many examples tonight. Do you believe that a truly perfect woman exists?”
　The prince thought for a moment.
　His mind returned again to the lady of Fujitsubo. Her calm voice, her gentle eyes, and her graceful movements seemed to appear before him like a dream.
　But he could not speak openly about such thoughts.
　Instead he answered slowly.
　“Perhaps perfection is difficult to find,” he said. “Every person has both strengths and faults.”
　The young men nodded.
　One of them said, “That may be the truth. A wise man learns to accept both.”
　The night continued.
　Outside the palace the city of the capital was quiet. Most people were already asleep, but the young nobles remained awake, speaking together beneath the fading moon.
　Their conversation now turned toward another question.
　“Even if a perfect woman exists,” one man said, “how can a man meet her? Fate does not always guide us toward happiness.”
　Another replied, “That is true. Sometimes a man searches for many years without success.”
　The young prince listened quietly.
　Deep in his heart he wondered whether fate had already placed such a woman near him.
　Yet he also understood that some feelings must remain hidden.
　The wind outside had grown colder. The leaves of the trees moved softly, and the lamps inside the room burned low.
　One of the servants approached and bowed.
　“The night is nearly over,” he said respectfully.
　The young men looked toward the sky.
　The moon was now sinking behind the trees, and a pale light of early morning had begun to appear.
　Their long discussion was finally coming to an end.
　To no Chujo stretched his arms slightly and smiled.
　“We have spoken about women for an entire night,” he said. “Yet I feel that we have not reached any final answer.”
　The others laughed.
　One of them said, “Perhaps such questions never truly end.”
　The young prince rose slowly.
　His face still shone with youthful beauty, and his eyes were thoughtful.
　The long conversation had opened a new world in his mind—a world of love, mystery, and human feeling.
　As the young men prepared to leave, the first light of dawn spread across the palace gardens.
　Their debate had ended for the moment, but the questions they had raised would continue to shape their lives in the days to come.

 
Chapter 3: Utsusemi (空蝉)

Part 1

　Genji could not sleep that night. He lay awake for a long time, turning from side to side. The room was quiet, but his mind would not rest. His thoughts always returned to the same person.
　“I have never been treated so coldly before,” he said quietly to the young boy beside him. “Tonight I learned that life can be very sad. I feel ashamed, as if I cannot live with such shame.”
　The boy who listened to him was called Kogimi. He was still young, but he understood Genji’s feelings more than most people. When he heard these sad words, tears slowly appeared in his eyes.
　Genji noticed the boy’s gentle heart.
　He looked at Kogimi carefully. The boy had a small body and soft movements. For a moment Genji thought that the boy’s figure reminded him of the woman he loved. Even the boy’s hair seemed somehow similar to hers.
　That thought made Genji feel both warm and sad at the same time.
　“Perhaps it is ugly to push a woman who does not wish to see me,” Genji said softly. “And perhaps she truly hates me now.”
　Because of this thought, he decided not to send any more messages to her. Early the next morning he left the house quietly and returned home.
　Kogimi watched him go.
　The boy felt sorry for him. It seemed that the night had ended without any happiness.
　The woman herself also felt uneasy after that night. She knew that Genji had been deeply hurt. She believed that he was angry with her now.
　Yet another feeling also lived in her heart.
　She thought, “If he forgets me completely, that would also make me sad.”
　Still, she believed that it was better this way. If Genji continued to visit her secretly, trouble might come. People might speak badly about them.
　“Perhaps it is better for everything to end now,” she told herself.
　Even though her mind accepted this idea, her heart was full of restless thoughts.
　At the same time, Genji could not forget her.
　He told himself that she was a cold and cruel woman. Yet his heart did not obey him. The more he tried to forget her, the more he thought about her.
　Often he spoke to Kogimi about this.
　“There has never been a woman so heartless,” Genji said one day. “I try to forget her, but my own heart refuses to listen to me. You must help me meet her once more. Find some chance for us.”
　Kogimi felt troubled when he heard such words.
　Still, he was secretly happy.
　The great and famous Genji trusted him. Genji needed his help. Even though the situation was difficult, this made the boy proud.
　“I will watch for a good chance,” Kogimi promised.
　After that day the boy quietly waited for an opportunity.
　Soon such a chance appeared.
　The governor of Kii, who was the head of the household, left the capital for his new post. After he departed, only the women of the family remained in the house.
　One evening, when the light of the day was fading and it was difficult to see clearly, Kogimi brought Genji to the house.
　Genji rode in Kogimi’s carriage so that people would not notice him.
　Even so, Genji felt uneasy.
　“You are only a child,” he said quietly to Kogimi. “Are you sure this will work?”
　But there was no other way. They could not be too careful.
　Genji wore simple clothes so that no one would recognize him. They hurried toward the house before the gates were closed for the night.
　Fortunately, the guards did not pay much attention to them. Because Kogimi was still young, the servants did not treat his arrival as an important event.
　This helped them enter the house quietly.
　Kogimi brought Genji to the east side of the building and asked him to wait outside a door. Then the boy walked along the wooden corridor and went around to the south side of the house.
　He knocked loudly and opened the door.
　Inside, a lady’s voice spoke in surprise.
　“You must not make such noise,” she said. “People will look toward this room.”
　Kogimi laughed lightly.
　“Why have you closed the wooden screens so early today?” he asked.
　The woman answered, “Since the afternoon, a young lady from the west wing has come here. She and your sister are playing a game of go.”
　Hearing this, Genji became curious.
　Quietly he stepped through the open entrance and stood between a door and a hanging curtain. The wooden screen that Kogimi had opened allowed evening light to enter the room.
　Because of that light, Genji could see far into the house.
　Some folding screens stood near the curtains, but they were partly folded back. Because the evening was warm, many things that usually hid the women were moved aside.
　Lamps burned close to where the women sat.
　In the center of the room Genji saw two figures facing each other across a board.
　“That must be her,” Genji thought at first.
　The woman sitting beside a pillar wore a deep purple robe. She was small and slender. Her head and shoulders looked very delicate.
　She kept her face turned slightly away so that the other player could not see her clearly.
　Her thin hand appeared only a little from her sleeve.
　The second woman faced east, so her face could be seen more clearly.
　She wore light white clothing with a pale blue jacket over it. The ties of her red trousers were loose, and part of her chest could be seen where her robe had opened.
　Her manner was not very proper.
　Yet she was beautiful.
　Her skin was very white. Her body was full and healthy. The shape of her head and the line of her hair over her forehead were lovely.
　Her eyes and mouth were lively and full of charm. Her face shone with energy.
　Her hair was thick. It was not extremely long, but it fell in two parts from her head to her shoulders in a graceful way.
　She seemed like a bright and cheerful beauty.
　Seeing this, Genji thought with interest, “No wonder her family feels proud of her.”
　At the same time he felt that she might benefit from a calmer nature.
　As the game continued, the lively woman counted the points on the board. She moved quickly and spoke loudly.
　“Look,” she said. “You forgot this corner. Now I have lost. Wait, I must count again.”
　She bent her fingers one by one.
　“Ten, twenty, thirty, forty…”
　Watching her count so quickly, Genji almost laughed.
　The other woman spoke more quietly.
　“Please wait,” she said gently. “That place is equal for both sides. And here you also have another point.”
　But the cheerful woman did not listen.
　“No, no,” she insisted. “This time I lost.”
　Her lively voice filled the room.
　The other woman remained calm and tried to guide the game gently.
　From his hidden place Genji watched them closely.
　Slowly he began to understand their different characters.
　The lively beauty looked charming and bright. Yet something in her manner seemed careless.
　The quieter woman appeared less beautiful at first glance. Her eyes were slightly swollen, and her nose was not perfectly shaped.
　But her movements were graceful.
　Somehow she drew Genji’s attention more strongly than the bright girl.
　For Genji this was a new experience.
　Until now he had known only women who behaved with great care and dignity. He had never secretly watched women in such relaxed and natural moments.
　Even though he felt that spying on them was unfair, he wished to remain there a little longer.
　Just then Kogimi seemed about to return to the corridor.
　Quickly Genji stepped away from the curtain and moved toward the entrance of the connecting hall.
　A moment later Kogimi arrived.
　The boy looked apologetic.
　“Someone who does not usually visit is here tonight,” he whispered. “So I cannot bring you to my sister yet.”
　“Will that person leave tonight?” Genji asked quietly. “If I cannot meet her, it will be very disappointing.”
　“Do not worry,” Kogimi said confidently. “When that person leaves, I will arrange everything.”
　Genji looked at the boy carefully.
　Even though he was still a child, Kogimi seemed very clever.
　Perhaps this plan might succeed after all.

Part 2

　The game of go seemed to end at last. From the room came the sound of people moving. The pieces on the board were gathered, and the women spoke together in lively voices.
　Genji waited quietly near the entrance of the connecting corridor.
　Soon Kogimi returned again. The boy spoke in a low voice so that no one would hear.
　“They are finishing now,” he said. “People will soon go to their rooms.”
　Genji nodded.
　“Good,” he answered. “Tonight we must succeed.”
　From inside the house a woman’s voice called out.
　“Where is the young master? We will close the wooden screens now.”
　The sound of the screens being pushed shut came from the room.
　Genji smiled slightly.
　“It seems everyone will soon go to sleep,” he said. “Now go inside and do your work well.”
　Kogimi understood his meaning. The boy knew that his sister’s heart would not easily change, so he did not speak to her directly about Genji.
　Instead he planned something else.
　“When people fall asleep,” he thought, “I will guide Genji quietly to her room.”
　Genji spoke again.
　“Is the younger sister also here tonight?” he asked. “Let me see her secretly.”
　Kogimi shook his head.
　“That would be difficult. Curtains stand in front of the screens,” he said.
　Genji laughed quietly.
　“Yes, that is true,” he said. “Still, I wish to see more.”
　But he did not speak about what he had already seen. He did not want the women to feel ashamed if they learned that he had been watching them.
　Instead he waited patiently.
　Night grew deeper.
　One by one the lamps in the house became dim. The voices of the women disappeared, and soon the house became silent.
　Kogimi opened a side door and entered the building again.
　The servants had already gone to sleep.
　The ladies-in-waiting rested together in a room at the southeast corner of the house. Even the young servant girl who had opened the door earlier now slept beside them.
　Kogimi prepared a place to lie down near the doorway.
　“I will sleep here,” he said loudly so that others would hear. “The wind passes through here, so it is cool.”
　He spread a mat on the wooden floor and lay down.
　Anyone who heard him would believe that he planned to sleep there for the night.
　For a while he remained still and pretended to sleep.
　After some time passed, the house became completely quiet. Only the faint light of a lamp from the corner room remained.
　Slowly Kogimi rose.
　He moved carefully so that the mat would not make noise. Then he went outside and signaled to Genji.
　The prince entered silently.
　The folding screens now hid the faint light from the other room, and the space near the door was dark.
　Genji followed Kogimi through the quiet building.
　Even though he moved with great care, the soft sound of his silk clothing could still be heard in the still night air.
　Inside the room where the woman slept, she was awake.
　For many nights she had not slept well. She often remembered the strange and confusing night when Genji had visited before.
　During the day she tried to forget him. She told herself that it was safer not to think about him.
　But at night her thoughts returned again and again.
　Her heart felt restless, and she often woke from sleep.
　Tonight another young woman had come to stay. This girl had played go earlier in the evening. After the game she talked cheerfully for a long time and then fell asleep easily.
　She slept deeply beside the older woman.
　The house became quiet.
　Suddenly the sleeping woman noticed something.
　A faint and sweet fragrance filled the air.
　It was the scent of fine incense that clung to Genji’s clothing.
　The woman slowly raised her head.
　Through the thin summer curtain she could sense someone moving nearby.
　Even in the darkness she could feel the presence of a person.
　Her heart beat quickly.
　Without making a sound she rose from her bed. Wearing only a light summer robe, she slipped quietly out of the room.
　She disappeared into the shadows of the house.
　A moment later Genji entered the room.
　Seeing that only one woman seemed to be sleeping there, he felt relieved.
　Two ladies-in-waiting slept near the lower side of the bed platform, covered with their robes.
　Genji moved closer to the sleeping figure.
　The woman seemed to be sleeping deeply.
　Genji leaned toward her.
　But suddenly he felt something strange.
　“She seems larger than before,” he thought.
　Yet at first he still believed that she was the woman he loved.
　Only after a moment did doubt appear in his mind.
　The sleeping woman stirred slightly. Her movements felt different.
　At last Genji understood.
　This was not the woman he had come to see.
　He felt shocked and angry.
　“What has happened?” he thought. “How could I make such a mistake?”
　Yet he could not simply leave.
　If he suddenly left the room, someone might wake and become suspicious. That would bring shame to the woman he truly loved.
　Genji considered what to do.
　If he searched for the other woman, she would surely run away again. She clearly wished to avoid him.
　“If she hates me so much,” he thought bitterly, “perhaps I should not chase her any longer.”
　At that moment another thought appeared.
　“If this woman were the cheerful beauty I saw earlier,” he thought, “perhaps I could spend the night with her instead.”
　Such thoughts showed that Genji’s love was not entirely pure.
　The young woman beside him slowly woke.
　She was surprised by the strange situation, but she did not panic.
　Even though she was still young, she possessed a bold and lively nature.
　Seeing her calm face, Genji felt a little sympathy for her.
　Still, his heart remained filled with thoughts of the woman who had escaped.
　“She must be hiding somewhere,” he thought. “Perhaps she laughs at my foolish love.”
　Even when he tried to laugh at himself, his true feelings did not change.
　The cold woman remained in his heart.
　Yet the girl before him also seemed charming in her own way.
　Genji spoke gently to her and began to promise that they would meet again in the future.
　His words sounded smooth and pleasant, like those of a man who was skilled in love.
　“Secret love often becomes deeper than open love,” he said softly. “Please care for me as well. I cannot always act exactly as I wish, because I must consider what people will say.”
　The girl listened quietly.
　Genji continued speaking.
　“I also worry about your father and your brothers. They may not welcome such a relationship. Still, please wait for me. I will come again.”
　The girl answered simply.
　“I do not want others to know about this,” she said. “So I cannot send letters.”
　Genji smiled.
　“That is wise,” he said. “But I will send letters through your younger brother. You must be careful not to let anyone discover our secret.”
　When the night was nearly over, Genji prepared to leave.
　As he stood up, he noticed something on the floor.
　It was a light summer robe.
　He realized that it must belong to the woman who had escaped earlier.
　Quietly he took it with him.
　Its soft fragrance reminded him of her presence.
　Holding the robe, Genji left the room.
　Kogimi waited outside.
　The boy quickly opened the door so that Genji could leave.
　But just then an old woman’s voice called out in the darkness.
　“Who is there?” she asked loudly.
　Kogimi answered quickly.
　“It is only me,” he said.
　The old woman sounded suspicious.
　“Where are you going at such a late hour?” she asked.
　Kogimi tried to end the conversation.
　“I am just going outside for a moment,” he replied.
　The old woman began walking toward them.
　Kogimi felt annoyed.
　Still, he quietly pushed Genji outside through the doorway.
　Moonlight filled the garden. The night sky was already beginning to grow pale.
　The old woman noticed another figure beside Kogimi.
　“Who is that?” she asked again.
　Then she laughed.
　“Ah, it must be Minbu,” she said. “Such a tall person!”
　She believed that Kogimi was leaving with another servant woman.
　The misunderstanding helped Genji escape.
　At last he left the house safely.
　The adventure had nearly failed.
　As he walked away, Genji thought quietly, “I must not attempt such dangerous visits again.”

Part 3

　After leaving the house, Genji and Kogimi walked quietly through the pale moonlight. The night was almost over. The air felt cool, and the sky in the east was slowly growing lighter.
　Neither of them spoke for a while.
　Kogimi walked beside Genji with a worried heart. He knew that the night had not gone as Genji hoped. The boy wondered if Genji was angry with him.
　At last they reached the carriage.
　Genji stepped inside and motioned for Kogimi to sit behind him. The carriage moved slowly through the quiet streets of the capital and finally stopped at Genji’s residence at Nijō.
　When they entered the house, Genji began to speak.
　“So this is how the night ended,” he said with a bitter smile. “You see now that you are still a child. Your plan did not succeed.”
　Kogimi lowered his head.
　He felt ashamed and sad.
　Genji continued speaking, his voice filled with frustration.
　“Your sister is truly heartless,” he said. “She refuses to speak to me. She hides from me as if I were some terrible person.”
　Hearing these words made Kogimi feel even worse.
　He cared for his sister, but he also respected Genji deeply. Standing between the two of them was painful.
　Genji took the thin summer robe he had carried from the house and looked at it.
　It was a light robe, soft and cool for summer nights. A gentle fragrance still remained in the cloth.
　The scent reminded Genji strongly of the woman who had escaped from him.
　Without thinking, he placed the robe inside his bedding.
　Then he lay down to rest.
　Kogimi lay down nearby, just in front of him.
　Even after lying down, Genji continued to speak.
　His voice moved between anger and longing.
　“Your sister must hate me very much,” he said. “Perhaps she truly dislikes me.”
　After a moment he added quietly, “If that is so, I begin to dislike myself as well.”
　Kogimi did not know how to answer.
　Genji spoke again.
　“Is it not strange?” he said. “Even if she cannot love me, she could at least speak kindly to me. Am I truly worse than the governor of Iyo?”
　The bitterness in his voice filled the room.
　Kogimi remained silent. He felt that anything he said might cause more pain.
　After a while Genji turned slightly toward the boy.
　“You are a good child,” he said gently. “But you are the brother of that cruel woman. Because of that, I wonder if I can continue to care for you forever.”
　Hearing this made Kogimi’s heart sink.
　He became very quiet and lay still beside Genji.
　Soon the room grew silent.
　Kogimi closed his eyes, but Genji could not sleep.
　The prince rose from his bed and asked for writing tools.
　A servant brought a writing stone and brush.
　Genji sat quietly beside the lamp.
　For a moment he stared at the blank paper.
　Then he began to write.
　His brush moved slowly, almost as if he were only writing for himself. It did not look like a formal letter.
　Instead it seemed like a short and careless note.
　When he finished, he read the poem softly to himself.
　“Like the empty shell of the cicada
　that leaves its old body beneath a tree,
　I still remember the gentle nature
　of the one who left that robe behind.”
　When Kogimi received the poem, he carefully placed it inside his robe so that it would not be lost.
　Genji thought for a moment about writing a letter to the lively young woman he had met that night.
　But after considering it for a while, he decided not to send anything.
　Instead he kept the thin robe beside him.
　The fragrance clung to it strongly.
　That scent brought many memories to his mind.
　Later that day Kogimi returned to his sister’s house.
　His sister, Utsusemi, had been waiting for him.
　As soon as she saw him, she spoke sharply.
　“You frightened me terribly,” she said. “I hid myself, but who knows what people might imagine about such a night?”
　Her voice showed both anger and worry.
　“Your foolish behavior may make that noble lord think badly of you,” she continued. “I am worried that he will look down on you.”
　Kogimi listened quietly.
　Being scolded by both Genji and his sister was very difficult for him.
　At last he took out the poem Genji had written.
　“He asked me to give this to you,” the boy said.
　Utsusemi hesitated for a moment, but then she opened the paper and read the poem.
　As she read it, many feelings filled her heart.
　She remembered the thin robe she had left behind when she escaped. She wondered whether it had looked poor and worn when Genji saw it.
　Yet the poem also made her feel his sincere affection.
　Her heart became troubled.
　The young woman who had slept in the room that night also felt uneasy the next morning.
　She returned home with a feeling of embarrassment.
　No one had noticed what had happened. Even the ladies-in-waiting had slept through the entire night.
　Because of this, the strange event remained a secret.
　The young woman thought about it again and again.
　When she saw Kogimi walking through the house, her heart often began to beat quickly.
　She expected that Genji might send her a letter.
　But no letter came.
　She could not yet believe that Genji had lost interest in her.
　Even her lively and bold nature could not prevent her from feeling a quiet sadness.
　Meanwhile Utsusemi tried to appear calm.
　Yet the poem from Genji touched her deeply.
　She thought about what might have happened if her life had been different.
　“If I had still been a young unmarried woman,” she thought sadly, “perhaps fate would not have been so cruel.”
　Unable to hide her feelings completely, she wrote a poem in reply on the edge of the paper.
　“Like dew resting on the wings of the cicada,
　hidden beneath the trees,
　my sleeves grow wet
　with the tears I must keep secret.”
　After writing these words, she sat quietly for a long time. Her heart was full of complicated thoughts. The strange meeting of that night had changed many things.
　Yet none of them could clearly see what the future would bring.

 
Chapter 4: Yūgao (夕顔)

Part 1

　One evening Genji walked slowly through the streets of the capital. The sun had already gone down, and the sky above the city had turned a deep blue color. A soft wind moved through the narrow streets and carried the smell of summer flowers.
　Genji did not ride in a large and bright carriage that night. Instead he traveled quietly with only a few attendants. His clothes were simple, and he wished to avoid attention.
　The prince had been visiting a lady who lived in the Rokujō area. After leaving her house, he decided to return home by a different road. The streets in this part of the city were not grand like those near the palace.
　Small houses stood close together. Wooden fences leaned slightly to one side, and vines climbed over the gates. The light from a few small lamps shone faintly through cracks in the walls.
　Genji looked around with curiosity.
　“This place is very quiet,” he said softly to the man walking beside him. “People live here without much wealth, yet there is a calm feeling in the air.”
　As they walked, Genji noticed something strange.
　A long fence stood beside the road. The wood was old and gray, and plants had grown over much of it. White flowers climbed along the fence and spread across the branches.
　The flowers were beautiful.
　In the dim evening light their white petals seemed to glow softly. The wind moved through them, and the flowers swayed gently.
　Genji stopped walking.
　“What flowers are those?” he asked.
　One of the attendants looked closely.
　“They are called yugao,” the man replied. “They open in the evening.”
　Genji stepped closer to the fence.
　The flowers hung like small white faces looking out into the night. Their beauty was simple but charming.
　As he watched them, he suddenly noticed movement behind the fence.
　A woman’s hand appeared between the wooden boards.
　The hand was slender and pale. It held a folding fan decorated with a simple pattern.
　The woman gently pushed the flowers aside with the fan.
　Then a soft voice spoke from behind the fence.
　“Those flowers seem to interest you,” the voice said.
　Genji felt surprised.
　The voice was gentle and pleasant. It did not sound like the voice of a servant.
　He stepped slightly closer.
　“Yes,” Genji answered politely. “They are very beautiful tonight.”
　The voice laughed softly.
　“They bloom only in the evening,” the woman said. “That is why people call them yugao.”
　Genji watched the place where the hand held the flowers.
　He could not see the woman clearly. The fence and the shadows hid her face.
　Yet something about the moment felt strangely exciting.
　After a moment the woman spoke again.
　“Would you like one of the flowers?” she asked.
　Before Genji could answer, the hand reached through the fence. The woman carefully picked one white flower and held it out toward him.
　Genji accepted it.
　The flower felt cool and delicate in his hand.
　“Thank you,” he said quietly.
　As he held the flower, Genji felt curious about the woman behind the fence.
　“Who lives in this house?” he asked.
　The woman did not answer directly.
　Instead she said, “It is only a small house. Nothing very important.”
　Her voice sounded playful.
　Genji smiled slightly.
　Even though he could not see her face, he felt certain that she must be charming.
　Just then another person appeared behind the fence.
　A young girl stepped forward. She opened a small gate in the fence and bowed politely.
　“My lady asked me to give you this,” the girl said.
　She handed Genji a small branch of the white flowers.
　The branch held several blossoms. Their sweet smell rose gently into the air.
　Genji accepted it with interest.
　“Please thank your lady for me,” he said.
　The girl smiled and returned inside.
　Genji stood there for a moment, holding the flowers.
　The situation felt mysterious and delightful.
　At last he turned and continued walking.
　Yet he could not forget the soft voice behind the fence.
　“Who could that woman be?” he wondered.
　That night, after returning home, Genji placed the flowers beside him.
　Their fragrance filled the room.
　As he looked at them, he remembered the gentle voice and the slender hand holding the fan.
　His curiosity grew stronger.
　The next day Genji spoke with one of his attendants.
　“Find out who lives in that house,” he said.
　The attendant went quietly to investigate.
　Later he returned with news.
　“A lady lives there,” he reported. “She is not from a great family, but people say she is very beautiful.”
　Genji listened carefully.
　“Is she married?” he asked.
　The attendant hesitated.
　“No husband lives there now,” he said. “It seems that she lives quietly with only a few servants.”
　Hearing this made Genji even more interested.
　He decided that he must meet the mysterious woman.
　Soon he made another visit to that part of the city.
　This time he came at night again.
　The same quiet street lay before him. The same old fence stood beside the road.
　And once again the white flowers opened in the evening air.
　Genji approached slowly.
　The flowers moved gently in the wind, just as they had the night before.
　After a moment the same hand appeared between the boards of the fence.
　The woman had been watching for him.
　“You returned,” the voice said softly.
　Genji smiled.
　“I could not forget the flowers,” he replied.
　The woman laughed quietly.
　“Or perhaps you could not forget the person behind them,” she said.
　Her words made Genji feel both amused and excited.
　The strange meeting beside the fence had begun something new.

Part 2

　After that evening, Genji often thought about the house with the white evening flowers. Even when he sat among friends or listened to music in the palace, the quiet street and the soft voice behind the fence returned to his mind.
　“Who is that woman?” he wondered again and again.
　The small branch of white flowers he had brought home had already faded. Yet the memory of their fragrance remained clear in his mind.
　A few days later Genji returned to the same place.
　The night was warm, and the sky was dark except for a thin moon that hung low above the roofs of the city. The narrow street was almost empty.
　Genji approached the old fence slowly.
　The evening flowers had opened again. Their white faces seemed to shine softly in the darkness.
　For a moment nothing happened.
　Then the small gate opened quietly.
　The same young girl who had appeared before stepped out. She bowed politely.
　“My lady wondered if you might come again,” the girl said.
　Genji felt pleased when he heard this.
　“And what did she say if I came?” he asked.
　The girl smiled.
　“She said that if you wished, you might send a letter,” she answered.
　Genji laughed softly.
　“A letter?” he said. “Then I must not appear rude.”
　He took out paper and a brush that one of his attendants carried. Standing beside the fence, he wrote a short poem.
　His brush moved smoothly across the paper.
　When he finished, he folded the paper and gave it to the girl.
　“Please give this to your lady,” he said.
　The girl bowed again and disappeared behind the gate.
　Genji waited quietly beside the fence.
　The night wind moved through the flowers. Their thin stems brushed softly against the wooden boards.
　After a short time the girl returned.
　She held a letter.
　“My lady sends this reply,” she said.
　Genji accepted the letter eagerly.
　Even in the dim light he could see that the writing was graceful and delicate.
　He read the poem slowly.
　It spoke of the evening flowers that opened only in darkness and the feeling of meeting someone unexpectedly.
　The meaning was gentle and a little shy.
　Genji smiled.
　“She writes very well,” he said quietly.
　The girl watched him with curiosity.
　“Will you answer her again?” she asked.
　Genji thought for a moment.
　“Not tonight,” he said. “But please tell your lady that I wish to see her.”
　The girl hesitated.
　“My lady lives very quietly,” she said. “She is not used to meeting people.”
　Genji answered calmly.
　“Then I will come quietly as well.”
　The girl nodded and returned inside the house.
　After that night letters began to pass between Genji and the mysterious woman.
　Each letter contained a short poem.
　Their words were careful and polite, yet the feeling between them slowly grew warmer.
　Genji learned that the woman was called Yugao.
　She lived simply in that small house with only a few servants. Her life was quiet and hidden from the busy world of the capital.
　This made Genji even more curious.
　“A woman who lives so quietly must have an interesting story,” he thought.
　One evening, after several letters had passed between them, Genji finally received a message inviting him to visit the house.
　The message was short.
　“If you truly wish to see the evening flowers closely,” it said, “you may come tonight.”
　Genji felt excited.
　As soon as night fell, he prepared to go.
　He wore simple clothing again and took only a few attendants with him. He did not want people to notice his visit.
　When he arrived at the quiet street, the small gate opened quickly.
　The young girl greeted him.
　“Please come in,” she said.
　Genji stepped through the gate.
　The garden inside the fence was small but pleasant. A few trees stood near the house, and the evening flowers climbed along the wooden walls.
　Their white petals glowed softly in the lamplight.
　The girl guided Genji toward the house.
　Inside, the rooms were simple. The wooden floors were clean, and light curtains hung beside the doors.
　The place did not show great wealth, but it felt calm and comfortable.
　Genji sat down on a cushion and waited.
　His heart beat a little faster.
　After a moment the curtain moved.
　A woman entered the room quietly.
　Her robe was light and soft, suitable for the warm night. Her movements were gentle, and her long hair fell smoothly down her back.
　Genji could not see her face clearly at first.
　The lamp beside them burned softly, and the shadows in the room were deep.
　Yet even in that faint light he felt that she was beautiful.
　The woman bowed slightly.
　“I am sorry that my house is so small,” she said.
　Her voice was the same gentle voice he had heard behind the fence.
　Genji answered politely.
　“Your house is very pleasant,” he said. “And the flowers here are more beautiful than any in the city.”
　The woman laughed softly.
　“They are only simple flowers,” she said.
　Genji looked at her carefully.
　Even though her clothes were not grand, her manner was graceful.
　There was also a slight sadness in her voice that touched his heart.
　They spoke quietly together.
　At first their conversation was formal and careful. But as time passed they became more relaxed.
　Yugao spoke about the garden and the quiet life she lived there.
　Genji listened with interest.
　The room filled with the gentle fragrance of the evening flowers outside.
　As the night grew deeper, Genji felt that he did not want to leave.
　The mysterious woman and the quiet house seemed to belong to another world far from the busy palace.
　For a moment he forgot all the troubles of court life.
　Sitting beside Yugao in the soft lamplight, he felt strangely peaceful.
　The evening flowers swayed outside the window.
　Their white petals moved softly in the warm night wind.

Part 3

　The quiet room grew deeper in silence as the night passed. Outside, the white evening flowers moved gently in the warm wind. Their sweet smell drifted through the open space of the house.
　Genji sat beside Yugao and watched her carefully.
　The small lamp beside them gave a soft yellow light. Because of that light, he could now see her face more clearly.
　Her beauty was not proud or bright like that of the great ladies of the court. Instead it was soft and gentle.
　Her eyes were calm, and her expression seemed a little shy.
　Genji felt drawn to her.
　“You live very quietly here,” he said after a while.
　Yugao lowered her eyes.
　“Yes,” she answered. “My life has become simple.”
　Genji wondered what she meant by those words. He felt that her past must hold some hidden sadness.
　Yet he did not ask directly.
　Instead he spoke about lighter things.
　They talked about the flowers in the garden and about the warm summer night. Their voices were low and calm.
　As the hours passed, the small house became even more quiet.
　The servants had fallen asleep in another room.
　Only the faint sound of the wind and the insects outside could be heard.
　At last Genji said softly, “This house feels peaceful. But I worry that people may speak badly if they learn that I visit here.”
　Yugao looked at him with concern.
　“I also fear such talk,” she said.
　Genji thought for a moment.
　Then he spoke again.
　“There is a quiet place where we could stay for a short time,” he said. “It is far from the busy streets. No one would disturb us there.”
　Yugao hesitated.
　Leaving her house at night felt frightening.
　Yet she also felt a strange trust in Genji.
　After a moment she nodded slowly.
　“If you believe it is safe,” she said.
　Genji smiled gently.
　“Do not worry,” he answered. “I will protect you.”
　Soon they prepared to leave.
　The young servant girl helped Yugao put on a light outer robe. Genji waited quietly near the entrance.
　Outside, the night was still dark.
　A small carriage waited near the gate.
　Genji helped Yugao step inside. Then he entered after her, and the carriage began to move through the quiet streets.
　The city was silent.
　Most houses were dark, and only a few lamps burned in the distance. The wheels of the carriage made a soft sound on the road.
　Yugao looked out through the curtain of the carriage.
　The shadows of trees and buildings passed slowly by.
　She felt both nervous and excited.
　Genji noticed her uneasiness.
　“Are you afraid?” he asked gently.
　Yugao shook her head.
　“Only a little,” she said.
　Genji spoke softly.
　“There is nothing to fear tonight.”
　After some time the carriage reached a lonely place on the edge of the city.
　An old house stood there.
　The building was large but quiet. The garden around it had grown wild, and tall grass moved in the wind.
　A servant opened the gate.
　Genji and Yugao entered the house.
　Inside, the rooms were empty and silent. Only one lamp burned in the main room.
　The place felt very different from the small house of the evening flowers.
　Yugao looked around with uncertain eyes.
　“This house feels lonely,” she said.
　Genji tried to comfort her.
　“It is only quiet,” he replied.
　They sat together on cushions in the main room.
　Outside, the wind moved through the tall grass of the garden. The sound was soft but constant.
　For a while they spoke quietly together.
　Yet the lonely house created a strange feeling.
　Yugao began to feel uneasy.
　She looked toward the dark corners of the room.
　“I feel something strange here,” she whispered.
　Genji tried to calm her.
　“It is only the wind,” he said.
　But the uneasy feeling did not disappear.
　The lamp flickered slightly, and the shadows on the walls moved.
　Yugao leaned closer to Genji.
　“Please stay beside me,” she said softly.
　Genji placed his arm around her.
　“I am here,” he said.
　After some time Yugao grew quiet.
　Her body felt weak.
　She lay down on the bedding that the servants had prepared.
　Genji sat beside her and watched her face.
　Suddenly she seemed to grow pale.
　Her breathing became slow and faint.
　Genji felt alarmed.
　“What is wrong?” he asked.
　Yugao did not answer.
　Her eyes closed, and her body lay still.
　Genji called for help.
　Servants hurried into the room.
　They tried to wake her, but she did not move.
　Fear filled the room.
　Genji held her hand.
　It felt cold.
　His heart filled with shock and sorrow.
　Only a short time before, she had been speaking beside him in the quiet house with the evening flowers.
　Now she lay silent.
　The mysterious woman who had appeared behind the fence had suddenly left the world.
　Genji sat beside her through the rest of the night.
　The lonely house felt colder and darker than before.
　Outside, the wind continued to move through the tall grass.
　When morning finally came, the pale light of dawn entered the room.
　Genji looked once more at Yugao’s quiet face.
　The brief and strange love that had begun beside the evening flowers had ended too soon.

 
Chapter 5: Wakamurasaki (若紫)

Part 1

　One day Genji visited the house of the governor of Kii. The house stood in a quiet part of the city, away from the busy roads near the palace. Tall trees grew around the garden, and the sound of wind moved gently through their leaves.
　Genji did not come there for a grand visit. Instead he arrived quietly with only a few attendants. He wished to see someone who lived in that house.
　Inside the building the rooms were calm and cool. Thin curtains moved softly in the summer air.
　Genji sat down on a cushion and waited.
　His friend Tō no Chūjō was also present. The two young men had known each other for many years, and they often spoke freely together.
　After a while Genji began to talk about women.
　“There are many kinds of women in this world,” he said. “Some are beautiful but proud. Others are quiet but difficult to understand.”
　Tō no Chūjō laughed.
　“You speak as if you know every woman in the capital,” he said.
　Genji smiled.
　“I do not know them all,” he answered. “But I have seen enough to think about the matter.”
　The two men continued speaking for a long time.
　Their conversation slowly turned into a discussion about what kind of woman would make the best wife.
　One man spoke about beauty.
　Another spoke about kindness.
　Another said that intelligence was the most important quality.
　As they talked, their voices filled the quiet room.
　The summer evening grew darker outside.
　Lamps were lit in the house, and their soft light shone through the screens.
　Genji listened carefully to the opinions of his friends.
　At last he spoke again.
　“A perfect woman may not exist,” he said. “But if she did, she would be gentle, thoughtful, and calm. She would not show anger easily, and she would understand the feelings of others.”
　His friends listened with interest.
　The conversation lasted late into the night.
　When it finally ended, Genji prepared to leave.
　Yet as he stepped outside into the garden, his thoughts continued to turn around the same question.
　“What kind of woman truly deserves love?” he wondered.
　Some days later Genji visited another place in the city.
　This time he went to the house of a priest who lived quietly near a temple.
　The house stood among tall trees, and the sound of water from a small stream could be heard nearby.
　Genji had heard that a certain young girl lived there.
　The girl was related to a lady whom Genji respected deeply.
　Curious about the child, Genji decided to see her with his own eyes.
　When he arrived, the priest welcomed him politely.
　“Please come inside,” the priest said.
　Genji entered the house.
　The rooms were simple but clean. A gentle smell of incense filled the air.
　After greeting the priest, Genji sat quietly and looked around.
　Suddenly he heard a child’s voice from another room.
　The voice sounded young and lively.
　Curious, Genji moved slightly closer to the screen.
　Through a small opening he could see a little girl sitting on the floor.
　Her long hair fell around her shoulders like a dark cloud.
　She held a small doll in her hands and was playing quietly.
　Beside her sat an older woman who watched her with care.
　Genji observed the girl carefully.
　Her face was still childish, but there was something very beautiful in her expression.
　She looked calm and gentle.
　For a moment Genji forgot to breathe.
　“Who is that child?” he asked softly.
　The priest followed his gaze.
　“Ah,” the priest said. “That is my granddaughter.”
　Genji continued watching the girl.
　She moved the doll gently and spoke to it in a quiet voice.
　Her words were simple and innocent.
　Yet Genji felt deeply touched by her presence.
　“She reminds me of someone,” he thought.
　In his heart he remembered Fujitsubo, the noble lady whom he admired greatly.
　The young girl seemed to carry a faint image of that same beauty.
　Genji’s heart became restless.
　“Such a child should not grow up in a quiet temple like this,” he thought.
　After a moment he spoke to the priest.
　“May I see the child more closely?” he asked.
　The priest nodded.
　“Of course,” he said.
　The older woman called the girl gently.
　“Come here,” she said.
　The child looked up with curious eyes.
　Slowly she stood and walked toward them.
　Genji watched her carefully as she approached.
　Her steps were small and graceful.
　When she came near, she bowed shyly.
　Genji felt a strange warmth in his heart.
　The child’s beauty was still unformed, like a flower that had not yet opened.
　Yet he could already see how lovely she might become in the future.
　“What is your name?” Genji asked gently.
　The girl looked toward the older woman, unsure how to answer.
　The woman smiled.
　“Her name is Murasaki,” she said.
　Hearing the name made Genji’s heart move.
　“Murasaki,” he repeated quietly.
　The child looked at him with wide eyes.
　Genji smiled kindly.
　“You are very pretty,” he said.
　The girl did not know how to respond. She lowered her eyes and held the doll tightly in her hands.
　Genji felt both amused and touched.
　As he watched her shy behavior, a strange thought appeared in his mind.
　“If this child were raised carefully,” he thought, “she might grow into the perfect woman.”
　The idea began to grow stronger inside him.
　The quiet temple room seemed suddenly filled with new possibilities.
(continue)


Part 2
　After speaking with the little girl for a short time, Genji remained seated quietly in the room. The soft light of the afternoon entered through the paper screens, and the shadows of tree branches moved gently on the floor.
　The child named Murasaki sat beside the older woman again.
　She held her doll in both hands and looked at Genji from time to time with shy curiosity.
　Genji watched her carefully.
　The more he looked at the child, the more his heart was moved. Her long hair fell softly over her shoulders, and her face was calm and gentle.
　Even though she was still very young, there was already a graceful beauty in her appearance.
　“She truly resembles that lady,” Genji thought again.
　In his mind he saw the image of Lady Fujitsubo, whom he admired deeply. The young girl’s face seemed to carry a faint shadow of the same beauty.
　Genji turned to the priest.
　“This child lives here with you?” he asked.
　The priest nodded slowly.
　“Yes,” he answered. “Her mother passed away when she was still very young. Since then she has lived here quietly.”
　Genji listened with sympathy.
　“That must be difficult for her,” he said.
　The priest sighed softly.
　“It is not an easy life,” he replied. “This place is calm, but a child should grow up in a better home.”
　Genji looked again at Murasaki.
　She was now speaking softly to her doll, as if it were a real person. Her voice was light and innocent.
　Watching her made Genji feel both happy and sad.
　“Such a child should be cared for with great attention,” he thought.
　The priest continued speaking.
　“I am old,” he said. “I cannot guide her for many more years.”
　Genji felt a sudden thought rise strongly in his heart.
　“If she were raised in my house,” he thought, “I could teach her carefully. I could help her grow into a noble and beautiful lady.”
　The idea seemed natural to him.
　Yet he did not speak about it immediately.
　Instead he continued talking with the priest.
　“She seems very gentle,” Genji said.
　The priest smiled.
　“Yes,” he replied. “She has a calm nature. But she is also lonely sometimes.”
　At that moment the girl looked toward them again.
　She seemed to feel that they were speaking about her.
　Genji spoke gently.
　“Murasaki, come here again,” he said.
　The girl stood slowly and walked toward him.
　Her steps were light and careful.
　When she reached Genji, she looked down shyly.
　Genji smiled kindly.
　“Do you enjoy living here?” he asked.
　The girl thought for a moment.
　“It is quiet,” she said in a small voice.
　Her answer made Genji feel a little sad.
　“Would you like to see the city someday?” he asked.
　The girl looked surprised.
　“The city?” she repeated softly.
　She had rarely left the temple area.
　The busy streets of the capital must have seemed like another world to her.
　Genji watched her thoughtful face.
　“If you lived in my house,” he thought quietly, “you would see many new things.”
　The priest observed the scene with interest.
　He seemed to understand Genji’s thoughts.
　After a moment he spoke.
　“You appear very fond of the child,” he said.
　Genji answered honestly.
　“Yes,” he replied. “I feel great affection for her.”
　The priest nodded slowly.
　“She reminds you of someone,” he said.
　Genji felt surprised.
　Yet he did not deny it.
　“Yes,” he said quietly.
　The priest smiled gently.
　“That is understandable,” he said.
　The room became silent for a moment.
　Outside, the wind moved softly through the trees of the garden.
　Then Genji spoke again.
　“If you allow it,” he said carefully, “I would like to take care of this child.”
　The priest looked at him thoughtfully.
　“You mean that she would live in your house?” he asked.
　Genji nodded.
　“Yes,” he said. “I would raise her with great care.”
　The priest did not answer immediately.
　He looked at the child.
　Murasaki was again sitting quietly on the floor, playing with her doll.
　The old man seemed to consider the future carefully.
　“Your house is noble,” he said at last. “But the girl is still very young.”
　Genji spoke gently.
　“That is why I wish to guide her from now,” he answered.
　The priest sighed softly.
　“Perhaps that would indeed give her a better life,” he said.
　Yet he still seemed uncertain.
　Genji did not press the matter further.
　Instead he continued speaking kindly with the child.
　Murasaki slowly became more comfortable.
　She showed Genji the small doll she had been playing with.
　The doll wore a tiny robe made from a piece of old cloth.
　“I made this,” she said proudly.
　Genji laughed softly.
　“You did very well,” he said.
　The girl’s face brightened slightly.
　Watching her gentle happiness made Genji feel a deep warmth in his heart.
　As the evening light began to fade, Genji finally prepared to leave.
　Before leaving, he spoke quietly with the priest once more.
　“Please think about what I said,” he asked.
　The priest nodded slowly.
　“I will consider it,” he answered.
　Genji then turned toward the child.
　“Murasaki,” he said kindly, “I will come to visit you again.”
　The girl looked at him with wide eyes.
　“Will you really come?” she asked.
　Genji smiled.
　“Yes,” he said. “I promise.”
　With those words he stepped outside into the quiet garden.
　The evening sky had turned pale, and the first stars were beginning to appear.
　As Genji walked away from the temple house, his thoughts remained with the young girl.
　The idea in his heart had not disappeared.
　Instead it had grown even stronger.
　“If she grows under my care,” he thought, “she may become the perfect lady.”
(continue)


Part 3
　After leaving the temple house, Genji returned slowly to his residence. The road through the city was quiet that evening. A soft wind moved through the streets, and the lamps beside the houses shone faintly in the growing darkness.
　Genji sat inside his carriage and thought deeply.
　The image of the young girl Murasaki remained clearly in his mind. Her shy eyes, her long hair, and the gentle way she spoke all returned again and again to his thoughts.
　“Such a child should not remain hidden in that quiet place,” he said softly to himself.
　The more he remembered her, the stronger his feelings became.
　“If she grows under careful guidance,” he thought, “she may become the woman I once imagined.”
　Genji’s heart had long searched for a certain kind of beauty and kindness. Now he felt that the young girl might one day become that ideal.
　When he arrived home, he continued to think about the matter.
　For several days he could not forget the child.
　At last he decided to visit the temple house again.
　On the next visit he spoke once more with the priest.
　The old man welcomed him politely and prepared tea.
　After they sat down, Genji spoke openly.
　“I have thought carefully about the child,” he said. “If you permit it, I would like to bring her to my house and raise her there.”
　The priest listened quietly.
　“You spoke of this before,” he said slowly. “I have also thought about it.”
　The old man looked toward the garden.
　Through the open screen the sound of children’s voices could be heard faintly.
　Murasaki was playing again.
　The priest sighed softly.
　“She is still very young,” he said. “But I am growing old. I cannot guide her future well.”
　Genji waited patiently.
　At last the priest nodded.
　“If she lives in your house,” he said, “her future may be brighter.”
　Genji bowed respectfully.
　“I promise that I will care for her with great attention,” he said.
　Soon the older woman who watched over Murasaki was called into the room.
　She listened to the discussion with surprise.
　“The child will live with Lord Genji?” she asked.
　The priest nodded.
　“Yes,” he replied.
　The woman looked thoughtful.
　She loved the child deeply, yet she also understood that Genji’s house would provide a better life.
　After a moment she agreed.
　“If that is the best future for her, then I will prepare her to go,” she said.
　When Murasaki was called into the room, she did not understand what was happening.
　She walked in quietly, holding her doll.
　The priest spoke gently.
　“This lord wishes to take care of you,” he said. “You will go to his house and live there.”
　Murasaki looked surprised.
　She turned her eyes toward Genji.
　“Your house?” she asked softly.
　Genji smiled kindly.
　“Yes,” he said. “You will see many new things there.”
　The girl seemed uncertain.
　She had never lived anywhere except the quiet temple house.
　“Will I still be able to visit here?” she asked.
　The priest nodded.
　“Of course,” he said.
　The girl slowly accepted the idea.
　Though she felt nervous, she also trusted Genji.
　Soon preparations were made.
　The older woman helped Murasaki gather her small belongings. She had only a few simple clothes and her favorite doll.
　When everything was ready, a carriage was prepared outside.
　The evening light had begun to fade again.
　Murasaki stood near the entrance of the house and looked back once more.
　The quiet rooms and the small garden had been her home for many years.
　The priest spoke gently.
　“Go without fear,” he said. “Your future will be bright.”
　Murasaki bowed politely.
　Then she stepped into the carriage beside Genji.
　As the carriage began to move, she looked through the curtain.
　The temple house slowly disappeared behind the trees.
　For a moment her eyes filled with quiet tears.
　Genji noticed this.
　“Do not be sad,” he said gently. “My house will become your home.”
　Murasaki wiped her eyes.
　“I will try,” she said softly.
　The carriage continued through the evening streets of the capital.
　Lamps shone along the roads, and the sounds of the city grew stronger as they approached Genji’s residence.
　When they finally arrived, the gates opened quietly.
　The large house stood calm and beautiful under the night sky.
　Servants came forward with respectful bows.
　Murasaki looked around with wonder.
　Everything seemed large and unfamiliar.
　Genji guided her inside.
　“From now on you will live here,” he said.
　The girl nodded quietly.
　She still held her doll tightly in her hands.
　Genji looked at her with a gentle smile.
　In his heart he felt certain that this meeting would shape the future in an important way.
　The small child he had discovered in the quiet temple house had now entered his world.
　And so the young girl named Murasaki began a new life under Genji’s care.

 
Chapter 6: Suetsumuhana (末摘花)

Part 1

　One evening Genji sat quietly in his residence. The air of early spring moved gently through the garden, and the faint smell of new flowers came through the open screens.
　The young lord looked toward the pale sky and thought about many things.
　His life in the capital was filled with visits, music, poetry, and meetings with many people. Yet sometimes his heart felt restless.
　On that evening one of his attendants spoke to him.
　“My lord,” the man said, “there is a house not far from here where a certain lady lives alone. People say she is the daughter of a noble family, though she now lives very quietly.”
　Genji turned his eyes toward the speaker.
　“A noble family?” he asked.
　“Yes,” the attendant answered. “Her father once held high rank at court. But after his death the house became silent.”
　Genji listened with interest.
　Stories about unknown ladies often caught his attention.
　“What kind of person is she?” he asked.
　The attendant hesitated.
　“People say she is very shy,” he said. “Few visitors come to her house.”
　Genji smiled slightly.
　“That sounds interesting,” he replied.
　The quiet mystery of such a lady awakened his curiosity.
　For several days the story remained in his mind.
　At last he decided to learn more.
　One evening he rode quietly through the streets of the capital. Only a few trusted attendants followed him.
　The road led them to a quiet area of the city.
　The house they sought stood behind an old gate. Tall trees surrounded the building, and the garden inside had grown wild with time.
　A faint lamp burned inside the house.
　Genji stopped his carriage.
　“This must be the place,” he said softly.
　The attendants looked around.
　The house appeared old and lonely.
　Yet there was still a quiet dignity in its appearance.
　Genji stepped down from the carriage.
　The evening wind moved gently through the branches above the gate.
　For a moment he stood still and listened.
　The house seemed almost silent.
　At last one servant approached the entrance and announced Genji’s visit.
　After a long pause, a woman’s voice answered softly from inside.
　The voice was calm but uncertain.
　Genji was invited to enter.
　He walked slowly through the gate and into the garden.
　The path was narrow, and fallen leaves lay on the ground.
　The old house stood quietly in the darkness.
　When Genji entered the main room, a lamp was brought forward.
　The soft light revealed a simple room.
　The furniture was old but carefully kept.
　Behind a curtain sat the lady of the house.
　Genji could not see her clearly.
　She remained hidden, as was proper.
　Genji greeted her politely.
　“I am grateful that you allow me to visit,” he said.
　The lady answered in a quiet voice.
　“Your presence honors this poor house,” she said.
　Her voice sounded gentle but shy.
　Genji tried to continue the conversation.
　“I have long heard of your noble family,” he said.
　The lady replied with humility.
　“Those days are long past,” she said.
　Her words suggested a quiet sadness.
　Genji noticed that the room felt very different from the lively houses of other court ladies.
　Everything here seemed still and calm.
　For a while they exchanged polite words.
　Yet the conversation did not flow easily.
　The lady answered carefully but spoke very little.
　Genji tried to imagine what kind of person she might be.
　Her voice sounded soft and kind.
　But her great shyness made the meeting difficult.
　At last Genji decided to remain patient.
　“Perhaps she simply needs time,” he thought.
　The night grew deeper outside.
　The lamp flickered gently in the quiet room.
　Genji continued speaking with calm courtesy.
　“This house is peaceful,” he said.
　The lady answered softly.
　“Yes. It is quiet.”
　Her voice seemed almost too gentle.
　Genji began to feel both curious and amused.
　“Such shyness is unusual,” he thought.
　Still, something about the situation interested him.
　The mystery of the unseen lady made him wish to return again.
　When the time came to leave, Genji spoke kindly.
　“I hope you will allow me to visit again,” he said.
　The lady answered politely.
　“If it pleases you.”
　Genji bowed slightly and stepped outside into the cool night air.
　As he walked back through the garden, he thought carefully about the strange meeting.
　The house had been quiet and somewhat lonely.
　The lady’s voice had been gentle but uncertain.
　“What kind of woman lives in such silence?” he wondered.
　The question stayed in his mind as he returned to his carriage.
　The gate closed quietly behind him.
　And so Genji’s strange acquaintance with the hidden lady of the old house began.

Part 2

　Several days passed after Genji’s first visit to the quiet house. During that time he often remembered the strange meeting.
　The lady had spoken very little. Yet her gentle voice and shy manner remained clearly in his mind.
　“She must be a very unusual woman,” Genji thought.
　Most ladies in the capital knew how to speak with skill and charm. Their words flowed easily, and they often answered with clever poems or graceful laughter.
　But the lady of that lonely house had been different.
　Her silence had made the room feel almost empty.
　Instead of losing interest, Genji found his curiosity growing stronger.
　One evening he decided to visit the house again.
　The sky had already grown dark when his carriage moved quietly through the streets. A cool wind carried the smell of damp earth from the gardens of the city.
　When he reached the familiar gate, he stepped down and looked toward the house.
　The building still stood silent among the trees.
　A small lamp burned faintly inside.
　The servant announced his arrival.
　After a short pause he was invited to enter again.
　Genji walked slowly through the garden path. Fallen leaves made a soft sound beneath his steps.
　When he entered the main room, the same quiet feeling surrounded him.
　The lady sat behind the curtain once more.
　“I have come again,” Genji said politely.
　The lady answered in her soft voice.
　“You are most kind.”
　Genji tried to speak in a friendly way.
　“I hope I did not trouble you by visiting before,” he said.
　“Not at all,” she replied. “It was an honor.”
　Her answer was polite, yet her voice still carried the same shy hesitation.
　Genji smiled slightly.
　“You are very modest,” he said.
　The lady gave no reply.
　A long moment of silence followed.
　Genji realized that conversation would again be difficult.
　Yet he continued patiently.
　“Your house is very peaceful,” he said. “The quiet garden is beautiful in the evening.”
　The lady answered softly.
　“It has become rather wild with time.”
　Genji looked toward the garden outside.
　The branches of the old trees moved slowly in the night wind.
　“Even so,” he said, “there is a kind of charm in such quiet places.”
　Again the lady remained silent.
　Genji wondered if she felt embarrassed by her situation.
　Her family had once held high rank, but now she lived alone in a forgotten house.
　Perhaps that memory made her uneasy.
　Trying to make her feel comfortable, Genji spoke gently.
　“Your father must have been a respected man,” he said.
　The lady answered quietly.
　“He served the court faithfully.”
　Her voice carried a faint sadness.
　“After he passed away,” she continued, “our house became very quiet.”
　Genji listened with sympathy.
　“That must have been difficult,” he said.
　The lady did not answer.
　Instead she lowered her voice and said softly, “Life changes.”
　The words were simple but thoughtful.
　Genji felt that behind her silence there might be a sincere and gentle heart.
　As the night grew deeper, the lamp burned lower.
　Genji began to wonder what the lady looked like.
　Until now he had seen only the shadow of her figure behind the curtain.
　Her voice was pleasant, but he could not imagine her appearance clearly.
　At last he spoke with playful curiosity.
　“You hide yourself very carefully,” he said.
　The lady seemed surprised.
　“It would be improper for me to appear openly,” she answered.
　Genji laughed softly.
　“Even a brief glance would satisfy my curiosity,” he said.
　The lady did not respond.
　Her silence suggested both modesty and uncertainty.
　Genji began to suspect that something unusual might be hidden behind the curtain.
　Yet he did not wish to offend her.
　Instead he spoke about poetry and the beauty of the season.
　After some time he recited a gentle poem about the quiet evening and the lonely garden.
　The lady listened carefully.
　At last she answered with a poem of her own.
　Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke the words.
　The poem was simple but sincere.
　Genji felt both amused and touched.
　The lady’s poetry lacked the elegant skill of court women, yet her feelings seemed honest.
　“She truly lives far from the world of the court,” he thought.
　As the hours passed, Genji remained patient.
　Yet he also felt a growing curiosity.
　What kind of woman could be so shy and awkward?
　When the time came for him to leave, he spoke kindly once more.
　“I hope we may speak again,” he said.
　The lady answered quietly.
　“If you wish.”
　Genji stepped outside into the cool night air.
　As he walked back through the silent garden, he thought about the strange lady again.
　“Her voice is gentle,” he thought. “But something about her manner is very unusual.”
　The mystery continued to amuse him.
　And so he decided that he would visit the lonely house once more.

Part 3

　Some time passed after Genji’s second visit to the quiet house. Yet the strange lady did not leave his thoughts.
　Her shy voice and her uncertain answers remained clearly in his memory.
　Most ladies of the capital tried very hard to attract his attention. They spoke with bright charm and skill.
　But this woman had done nothing of that kind.
　Instead she had hidden herself almost completely.
　“What kind of person could she be?” Genji wondered.
　At last he decided to visit the house once again.
　The evening was cold, and a pale moon shone through thin clouds. The streets of the city were quiet.
　When Genji reached the familiar gate, he stepped down from his carriage and walked slowly toward the entrance.
　The old house looked the same as before.
　Tall trees surrounded the garden, and the wind moved softly through the branches.
　A servant announced his arrival.
　After a moment Genji was invited inside.
　The lamp was lit again in the same quiet room.
　The lady sat behind the curtain as always.
　“I have returned,” Genji said politely.
　The lady answered softly.
　“You honor this house.”
　The conversation began again with careful words.
　Yet Genji soon felt that something was different.
　The lady seemed even more nervous than before.
　Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke.
　Genji tried to ease her feelings.
　“You should not be so troubled by my visits,” he said kindly.
　“I do not wish to cause you fear.”
　The lady replied in a very quiet voice.
　“I am only unworthy.”
　Genji smiled.
　“You are too modest,” he said.
　The lamp flickered gently in the room.
　For a moment the curtain moved slightly in the wind.
　Through the small opening Genji caught a brief glimpse of the lady’s face.
　The sight surprised him greatly.
　Her face was pale, and her nose was long and red.
　The shape of her features was unusual.
　For a moment Genji felt shocked.
　He had expected some hidden beauty behind the curtain.
　Instead the lady’s appearance was strange and awkward.
　Yet he quickly controlled his expression.
　“I must not show disrespect,” he thought.
　The lady, unaware of his thoughts, continued speaking shyly.
　Her voice was still gentle.
　Genji listened carefully.
　As he heard her speak, his first surprise slowly softened.
　Her manner was simple and honest.
　Though her appearance was unusual, her heart seemed kind.
　Genji began to feel both pity and sympathy.
　“She has lived alone for a long time,” he thought.
　“No one has guided her properly.”
　Trying to be considerate, Genji spoke kindly.
　“Your poetry before was very sincere,” he said.
　The lady answered nervously.
　“I am not skilled.”
　“Skill is not always necessary,” Genji replied. “Honest feeling is more important.”
　His words seemed to comfort her slightly.
　For a moment the conversation became easier.
　Yet Genji could not ignore the strange difference between her voice and her appearance.
　The contrast amused him quietly.
　Still, he did not wish to hurt her feelings.
　Instead he treated her with polite kindness.
　As the night passed, Genji remained in the room speaking calmly.
　Outside, the cold wind moved through the trees of the garden.
　The lonely house seemed even more silent than before.
　At last the time came for Genji to leave.
　He rose slowly.
　“I will return again someday,” he said.
　The lady answered in her shy voice.
　“You are always welcome.”
　Genji stepped outside.
　The moon shone pale above the trees.
　As he walked back through the quiet garden, he thought about the strange meeting.
　“Her appearance is certainly unusual,” he said softly to himself.
　Yet he did not feel anger or disappointment.
　Instead he felt a strange mixture of amusement and kindness.
　“Even such a person deserves care,” he thought.
　In the days that followed, Genji sometimes sent small gifts to the lonely house.
　Fine cloth and other useful items arrived quietly at her gate.
　The lady received them with surprise and gratitude.
　Though their connection remained unusual, Genji did not abandon her.
　His gentle kindness continued to reach the quiet house from time to time.
　And so the strange relationship between Genji and the lonely lady of the old house continued quietly within the great city.

 
Chapter 7: Momiji no Ga (紅葉賀)

Part 1

　Autumn came to the capital, and the air grew clear and cool. The leaves of the trees began to change color. Red and gold appeared among the branches, and the gardens of the palace became very beautiful.
　At court the Emperor announced that a great celebration would soon take place. It would be the festival of red leaves, a joyful event held in the palace gardens. Courtiers, musicians, and dancers would gather there. Poetry, music, and elegant dances would fill the day. Everyone in the capital spoke about the coming celebration.
　Genji also heard the news. When he thought about the festival, he felt both interest and quiet excitement. Such gatherings were important occasions at court. Many nobles would attend, and every person wished to appear graceful and impressive.
　On the morning of the festival, the palace grounds were filled with activity. Servants hurried through the halls preparing decorations. Musicians carried their instruments to the garden stage. Court officials arranged seats for the Emperor and the high nobles. The autumn sun shone brightly above the palace roofs. In the wide garden the red leaves glowed in the clear light.
　Genji arrived dressed in beautiful court robes. The deep colors of his clothing matched the rich colors of the season. When he walked through the garden, many people turned their eyes toward him. His appearance was calm and elegant.
　Several young nobles approached him with smiles. “Lord Genji,” one of them said, “today’s festival will be splendid.” Genji nodded. “The garden is already beautiful,” he answered.
　As they spoke, the sound of music began to rise from the stage. Court musicians sat in a long line holding flutes, drums, and string instruments. Their music moved softly through the autumn air.
　Soon the Emperor entered the garden. All the courtiers bowed deeply. The Emperor took his seat beneath a pavilion decorated with red leaves and silk banners. When everyone had settled into their places, the festival began.
　The first performance was a dance. Two young nobles stepped forward wearing bright costumes. Their sleeves moved slowly as they began the graceful motions of the dance. The music guided their steps. Their movements were careful and elegant, and the watching crowd remained very quiet.
　After several performances, another dance was announced. This dance would be performed by two well-known young nobles of the court. One of them was Genji. The other was the Crown Prince’s companion, a young man respected for his skill.
　When Genji stepped onto the stage, a quiet murmur moved through the crowd. Many people admired his beauty and grace. The music began again. Slowly Genji raised his sleeves and began the dance.
　His movements were smooth and natural. Each step matched the rhythm of the music perfectly. The long sleeves of his robe moved like flowing water. The red leaves above the stage trembled gently in the wind. As Genji turned and stepped across the stage, the sunlight touched his bright robes. Many people watched with admiration. Even those who had seen him dance before felt impressed again. The Emperor himself leaned forward slightly to watch.
　When the dance ended, the garden filled with quiet praise. Several nobles spoke softly to one another. “No one dances with such grace,” one man said. “His movements are like music itself,” another replied.
　Genji returned calmly to his seat. Though many eyes remained fixed on him, his expression stayed gentle and modest.
　Yet another person watched him with special attention. This was the young Crown Prince. The prince had long admired Genji’s talent and charm. When the music paused for a moment, the prince spoke to him. “Your dance today was beautiful,” the prince said. Genji bowed respectfully. “Your words honor me,” he replied.
　The festival continued through the afternoon. Poetry was read aloud. Musicians performed new songs. Courtiers walked through the garden beneath the red leaves. Everywhere there was laughter and quiet conversation.
　Yet during the festival another event drew quiet attention. Some people noticed the presence of a young dancer dressed in special costume. This dancer wore a mask and bright robes.
　When the dance began, the dancer’s movements were light and skillful. The sleeves rose and fell like wings. The watching crowd admired the performance. Yet a few people began to whisper among themselves. “Who is that dancer?” someone asked.
　The movements seemed strangely familiar. The dancer’s grace reminded many people of someone well known.
　Genji also watched carefully. As the dance continued, he felt a sudden thought rise in his mind. “Those movements…” he thought. The dancer’s steps were delicate and gentle. There was a quiet beauty in every turn.
　Suddenly Genji understood. Beneath the costume and mask was a young woman he knew well. It was the young lady Fujitsubo. She had joined the dance in disguise as part of the celebration.
　Genji felt his heart move with sudden emotion. Fujitsubo had long held a special place in his thoughts. Seeing her graceful figure in the dance stirred his feelings deeply. Yet he showed no sign of this emotion. Calmly he continued to watch.
　When the dance ended, the masked dancer bowed and stepped away from the stage.
　The festival slowly moved toward evening. The red leaves glowed softly in the fading sunlight. And the memory of the dances remained in the minds of all who had watched.

Part 2

　As the autumn festival continued, the warm light of the afternoon slowly began to fade. The red leaves in the garden shone softly as the sun moved lower in the sky.
　The sound of music still filled the palace grounds. Gentle notes from flutes and strings moved through the cool air.
　Courtiers walked beneath the trees and spoke quietly with one another. Many still talked about the dances they had seen.
　Genji remained seated among the nobles.
　Though he spoke politely with those near him, his thoughts had begun to wander.
　The sight of the masked dancer had stirred his heart.
　Even though the dancer’s face had been hidden, Genji was certain of the truth.
　“That was Lady Fujitsubo,” he thought.
　Her movements had been graceful and gentle, just as he remembered.
　No one else at court carried such quiet beauty.
　Genji lowered his eyes for a moment.
　His feelings for Fujitsubo had always been complicated.
　She was honored and respected by all, and her position at court made her distant from him.
　Yet from the first time he had seen her, something in his heart had changed.
　He could never forget that feeling.
　Now, watching her dance before the entire court, his emotions had grown stronger again.
　At the same time he knew he must remain careful.
　No one must see the thoughts hidden in his heart.
　While Genji remained silent, the festival continued around him.
　Another group of dancers stepped forward.
　Their costumes were bright, and the long sleeves of their robes moved like waves as they began their performance.
　The musicians played a lively song.
　Laughter and applause rose gently among the nobles.
　Yet Genji noticed that the Crown Prince also watched the dancers with deep interest.
　The young prince had admired the earlier performance as well.
　When the dance ended, the prince turned toward Genji again.
　“Today’s celebration is truly wonderful,” he said.
　“Yes,” Genji answered calmly. “The dancers have shown great skill.”
　The prince smiled.
　“Your own dance was also admired by everyone,” he said.
　Genji bowed slightly.
　“I am grateful for such kind words.”
　As the sky slowly darkened, servants began lighting lamps throughout the garden.
　Soft golden light appeared beneath the trees.
　The red leaves now glowed gently in the lamplight.
　The Emperor remained seated in the pavilion, watching the final performances of the day.
　One last dance was prepared.
　The musicians played a slow and beautiful melody.
　The dancers moved carefully across the stage, their sleeves rising and falling with the rhythm.
　Many people watched in quiet admiration.
　Yet Genji’s thoughts had already returned to the earlier moment.
　The image of Fujitsubo in her dance costume remained clear in his mind.
　“Even in disguise, her beauty cannot be hidden,” he thought.
　He felt both joy and sadness at the same time.
　The distance between them could never truly disappear.
　When the final dance ended, the Emperor rose from his seat.
　All the courtiers bowed deeply.
　The festival had come to its close.
　Slowly the nobles began leaving the garden.
　Servants moved quietly among the lanterns, guiding people toward the palace buildings.
　Genji stood and walked slowly through the garden paths.
　The red leaves fell softly around him.
　The cool autumn wind touched his sleeves.
　For a moment he paused beneath one of the tall trees.
　The lantern light shone through the branches above.
　His heart still felt restless.
　“Why must my thoughts return to her again and again?” he wondered quietly.
　Yet he knew the answer.
　Some feelings could not easily be forgotten.
　As he continued walking toward the palace buildings, he noticed movement ahead.
　Several attendants were guiding a noble lady through a side path of the garden.
　Though the evening light was dim, Genji recognized the graceful figure at once.
　It was Fujitsubo.
　She walked quietly beside her attendants.
　Her long robes moved softly across the ground.
　For a brief moment their eyes met.
　Neither of them spoke.
　Yet that silent meeting carried deep meaning.
　Genji lowered his head respectfully.
　Fujitsubo continued walking without stopping.
　Her calm expression revealed nothing.
　But Genji felt that she too understood the moment.
　Soon she disappeared into the palace buildings.
　The quiet garden remained behind.
　Genji stood still for a moment longer.
　The falling leaves moved gently in the wind.
　Then he slowly returned to his carriage.
　The festival of red leaves had ended.
　Yet the memory of that day would remain deeply in his heart.

Part 3

　Night had now fully fallen over the palace grounds. The red leaves that had shone so brightly in the afternoon were now dark shapes beneath the lantern light. Small lamps hung along the garden paths, and their soft glow moved gently in the evening wind.
　Courtiers slowly left the garden. Their voices grew quieter as they returned to their residences.
　Genji remained thoughtful as he walked toward his carriage.
　The festival had been beautiful, yet his heart felt strangely unsettled.
　Again and again his thoughts returned to the moment when he had seen Fujitsubo.
　Though their meeting had lasted only a few seconds, the memory remained very strong.
　“Even a single glance can disturb the heart,” he thought.
　When Genji reached his carriage, one of his attendants spoke quietly.
　“My lord, shall we return home?”
　Genji nodded.
　“Yes,” he answered softly.
　The carriage began moving slowly through the palace gates.
　The night air was cool, and the moon had begun to rise above the rooftops of the capital.
　As the carriage moved through the quiet streets, Genji sat silently inside.
　The sound of the wheels against the road seemed distant.
　His thoughts remained far away.
　At the palace, Fujitsubo had also returned to her residence.
　The attendants who had accompanied her helped remove the dance costume she had worn for the festival.
　The bright robes were carefully folded and placed aside.
　When she was once again dressed in her usual clothing, she sat quietly near a small lamp.
　The room was calm and silent.
　Outside, the autumn wind moved softly through the palace gardens.
　Fujitsubo lowered her eyes.
　She too remembered the moment when she had seen Genji in the garden.
　Though they had spoken no words, the brief meeting had stirred many emotions.
　“Why must such feelings remain in the heart?” she thought.
　She knew that she must remain calm and dignified.
　Her position at court required great care.
　Even the smallest mistake could cause trouble.
　Yet the memory of Genji’s face beneath the red leaves would not easily disappear.
　Meanwhile Genji had returned to his residence.
　The lamps in his rooms were lit, and servants waited quietly nearby.
　When he entered the main chamber, one attendant spoke.
　“My lord must be tired after the long celebration.”
　Genji gave a small smile.
　“It was a beautiful festival,” he said.
　The attendants soon prepared warm tea.
　Genji sat beside the lamp and slowly removed the outer robe he had worn at the palace.
　The rich cloth caught the lamplight.
　For a moment he looked at it quietly.
　The robe still carried the faint smell of the autumn garden.
　He remembered the sound of music, the falling leaves, and the graceful movements of the dancers.
　Above all he remembered Fujitsubo.
　Genji rested his hand against his forehead.
　“Such thoughts must remain hidden,” he told himself.
　Yet the heart does not always obey reason.
　Outside the room, the wind moved gently through the branches of the garden trees.
　A few red leaves drifted slowly to the ground.
　Late that night Genji wrote a short poem.
　The words spoke of autumn leaves that fall silently, carrying with them feelings that cannot easily be spoken.
　When the poem was finished, he read it quietly once more.
　Then he placed it aside.
　The room grew very still.
　Far away the sound of a night bird could be heard.
　In the palace, Fujitsubo also remained awake.
　The memory of the festival had not yet faded from her thoughts.
　She remembered Genji’s graceful dance.
　She remembered the moment when their eyes had met in the garden.
　Slowly she closed her eyes.
　The lantern light flickered softly in the quiet room.
　Though the festival had ended, its memory would remain with both of them for a long time.
　Outside the palace walls, the autumn wind continued to move through the trees.
　The red leaves fell gently to the ground, one after another.
　And the great city of the capital slowly returned to silence after the joyful celebration of the red leaves.

 
Chapter 8: Hana no En (花宴)

Part 1

　It was near the end of the second month. Spring had already begun to show its gentle face in the capital. On that day, a great flower festival was held in the southern court of the palace. The emperor had ordered a grand banquet beneath the cherry trees of the Shishinden. The court was filled with bright color and quiet excitement, because such an event brought together the finest people of the realm.
　The sky was clear and deep blue. Soft wind moved through the garden, and the cherry blossoms trembled lightly in the sunlight. When the wind passed through the branches, pale petals fell slowly through the air like soft snow. The garden seemed full of life. Birds called from the trees, and their voices sounded cheerful in the warm spring air.
　Seats were prepared carefully for the noble guests. On one side sat the empress, and near her was the young crown prince. Behind them were curtains and screens so that they could watch the entertainment with comfort. Many high officials, princes, and learned men gathered in the wide court. Their robes showed many rich colors that moved gently whenever they walked.
　Among those present was Hikaru Genji. Even among the many elegant men of the court, his beauty and grace drew the eye of everyone who looked in his direction. His clothing was carefully chosen for the season, and the soft colors suited him perfectly. His face was calm, but those who knew him well understood that he was always alert to every movement around him.
　The purpose of the gathering was not only to admire the flowers. The emperor had also ordered a contest of poetry. Each participant would receive a special word related to spring. From that word they must compose a poem. The poets of the court took such events very seriously, because the emperor himself was known to have great skill in poetry. The crown prince also loved poetry and often judged the works that were presented.
　When the time came, the officials stepped forward one by one to draw the rhyme words for their poems. Some did this with confidence. Others appeared nervous, because the audience included many famous poets and scholars.
　Genji stepped forward gracefully when his turn came. His movement was calm, and even the way he bowed showed perfect elegance. When the word was given to him, he spoke it clearly.
　“The word I have received is ‘spring,’” he said.
　His voice was beautiful and steady. People listening nearby felt that even this simple moment seemed more graceful because of him.
　After Genji, the Head Captain stepped forward. He was a strong and confident man, and he appeared pleased to follow Genji in the order of the contest. He spoke his word clearly and returned to his place without difficulty.
　Many others followed. Yet not everyone showed the same confidence. Some men spoke in uncertain voices. Others seemed afraid to step forward at all. In such a gathering, it was easy to feel ashamed if one’s poem was not good enough.
　Scholars from the lower ranks suffered the most. The emperor and the crown prince were both excellent judges of poetry, and many brilliant poets served in the court at that time. Because of this, even skilled writers felt nervous when presenting their work in the open court.
　Still, the event continued with elegance. Musicians played beautiful melodies while the poets finished their verses. The sound of the instruments rose gently into the spring air, mixing with the voices of birds and the soft movement of wind among the blossoms.
　As the long spring afternoon slowly moved toward evening, another form of entertainment began. Dancers stepped forward to perform a famous court dance called “Shun’o-den.” Their sleeves moved slowly as they turned, and the sound of music filled the court with quiet joy.
　The crown prince watched with great interest. As he observed the dancers, he remembered a performance Genji had given at a previous festival, when Genji had danced the piece called “Seigaiha.” That performance had been so beautiful that it was still spoken of with admiration.
　Thinking of that memory, the crown prince turned toward Genji.
　“Genji,” he said warmly, “please join the dance today as well. I would very much like to see you perform again.”
　It was difficult to refuse such a request from the crown prince. Genji bowed politely.
　Slowly he rose and stepped into the open space of the court. When the music began again, he lifted his sleeves and began to move with calm and perfect control. His movements were smooth and natural, as if the music itself flowed through his body.
　Those watching felt that no one else could move with such grace. Even the experienced dancers seemed less skillful beside him.
　The Left Minister watched from his seat. Although he sometimes felt jealousy toward Genji, at that moment he could not help feeling deeply moved. Tears appeared in his eyes as he watched the young prince dance beneath the evening sky.
　When Genji finished, the crown prince ordered a flower branch to be given to him as a sign of honor. The court applauded quietly, admiring both the dance and the generosity of the crown prince.
　Soon after, the crown prince looked toward another nobleman.
　“Head Captain,” he said, “why do you not come forward as well?”
　The Head Captain obeyed. He performed another dance called “Ryūkaen.” His performance was longer than Genji’s and showed careful practice. The audience admired his skill, and he too received a robe of honor from the crown prince.
　As the evening grew darker, more nobles joined the dancing. Soon the light of the day began to fade. In the growing darkness it became harder to see clearly how skillful each dancer was.
　After the dancing ended, the poems composed earlier in the day were presented and discussed. When Genji’s poem was read aloud, the court responded with great admiration. Praise rose again and again from those who listened.
　Even the scholars agreed that his poem showed remarkable beauty.
　Throughout the entire festival, it seemed that Genji himself shone like a bright light. Those who watched him could not help noticing his elegance, his talent, and his natural charm.
　The empress observed him quietly. Each time she saw Genji’s beauty, she felt a strange mixture of feelings. She wondered how anyone could hate such a person. At the same time, she felt uneasy that her own attention continued to return to him.
　When the festival finally ended, night had already fallen over the palace.
　The nobles slowly left the court. The empress and the crown prince returned to their residences. The garden became quiet again.
　Above the palace, the spring moon rose into the sky. Its pale light spread softly across the buildings and gardens of the imperial court.
　Genji had drunk some wine during the evening celebration. As he walked through the palace grounds, he felt that the night was too beautiful to end so quickly. The moonlight made the gardens seem almost magical.
　“Such a night should not end in sleep,” he thought.
　A quiet desire rose in his heart. Perhaps, if he were fortunate, he might find some small chance to approach the lady he long admired—the Lady of Fujitsubo.
　With careful steps he moved toward her residence.
　But when he reached the place, he found that all the doors were closed. No attendants were visible, and the building was silent. There was no way to send a message inside.
　Genji sighed softly.
　“There is no chance tonight,” he thought.
　Still restless, he walked slowly through another part of the palace. Eventually he reached a corridor near the residence of the Kokiden lady. One of the side doors stood slightly open.
　Genji paused.
　“How careless,” he thought quietly. “At a time like this, such a place should not be left open.”
　Curiosity and excitement filled his heart.
　Very quietly he stepped onto the veranda and looked inside.
　The rooms were dark and silent. It seemed that most people had already gone to sleep.
　Then suddenly he heard a soft voice.
　A young woman was approaching the doorway, singing gently to herself.
　“There is nothing more beautiful,” she sang softly, “than the hazy moon of spring.”
　The voice was clear and lovely.
　At that moment Genji felt sudden joy rise within him. Without thinking, he stepped forward and gently caught hold of the sleeve of her robe.
　The woman started in fear.
　“How frightening!” she whispered. “Who is there?”
　Genji spoke quietly so that she would not cry out.
　“Please do not be afraid,” he said softly. “I am no dangerous person.”
　Then he leaned closer and spoke again in a gentle voice, beginning to recite a poem.
　The moon above them shone faintly through the spring mist as the strange meeting began.

Part 2

　The woman stood still when Genji held her sleeve. The moonlight from outside entered the open doorway and fell softly across the corridor. In that pale light Genji could see only the outline of her figure. She seemed young, and her movements were graceful even in her surprise.
　She tried gently to pull her sleeve away.
　“This is frightening,” she said in a low voice. “Who are you? Why are you here so late at night?”
　Genji moved a little closer, still careful to speak softly so that others would not hear.
　“Please do not be afraid,” he said again. “I will not harm you. The night is beautiful, and I only wished to speak with you for a moment.”
　The woman did not answer at once. Her breathing was quiet but uncertain. It was clear that she still felt nervous about the strange situation.
　Genji continued his poem in a whisper.
　“In the deep night,” he said, “those who understand the sadness of the hour are joined by the pale moon that enters the sky. I feel that this meeting must not be by chance.”
　His voice was gentle, and the words seemed to calm her a little. Still, she remained cautious.
　“If someone sees us here,” she said quietly, “it will be very bad. Please release me.”
　Genji listened carefully to the sound of her voice. Something in it seemed familiar to him. It carried the soft elegance that belonged only to a noble lady.
　“Do not worry,” he replied softly. “Everyone has already gone to rest. No one will come here now.”
　Then he guided her gently into a nearby room where they could speak without standing in the open doorway. After they entered, he closed the door quietly behind them.
　The room was dim. Only a faint line of moonlight entered through the shutters. In that soft light Genji could see her more clearly. Her face was calm and delicate, though she still looked troubled by the sudden meeting.
　She drew back slightly from him.
　“There is a stranger here,” she said nervously, almost as if speaking to herself.
　Genji smiled faintly.
　“Even if you call for help,” he said gently, “no one will come. I have already made sure of that. Let us speak calmly.”
　When she heard his voice clearly, she seemed to recognize something about it.
　“Is it… you?” she asked quietly.
　Genji did not answer directly, but his gentle tone made it clear who he was.
　At that moment the woman felt less frightened. Still, she was confused and unsure what to do. She did not wish to appear rude, yet she could not fully accept the boldness of this sudden visitor.
　Genji had drunk more wine than usual during the festival. The warm feeling of the wine remained in his body, and it made his emotions stronger than usual.
　“It would be a great loss,” he thought, “if this meeting ended so quickly.”
　The young woman also seemed uncertain how strongly she should resist him. She was young, and the situation had happened so suddenly that she had no clear way to refuse him firmly.
　In the quiet room, beneath the pale spring moon, their meeting continued. The strange moment drew them closer together, and before long they found themselves unable to step away from the path they had entered.
　Time passed quickly.
　Soon the faint light of early morning began to appear in the sky. The night that had seemed so long and mysterious was slowly coming to its end.
　Genji felt a sudden sadness.
　“We must part already,” he thought.
　The woman also seemed troubled. The quiet room, the fading night, and the unexpected closeness between them had left her deeply shaken.
　Genji looked at her carefully.
　“Please tell me who you are,” he said gently. “How can I send a letter to you? Surely you do not wish this meeting to be our last.”
　The woman lowered her eyes for a moment. Then she answered with a poem of her own.
　“If this unhappy life should end quickly,” she said softly, “even if someone tried to search for me, he might wander across a wide field of grass and never find me.”
　Her words were graceful and elegant. The beauty of her voice and the feeling within her poem moved Genji deeply.
　“Ah,” he said quietly, “then perhaps you believe that I would not care enough to search for you.”
　He spoke again, gently teasing her.
　“If I must search among many small bamboo leaves,” he said, “the wind may blow across the field before I can discover which one hides the drop of dew.”
　The meaning of his words was clear. If she continued to hide her identity, finding her again might become impossible.
　“If you truly do not wish trouble from knowing me,” he continued softly, “then why must you hide your name?”
　But before she could answer fully, the sound of movement came from the corridor outside.
　Servants were beginning to wake. Some attendants were moving along the hall to prepare for the morning duties of their mistress. Others were coming to greet the lady who lived in that residence.
　The quiet of the night was ending.
　There was no longer time to remain there.
　Genji realized that he must leave immediately.
　Before going, he quickly exchanged fans with the woman as a secret sign of their meeting. Then he slipped quietly from the room and disappeared into the early morning shadows of the palace.
　When Genji returned to his own residence, the sky had already begun to brighten. Some of the ladies who served him woke when they heard his quiet steps returning.
　They did not approve of his habit of wandering through the palace at night.
　One whispered to another, half amused and half critical.
　“He never seems to grow tired of such adventures.”
　They gently touched each other’s arms and pretended to remain asleep.
　Genji entered his chamber, but he could not rest. His thoughts remained fixed on the mysterious woman he had met in the moonlight.
　“She was beautiful,” he thought. “Her voice was gentle, and her manner was noble.”
　He began to wonder who she might be.
　“She must belong to the family of the Kokiden lady,” he thought. “Perhaps she is one of the younger sisters.”
　There were several daughters in that household, and it would not be easy to know which one she was.
　“If she were the fourth daughter,” he considered, “that would be interesting. I have heard that she is very beautiful.”
　Then another thought troubled him.
　“But the sixth daughter is said to be intended for the crown prince’s household. If it were she… that would make this situation very serious.”
　Genji sighed softly.
　“There are many daughters in the house of the Right Minister,” he thought. “How can I learn which one she is?”
　He remembered that she had not explained any way for him to send her a letter.
　“If she truly wished to see me again,” he wondered, “why did she not tell me how to reach her?”
　Yet the more he thought about her, the stronger his interest became.
　His heart had clearly been captured by the beauty of that brief meeting.
　At the same time, he compared the situation with another thought that came to his mind.
　“The Lady of Fujitsubo never leaves such openings,” he reflected.
　The careful security of Fujitsubo’s residence seemed very different from the careless open door that had allowed this strange meeting to happen.
　The memory of that difference even caused a small feeling of disdain toward the Kokiden household.
　Later that day another banquet took place in the palace. This was the final celebration following the previous night’s festival.
　Genji had many duties during the event. He was responsible for playing the thirteen-string koto during the musical performances. Because of this, he had no free time to follow his private thoughts.
　Yet even while he performed his duties, his mind often returned to the mysterious woman of the moonlit night.
　“Has she already left the palace?” he wondered.
　Quietly he ordered two trusted servants, Yoshikiyo and Koremitsu, to watch carefully and learn whether any ladies from the Kokiden household departed that morning.
　When Genji finally returned to the resting place of the palace guards, the two men reported what they had seen.
　“Several carriages came early this morning,” they said. “They carried people away through the northern gate. Some important officials accompanied them. It appeared to be members of the Right Minister’s household.”
　Genji felt his heart beat strongly when he heard this.
　Three carriages had carried noble women away from the palace.
　One of them must have carried the woman he had met beneath the hazy spring moon.

Part 3

　After hearing the report from his servants, Genji remained silent for a moment. His heart beat quickly, and many thoughts passed through his mind.
　“One of those carriages must have carried her,” he thought.
　Yet this knowledge did not bring him comfort. Instead it made the situation more difficult. The house of the Right Minister had many daughters, and Genji could not be certain which one had spoken with him in the moonlit room.
　“If I discover her identity too openly,” he reflected, “her father may believe that I wish to marry her.”
　The Right Minister was a powerful man. If he learned that Genji had formed a connection with one of his daughters, he might quickly attempt to make a formal marriage arrangement.
　Genji was not ready for such a step.
　“I do not even know her true nature yet,” he thought. “To enter a marriage without understanding her would be dangerous.”
　At the same time, the thought of never seeing her again felt unbearable.
　“How can I allow the matter to end like this?” he wondered.
　These thoughts troubled him deeply, and he lay quietly in his chamber, unable to rest.
　Then another thought came to him.
　“The young lady at the Nijō residence must be feeling lonely,” he said softly to himself.
　For several days he had not visited the girl known as Murasaki. She was still very young and depended on him greatly. The thought that she might be waiting for him with sadness caused him to feel guilty.
　On the small table beside him lay the fan he had taken from the mysterious lady.
　He lifted it gently.
　The fan was made of pale pink paper. Several thin layers of delicate paper had been placed together. On its surface was painted a faint image of a hazy moon above flowing water.
　It was not a rare design, but the way the fan had been used showed that it belonged to a refined lady. The soft marks of her hand remained upon it.
　As Genji looked at the fan, he remembered the moment when she had spoken her poem about the grass field.
　The memory returned so clearly that he almost felt as if she stood before him again.
　“What a strange feeling this is,” he thought.
　Taking a brush, he wrote a short poem upon the fan.
　“My heart feels a strange confusion,” he wrote. “Like the pale morning moon, I search the sky and cannot find the place where it has gone.”
　When he finished writing, he placed the fan carefully aside.
　That morning Genji decided to visit two places. First he would go to the Nijō residence to comfort the young Murasaki. After that he would call at the house of the Left Minister, where his wife lived.
　When he arrived at Nijō, the young girl came to greet him.
　It had only been a few days since he last saw her, yet Genji noticed immediately how much she had grown. Her beauty had become even more delicate and charming.
　She smiled when she saw him.
　There was something gentle and bright in her manner that always pleased Genji greatly.
　“You have become even more beautiful,” he thought.
　Murasaki showed both sweetness and natural grace. Genji believed that if she continued to grow under his guidance, she might become the ideal woman he imagined.
　Yet he also felt a small worry.
　“Because I am the one teaching her,” he thought, “perhaps she will not grow as modestly as a girl raised only among women.”
　Still, he pushed that concern aside.
　That day he spent some time telling her about the events that had taken place at court. He described the flower festival, the poetry contest, and the dances that had been performed beneath the cherry blossoms.
　The girl listened with bright interest.
　Later he began to teach her music, guiding her hands gently across the strings of the koto.
　The quiet sound of the instrument filled the room as the afternoon passed.
　When evening approached, Genji prepared to leave.
　In earlier days Murasaki would have begged him to stay longer. But recently she had begun to accept his departures with quiet patience.
　Though she still felt lonely, she did not try to stop him.
　After leaving Nijō, Genji went to the residence of the Left Minister.
　As usual, his wife did not appear immediately. Genji waited alone for a long time.
　Sitting quietly in the room, he felt a faint sadness about the distance that had grown between them.
　To pass the time he lifted a koto and played softly.
　Then he sang a short line of poetry.
　“There are few nights when I sleep peacefully,” he murmured.
　At that moment the Left Minister entered the room.
　The old man greeted Genji warmly and began speaking about the flower festival.
　“In all my years,” he said, “I have served in the courts of four emperors. Yet never before have I seen a celebration as wonderful as the one we enjoyed this spring.”
　His eyes shone with excitement as he continued.
　“There were so many fine poems. The music was excellent. Truly it was an event that made an old man feel young again.”
　He laughed gently.
　“Young men like you must have practiced carefully for such performances.”
　Genji smiled politely.
　“I practiced very little,” he replied. “I only received some advice from the best musicians of the court.”
　Then he added sincerely,
　“But the Head Captain’s dance was truly magnificent. I believe people will speak of it for many years.”
　They continued to talk about the festival for some time.
　Soon other men joined them. They sat together beside the veranda and began playing music again, enjoying the calm evening air.
　Meanwhile, far away, the woman whom Genji had met in the moonlit palace room was also thinking deeply.
　The memory of that night had not left her mind.
　She felt troubled and restless.
　Soon she was expected to enter the household of the crown prince. Her parents had already decided that she would join the prince’s palace during the fourth month.
　Because of this decision, the memory of her secret meeting with Genji filled her with confusion.
　Genji himself also understood more than he had first admitted.
　He had already begun to suspect which daughter of the Right Minister she might be.
　Yet he hesitated.
　To pursue a relationship with a woman from the Kokiden family would create many difficulties. The Kokiden lady herself disliked Genji greatly, and any connection with her relatives might cause unpleasant trouble at court.
　Because of this, Genji remained uncertain.
　His heart longed to find the woman again, but his reason warned him to move carefully.
　Days passed while he remained caught between these thoughts.
　Then, near the end of the third month, the Right Minister announced a large gathering at his own residence.
　A contest of archery would take place, and many princes and high officials were invited.
　A second celebration called the Festival of Wisteria would also be held on the same day.
　The cherry blossoms had already begun to fall, but two trees in the garden still held their flowers. It seemed almost as if they had waited to bloom for this very event.
　The Right Minister’s residence was famous for its splendid appearance. A large hall had recently been built there for a ceremony celebrating the coming-of-age of one of his granddaughters.
　Everything in the house showed the newest style and great wealth.
　The Right Minister had personally invited Genji to attend.
　But when the gathering began, the host noticed that Genji had not yet arrived.
　Feeling disappointed, he sent his son, the Fourth Rank Captain, to invite Genji again.
　Along with the invitation he sent a poem.
　“If all the flowers of my garden were of the same color,” the poem said, “why would I wait especially for you?”
　When Genji received this message, he happened to be at the palace.
　He showed the poem to the emperor.
　The emperor smiled.
　“The minister seems very pleased with himself,” he said lightly. “But since he has sent a messenger, you should go and honor his invitation.”
　Then he added kindly,
　“After all, the daughters of that house may someday depend upon you as a brother of the royal family.”
　Hearing this, Genji prepared to attend the gathering.
　He chose elegant clothing suitable for the evening and set out for the Right Minister’s residence just as the sun was beginning to set.

Part 4

　Night had already fallen when Genji finally arrived at the residence of the Right Minister. Lamps had been placed throughout the large garden, and their warm light shone upon the paths and buildings. The house itself looked bright and lively, filled with the sound of music and conversation.
　Genji’s appearance drew attention the moment he entered.
　He wore a robe of soft cherry color made from fine Chinese silk. Beneath it he wore layers of red-purple cloth that moved gently as he walked. Most of the other guests wore formal robes suitable for a public gathering, yet Genji’s style was more relaxed and elegant, almost like that of a prince visiting a private palace.
　As he walked through the garden, many people turned to watch him. Some bowed deeply in respect. Others whispered quietly to one another, admiring his beauty.
　For a moment it seemed that even the beauty of the cherry blossoms remaining in the garden lost some of their brightness beside him.
　The music and entertainment continued late into the evening. After the musicians finished playing and the guests had enjoyed several cups of wine, the gathering became quieter. Some people began to speak in small groups. Others walked through the garden to admire the night flowers.
　Genji appeared to drink more wine than usual. He placed a hand lightly upon his head as if the drink troubled him.
　“The wine is too strong tonight,” he said with a faint smile.
　Quietly he stood and slipped away from the main hall.
　In the central residence of the house lived two noble princesses. Their rooms were located in the eastern section of the building. Genji walked slowly toward that direction.
　The wisteria flowers in the garden hung heavily from their branches, and their sweet scent filled the air. Because the flowers were blooming near the veranda, the shutters of the room had been lifted so that people could enjoy the view.
　Through the thin bamboo blinds Genji could see the shapes of many women seated inside.
　Attendants and ladies of the household sat in rows near the blinds. Their layered sleeves rested upon the floor, and the colors of their robes formed beautiful patterns like a field of flowers.
　The sight reminded Genji of the lively crowds that gathered during winter festivals.
　Yet he also felt that the taste of the household was rather bold and modern. The quiet elegance he had seen in the residence of Lady Fujitsubo seemed far away from this bright and fashionable place.
　Leaning lightly against the side door, Genji spoke in a soft voice.
　“The wine tonight has been more than I wished,” he said. “I feel quite troubled by it. Surely the noble ladies here will show kindness to a poor guest who needs protection.”
　As he spoke, he lifted the bamboo blind slightly and leaned part of his body into the room.
　One of the women answered quickly.
　“That will not do,” she said. “A gentleman of such high rank should not speak of family ties to excuse such behavior.”
　Her tone was light and playful, but there was refinement in her voice. She did not sound like an ordinary servant.
　Genji listened carefully.
　“This voice belongs to a woman of good birth,” he thought.
　Inside the room the scent of fine incense hung thick in the air. The soft sound of silk robes moving against one another created a gentle rustling sound.
　Everything in the room suggested a life of luxury and beauty.
　Several young ladies had gathered there to watch the celebration. Because of their presence the door had been closed earlier, but now it stood open again.
　Genji did not fully approve of such young noblewomen appearing so freely before visitors. Yet he could not deny that the situation excited his curiosity.
　“Which one among them could be the woman of the moonlit night?” he wondered.
　His heart began to beat faster.
　With a playful tone he spoke again.
　“They say that when a traveler from a distant land steals a man’s belt, he will later regret the loss,” he said jokingly.
　The women laughed softly.
　“What a strange traveler you are,” one of them replied.
　Genji did not answer her. Instead he listened carefully to the voices in the room.
　Among the light laughter he heard another sound—a quiet sigh.
　That sigh caught his attention immediately.
　Moving closer to the place where the sound had come from, Genji reached through the screen and gently caught hold of a woman’s hand through the curtain of a standing screen.
　Then he spoke a poem.
　“Like a hunter lost in the dark mountains,” he said softly, “I wander, searching for the faint light of a moon that I once saw.”
　For a moment there was silence.
　Then the woman answered with a poem of her own.
　“If my heart had not already chosen its path,” she said quietly, “I would not wander in a sky where the moon has disappeared.”
　The voice was unmistakable.
　It was the same voice Genji had heard on that hazy spring night in the palace.
　Joy rushed through his heart.
　“It is she,” he thought.
　The memory of the moonlit meeting returned clearly to his mind. The sound of her voice, the gentle movement of her sleeve, and the uncertain feeling of that strange night all came back at once.
　For a moment he could hardly speak.
　The woman on the other side of the screen was also deeply moved. The sudden meeting seemed almost like a dream returning to life.
　Neither of them had expected to find the other again so soon.
　Yet now they stood only a few steps apart, separated only by a thin screen.
　Genji tightened his hold upon her hand gently.
　His voice was filled with quiet excitement.
　“So the moon I searched for has appeared again,” he whispered.
　The night festival continued around them. Music drifted softly through the garden, and the scent of wisteria flowers filled the cool spring air.
　But for Genji and the young woman, the world seemed to grow very still.
　At last, after many days of uncertainty, he had found her again.

Part 5

　For a short moment neither Genji nor the young woman spoke again. Their hands remained lightly joined through the thin curtain beside the standing screen. The music from the garden drifted in faintly, and the scent of wisteria flowers moved softly through the warm night air.
　Genji felt great happiness rising inside his heart.
　“At last I have found her again,” he thought.
　Yet he understood that he must remain careful. Many people were present in the house of the Right Minister. If their meeting became known, it could cause serious trouble for both of them.
　He spoke again in a quiet voice.
　“I feared that I might never see you again,” he said. “That night beneath the hazy moon has not left my thoughts.”
　The young woman did not answer immediately. She seemed troubled. Even though she felt the same strong memory of that night, she also understood how dangerous their meeting could be.
　Finally she spoke softly.
　“You should not say such things here,” she said. “Many people are nearby. If someone hears us, we will both regret it.”
　Genji smiled slightly, though she could not see his expression clearly through the curtain.
　“You are right,” he said. “But my heart has been restless since that night. I could not forget your voice.”
　Inside the room the other women continued speaking and laughing among themselves. Some of them had noticed that Genji stood near the curtain, but they assumed that he was only joking with the attendants.
　No one yet realized the true meaning of his quiet conversation.
　The young woman tried gently to move her hand away, but Genji still held it lightly.
　“Please,” she whispered, “you must release me.”
　Genji obeyed at once, though he felt reluctant.
　“Forgive me,” he said. “But tell me at least how I may see you again. That night ended so suddenly that I was left without even a name.”
　The young woman lowered her voice even further.
　“You should not seek me,” she said. “My family has already decided my future.”
　Genji felt a sharp uneasiness.
　“Your future?” he asked quietly.
　“Yes,” she answered. “Before long I must enter the palace of the crown prince.”
　Her words were calm, but Genji sensed the sadness hidden beneath them.
　For a moment he said nothing.
　“So it is true,” he thought. “She is destined for the prince.”
　This knowledge made the situation even more complicated. A connection between them could bring danger not only to the young woman but also to Genji himself.
　Still, his feelings did not disappear.
　“Even so,” he said quietly, “I cannot pretend that our meeting meant nothing.”
　The woman sighed softly.
　“You are too bold,” she replied.
　At that moment voices sounded nearby in the corridor. Servants were moving again through the building, carrying wine and food for the guests. The sound reminded both of them that they were standing in a place where they could easily be discovered.
　The young woman spoke quickly.
　“You must go now,” she said. “If anyone sees you here, they will begin to suspect things.”
　Genji understood that she was right.
　Yet he wished to leave her with some sign that their meeting would not be forgotten.
　Leaning closer to the screen, he spoke one more time.
　“Even if the moon disappears behind the clouds,” he said softly, “the memory of its light remains in the heart.”
　The young woman did not answer with words. Instead he felt a slight movement through the curtain as she touched his sleeve briefly.
　It was a small gesture, but it carried deep feeling.
　Then she stepped quietly away.
　Genji stood still for a moment longer. The music in the garden continued, and laughter rose again from the guests gathered in the hall.
　Slowly he returned to the main gathering.
　Many of the nobles were still enjoying wine and conversation. Some were discussing the archery contest that had taken place earlier in the day. Others were praising the beauty of the wisteria flowers hanging in the garden.
　When Genji entered the hall again, several guests welcomed him warmly.
　“You disappeared for a long time,” one of them said.
　Genji smiled calmly.
　“The wine troubled me,” he replied. “I needed a little air.”
　No one questioned him further.
　Yet even as he spoke politely with the other guests, his thoughts remained fixed on the young woman behind the curtain.
　“She will soon enter the prince’s palace,” he thought. “If that happens, meeting her again will become almost impossible.”
　This thought caused a deep uneasiness in his heart.
　At the same time, the young woman remained inside the chamber with the other ladies.
　Though she tried to listen to their conversation, her mind wandered again and again to the moment when Genji had taken her hand through the curtain.
　The memory of that moonlit night returned to her thoughts.
　“Why has fate brought us together again?” she wondered.
　Her future had already been decided by her family. She was expected to become a lady in the household of the crown prince. For a noble daughter such a future was considered a great honor.
　Yet now her heart felt troubled.
　She understood that Genji was famous for his beauty and charm. Many women had already suffered because of their attachment to him.
　“I must be careful,” she thought.
　But the sound of his voice still remained in her memory.
　Outside, the night deepened.
　The festival slowly began to end as the guests prepared to return to their homes.
　Genji finally left the residence of the Right Minister and returned through the quiet streets of the capital.
　Above the city the pale moon still hung in the sky, though its light had grown faint.
　As he walked, Genji looked up at the moon and remembered the poem he had written earlier.
　His heart remained filled with uncertainty.
　“The moon that appeared before me,” he thought, “may soon disappear again into the sky.”
　Yet the memory of its light would remain with him long after the night had ended.

 
Chapter 9: Aoi (葵)

Part 1

　In the capital there lived a noble lady known as the Lady of the Aoi residence. She was the daughter of the Minister of the Left. Her birth was of the highest rank, and many people respected her family.
　Some years earlier she had married Genji.
　At that time Genji had still been very young. The marriage had been arranged by their fathers, as such marriages often were among the great families of the court. Because of this, the two of them had not known each other well before they began living together.
　Their house was large and quiet. Servants moved gently through its halls. Curtains and screens divided the rooms, and soft light entered through the open doors of the veranda.
　Yet the feeling between Genji and the Lady of Aoi was not warm.
　The lady was proud and calm by nature. She rarely showed strong emotion. Her words were always careful, and her manner was dignified.
　Genji, however, was young and full of feeling. He liked beauty, music, and poetry. He enjoyed lively company and warm conversation.
　Because their hearts were different, they often felt distant from one another.
　When Genji visited the Aoi residence, the lady received him politely, but her manner remained cool.
　One evening Genji sat in the veranda room while a gentle evening wind moved the curtains. The sky outside had grown dark, and a pale moon hung above the garden.
　He looked toward the inner room where the lady sat behind her screens.
　“It seems you have been well,” he said quietly.
　His voice was calm, but inside his heart he felt uneasy. He wished that she would speak with him more warmly.
　After a short pause the lady answered.
　“I am well,” she said.
　Her voice was soft but distant.
　The sound of her answer seemed to stop the conversation. For a while neither of them spoke again.
　Genji lowered his eyes and watched the light of the moon on the garden stones.
　“She is always like this,” he thought. “Her heart remains far away from mine.”
　Yet he also understood that the lady had been raised in a very proud household. She had always been treated with great respect. Perhaps it was difficult for her to show open affection.
　Still, the distance between them troubled him.
　At times Genji spent long nights visiting other houses in the capital. Rumors of these visits slowly reached the ears of the Lady of Aoi.
　Though she did not speak of them openly, the stories caused pain in her heart.
　One day her attendants gathered quietly in her room. They spoke in low voices while arranging her robes.
　“His Highness does not visit often now,” one of them said carefully.
　Another servant answered, “People say that many ladies admire him. It is difficult for any woman to hold his attention alone.”
　The Lady of Aoi listened without speaking.
　She lowered her eyes and gently touched the sleeve of her robe.
　“Such talk is useless,” she said at last.
　Her voice remained calm, but the attendants could feel her sadness.
　At that time another matter began to attract the attention of the capital.
　The Kamo Festival was approaching.
　This was one of the most famous events of the year. Nobles from every great family prepared their carriages and fine robes. Crowds gathered along the streets to watch the long procession.
　The Lady of Aoi decided that she would go to see the festival.
　Her attendants were surprised.
　“My lady rarely appears in public,” one of them whispered.
　“Perhaps she wishes to show that she still holds her place beside Genji,” another replied.
　The day of the festival arrived.
　The streets of the capital were already filled with people from early morning. Servants carried banners and decorated carts. Musicians prepared their instruments. The bright colors of robes and curtains shone in the sunlight.
　Noble ladies arrived in great ox-drawn carriages. Each carriage was decorated with fine cloth and long hanging curtains.
　The Lady of Aoi’s carriage was among them.
　Her servants arranged the screens and curtains carefully so that she could watch the procession without being seen clearly by the crowd.
　Yet another carriage soon appeared nearby.
　This carriage belonged to Lady Rokujō.
　Lady Rokujō was another woman deeply connected to Genji. She was proud, intelligent, and famous for her beauty. However, she was older than Genji, and the difference in their age had often caused her pain.
　When she heard that Genji’s wife would attend the festival, Lady Rokujō also decided to appear.
　The streets soon became crowded with carriages.
　Servants shouted to clear space. Wheels pressed closely together. Curtains touched as the vehicles moved slowly forward.
　In the confusion the attendants of the Lady of Aoi pushed their carriage forward to secure a good place near the road.
　The servants of Lady Rokujō tried to do the same.
　Soon the two groups began to argue.
　“Move your carriage back!” one servant shouted.
　“This place belongs to our lady!”
　Another servant answered angrily.
　“Our lady arrived first. It is you who must move!”
　The argument grew louder.
　In the struggle the servants of the Aoi household forced Lady Rokujō’s carriage away from the best position.
　The movement was sudden and rough.
　Inside her carriage Lady Rokujō felt the shock of the wheels striking against the ground as her vehicle was pushed aside.
　She understood at once what had happened.
　“They have forced us away,” she thought.
　A deep anger rose in her heart.
　Though the crowd outside could not see her face behind the curtains, her attendants knew that she had been deeply insulted.
　Meanwhile the Lady of Aoi watched the festival procession quietly from her carriage.
　She did not know how serious the conflict had become.
　Music began to fill the street. The priests of the shrine approached in their bright robes. The long line of riders and dancers moved slowly through the crowd.
　People cheered with excitement.
　Yet in another carriage not far away, Lady Rokujō sat in silence.
　The insult she had suffered burned strongly in her heart.
　“This shame will not be forgotten,” she thought quietly.
　Above the crowded streets of the capital the bright spring sun shone, and the festival continued with great beauty.
　But unseen by the joyful crowd, a deep resentment had already begun to grow.

Part 2

　After the festival ended, the great crowds slowly left the streets of the capital. Servants guided the oxen that pulled the carriages, and the long line of vehicles moved slowly through the dusty roads.
　Inside her carriage the Lady of Aoi sat quietly behind the curtains. Her attendants spoke softly among themselves as they arranged the cushions and robes around her.
　The lady herself did not speak much.
　The sound of the festival music still echoed faintly in her memory, yet another feeling now rested in her heart. Though she had not seen the quarrel outside clearly, she understood that something unpleasant had happened between the servants.
　“There was much noise among the carriages,” she said at last.
　One of her older attendants bowed her head slightly.
　“Yes, my lady,” she answered. “The streets were very crowded. Some confusion could not be avoided.”
　The lady nodded calmly. She did not ask further questions. Yet a faint feeling of uneasiness remained with her.
　At the same time, in another part of the capital, Lady Rokujō returned to her own residence.
　Her carriage entered the quiet gate of her house, and the servants lowered the curtains so that she could step down.
　She moved slowly across the veranda and entered her private chamber.
　Her attendants followed silently.
　No one dared to speak.
　They had seen the anger that had appeared in her face when the carriage had been pushed aside in the crowded street.
　After a long silence Lady Rokujō finally spoke.
　“So this is how the wife of Genji shows her pride,” she said quietly.
　Her voice was calm, yet it carried a deep bitterness.
　One of the attendants tried gently to comfort her.
　“My lady, the servants acted without thought. Surely the Lady of Aoi herself did not know what they were doing.”
　Lady Rokujō looked toward the open garden beyond the veranda. The evening wind moved through the leaves of the trees, and a faint scent of flowers drifted through the air.
　“Whether she knew or not does not change the result,” she replied.
　The humiliation she had felt in the crowded street had cut deeply into her pride. She had always been respected as a noble lady of high birth. To be pushed aside before the eyes of the entire capital was more than she could easily forgive.
　That night she slept very little.
　When morning came her attendants noticed that her face looked pale and tired.
　Strange dreams had troubled her sleep.
　Sometimes she dreamed that she was wandering through dark rooms filled with cold wind. At other moments she saw the carriage of the Lady of Aoi again and again before her eyes.
　Though she tried to push these thoughts away, they returned again each night.
　Meanwhile life in the Aoi residence continued quietly.
　Soon another important event became known throughout the capital.
　The Lady of Aoi was expecting a child.
　This news brought great joy to the household. Servants hurried through the corridors carrying messages and gifts. Musicians and priests were invited to perform ceremonies for good fortune.
　For Genji’s family the birth of a child from such a noble mother was a matter of great importance.
　When Genji heard the news, he also felt deep happiness.
　One evening he came to visit the Aoi residence again.
　The garden outside the house had already begun to show the colors of early autumn. A cool wind moved gently through the tall grass, and the sound of insects filled the quiet night.
　Genji sat near the veranda while a lamp burned softly beside him.
　After a moment the Lady of Aoi spoke from behind her screen.
　“You have heard the news,” she said.
　Genji bowed his head slightly.
　“Yes,” he answered. “I am very pleased.”
　His voice was warm and sincere.
　For the first time in many months the feeling between them seemed softer.
　The lady lowered her eyes.
　“Many ceremonies will soon be required,” she said. “The household is already busy.”
　Genji smiled gently.
　“Such work is natural at a time like this,” he replied. “Everyone wishes for your safety.”
　Though their conversation remained formal, a small change had begun between them.
　The coming child seemed to create a new connection between their hearts.
　However, as the months passed, another strange matter began to disturb the household.
　At night the Lady of Aoi sometimes felt sudden pain and weakness. Her attendants found her pale and trembling. On some nights she cried out softly in her sleep.
　The priests who had been invited to perform protective ceremonies became worried.
　“A spirit may be troubling her,” one of them said quietly.
　In those days people believed that powerful emotions could cause a wandering spirit to leave the body of a living person. Such a spirit could travel through the night and harm another person.
　When Genji heard these words, he felt uneasy.
　“What spirit could wish to harm her?” he wondered.
　The priests continued their prayers, burning incense and chanting through the long nights.
　Yet the strange attacks continued.
　Sometimes the Lady of Aoi seemed to fall into a deep sleep that lasted for hours. At other times she woke suddenly with fear in her eyes.
　Her attendants whispered anxiously among themselves.
　One night an older servant spoke quietly to another.
　“Ever since the Kamo Festival,” she said, “something has been wrong.”
　The other servant nodded.
　“The Lady Rokujō suffered a great insult that day,” she whispered.
　Though neither woman spoke the thought clearly, both felt the same fear in their hearts.
　In her own distant residence Lady Rokujō also continued to suffer from troubled dreams.
　She often woke in the middle of the night without understanding why her heart felt so restless.
　“What is happening to me?” she wondered.
　Yet the strange force moving through the darkness could not easily be stopped.
　As autumn deepened, the condition of the Lady of Aoi slowly grew more serious.
　The priests increased their prayers, and Genji remained often at her side.
　He watched her pale face with growing concern.
　“Please remain strong,” he said quietly one night.
　The lady opened her eyes and looked toward him.
　For a moment her proud expression softened.
　“I will try,” she whispered.
　Outside the room the wind moved through the autumn trees, and the long sound of the night insects filled the darkness.
　Within the quiet house everyone waited anxiously, hoping that the child would soon be born safely.

Part 3

　As the days passed, the condition of the Lady of Aoi continued to trouble the household. Her attendants watched her carefully both day and night. Lamps burned in the corridors, and priests remained close by to chant prayers for protection.
　The quiet rooms of the residence were now filled with a feeling of uneasiness.
　Sometimes the lady appeared calm and rested. At other times she seemed suddenly weak, as if an unseen force pressed heavily upon her heart.
　One evening, when the wind moved softly through the garden trees, the lady’s breathing suddenly grew uneven.
　Her attendants hurried to her side.
　“My lady!” one of them cried softly.
　The priests were called at once. They entered the room carrying incense and prayer beads. Their voices rose in slow, steady chanting.
　The sound filled the chamber.
　Genji also came quickly when he heard the news.
　When he entered the room, he saw the Lady of Aoi lying pale upon her cushions. Her eyes were closed, and her face looked very weak.
　The sight caused deep pain in his heart.
　“How could this happen?” he thought.
　The priests continued their chanting.
　Suddenly the lady’s body trembled.
　Her eyes opened, but the expression in them seemed strange. For a moment it did not appear to be her own calm and distant gaze.
　Instead there was a burning anger in her eyes.
　The attendants gasped in fear.
　One of the priests spoke firmly.
　“A spirit is present,” he said.
　The chanting grew louder.
　The strange expression remained on the lady’s face as she spoke in a voice that sounded different from her usual gentle tone.
　“Why do you protect her?” the voice said bitterly. “She stands proudly while others suffer.”
　The attendants looked at one another in fear.
　Genji’s heart beat quickly.
　The words sounded like those of a wounded and angry woman.
　The priests continued their prayers without stopping.
　Slowly the lady’s body relaxed again. Her eyes closed, and the strange expression disappeared.
　She seemed to fall into deep sleep.
　The attendants wiped tears from their eyes.
　One of them whispered softly.
　“It must be the spirit of Lady Rokujō.”
　No one answered her, but many in the room had already felt the same thought.
　In another part of the city, Lady Rokujō sat alone in her chamber.
　That night she had fallen into deep sleep earlier than usual. Yet suddenly she woke with a feeling of great confusion.
　Her heart was beating fast.
　She looked around the quiet room.
　“Why do I feel so tired?” she wondered.
　Her attendants, who slept nearby, noticed that she seemed pale.
　“Did you sleep badly, my lady?” one of them asked gently.
　Lady Rokujō shook her head slightly.
　“I do not know,” she said.
　She remembered strange dreams filled with shadows and anger, yet the images quickly faded from her mind.
　Meanwhile the priests continued their work in the Aoi residence.
　For several nights they remained beside the lady, chanting prayers and burning incense. The smell of the incense filled every corner of the house.
　Genji stayed near her side.
　He watched anxiously as the days passed.
　At last the time of the birth arrived.
　The entire household prepared carefully. Midwives came to assist, and the priests continued their prayers.
　Outside the residence servants moved quickly through the corridors, carrying hot water and cloth.
　The sound of hurried footsteps filled the house.
　Inside the chamber the Lady of Aoi struggled with great pain.
　Her attendants tried to comfort her.
　“Please remain strong, my lady,” one whispered.
　Hours passed.
　The night grew deep.
　At last a cry of joy came from the midwives.
　“A boy has been born!” one of them announced.
　Relief spread through the room.
　The child was healthy and strong.
　When Genji heard the news, his heart filled with happiness. The birth of a son was a great blessing for his family.
　He looked upon the small child with deep emotion.
　“My son,” he said softly.
　The attendants smiled with joy.
　Yet their happiness did not last long.
　Though the child had been born safely, the condition of the Lady of Aoi suddenly grew worse.
　Her strength seemed to fade quickly.
　The priests returned to their chanting, and the attendants gathered anxiously around her bed.
　Genji knelt beside her.
　“Please remain with us,” he said quietly.
　The lady opened her eyes.
　For a moment she looked at him with a calm expression.
　It was the first time in a long while that her gaze seemed gentle.
　“You have been kind,” she whispered.
　Her voice was very weak.
　Genji felt tears rise in his eyes.
　“Do not speak so,” he said softly. “You must recover and watch our son grow.”
　But the lady slowly shook her head.
　She seemed to understand that her strength was leaving her.
　The priests continued their prayers, but the sound of their chanting now felt distant.
　As the night slowly passed toward morning, the breathing of the Lady of Aoi grew weaker and weaker.
　At last it stopped.
　The room fell completely silent.
　The attendants bowed their heads in sorrow.
　Genji remained still beside her bed, unable to speak.
　The child had been born, but the mother who gave him life had already left the world.
　Outside the residence the first light of morning began to appear above the rooftops of the capital.
　The wind moved quietly through the trees of the garden.
　Within the silent house a deep sadness settled over everyone who had loved the Lady of Aoi.

 
Chapter 10: Sakaki (賢木)

Part 1

　It was the time when Genji had already reached the full beauty of his youth. His face was calm and bright, and his manners were gentle and graceful. Many people in the capital spoke about him with admiration. They said that no other man in the court had such elegance.
　Yet even in those days of fame and beauty, Genji did not feel peace in his heart.
　One quiet evening he sat alone in his room. The lamp burned softly beside him. Outside the window the wind moved slowly through the trees of the garden.
　The sound of the leaves was gentle, but Genji’s thoughts were restless.
　His mind returned again and again to one person.
　Lady Fujitsubo.
　She lived within the palace, surrounded by guards and attendants, yet Genji felt that his heart was always drawn toward her.
　He knew very well that such feelings were dangerous.
　“I must not think of her,” he told himself many times.
　Yet the more he tried to forget, the more his thoughts returned to her face.
　That evening he leaned quietly against the pillar of his room and looked into the darkness of the garden.
　“Why does my heart refuse to obey me?” he thought.
　He understood the difficulty of his situation. The lady was greatly respected in the court. She was close to the emperor and honored by everyone.
　Genji knew that even a small rumor about him and the lady would cause serious trouble.
　Because of this, he had avoided meeting her for a long time.
　Still, the memory of her remained deep inside his heart.
　As the night grew later, one of his attendants came quietly to the room.
　“My lord,” the man said softly, “a messenger from the palace has arrived.”
　Genji turned his head.
　“A messenger?” he asked.
　The attendant bowed.
　“Yes, my lord. He carries a letter.”
　Genji felt a sudden movement in his chest.
　“Bring it here,” he said.
　The attendant soon returned with a folded letter. The paper was beautiful and carried a faint scent of incense.
　Genji knew that scent at once.
　His hand trembled slightly as he opened the letter.
　The writing inside was calm and simple. Yet every line carried deep feeling.
　Lady Fujitsubo wrote that she hoped he was well and that she still remembered the many conversations they had shared in the past.
　The words were not long, but they carried quiet warmth.
　Genji read the letter slowly.
　When he finished, he sat silently for some time.
　“She remembers,” he thought.
　His heart felt both happy and troubled.
　He knew that such letters must remain secret.
　Even the smallest mistake could bring shame to both of them.
　Still, he could not hide his feelings.
　He took out paper and brush and began to write a reply.
　The lamp beside him flickered slightly as he wrote.
　His words were careful and respectful. Yet between the lines he allowed his true feelings to appear.
　When he finished, he folded the letter slowly.
　“Give this to the messenger,” he told his attendant.
　The attendant bowed and left the room.
　After the letter was sent, Genji remained awake for a long time.
　The night air grew cooler.
　Somewhere in the garden an insect began to sing.
　Genji listened to the quiet sound.
　“How strange the human heart is,” he thought.
　He understood that the feelings between him and Lady Fujitsubo could never become open and peaceful.
　Yet he also knew that his heart would not easily forget her.
　Days later, Genji visited the palace.
　The palace grounds were wide and beautiful. Long corridors connected the many buildings, and the sound of flowing water could be heard from the garden streams.
　Courtiers moved quietly through the halls, their robes shining with color.
　Genji walked calmly among them.
　Many people greeted him with respect.
　“Good day, Lord Genji,” one courtier said.
　“It is good to see you again,” said another.
　Genji returned their greetings with gentle smiles.
　Yet inside his heart he felt a quiet tension.
　He knew that somewhere within these buildings lived the woman he tried so hard not to think about.
　Lady Fujitsubo.
　As he passed through one corridor, he suddenly heard soft voices nearby.
　Two court ladies were speaking together.
　“Have you heard?” one said quietly.
　“The emperor will soon hold an important ceremony.”
　The other nodded.
　“Yes. Many nobles will attend.”
　Genji listened silently as he walked.
　Court life always moved in such ways—ceremonies, music, poetry, and gatherings filled the days.
　Yet behind these peaceful events many quiet feelings and hidden struggles existed.
　As Genji continued walking, a familiar attendant approached him.
　The man bowed respectfully.
　“My lord,” he said softly, “the lady you know well wishes to speak with you briefly.”
　Genji’s heart moved again.
　“Where?” he asked quietly.
　The attendant pointed toward a quiet part of the palace.
　“Near the small garden pavilion,” he said.
　Genji nodded slowly.
　He walked toward the place with calm steps, though his heart beat faster.
　The small pavilion stood beside a quiet garden path. Bamboo leaves moved gently in the wind.
　There he saw her.
　Lady Fujitsubo stood beside the veranda.
　Her robes were soft in color, and her face was calm and beautiful as always.
　For a moment neither of them spoke.
　The air between them felt heavy with unspoken thoughts.
　At last the lady spoke softly.
　“You have been well?”
　Genji bowed slightly.
　“Yes,” he said. “But my heart has often been restless.”
　The lady lowered her eyes.
　“It is better not to speak such words,” she said quietly.
　Genji understood her meaning.
　Many people moved through the palace. Even a short meeting like this carried danger.
　Still, he could not hide his feelings completely.
　“Even if I remain silent,” he said softly, “my heart does not change.”
　The lady remained quiet for a moment.
　Then she looked toward the garden.
　“You must live carefully,” she said. “The world watches everything.”
　Genji nodded.
　“I know,” he answered.
　Their meeting lasted only a short time.
　Soon the lady turned away and returned to her rooms.
　Genji remained standing beside the pavilion.
　The bamboo leaves continued to move gently in the wind.
　He felt both joy and sadness.
　Joy because he had seen her again.
　Sadness because he knew that their path together could never be simple.
　Slowly he left the quiet garden and returned to the busy halls of the palace.
　Court life continued as always.
　Music, poetry, and ceremonies filled the days.
　Yet deep inside Genji’s heart, the memory of that brief meeting remained bright and painful.
　And he knew that the coming days might bring even greater trouble to his life.

Part 2

　After that short meeting in the quiet garden, Genji returned to the main halls of the palace. The corridors were bright with daylight, and the sound of people moving and speaking quietly filled the air. Court officials passed by in their fine robes, and attendants carried messages from one room to another. To others Genji appeared calm, but inside his heart he felt unsettled.
　He walked slowly through the long corridor. The polished floor reflected the light from the open doors, and the smell of incense drifted softly through the air. Every step he took reminded him of the meeting he had just had.
　“I must be careful,” he thought.
　He knew very well that the palace was a place where every small action could be noticed. Servants watched. Courtiers talked. Even the movement of a curtain could become a rumor.
　Yet the memory of Lady Fujitsubo’s face would not leave his mind.
　That evening, when the sun began to sink behind the palace roofs, Genji returned to his own residence. The sky glowed with soft red light, and the air felt cool and quiet. As he entered the gate, his attendants greeted him respectfully.
　“Welcome home, my lord,” one said.
　Genji nodded gently and walked toward the main room. Lamps were already prepared, and the garden could be seen beyond the open screens.
　For a while he sat quietly.
　Then he called for his close attendant.
　“Bring writing paper,” he said.
　The man bowed and quickly brought a tray with paper, ink, and brush. Genji held the brush in his hand for a long moment before writing.
　“Should I write?” he wondered.
　He knew that another letter might deepen the danger between himself and the lady. Yet silence was also painful.
　At last he began to write slowly.
　His words were careful. They spoke about the quiet beauty of the evening and the sadness of parting after only a short meeting. He did not write openly about love, but his feelings were clear in the gentle tone of the letter.
　When he finished, he looked at the paper again.
　“This must remain secret,” he thought.
　He folded the letter and sealed it carefully.
　“Take this to the palace,” he told the attendant. “Give it only to the trusted messenger.”
　The man bowed and left the room.
　After the letter was sent, Genji stepped outside onto the veranda. Night had already fallen, and the moon shone softly above the garden.
　The white light touched the leaves of the trees and the stones beside the pond. The scene was peaceful, yet Genji’s heart remained troubled.
　“Why does fate lead me in this way?” he thought.
　In another part of the city, Lady Fujitsubo sat quietly in her chamber. Her attendants had finished their evening duties and now moved softly around the room.
　One of them approached with a letter.
　“My lady,” she said, bowing, “a message has arrived.”
　Lady Fujitsubo felt her heart move.
　She accepted the letter and dismissed the attendants for a moment.
　When the room was quiet, she opened it slowly.
　The gentle writing of Genji appeared before her eyes.
　She read the words carefully.
　A faint sadness passed across her face.
　“He still thinks of me,” she said quietly to herself.
　For a long time she remained silent.
　She understood very well the danger of their feelings. The palace was a place where reputation was more fragile than glass. One careless step could bring great shame.
　Yet the warmth in Genji’s letter also touched her heart.
　At last she prepared a reply.
　Her answer was calm and controlled. She wrote about the beauty of the moon and about the quiet sadness that sometimes appears in human life.
　But she also warned him again.
　“Please guard your heart,” she wrote.
　“The world is full of watching eyes.”
　When she finished, she sealed the letter and gave it to her attendant.
　“Send this carefully,” she said.
　The attendant bowed and carried the message away.
　The next morning Genji received her reply.
　He opened the letter slowly.
　As he read her words, he felt both comfort and sorrow.
　“She wishes to protect us both,” he thought.
　Her warning was gentle but clear.
　Genji placed the letter beside him and looked out into the morning garden.
　The sun had just risen, and the grass was still wet with dew.
　Birds moved among the branches, singing quietly.
　The peaceful scene seemed very different from the complicated feelings inside his heart.
　Later that day Genji visited the palace again for official duties. A ceremony was soon to be held, and many nobles had gathered.
　The great hall was filled with color.
　Courtiers wore robes of deep blue, red, and green. Music could be heard from another room where musicians prepared their instruments.
　Genji greeted the nobles with calm respect.
　“Good morning,” one of them said warmly.
　“We look forward to the ceremony today.”
　Genji smiled politely.
　“Yes,” he answered.
　Yet his eyes moved quietly through the hall.
　For a brief moment he saw Lady Fujitsubo seated behind a curtain among the high-ranking ladies of the court.
　Only a small part of her figure could be seen.
　Still, Genji recognized her at once.
　Their eyes did not meet.
　But the knowledge that she was near made his heart move again.
　During the ceremony the sound of music filled the hall. Flutes and drums played slowly, and dancers moved gracefully before the nobles.
　Everyone watched with admiration.
　Genji also watched, but his thoughts often wandered.
　“We live so close,” he thought. “Yet the distance between us is greater than the sea.”
　When the ceremony ended, the courtiers slowly left the hall. Conversations filled the corridors again.
　Genji walked quietly through the palace grounds.
　The afternoon sun shone warmly on the stone paths.
　As he passed through a garden gate, he stopped for a moment.
　The wind moved softly through the trees.
　For a brief instant he felt a strange uneasiness, as if the peaceful days of his life might soon change.
　“Perhaps fate is already moving,” he thought.
　With that quiet thought in his mind, Genji left the garden and returned once more to the busy world of the court.
　The calm surface of his life continued, but deep beneath it unseen events were slowly beginning to grow.

Part 3

　The days after the ceremony passed quietly, yet Genji felt that the calm around him was only on the surface. Court life continued as always. Messengers arrived with letters, officials spoke about duties, and music often sounded in the palace halls. Still, inside Genji’s heart there was a growing feeling of unease.
　One evening he sat alone in his room, looking out toward the garden.
　The sky had already grown dark. A pale moon rose slowly above the trees, and its light spread softly across the white stones beside the pond.
　Genji rested his elbow against the wooden railing.
　“Why does my heart feel so unsettled?” he thought.
　He could not explain the feeling clearly. Yet something inside him warned that the path he was walking might soon become dangerous.
　At that moment one of his attendants approached quietly.
　“My lord,” the man said, bowing deeply, “a messenger has arrived from the palace.”
　Genji turned his head.
　“From the palace?” he asked.
　The attendant nodded.
　“Yes. The message is urgent.”
　Genji stood at once.
　“Bring him here.”
　The messenger soon entered the room. His face showed signs of worry, and he bowed low before speaking.
　“My lord, I bring troubling news.”
　Genji felt a sudden chill.
　“What has happened?” he asked.
　The messenger hesitated for a moment before answering.
　“Certain people at court have begun to speak about you.”
　Genji remained silent.
　The man continued carefully.
　“They say that your visits to the palace are too frequent. Some even whisper that your feelings toward a certain lady may not be proper.”
　The room became very quiet.
　Genji understood at once.
　“So the rumors have begun,” he thought.
　His face remained calm, but inside he felt deep concern.
　“Who speaks such things?” he asked.
　The messenger lowered his voice.
　“Many people talk quietly, my lord. It is difficult to know where the rumor began. But the words are spreading.”
　Genji walked slowly to the veranda and looked out at the dark garden.
　The wind moved softly through the leaves.
　“Rumors grow quickly in the court,” he said quietly.
　The messenger bowed.
　“Yes, my lord.”
　Genji remained silent for a long moment.
　At last he spoke again.
　“This matter must not grow larger,” he said.
　The messenger nodded.
　“That is why I came at once.”
　After the messenger left, Genji continued standing beside the veranda.
　The moon had risen higher in the sky. Its light now touched the branches of the tall trees.
　“If this continues,” he thought, “both she and I will suffer.”
　The thought of Lady Fujitsubo filled him with worry.
　He knew that her reputation must remain perfect. Even the smallest shadow could bring great trouble to her position.
　“I must protect her,” he decided.
　The next morning Genji prepared to visit the palace again.
　His attendants helped him dress in formal robes. The silk fabric shone softly in the morning light.
　When he left his residence, the streets of the capital were already busy. Servants carried goods, officials rode on horseback, and people spoke together beside the road.
　Genji traveled calmly through the city.
　When he arrived at the palace gates, the guards bowed respectfully and allowed him to pass.
　Inside the palace grounds the atmosphere felt quiet but tense.
　Genji walked through the long corridors until he reached a private garden near Lady Fujitsubo’s residence.
　There he waited.
　Soon a trusted attendant of the lady appeared.
　The woman bowed deeply.
　“My lord,” she said softly, “the lady has heard the rumors.”
　Genji’s heart tightened.
　“And what did she say?” he asked.
　The attendant spoke carefully.
　“She asks that you protect yourself. She fears that the gossip may harm you.”
　Genji looked down for a moment.
　“She thinks of me even now,” he said quietly.
　The attendant continued.
　“She also asks that you limit your visits to the palace for a time.”
　The meaning was clear.
　Genji nodded slowly.
　“Please tell her that I understand,” he said.
　The attendant bowed again and left.
　Genji remained in the garden.
　The morning sun shone through the leaves of the trees, creating soft patterns of light on the ground.
　“This may be the only path left,” he thought.
　To protect her, he must create distance between them.
　Even if it caused pain in his heart.
　That afternoon he left the palace earlier than usual.
　As he passed through the great gate, he turned once more to look back.
　The tall buildings of the palace stood quietly in the sunlight.
　Somewhere inside those walls lived the woman whose presence had changed his life.
　Yet now he must stay away.
　“Perhaps this is fate,” he said softly to himself.
　In the days that followed, Genji visited the palace far less often.
　Courtiers soon noticed the change.
　“Lord Genji seems very quiet lately,” one said.
　Another nodded.
　“Yes. He rarely comes to the palace now.”
　The rumors slowly began to fade.
　Yet the distance did not bring peace to Genji’s heart.
　Many evenings he walked alone through his garden, thinking about the path his life had taken.
　The moon continued to rise each night above the quiet trees.
　And though he tried to live carefully and wisely, Genji knew that the complicated ties of love and fate would continue to shape his future.

 
Chapter 11: Hana Chiru Sato (花散里)

Part 1

　The rain of early summer had fallen for many days. Dark clouds had moved slowly across the sky, and the streets of the capital had become quiet and wet. During this season people often stayed inside their homes, listening to the sound of rain on the roofs and the leaves of the trees. For many people the long rain brought calm. But for Prince Genji, the rain only made his heart feel heavier.
　Genji had always known the pain that comes from love. When a man loves someone deeply, he cannot escape worry and sadness. This had been true in the past, and it was still true now. Yet recently another kind of pain had begun to press upon him. It did not come from love alone. It came from the world around him.
　Many people watched him. Some admired him. Some envied him. Some spoke quietly about him in hidden corners of the court. These pressures slowly grew stronger. Sometimes Genji felt as if the world itself were closing around him. At moments like that he wished he could leave everything behind and live far away from the troubles of society.
　But such freedom was not possible. His life was tied to many people and many duties. Bonds held him in place. These bonds could not easily be broken.
　There was a lady who had once been known as the Lady of the Reikeiden. When the former emperor had been alive, she had lived with honor at court. Yet after the emperor’s death her life became quiet and lonely. She had no sons or daughters to support her. Without strong family ties she had little protection in the world.
　Genji, remembering the kindness she had once received from the emperor, continued to help her. Because of his care she was able to live peacefully, though her household was now small and simple.
　This lady had a younger sister. Long ago, when Genji had been young, he had fallen in love with this sister. Their relationship had never fully ended. Yet it had never become the clear and honored bond of a wife either.
　Genji sometimes visited her, but these visits were rare. He did not forget her completely, but neither did he give her a stable place in his life. For a woman this kind of relationship could bring many troubled thoughts. The heart does not easily rest when love has no clear form.
　During these rainy days Genji had been thinking about many things. Memories of the past came and went like shadows moving across water. Old feelings returned, and his heart became soft and lonely.
　One day the rain finally stopped. A pale light appeared between the clouds. It was only a short break in the long season of rain, but the fresh air felt pleasant after many gray days.
　Genji suddenly felt a strong wish to visit the lady.
　The desire rose so quickly that he could not ignore it. “I should go and see her,” he thought quietly to himself. “It has been too long.”
　He ordered a carriage to be prepared. Yet he did not wish to attract attention. Therefore he chose only a small number of attendants and dressed in simple clothing. Anyone who saw him on the road would think he was only a nobleman traveling quietly through the city.
　The carriage moved slowly through the streets.
　The air after the rain was cool and gentle. Water still hung on the leaves of trees along the road. From time to time a small drop fell onto the ground below.
　As the carriage passed near the banks of the Kamo River, Genji heard something unexpected.
　Music.
　At first the sound was faint. It came from somewhere nearby, carried softly by the wind. Genji lifted his head slightly and listened more carefully.
　The sound of a koto filled the air. Another instrument answered it with a deeper tone. The music was lively and confident, not shy or hidden. Someone inside a house was playing with great spirit.
　Genji felt a small stir of curiosity.
　“Whose house could that be?” he wondered.
　He gently moved the curtain of the carriage and leaned forward to look. The house stood close to the road, partly hidden behind trees. Though it was not large, the garden was full of green branches and carefully grown plants.
　A tall katsura tree stood beside the building. Its wide leaves moved softly in the wind. As the breeze passed through them, a faint sweet smell drifted through the air.
　The scent reached Genji where he sat.
　Suddenly it reminded him of the great festival of Kamo in earlier years. The memory appeared in his mind with surprising clarity.
　Genji watched the house more closely.
　Something about the place seemed familiar.
　He searched his memory. “Have I been here before?” he thought.
　After a moment the answer came.
　Yes. Long ago he had visited this house once. Only once.
　A woman had lived there.
　He had not seen her again after that day. Time had passed, and many other events had filled his life. Perhaps she had forgotten him completely.
　Even so, Genji found that he could not easily turn his eyes away.
　At that moment a bird cried in the sky.
　“Hototogisu.”
　The call of the cuckoo echoed above the road.
　The sound seemed to pass directly over Genji’s head, as if the bird itself had chosen to fly near him. The voice of the bird carried a strange feeling. It was both lonely and beautiful.
　Genji felt as if the bird were urging him to remember something.
　He turned to one of his attendants.
　“Turn the carriage back,” he said quietly.
　The servant bowed and gave the order.
　The carriage slowly changed direction.
　Genji then called for Koremitsu, a man who had served him faithfully for many years. Koremitsu was well used to delicate errands and secret messages. He understood how to move carefully in situations that required quiet skill.
　“Koremitsu,” Genji said, “go to that house.”
　He spoke softly and then gave him a short poem to deliver.
　Koremitsu bowed deeply and walked toward the gate.
　Inside the house several women were sitting together in a room at the western side of the main building. They were speaking quietly about everyday matters when Koremitsu’s voice reached them from outside.
　Some of the women remembered that voice.
　“Who could that be?” one of them whispered.
　Koremitsu announced Genji’s poem and delivered the message.
　The women looked at one another in surprise. They did not yet understand who had sent such words.
　After a short moment one of them answered with another poem.
　Her reply suggested uncertainty, as if she truly did not know who was calling to her through the voice of the cuckoo in the rainy sky.
　When Koremitsu heard the response, he spoke again with polite formality.
　“Well then,” he said, “perhaps we have come to the wrong gate.”
　He turned as if to leave.
　Inside the room the lady of the house felt a sharp pain in her heart.
　She could not openly reveal her feelings before the others. Yet inside she felt both regret and loneliness.
　Still, she remained silent.
　Outside, Koremitsu returned to Genji and explained what had happened.
　Genji listened quietly.
　He understood the reason for her distant reply. She could not easily show recognition in such a situation. Even so, he felt a small sense of disappointment.
　His thoughts moved from that woman to others he had known.
　He remembered another lady of similar rank who had once lived far away in Kyushu. Her gentle beauty had also left a deep impression on him.
　Everywhere Genji went, something seemed to catch his heart. Each memory became another thread tying him to the past. In this way many women carried quiet thoughts of longing because of him.
　Such was the strange path of Genji’s life.
　Yet the place he truly intended to visit still lay ahead.
　Soon the carriage arrived at the house of the lady who had once been called the Lady of the Reikeiden.
　The residence stood in a quiet part of the city.
　The garden was large but somewhat lonely. Few servants moved about. The place had an air of gentle sadness.
　Genji entered the house and was led to the lady’s rooms.
　They began to speak together.
　Their conversation slowly continued as evening deepened around them.
　At last night came.
　A thin moon of the twentieth day rose into the sky. Its pale light fell over the garden where many tall trees stood close together. Their branches formed deep shadows across the ground.
　Near the eaves of the house an orange tree spread its branches. The sweet smell of its blossoms drifted softly through the night air.
　The scent brought a quiet comfort to the heart.
　The lady herself was no longer young. Yet her gentle manner and refined nature still created a feeling of warmth. She had never been a woman who shone brightly in the busy world of court life. Instead she possessed a calm dignity that drew sympathy from others.
　As Genji spoke with her, memories of the past rose again in his mind.
　He remembered the former emperor.
　He remembered the old court.
　One memory followed another, and soon Genji found that tears had come to his eyes.
　In the distance the cuckoo cried again.
　It sounded like the same bird he had heard earlier in the city.
　Genji smiled faintly.
　“Perhaps that bird has followed me here,” he said softly.
　Then he quietly sang an old poem about speaking of the past while the cuckoo listens.
　The night grew deeper around them.
　Their conversation continued gently beneath the scent of the orange blossoms.

Part 2

　The scent of the orange blossoms slowly filled the quiet night. It drifted through the open spaces of the house and rested gently in the air. Genji sat near the lady and breathed in the fragrance. For a long moment neither of them spoke. The world outside seemed very far away.
　The lady of the house looked at Genji with calm and gentle eyes. She had lived through many years and had seen the changes of the court. When the former emperor had been alive, her life had been brighter. Now the house had become silent, and only a few attendants remained to care for her.
　Yet there was still dignity in the way she sat and spoke. Even in quiet sorrow she kept a graceful manner.
　Genji slowly raised his eyes toward the garden. The moon was small, and the trees made deep shadows on the ground. The branches moved lightly in the night wind.
　“This place brings back many memories,” Genji said softly.
　The lady listened without speaking.
　“When I come here,” Genji continued, “I feel as if the past returns. The world has changed so much. Many people now follow the new ways of the court. They speak only of what is happening today. But the days of the former emperor were different.”
　He paused and looked down for a moment.
　“Sometimes,” he said quietly, “I feel that there are fewer and fewer people who remember those days. When I speak of the past, many cannot understand what I mean.”
　The lady lowered her eyes.
　Genji looked at her again and spoke gently.
　“But here it is different. When I come to your house, I feel that the old days are still alive. That is why I wished to visit you tonight. My heart becomes both comforted and sad at the same time.”
　The lady’s expression grew softer. His words touched the feelings she had long carried inside her heart.
　For many years she had lived quietly with memories that few people wished to hear. The world around her moved forward, leaving the past behind.
　When Genji spoke of those old days, she felt both warmth and sorrow.
　“You are kind to say such things,” she answered slowly. “But you know that my life has become very lonely. The court no longer remembers me. I live here quietly, and the seasons pass.”
　Genji watched her face as she spoke.
　“You must feel more lonely than I do,” he said.
　His voice was calm, but there was true sympathy in it.
　The lady looked toward the garden again. The shadows of the trees trembled slightly in the moonlight.
　After a moment she recited a poem.
　“In this lonely house, where no one comes to see me, the blossoms of the orange tree alone seem to keep watch beside the eaves.”
　Her voice was gentle, but the sadness within the words was clear.
　Genji listened with deep attention.
　When she finished, he slowly nodded.
　“Yes,” he said quietly. “Even in such loneliness there is beauty.”
　He thought about the meaning of her poem. The orange blossoms near the eaves seemed like silent companions, standing beside the house when no visitors came.
　Genji felt a strong respect for her quiet strength.
　Earlier that evening he had thought about several other women he had known. Each memory had brought different feelings into his heart. Some had been playful and bright. Others had been gentle and soft.
　Yet this lady was different.
　There was something calm and steady in her nature. Her sorrow did not appear loudly. Instead it rested quietly beneath her graceful manner.
　Genji could not help comparing her to the woman whose house he had passed on the road earlier.
　That woman had hidden her feelings behind playful words. But this lady spoke openly from a lonely heart.
　For Genji such differences were always interesting. His mind moved easily from one memory to another.
　He thought about how many women had become part of his life.
　Some had stayed near him for a long time. Others had quietly left his world when their feelings could no longer accept such uncertain bonds.
　Genji understood that not everyone could remain beside him under such conditions.
　“If a woman cannot accept this kind of relationship,” he sometimes thought, “she must follow her own path.”
　Such separations had happened before.
　The woman whose house he had just passed in the city was one example. She had found another lover and built a different life.
　Genji did not blame her.
　Yet even so, these memories remained with him.
　As the night deepened, Genji rose from the room where he had been speaking with the older lady.
　Quiet attendants moved softly through the corridors. Lamps burned with small steady flames.
　Genji then walked toward another part of the house.
　There, in the western room, lived the younger woman who had once been his lover.
　For a moment he stood outside the room.
　It had been a long time since he had last visited her.
　Inside the room the lady sat quietly. She had not expected Genji to come that night. Yet when he entered, the sudden sight of him filled her heart with strong emotion.
　For many years she had carried both love and quiet resentment.
　At times she had thought, “He has forgotten me.”
　At other times she had tried to push such thoughts away.
　But when Genji appeared before her now, the old feelings melted away almost at once.
　Genji approached her gently.
　His presence still held the same beauty and grace that had once captured her heart. Even after all these years, the sight of him was difficult to resist.
　“It has been a long time,” Genji said softly.
　His voice carried warmth and sincerity.
　The lady looked down, unable to speak at first.
　Genji continued speaking.
　He told her how often he had thought about her. He explained how the busy world of the court had kept him away. He spoke of the many troubles that had filled his days.
　His words flowed easily.
　Yet this time they were not empty.
　Genji truly did feel affection for her. Though he had many loves in his life, each one carried its own place in his heart.
　The lady listened quietly.
　As she heard his voice and saw his gentle expression, the bitterness she had once felt slowly disappeared.
　The longing she had carried for so long returned instead.
　They spoke together for a long time that night.
　Outside, the wind moved softly through the branches of the orange tree. The scent of its blossoms continued to drift through the house.
　The cuckoo cried once more in the distance.
　The quiet house, filled with memories of past years, held the voices of two people who had once loved each other and had now met again.
　For Genji such meetings were part of the strange path of his life.
　His heart moved easily from one bond to another, yet each connection remained real.
　In this way his life continued, woven together from many quiet stories of love, memory, and longing.
　And the lonely house, surrounded by trees and the fragrance of blossoms, became once more a place where those memories could live.

 
Chapter 12: Suma (須磨)

Part 1

　Prince Genji lived in the capital city of the empire. In those days the court was full of music, poetry, and beauty, but it was also full of jealousy and danger. The prince was young, and many people loved him. His face was bright, and his voice was gentle. When he walked through the palace halls, people often turned their heads to look at him. Some felt admiration. Others felt envy.
　Yet this bright life did not continue forever. Political winds in the court began to change. Some powerful men did not like Genji’s influence. They spoke quietly among themselves. They looked for ways to weaken him. The prince understood these dangers very well. He was clever, and he could see the mood of the court.
　One evening he sat quietly in his room. The lamps burned softly, and the night air moved through the open screens. He held a letter in his hand. After reading it again, he slowly folded the paper.
　“The court is no longer safe for me,” he said quietly.
　A close servant stood nearby. The servant lowered his head.
　“Your Highness,” he said, “people speak many rumors. But surely the Emperor still trusts you.”
　Genji looked toward the dark garden outside. The moonlight touched the leaves of the trees. For a long moment he did not answer.
　Finally he said, “Trust is a delicate thing. Even when the Emperor’s heart is kind, other men may guide his decisions.”
　The servant felt sad when he heard these words. Everyone in the palace knew that the prince was both wise and gentle. Yet power in the court was never simple.
　Not long after this conversation, the news arrived. The prince was ordered to leave the capital for a time. Officially it was called a quiet retreat. But everyone understood the truth. It was exile.
　When Genji heard the order, he did not show anger. Instead he remained calm. He sat still and listened to the message.
　“Very well,” he said softly.
　His attendants felt deep sorrow. Some began to cry. One young servant said, “My lord, this is unfair. The court cannot shine without you.”
　Genji shook his head gently.
　“Do not speak such words,” he said. “The court will continue. Everything in the world changes.”
　That night he wrote many letters. He wrote to friends, to women who cared for him, and to people who had served him faithfully. His brush moved slowly across the paper. Sometimes he stopped and looked into the distance before writing again.
　One letter was especially painful to write. It was for Lady Murasaki. She was young and gentle, and Genji loved her deeply. As he wrote, he felt a quiet sadness in his heart.
　“I must go far from the capital for a while,” he wrote. “Do not worry too much. I will think of you every day.”
　After finishing the letter, he placed the brush down. For a long time he sat in silence.
　The next days were full of preparation. Servants packed clothing and writing tools. Simple furniture was prepared for travel. The prince would not take many things with him. Life in exile must be modest.
　Some people in the court secretly came to visit him before his departure. They wished to say farewell. They spoke quietly because they did not want others to notice.
　One nobleman said, “Your Highness, this decision will not last forever. The truth will become clear.”
　Genji smiled faintly.
　“Perhaps,” he said. “But the world often forgets truth.”
　Another friend said, “When you return, the court will welcome you again.”
　The prince answered calmly, “If that day comes, I will be grateful.”
　As the day of departure approached, the palace seemed strangely quiet to him. The halls where he once walked with ease now felt distant. Even the music from other rooms sounded different.
　On the morning of his journey, the sky was pale and clear. A light wind moved through the trees.
　Genji dressed in simple robes. They were elegant but not too bright. He did not wish to show pride on such a day.
　Outside the residence, a small group of attendants waited. Their faces showed sadness, but they tried to remain strong.
　The prince stepped into the carriage.
　Before leaving, he looked once more toward the palace buildings in the distance. For many years this city had been the center of his life.
　“How strange,” he murmured quietly. “A single order can change everything.”
　The carriage began to move.
　The road leading away from the capital passed through fields and quiet villages. People working in the fields sometimes looked up in surprise when they saw the noble carriage traveling south.
　Inside the carriage, Genji sat silently. From time to time he lifted the curtain slightly and looked outside.
　The world beyond the capital felt wider and calmer. Mountains rose in the distance. Rivers moved slowly through the land.
　One attendant rode beside the carriage on horseback. After some hours he spoke gently.
　“Your Highness, we will reach Suma soon.”
　Suma was a lonely place near the sea. Few nobles lived there. The wind from the ocean could be strong, and storms often came in that region.
　Genji nodded slowly.
　“A quiet place may be good for the heart,” he said.
　By evening they arrived. The house prepared for the prince stood near the shore. It was simple compared with the great residences of the capital. The wooden walls showed marks from wind and rain.
　When Genji stepped inside, the sound of the sea reached his ears. Waves moved slowly against the beach. The air smelled of salt.
　He walked to the edge of the garden and looked toward the water. The wide ocean stretched far into the distance.
　“So this will be my home for a time,” he said quietly.
　The attendants began arranging the rooms. Lamps were lit. A small meal was prepared.
　Later that night Genji sat alone near the open screen. The moon rose above the sea. Its pale light touched the moving water.
　He took out his writing brush.
　“The sound of the waves is very different from the music of the capital,” he thought.
　On the paper he wrote a short poem about the lonely shore and the quiet sadness in his heart.
　After finishing the poem, he placed the brush aside and looked again at the sea. The wind moved softly through the night.
　Though his life had changed, the prince remained calm. Somewhere beyond the dark water lay the great capital, the palace, and the people he loved.
　For now he could only wait.
　And so the quiet days of Genji’s life at Suma began.

Part 2

　The first days in Suma passed slowly. Life near the sea was very different from life in the capital. In the capital there were many people, many voices, and endless movement. Here there was only wind, waves, and wide sky. The sound of the ocean filled the air from morning until night.
　Each morning Prince Genji woke early. The sea wind often moved through the thin walls of the house before sunrise. When he opened his eyes, he could hear the steady sound of water striking the shore.
　At first the sound felt strange to him. In the capital he had always woken to music, servants speaking softly, or the quiet movement of people in the palace halls. But here the sea was his only companion.
　One morning he stepped outside before the sun had fully risen. The sky in the east was pale, and the ocean stretched endlessly before him. A few small birds moved over the water.
　He stood there silently.
　“The world is very large,” he thought. “In the capital we often forget that.”
　An attendant approached quietly behind him.
　“Your Highness,” the man said, “the morning meal is ready.”
　Genji turned slightly and smiled.
　“Thank you,” he replied.
　The meal was simple. It was nothing like the elegant dishes served in the palace. Still, Genji accepted it calmly. He knew that complaints would not change his situation.
　After eating, he often spent time writing poems. The lonely shore, the moving clouds, and the long cries of birds gave him many thoughts. Sometimes he wrote letters to friends in the capital.
　One day he sat near the open screen with paper before him. The wind lifted the edge of the page.
　“How are they living now?” he wondered.
　His thoughts turned especially to Lady Murasaki. She had remained in the capital, and he missed her deeply.
　Slowly he wrote a letter.
　“The sea wind is strong here,” he wrote. “The sound of the waves never stops. When I listen to it at night, I remember the quiet rooms where we once spoke together.”
　After finishing the letter, he looked at it for a long time before sealing it.
　Sending messages from Suma was not easy. The distance was great, and travel took many days. Still, he hoped his words would reach her safely.
　As the weeks passed, Genji began to walk along the shore in the evenings. The beach was wide and almost empty. Sometimes fishermen could be seen in the distance, but they rarely came near the noble house.
　One evening the sky was filled with red light from the setting sun. The sea reflected the color, and the water seemed to glow.
　Genji walked slowly across the sand.
　An attendant followed him at a respectful distance.
　After some time the prince spoke.
　“This place is lonely,” he said quietly.
　The attendant answered gently, “Yes, my lord.”
　Genji looked toward the horizon.
　“Yet the beauty here is deep,” he continued. “Perhaps people in the capital do not understand such quiet beauty.”
　The attendant nodded.
　“The waves speak in their own way,” he said.
　Genji smiled faintly when he heard this.
　“Yes,” he replied. “They do.”
　Not every day was calm. Sometimes storms came from the sea. When strong winds rose, the house shook, and the sound of the waves became fierce and loud.
　One night a great storm arrived. Dark clouds covered the sky, and heavy rain struck the roof.
　Inside the house the lamps moved in the wind. Servants hurried to close the shutters.
　Genji sat quietly, listening.
　The roar of the ocean sounded almost like thunder. The wind pushed against the walls as if it wished to enter.
　One young attendant looked frightened.
　“My lord,” he said, “the storm is very strong tonight.”
　Genji answered calmly.
　“Storms come and go,” he said. “There is no reason to fear them.”
　Still, the noise continued through the night. Sleep was difficult.
　When morning came, the storm had passed. The sky was clear again, and the air smelled fresh and sharp.
　Genji walked outside to see the shore.
　The waves were still large, and pieces of wood and sea plants lay scattered along the sand.
　He stood quietly, watching the water move.
　“Even the sea cannot remain calm forever,” he thought.
　That day he wrote a poem about the storm and the restless heart of a man far from home.
　Though his life in Suma was lonely, news from the capital sometimes reached him. Travelers passing through the region carried rumors and stories.
　One afternoon a messenger arrived with letters.
　Genji received them with great interest. He sat down and began to read.
　Some letters came from old friends. They wrote about events in the court and the changing mood among the nobles.
　One letter said, “Many people now speak kindly of you again.”
　Genji paused when he read this line.
　“So the wind of the court is changing,” he murmured.
　But he did not allow hope to grow too quickly. The world of politics was never stable.
　Another letter contained a poem from Lady Murasaki. Her writing was gentle and full of longing.
　When he finished reading her words, he felt both happiness and sadness.
　He held the letter close for a moment.
　“She remembers me,” he whispered.
　That evening he wrote a reply. His brush moved carefully across the paper.
　“The sea is wide and cold,” he wrote. “But your words reach me like warm light.”
　After sealing the letter, he sat quietly for a long time.
　The moon rose slowly over the ocean, and the waves shone silver beneath its light.
　In that quiet moment Genji understood something about his life. Power and honor in the court could disappear quickly. But memory, affection, and quiet beauty remained.
　As the months continued, the prince grew more familiar with the rhythm of the sea.
　Morning wind, afternoon light, evening waves.
　The lonely shore slowly became part of his life.
　Yet deep in his heart he still waited for the day when fate would change again.

Part 3

　As the seasons slowly changed, Prince Genji’s life in Suma continued in quiet rhythm. Each day was simple, but his thoughts were often full. The wide sea before him never looked the same twice. Sometimes the water was calm and smooth. Sometimes the wind made long dark lines across its surface.
　On one clear morning Genji walked to the edge of the shore soon after sunrise. The light was soft, and the air was cool. Small waves moved gently toward the sand.
　He stood still and listened.
　“Even the sea seems to breathe,” he thought.
　Behind him one of his attendants approached slowly.
　“Your Highness,” the man said, “some travelers have come to the village nearby. They say they are passing through from the capital.”
　Genji turned with interest.
　“From the capital?” he asked.
　“Yes, my lord.”
　For a moment Genji felt a sudden warmth in his heart. News from the capital always carried memories of the life he once lived.
　“Let them rest first,” he said calmly. “If they wish to speak later, we will receive them.”
　The travelers arrived that afternoon. They bowed deeply when they saw the prince.
　“We are honored to meet you,” one of them said.
　Genji welcomed them kindly and asked about the capital. They spoke of recent events in the court. Some ministers had changed their positions. Others had lost influence.
　One traveler said quietly, “Many people speak of Your Highness with respect. Some believe the time of your return may come.”
　Genji listened carefully, but he did not show excitement.
　“The world often changes,” he replied. “But the future is never certain.”
　After the travelers left, Genji walked again toward the sea. The sky had begun to grow darker as evening approached.
　“Could I truly return one day?” he wondered.
　Yet he reminded himself not to trust rumors too quickly.
　Life in Suma continued. Some days were peaceful, filled with poetry and quiet thought. Other days brought deep loneliness.
　One evening the wind from the sea was unusually cold. Dark clouds gathered across the horizon.
　An attendant looked toward the sky with concern.
　“A storm may come tonight,” he said.
　Genji nodded.
　“The sea has been restless all day,” he answered.
　Soon the wind grew stronger. The sound of waves striking the shore became loud and heavy. The wooden house trembled slightly.
　Servants hurried to close the shutters and secure the doors. Lamps flickered in the moving air.
　Genji sat quietly near the inner room.
　“This storm feels stronger than the others,” an attendant said nervously.
　Thunder rolled across the sky. Rain began to fall with great force.
　The sound of the storm filled the entire house. It seemed as if the sea itself was shouting.
　Even Genji felt the power of the moment. The wind pushed against the walls again and again.
　“Nature reminds us how small we are,” he thought.
　The storm lasted deep into the night. Lightning flashed across the dark sky, lighting the room for brief moments.
　When the wind finally began to weaken, the prince stepped outside.
　The air smelled of rain and salt. The sea still moved heavily, but the worst of the storm had passed.
　Genji looked up toward the clouds. A break in the sky allowed the moon to appear.
　The pale light fell across the wet sand.
　“Even after great noise, the world returns to calm,” he murmured.
　The next morning the sky was bright again. The storm had left broken branches and sea plants scattered along the shore.
　Genji walked slowly across the beach.
　The long night of wind and thunder had stirred many thoughts in his mind.
　“Life in the capital was full of movement and ambition,” he reflected. “Yet here I see the deeper rhythm of the world.”
　He picked up a small piece of driftwood and turned it in his hand.
　“Perhaps exile is also a kind of teaching,” he thought.
　Later that day he wrote a poem about the storm and the quiet that followed it.
　The poem spoke of waves rising in darkness and the lonely heart of a man far from home.
　Some days later another messenger arrived.
　The man carried an official letter from the capital.
　When Genji received the letter, he felt a quiet tension in his chest. Important messages rarely came to Suma.
　He opened the paper slowly and began to read.
　The words were respectful and careful. They spoke of changes in the court and the Emperor’s concern for the prince.
　At the end of the message there was an important line.
　Genji read it again.
　“You are invited to return to the capital.”
　For a moment he said nothing.
　The room was silent.
　His attendants watched him carefully.
　Finally one servant spoke.
　“My lord… what does the letter say?”
　Genji looked up.
　A calm smile appeared on his face.
　“It seems,” he said gently, “that my time in Suma may soon end.”
　The attendants were filled with joy.
　Some bowed deeply. Others whispered excitedly.
　Yet Genji remained thoughtful.
　That evening he walked once more along the shore. The sea was calm, and the sunset spread warm colors across the sky.
　“This lonely place has been my home,” he said softly.
　The wind moved gently across the water.
　Though he would soon return to the capital, the quiet lessons of Suma would remain in his heart forever.
　Genji stood there until the last light faded from the sky.
　Then he slowly turned and walked back toward the house, ready for the next change in his life.

 
Chapter 13: Akashi (明石)

Part 1

　The sea wind blew softly across the shore of Suma. Waves came again and again, touching the sand and pulling away with a quiet sound. The sky above the water was wide and pale, and thin clouds moved slowly in the distance. In this lonely place lived a young nobleman who once had lived in the center of the capital. That man was Hikaru Genji.
　Genji stood near the edge of the shore and looked far across the sea. The wind moved his long sleeves, and the sound of the waves seemed to speak to him. The world around him felt empty and quiet. When he lived in the capital, he had many people around him. Servants, friends, and many women had been near him every day. Music and laughter filled the rooms of his house. But now those sounds were gone.
　He had come to this lonely coast because of trouble in the court. Many people in the capital had begun to fear his beauty and his power. Some spoke against him in secret. Others watched him with cold eyes. At last, Genji decided that it was better to leave the city for a time.
　“Here, no one will trouble me,” he had said quietly when he left.
　But now, standing beside the wide sea, he sometimes wondered if the quiet was too deep.
　Behind him stood a few faithful servants. They had followed him from the capital because they loved and respected him. One of them stepped forward slowly. It was Koremitsu, who had served Genji for many years.
　“My lord,” Koremitsu said gently, “the evening air is becoming cold. You should return inside.”
　Genji did not move at once. He kept his eyes on the long line where the sea met the sky.
　“The sound of the waves is beautiful,” he said at last. “But it also makes the heart feel heavy.”
　Koremitsu lowered his head slightly. He understood Genji’s feelings well.
　“The capital must also miss you,” he said softly.
　Genji gave a small smile, but there was sadness in it.
　“Perhaps,” he answered. “But the capital also forgets quickly.”
　The sun slowly moved lower in the sky. The sea began to turn dark blue, and long shadows stretched across the sand. At last Genji turned away from the water and walked back toward the small house where he was living.
　The house was simple compared with the great buildings of the capital. The roof was plain, and the rooms were small. When the wind blew strongly, the walls sometimes made soft sounds. Yet the place had a quiet beauty. Pine trees stood nearby, and beyond them the sea continued without end.
　Inside the house a lamp had been lit. Its gentle light filled the room.
　Genji sat down beside the window. For a moment he said nothing. His servants quietly placed writing tools before him.
　“You wish to write a letter, my lord?” Koremitsu asked.
　Genji looked at the paper.
　“Yes,” he said slowly. “There are people in the capital who must wonder how I live here.”
　He picked up the brush and began to write. His hand moved calmly, and his beautiful writing flowed across the paper. Yet inside his heart many thoughts moved.
　He thought of the great halls of the palace. He thought of music played late into the night. He thought of the women who had once spoken softly with him behind curtains.
　Among them he remembered Lady Murasaki most of all.
　For a moment his hand stopped.
　“She must feel lonely,” he thought.
　Then he continued writing.
　After some time he placed the brush down.
　“Send this tomorrow,” he said.
　Koremitsu bowed and carefully took the letter.
　Outside, night had already fallen. The wind from the sea became stronger, and the sound of waves rose in the darkness.
　Later that night Genji sat alone again. A flute lay beside him. He lifted it slowly and placed it to his lips.
　The music that came from the flute was soft and sad. The sound moved out through the open window and drifted over the dark sea.
　One of the servants listening outside felt tears come to his eyes.
　“Our lord’s heart is full of sorrow,” he thought.
　Inside the room Genji closed his eyes as he played. The quiet music seemed to speak the feelings he could not easily say in words.
　When the music ended, he lowered the flute slowly.
　“The waves answer the sound,” he murmured.
　Far away lightning flashed across the sky over the sea. A low sound of thunder followed.
　Koremitsu entered the room quickly.
　“A storm may come tonight,” he said.
　Genji looked out into the dark distance.
　“Yes,” he answered calmly. “The sea often brings sudden storms.”
　The wind grew stronger. The pine trees outside bent and moved, and the sound of the waves became louder. Soon rain began to fall.
　Inside the house the servants worked quietly to close the shutters and protect the lamps from the wind.
　Genji remained seated, watching the storm with deep thought.
　“The world is like this sea,” he said softly to himself. “Sometimes calm, sometimes full of danger.”
　The storm continued for many hours. Wind struck the walls, and rain fell hard against the roof. Yet before morning the wind slowly grew weaker.
　When the first light of dawn appeared, the sea had become quiet again.
　Genji walked outside once more. The air smelled fresh after the rain, and the sky was clear and bright.
　He looked out across the water and felt a strange calm in his heart.
　“Even after a storm,” he said quietly, “the sea returns to peace.”
　At that moment a messenger from the capital arrived. The man had traveled quickly and looked tired from the long journey.
　Koremitsu greeted him and brought him inside.
　“My lord,” Koremitsu said, “a letter has come from the capital.”
　Genji accepted the letter and opened it slowly. As he read, his expression changed slightly.
　The letter contained news from people who still cared deeply about him. They spoke of their worry and their hope that he would soon return.
　For a long moment Genji remained silent.
　Then he folded the letter carefully.
　“The capital has not forgotten me completely,” he said quietly.
　Outside the sea continued its endless movement, shining under the new morning light.

Part 2

　Morning light spread across the wide sea of Suma. The sky was pale blue, and the waves shone softly under the sun. After the long storm of the night before, the air felt fresh and clear. The sound of the water was calm again, as if the sea had forgotten its anger.
　Genji walked slowly along the shore. His long sleeves moved gently in the sea wind. Behind him, a few servants followed at a respectful distance. They watched their lord carefully, for they knew that his heart was often filled with quiet sorrow in this lonely place.
　The capital was far away. Here there were no bright halls, no court music, and no busy voices of nobles. Only the sound of wind, the cry of birds, and the endless movement of the waves filled the air.
　Genji stopped and looked toward the distant horizon.
　“This sea,” he said softly, “separates me from the world I once knew.”
　Koremitsu stood nearby and listened.
　“But it also connects us to that world,” he replied gently. “Boats cross the sea every day. News can still reach us.”
　Genji smiled faintly.
　“Yes. Letters travel over the water. But a letter is not the same as a face.”
　The two men stood quietly for a moment. The wind lifted the edges of Genji’s robe, and the sound of the tide rose and fell.
　After some time they returned to the small house.
　Inside, servants prepared a simple meal. Though the house was humble, the servants tried their best to make the place pleasant for their lord. They arranged flowers in a small vase and placed fresh mats upon the floor.
　Genji noticed these quiet efforts and felt gratitude in his heart.
　“You care for me well,” he said to them.
　The servants bowed deeply.
　“It is our honor, my lord.”
　After the meal Genji sat near the open window. The sea could be seen between the pine trees, shining under the sun.
　He took out the letter that had arrived the day before and read it again.
　The words came from friends who still lived in the capital. They spoke of the court and the palace. They also spoke of the many people who remembered him.
　Yet there were also hints of danger.
　Some powerful men at court still disliked Genji. They watched his name with suspicion. Because of this, his return to the capital could not happen soon.
　Genji placed the letter down slowly.
　“The world of the court has not changed,” he said.
　Koremitsu sat nearby.
　“Time moves slowly in the capital,” he replied. “But hearts can change.”
　Genji looked toward the sea again.
　“Perhaps,” he said quietly.
　As the day passed, clouds began to gather again in the sky. The wind grew stronger, and the waves became restless.
　A fisherman from a nearby village came to visit. The villagers of Suma had heard that a nobleman from the capital lived in the small house near the shore. They spoke of him with curiosity and respect.
　The fisherman bowed deeply.
　“My lord,” he said, “the sea may grow rough tonight. Boats may not be able to travel.”
　Genji thanked him kindly.
　“You watch the sea well,” he said.
　The fisherman smiled shyly.
　“The sea is our life,” he answered. “We must understand its moods.”
　After the man left, Genji walked outside again. The clouds now covered much of the sky.
　“Another storm may come,” Koremitsu said.
　Genji nodded.
　“The sea is never still for long.”
　As evening approached, the wind grew colder. Waves struck the shore with louder sounds. The pine trees bent and whispered in the air.
　Inside the house lamps were lit again.
　Genji sat quietly with his flute beside him. For a long time he did not play. Instead he listened to the sound of the wind and the sea.
　At last he lifted the flute.
　The music that rose from it was slow and thoughtful. Each note seemed to float in the air before fading into the sound of the waves.
　Outside, the servants paused in their work to listen.
　Koremitsu stood near the doorway and watched his lord.
　“Even here,” he thought, “his music is as beautiful as it was in the capital.”
　When the song ended, the room became quiet again.
　Genji placed the flute down.
　“This lonely place has its own beauty,” he said softly.
　Koremitsu bowed.
　“Yes, my lord. But the capital still waits for you.”
　Genji did not answer immediately. His eyes moved toward the dark sea beyond the window.
　“Does it truly wait?” he asked at last.
　Koremitsu spoke carefully.
　“Many people still hope for your return.”
　Genji breathed slowly.
　“Then perhaps one day I will return.”
　The wind outside continued to rise. Soon the sound of rain began again, though not as violently as the night before.
　As the storm grew stronger, Genji lay down to rest. Yet sleep did not come easily.
　His thoughts moved again and again to the capital.
　He remembered the palace halls filled with light. He remembered the gentle voice of Lady Murasaki. He remembered the beauty of spring nights and the sound of court music.
　Here in Suma those memories seemed far away, like dreams from another life.
　At last he closed his eyes.
　Outside the sea continued its endless movement under the dark sky.

Part 3

　The storm that had begun the night before did not end quickly. Through the dark hours of the night the wind blew strongly over the sea. Rain struck the roof of the small house in Suma, and the sound of the waves grew louder and louder. Sometimes the wind pushed hard against the walls, and the lamps inside the house trembled softly.
　Genji did not sleep deeply that night. Even when his eyes closed, his mind was not calm. The sound of the sea seemed to call to him again and again.
　At last he rose from his bed and sat near the window. Outside, darkness covered the shore, but he could see the white line of waves breaking in the distance.
　“The sea is restless tonight,” he said quietly.
　Koremitsu, who had been awake in another room, heard the movement and came to him.
　“My lord, are you troubled?” he asked gently.
　Genji looked toward the dark water.
　“This place is beautiful,” he answered slowly. “But in the night it feels very lonely.”
　Koremitsu bowed his head slightly.
　“Such thoughts are natural,” he said. “Anyone far from home would feel the same.”
　Genji gave a faint smile.
　“Home,” he repeated softly.
　The word seemed heavy in his heart.
　For a moment neither man spoke. Only the wind and rain filled the silence.
　At last Genji stood and opened the shutter a little. Cold air entered the room. The smell of salt and rain came with it.
　He watched the storm with quiet eyes.
　“Even the sea cannot remain calm forever,” he said. “Perhaps the human heart is the same.”
　Koremitsu listened respectfully.
　“But storms also pass,” he replied.
　Genji closed the shutter again and returned to his seat.
　“Yes,” he said. “They do.”
　When morning finally came, the storm had grown weaker. The clouds still covered the sky, but the rain had almost stopped. The sea remained rough, yet the wind no longer struck the land so strongly.
　Genji stepped outside.
　The sand was wet, and pieces of seaweed lay scattered along the shore. The pine trees had lost many small branches during the storm.
　The world felt quiet again after the long night.
　A group of servants were already working to repair small damages around the house. They moved carefully and spoke in low voices.
　Genji watched them for a moment.
　“They remain loyal even in such a lonely place,” he thought.
　Koremitsu approached him.
　“The storm was strong,” he said. “But the house has not suffered much harm.”
　Genji nodded.
　“That is good.”
　They walked slowly toward the shore. The sea was still restless, and large waves rose and fell across the water.
　As Genji watched the moving sea, a deep feeling rose in his heart. The loneliness of Suma, the memories of the capital, and the uncertainty of the future all seemed to gather within him.
　At last he spoke quietly.
　“When I lived in the capital, the world seemed wide and bright. Many people surrounded me. Music and laughter filled every day.”
　Koremitsu listened silently.
　“But now,” Genji continued, “I stand beside an endless sea with only a few faithful companions.”
　Koremitsu answered with calm respect.
　“Those who remain beside you are the ones who truly care.”
　Genji looked at him and smiled faintly.
　“That is true.”
　For a time they walked along the beach without speaking.
　Suddenly Koremitsu pointed toward the distant water.
　“My lord,” he said, “there is a boat.”
　Genji followed his gaze.
　Far out on the sea a small boat moved slowly toward the shore. It rose and fell with the waves as it came closer.
　“A traveler from the capital, perhaps,” Koremitsu said.
　Genji felt a quiet stirring in his heart.
　“We shall soon know.”
　The boat reached the shore after some time. A messenger stepped onto the sand and bowed deeply when he saw Genji.
　“My lord Genji,” the man said respectfully, “I bring news from the capital.”
　Genji’s expression remained calm, but his eyes grew attentive.
　“You have traveled far,” he said. “Please rest first.”
　But the messenger shook his head gently.
　“My lord, the message should be given quickly.”
　Genji nodded.
　The man took out a letter and placed it carefully before him.
　Genji opened it slowly.
　The writing came from someone who cared deeply for him. The words spoke of concern and longing. They described how many people in the capital still remembered him with affection.
　As Genji read, his heart moved quietly.
　The capital had not forgotten him after all.
　He folded the letter and looked again toward the wide sea.
　The waves continued their endless motion, shining under the pale morning sky.
　For the first time in many days, a small feeling of hope entered his heart.
　“Perhaps the future still holds change,” he thought.
　The wind moved softly across the shore, and the long sound of the sea seemed to carry his thoughts far away.
　The quiet exile at Suma would not last forever.

 
Chapter 14: Miotsukushi (澪標)

Part 1

　After many troubled months away from the capital, Genji finally began to return. The long time he had spent at Suma had changed him deeply. The sea wind, the lonely shore, and the quiet sound of waves had filled his heart with sadness, but they had also given him time to think. Now the time of exile was ending. The court had forgiven him, and a message had arrived that allowed him to come back to the city.
　On the morning when he prepared to leave the coast, the sky was pale and clear. A gentle light spread across the sea. The waves moved slowly, and the air smelled of salt and wet sand. Genji stood outside the small house where he had lived during his lonely days. He looked out toward the water for a long time. The sound of the sea had once felt heavy and endless to him, but today it seemed calm and kind.
　“Soon I will see the capital again,” he said softly.
　His attendants stood nearby. They had served him faithfully during his difficult life at Suma and Akashi. Many of them felt relief now that their lord could return. Still, they also remembered the quiet days beside the sea and felt a strange sadness as they prepared to leave.
　One of the older attendants stepped forward and bowed.
　“My lord,” he said, “the boats are ready. Whenever you wish, we can begin the journey.”
　Genji nodded slowly. Yet he did not move at once. His eyes remained on the wide water.
　During his time at Suma, the sea had been both his enemy and his friend. Storms had frightened him, and loneliness had filled his heart. But it was also here that fate had guided him to Akashi, where he had met the daughter of the Akashi priest. That meeting had changed his life again.
　Now he thought of her.
　Far away from the capital, in the quiet house near the sea at Akashi, she was raising the child who had been born to them. The little girl was still very young. Genji had visited them often while he stayed in that region. Those visits had brought him comfort during his exile. Yet now he had to leave them behind.
　He spoke quietly, almost to himself.
　“The child will grow far from me. But perhaps one day she will come to the capital.”
　The attendants heard his words but remained silent. They knew that Genji’s life was full of love and separation. Such things followed him wherever he went.
　At last Genji turned away from the sea. The moment had come.
　They walked down toward the shore, where several boats waited in the morning light. The wooden sides of the boats shone softly with moisture from the night air. The sailors moved quickly, making final preparations for the journey.
　Genji stepped into the main boat. His attendants followed. Soon the boat began to move slowly away from the land.
　As the distance grew, the coast of Suma became smaller. The quiet house where he had lived was soon only a faint shape near the shore.
　Genji watched it carefully until it disappeared.
　He remembered the night of the great storm, when the sea had roared like a wild animal and lightning had filled the sky. That night he had felt that heaven itself was judging him. He had feared that his life might end there beside the sea.
　Yet he had survived.
　Perhaps the gods had shown mercy.
　Now the boat moved steadily toward the capital.
　The journey took several days. During the day the sea was calm, and the boats moved gently across the water. At night the travelers rested along the coast. Genji often sat alone during these quiet hours, watching the moon or listening to the sound of wind in the trees.
　His heart was not simple.
　He was happy to return, yet he also felt uneasy. The capital was a place of beauty, power, and many complicated feelings. Old rivals and old memories waited for him there. He wondered how people would receive him after his long absence.
　One evening, as the sun slowly sank into the western sea, one of his closest attendants approached him.
　“My lord,” the man said, “many people in the capital still speak of you with great respect. I believe they will welcome your return.”
　Genji gave a faint smile.
　“Perhaps,” he said. “But time changes many things.”
　The man hesitated, then spoke again.
　“Even so, your name has never been forgotten.”
　Genji looked at the red sky. The evening clouds glowed softly above the water.
　“I hope that the capital has not changed too much,” he said quietly.
　At last the boats reached the land near the capital.
　News of Genji’s return spread quickly through the city. Many people remembered the bright prince whose beauty and talent had once filled the court with admiration. During his absence, stories about his exile had also spread. Some people had felt pity for him. Others had watched his fall with secret satisfaction.
　Now everyone wondered what would happen next.
　When Genji finally entered the capital, the streets seemed both familiar and strange. The houses, the gates, and the gardens looked much the same as before, yet the feeling in his heart had changed.
　He passed through the great gate of the city with quiet dignity. His attendants rode behind him. People who saw him along the road whispered to one another.
　“Is that really the shining Genji?”
　“Yes, it must be him.”
　“He looks even more beautiful than before.”
　Genji heard some of these whispers, but he did not show any reaction. His face remained calm.
　Soon he reached the palace.
　The Emperor had already sent word that Genji would be welcomed again. Court officials came forward to greet him respectfully. Their robes moved softly as they bowed.
　“Your return brings great joy to the court,” one official said.
　Genji bowed politely.
　“I am grateful for His Majesty’s kindness,” he replied.
　Inside the palace, the atmosphere was both warm and careful. Many people remembered the difficult events that had once forced Genji to leave. Even though he had been forgiven, some still felt uncertain about the future.
　Genji himself understood this very well. He spoke calmly and showed no pride. His behavior was gentle and respectful toward everyone.
　This humility impressed many people.
　“Exile has made him wiser,” some whispered.
　“His heart has grown deeper.”
　As the days passed, Genji slowly returned to life in the capital. Yet he did not rush. He visited the palace carefully and avoided unnecessary attention.
　During quiet moments, his thoughts often returned to the coast far away.
　He remembered the lonely nights at Suma and the peaceful house at Akashi.
　Most of all, he thought of the small child growing there.
　“Perhaps destiny still waits for her,” he murmured one evening.
　The moon shone softly above the palace roofs. A cool night wind moved through the gardens.
　Genji stood alone for a long time, looking up at the quiet sky.
　His life in the capital had begun again, but many changes were still waiting for him.
　Fate was not finished with the shining prince.

Part 2

　In the days that followed his return, Genji moved carefully through the life of the capital. He did not hurry to reclaim his old place at court. Instead, he behaved with quiet dignity and patience. People who saw him often spoke of how calm he seemed. The bright and playful young prince they had known before exile now carried a deeper feeling in his eyes.
　Each morning he rose early. The palace gardens were still wet with dew at that hour, and the sound of birds filled the soft air. Genji often stood beside the veranda of his residence and looked across the garden. The leaves moved gently in the wind, and the light of the rising sun slowly warmed the roofs and trees.
　“The capital has not changed,” he said one morning to an attendant who stood nearby.
　The man bowed slightly. “Yes, my lord. But many people say that you have changed.”
　Genji smiled faintly.
　“Perhaps the sea wind has made me older,” he replied.
　Although he spoke lightly, he knew the words were true. The quiet months at Suma had forced him to face many thoughts that he had once avoided. Power, beauty, and love had once come easily to him. During exile he had learned how quickly such things could disappear.
　Soon after his return, he received permission to visit several important places in the capital. One of the first visits he made was to the temple where many members of the court often prayed.
　The temple stood on a gentle hill. Tall trees surrounded the buildings, and their leaves whispered softly in the wind. When Genji arrived, the sound of a bell moved slowly through the quiet air.
　He entered the temple with deep respect.
　The priests welcomed him and prepared a place for prayer. Inside the hall, the air smelled of incense. Thin smoke rose slowly toward the dark wooden ceiling.
　Genji knelt quietly.
　For a long time he said nothing. His mind moved through many memories: the night storms at Suma, the quiet face of the woman in Akashi, and the small child who had been born there.
　At last he spoke softly.
　“Please guide my life from now on,” he whispered. “I have made many mistakes. I wish to live more wisely.”
　When he left the temple, his expression seemed peaceful.
　Word of his visit spread through the city, and people felt even greater respect for him. Many said that suffering had given him a noble heart.
　Meanwhile, messages continued to arrive from different parts of the court. Some old friends wished to see him again. Others simply sent letters filled with polite words and warm feelings.
　Among these messages were also letters from women who had once known Genji well.
　One evening, after the sun had set, an attendant brought several letters to him.
　“My lord,” the man said, “these arrived today.”
　Genji accepted them and sat beside a lamp. The light of the flame moved gently across the paper as he opened the letters one by one.
　Some letters spoke kindly about his safe return. Others carried soft memories of earlier days.
　Genji read them carefully.
　When he finished, he placed the letters beside him and remained silent for a long time.
　His heart felt complicated.
　Love had always followed him, yet it had also caused much sorrow. During his exile he had often wondered whether such feelings had led him into trouble.
　Still, the memories of those women remained gentle in his mind.
　“The past cannot be changed,” he said quietly to himself.
　During this same time, news also reached him from the coast of Akashi.
　A messenger arrived one afternoon, carrying a letter from the Akashi household.
　Genji received the letter with calm hands, though his heart moved quickly inside his chest.
　He opened it slowly.
　The letter spoke about the child. She was healthy and growing well. The people in the house cared for her with great love. The mother often spoke about Genji and hoped that one day he would see their daughter again.
　As Genji read these words, a warm feeling filled his chest.
　He closed his eyes for a moment.
　“She is safe,” he whispered.
　The thought brought him great comfort.
　Yet it also reminded him that his life was now divided between two worlds: the bright court of the capital and the quiet coast far away.
　That evening he sat in his room long after the moon had risen.
　The light of the moon entered softly through the open screens. The garden outside was pale and still. A faint sound of wind moved through the trees.
　One of his closest attendants approached quietly.
　“My lord,” the man said, “you seem deep in thought.”
　Genji looked up slowly.
　“Yes,” he replied. “Life moves in strange ways.”
　The attendant waited respectfully.
　After a moment, Genji spoke again.
　“When I lived beside the sea, I believed that the capital was far behind me. Yet now I stand here again. Sometimes it feels like a dream.”
　The man nodded.
　“Perhaps the gods wished to teach us patience,” he said.
　Genji smiled gently at these words.
　“If so, I hope I have learned something.”
　In the weeks that followed, Genji’s position in the court slowly grew stronger again. The Emperor treated him with kindness, and many officials began to visit him regularly.
　Yet Genji remained careful. He did not seek power too quickly. Instead, he behaved with quiet grace and thoughtful words.
　People noticed this change.
　“He shines more calmly now,” they said.
　One evening a message arrived from the palace itself.
　Genji was invited to attend an important ceremony.
　When he read the message, he felt both honor and responsibility. Such invitations showed that the Emperor trusted him once more.
　He prepared carefully for the event.
　On the morning of the ceremony, the palace grounds were filled with color and movement. Court nobles arrived in rich robes, and attendants moved quickly through the halls.
　Genji entered with quiet dignity.
　Many eyes turned toward him.
　Even among the bright colors of the court, his presence seemed to shine.
　Yet inside his heart, Genji remained thoughtful.
　He remembered the lonely coast, the sound of waves, and the quiet nights beneath the wide sky.
　Those memories would never leave him.
　They had become part of the path that led him back to the capital.
　And that path was still moving forward.
　Many new events were waiting for him in the days to come.
　The story of Genji had entered a new chapter.

Part 3

　As Genji’s life in the capital slowly returned to order, the court itself also began to change around him. Many officials who had once doubted him now treated him with great respect. The Emperor’s favor toward Genji became clear, and this caused many people to speak about him again with admiration.
　Yet Genji did not allow these signs of honor to make him proud. Each day he reminded himself of the difficult months he had spent beside the sea. The memory of the lonely house at Suma remained strong in his mind. Whenever he felt the praise of the court growing around him, he quietly remembered those nights when he had stood alone, listening to the waves.
　One morning he walked through the palace gardens after a meeting at court. The sky was bright, and a soft wind moved the leaves of the trees. Several nobles were speaking together nearby. When they saw Genji, they bowed respectfully.
　One of them stepped forward.
　“My lord Genji,” the man said, “it brings great happiness to see you walking again in the palace. During your absence the court felt empty.”
　Genji answered politely.
　“You are too kind. I only hope that I may serve His Majesty well.”
　The nobles nodded. They admired the calm way he spoke.
　After this meeting Genji returned to his residence. The day was quiet, and sunlight filled the rooms. A gentle breeze moved the curtains.
　He sat beside the veranda and looked out over the garden.
　Flowers were beginning to open on the branches of the trees. Their soft colors reminded him of earlier springs in the capital. Yet he felt that the seasons now passed differently. Time seemed deeper than before.
　One of his attendants approached and bowed.
　“My lord, a messenger has arrived from the Akashi coast.”
　Genji turned quickly.
　“From Akashi?”
　“Yes, my lord.”
　The messenger entered and knelt respectfully. He held a letter in both hands.
　Genji accepted the letter with quiet care.
　The writing was gentle and clear. As he read the words, a soft expression appeared on his face.
　The letter described the little girl once again. She had grown stronger and now showed a calm and graceful nature even at a very young age. The people of the house often spoke about how bright her eyes were. They believed that her future would be special.
　Genji lowered the letter slowly.
　“She is growing quickly,” he said.
　The messenger bowed.
　“Yes, my lord. Everyone there speaks of her with great affection.”
　Genji nodded and thanked the man.
　After the messenger left, Genji remained alone with the letter. He read it again carefully.
　“One day she must come here,” he said quietly.
　The thought filled his heart with both hope and uncertainty.
　Bringing the child to the capital would change many things. The court was a place of strict order and delicate feelings. Yet Genji felt that the girl’s destiny might be tied to the future of the palace itself.
　That evening he spoke with a trusted attendant.
　“Do you believe it is wise to bring her to the capital one day?” Genji asked.
　The man considered the question carefully.
　“My lord, if the child truly carries a great future, the capital may be the place where that future can grow.”
　Genji listened in silence.
　The moon had risen above the garden, and its light touched the quiet branches of the trees.
　“Perhaps the time will come,” he said at last.
　During the following weeks, Genji’s duties at court increased. The Emperor asked his advice in many matters, and important ceremonies required his presence.
　At one such ceremony the palace was filled with music and bright robes. Nobles moved through the halls, and the sound of instruments echoed softly in the air.
　When Genji entered, many eyes turned toward him.
　Even after all the events of his life, his beauty and calm presence remained remarkable. People often said that his appearance seemed to shine with a quiet light.
　Yet Genji himself thought little about such praise. He focused instead on performing his duties carefully and with respect.
　During the ceremony he spoke with several high officials. Their voices were soft, but their words carried weight. Matters of the court were never simple.
　When the ceremony ended, Genji walked slowly through the palace grounds. The night air was cool. Lanterns glowed beside the paths, and their light moved gently with the wind.
　He stopped for a moment beneath a tall tree.
　The leaves whispered quietly above him.
　“Life changes like the seasons,” he murmured.
　The road that had carried him from glory to exile and back again had taught him many things. Yet he felt that the future still held many unexpected turns.
　Far away, beside the sea at Akashi, a young girl continued to grow.
　In the quiet halls of the capital, Genji’s life moved forward once more.
　These two paths would one day meet again.
　And when they did, the fate of the shining prince would enter a new and important chapter.

 
Chapter 15: Yomogiu (蓬生)

Part 1

　The time had passed slowly since Genji had returned from exile. Many things in the capital had changed. Old houses were quiet, and some people who once moved happily in the world now lived in silence. In those days Genji sometimes remembered the women who had once filled his life with deep feeling. Among them was the lady who lived in a lonely place far from the center of the city. She was the daughter of Prince Hitachi. People had once laughed at her strange face and her long red nose, and for that reason she had long been called by the name Suetsumuhana. Yet Genji had once visited her with kindness. He had sent gifts and poems, and although their meetings had been rare, she had kept a deep loyalty toward him.
　But the world had not been kind to her. After Genji left the capital years before, the small support she had once received slowly stopped. Servants left the house one by one. The gardens became wild. Roof tiles broke and rain came through the ceiling. The lady remained there quietly, holding to the memory of the past. She did not complain. She simply lived with patience.
　One evening Genji sat quietly in his residence and looked out at the soft light of the sky. The air was cool, and the wind carried the faint smell of autumn grass. As he watched the sky grow darker, a memory came slowly into his mind. He thought of the lonely house where that lady lived.
　“How has she lived all this time?” he thought. “That house must be empty and cold now.”
　He remembered how simple and sincere she had been. She had never spoken clever words, and she had never tried to win admiration from others. Yet she had been honest. That quiet honesty now touched his heart more strongly than before.
　Genji turned toward a servant who stood nearby.
　“There is a house in the northern part of the city,” he said slowly. “A lady lives there alone. Do you know how she lives now?”
　The servant bowed deeply.
　“My lord,” he said, “that house is in very poor condition. The walls are broken in places, and the garden has grown wild. The lady still lives there, but she has very few attendants.”
　Genji remained silent for a moment. The image of that lonely house became very clear in his mind. He imagined the wind moving through broken doors, and the cold moonlight falling on empty rooms.
　“This should not be so,” he said softly. “It is not right that she should live in such hardship.”
　He then ordered that some gifts be prepared. Cloth for clothing, food, and other useful things were gathered together carefully. Genji also wrote a letter. His handwriting moved slowly and calmly across the paper.
　“It has been a long time,” he wrote. “I often think of the quiet evenings we once shared. I hope that you are well. Please accept these small gifts.”
　When the letter was finished, he sealed it and gave it to a trusted messenger.
　The messenger traveled through the city until he reached the distant area where the lady lived. The road became narrow and silent. Few people passed there now. At last he saw the house.
　The building looked older than before. The wooden gate leaned to one side. Moss covered many parts of the wall. Tall grass had grown thick in the garden, and the branches of trees hung low over the path.
　The messenger stood for a moment and looked at the quiet place. He felt a little sadness in his heart.
　“This house was once the home of a princess,” he thought. “But now it looks like an empty ruin.”
　He knocked gently at the gate.
　After a long moment, a weak voice came from inside.
　“Who is there?”
　“A messenger from Lord Genji,” he replied.
　There was silence for a moment. Then slow footsteps approached. The gate opened a little, and an old servant appeared. Her clothes were worn, and her hair had turned gray.
　“Please come in,” she said politely.
　The messenger entered the garden. As he walked, the grass brushed softly against his sleeves. The house looked quiet and dark. Finally he was led into a room where the lady sat.
　Suetsumuhana had changed very little. Her clothing was simple and old, but she sat with the same calm dignity as before. When she heard Genji’s name, her face showed quiet surprise.
　“A message from him?” she said softly.
　The servant placed the letter before her. Her hands trembled slightly as she opened it. The paper carried the elegant scent that always surrounded Genji’s writing.
　She read the words slowly.
　For a long moment she said nothing. Then she closed her eyes gently.
　“He still remembers me,” she said.
　The old servant smiled with relief.
　“Yes,” she said. “And he has sent many gifts as well.”
　When the boxes were opened, the room filled with soft colors of fine cloth. There were robes suitable for the season, and many small items that would make life easier in the cold months.
　The lady looked at them quietly.
　“I have lived simply for many years,” she said. “But it seems he has not forgotten his kindness.”
　She took a brush and prepared to write a reply. Her writing was not as beautiful as the writing of great court ladies, but it was sincere.
　“I am grateful that you remember me,” she wrote. “Although my life has become quiet and poor, my heart has remained faithful to the past.”
　When the messenger returned to Genji and delivered her letter, Genji read it slowly.
　A gentle feeling moved in his heart.
　“She has remained the same,” he said. “Time has not changed her nature.”
　That night the moon rose over the capital. Its pale light filled the gardens of Genji’s residence. As he looked at the moon, he thought again of the lonely house where the lady lived.
　“In this wide world,” he thought, “there are many forms of beauty. Some shine brightly for a moment and then disappear. But quiet loyalty may last much longer.”
　With this thought in his mind, he decided that he would not allow her to live in such hardship again.
　And so the quiet story of that lonely house began to change.

Part 2

　After Genji read the letter, he sat quietly for a long time. The night had grown deep, and the sound of the wind moved softly through the trees outside his room. The moonlight fell across the floor, pale and calm. In that quiet light he continued to think about the lonely lady who had lived for so many years in silence.
　“She has endured much,” he thought. “Many people forget old promises. But she did not forget.”
　Genji knew that the world often admired beauty, clever words, and bright charm. Many ladies of the court had these gifts. They could sing beautifully, write elegant poems, and speak with graceful skill. Yet the lady in that distant house possessed none of these famous qualities. Her face was unusual, and people had laughed at her long ago. Her words were simple, and her poems were often awkward.
　But her heart had never changed.
　This thought moved Genji deeply. As he remembered the quiet evenings of the past, he felt both sadness and respect.
　The next morning he called several attendants.
　“Prepare more things for the lady,” he said. “Her house must be repaired. Send workers to fix the roof and the walls. The garden should also be cleared.”
　The attendants bowed and quickly began to carry out his orders.
　Soon several servants and workers traveled to the northern part of the city. They brought wood, tools, cloth, and food. When they arrived at the old house, the servants of the lady were greatly surprised.
　The old gate was opened again, and the workers entered the garden. They began cutting the tall grass and clearing the narrow paths. Branches were trimmed, and fallen leaves were gathered.
　The old servant who cared for the lady watched them with wide eyes.
　“So many people have come,” she said. “It feels as if life has returned to this house.”
　Inside the house, Suetsumuhana sat quietly while the sound of work filled the air. She listened to the voices outside, the sound of tools striking wood, and the movement of people in the garden.
　For many years the house had been silent. Now it felt strangely alive.
　“Lord Genji is very kind,” the old servant said softly. “He has not forgotten you.”
　The lady lowered her eyes.
　“I never expected such kindness,” she replied. “The world changes so easily. I thought that my name had long been forgotten.”
　Outside, the workers repaired the broken roof tiles and replaced damaged boards. Fresh paper was placed in the sliding doors. The garden slowly became orderly again.
　When evening came, the house looked very different. Lamps were lit, and the rooms felt warm and clean.
　The lady sat near the lamp and looked quietly around the room. For the first time in many years, the place felt comfortable.
　“Everything has changed so quickly,” she said.
　The old servant nodded.
　“It is because Lord Genji has great power now,” she said. “But more than that, he has a kind heart.”
　Days passed, and the house continued to improve. New robes arrived. Food and useful items were sent regularly. Slowly the lady’s life became easier.
　Word of this reached people in the city.
　Some spoke with surprise.
　“Lord Genji still cares for that lady?” they said. “She has lived in poverty for so long.”
　Others laughed quietly.
　“He is famous for his kindness to many women,” they said.
　But Genji did not care about such talk. For him, the matter was simple. He believed that loyalty deserved respect.
　One evening he decided to visit the house himself.
　The road was quiet as his carriage moved slowly through the narrow streets. Few people noticed him in the dim light of evening.
　When he arrived, the servants of the house hurried to welcome him. Lamps were brought, and the rooms were prepared.
　The lady waited quietly inside.
　When Genji entered, she bowed deeply.
　“It has been many years,” she said softly.
　Genji looked at her carefully. Time had passed, but she still had the same calm expression. Her clothing was now new and neat, and the room around her looked comfortable again.
　“I was worried about you,” Genji said gently. “I heard that you had lived here in great hardship.”
　The lady shook her head slightly.
　“I lived simply,” she replied. “But I did not feel unhappy. I remembered your kindness from long ago.”
　Genji sat down and looked around the room.
　“This house is quiet,” he said. “It feels peaceful.”
　“Yes,” she answered. “It has always been a quiet place.”
　For a moment neither of them spoke. The soft light of the lamp moved gently across the walls.
　Then Genji smiled slightly.
　“You have always been the same,” he said. “Even after many years, your heart has not changed.”
　The lady lowered her eyes again.
　“I have very little to offer,” she said. “But I tried to keep my feelings sincere.”
　Genji felt again that strange mixture of sadness and admiration.
　“In this world,” he said slowly, “many people change with fortune. But those who remain faithful are rare.”
　The wind moved softly outside, touching the branches of the trees in the garden.
　That evening Genji stayed for some time, speaking quietly with the lady about the past and about the changes that had come to the capital.
　The old house, once silent and forgotten, now held a warm light again.
　And in that quiet place, the memory of old loyalty remained strong.
　Yet Genji knew that the world was always moving forward. Even as he helped the lady live more comfortably, new events were beginning to shape his life again.

Part 3

　After that evening, Genji continued to show kindness toward the quiet lady. The small house in the northern part of the city was no longer a place of sadness. Workers visited from time to time to repair small things, and servants came with supplies. The rooms were kept clean, and the garden slowly became beautiful again.
　Yet the place remained calm and simple. It did not become a grand residence like the houses of powerful nobles. The lady herself preferred quiet living. She did not ask for more than she needed.
　One afternoon she sat beside the open screen and looked out into the garden. The sky was pale and clear, and the light wind moved gently through the branches of the trees. Fresh leaves had begun to appear, and small flowers could be seen between the stones of the path.
　The old servant sat nearby, slowly sewing a piece of cloth.
　“The garden looks much better now,” the servant said. “It feels like the old days.”
　The lady nodded softly.
　“Yes,” she replied. “But the old days will never truly return.”
　She spoke without sadness. Her voice was calm. Many years had taught her to accept the quiet changes of life.
　In the capital, Genji’s life was growing more busy. His position in the court had become very important. People admired him and spoke of his power and grace. Many visitors came to his residence every day.
　Yet sometimes, in the middle of this busy life, he remembered the small quiet house.
　One evening he spoke with a trusted attendant.
　“That lady lives in great simplicity,” he said. “But her heart is honest. Such honesty is rare.”
　The attendant bowed.
　“My lord is kind to remember her,” he replied.
　Genji smiled slightly but said nothing more.
　Some time later he again visited the house. The sun was already low when he arrived, and long shadows stretched across the garden.
　As he stepped from his carriage, he noticed that the air carried the soft smell of flowers. The garden, once wild and neglected, now held quiet beauty. Small plants grew along the paths, and the trees had been carefully trimmed.
　“This place has become peaceful,” Genji said quietly.
　The servants welcomed him inside. Lamps were lit as the evening light faded.
　The lady entered the room slowly and bowed.
　“You honor this house again,” she said gently.
　“I wished to see how you were living,” Genji answered.
　They sat together while the evening grew darker outside. The room was simple, but the soft light of the lamp made it warm.
　Genji looked at the lady and spoke kindly.
　“Do you feel more comfortable now?”
　“Yes,” she replied. “Everything you have done has made life easier. I am very grateful.”
　Her words were sincere. She spoke without any attempt to flatter him.
　For a moment Genji watched the quiet expression on her face. He remembered how the world had once laughed at her appearance. Even now she still had the unusual features that had caused those cruel jokes.
　But to Genji, those old thoughts seemed unimportant.
　“You have lived here with great patience,” he said.
　The lady looked down at her hands.
　“There was nothing else I could do,” she answered softly. “Time passes whether we are happy or sad.”
　Genji felt again that quiet respect that had slowly grown in his heart.
　They spoke for a long time that evening. Their conversation was simple. They remembered old events and spoke about small things in the city. Sometimes they laughed gently at small memories.
　When the night became deep, Genji prepared to leave.
　The lady walked with him to the edge of the room.
　“Please take care of your health,” she said.
　“And you must live peacefully here,” he replied.
　Outside, the moon had risen above the trees. Its pale light filled the garden and touched the roof of the house.
　Genji paused for a moment and looked back.
　The quiet residence stood calmly in the moonlight. It was no longer a broken and forgotten place. It had become a gentle refuge for a woman who had remained loyal through many years of loneliness.
　As his carriage began to move away, Genji thought quietly.
　“In this world, beauty and fame pass quickly. But quiet loyalty remains in the heart.”
　The road grew dark as he traveled back toward the center of the capital.
　Behind him the small house returned to silence. Lamps were slowly extinguished, and the night wind moved softly through the garden trees.
　The lady returned to her room and sat for a moment beside the fading lamp.
　She felt calm.
　Her life had been lonely, but she had never abandoned her sincere feelings. Now those feelings had been remembered.
　Outside, the moonlight continued to shine on the quiet garden.
　And so the gentle story of that forgotten house reached its quiet end.

 
Chapter 16: Sekiya (関屋)

Part 1

　Many years had passed since the time when Genji first met the woman called Utsusemi. Long ago, when Genji was still young, he had felt a strong attraction toward her quiet and careful nature. Their meetings had been brief and secret, but the memory of those days had remained in his heart.
　Time, however, does not stand still. The world had changed again and again. Genji had lived through exile in a distant place, sorrow, and return. His power in the capital had grown greater than before. Many people now followed him with admiration.
　Far away from the capital, Utsusemi had lived a very different life.
　The man who had once been called Iyo no Suke later became the governor of Hitachi Province. When he left the capital to take up his new duty, he took Utsusemi with him to the distant land. There she lived quietly as his wife.
　Even though the capital was far away, news sometimes reached them. In that distant place she heard rumors that Genji had withdrawn to Suma. She felt deep sorrow when she heard this story. Yet there was no way to send a message to him. The distance was too great, and the path between their lives had become uncertain.
　The years passed slowly.
　At last Genji returned from exile and came back to the capital. The world began to speak again of his beauty, his power, and his grace. His fortune rose once more like the sun after a long night.
　In the following autumn the governor of Hitachi finished his term of duty. He left his province and began the long journey back toward the capital with his family and attendants. Utsusemi traveled with the group.
　Their journey brought them toward the famous barrier of Osaka.
　On the same day, by strange chance, Genji was traveling toward Ishiyama Temple to give thanks for the end of his suffering.
　News reached the governor’s group that Genji himself was on the road.
　“The road will soon become crowded,” someone said.
　The governor decided that their group should pass the barrier early in the morning before the road became too busy. Before dawn they left their resting place in the province of Ōmi and began to travel quickly.
　But their journey was not easy.
　Many carriages filled the road, especially those carrying women. The large number of vehicles made it difficult to move forward quickly.
　When they reached the beach at Uchide, they heard new information.
　“Lord Genji has already crossed Awata Mountain,” one of the servants said.
　Soon large groups of riders began to appear on the road. These were the attendants who rode ahead of Genji’s carriage. They moved in great numbers toward the east.
　The governor’s group realized that they could not simply continue forward. The road was now too crowded with Genji’s followers.
　At the barrier of Osaka they stopped their journey.
　Everyone dismounted from their horses. The servants carried the carriages aside and placed them beneath the tall cedar trees along the road. Some carriages were moved ahead, while others remained behind.
　The group waited quietly among the trees.
　There were many carriages in the governor’s party—nearly ten in all. The sleeves that appeared from the carriage windows showed beautiful colors and tasteful patterns. They did not look rough or poor like the clothing of simple provincial travelers.
　Anyone who saw them would understand that this was a wealthy and important family returning from a distant province.
　The autumn day was already deep in the season.
　It was the thirtieth day of the ninth month. The mountains around Osaka were filled with autumn leaves. Some leaves were deep red, others pale red. Between them the yellow color of dried grass could also be seen. The entire mountain seemed covered with soft colors of autumn.
　Into this beautiful scene Genji’s attendants suddenly appeared.
　Groups of traveling guards came forward wearing their formal traveling clothing. Their garments were made of thick woven cloth or dyed with tied patterns. The different textures and colors created a striking beauty.
　Genji’s carriage followed behind them. Its bamboo blinds were lowered, hiding him from the curious eyes of the crowd.
　Inside the carriage Genji spoke quietly.
　Near him stood a man who had once served him long ago as a young boy. Now that boy had grown and held the position of Uemon no Suke.
　Genji called him closer.
　“Today I have come to greet the barrier like this,” Genji said with a small smile. “Do you think your elder sister will watch me pass without feeling anything?”
　The man understood what Genji meant.
　His sister was Utsusemi.
　Many thoughts filled Genji’s heart at that moment. He wished that he could speak with the woman directly. The memories of the past returned to him as if they had happened only yesterday.
　But the road was crowded with people. Servants, soldiers, and travelers filled the area around the barrier.
　There was no way for them to speak privately.
　At that same moment Utsusemi sat inside one of the carriages beneath the cedar trees.
　She knew that Genji was passing nearby.
　When she heard his name and understood how close he was, her heart trembled.
　The past returned to her mind with painful clarity.
　It felt as if the years between them had suddenly disappeared. The memories of those secret nights long ago rose again in her thoughts.
　Her heart filled with deep confusion.
　She felt sorrow, longing, and regret all at once.
　Quietly she wiped tears from her eyes.
　In that moment a poem formed in her mind, expressing the deep emotion she could not speak aloud.
　Even though Genji passed so near, the two of them could not meet.
　Their lives, once so close, were now separated by the many eyes of the world.
　And so they watched each other only from a distance as the great procession moved slowly through the autumn mountains.

Part 2

　Genji’s procession moved slowly along the narrow road of the mountain. The sound of horses’ steps and the quiet movement of many people filled the autumn air. The guards rode carefully in front of the carriage, watching the road and guiding the travelers who stood aside to let them pass.
　Inside his carriage Genji sat quietly behind the bamboo blinds. The outside world could not see his face clearly, but he could hear the voices and movements around him. The cool air of the mountain carried the scent of fallen leaves and dry grass.
　His mind was not calm.
　He knew very well that the governor of Hitachi was returning to the capital with his household. And he also knew that among the women in those carriages was the woman he had once loved.
　“She must be there,” he thought.
　The memory of Utsusemi came back to him very clearly. Her quiet voice, her careful manner, and the way she had tried to escape from him long ago all appeared again in his mind.
　At that time she had been afraid of his passion. She had wished to protect her dignity and avoid the trouble that might follow if their relationship became known.
　Genji had respected her seriousness, but he had never been able to forget her.
　Now, after so many years, fate had brought them again to the same road.
　He spoke softly to Uemon no Suke, who rode near the carriage.
　“Your sister must be somewhere among those carriages,” Genji said.
　The man bowed his head respectfully.
　“Yes, my lord,” he replied quietly.
　Genji sighed gently.
　“It seems strange that we should pass each other like travelers who do not know one another.”
　He looked toward the line of carriages standing beneath the tall cedar trees. He could see sleeves of bright colors moving slightly in the wind. The elegant patterns showed that the women inside were members of a noble household.
　Somewhere among them was the woman he remembered.
　“If the world were not watching us,” he thought, “I would speak to her again.”
　But such a meeting was impossible in that place.
　Too many people were watching the road. Attendants, soldiers, servants, and travelers all filled the area near the barrier. Any unusual action would immediately attract attention.
　Genji remained silent.
　Meanwhile Utsusemi sat quietly inside her carriage.
　Her heart beat quickly when she heard the sound of Genji’s procession approaching. The voices of his attendants and the movement of horses came closer and closer.
　She lowered her eyes and tried to remain calm.
　“This must be a dream,” she thought.
　But it was not a dream. The man who had once changed her life was passing only a short distance away.
　She remembered the night long ago when he had first come secretly to her room. She had tried to escape him, but he had spoken with such warmth and longing that her heart had been shaken.
　Yet she had chosen another path. She had decided that it was better to keep her distance and protect the quiet life she already had.
　That decision had separated them forever.
　Now, sitting inside the dark carriage, she felt many emotions at once. There was sadness, regret, and also a strange happiness at knowing that Genji still lived and prospered.
　Tears slowly filled her eyes.
　She wiped them away quickly so that the attendants would not notice.
　In her heart she formed a poem.
　“The tears that cannot be stopped,” she thought, “flow like the clear water of a mountain spring.”
　The carriage remained still as Genji’s procession passed slowly by.
　Some of Genji’s attendants glanced curiously toward the waiting group. They noticed the number of carriages and the beauty of the clothing that appeared from the windows.
　“This must be the household of an important provincial governor,” one of them said quietly.
　They soon continued forward.
　Genji’s carriage moved past the cedar trees.
　For a brief moment, though the bamboo blinds remained lowered, Genji turned his head slightly in the direction of the waiting carriages.
　He felt certain that Utsusemi was watching.
　Yet the moment passed quickly.
　The procession continued down the mountain road toward the temple at Ishiyama.
　The sounds of horses and voices slowly grew distant.
　At last the road became quiet again.
　Beneath the cedar trees the governor’s household began to move once more. Servants lifted the carriages and prepared to continue the journey toward the capital.
　Inside her carriage Utsusemi sat silently.
　The meeting had lasted only a moment and had taken place without words. Yet the memory of it remained strong in her heart.
　“It feels like yesterday,” she thought.
　The old feelings she had tried to bury for many years had returned suddenly.
　But she also understood something clearly.
　The world had changed too much for them to return to the past.
　Genji now stood at the center of power and admiration in the capital. Many people surrounded him, and many women admired him.
　She herself was the wife of a provincial governor returning from many years away.
　Their lives could not meet again as they once had.
　Still, the brief moment on the mountain road remained in her mind like a dream.
　And as the carriages began to move once more toward the capital, she quietly wiped away the last tears from her eyes.

Part 3

　After the meeting at the barrier of Osaka, the two groups continued their journeys in different directions. Genji traveled on toward Ishiyama Temple, while the household of the governor of Hitachi continued slowly toward the capital. The autumn day grew quiet again after the great procession had passed. The red leaves of the mountain shone softly under the pale sky, and the wind carried the cool breath of the coming winter.
　Inside her carriage Utsusemi sat silently. The brief moment when Genji had passed near her still filled her thoughts. It had lasted only a short time, and yet it had stirred feelings she believed had already faded long ago. “So many years have passed,” she thought. “And still my heart remembers.”
　The servants outside began to prepare the carriages for travel again. Voices rose quietly as the attendants organized the group. The journey toward the capital continued.
　Some days later Genji completed his visit to Ishiyama Temple and prepared to return to the capital as well. When he left the temple, Uemon no Suke came to greet him. The young man bowed deeply before Genji. “My lord,” he said, “I must apologize.”
　Genji looked at him with mild curiosity. “What do you wish to apologize for?” he asked.
　The young man lowered his head. “When you went into exile before, I feared that I might be suspected if I remained close to you. Because of that fear I went away to Hitachi with my family. I regret that action deeply.”
　Genji listened calmly. Long ago he had indeed felt some disappointment when several people had quietly moved away from him during his time of trouble. Yet he had never spoken about it openly. “Those were uncertain times,” Genji said gently. “Many people were afraid. I do not hold anger toward you.”
　The young man felt relief when he heard these words. Since his childhood he had been greatly favored by Genji. Genji’s support had helped him gain his present position. Because of that kindness he had always felt shame for leaving when Genji fell into difficulty. Now Genji’s forgiving words made his heart lighter.
　After a moment Genji spoke again. “There is something I wish to ask of you,” he said.
　“Anything, my lord,” the young man replied.
　Genji smiled slightly. “I wish to send a letter to your elder sister.”
　The young man looked surprised. He knew that Genji had once felt deep affection for Utsusemi. Yet so many years had passed that he believed Genji must surely have forgotten her. “My lord still remembers her?” he asked softly.
　Genji laughed quietly. “Some memories do not disappear so easily,” he said.
　He then wrote a letter with careful handwriting. His brush moved slowly across the paper. In the letter he spoke of the strange meeting at the barrier and the memories that had returned to his heart. He wrote that when he first met her long ago, he had believed their bond must have been formed in some previous life.
　Then he added a poem.
　“When I trusted that we might meet again on that road,
　Was that hope useless,
　Like waves in a sea that is not truly the sea?”
　After finishing the letter he handed it to Uemon no Suke. “Please deliver this to your sister,” he said. Then he added with a thoughtful expression, “It has been a long time since we last exchanged words. Perhaps she will feel embarrassed to receive such a message now. Still, my heart has never truly forgotten.”
　The young man accepted the letter respectfully and carried it to his sister.
　When Utsusemi received the letter, she felt both surprise and confusion. The elegant writing was unmistakable. It was Genji’s hand. She read the words slowly. The memories of the past returned once again, stronger than before. Her heart trembled as she held the letter.
　Yet she also felt uncertain. “It has been so long,” she thought. “Our lives have changed too much.”
　Her brother encouraged her gently. “Please write a reply,” he said. “Lord Genji still shows you great kindness.”
　At first she hesitated. She felt that it might be improper to reopen old feelings. But the sight of Genji’s writing stirred emotions she could not easily hide. Finally she took a brush and wrote a reply.
　In her answer she also included a poem.
　“What kind of barrier is this at Osaka,
　That even among so many sighs
　It still divides the road between us?”
　Beneath the poem she added a short sentence. “The moment felt like a dream.”
　When Genji received her reply, he read it with deep feeling. Utsusemi had always remained a person he could not forget. Part of this feeling came from regret, and part from admiration for her quiet strength. From time to time he continued to send letters, hoping perhaps that her heart might still respond to his.
　But fate moved their lives in other directions.
　The governor of Hitachi soon grew old and weak. Illness began to trouble him often. As he lay in bed, he worried about the future. Again and again he spoke to his sons. “You must obey my wife in all things,” he said. “Serve her as faithfully after my death as you have while I lived.” He repeated this request many times.
　Utsusemi watched his suffering with sadness. She feared that soon she might lose the protection of the man who had sheltered her for many years.
　And at last the governor died.
　After his death the household slowly changed. At first the sons spoke politely and showed respect to their stepmother. They remembered their father’s final words and tried to appear obedient. But little by little their true feelings appeared. Their behavior toward Utsusemi became cold and unpleasant. She realized that her position in the household was becoming weaker day by day.
　One of the sons, the governor of Kawachi, showed special attention to her. But his attention carried a shameful intention that she clearly understood. “My father asked us to care for you,” he said with false politeness. “Please do not hesitate to ask for anything you need.” But Utsusemi saw the selfish desire hidden behind his words.
　Her sorrow deepened. “Must my misfortune continue without end?” she thought.
　Without telling anyone of her plan, she made a quiet decision. She chose to leave the troubled household and become a nun.
　When the family learned of her decision, even the sons felt some regret. Yet it was already too late. Utsusemi shaved her hair and entered the quiet life of a religious woman.
　The son who had hoped to win her affection felt especially bitter. “She became a nun only to avoid me,” he complained angrily. “But she will still have to live in this world for many years. How will she survive now?”
　But Utsusemi did not regret her decision. She had chosen a path of peace, far from the desires and troubles of the world.
　And so the story of her life turned quietly toward a different future.

 
Chapter 17: E Awase (絵合)

Part 1

　The former High Priestess of Ise had returned to the capital, and now people spoke often about her future. Many believed that she should enter the palace as a lady of the emperor. The Empress Mother strongly supported this idea and spoke about it with great care and energy. She felt that such a noble woman should not remain without a proper place in court life. Many preparations were necessary for such an important step. Clothes, furniture, and many other objects had to be gathered. The work was large and complex.
　Prince Genji watched these events with deep thought. He felt sympathy for the former priestess. She had no strong supporter to guide every small matter of the preparation. Genji believed that someone must take responsibility for these tasks. Yet he also felt the need to act carefully. The retired emperor might feel displeased if Genji seemed too active in arranging the woman’s future. Because of this concern, Genji avoided moving her to his own residence at Nijō. Outwardly he behaved like a distant observer. However, behind the scenes many decisions were made according to his quiet instructions.
　The retired emperor was not pleased with these developments. Yet he believed that a man who had lost a contest should remain silent. He therefore sent no letters for some time. Still, when the day of the lady’s entrance into court approached, a large gift arrived from him. Many beautiful objects were included. There were robes, boxes for combs, and elegant containers filled with fine incense. Each item showed careful taste and deep feeling.
　At the time the gifts arrived, Genji happened to be visiting. The lady who managed the household reported the matter and displayed the objects before him. Genji examined them with quiet attention. Among all the gifts, one item caught his eye most strongly. It was a delicate box containing small combs. The work on the box was extremely fine. Small artificial flowers decorated the lid. On one of these flowers a poem had been written.
　Genji read the poem slowly. As he did so, pain rose quietly in his heart. The poem spoke of a comb given at a moment of parting long ago. It suggested that the gods themselves had warned against a future separation that would become even greater with time.
　Genji closed the box gently and remained silent for a moment. He remembered the past. Long ago the lady had left the capital to serve as priestess at the shrine in Ise. At that time the retired emperor had loved her deeply. Their parting had been painful. Now she had returned to the capital after many years of sacred service. At last the time had come when their wishes might have been fulfilled. Yet fate had taken another path. She was about to enter the palace as a lady serving the young emperor, who was the retired emperor’s own younger brother.
　Genji imagined how the retired emperor must feel. The man had once ruled the world. Now he lived quietly after leaving the throne. He no longer possessed the full power of a ruler. Such a change alone could bring loneliness. And now this new event must trouble his heart even more. If Genji himself had been in that position, he thought, he might have felt bitterness toward the world.
　As these thoughts passed through his mind, Genji sighed softly.
　“Such kindness from the retired emperor is truly moving,” he said. “It would be wrong if no reply were sent.”
　The women around him nodded politely. Yet they did not show him the letter that had come with the gift. They believed it was better that Genji should not read it.
　The former priestess herself was not feeling well. She remained quiet and had not written a reply to the poem.
　“This will not do,” the ladies whispered among themselves. “It is too rude to leave such a poem unanswered.”
　They tried gently to persuade her.
　When Genji heard of this difficulty, he spoke kindly but firmly.
　“You must write something,” he said. “Even a few words will be enough.”
　His words only made the lady more embarrassed. Memories filled her mind. She remembered the young emperor of the past, whose beauty had once shone brightly before her. At their parting he had wept with sorrow. She had been only a girl then, and his sadness had moved her deeply.
　Now other memories came as well. She thought of her mother, who had died long ago. Grief rose again in her heart.
　At last she wrote a short poem in reply. It spoke of how the words once spoken at their farewell now returned to her mind with new sorrow.
　When the message was ready, it was sent respectfully with gifts for the messengers. Each received something according to his rank.
　Genji wished to see the reply poem. Yet he felt it would be improper to ask. He remained silent.
　The thought entered his mind that the retired emperor was a man of great beauty and dignity. The lady herself was also said to be very beautiful. Perhaps they would have been well matched if fate had allowed them to marry. Instead she would now serve the young emperor, who was still almost a boy. Genji wondered whether such a future would truly satisfy her heart.
　These thoughts disturbed him. Yet the arrangements had already been made. Nothing could now be changed.
　Genji therefore gave careful instructions about the coming ceremony. Then he entrusted the remaining details to a trusted court official and left the residence. From there he went to the palace.
　Although Genji acted as if he were only showing kindness, everyone knew that he guided the preparations like a father. Still, he tried to show respect toward the retired emperor by avoiding any appearance of control.
　The lady’s household soon became lively. Many attendants who had once stayed with their families now returned to serve her again. The residence began to resemble the home of a true imperial consort.
　As Genji watched these preparations, another memory came to him. He thought of the lady’s mother, who had once been his beloved. If she had lived to see this day, she would have been filled with joy. She had been wise and dignified, perfectly suited to guide her daughter in such an important position.
　Genji felt again the deep loss caused by her death. It had not only been the loss of a lover. The world itself had lost a rare and refined spirit.
　At this time the Empress Mother also visited the palace frequently. The young emperor had heard that a new lady would soon enter his court. Although he was still young, he felt a lively excitement about this news.
　“Be careful when you meet her,” the Empress Mother advised him gently. “She is a very fine woman.”
　The emperor wondered privately whether an older lady might feel shy in his presence. Yet when she finally came to his chamber late at night, he saw a quiet and gentle figure. She appeared calm and graceful, and also youthful in her manner. Without effort she gained his affection.
　Another lady of the court had already served him for some time. This lady lived in the Kokiden residence and had become very close to him. He felt comfort when spending time with her. Yet the new lady possessed a soft and noble charm. In addition, Genji himself stood behind her with powerful support.
　Because of this, the emperor divided his visits carefully between the two ladies. Still, when he wished to relax and play as a young man, he often went to the Kokiden residence during the day.
　The father of that lady, the powerful Middle Counselor, began to feel uneasy. He had hoped that his daughter might one day become empress. Now a rival had appeared.
　Meanwhile the retired emperor received the reply poem from the former priestess. After reading it, his longing for her grew even stronger.
　Around that time Genji visited him. During their conversation the subject of the former priestess arose naturally. They spoke of the ceremony long ago when she had left for Ise.
　The retired emperor spoke calmly about those memories. Yet he did not openly say that he had once wished to possess her.
　Genji listened quietly. Outwardly he behaved as if he knew nothing about that hidden love. Still, he watched the retired emperor’s face with careful attention. When the conversation moved close to that painful subject, a shadow of sorrow appeared in the emperor’s expression.
　Seeing this, Genji felt deep sympathy. He also became curious about the lady herself. If such a man could not forget her beauty, she must indeed be extraordinary. Genji often wished for a chance to see her face. Yet she remained carefully hidden from the eyes of others.
　Her dignity and reserve made Genji respect her even more. She was now his adopted daughter in name, and he felt a quiet satisfaction in protecting her honor.
　Thus the court slowly prepared for events that would soon lead to an unexpected contest—one that would involve art, pride, and the taste of the entire palace.

Part 2

　Life at court slowly became lively again as the two imperial ladies settled into their new positions. Both women were graceful and intelligent, and each had strong supporters among the nobles. Because of this, a quiet spirit of rivalry began to grow inside the palace. The young emperor himself did not wish for conflict. Yet he could not help enjoying the differences between the two households. Each side tried in its own way to bring beauty and delight to the court.
　One interest united them all. The emperor loved painting. From childhood he had shown great pleasure in looking at pictures. He also enjoyed drawing with his own hand. When he discovered that the new lady from the former priestess’s household was skilled with a brush, his interest in her increased.
　Often he visited her residence in the evening. There they would sit together beside low tables, spreading paper before them. Ink stones were prepared, and brushes were laid carefully across the surface. Sometimes the emperor began a drawing first, smiling as he worked. The lady watched quietly and then added her own lines beside his. Their pictures were simple but elegant. Gentle mountains, distant trees, and flowing rivers appeared under their hands.
　When she painted, she sometimes leaned lightly upon one arm and thought for a moment before placing the brush on the paper again. The emperor found this thoughtful movement charming. Her calm manner and soft voice made him feel peaceful. Because of this he began visiting her more often.
　The emperor also admired people who possessed artistic talent. Among the young courtiers serving in the palace, he paid special attention to those who could paint well. If a young man produced a pleasing sketch, the emperor praised him warmly.
　When the Middle Counselor heard that the emperor spent many evenings drawing pictures with the new lady, his heart grew restless. His nature was proud and competitive. He could not bear to see another woman gain greater favor than his own daughter.
　“If paintings attract the emperor’s attention,” he thought, “then paintings must be prepared that no one can surpass.”
　Quietly he gathered several well-known painters to his residence. These artists worked day and night under his direction. They used the finest paper and the best colors. Their task was to create beautiful picture scrolls that could amaze anyone who saw them.
　The Middle Counselor believed that pictures based on stories would be the most interesting.
　“Choose the best tales,” he ordered. “Paint scenes that people love to read about.”
　Soon the artists began creating many images. They painted stories of romance, journeys, and heroic deeds. For each picture they also prepared elegant written passages that explained the scene. These words were carefully chosen so that the emperor would enjoy reading them.
　When the scrolls were finished, the Middle Counselor presented them to the emperor with great respect. They were beautiful works. However, he behaved in a curious way. Even when the emperor admired the paintings, the attendants from the Kokiden household did not leave them on display for long. They quickly rolled the scrolls again and placed them inside boxes.
　The emperor sometimes said with a laugh, “I would like to show these pictures to the lady of the Plum Pavilion.”
　Yet the Kokiden attendants gently prevented this.
　“These are precious treasures,” they said. “They must not be handled too often.”
　When Genji heard about this situation, he smiled.
　“The Middle Counselor still burns with the spirit of competition,” he said. “Even now he wishes to defeat every rival.”
　Then Genji added more seriously, “It is not right to hide such things from His Majesty. If the emperor wishes to see pictures, he should be able to see them freely.”
　After thinking for a moment, Genji said to the emperor, “There are many old paintings in my residence. If Your Majesty wishes, I will bring some to the palace.”
　The emperor welcomed this idea.
　Soon afterward Genji returned to the Nijō residence. There he opened several large cabinets that contained his collection of paintings. Many scrolls lay inside, both ancient and new. Some had been gathered from distant provinces. Others had been painted by artists who served the court.
　Lady Murasaki sat beside him as he examined them. Together they unrolled the scrolls and looked at each one carefully.
　“This one belongs among the old works,” Genji said, placing it aside.
　“And this one is more modern,” Lady Murasaki replied softly.
　They continued in this way for a long time.
　Some scrolls showed famous stories from China. One depicted the tragic tale of Yang Guifei from the poem “Song of Everlasting Sorrow.” Another showed the lonely beauty Wang Zhaojun leaving the imperial palace. Although these were excellent paintings, Genji hesitated.
　“These stories are beautiful,” he said slowly. “Yet they speak of sorrow and separation. Perhaps they are not suitable for this occasion.”
　At last he decided not to include them.
　Then a servant brought a small chest that Genji had not opened for a long time. Inside were picture scrolls that he himself had drawn during his exile at Suma and Akashi.
　Genji unrolled one of them.
　The pictures showed quiet shores beside the sea. Waves moved slowly toward the land. A small lonely house stood beneath a pale sky. In another scene distant hills rose beyond the water. The air seemed filled with sadness and silence.
　Anyone who looked at these pictures felt a deep emotion. Even a stranger could sense the sorrow that had once lived there.
　For Genji the feeling was even stronger. Each image brought back memories of that painful time in his life. He remembered the wind from the sea, the lonely nights, and the uncertain future he had once faced.
　Lady Murasaki looked at the pictures with shining eyes.
　“You kept these hidden from me for so long,” she said gently. “If I had seen them earlier, I could have shared your thoughts.”
　She then spoke a poem that expressed her feeling. It suggested that if she had known of these drawings before, she could have looked at them as a comfort during lonely hours.
　Genji listened quietly. He felt deep sympathy for her.
　After a moment he replied with a poem of his own. His words spoke of tears that returned when he looked again upon scenes from the past.
　Then he added, “At least the Empress must see these pictures.”
　Carefully he selected several scrolls. Among them were those that showed the shores of Suma and the home at Akashi. As he examined the image of the Akashi house, a new thought touched his heart.
　“How are they living there now?” he wondered silently, thinking of the lady who had once sheltered him.
　While Genji prepared these works, news of his collection reached the Middle Counselor. Hearing this, the man became even more determined.
　“We must not lose,” he said to himself.
　He ordered new paintings to be made immediately. Not only the pictures themselves but also the decorations of the scrolls were designed with great care. The cords, the rollers, and the covers were chosen with elegance.
　It was the tenth day of the third month. The weather had grown warm and bright. Gentle sunlight filled the air, and people felt lighthearted. At court there were no major ceremonies during that period. Therefore everyone found pleasure in art and conversation.
　As more paintings gathered in the palace, Genji spoke an idea that surprised many people.
　“Instead of hiding these pictures,” he said, “why not hold a contest? Let both sides present their best works. Then the court can judge which are superior.”
　This proposal delighted the emperor.
　Soon many picture scrolls were brought into the palace. Some showed famous stories. Others depicted landscapes, festivals, and scenes from daily life.
　The rivalry between the two households now became open and exciting. Each side prepared eagerly for the coming contest.
　Genji himself quietly added something special to the collection on the left side. Among the paintings he placed the scrolls of Suma and Akashi.
　The Middle Counselor also continued preparing secret works for the day of judgment.
　Across the capital people spoke of nothing else. It seemed that the entire world had become busy with only two tasks: creating new paintings and searching for old masterpieces.
　Thus the stage was set for a remarkable event in the palace—a contest of pictures that would soon draw the attention of everyone in the court.

Part 3

　As the day of the picture contest approached, excitement spread through the palace. Servants carried scrolls from many noble houses. Each family wished to contribute something beautiful. The emperor himself looked forward to the event with great curiosity. The rivalry between the two ladies had now become a matter of public interest, and everyone wondered which side would win.
　Some people continued making new paintings even at the last moment. However, Genji did not approve of this.
　“It is better to judge the paintings that already exist,” he said calmly. “Creating new works only for the contest does not show their true value.”
　Yet the Middle Counselor did not fully agree. Without telling others, he continued having new scrolls painted at his own residence. He believed that a brilliant new work might still change the outcome.
　At the same time the retired emperor heard about the coming contest. He decided to support the lady of the Plum Pavilion. Many paintings were sent from his residence to her side. Among them were old scrolls showing important ceremonies of the court.
　One special painting showed the farewell ceremony long ago when the priestess had departed for the shrine at Ise. The retired emperor remembered that day clearly. Because the memory touched his heart deeply, he had ordered the painting to be made with great care.
　It showed the great hall of the palace. The sacred carriage stood waiting while priests and attendants prepared for the journey. The scene was drawn with great detail. The retired emperor himself had given careful instructions to the painter about the arrangement of the figures and buildings.
　When the painting was finished, it was placed inside an elegant box made of fragrant wood. The box itself was decorated with delicate carving. A poem written by the retired emperor was also included with the gift.
　The poem spoke of memories that could never be forgotten, even though time had passed and the sacred barrier that once separated them still remained.
　When the lady of the Plum Pavilion received this gift, she felt troubled. To ignore such a poem would be disrespectful. Yet answering it brought painful memories to her heart.
　After some hesitation she took the end of a hairpin that had once been used in that farewell ceremony. On the small surface she wrote a brief reply. Her poem expressed how the past now felt distant, yet the sacred days of long ago still returned to her thoughts.
　The message was wrapped carefully in blue paper and sent back with respect.
　When the retired emperor read the reply, emotion filled his heart once more. For a moment he even wished that he might regain the throne itself. Perhaps, he thought, if the world had taken another path, things might have been different.
　It was possible that he also felt some resentment toward Genji. Long ago he had punished Genji severely and forced him into exile. Now perhaps fate had returned that sorrow to him.
　Meanwhile paintings also arrived for the household of the Kokiden lady. The aunt of that lady, who served as a high court official, possessed great interest in art. She gathered many famous works and sent them to support her niece.
　At last the appointed day for the contest arrived.
　The scrolls were carried into the palace in beautiful coverings. Each side had arranged their paintings with great care. Even the wrapping cloths showed artistic taste.
　The contest took place in the Seiryō Hall. Temporary seats had been prepared so that the judges could sit facing each other. The paintings of the left side were placed in a fine box made of purple sandalwood. A small stand of bright red wood supported it. Rich cloth of deep purple covered the table beneath.
　The paintings of the right side were placed in a box made from dark fragrant wood. Their stand was lighter in color, and the cords decorating it were bright and elegant.
　Six young attendants from each side carried the boxes. Their clothing was beautiful and carefully chosen. The boys of the left side wore red robes with layers of pale pink and purple. Those of the right side wore blue garments with yellow layers beneath. Their graceful movements made the scene even more impressive.
　When the attendants placed the boxes before the emperor, two important men stepped forward. One was Genji, now serving as Minister of the Interior. The other was the Middle Counselor, father of the Kokiden lady.
　Another nobleman also arrived to serve as judge. This was a prince who held the title of Governor of Dazaifu. He loved the arts, especially painting, and therefore was considered a suitable judge for the contest.
　Many scrolls were shown one after another. Each painting possessed its own beauty. Some showed the four seasons of the year. Others illustrated famous stories.
　The judges found it difficult to decide which works were better. Even painters who were not considered great masters had produced impressive results. Their new style sometimes attracted more attention than the older works.
　As the debate continued, the Empress Mother herself appeared. She sat quietly nearby and listened to the arguments of the judges. When they hesitated, they respectfully asked for her opinion. Her short remarks often helped them move forward.
　Hours passed. Still the contest continued without a clear result.
　At last the evening grew dark. Lamps were brought into the hall. Then a painting from the left side was presented—the scroll showing Suma.
　The Middle Counselor felt a sudden uneasiness in his chest. He knew that the right side had prepared a fine painting for the final round. Yet something about Genji’s calm expression troubled him.
　When the scroll was opened, everyone leaned forward.
　The painting showed the lonely shore of Suma. The sea stretched far into the distance. A small house stood beside the waves. Wind moved across the water and touched the tall grass near the shore.
　Beside the picture small passages of writing appeared. They were written in gentle characters like those of a diary. Poems also appeared here and there within the text.
　As people looked at the scroll, silence filled the hall.
　The painting did more than show a place. It seemed to carry the feelings of the person who had once lived there. Viewers could almost feel the sadness of that lonely time.
　Even those who had never visited Suma felt as if they stood on that shore. The waves, the sky, and the quiet house all spoke of exile and longing.
　Tears appeared in the eyes of several judges. The prince who served as chief judge wiped his face quietly.
　At that moment everyone understood. No other painting that day could equal the power of this one.
　The victory was given to the left side.
　The contest ended near dawn. Memories of the past had filled Genji’s heart while he watched the paintings. Holding a cup of wine, he spoke quietly with the prince who had served as judge.
　“When I was young,” Genji said, “I studied many subjects with great effort. The retired emperor once warned me about poetry and literature. He said that those who pursue such arts too deeply often fail to find long happiness in life. Because of this advice I tried to learn many different skills.”
　The prince listened carefully.
　“Still,” Genji continued, “painting has always brought me special pleasure. Only during my exile did I truly see the beauty of nature. Yet even then my skill was not great enough to show everything I wished.”
　The prince smiled gently.
　“Every art requires talent,” he replied. “Yet even talent must be guided by teachers. People may learn many skills, but true masters are rare. Still, I have always heard that you excel in many arts—poetry, music, and instruments such as the koto and flute.”
　The prince laughed softly.
　“But if your painting is truly as fine as what we saw tonight, professional artists may feel ashamed.”
　His words ended half in jest. Yet as he spoke of the retired emperor, emotion filled his voice. For a moment he seemed close to tears.
　Above them the moon of the late month rose slowly into the sky. The air was clear and calm. Soon music was brought into the hall.
　Noblemen took up instruments. The Middle Counselor played the Japanese koto. The prince performed on a thirteen-string instrument. Genji himself played the Chinese lute.
　Their music blended beautifully. Other courtiers kept the rhythm, and the sound filled the palace.
　Gradually dawn approached. Pale light touched the blossoms of the cherry trees. Birds began to sing softly.
　It was a beautiful morning.
　Everyone in the capital later spoke about the picture contest. The paintings of Suma and Akashi became famous throughout the court.
　Yet even in the middle of this success, Genji’s heart was thoughtful. He felt deeply the passing nature of life. Secretly he began preparing for a future when he might leave the world and devote himself to religion.
　Still, his children were growing, and he wished to guide them well. Because of this, even Genji himself did not know which path his heart would finally choose.

 
Chapter 18: Matsukaze (松風)

Part 1

　The new East Mansion of Genji had just been finished. The buildings shone in the soft light of the season, and the garden around them looked fresh and quiet. The wood was new, the screens were bright, and the paths between the houses were clean and smooth. Many people in the city spoke about the beauty of the place. They said that Genji had built it with great care.
　When the house was ready, Genji decided to move Lady Hanachirusato there. She had long been one of the women who lived under his protection. Genji respected her gentle nature and her calm way of living. Because of this, he wished her to live in a place that was peaceful and comfortable.
　The rooms prepared for her were between the western wing and a long passage that joined the buildings together. Servants had worked carefully to arrange everything. Screens were placed in good positions, soft mats covered the floors, and thin curtains hung in the doorways. When the wind moved gently through the house, the curtains lifted and fell like quiet waves.
　The place was not only beautiful but also practical. Rooms for household work had been prepared nearby. There were offices where stewards could sit and manage the affairs of the house. Messengers could come and go without disturbing the private rooms. Everything had been planned so that Hanachirusato would live with the dignity proper for one of Genji’s ladies.
　Genji himself walked slowly through the buildings before the move. He wished to see that nothing had been forgotten. As he passed through the corridors, the sound of his steps was soft on the floor. The air smelled faintly of fresh wood and clean paper screens.
　He stopped for a moment near the veranda and looked out into the garden. A light wind moved through the trees. The leaves made a quiet sound. Genji listened to that sound for a while.
　“This house feels calm,” he said quietly to one of his attendants. “It will suit her well.”
　The attendant bowed. “Yes, my lord. The rooms are ready, and the servants are waiting.”
　Genji nodded, but his thoughts were not only about Hanachirusato. For some time he had been thinking about another woman as well. That was the Lady from Akashi.
　She lived far away by the sea. Genji had not forgotten her. In his heart he still felt a deep connection to her. Because of that feeling, he had long thought that she might one day live in this new mansion.
　In the eastern wing of the house there were rooms that seemed especially suitable for her. They were quiet, and the garden there had a gentle beauty. Genji had imagined her walking through those rooms, listening to the wind in the trees.
　But things were never simple in the world of the court. Many people watched Genji closely. Every action of his could cause talk and rumors. Because of this, he had to think carefully about when and how he could bring the Lady from Akashi to the capital.
　For now, Hanachirusato would live in the mansion. Genji believed that her calm presence would give peace to the house.
　On the day of the move, servants moved carefully through the corridors carrying boxes and screens. Some carried musical instruments. Others carried writing tools, robes, and small objects that belonged to the lady.
　The sound of quiet voices filled the air.
　“Be careful with that box.”
　“Place it near the inner room.”
　“The lady’s seat should be by the screen.”
　The servants worked quickly but respectfully. They knew that this move had been planned with great care.
　When Hanachirusato arrived, she stepped slowly from her carriage. Her movements were gentle and calm. She looked at the buildings before her with quiet interest.
　The wind moved softly through the garden. Somewhere nearby, a bird called once and then fell silent.
　She spoke quietly to one of the women beside her.
　“The place is very beautiful,” she said. “His lordship has shown great kindness.”
　The woman bowed her head. “Yes, my lady. Everything has been prepared for you.”
　Hanachirusato entered the building and walked through the long corridor. The soft light of the afternoon came through the screens and lay across the floor.
　She paused at the entrance to her main room.
　The mats were new and clean. The screens showed gentle paintings of trees and hills. The room was simple, but it had a quiet elegance.
　She sat down and looked around slowly.
　“It is peaceful here,” she said.
　The women around her smiled softly.
　Word soon reached Genji that she had arrived safely. When he heard this, he felt satisfied.
　Later that evening he visited the mansion. The sky had already grown dark, and lamps had been lit in the corridors. Their light shone softly on the floor and the paper walls.
　As he entered the room, Hanachirusato greeted him with calm respect.
　“My lord,” she said, “you have shown me great kindness.”
　Genji sat beside her.
　“This house is quiet,” he said. “I thought it would suit you.”
　She lowered her eyes slightly.
　“It is more than I deserve.”
　Genji looked around the room again. The soft light, the quiet garden outside, and the calm manner of the lady created a peaceful mood.
　For a moment he felt that the troubles of the world were far away.
　Yet deep in his heart another thought remained. The Lady from Akashi was still far from the capital. Her life by the sea was very different from the life here.
　As Genji sat in the quiet room, the sound of the wind moved gently through the trees outside.
　The wind touched the pine branches in the garden. The branches swayed, and the soft sound of the needles filled the night.
　Genji listened to that sound and felt a strange sadness.
　The wind in the pines seemed to carry distant memories. It reminded him of the shore at Akashi, where the sea wind blew strongly day and night.
　He spoke softly, almost to himself.
　“The wind in the pines… it always brings old thoughts.”
　Hanachirusato heard his voice but did not ask questions. She understood that Genji often carried many thoughts in his heart.
　Instead she said gently, “The night wind is cool. It is pleasant to hear.”
　Genji nodded.
　The quiet sound of the pine trees continued, and the calm house seemed to breathe slowly with the night.

Part 2

　The quiet sound of the pine trees continued through the night. Their soft voices moved with the wind and filled the garden with a calm rhythm. Genji sat for some time without speaking. The lamps burned steadily, and the light from them fell gently across the floor.
　Hanachirusato watched him quietly. She knew that Genji’s mind often moved far beyond the place where he sat. Even when he appeared calm, many thoughts could be moving inside his heart.
　After a while, Genji spoke again.
　“This house has just been finished,” he said slowly. “Yet when I sit here, I feel as if it has always been here.”
　Hanachirusato nodded gently.
　“It already feels peaceful,” she said. “Perhaps that is because your lordship planned it with such care.”
　Genji smiled faintly. He was pleased that she felt comfortable in the new place. Her calm nature always brought quiet balance to his life.
　Outside, the night grew deeper. The sky above the garden was dark, but the moon slowly rose between the branches of the tall trees. Its pale light spread across the garden paths and touched the roofs of the buildings.
　The wind moved again through the pine trees.
　That sound returned to Genji’s thoughts.
　He remembered another shore, far away from the capital. He remembered the sea wind of Akashi, which blew strongly across the water. That wind had carried the smell of salt and the sound of waves.
　In that place lived the Lady from Akashi.
　Genji lowered his eyes for a moment.
　“There are many places in this world,” he said quietly, “but some remain in the heart long after we leave them.”
　Hanachirusato did not ask which place he meant. She already understood.
　Instead she said softly, “Memories often travel with the wind.”
　Genji looked at her with gentle appreciation. She always spoke in a way that allowed feelings to remain quiet and private.
　The two of them sat in silence again.
　After a time Genji rose to leave. It was late, and many duties waited for him the next day.
　As he stepped into the corridor, the night air touched his face. The cool wind carried the smell of the garden trees.
　He walked slowly along the veranda and stopped once more to look at the garden.
　The moonlight lay across the ground like pale water.
　The pine trees stood tall and still, yet their branches moved softly in the wind.
　“The sound of those pines,” Genji said to the attendant beside him, “reminds me of distant shores.”
　The attendant bowed but did not reply. He knew that such thoughts were private.
　Genji returned to his carriage and left the mansion.
　Days passed quietly after that.
　Hanachirusato settled into her new life in the East Mansion. The servants who attended her were careful and respectful. Each morning they opened the screens so that fresh light entered the rooms. The garden was swept clean, and the paths were kept neat.
　The lady spent her time in calm ways. She read poems, listened to music, and sometimes wrote letters.
　The house slowly began to feel like a true home.
　From time to time Genji visited her. Their meetings were peaceful and without tension. Hanachirusato never tried to hold his attention too strongly, and Genji respected her quiet nature.
　Yet beyond these calm days, many other matters moved through Genji’s life.
　News sometimes reached him from the western provinces. Messengers brought letters and reports about distant places.
　When such news arrived, Genji listened carefully.
　One evening, a messenger came with a letter from Akashi.
　The letter was written in a careful and gentle hand. Genji recognized it at once.
　He dismissed the attendants and opened it quietly.
　As he read the words, many memories returned to him.
　The Lady from Akashi wrote about the sea wind, the sound of waves, and the lonely beauty of the shore. She did not complain, yet her words carried a quiet sadness.
　She also wrote about their daughter.
　The child was growing quickly. She had begun to learn music and letters, and her teachers praised her gentle nature.
　Genji read these lines slowly.
　When he reached the end of the letter, he sat still for a long time.
　“The child is growing,” he said softly.
　He imagined her small hands holding a writing brush. He imagined her sitting by the sea, listening to the wind.
　His heart felt both warm and heavy.
　At last he called an attendant.
　“Prepare writing tools,” he said.
　Soon a low table was brought to him. Fresh paper lay upon it, and a brush rested beside a small dish of ink.
　Genji sat down and began to write.
　His letter was long and thoughtful. He spoke of the capital, of the quiet mansion that had just been finished, and of the peaceful garden.
　But between the lines, another meaning could be felt.
　He wrote with care so that no careless word would cause trouble. The world of the court was full of watching eyes.
　Yet his true feelings were still there, hidden within the gentle phrases.
　When the letter was finished, he sealed it and handed it to the messenger.
　“Take this with care,” he said.
　The messenger bowed deeply.
　After the man had gone, Genji stepped outside once more.
　Night had come again.
　The wind moved softly through the trees.
　Somewhere in the garden, the pine branches whispered together.
　Genji listened to that quiet sound.
　It seemed to carry a voice from the distant shore of Akashi, where the sea and the wind met beneath the wide sky.
　He stood there for a long time, thinking of the woman who lived far away and the child who was growing by the sea.
　The wind continued to move through the pines, and the calm night of the capital surrounded him.

Part 3

　Some days later, Genji received another message from the west. The messenger had traveled quickly and looked tired from the long road. Dust covered his robe, and the wind had dried his face. When he entered Genji’s residence, he bowed deeply and presented a small box that held the letter.
　Genji opened it carefully.
　The letter was again from the Lady from Akashi. Her writing was calm, but the lines showed a quiet longing. She spoke of the sea and the changing sky above the water. The winds of that coast were strong during the season, and the waves often sounded loudly during the night.
　She also wrote of their daughter again.
　The child had begun to show a bright mind. Her teachers praised her ability to remember poems. She listened carefully to music and could already repeat simple melodies.
　As Genji read these words, a soft expression came to his face.
　“The child grows quickly,” he said quietly.
　He felt both joy and regret. Joy, because the girl was healthy and gifted. Regret, because she was growing far away from him.
　He folded the letter slowly and held it in his hand for a moment.
　One of his attendants spoke softly.
　“My lord, shall I prepare your writing tools?”
　Genji nodded.
　“Yes. I will answer at once.”
　Soon the writing table was placed before him again. The brush moved smoothly across the paper as he wrote.
　He spoke kindly of the capital and of the calm beauty of the new mansion. He described the garden, the pine trees, and the quiet wind that moved through their branches.
　But in the middle of the letter, his thoughts became deeper.
　“The sound of pine trees,” he wrote, “often reminds me of the wind by the sea. Though distance separates places, the wind moves freely between them.”
　When the letter was finished, he sealed it carefully.
　“Send this without delay,” he told the messenger.
　The man bowed again and departed.
　Afterward, Genji walked slowly through the garden.
　The season had begun to change. The air carried a cooler feeling, and the leaves of some trees had begun to show pale colors. The sky above the mansion looked wide and calm.
　He stopped beneath a tall pine tree.
　Its long branches moved softly in the wind.
　The sound was gentle but steady, like distant waves.
　Genji closed his eyes for a moment.
　“Akashi,” he murmured quietly.
　The name of that place carried many memories. The lonely shore. The small house that stood near the sea. The nights when the wind blew so strongly that it seemed to fill the entire world.
　Those memories remained alive inside him.
　Yet life in the capital continued to move forward.
　In the court, many events demanded his attention. Ceremonies were held, letters were exchanged, and officials came and went with reports.
　Despite these duties, Genji often found himself thinking about the future.
　One evening he spoke privately with a trusted attendant.
　“The child cannot remain forever in that distant place,” he said. “Her future should be here in the capital.”
　The attendant listened carefully.
　“Yes, my lord. A child of such birth should grow among the great families of the court.”
　Genji looked toward the west.
　“But the time must be chosen carefully,” he continued. “If people speak carelessly, the matter may become difficult.”
　The attendant bowed.
　“Your lordship always thinks wisely.”
　Genji gave a small smile.
　Yet even as he spoke, he felt the difficulty of the situation. The world of the court was delicate. Every movement of a noble house could bring gossip or jealousy.
　Because of this, patience was necessary.
　The night grew deeper.
　The moon rose slowly above the trees and spread pale light across the garden paths. The roofs of the buildings shone faintly beneath that light.
　Genji walked again toward the pine tree.
　The wind continued to move through its branches.
　That quiet sound filled the garden.
　For a moment he imagined that the wind carried voices from far away.
　Perhaps, at that same hour, the sea wind was moving across the shore of Akashi. Perhaps the Lady from Akashi was standing outside her house, listening to the waves.
　Perhaps the small child slept peacefully nearby.
　The thought filled his heart with both warmth and longing.
　Genji looked up at the moon.
　“Even the moon travels across the whole sky,” he said softly. “It shines on distant places alike.”
　The pine branches moved again.
　Their sound seemed almost like a quiet answer.
　Genji stood beneath them for a long time, thinking about the paths that joined distant lives together.
　Though the capital was bright and full of people, the quiet wind in the pines always reminded him of the lonely shore where another part of his life remained.
　At last he turned and walked back toward the house.
　Behind him, the pine tree continued to whisper in the night wind.
　The calm sound spread through the garden and slowly faded into the deep silence of the night.

 
Chapter 19: Usugumo (薄雲)

Part 1

　 Winter came slowly to the house by the river. Cold winds moved across the water, and the sound of the river felt lonely. The people who lived there often felt uneasy, and quiet sadness stayed in the rooms day after day. Genji could see that the woman of Akashi was suffering in this lonely place, and he worried about her.
　 One evening he spoke to her gently. “You cannot continue to live like this,” he said. “You should move to the house I spoke about before. It is close by, and life will be easier there.”
　 The Lady of Akashi lowered her eyes and did not answer at once. She knew what he meant. If she moved closer to the capital, the truth of Genji’s heart might become clearer. Living far away allowed her to comfort herself. When he did not visit often, she could think that distance was the reason. But if she moved closer, she would have to face the truth of his feelings. That thought frightened her.
　 She slowly said, “If I move, people may think that you are losing interest in me. Even if it is only because of distance, it is easier to endure when one does not know the truth.”
　 Genji watched her quietly. He understood her pain, but he had another matter in his mind. After a moment he spoke again.
　 “If you do not wish to move,” he said softly, “then perhaps we should at least think about the future of the little princess. It is not good for her to grow up hidden here. I believe she has a great destiny. The lady of the western wing wishes very much to see her. If she stays with that lady for a time, we can hold the ceremony of her first trousers openly at the Nijō residence.”
　 When the Lady of Akashi heard this, her heart shook. She had guessed for a long time that Genji might say something like this. Still, hearing the words clearly made her chest feel tight.
　 She held the child gently and spoke with worry. “Even if a noble lady raises her kindly, people may still know the truth. Rumors may spread. I fear that your kindness may later bring trouble.”
　 Genji smiled calmly.
　 “You need not worry about that,” he said. “The lady who will care for the child is a truly kind woman. She has lived with me many years, yet she has never had a child of her own. She loves young girls and has often cared for them as if they were her daughters. If she sees this bright little princess, she will surely love her deeply.”
　 He spoke warmly about Lady Murasaki. His words were sincere. Many people believed that Genji’s wild love affairs in the past had finally ended because he now lived with this noble and gentle woman.
　 The Lady of Akashi listened in silence. She also believed that Lady Murasaki must be a wonderful woman. Yet the thought of meeting her filled her with fear. If she went to the capital herself, the noble lady might see her as an unpleasant presence.
　 “I am a woman of little worth,” she thought sadly. “I could never stand beside such a lady.”
　 Still, another thought troubled her. The little princess would one day need protection and status in the world. If the child grew up under Lady Murasaki’s care, her future might become bright.
　 Yet when the Lady of Akashi imagined life without the child, her heart felt empty. The princess was her only comfort in this quiet house. Because of the child, Genji sometimes came to visit. Without her, would he still come?
　 These thoughts turned again and again in her mind.
　 Her mother, who had become a nun, watched her carefully. The nun was a wise woman and understood the situation clearly.
　 One day she spoke firmly to her daughter.
　 “You are wrong to keep the child here,” she said. “I know it is painful to let her go. But as a mother you must think first about her happiness. The lady who will raise her is noble and respected. Trust her.”
　 The nun continued in a calm voice.
　 “In this world a child’s future depends greatly on the mother’s position. Even the emperor’s children receive different respect depending on their mothers. Your daughter deserves the best future possible. Here in this mountain house we cannot give her the ceremony and honor she should receive.”
　 The Lady of Akashi listened with tears in her eyes.
　 “If the ceremony takes place here,” the nun said, “it will never look grand. But if it happens at the Nijō residence, many important people will attend. That alone will help the child’s future.”
　 The words were painful, but they were true.
　 The Lady of Akashi asked others for advice as well. She spoke with wise people and even asked fortune tellers. Everyone said the same thing: the child would be happier at the Nijō residence.
　 Slowly her resistance weakened.
　 Genji, however, did not force her. He respected her feelings and waited.
　 Some time later she sent him a letter. In it she wrote:
　 “If my daughter stays beside such a helpless mother as I am, her future will be sad. Yet if she goes to your house, I fear she may cause embarrassment there.”
　 When Genji read the letter, he felt deep sympathy for her.
　 He decided that the ceremony must take place at the Nijō residence. He chose a good day and began preparing everything.
　 For the Lady of Akashi, the decision felt like a wound in her heart. She knew she must think of the child’s happiness first, but the thought of giving her away was unbearable.
　 The princess’s nurse would also leave with the child. Thinking of this made the Lady of Akashi even sadder.
　 One evening she spoke to the nurse while tears filled her eyes.
　 “During lonely days,” she said, “your kindness has helped me many times. When the princess leaves, I will also lose your company. How shall I live then?”
　 The nurse also cried.
　 “Perhaps it is fate from a previous life that brought me to your house,” she said. “You have treated me with great kindness. I will never forget it. Even if we must live apart for a time, I believe we will meet again.”
　 Day after day they spoke like this, comforting each other while tears fell.
　 At last December arrived. Snow and cold rain fell often. The house by the river felt even more lonely.
　 The Lady of Akashi spent every moment with her daughter. She held her, played with her, and watched her small movements with deep love.
　 One morning heavy snow covered the ground. The world outside looked silent and white.
　 The Lady of Akashi rarely went near the veranda, but that day she walked slowly to the edge of the house. She looked out at the frozen water by the shore.
　 Her robes were soft and white, layered beautifully. Even from behind she looked graceful like a noble lady.
　 Tears fell from her eyes.
　 “On a day like this,” she said quietly to the nurse, “you must miss the child even more in the future.”
　 She then spoke a poem about snowy mountains and the hope that paths between hearts would never disappear.
　 The nurse answered with another poem, promising that even if mountains were covered with snow, their hearts would still find each other.
　 A few days later the snow began to melt.
　 At that time Genji came to visit.
　 Usually his arrival brought joy. But now the Lady of Akashi felt fear. Would he take the child away today?
　 “It is still my choice,” she told herself. “If I refuse, he will not force me.”
　 Yet she also thought, “If I change my promise now, people may think I am foolish.”
　 While these thoughts filled her mind, Genji looked at the little princess.
　 Her hair had grown longer and now reached her shoulders. It moved softly as she turned her head. Her bright eyes and lovely face were more beautiful than those of other children.
　 Seeing her, Genji thought deeply about fate.
　 “The bond between this child and her mother must be very strong,” he thought. “How painful it must be for her to let the girl go.”
　 That night he stayed with the Lady of Akashi and tried to comfort her until morning.
　 At last she said through tears, “Yes… this is best. If her birth can be hidden and she can grow in honor, then I will accept it.”
　 Yet even while she spoke, tears continued to fall.
　 The next day the carriage was prepared. The little princess, not understanding anything, happily tried to climb into it with her father.
　 The Lady of Akashi carried the child outside herself.
　 The girl held her sleeve and said in her sweet voice, “Mother, come with us.”
　 Hearing those innocent words broke the mother’s heart.
　 She tried to speak but could hardly finish her poem of farewell before tears overcame her.
　 Genji sighed deeply. He had known this moment would be painful.
　 “Please wait patiently,” he said gently. “In the future you will see the child grow tall and strong like a great pine tree.”
　 The carriage began to move.
　 Only the nurse and one young lady-in-waiting traveled with the princess.
　 Many servants followed behind in another carriage to see them off.
　 As Genji rode along the road, he thought again and again about the sorrow he had caused the Lady of Akashi. Yet he also believed that raising the child in his household would bring her a bright future.
　 When they finally arrived at the Nijō residence, night had already fallen.
　 The house was full of light and elegant beauty.
　 The nurse and the young lady hesitated before stepping down from the carriage. After living in the quiet countryside, the splendor of the capital made them feel shy.
　 But a room had already been prepared for the little princess.
　 Beautiful small objects and decorations filled the chamber.
　 Everything was ready to welcome her new life.

Part 2

　 The little princess had fallen asleep during the journey. When she was gently lifted from the carriage and carried into the room, she slowly opened her eyes. Even in this strange place she did not cry. She looked around quietly with her bright eyes.
　 Soon she was brought into the room of Lady Murasaki. The lady welcomed the child warmly and gave her sweet cakes to eat. The girl sat calmly and tasted them with small careful bites.
　 For a while she seemed content. But after looking around the room again and again, she suddenly noticed something. Her mother was not there.
　 A faint shadow of worry appeared on her lovely face. She looked toward the doors and the screens as if searching for someone familiar.
　 Genji noticed the change immediately.
　 “Bring the nurse,” he said softly.
　 When the nurse came and spoke gently to the child, the princess felt calmer again. She leaned against the nurse and soon forgot her uneasiness.
　 Yet Genji could not forget the image of the Lady of Akashi left behind in the lonely house. He imagined her sitting in sorrow, thinking of the child she had just lost.
　 That thought caused pain in his heart.
　 At the same time, however, he also felt a quiet happiness. Now he and Lady Murasaki would raise the child together. The thought of watching the girl grow in their house filled him with hope.
　 Still, another thought came to him.
　 “Why was she not born to this lady instead?” he wondered.
　 If the child had been born to Lady Murasaki, there would be no shadow over her future. That small regret remained in his heart.
　 During the first days the princess sometimes cried and called the names of her mother and grandmother from the mountain house. But she had a gentle and sweet nature, and she soon began to grow fond of Lady Murasaki.
　 Lady Murasaki was delighted with the child. She spent many hours caring for her, holding her in her arms, or simply watching her play. The child’s presence filled her heart with joy.
　 The nurse also became close to Lady Murasaki. Another noble woman who could nurse a child was added to help care for the princess.
　 Soon the day of the trousers ceremony arrived.
　 The preparations were not extremely grand, yet they were far beyond anything that could have been done in the lonely mountain house. The room was decorated beautifully. The small objects placed around the child looked like toys from a doll’s festival.
　 Many high officials attended the ceremony. But since these men visited the house almost every day, their presence did not seem unusual.
　 The princess looked especially charming in her ceremonial clothes. When the cords of the trousers were crossed over her chest and tied in front, everyone said she looked more lovely than ever.
　 Far away in the mountain house of Ōi, the Lady of Akashi spent every day thinking about her daughter.
　 She cried often.
　 “Perhaps I did not love her enough,” she sometimes thought with regret. “Perhaps I made the wrong choice.”
　 The nun also cried, but she tried to comfort her daughter. News sometimes arrived telling how well the princess was treated at the Nijō residence. Hearing this brought some relief.
　 When the ceremony was held, the Lady of Akashi felt that there was no need to send gifts for the child herself. Everything there would surely be more splendid than anything she could offer.
　 Instead she sent beautiful robes for the women who cared for the princess, including the nurse.
　 Genji worried that the Lady of Akashi might feel forgotten now that the child had been taken away. Before the year ended, he visited the mountain house again.
　 He knew that the woman lived there in deep loneliness.
　 Although the princess had been her greatest comfort, now she was gone. Genji felt sympathy for her and sent letters often.
　 Lady Murasaki also felt less jealousy than before. Because of the little princess, she had become more gentle toward the Lady of Akashi.
　 Soon the New Year arrived.
　 Under a bright and peaceful sky, the Nijō residence welcomed the spring season. Genji and Lady Murasaki lived there happily.
　 On the seventh day of the new year many high officials came to greet Genji. Young nobles appeared proudly in fine clothes. The capital seemed lively and full of hope.
　 Even those of lower rank appeared busy and cheerful in their duties.
　 In the eastern residence another lady of Genji, Lady Hanachirusato, lived quietly and with dignity. Her servants and young attendants wore tasteful clothing, and the household was orderly.
　 Because her house stood closer to Genji’s residence than the mountain house of Akashi, Genji visited her often when he had time. He rarely stayed the night, but he felt comfortable with her gentle and simple character.
　 She accepted her place calmly and never complained about her fortune. Because of her good nature, Genji treated her with respect almost equal to Lady Murasaki.
　 People in the household also treated her kindly.
　 Meanwhile Genji often thought about the Lady of Akashi living alone in the mountains.
　 One day, after finishing his duties for the New Year, he prepared to visit her again.
　 He dressed carefully before leaving. Over robes of soft colors he wore a beautiful outer garment scented with fine incense.
　 Before departing he went to speak with Lady Murasaki.
　 The evening sunlight filled the room and made her appear even more beautiful than usual. She watched him with quiet eyes, though a little sadness remained in her heart.
　 At that moment the little princess ran toward Genji and held the edge of his robe.
　 She followed him happily as he walked toward the veranda.
　 When she almost stepped outside the screen, Genji stopped and looked down at her tenderly.
　 He sang a playful line of a song about leaving now but returning tomorrow.
　 Lady Murasaki heard the words and felt a little jealous. She sent a lady-in-waiting ahead to speak for her.
　 The woman sang a poem asking whether he would truly return tomorrow if people from far away did not keep him there.
　 Genji answered with a bright smile.
　 “Even if someone from far away holds me back,” he replied in song, “I will still return tomorrow.”
　 The little princess did not understand the poems. She simply ran around happily.
　 Watching her innocent face softened Lady Murasaki’s feelings. She realized that the Lady of Akashi must miss this child deeply.
　 She lifted the girl into her arms and played with her affectionately, pretending to nurse her like a mother.
　 The scene looked very beautiful to the people watching.
　 Some of the ladies whispered quietly.
　 “Why was the child not born to our lady?” they said. “If she had been, everything would be perfect.”
　 But Lady Murasaki simply held the girl gently and smiled.
　 Meanwhile Genji traveled toward the mountain house of Ōi.
　 The place was quiet and elegant in its own way. The buildings had a natural beauty different from the formal houses of the capital.
　 The Lady of Akashi herself seemed more beautiful each time Genji saw her. Her grace could easily match that of a noble lady.
　 “Her family is not low,” Genji sometimes thought. “Only the strange decisions of her father have kept her away from the world.”
　 When he visited her, however, he could not stay long. He always had to return to the capital soon.
　 This troubled him.
　 One evening, while they sat together, Genji spoke with regret.
　 “Our meetings feel like dreams,” he said sadly.
　 Nearby a thirteen-string koto lay in the room. Genji picked it up and played a quiet melody. The sound reminded him of the beautiful lute music the Lady of Akashi had once played during a deep autumn night.
　 “Please play as well,” he said.
　 She joined him gently, touching the strings with graceful fingers.
　 Listening to her music, Genji thought again how many talents she possessed.
　 They spoke for a long time, and Genji told her many details about the princess’s life in the capital.
　 Although the mountain house was only the home of his lover, Genji sometimes stayed there for several days. During those times he even shared simple meals with her, showing a rare closeness.
　 Such kindness was unusual for a nobleman of his rank. But his deep affection for the Lady of Akashi made it possible.
　 She understood this and behaved with quiet dignity. She never acted proudly, yet she never lowered herself too much.
　 Because of this balance, Genji respected her even more.
　 “If I moved closer to the capital,” she sometimes thought, “Genji might visit less often. Here he must make a special effort to see me.”
　 This thought gave her a strange kind of comfort.
　 Meanwhile her father, the former monk of Akashi, remained curious about everything that happened. He often sent messengers to learn how his daughter and granddaughter were treated.
　 Sometimes the news filled him with pride. At other times it troubled his heart.
　 Thus life continued quietly between the capital and the lonely mountain house.

Part 3

　 Around this time a great change came to the court. The Grand Minister of State, who had long been the strong support of the government, died.
　 His death shocked the capital. The emperor himself mourned deeply, and many officials felt lost without him.
　 Genji also felt the loss strongly. Until now he had been able to live somewhat freely because the old minister carried much of the burden of government. Now that man was gone, greater responsibility would fall on Genji’s shoulders.
　 “My life will become heavier from now on,” he thought with quiet concern.
　 The emperor, though still young, was wise and thoughtful beyond his years. Still, he needed a trusted guardian to support him in ruling the country. Genji understood that people now expected him to fill that role.
　 Because of this, the minister’s death felt like a personal blow.
　 “If only there were someone to take this duty from me,” Genji sometimes thought. “Then perhaps I could step away from public life and live more quietly.”
　 But such a future now seemed distant.
　 During that same year many strange events began to trouble the people of the capital. Unusual signs appeared in the sky. The movements of the sun, moon, and stars seemed strange.
　 Scholars studied these signs carefully and reported their thoughts to the government.
　 Some of their words worried Genji deeply. Though others did not understand the meaning, he felt uneasy when he read their reports.
　 At the same time another sorrow fell upon the court.
　 The Empress Dowager, the emperor’s mother, had been ill since the beginning of spring. Her health slowly grew worse. By the third month of the year her condition became very serious.
　 The emperor visited her often, filled with anxiety.
　 When he had been a small child, he had not fully understood the pain of separation when his father died. But now, older and wiser, he felt deep sorrow at the thought of losing his mother.
　 The Empress Dowager herself spoke weakly to him one day.
　 “At the beginning of this year,” she said quietly, “I knew that my time might come soon. But the illness seemed small at first. I did not wish others to think that I feared death too easily, so I did not increase my prayers or religious acts beyond the usual.”
　 Her voice was faint, and each word required effort.
　 “I had wished to come to court and speak with you more,” she continued. “I hoped to tell you stories of your father and of earlier days. But my strength has not allowed it.”
　 She was only thirty-seven years old, yet illness had weakened her greatly.
　 Even so, she still appeared younger than her age, and her beauty had not entirely faded. Seeing her like this caused the emperor great pain.
　 “If only I had cared for her health more carefully,” he thought with regret. “Perhaps I should have ordered more prayers sooner.”
　 Now, realizing the danger, he arranged many religious ceremonies for her recovery.
　 Genji also felt deep sorrow. Publicly he mourned as a loyal minister should. But privately his feelings were far stronger.
　 Since his youth he had loved the Empress Dowager deeply. Yet that love had always remained hidden.
　 Now, as she approached death, Genji felt terrible regret that he had never spoken openly of his feelings.
　 He visited the palace and stood quietly behind the curtain near her chamber. Speaking directly to her was not possible, so he asked the ladies-in-waiting about her condition.
　 They spoke sadly.
　 “Her illness has been growing worse for a long time,” one woman said. “Yet she never stopped her religious prayers. Even when she felt weak, she continued her devotions without rest.”
　 Another added, “Now she can hardly eat even a small piece of fruit. Her strength fades each day.”
　 Their words filled Genji with sorrow.
　 Soon a message came from the Empress Dowager herself, spoken through one of her attendants.
　 “For many years you have protected the emperor faithfully,” she said. “I have always felt grateful. I believed there would be time someday to repay that kindness. But now it seems that chance will never come.”
　 Hearing these words, Genji could not answer. Tears filled his eyes and ran down his face.
　 The ladies watching him felt moved by his grief.
　 Genji tried to speak.
　 “I have done what little I could to serve His Majesty,” he said. “But now the death of the Grand Minister has already shaken the court. If Your Majesty also leaves us, I fear I will not have the strength to continue.”
　 As he spoke, the light in the room seemed to fade.
　 Quietly, gently, the Empress Dowager passed away.
　 Genji stood frozen with grief. Though she had been a woman of the highest rank, she had also been kind and thoughtful toward all people.
　 She had never abused her power or allowed unnecessary burdens to fall upon the people of the land. Even her religious gifts had been modest and sincere.
　 Because of this, both nobles and common people mourned her deeply.
　 The court entered a period of mourning. Officials wore dark clothing, and the spring season felt strangely quiet.
　 At the Nijō residence Genji looked at the cherry trees in the garden. Their blossoms reminded him painfully of a long-ago spring festival when the Empress Dowager had still been young and happy.
　 He murmured a poem softly to himself, remembering her.
　 Then he withdrew into a small prayer hall and spent the day in tears.
　 Outside, the evening sun shone brightly. Clouds drifted slowly across the distant mountains.
　 Those pale clouds caught Genji’s eyes.
　 They seemed to carry his sorrow across the sky.
　 Quietly he composed a poem about thin clouds floating in the sunset, colored by the tears that filled his sleeves.
　 No one else heard the poem.
　 Time passed, and after the funeral ceremonies ended, the emperor began to feel even more lonely.
　 One night a very old monk came to the palace. He had once served the emperor’s grandmother and had long been respected by the court. Now he was nearly seventy years old and had lived quietly in the mountains.
　 Because of the Empress Dowager’s death, however, he returned to the capital.
　 The emperor asked him to visit the palace often and speak with him.
　 One quiet morning, when few attendants were present, the monk began to speak.
　 His voice trembled slightly.
　 “Your Majesty,” he said slowly, “there is something I must tell you. It is difficult to speak, and I have feared the consequences. Yet if I remain silent, I may commit a grave sin.”
　 He paused for a long moment.
　 The emperor looked at him with surprise.
　 “Why do you hesitate?” he asked. “You have always been one of the people I trust most.”
　 The monk bowed his head.
　 “The matter concerns events that began even before Your Majesty was born,” he said. “It involves the late emperor, the Empress Dowager, and the Minister Genji.”
　 Hearing those names together caused the emperor’s heart to tighten.
　 Slowly, with many pauses, the monk explained the secret prayers that had once been ordered. He described the fears that had surrounded the emperor’s birth and the actions taken to protect him.
　 As the emperor listened, shock filled his mind.
　 Shame, fear, and sorrow mixed together in his heart.
　 When the monk finished speaking, the emperor remained silent for a long time.
　 Finally he said quietly, “If I had never learned this truth, I might have carried a terrible sin throughout my life.”
　 He looked at the monk with serious eyes.
　 “Does anyone else know this secret?”
　 The monk answered, “Only one lady-in-waiting besides myself. No other person knows.”
　 After speaking these words, the monk withdrew.
　 The emperor remained alone, struggling with heavy thoughts.
　 From that moment forward, his heart could never be the same again.

 
Chapter 20: Asagao (朝顔)

Part 1

　 The princess who had once served as the sacred priestess of the shrine had left her position. Her father had died, and because of this mourning she could no longer continue her sacred duties. After leaving the shrine, she moved quietly to an old residence called the Peach Garden Palace. The place had once been noble and lively, but now it had a feeling of silence and age.
　 Prince Genji heard about her return to the city. For many years he had not been able to forget her. Even though time had passed, his heart still turned toward her. So he had written letters again and again. Yet the princess had never given him a friendly answer. She had always been careful and distant.
　 Still, when Genji learned where she now lived, he decided to visit.
　 The Peach Garden Palace was not empty. The princess lived there with her aunt, an elderly lady known as the Fifth Princess. Because Genji had long known this family, it would not seem strange if he visited to greet the old lady. Using that reason, he prepared to go.
　 One quiet autumn evening he arrived at the residence.
　 The palace showed signs of age. The master of the house had died not long before, and the buildings felt lonely. The garden had plants that were already fading in the season. The air itself seemed calm and heavy.
　 Genji was shown to a room where the Fifth Princess waited.
　 She was now very old. When she spoke, her voice was soft and often broken by coughing. Yet she greeted Genji kindly, and tears quickly came to her eyes.
　 “Since the late emperor died,” she said slowly, “my life has been full of sorrow. I have grown old, and I spend many days crying. And then this princess also left me and went away for her duties. Now I am hardly alive at all. But today you have come to visit me. That kindness makes me forget my sadness for a moment.”
　 Genji bowed politely.
　 “After the emperor passed away,” he said, “the world changed in ways I could never expect. I suffered punishment and had to live far away from the capital for some time. When I was finally allowed to return, I became busy with many duties. Yet I have long wished to come here. I wanted to speak about the past and remember the late emperor together with you.”
　 The old princess listened with emotion.
　 “The world during your troubles must have been very hard,” she said. “I once thought that long life was only a burden. I watched many changes, and I wished I had died earlier. But now I see you again, successful and respected. Because of that, I am glad I have lived this long.”
　 Her voice shook as she spoke.
　 Then she looked closely at Genji’s face.
　 “You are still very beautiful,” she said with surprise. “When you were a child, I saw you for the first time and thought, ‘How can such a person be born?’ Each time I have seen you since then, I have been amazed again. People say that the emperor now looks like you. But surely he cannot be quite as handsome.”
　 Genji smiled a little at this direct praise.
　 “While I lived far away,” he replied, “I became quite worn and weak. The emperor’s beauty is greater than mine. Your imagination gives me too much honor.”
　 “Then I must go to see the emperor often,” the old princess said, laughing weakly. “Perhaps that will help me live longer.”
　 Yet even while laughing she wiped tears from her eyes.
　 After a moment she spoke again.
　 “My elder sister, the Third Princess, is fortunate,” she said. “Because your child is her grandchild, she can see you often. The late prince who lived here once wished for such a connection as well. But sadly it never happened.”
　 Genji listened carefully to these words. They reminded him of things that might once have been possible.
　 “If that had happened,” he said quietly, “I would have been very happy. Perhaps the noble ladies did not show me enough kindness.”
　 He spoke in a tone that sounded half playful and half serious.
　 While they talked, Genji looked across the garden toward another part of the residence. That was where the former priestess lived.
　 Even from a distance the garden there seemed graceful. The autumn plants were already fading, yet their quiet beauty touched the heart. Genji imagined the lady who lived there looking out over the same scene. The thought made him long to see her.
　 Finally he said, “Since I have come here today, it would be strange if I did not also greet the princess. Otherwise she might think I lack respect.”
　 With those words he rose and walked along the wooden veranda toward the other side of the residence.
　 Evening had already fallen. The sky was dark, and the rooms were lit only softly from within. Gray curtains hung before the rooms, and dark screens stood beside them. The scent of fine incense drifted gently in the air.
　 The women of the household arranged a place for him to sit near the southern side of the building. They felt it would be too bold to invite him directly inside.
　 One lady came forward to speak for the princess.
　 Genji looked at the place that had been prepared for him and frowned slightly.
　 “After so many years,” he said, “must I still sit outside the curtain? For a long time I have shown my feelings. I hoped that my efforts might at least allow me to enter the room.”
　 The lady carried his words to the princess and soon returned with an answer.
　 “The past now feels like a dream,” she said gently. “I am still trying to understand this uncertain world. Because of that, I must think quietly before deciding what to do about your long devotion.”
　 When Genji heard this message, sadness touched his heart.
　 The world truly was uncertain. Even a small reply could remind him of how far away the princess remained.
　 He sighed softly.
　 “If you would allow it,” he said, “please listen to a little of my story. During the time of my exile I suffered greatly. If you heard even a small part of that pain, perhaps you would understand my feelings.”
　 His voice was calm but full of emotion.
　 Although many years had passed, Genji still possessed a beauty that seemed almost youthful. His position was now very high, yet his manner remained gentle and graceful.
　 A poem from the princess was then brought to him.
　 Genji smiled faintly when he heard it.
　 “So the gods still scold me for old promises?” he said lightly. “Surely the winds of the shrine have already carried those sins away.”
　 Even as he joked, the princess slowly withdrew deeper into her rooms. She felt shy and uneasy speaking more.
　 At last there were no more messages.
　 Genji stood up.
　 “I must look very foolish,” he said quietly to the waiting women. “I have grown older, and yet here I am suffering from love like a young man.”
　 He left the residence soon after.
　 But when he returned home that night, sleep would not come to him.
　 Before dawn he ordered the shutters to be opened. Morning mist lay across the garden. Among the faded autumn plants he noticed a single morning-glory flower twisting around the grass.
　 The flower was almost hidden, yet it still gave off a faint sweet scent.
　 Genji picked it carefully.
　 Holding the delicate flower in his hand, he began to write another letter to the princess.

Part 2

　 The morning mist still lay softly over the garden when Genji finished writing his letter. The flower he had picked was small and pale, yet its quiet beauty moved him deeply. He held it for a moment before placing it beside the letter. To him the flower seemed to carry his feelings better than any long speech.
　 In the letter he wrote calmly and with dignity. He did not write like a young man burning with wild passion. Instead his words were gentle and thoughtful, like those of a man who had lived long and understood sorrow.
　 “Yesterday,” he wrote, “you treated me like a stranger. Because of that I returned home feeling ashamed. I wondered if you laughed at my lonely back as I walked away. Still, even so, there is something I cannot forget.”
　 He paused and looked again at the morning-glory.
　 “The memory of the moment when I once saw you remains clear in my heart. I wonder if the beautiful morning-glory of that time has already passed its season.”
　 He closed the letter slowly.
　 “Even after so many years,” he continued, “you must know that my thoughts have never left you. Because of that memory, I still keep a little hope.”
　 When the letter was finished, he wrapped it carefully and sent it together with the flower.
　 The princess received the message later that morning.
　 At first she hesitated. The letter was not bold or careless. It spoke of love, but it also carried a calm and gentle feeling. Ignoring such a letter completely might make her seem cold.
　 The women around her also spoke softly.
　 “It would be better to answer,” one of them said. “If you remain silent again, people may think you have no heart.”
　 The princess finally agreed.
　 Ink and paper were brought. She wrote only a few lines, but her handwriting was graceful and clear.
　 “The autumn season is ending,” she wrote. “The morning-glory that remains on the fence seems weak and uncertain, almost fading into the mist.”
　 After writing these words, she stopped. The letter was short and simple.
　 Yet when Genji received it, he read it again and again.
　 The paper was soft and colored with a quiet blue tone. The characters were delicate and elegant. Even though the message itself was brief, the beauty of the writing made it seem precious.
　 He held the letter for a long time before putting it down.
　 In truth, Genji felt slightly embarrassed by his own actions. Writing love letters again at his age seemed childish. Yet the memory of their long connection still pulled strongly at his heart.
　 From long ago the princess had always treated him kindly, yet she had never allowed their relationship to become love. Because of that, he felt as if he could not simply give up now.
　 So he continued to write to her.
　 He also spoke quietly with one of the princess’s attendants, a woman who sometimes carried messages between them. Through her, Genji hoped to learn something about the princess’s feelings.
　 Inside the Peach Garden Palace the situation was strange.
　 Most of the women there admired Genji deeply. Some of them praised him so much that it almost seemed foolish. They spoke of his beauty, his rank, and his kindness.
　 Only the princess herself remained calm.
　 Even when she was young, she had never loved Genji as other women did. She respected him, but her heart had never turned toward romance. Now that both of them were older, she felt even more strongly that such feelings were no longer suitable.
　 When Genji wrote about flowers or the seasons, she sometimes answered politely. But she never wrote quickly, and she never allowed her emotions to appear.
　 Because of this, Genji found her even more interesting.
　 “She is different from other women,” he thought. “Her heart is strong.”
　 Yet rumors began to spread in the world outside.
　 People started saying, “Lord Genji is very devoted to the former priestess. Perhaps he will marry her. That would be a noble and fitting union.”
　 These rumors eventually reached the ears of Lady Murasaki.
　 At first she did not worry too much. If something serious were happening, she believed Genji would speak openly with her.
　 But as time passed she noticed small changes.
　 Genji sometimes seemed restless. His mind appeared to be far away even when he was sitting quietly at home. He often spent time writing letters.
　 Watching this, Lady Murasaki felt a quiet pain growing in her heart.
　 She thought, “He once said that his love for others was only light and playful. But now he seems serious. If his heart truly turns toward that princess, what will become of me?”
　 The princess was a noble woman whose position in society was very high. Compared with her, Murasaki felt uncertain about her own place.
　 “If his love moves to such a woman,” she thought sadly, “I will surely become unhappy.”
　 Until now she had been Genji’s most beloved companion. Because of that, the thought of losing his attention was especially painful.
　 She did not openly complain, but quiet sorrow filled her heart.
　 Genji noticed that she seemed troubled, yet he did not speak clearly about the matter. Instead he spent more time outside the house. Sometimes he stayed overnight at the palace because of work.
　 When he was at home, he often wrote letters.
　 Watching this, Murasaki slowly began to believe that the rumors might be true.
　 Winter soon arrived.
　 That year many religious ceremonies were stopped because of mourning in the court, and the city felt quiet and empty. On a cold evening, snow began to fall softly.
　 Genji prepared once more to visit the Peach Garden Palace.
　 He dressed carefully. His robes were soft and elegant, and he added a gentle scent of incense. Even his hair and appearance were arranged with care.
　 Anyone watching him would easily understand that he was going to see someone important.
　 Before leaving, he went to speak with Murasaki.
　 “The Fifth Princess is ill,” he said calmly. “I will go and visit her for a short time.”
　 Murasaki did not look at him.
　 She sat beside their young daughter and pretended to focus on the child.
　 Yet her unhappiness was clear.
　 Genji watched her quietly.
　 “Lately you seem unhappy,” he said gently. “Perhaps it is my fault. Sometimes I stay overnight at the palace because I think spending less time together might prevent us from growing tired of each other. But perhaps that only troubles you more.”
　 Murasaki finally spoke.
　 “When something lasts too long,” she said softly, “sadness can appear.”
　 Then she turned away and lay down as if to sleep.
　 Genji stood there for a moment.
　 Leaving her like this felt painful to him. Yet he had already sent word that he would visit the palace, so he could not easily cancel the trip.
　 At last he left the house.
　 From her room, Murasaki quietly watched his figure as he walked away into the snowy evening.
　 The pale light of snow made his form clear and beautiful in the distance.
　 As she watched him disappear, a deep loneliness filled her heart.

Part 3

　 The snow continued to fall quietly as Genji’s carriage moved through the dark streets of the capital. The night was very still. The white snow covered the ground and softened every sound. Even the wheels of the carriage seemed to move without noise.
　 Inside the carriage Genji sat in silence.
　 The image of Murasaki lying with her back turned remained in his mind. Her quiet sadness troubled him more than angry words would have done.
　 “Perhaps I should have stayed,” he thought for a moment.
　 Yet the carriage was already moving through the snowy streets, and the visit had been arranged in advance. Turning back now would only cause confusion.
　 Soon the Peach Garden Palace appeared in the distance.
　 The buildings looked even older under the snow. The garden trees were covered in white, and the branches bent softly under the weight. Lantern light shone faintly from the rooms inside.
　 Genji stepped down from his carriage.
　 The cold air touched his face, and he pulled his robe closer around his body. A servant quickly brushed the snow from the wooden steps.
　 As before, he was first received by the Fifth Princess.
　 She seemed weaker than when he had last visited. Her voice was thin, and her breathing was slow. Yet when she saw Genji, her face brightened.
　 “Ah, you have come again,” she said softly. “It is very kind of you to visit such an old woman on a cold night.”
　 Genji bowed.
　 “I heard that your health has been poor,” he said. “So I wished to see you and offer my respect.”
　 The old princess looked at him carefully.
　 “Even in this cold season you still look young,” she said. “It is almost unfair. I have grown old and weak, but you remain the same.”
　 Genji smiled politely.
　 “Time touches everyone,” he replied. “I only try to hide its marks.”
　 They spoke together for some time. The room was warm, and the soft sound of snow falling outside could sometimes be heard through the quiet air.
　 After a while Genji slowly turned his attention toward the other side of the residence.
　 The former priestess was in her own rooms as before.
　 When his visit was announced, the women again prepared a place for him outside the curtains. Even on a night like this, the princess did not invite him inside.
　 Genji sat down and looked toward the softly lit room.
　 For a moment no one spoke.
　 At last a lady came forward to carry his words.
　 Genji spoke calmly, though his voice held a quiet sadness.
　 “The snow tonight is very beautiful,” he said. “It made me think of this house and the peaceful garden here. That is why I came again.”
　 His message was carried inside.
　 After a pause the princess replied through the same lady.
　 “The snow covers everything,” she said. “Even the old garden looks new for a moment. But when the snow melts, the old shapes will appear again.”
　 Her words were gentle, but they seemed to create a distance between them.
　 Genji listened quietly.
　 “Perhaps that is true,” he said. “But even an old garden can have beauty. Sometimes it becomes more beautiful with time.”
　 His answer was also sent inside.
　 For a moment it seemed that the princess might speak again. The soft sound of movement could be heard behind the curtain. But in the end she remained silent.
　 Genji lowered his eyes.
　 He realized that her heart would probably never change.
　 Even so, he could not completely abandon the feelings that had grown slowly over many years.
　 After some time he rose to leave.
　 “Please tell the princess that I thank her for allowing me to visit,” he said quietly.
　 The snow had grown deeper while he was inside. Servants hurried to prepare the carriage again.
　 As Genji stepped outside, he looked once more toward the dark rooms of the palace.
　 The snow-covered garden seemed calm and distant.
　 Soon he was traveling back through the silent city.
　 When he returned home, the night was already very late.
　 The lamps in the house were dim. Most of the attendants were asleep.
　 Genji went quietly to Murasaki’s room.
　 She was still awake.
　 A lamp burned softly beside her, and the faint light showed that her eyes were red from tears.
　 Genji felt pain in his chest when he saw this.
　 He sat down beside her.
　 For a moment neither of them spoke.
　 At last he said gently, “You did not sleep?”
　 Murasaki answered without looking at him.
　 “I tried,” she said softly.
　 Genji took her hand.
　 “You must not trouble yourself so much,” he said. “There is nothing you should fear.”
　 Murasaki was silent.
　 Her heart still felt uncertain, yet his voice sounded sincere.
　 After a moment she said quietly, “Sometimes the heart becomes anxious without a clear reason.”
　 Genji understood what she meant.
　 He spoke more kindly now.
　 “You have always been the one closest to me,” he said. “That will never change.”
　 Slowly the sadness in her face began to soften.
　 The snow outside continued to fall through the silent night.
　 Inside the room the lamp burned steadily, and the two of them sat together quietly.
　 Yet somewhere in the city the Peach Garden Palace also stood in the falling snow.
　 Behind its silent curtains the former priestess remained calm and distant, just as she had always been.

 
Chapter 21: Otome (乙女)

Part 1

　 The years passed, and the world around Prince Genji slowly changed. The court was busy, and many new duties filled his days. Yet inside his house there was also change. The children who had once been small were now growing older.
　 One of them was a young girl who had been raised in Genji’s household since childhood. She was the daughter of a noble family that had once been close to him. Because of events in the past, the girl had come to live under his care, and Genji had treated her almost like his own child.
　 Now she was no longer a small child.
　 Each day she grew taller, and her beauty began to appear. The quiet grace of her movements made the women of the house whisper to each other in admiration. Her voice was soft, and when she spoke her words carried a gentle charm.
　 Genji often watched her from a distance.
　 “Time moves so quickly,” he thought. “Not long ago she was only a little girl who played in the garden. Now she stands at the age when a young lady must begin to think about her future.”
　 The girl herself still behaved simply. She had grown up among kind women who cared for her, and her heart remained innocent. When she spoke with Genji she still showed the same trust she had felt since childhood.
　 One afternoon she came to see him.
　 The autumn light shone softly through the open screens, and the air carried the faint smell of fallen leaves. The young girl sat quietly beside the women who attended her.
　 Genji looked at her and smiled.
　 “You have grown very tall,” he said gently. “Soon people will say that you are no longer a child.”
　 The girl lowered her eyes shyly.
　 “I still feel the same as before,” she said softly.
　 Genji laughed.
　 “That may be true,” he said. “But the world will not see you that way for long.”
　 After she left the room, Genji remained thoughtful.
　 A young woman of her rank could not remain unmarried forever. Soon many families might begin to think about her as a possible bride.
　 “I must consider this carefully,” Genji thought.
　 Yet the matter was not simple.
　 If she married too quickly, she might go to a house where people did not treat her kindly. But if she remained too long in Genji’s household, people might begin to talk.
　 “I must find a good husband for her,” he thought.
　 In those days a young nobleman named Yugiri often visited Genji’s house.
　 Yugiri was the son of Genji’s close friend, the Minister of the Left. From childhood he had grown up near Genji and had received much kindness from him. Because of this, Yugiri respected Genji deeply.
　 Now he had also grown into a handsome young man.
　 His manner was calm and thoughtful, and he showed great care in his studies. The older people at court often praised him.
　 One evening Yugiri came to visit.
　 Genji welcomed him warmly.
　 “It has been some time since I saw you,” Genji said. “Your studies must keep you very busy.”
　 Yugiri bowed respectfully.
　 “I try my best,” he replied. “But I still feel that I know very little.”
　 Genji looked at him carefully.
　 “You are modest,” he said. “Many people speak well of you.”
　 The two men sat together and spoke for a long time. Their conversation moved from poetry to music and then to the many small matters of life at court.
　 While they talked, Genji began to think quietly about the young girl in his household.
　 “Yugiri is a good young man,” he thought. “His character is steady, and his family is honorable.”
　 The thought remained in his mind even after the conversation ended.
　 Meanwhile the young girl continued her quiet life.
　 Each morning she studied writing and poetry with the women who guided her. In the afternoons she sometimes walked slowly through the garden.
　 Autumn had now deepened.
　 The leaves of the trees turned red and gold. When the wind blew gently, the leaves fell softly onto the paths.
　 The girl liked to stand near the veranda and watch them.
　 One day Genji saw her standing there alone.
　 He walked toward her quietly.
　 The girl turned when she heard his steps.
　 “The leaves are beautiful today,” she said.
　 Genji looked at the garden.
　 “Yes,” he said. “Autumn always brings a certain sadness, but it is also beautiful.”
　 The girl nodded slowly.
　 “Sometimes I feel that way too,” she said.
　 Her words were simple, yet they surprised Genji slightly.
　 “She is growing,” he thought. “Her heart is beginning to understand deeper feelings.”
　 That evening Genji called several trusted women to speak with him.
　 “The young lady is reaching the proper age,” he said quietly. “We must begin to think about her future.”
　 The women listened carefully.
　 One of them said, “Many noble families might wish to ask for her hand.”
　 Genji nodded.
　 “Yes,” he replied. “But we must choose wisely. Her happiness is more important than any other matter.”
　 Another woman spoke.
　 “There is one young man who often visits this house,” she said carefully. “He is kind and well respected.”
　 Genji smiled slightly.
　 “You mean Yugiri,” he said.
　 The women exchanged small glances.
　 “He would not be a poor choice,” one of them said softly.
　 Genji remained silent for a moment.
　 The thought had already been in his mind.
　 “Yes,” he said slowly. “Perhaps that path may be best.”
　 Yet he did not decide immediately.
　 Such matters required patience and careful thought.
　 That night Genji sat alone for a long time.
　 The wind outside moved gently through the trees, and the faint sound of falling leaves reached his ears.
　 “Children grow quickly,” he thought. “Soon she will leave this house and begin a life of her own.”
　 The thought filled him with both pride and quiet sadness.
　 For many years he had cared for her like a father.
　 Now the time was coming when he must let her go.

Part 2

　 Several days passed after Genji spoke with the women of his house. During that time he watched the young girl even more carefully than before. He did not wish to rush into a decision. A young woman’s future depended greatly on the husband chosen for her, and Genji wished to avoid any mistake.
　 Each day life in the residence continued calmly.
　 In the mornings the girl practiced writing poems. A gentle lady sat beside her and guided her hand. Sheets of paper were spread across the low table, and the sound of the brush moving slowly across the page filled the quiet room.
　 Sometimes the girl paused and looked out toward the garden.
　 The late autumn wind moved softly through the trees. Red leaves rested on the ground like scattered cloth. Seeing such scenes often made the girl thoughtful, though she did not fully understand why.
　 One morning Genji happened to pass the room where she studied.
　 He stood quietly near the sliding screen and watched her for a moment.
　 The girl bent slightly over her writing paper. A small lamp stood beside her, though the morning light already filled the room. Her long hair fell softly across her shoulder as she wrote.
　 Genji felt a strange emotion.
　 “She truly has become a young lady,” he thought. “Soon she will leave this house.”
　 The thought made his heart feel heavy.
　 A little later the girl noticed him standing nearby.
　 She rose quickly and bowed.
　 “You are here,” she said with a shy smile.
　 Genji stepped into the room.
　 “I came only for a moment,” he replied. “I wished to see how your studies were going.”
　 The girl showed him the poem she had just written.
　 Genji read it carefully.
　 “Your writing grows better every day,” he said. “You have learned well.”
　 Hearing this praise, the girl lowered her head in embarrassment.
　 “I still have much to learn,” she said.
　 Genji sat down for a short time and spoke kindly with her about poetry and the seasons. But even while he spoke, his thoughts moved toward the future.
　 “If Yugiri becomes her husband,” he wondered, “will he treat her with care?”
　 Genji trusted the young man, yet marriage always brought uncertainty.
　 Later that day Yugiri himself came to visit.
　 He entered the residence respectfully, just as he had done since childhood. The attendants welcomed him warmly, for he was a familiar guest.
　 Genji met him in a quiet room.
　 The autumn sun was already lowering in the sky, and long shadows stretched across the garden outside.
　 For a while the two men spoke about ordinary matters.
　 They discussed poetry competitions at court, recent ceremonies, and the progress of Yugiri’s studies. Genji listened with interest, pleased by the young man’s thoughtful answers.
　 At last Genji spoke more seriously.
　 “You have grown into a fine young man,” he said.
　 Yugiri bowed his head.
　 “Your kindness has guided me,” he replied.
　 Genji smiled gently.
　 “Soon the time will come when you must think about marriage,” he said.
　 Yugiri seemed slightly surprised by these words.
　 “Marriage?” he repeated quietly.
　 Genji nodded.
　 “A man cannot remain alone forever,” he said. “Have you ever thought about such matters?”
　 Yugiri hesitated before answering.
　 “I have not yet considered it deeply,” he said. “My studies still occupy most of my time.”
　 Genji watched him carefully.
　 The young man spoke honestly. There was no sign that he had already chosen a woman in secret.
　 This pleased Genji.
　 After a short pause Genji continued.
　 “There is a young lady in this house whom I have raised with great care,” he said. “You have seen her from time to time.”
　 Yugiri understood immediately whom Genji meant.
　 The girl had often appeared briefly when he visited the residence, though she had always stayed behind curtains or screens.
　 Even those short glimpses had left an impression on him.
　 Yugiri felt his heart beat a little faster.
　 Genji spoke calmly.
　 “She has now reached the age when her future must be decided,” he said. “I wish to find a husband who will treat her with kindness and respect.”
　 Yugiri lowered his eyes.
　 “Such a lady deserves the best husband,” he said.
　 Genji looked at him with a gentle expression.
　 “If you wished to accept such a responsibility,” he said slowly, “I would feel at ease.”
　 Yugiri remained silent for several moments.
　 The words surprised him deeply. Genji was one of the greatest men in the capital. To receive such trust from him was a great honor.
　 Yet the idea also filled him with nervous excitement.
　 At last he spoke.
　 “If you believe I am worthy,” he said carefully, “I would accept with gratitude.”
　 Genji felt relieved.
　 “Then we shall move forward slowly,” he said. “There is no need to hurry.”
　 After Yugiri left that evening, Genji sat quietly and reflected on the conversation.
　 “This may be the best path,” he thought.
　 Yugiri’s family was noble, and his character was steady. The girl would likely find happiness in such a household.
　 Yet Genji also felt a quiet sadness.
　 “When she marries,” he thought, “this house will feel emptier.”
　 Meanwhile the girl herself knew nothing about these discussions.
　 She continued her daily life peacefully.
　 That night she sat with several women near a small lamp. They spoke about poems and stories from earlier times.
　 The girl listened with interest, her eyes bright in the soft light.
　 Sometimes she laughed quietly at the older women’s stories.
　 Watching her, one of the attendants whispered to another.
　 “Soon she will become a bride,” the woman said softly.
　 The other woman nodded.
　 “Yes,” she replied. “Lord Genji must already be thinking about it.”
　 The girl, however, remained unaware.
　 Outside the room the wind moved gently through the trees. Fallen leaves drifted across the garden paths.
　 Autumn was slowly coming to an end.
　 And with the passing of the season, the young girl’s life was also moving toward a new stage.

Part 3

　 Autumn slowly passed, and the cold air of early winter began to fill the capital. The leaves had mostly fallen from the trees in Genji’s garden. Their branches now stood thin and quiet against the pale sky. When the wind moved through them, a soft sound spread across the empty paths.
　 Inside the residence, however, life had become more active.
　 Genji had quietly begun the preparations for the young lady’s future. He did not wish to create loud excitement or gossip. Instead he arranged matters slowly and carefully, speaking only with the people he trusted most.
　 Yugiri continued to visit the house from time to time.
　 His visits were not unusual, since he had long been welcome there. Yet now the women of the household watched him with greater attention. They spoke quietly among themselves whenever he appeared.
　 “He is very handsome,” one of them said.
　 “And he behaves with such calm manners,” another replied.
　 Some of the younger women even laughed softly.
　 “The young lady will be fortunate,” one whispered.
　 The young girl herself still knew nothing about these plans.
　 She continued her quiet life, studying poems and music, and sometimes walking slowly through the garden. Yet even she had begun to feel that something around her was changing.
　 One afternoon she spoke with one of the older women who had cared for her since childhood.
　 “Recently everyone seems to be watching me,” she said.
　 The woman smiled gently.
　 “You are growing older,” she replied. “People naturally notice such things.”
　 The girl looked thoughtful.
　 “Is that all?” she asked quietly.
　 The woman did not answer directly.
　 Instead she said, “You should trust Lord Genji. He always thinks carefully about your future.”
　 Hearing this, the girl nodded.
　 She trusted Genji deeply. Since childhood he had protected her and treated her with kindness.
　 That evening Genji called several attendants to his room.
　 The lamps were lit, and the warm light filled the quiet space.
　 “We must begin to arrange the meeting,” he said calmly.
　 The women understood his meaning at once.
　 One of them asked, “Shall the young lady meet him soon?”
　 Genji nodded.
　 “Yes,” he said. “But it must happen naturally. I do not want her to feel frightened.”
　 The attendants spoke together quietly, discussing how such a meeting could occur without causing embarrassment.
　 Finally they decided that Yugiri could visit the house during a small gathering for poetry and music. In such a setting, the young lady could appear without attracting too much attention.
　 When the day came, the house felt filled with quiet excitement.
　 Yugiri arrived in the afternoon.
　 He wore elegant robes of soft color, and his appearance was calm and graceful. The servants welcomed him respectfully and led him into a bright room that faced the garden.
　 Several young men had also been invited, along with a few ladies who could play musical instruments.
　 The gathering began peacefully.
　 Some people read poems. Others spoke about the beauty of the winter season. Soft music from a koto filled the room.
　 Yugiri listened politely, though his thoughts were not entirely calm.
　 He knew why Genji had invited him.
　 After some time, the young lady appeared behind a light curtain.
　 She did not come forward boldly. Instead she sat quietly among the women who attended her.
　 Even so, Yugiri could see her figure through the soft cloth of the curtain.
　 His heart beat faster.
　 Until now he had only seen her from a distance. But today he could sense her presence clearly.
　 The gentle movement of her sleeve as she adjusted her robe caught his attention. Even such a small motion seemed graceful.
　 Genji watched the young man carefully.
　 “He seems deeply interested,” Genji thought.
　 The gathering continued.
　 At one moment a poem about winter flowers was read aloud. The listeners began discussing the beauty of flowers that bloom during the cold season.
　 Genji turned toward the curtain.
　 “Perhaps the young lady has something to say,” he suggested kindly.
　 The attendants encouraged her softly.
　 After a moment she spoke.
　 Her voice was quiet but clear.
　 She recited a short poem about a small flower that opens even while snow falls.
　 The room became very still as she finished.
　 Yugiri felt deeply moved.
　 “Her voice is beautiful,” he thought. “And her words are gentle.”
　 Genji smiled slightly.
　 “A fine poem,” he said.
　 The others in the room agreed.
　 After that moment the atmosphere became warmer. People began speaking more freely, and laughter appeared among the guests.
　 Yet Yugiri remained thoughtful.
　 He had already accepted Genji’s proposal, but now he felt the meaning of that promise more strongly.
　 The young lady behind the curtain was not simply a responsibility. She was someone whose presence touched his heart.
　 As the evening grew darker, the gathering slowly came to an end.
　 The guests prepared to leave.
　 Yugiri bowed respectfully to Genji.
　 “Thank you for allowing me to join this gathering,” he said.
　 Genji looked at him carefully.
　 “I am glad you came,” he replied.
　 Their eyes met for a moment.
　 Without speaking directly, both men understood that the future had begun to move forward.
　 That night the house slowly returned to silence.
　 The guests had gone, and the lamps were lowered.
　 In her room the young lady sat quietly.
　 The events of the evening remained in her mind. She did not fully understand what they meant, but she felt that something important had begun.
　 Outside, the winter wind moved softly through the bare branches of the trees.
　 The season had changed.
　 And with it, the young girl’s life had begun to change as well.

 
Chapter 22: Tamakazura (玉鬘)

Part 1

　 In the capital there once lived a noble lady who had been very dear to Prince Genji long ago. Her name was Lady Yūgao. She had been gentle and quiet, and Genji had loved her deeply. But her life ended suddenly in a strange and fearful way. After her death, a small daughter was left behind.
　 At that time the child was still very young. She could not understand the sorrow around her. The people who cared for her feared that the child might suffer if others learned about her past. Because of this, they quietly sent her away from the capital.
　 The little girl was taken far to the west, to the region called Kyushu. There she grew up in the house of a woman who protected her. This woman had once served Lady Yūgao faithfully, and she felt strong loyalty toward her former mistress.
　 The child knew nothing about her true parents.
　 As the years passed, she became a beautiful young girl. Her face was gentle, and her movements were calm and graceful. The people around her often said that she carried a natural nobility, though she lived far from the capital.
　 Sometimes the woman who raised her would watch her quietly.
　 “She looks so much like her mother,” the woman thought. “It is painful and beautiful at the same time.”
　 The girl herself did not understand these feelings. She lived peacefully, spending her days in simple ways.
　 In the mornings she helped with small household tasks. In the afternoons she sometimes walked outside and looked at the wide fields and distant hills. The air in Kyushu was different from the air of the capital. The wind was stronger, and the sea lay not far away.
　 Sometimes she could hear the sound of waves in the distance.
　 One evening she spoke to the woman who had raised her.
　 “I often wonder about my parents,” the girl said softly. “Where were they? What kind of people were they?”
　 The woman felt a deep pain in her heart when she heard this.
　 She did not wish to lie, yet she could not reveal the truth so easily.
　 “Your parents were good people,” she said gently. “You were loved very much.”
　 The girl listened quietly.
　 “Then why am I here so far away?” she asked.
　 The woman lowered her eyes.
　 “The world can sometimes be difficult,” she replied slowly. “But you must not worry about the past too much.”
　 The girl accepted this answer, though her heart still held many questions.
　 As she grew older, her beauty became even more clear.
　 People in the area began to speak about her. Some said that a girl with such grace should not live in such a distant place. Others wondered if she might have noble blood.
　 The woman who protected her grew worried.
　 “If people continue to talk,” she thought, “her peaceful life may soon change.”
　 Around that time a man named Ukon visited the house.
　 Ukon had once served Lady Yūgao in the capital. After many years she had finally discovered where the child was living.
　 When Ukon first saw the young girl, tears filled her eyes.
　 “She truly is her mother’s daughter,” Ukon thought.
　 The girl greeted Ukon politely, not knowing who she really was.
　 Ukon watched her movements carefully. The calm manner, the gentle voice, and the quiet beauty all reminded her strongly of the woman she had served long ago.
　 Later Ukon spoke privately with the woman who had raised the girl.
　 “She cannot remain here forever,” Ukon said.
　 The woman sighed.
　 “I know that,” she replied. “But the capital is a dangerous place. Many powerful families live there. If people learn who she really is, trouble may come.”
　 Ukon remained silent for a moment.
　 “There is one person who should know,” she said at last.
　 The woman looked at her quickly.
　 “You mean…?”
　 Ukon nodded.
　 “Prince Genji.”
　 The room became very quiet.
　 For many years the truth had been hidden from him.
　 Ukon continued speaking slowly.
　 “He loved her mother deeply,” she said. “If he learns that this girl lives, he will surely protect her.”
　 The woman who had raised the girl looked troubled.
　 “Perhaps you are right,” she said. “But revealing such a secret is frightening.”
　 Ukon understood her fear.
　 “Still,” she said gently, “the girl deserves a future that matches her birth.”
　 That night the two women spoke for a long time.
　 Outside, the wind moved across the dark fields of Kyushu. The distant sound of the sea could be heard faintly through the night air.
　 Meanwhile the young girl slept peacefully, unaware that her life might soon change forever.
　 In the capital, Prince Genji continued his busy life.
　 Many responsibilities filled his days at court. Yet sometimes, in quiet moments, memories of the past returned to him.
　 Among those memories was the gentle face of Lady Yūgao.
　 Her death had brought him deep sorrow long ago.
　 “If she had lived,” he sometimes thought, “her life might have been very different.”
　 He did not know that somewhere far away, her daughter had already grown into a beautiful young woman.
　 And soon the hidden thread that connected their lives would begin to move again.

Part 2

　 The days in Kyushu passed quietly after Ukon arrived. The young girl continued to live in the same peaceful way. She rose in the morning with the soft light of the sun, helped the women of the house with small tasks, and sometimes walked slowly outside to enjoy the fresh air.
　 Yet Ukon watched her closely.
　 Every movement of the girl reminded Ukon of Lady Yūgao. The way the girl lowered her eyes when she spoke, the gentle sound of her voice, and the calm grace of her steps were all very similar.
　 One afternoon the girl sat near the veranda.
　 The wind moved lightly across the fields, and the sky was wide and clear. From far away the sound of waves could be heard.
　 The girl held a small branch with flowers and looked at it thoughtfully.
　 Ukon approached her quietly.
　 “You seem deep in thought,” Ukon said.
　 The girl looked up with a small smile.
　 “Sometimes I wonder about my life,” she replied. “This place is peaceful, but I feel that something important lies beyond these hills.”
　 Ukon listened carefully.
　 “Perhaps your feeling is correct,” she said gently.
　 The girl tilted her head.
　 “What do you mean?” she asked.
　 Ukon hesitated.
　 The time had not yet come to speak openly about the past. Still, she felt that the girl should slowly prepare for change.
　 “Your future may not remain here forever,” Ukon said quietly.
　 The girl looked surprised.
　 “Do you think I will travel somewhere?” she asked.
　 Ukon smiled softly.
　 “Perhaps,” she said.
　 After this conversation the girl felt a strange excitement in her heart. Until that moment she had believed her life would always remain the same. Now she began to imagine the wider world.
　 Meanwhile Ukon continued speaking with the woman who had raised the girl.
　 One evening they sat together inside the house. A small lamp burned between them, and the light moved gently on the walls.
　 “We must decide soon,” Ukon said.
　 The woman nodded slowly.
　 “I understand,” she replied. “But sending her to the capital is still frightening.”
　 Ukon spoke calmly.
　 “Prince Genji has great power and kindness,” she said. “If he learns the truth, he will surely protect her.”
　 The woman looked down at her hands.
　 “For many years I have cared for her like my own child,” she said. “The thought of sending her away fills me with sorrow.”
　 Ukon reached out and touched her hand.
　 “Your care has allowed her to grow safely,” she said. “Because of you, she now has the chance to live the life she deserves.”
　 The two women sat silently for a moment.
　 Outside the wind moved across the fields, and the sound of night insects filled the air.
　 Finally the woman spoke again.
　 “Very well,” she said softly. “If it is truly for her future, we must prepare.”
　 During the following days they began quiet preparations.
　 Nothing was said openly to the girl yet, but small changes appeared. Clothing was prepared, and letters were written to arrange the journey.
　 The girl noticed these signs.
　 One evening she approached the woman who had raised her.
　 “Something is happening, isn’t it?” she asked.
　 The woman smiled gently.
　 “Soon you may travel to the capital,” she said.
　 The girl’s eyes widened.
　 “The capital?” she repeated.
　 She had heard stories about that distant place since childhood. It was the center of the world, where great nobles lived and beautiful ceremonies were held.
　 “Why would I go there?” she asked.
　 The woman answered carefully.
　 “Because your life may truly belong there,” she said.
　 The girl felt both excitement and fear.
　 “I have never seen such a place,” she said.
　 “You will not be alone,” the woman replied. “Good people will guide you.”
　 That night the girl could not sleep easily.
　 She lay quietly, listening to the distant sound of the sea.
　 Her heart moved between curiosity and worry. What kind of life waited in the capital? Who would she meet there?
　 Meanwhile, far away in the capital, Prince Genji remained unaware of these events.
　 One evening he sat in his residence, listening to music played by the women of the house. The sound of the koto flowed gently through the quiet room.
　 Genji leaned slightly against a cushion and closed his eyes for a moment.
　 Memories from long ago sometimes returned during such peaceful evenings.
　 The face of Lady Yūgao appeared in his mind again.
　 “Her life ended too quickly,” he thought sadly.
　 He opened his eyes and looked toward the garden.
　 The moon shone softly over the trees.
　 Somewhere beyond the distant mountains and wide seas, her daughter had already grown into a young woman.
　 Soon the path between them would finally open.

Part 3

　 The decision had finally been made. The young girl would leave Kyushu and travel to the capital. The preparations were quiet but careful. The woman who had raised her worked with Ukon every day, arranging clothing, supplies, and letters for the journey.
　 The girl watched all of this with growing curiosity.
　 One morning she approached Ukon.
　 “You have been very busy lately,” she said gently. “Is everything ready for the journey?”
　 Ukon looked at her kindly.
　 “Yes,” she replied. “Soon we will begin the trip.”
　 The girl looked out toward the fields.
　 The wind moved slowly across the tall grass. In the distance the sea shone under the light of the morning sun.
　 “I have lived here all my life,” she said quietly. “It feels strange to think about leaving.”
　 Ukon understood her feelings.
　 “This place has protected you,” she said. “But your life is wider than these fields.”
　 The girl turned toward her.
　 “Do you think I will be happy in the capital?” she asked.
　 Ukon paused before answering.
　 “I believe that someone there will welcome you warmly,” she said.
　 The girl felt comfort in these words, though she still did not understand their full meaning.
　 A few days later the journey began.
　 The morning air was cool, and a light mist lay over the road. Several attendants prepared the travel carriage. The woman who had raised the girl stood nearby, watching quietly.
　 The girl approached her.
　 “You will not come with us?” she asked.
　 The woman smiled sadly.
　 “My place is here,” she replied. “But my heart will follow you.”
　 The girl felt tears rise in her eyes.
　 “You have always cared for me,” she said. “I will never forget your kindness.”
　 The woman gently touched her shoulder.
　 “Be brave,” she said softly. “Your life is only beginning.”
　 The girl bowed deeply.
　 Then she entered the carriage beside Ukon.
　 As the carriage began to move, she looked back one last time.
　 The house where she had grown up stood quietly among the trees. The woman who had raised her was still standing at the gate, watching the road.
　 Slowly the house disappeared from view.
　 The journey to the capital took many days.
　 The road passed through wide valleys, across rivers, and along quiet villages. Sometimes the travelers stopped at small inns during the night.
　 For the girl, every day brought new sights.
　 She watched the changing landscape with wonder. Mountains rose in the distance, and rivers moved quietly through the land.
　 At times she spoke with Ukon about the capital.
　 “Is it truly as beautiful as people say?” she asked.
　 Ukon smiled.
　 “It is a place full of life,” she replied. “Great houses, wide streets, and many noble people.”
　 The girl listened with excitement.
　 “Will I meet many new people there?” she asked.
　 Ukon nodded.
　 “Yes,” she said. “And among them there is someone very important.”
　 The girl looked curious.
　 “Someone important?” she repeated.
　 Ukon did not explain further.
　 “You will understand when the time comes,” she said gently.
　 Finally, after many days of travel, the capital appeared.
　 From a distance the buildings spread across the wide plain. The roofs shone under the light of the afternoon sun.
　 The girl leaned forward inside the carriage.
　 “So this is the capital,” she whispered.
　 Her heart beat quickly.
　 Soon they entered the city streets.
　 People moved everywhere—nobles in fine robes, servants carrying goods, and travelers from distant places. The sounds of voices and carriage wheels filled the air.
　 The girl felt both excited and overwhelmed.
　 Ukon guided her calmly.
　 “Do not worry,” she said. “We will soon reach a safe place.”
　 Their carriage finally stopped before a large and beautiful residence.
　 Tall gates stood at the entrance, and servants waited respectfully nearby.
　 The girl looked at the house with amazement.
　 “Whose residence is this?” she asked.
　 Ukon looked at her with a gentle expression.
　 “This is the home of Prince Genji,” she said.
　 The girl repeated the name quietly.
　 She had heard it before in distant stories. Prince Genji was known throughout the capital for his beauty, wisdom, and kindness.
　 “Why have we come here?” she asked.
　 Ukon placed a hand softly on her arm.
　 “Because your life is connected to his,” she said.
　 The girl stared at her in surprise.
　 Before she could ask another question, attendants approached the carriage.
　 The gates slowly opened.
　 As the girl stepped down and walked toward the entrance, she felt that her life was entering a new world.
　 Inside the residence Prince Genji was unaware that this moment had arrived.
　 But very soon he would meet the young woman who carried the blood of the lady he had once loved.

 
Chapter 23: Hatsune (初音)

Part 1

　 The first day of the New Year arrived with a bright and gentle light. The sky above the capital was clear, and the air of early spring felt fresh and calm. In every garden the snow had begun to melt. Small patches of green grass could already be seen through the thin white cover.
　 At the great residence of Prince Genji, called the Rokujo Mansion, the view was especially beautiful. The gardens there were wide and carefully arranged. Smooth white sand covered the paths, and the ponds reflected the pale sky of the morning.
　 Thin mist moved slowly across the trees.
　 The branches were still bare, but small buds had begun to appear. The quiet promise of spring seemed to fill the air.
　 Inside the mansion the women of the household were already awake.
　 In the residence of Lady Murasaki, the most honored lady of the house, the rooms were filled with soft fragrance. The scent of plum blossoms from the garden mixed with the gentle smell of incense that burned inside the rooms.
　 The women who served Lady Murasaki gathered together in small groups.
　 Some of them laughed quietly as they prepared the New Year celebrations. Others arranged decorations and brought out the ceremonial food for the morning.
　 Among them were many young and beautiful attendants. These younger women now served the young princess who lived with Lady Murasaki. The older attendants remained close to Lady Murasaki herself.
　 They sat together in calm dignity.
　 On this morning everyone wished for good fortune in the year ahead.
　 The women brought out round rice cakes used for New Year prayers. They placed them carefully on trays and spoke cheerful words to one another.
　 “May this year bring happiness,” one said.
　 “May our lives continue in peace,” another answered.
　 As they spoke together, they laughed and shared warm wishes.
　 At that moment Prince Genji entered the room.
　 His appearance was graceful and bright. Even on an ordinary day his beauty drew the eyes of everyone who saw him. On this New Year morning he seemed even more splendid.
　 The women quickly adjusted their sitting positions when they saw him.
　 Some of them had been laughing freely only a moment earlier. Now they became slightly embarrassed and sat more formally.
　 Genji smiled when he noticed this.
　 “It seems that a great celebration is taking place here,” he said lightly.
　 The women looked at him with happy expressions.
　 One of the attendants answered him.
　 “We are offering New Year prayers,” she said.
　 Genji laughed softly.
　 “Are you praying only for yourselves?” he asked. “Or are you also wishing for good fortune for your master?”
　 The women smiled.
　 Another attendant spoke.
　 “Of course we pray for you as well,” she said. “The rice cakes themselves carry our wishes for your happiness.”
　 Hearing this, Genji laughed again.
　 The women thought that simply seeing his smiling face on the first day of the year was itself a kind of good fortune.
　 During the morning many guests came to the mansion.
　 Noble visitors arrived to offer their formal New Year greetings. The house became lively with voices and movement.
　 Servants walked quickly through the corridors, guiding visitors and preparing refreshments.
　 Genji received each guest with calm dignity.
　 After the busy morning hours passed, the house slowly became quieter again.
　 In the afternoon Genji prepared to visit the other residences within the mansion. According to custom he would offer New Year greetings to the ladies who lived in each part of the estate.
　 Before leaving Lady Murasaki’s rooms, he carefully adjusted his clothing.
　 His robes were elegant and perfectly arranged. Watching him prepare was itself a pleasure for the women nearby.
　 Genji turned toward Lady Murasaki.
　 “This morning I saw everyone praying over the rice cakes,” he said playfully. “Now I should offer my own New Year blessing to you.”
　 Lady Murasaki smiled gently.
　 Genji recited a poem.
　 “On the clear mirror of the pond, where the thin ice has melted away, the reflections of two people stand side by side. There is no pair like them in the world.”
　 His voice was calm and warm.
　 Lady Murasaki answered with a poem of her own.
　 “In the bright mirror of that pond we see clearly the reflection of a life that will continue for countless years.”
　 The two poems expressed their wish to remain together in harmony for a long time.
　 On that morning the first day of the year also happened to fall on the Day of the Rat, a day considered very lucky.
　 Genji walked toward the rooms where the young princess lived.
　 There he saw several young girls playing in the garden. They were pulling up small pine shoots from the ground, laughing happily as they played.
　 Their bright voices filled the winter air.
　 At that moment servants arrived carrying gifts.
　 The gifts had been sent from another residence in the mansion. Beautiful baskets filled with sweets and carefully prepared food were brought into the room.
　 On top of one gift was a small decorative branch of pine. A tiny artificial bird sat upon it.
　 Attached to the branch was a letter containing a poem.
　 The poem spoke of a bird singing its first song of the year.
　 When Genji read the poem, he felt a deep emotion.
　 The message had been sent by the daughter who lived far away from him.
　 As he read the poem, tears rose slowly in his eyes.
　 “You should answer this poem yourself,” he said gently to the young princess beside him.
　 He placed writing materials in front of her.
　 The girl wrote her reply carefully.
　 Genji watched her as she wrote.
　 Seeing her there reminded him of the mother who had once been separated from her child.
　 “It is painful that the child’s true mother has not been able to see her,” he thought quietly.
　 The princess finished her poem.
　 In it she wrote that even though many years had passed, she would never forget the place where she had first grown up.
　 Genji read the poem and nodded softly.
　 Outside the window the early spring light continued to shine over the peaceful gardens of the Rokujo Mansion.

Part 2

　 After the letter from the young princess had been answered, Prince Genji remained quiet for a moment. He still held the paper in his hand and looked at the gentle characters written by the girl. The writing was simple and sincere, and that simplicity moved him deeply.
　 “She has grown so much,” he thought.
　 The princess herself sat nearby, still holding the brush she had used to write the poem. She looked slightly shy. Writing a poem in front of Genji always made her feel nervous.
　 Genji smiled at her.
　 “Your poem was very good,” he said. “Your mother will be pleased when she reads it.”
　 The girl lowered her eyes modestly.
　 “I only wrote what I felt,” she replied.
　 Genji nodded slowly.
　 Inside his heart he felt both happiness and sadness. The child had grown into a bright young girl, yet the woman who had given birth to her had lived for many years far away.
　 “I have kept them apart too long,” he thought.
　 Still, the situation had been complicated. Bringing the girl to the capital and raising her within the great mansion had required careful planning.
　 He watched the princess quietly for a moment.
　 “You should continue practicing poetry,” he said gently. “It will bring joy to your life.”
　 The girl nodded.
　 Meanwhile, elsewhere in the great mansion, life continued calmly.
　 In another residence lived Lady Hanachirusato, one of the women who had long shared a quiet friendship with Genji. Her house was peaceful and simple. She did not try to create grand beauty, yet everything there had a calm and noble atmosphere.
　 Genji walked there to greet her for the New Year.
　 A curtain separated them, as was proper.
　 Hanachirusato sat quietly behind it.
　 Over the years the relationship between them had changed. The passion of youth had softened, and what remained was a deep trust.
　 When Genji gently pushed aside the curtain, she did not resist.
　 Her appearance had changed slightly with time. Her hair was no longer as thick and shining as before. Yet her calm expression still carried dignity.
　 Genji spoke kindly.
　 “Many men would grow tired of a woman as time passes,” he said lightly. “But I feel grateful that you trust me enough to show yourself without concern for such things.”
　 Hanachirusato answered with a soft smile.
　 “I trust your kindness,” she said.
　 Genji felt warm affection for her.
　 After speaking together for some time, he left and walked toward the western residence of the mansion.
　 This was where Lady Tamakazura had recently begun to live.
　 Although she had not lived there long, the rooms already felt comfortable and well arranged. Young attendants moved quietly through the halls, and the sound of soft conversation could be heard.
　 When Genji entered, he noticed how beautiful Tamakazura looked.
　 Her clothing was bright and elegant. The long sleeves of her robe moved gently as she walked.
　 Even though she had experienced hardship in the past, her beauty remained clear and shining.
　 Genji watched her carefully.
　 “She truly is a striking woman,” he thought.
　 Yet inside his heart he also felt a strange conflict. Tamakazura was connected to him through family ties, yet her beauty sometimes stirred feelings that he tried to hide.
　 Because of this he was careful with his behavior.
　 He spoke to her in a calm and respectful tone.
　 “You should feel at ease in this house,” he said. “You may visit the other rooms whenever you wish. The young girls here are learning music, and you might enjoy watching their lessons.”
　 Tamakazura bowed politely.
　 “I will follow your advice,” she said.
　 Her voice was clear and calm.
　 As Genji looked at her, he thought again about the danger of allowing such feelings to grow too strong.
　 “It is better to treat her like family,” he told himself.
　 Later that evening Genji walked to another residence within the mansion.
　 This was the home of Lady Akashi.
　 As he approached the room, the gentle scent of incense drifted through the air. The fragrance came from inside the curtains, where the lady’s attendants had carefully prepared the room.
　 The smell was rich and elegant.
　 When Genji entered, he noticed writing materials placed near a low table. Papers lay scattered nearby. Some of them contained poems written in a graceful hand.
　 Genji picked up one sheet and read it.
　 The poem spoke of a bird returning to an old nest.
　 Genji smiled quietly as he read.
　 “So she has been writing poetry tonight,” he thought.
　 At that moment Lady Akashi appeared.
　 She moved forward respectfully and greeted him.
　 Her manner was humble and intelligent. Even though she held an important place in the household, she always behaved with quiet modesty.
　 Her long black hair fell softly over her white robes.
　 Genji looked at her with gentle affection.
　 The two of them spoke quietly together.
　 The night grew deeper as they talked.
　 At last Genji lay down to rest in her room. Although he knew that Lady Murasaki might not be pleased if she heard about this, he felt drawn to remain there.
　 Outside, the New Year night passed slowly.
　 Far away in other parts of the mansion, some women spoke quietly among themselves.
　 They believed that Lady Akashi must be deeply loved by Genji, since he had chosen to spend the first night of the New Year with her.
　 But when morning came, Genji rose very early.
　 Before the sun had fully appeared, he returned quickly to the southern residence where Lady Murasaki lived.
　 Lady Akashi watched him leave.
　 Even though she understood his position, a quiet sadness touched her heart.
　 The New Year had only just begun, yet the complex feelings within the great mansion were already moving like hidden currents beneath calm water.

Part 3

　 When Prince Genji returned to the southern residence, the sky was still pale with early dawn. The light of the rising sun slowly spread across the gardens of the Rokujo Mansion. Thin snow lay upon the ground, and the white surface reflected the gentle morning light.
　 Genji walked quietly through the corridors.
　 He knew that Lady Murasaki might already be awake. Spending the first night of the New Year in another residence could easily cause disappointment.
　 When he entered her room, the atmosphere was calm but slightly cold.
　 Lady Murasaki sat near the window. The light of the early morning touched her face softly, but her expression was serious.
　 Genji tried to speak lightly.
　 “I must have slept more deeply than I expected,” he said with a small smile. “If someone had sent a message to call me earlier, I might have returned sooner.”
　 Lady Murasaki looked at him quietly.
　 She did not answer immediately.
　 Genji understood that she was not pleased.
　 The silence between them felt long.
　 At last she spoke gently.
　 “You seemed very comfortable where you were,” she said.
　 Her voice was calm, but the meaning was clear.
　 Genji felt slightly embarrassed.
　 He sat beside her.
　 “You know that the affairs of this house often require my attention,” he said carefully. “But my heart has not changed.”
　 Lady Murasaki looked away.
　 Though she understood his situation, small pains still touched her heart from time to time.
　 After a while the morning became busy.
　 The second day of the New Year had arrived, and a large banquet had been planned. Many important guests would gather at the Rokujo Mansion.
　 Servants hurried through the corridors preparing the rooms.
　 Soon nobles from many families began to arrive.
　 Princes, high ministers, and young court officials all came to attend the celebration. The house filled with bright colors and lively voices.
　 Musicians prepared their instruments.
　 The sound of flutes and drums rose gently into the winter air.
　 When Genji appeared among the guests, everyone felt his presence immediately.
　 Although many handsome and well-dressed nobles stood nearby, none seemed to shine as brightly as he did. His calm expression and graceful movements drew the attention of all.
　 Even the servants who followed their masters felt proud to enter such a splendid house.
　 The banquet continued until evening.
　 Music filled the hall, and dancers moved gracefully across the floor.
　 Outside the wind carried the scent of early plum blossoms from the garden.
　 Some of the women watched the celebration from behind screens. Their colorful sleeves appeared from the curtains like bright flowers.
　 The evening sky slowly darkened.
　 Later that night the house became quieter again.
　 Yet the celebrations of the New Year were not finished.
　 A special performance called the Men’s Toka dance would soon take place. This dance was performed by groups of young officials who moved from one great residence to another during the New Year.
　 They first performed at the imperial palace, then at the residence of the retired emperor. Finally they arrived at the Rokujo Mansion.
　 By the time they reached Genji’s house, the night had already begun to fade into early morning.
　 The moon shone brightly over the snowy garden.
　 The dancers entered the wide courtyard.
　 They wore simple robes with white layers beneath, and light cloth covered their heads against the cold. Though their clothing was not rich, the setting itself made the scene beautiful.
　 Music began.
　 Flutes and drums echoed across the quiet garden.
　 The young dancers moved together, singing songs that celebrated long life and good fortune.
　 Their voices were clear in the cold morning air.
　 Many women of the household gathered to watch from different parts of the mansion.
　 Lady Tamakazura came to the southern residence to see the performance. She spoke with Lady Murasaki while they watched through a curtain.
　 The moonlight and the pale glow of dawn mixed together above the snow.
　 The dancers sang a famous song called “Takekawa.”
　 Their movements were lively and strong. The young officials performed with great energy, proud to show their skill in such a noble place.
　 Among the dancers were Genji’s own son, the Middle Captain, and several sons of high ministers.
　 Their youth and beauty made the scene even more splendid.
　 As the eastern sky slowly grew bright, snow began to fall again.
　 The white flakes drifted down through the pale light of dawn.
　 The performance continued until morning fully arrived.
　 When the dancing ended, the guests received gifts and warm hospitality before leaving.
　 At last the celebration finished.
　 The women returned to their rooms.
　 Genji himself rested for a short time and then rose later in the morning.
　 Speaking with Lady Murasaki, he reflected on the young men who had performed.
　 “The voice of the Middle Captain was especially good,” he said. “In these days many young people show great talent in music and art.”
　 He smiled thoughtfully.
　 “I once believed that only serious study was important,” he continued. “But I have learned that a complete person must also understand beauty and music.”
　 Lady Murasaki listened quietly.
　 Genji then suggested another gathering.
　 “Since everyone has come together for the New Year,” he said, “we should hold a smaller musical performance here within our own house.”
　 Servants soon began preparing the instruments.
　 Beautiful koto and other musical instruments were brought from storage. The dust was carefully cleaned away, and the strings were tightened.
　 The women of the house felt excited at the thought of another elegant gathering.
　 The New Year celebrations at the Rokujo Mansion continued, filling the early days of spring with music, beauty, and the complex emotions of those who lived within its walls.

 
Chapter 24: Kochō (胡蝶)

Part 1

　 Late in the spring, after the middle of the third month, the gardens of the Rokujo Mansion became even more beautiful than before. Flowers of many kinds opened everywhere. Their colors filled the air with quiet brightness. Small birds flew among the branches, singing again and again as if they were pleased with the warm season.
　 The women of the mansion often walked slowly in the garden. They stood near the trees and looked closely at the blossoms. Some of them watched the pond from the veranda, listening to the sounds of birds and wind.
　 Prince Genji watched them from time to time.
　 “They must feel restless if they only look at the garden from a distance,” he thought.
　 Because of this he decided to arrange a special pleasure for them.
　 Some time earlier he had ordered a boat to be built in the Chinese style. It was a fine boat, long and beautiful, with decorations that looked different from the usual boats of the capital. Now Genji ordered that the boat be prepared quickly and placed upon the great pond in the southern garden.
　 On the first day the boat would be used, musicians from the court music office were invited. They came with their instruments to perform music upon the water.
　 Many high nobles also arrived to watch the event.
　 At this time the Empress had recently returned from the palace. During the previous autumn she had sent Genji a playful poem about waiting for spring. Now the season had come when such feelings could be answered.
　 However, the Empress could not easily come to Genji’s residence for a simple flower-viewing visit. Her position was too high for such a casual invitation.
　 Genji therefore arranged a different plan.
　 Young ladies who served the Empress would ride on the decorated boat. They would travel slowly across the pond so that the Empress could watch them from the opposite side of the garden.
　 On Genji’s side of the garden many young attendants gathered in the eastern fishing pavilion. They waited there with excitement.
　 The boat itself was very beautiful.
　 The front of the boat was shaped like the head of a dragon, and the back like the tail of a great bird. These decorations were made in the Chinese style.
　 The young boys who guided the boat had their hair tied above their ears. Their clothing also followed foreign fashion so that the entire scene looked like a distant country.
　 When the boat moved away from the shore and entered the wide center of the pond, the young women began to feel as if they were traveling in a far land.
　 “It feels like a journey to another world,” one of them said softly.
　 Many of them had never experienced such a thing before. Their eyes shone with wonder.
　 The boat moved slowly around the small island in the pond.
　 Near the island there were many rocks and small trees arranged in careful shapes. Seen from the boat, these rocks looked like the scenery of a painted picture.
　 Everywhere the trees were covered with blossoms.
　 The light spring mist softened the colors of the flowers so that the whole garden looked like bright silk spread across the land.
　 In the distance the buildings of the mansion could be seen clearly. On one shore graceful willow trees leaned over the water.
　 Their long branches moved gently in the wind.
　 Among them many flowering trees stood in full color.
　 In other places the cherry blossoms had already begun to fall, but in the gardens of the Rokujo Mansion they still appeared perfectly fresh.
　 The wisteria hanging along the corridor became deeper purple as the boat came closer.
　 Yellow kerria flowers shone beside the water.
　 Their reflections trembled softly on the surface of the pond.
　 Ducks swam together in pairs.
　 Some birds flew low across the water carrying small branches in their beaks.
　 Mandarin ducks moved slowly across the ripples, leaving delicate patterns in the waves.
　 The women on the boat looked everywhere with delight.
　 “I wish I could paint this scene,” one of them said.
　 Another replied, “It feels like a dream.”
　 The beauty of the place made them forget time.
　 They remained on the water so long that they felt almost as if they had entered the world of immortals in old stories, where people forget the passing of years.
　 While they traveled, several women began composing poems.
　 One said:
　 “Even the flowers of the waves show color in the wind. This must truly be the famous shore of the yellow blossoms.”
　 Another answered with her own poem.
　 “Perhaps the spring pond and the flowing river meet here, for even the bottom of the water shines with the scent of kerria flowers.”
　 Another laughed and said:
　 “Let me grow old inside this boat and leave my name here forever.”
　 The others enjoyed hearing each new poem.
　 One more woman spoke gently.
　 “Our boat moves quietly in the bright spring day. Even the drops of water from the pole fall like petals.”
　 While they were still enjoying themselves, evening slowly approached.
　 From far away the sound of music drifted across the water.
　 The musicians had begun to play a piece called “Kojo.”
　 The sound moved over the waves and reached the boat.
　 The young women listened in delight.
　 At last the boat returned to the shore.
　 The travelers stepped out and entered the fishing pavilion that had been prepared as a resting place.
　 The room inside was decorated simply but with great elegance.
　 Many beautiful young attendants waited there wearing colorful robes.
　 Their appearance was almost as lovely as the flowers outside.
　 Soon music began again.
　 Several noble young men who had been specially chosen performed elegant dances.
　 The women watched with great pleasure.
　 Night finally arrived.
　 Genji felt regret that the day had ended so quickly.
　 “Let the celebration continue,” he said.
　 Torches were lit in the garden.
　 Musicians were invited to play again near the mossy steps below the hall.
　 Noble princes and high officials gathered together with professional musicians. Soon a great orchestra began to play.
　 The sound of flutes rose first.
　 Then string instruments joined them.
　 The singers began a song called “Anato.”
　 The music filled the spring night.
　 Even common people standing outside the gates stopped to listen.
　 They felt joy simply hearing the beautiful music from the great mansion.
　 Throughout the night the music continued under the spring sky.

Part 2

　 The music continued through the night. The sound of flutes rose and fell like the wind moving over water. String instruments answered them with deep and shining tones. Sometimes the voices of the singers joined the music, and sometimes only the instruments could be heard.
　 The night sky above the Rokujo Mansion was calm.
　 Thin clouds moved slowly across the moon.
　 The people gathered there felt as if the whole world had become gentle and bright.
　 The music changed from one style to another. When the musicians shifted from one mode to the next, they played a piece called Kishunraku. The music felt lively and warm, as if it welcomed the joy of spring.
　 Among the guests was the Prince of Hyobu.
　 He had drunk a great deal of wine that night. A branch of wisteria flowers was placed in his hair like a decoration. His appearance was slightly wild, but also elegant in its own way.
　 He laughed often and spoke freely with those around him.
　 Genji watched him with a quiet smile.
　 The prince had recently lost the woman who had long lived with him. For several years he had lived alone. Because of this he had begun to think seriously about marriage again.
　 Now his thoughts had turned toward Tamakazura.
　 That night his feelings became even stronger.
　 When the wine cup came around again, the prince lifted his hand but then stopped.
　 “If I had no hope in my heart,” he said, “I would run away from this place. I cannot drink any more.”
　 The guests around him laughed.
　 Then the prince spoke a poem.
　 “Because my heart is held by purple love, it would be sad if I had to throw myself into the deep water.”
　 Everyone understood the meaning.
　 He was speaking about Tamakazura.
　 The prince turned toward Genji and said with a playful voice,
　 “You are like an older brother to me. Please help me.”
　 Then he passed the wine cup to Genji.
　 Genji smiled brightly.
　 He answered with a poem of his own.
　 “Why should anyone throw himself into deep water? In this spring it is better to remain near the flowers and enjoy their beauty.”
　 The guests laughed again.
　 Even though Genji spoke lightly, he did not let the prince leave early. The celebration continued.
　 When morning slowly approached, the sky turned pale.
　 The music still flowed through the air.
　 Birds in the garden began to sing.
　 Their voices mixed with the last notes of the instruments.
　 The long night of music finally ended.
　 Some of the guests rested for a short time in nearby rooms. Others prepared to leave.
　 That same day the Empress would begin a religious ceremony. Monks would read sacred texts at her residence.
　 Because of this, many of the nobles who had spent the night at Rokujo Mansion changed into formal clothing and prepared to go to her palace.
　 By noon the nobles had gathered there.
　 The Empress now held a very high and respected position. Genji’s great influence supported her power, and the officials of the court showed her deep respect.
　 On that day beautiful flowers were brought to the Buddhist altar.
　 The idea for this offering had come from Lady Murasaki.
　 Eight young girls had been chosen for the ceremony.
　 They were dressed in special costumes shaped like birds and butterflies.
　 The girls who represented birds carried silver vases filled with cherry blossoms.
　 The girls who represented butterflies carried golden vases filled with yellow kerria flowers.
　 The blossoms chosen for the ceremony were unusually beautiful.
　 When the boat carrying the flower girls moved across the pond toward the Empress’s residence, a gentle wind rose.
　 Some of the cherry blossoms fell softly onto the water.
　 The scene looked like a painting.
　 Through the soft spring haze the boat appeared slowly, carrying the girls with their flowers.
　 It was a graceful sight.
　 Music was played from a nearby corridor, which had been arranged like a music hall.
　 The young girls walked down the steps and presented the flowers.
　 Noble young men who assisted in the ceremony carried the flowers to the altar and placed them before the Buddha.
　 Lady Murasaki had also sent a letter.
　 The letter was carried by her son, the young Captain.
　 In the letter she wrote a poem:
　 “Even the butterflies from the flower garden may seem unwelcome to the autumn insects hiding below the grass.”
　 The Empress smiled when she read the poem.
　 She remembered the poem she had sent the previous autumn about the red leaves.
　 The young women who had been invited to the earlier celebration admitted that spring had defeated them. They could no longer say that autumn was better.
　 The air was filled with many sounds.
　 The singing of birds.
　 The gentle voices of the musicians.
　 The cries of water birds moving across the pond.
　 When the music ended with a lively final rhythm, the whole scene felt joyful.
　 The girls dressed as butterflies moved lightly across the ground.
　 They seemed to fly among the yellow kerria flowers that grew beneath the fence.
　 The Empress rewarded the girls for their service.
　 Each received gifts of beautiful clothing.
　 The girls dressed as birds received robes colored like cherry blossoms.
　 The butterfly girls received robes colored like yellow kerria.
　 Musicians also received gifts.
　 Some were given white robes, others rolls of fine silk.
　 The young Captain who had brought the letter received an elegant robe decorated with wisteria.
　 The Empress then sent a reply.
　 In her letter she wrote that the previous day’s celebration had made her almost cry with envy.
　 She added a poem.
　 “If my heart had been free, I would have followed the butterflies and crossed the fence of yellow blossoms.”
　 Though the ladies of the court were noble and refined, their poems were not always as skillful as their other accomplishments.
　 Still, the exchange of poems gave great pleasure to everyone.
　 At Rokujo Mansion such elegant entertainments happened often.
　 Because of this the women who lived there felt fortunate.
　 Letters passed frequently between the different residences.
　 Friendships grew stronger with every message.
　 Among those who now wrote letters was Tamakazura.
　 Since the festival dance earlier that year, she had begun sending letters to Lady Murasaki.
　 Her character was gentle and sincere.
　 Both Lady Murasaki and Lady Hanachirusato came to feel deep affection for her.
　 At the same time many men had begun to seek her hand in marriage.
　 Genji knew this very well.
　 Yet he could not easily decide what should happen next.
　 Sometimes he even thought about informing Tamakazura’s real father that his daughter had been found.
　 But he hesitated.
　 The matter was complicated.

Part 3

　 As the days of early summer approached, the air around the Rokujo Mansion grew softer and warmer. The sky seemed wider, and the light of the sun felt gentle rather than strong. In the gardens young leaves appeared everywhere. Maple trees spread their fresh green branches, and the smell of growing plants filled the air.
　 Prince Genji had much free time during this season.
　 Because of this he often visited the western residence where Tamakazura lived.
　 Many letters from noble men had begun to arrive there.
　 Genji found these letters interesting.
　 Sometimes he would sit down and read them one by one.
　 Tamakazura felt very embarrassed when he did this.
　 Some of the letters were full of passion.
　 Others were careful and polite.
　 A few were even playful.
　 Genji sometimes laughed softly as he read them.
　 “This man writes with great effort,” he said once. “You should send him a reply.”
　 Tamakazura lowered her eyes.
　 “I do not know what to say,” she answered quietly.
　 Genji smiled.
　 “You should not remain silent forever,” he said. “A gentle reply can calm a man’s heart.”
　 Tamakazura felt troubled by such advice.
　 She had never been part of such matters before.
　 Among the letters was one from the Prince of Hyobu.
　 His letter was long and full of complaint.
　 When Genji found it among the others, he began to laugh.
　 “This prince and I have been close friends since we were young,” Genji said. “Yet he never spoke to me about love affairs before. Now I hear his complaints about love, and I feel both amused and sorry.”
　 He looked at Tamakazura kindly.
　 “You should answer him,” Genji continued. “A woman should not ignore a man of such rank.”
　 Tamakazura remained silent.
　 Genji continued speaking, almost as if he were teaching a lesson.
　 “When men write letters of love,” he said, “a woman should consider them carefully. If she answers kindly, the man may remain calm. If she answers too quickly, people may think she is careless. But if she never answers, a man’s feelings may grow wild.”
　 Tamakazura listened quietly.
　 Genji then called Ukon to come closer.
　 “You must help her with these matters,” he said. “Watch the letters carefully. Decide which ones deserve replies.”
　 Ukon bowed.
　 “We have already been careful,” she said. “Only the letters that have come many times are kept. Most others are not even delivered.”
　 Genji nodded.
　 As he continued looking through the letters, one caught his attention.
　 It was written on thin blue paper with a strong scent of perfume.
　 The letter had been tied carefully with a delicate knot.
　 Genji opened it slowly.
　 Inside was a poem written in beautiful handwriting.
　 “Even if my heart is full of love, you cannot see its color. Like water hidden inside the rocks, my feelings remain unseen.”
　 Genji looked up.
　 “Who sent this?” he asked.
　 Tamakazura did not answer.
　 Genji turned toward Ukon again.
　 Ukon explained.
　 “The young captain from the house of the Minister of the Right sent it. A servant who knew one of our attendants brought the letter.”
　 Genji smiled.
　 “It is a charming letter,” he said.
　 He held the paper in his hand for a moment longer.
　 Then he turned again toward Tamakazura.
　 His voice became more serious.
　 “Your future must be decided carefully,” he said. “Marriage is not a small matter. A woman should not give her heart too easily.”
　 Tamakazura sat quietly.
　 She felt both grateful and confused.
　 Genji continued.
　 “The Prince of Hyobu is a noble man, but he is known to enjoy the company of many women. A woman who marries him must have patience.”
　 He paused before speaking again.
　 “The Right General also seeks your hand. Yet his life is already complicated.”
　 Tamakazura listened silently.
　 She did not know what answer to give.
　 At last she spoke softly.
　 “Since I was a child I have never known what it means to have parents,” she said. “I do not understand what a father’s love is like.”
　 Genji felt moved by her words.
　 “Then trust the one who has cared for you,” he said gently.
　 Tamakazura lowered her head.
　 She did trust Genji.
　 Yet she also felt uncertain about her own future.
　 As Genji watched her quiet expression, he felt a strange warmth in his heart.
　 Her beauty reminded him strongly of her mother, the woman he had once loved deeply.
　 One evening he came again to visit her.
　 The garden outside was peaceful.
　 Young bamboo grew beside the veranda. Their green leaves moved softly in the wind.
　 Genji stopped and looked at them.
　 Then he spoke a poem.
　 “The bamboo planted long ago has grown deep roots. Will its shoots grow apart from one another through the years?”
　 Tamakazura answered with a quiet voice.
　 “If we search for the roots now, we may find only disappointment.”
　 Genji felt touched by her words.
　 He began speaking more openly.
　 His voice became softer.
　 “When I look at you,” he said, “I often feel as if I see your mother again.”
　 His eyes grew wet with tears.
　 Tamakazura listened in silence.
　 Genji picked up a small orange from a nearby box of fruit.
　 Holding it gently, he spoke another poem.
　 “When I hold this fruit near my sleeve, its scent returns memories of the past.”
　 He looked at her again.
　 “Please care for me,” he said quietly.
　 Then he reached out and took her hand.
　 Tamakazura felt frightened.
　 She had never been treated this way before.
　 Her heart began to beat quickly.
　 She answered with a poem of her own.
　 “Even the scent of the orange may fade if it is carried too far from its tree.”
　 Her voice trembled slightly.
　 Genji understood her fear.
　 For a moment he remained silent.
　 Then he spoke again.
　 “Do not fear me,” he said gently. “I will not harm you.”
　 Still, his heart was full of confused feelings.
　 He lay beside her for a short time, speaking softly about love and memory.
　 Tamakazura felt deep sadness.
　 She wondered what people would say if they knew.
　 Tears quietly filled her eyes.
　 Seeing her pain, Genji finally rose.
　 “Please do not hate me,” he said softly before leaving.
　 Tamakazura remained alone in the quiet room.
　 She felt as if her fate had become even more uncertain.
　 Outside, the night wind moved gently through the bamboo leaves.
　 In the great Rokujo Mansion the lives of many people continued to move together, filled with beauty, joy, and hidden sorrow.

 
Chapter 25: Hotaru (螢)

Part 1

　 It was early summer in the great residence of Genji. His life had become calmer than before. In earlier years he had been busy with many duties at court. Now his position was still high and respected, but the pressure of daily work was lighter. Because of this, his days passed with more quiet and comfort. The women who depended on him also lived more peacefully. Each of them had a place in the wide and beautiful houses of the Rokujo estate.
　 Yet one woman there did not feel peace. This was Tamakazura. Outwardly she lived in comfort and safety, but in her heart she carried worry and pain. No one around her clearly understood how troubled she was. Even the women who served her could not see the true cause of her sadness.
　 If her mother had still been alive, Tamakazura sometimes thought, things might have been different. She might have had someone who understood her heart. But that hope was gone forever. The memory of her mother only made her loneliness stronger.
　 Genji himself was also restless in his feelings toward her. After he had revealed certain thoughts to her, his longing had only grown stronger. However, he was careful. He knew that people were always watching. Because of this he did not openly speak again about what he had said before. Still, his feelings did not disappear.
　 From time to time he visited Tamakazura. When he came to see her, he behaved in a calm and natural way. But when only a few attendants were nearby, he sometimes spoke in a tone that made her suddenly uneasy.
　 Tamakazura could not openly refuse him. Such direct rejection would have been difficult and dangerous. Instead she pretended not to notice the deeper meaning of his words. She acted as if she had misunderstood him. Her nature was bright and gentle, and her behavior always carried a soft charm. Even when she was serious, a natural grace appeared in her expressions and movements.
　 This charm did not go unnoticed.
　 Among the men who had begun to admire her was the Prince Hyōbukyō. From the moment he saw her and heard about her beauty, his interest had grown stronger and stronger. His feelings soon became deep love.
　 The time that had passed since he began to admire her was not very long. Still, he had already written many letters. Yet Tamakazura had never given him a clear answer.
　 Now the fifth month had come. The prince began to feel impatient. One day he wrote a letter in which he spoke more openly than before. In the letter he wrote that if he could only come a little closer and speak to her directly, he might be able to express the pain in his heart. Even if nothing else happened, he wished at least to share his feelings once.
　 When Genji read the letter, he smiled slightly.
　 “Well,” he said, “that would not be a bad idea. A man like the prince is known for his elegant taste. A meeting might be interesting. There is no need to forbid it completely.”
　 He even began to explain how Tamakazura should answer the letter. He suggested phrases and ways of writing.
　 But Tamakazura felt deep discomfort.
　 “I cannot write such a letter,” she said quietly. “My heart is troubled. I do not wish to answer him.”
　 Among her attendants there were not many women from noble families. Most of them were ordinary women without special learning. However, one woman named Saishō no Kimi was different. She was intelligent and wrote beautiful calligraphy. She had once fallen into difficult circumstances, but Genji had discovered her and brought her to serve Tamakazura.
　 Because of her skill with writing, Tamakazura sometimes asked her to write replies to letters from men.
　 Now Genji called Saishō no Kimi to him. He spoke slowly and dictated the reply that should be sent to the prince.
　 While she wrote, Genji watched Tamakazura closely. He wanted to see her reaction.
　 Ever since Genji had whispered his own feelings to her, Tamakazura had begun to look at the prince’s letters with a certain interest. It was not that she loved the prince. Rather, she thought that if she appeared to accept his attention, it might help her escape Genji’s troubling affection.
　 This was a careful and clever thought.
　 The prince, however, did not know that Genji himself was encouraging the meeting. When he received the reply allowing him to visit, he felt great joy. Trying not to attract attention, he came quietly to the residence.
　 A room had been prepared. A thick curtain stood between the place where the prince would sit and the place where Tamakazura would remain. This was proper for such a meeting.
　 The air of the room was filled with gentle fragrance. Fine incense burned softly. Genji himself had arranged these details with great care. He placed the cushions and curtains so that everything looked elegant and mysterious.
　 To someone who did not know the truth, Genji might have seemed like a careful father arranging a meeting for his daughter.
　 But his heart was not that of a father.
　 Saishō no Kimi felt nervous about serving as messenger between the two. She even tried to hide herself from the room. But Genji silently called her forward again.
　 Evening slowly deepened outside.
　 The sky was cloudy and dark behind the prince as he entered. His appearance was calm and refined. His movements were graceful. The fragrance from the inner rooms mixed with the perfume from Genji’s clothing, filling the air around the prince.
　 The prince felt that the woman behind the curtain must possess great beauty and dignity. His words were gentle and thoughtful. He did not speak with wild passion. Instead his tone was quiet and sincere.
　 Genji listened with interest.
　 Meanwhile Tamakazura had withdrawn to a side room. She lay quietly there, unsure what she should do.
　 When Saishō no Kimi came to bring the prince’s words, Genji gave her instructions.
　 “This is too stiff,” he said softly. “You must respond in a more natural way. It is not suitable to behave like a shy young girl. With a man like the prince, it is better to speak a little more directly. Even if you hide your voice, you should come closer.”
　 Tamakazura felt completely troubled. Yet she also feared that if she remained where she was, Genji himself might come closer to her.
　 At last she moved to the central room and leaned quietly beside the curtain.
　 At that moment Genji suddenly approached.
　 He lifted one thin layer of the curtain. At the same time a strange light filled the space.
　 Tamakazura started in surprise.
　 Earlier that evening Genji had secretly prepared many fireflies. They had been wrapped in thin paper and hidden inside his sleeve. Now he released them into the room.
　 In an instant soft green lights floated in the darkness.
　 The sudden glow surrounded Tamakazura. She quickly lifted her fan to hide her face. In the moving light her figure appeared delicate and beautiful.
　 Genji had planned everything carefully.
　 He thought that if the prince saw her clearly even for a moment, his passion would grow stronger. Until now the prince had only imagined her beauty. Now he would see it with his own eyes.
　 Having done this, Genji quietly left the room through another door.
　 The prince looked through the curtain. The strange light of the fireflies slowly faded, but for a brief moment he had seen her form clearly.
　 The effect was powerful.
　 His heart was deeply moved.
　 Genji’s plan had succeeded.

Part 2

　 The light of the fireflies slowly faded. The room again became quiet and dim. Yet the short moment of shining light had already left a deep impression in the prince’s heart. Even though he had seen Tamakazura only for an instant, the image of her figure remained clearly in his mind. Her graceful shape, the gentle movement as she lifted her fan to hide her face, and the soft glow around her had created a memory he could not forget.
　 The prince sat still for a moment. His heart was beating quickly. He had expected to meet a beautiful woman, but what he had seen seemed even more refined than he had imagined. The strange beauty of the fireflies had made the moment feel almost like a dream.
　 Then he spoke again.
　 His voice was calm, but his feeling was strong. He recited a poem, his words soft in the quiet room.
　 “Even if a small insect makes no sound,” he said, “the feeling in its heart does not disappear just because someone tries to put out its light.”
　 His poem spoke of silent love that could not easily be extinguished.
　 Tamakazura listened behind the curtain. She understood the meaning of his words. The prince was saying that even if she ignored him, his love would still remain.
　 She did not wish to appear rude. At the same time she did not want to encourage him too much. She therefore answered quickly, without thinking long.
　 Her voice was gentle.
　 “A firefly burns its body silently,” she said. “It speaks more strongly than words.”
　 After saying this short poem, she quietly withdrew again into the deeper room.
　 The prince felt both hope and disappointment. Her reply had not rejected him, yet she had not warmly welcomed him either. Her behavior remained distant and careful.
　 He continued to speak for a while, expressing his feelings and his admiration. But Tamakazura answered only briefly. Her tone remained polite but cool.
　 At last the prince realized that he should not remain too long. He did not wish to appear overly passionate or foolish.
　 The night air outside had grown damp and cold. Drops of water fell slowly from the edge of the roof. The prince stepped outside and prepared to leave.
　 Before dawn he returned quietly to his own residence.
　 The women of Tamakazura’s household soon began talking about the visitor. Many of them had admired the prince’s elegant appearance.
　 “He resembles Lord Genji,” some of them said. “His manner is refined and graceful.”
　 They also spoke with admiration about Genji’s careful preparation of the meeting. They believed he had arranged everything with the loving attention of a parent.
　 None of them understood Tamakazura’s true suffering.
　 Alone in her room, Tamakazura thought deeply about her situation. She believed that Genji’s love for her was a sign of her unfortunate fate. If he had simply remained her guardian, her life would have been peaceful. But now the relationship between them had become troubled.
　 Since her real father had recognized her as his daughter, Genji was now considered like a father to her. Because of this, any love between them would bring terrible shame and scandal.
　 Even so, Genji himself did not truly wish to force such an improper relationship. His nature simply made him easily moved by love. His feelings sometimes grew warm without his own clear intention.
　 Tamakazura’s gentle character and bright charm only made it harder for him to keep his heart calm.
　 Still, he tried to control himself.
　 Several days later, on the fifth day of the month, Genji visited Tamakazura again while passing through the grounds.
　 He spoke lightly about the prince’s visit.
　 “How was he?” Genji asked with a smile. “Did he remain long? We must not allow him to come too close. That man can be dangerous. Few lovers are content with gentle admiration alone.”
　 While speaking in this half-serious tone, Genji looked as young and beautiful as ever. His clothing shone softly with fine colors. Over his elegant robe he wore a thin outer garment that moved lightly with the air.
　 Tamakazura looked at him and thought quietly that if she did not carry such heavy worries in her heart, his beauty would surely give her simple pleasure.
　 At that moment a letter arrived from the prince.
　 It was written on thin white paper with very fine handwriting. The letter itself was beautiful to look at. Yet once the writer had finished, the paper would become only an ordinary object again.
　 With the letter came a long root of iris, tied carefully as a sign of the season.
　 The poem in the letter spoke of hidden tears and lonely feelings.
　 Genji encouraged her to reply.
　 “You should answer him today,” he said.
　 Then he left.
　 The women around Tamakazura also urged her to write back. After some hesitation, she finally felt willing to answer. She took up her brush and wrote a short poem.
　 Her words suggested that the prince’s tears seemed shallow, even though he spoke so much of sorrow.
　 She added only a few quiet words in the style of a young woman.
　 When the prince later read the reply, he admired the handwriting but thought that it might have been even stronger and more impressive.
　 That day was also a festive time in the residence. Beautiful decorations and protective charms arrived from many places. These small celebrations reminded Tamakazura of the difference between her unhappy past and her present life.
　 Yet even now she hoped for one thing above all: that she might live without bringing shame upon herself.
　 Meanwhile Genji visited another residence in the estate, where Lady Hanachirusato lived.
　 He spoke with her about preparations for an event that would soon take place. A game and competition at the riding grounds would bring many young nobles together.
　 “Several princes will come,” Genji said. “It will be a good occasion. Many people will gather in the eastern pavilion, so everything should be prepared.”
　 The women were pleased. From the corridors they would be able to watch the event.
　 Soon the buildings were decorated with bright curtains and elegant screens. Young attendants moved back and forth, wearing colorful clothing suited to the season.
　 When the afternoon arrived, the riding competition began.
　 The young men rode quickly across the field. Music filled the air, and cheers rose each time a team won a point. The excitement continued until evening darkness made it difficult to see.
　 Late at night the guests finally departed.
　 Genji remained at Hanachirusato’s residence. The two spoke quietly together for a long time.
　 They discussed the various men who had appeared at the event.
　 “Prince Hyōbukyō seems very refined,” Genji said. “His appearance is not extraordinary, but his manner is elegant.”
　 Hanachirusato offered her own thoughtful opinions about the noblemen she had observed.
　 Genji listened with a gentle smile.
　 When the conversation ended, the two prepared to sleep in separate places within the same room.
　 As Genji lay quietly, he wondered when their relationship had become so distant.
　 Outside, the long rainy season continued.
　 The days passed slowly in the great residence.
　 During these quiet weeks many of the women spent their time copying pictures and stories from old books. Tamakazura also became deeply interested in reading and writing such tales.
　 One day Genji saw many storybooks scattered around the rooms. He laughed and spoke playfully.
　 “Women seem to enjoy being deceived by stories,” he said. “Most of these tales must be lies, yet people still become deeply absorbed in them.”
　 Tamakazura smiled slightly as she listened.
　 And soon a long discussion began between them about the nature of stories themselves.

Part 3

　 The rainy season continued. Day after day the sky remained gray, and the air inside the wide buildings of the Rokujo estate felt quiet and slow. Because people could not easily go outside, many of the women spent their time reading and copying old stories. Beautiful paper, ink, and brushes were placed before them. Some women carefully copied the words of famous tales. Others drew pictures from the stories.
　 Tamakazura also passed many hours in this way. She enjoyed reading the tales that spoke of the strange lives of women. In these stories there were many examples of sorrow and happiness, love and separation. Some women in the tales were born in high rank and lived happily. Others suffered through difficult fate.
　 When Tamakazura read such stories, she sometimes felt that her own life was even stranger than the stories themselves. There were many surprising events written in the tales, but she had already experienced things that seemed just as unusual.
　 Sometimes she read about a young woman whose life suddenly fell into danger. In one story a noble lady was almost forced to marry a man of low rank. When Tamakazura read such a part, she remembered the frightening man who had once tried to claim her. The memory still made her uneasy.
　 One day Genji walked through the rooms and saw books and papers spread everywhere.
　 He laughed gently.
　 “This is troublesome,” he said. “Women are always ready to believe stories. These tales are mostly lies. Only a small part of them is true. Yet people become so deeply involved in them that they forget the real world.”
　 He watched the women who were copying the stories. Some of them were so absorbed in their work that they did not even notice their hair falling loose around their shoulders.
　 “Still,” Genji continued, smiling, “without such stories the days would feel long and dull. When we read about the sadness of a lovely young lady, even if we know it is fiction, our hearts are moved. Sometimes we see something that feels true. At other times the writer clearly exaggerates, yet we are still drawn into the tale.”
　 Tamakazura listened quietly.
　 “Perhaps,” she answered softly, “the people who write such stories are simply used to telling lies. But even so, the events feel real to those who read them.”
　 As she spoke, she gently pushed her inkstone closer, ready to continue her copying.
　 Genji laughed again.
　 “I spoke badly of stories,” he said, “but perhaps I was wrong. Since ancient times many events have happened in this world. The official histories record only a small part of them. Perhaps the true history of people’s hearts remains inside these stories.”
　 He sat down near Tamakazura and spoke more seriously.
　 “When someone sees something beautiful or something terrible,” he said, “that person wishes to tell others about it. Some things are too strong to keep only in one’s own heart. So people write them down. They describe good people and bad people. They make one side appear very noble, and another side very foolish. In this way stories are born.”
　 He paused for a moment.
　 “The events in these tales are not completely false,” he continued. “They contain the same virtues and faults that exist in all human beings. If we think about them that way, stories may have their own kind of truth.”
　 Tamakazura listened with interest.
　 Genji then smiled in a playful way.
　 “Still,” he said, “have you ever read a story that contains a man as honest and foolish as I am? Or a lady as cold and distant as you are toward a man who loves her?”
　 He moved closer and whispered softly.
　 “Perhaps we should create a new story. In that story, you and I would break the usual pattern.”
　 Tamakazura quickly lowered her face. She pulled the edge of her robe close around her neck.
　 “There is no need to make such a story,” she replied quietly. “What has already happened is strange enough. If people hear about it, they will talk about it everywhere.”
　 Genji smiled.
　 “You think it is unusual?” he said. “Yes, my heart is always drawn to unusual things.”
　 He moved a little closer as he spoke these teasing words.
　 After a moment he recited a poem.
　 “I searched for traces of the past,” he said, “but nowhere have I seen a child who refuses the heart of a parent.”
　 His meaning was clear. He suggested that Tamakazura was turning away from someone who cared deeply for her.
　 Tamakazura remained silent for a moment. She did not raise her face. At last she answered with a quiet poem of her own.
　 “Even if I search the past,” she said softly, “I cannot find a parent with a heart like this.”
　 Her words gently resisted his suggestion.
　 Genji suddenly felt a little embarrassed. After that he did not continue his teasing.
　 For a short time he simply stroked her hair and spoke with quiet complaint. Then the conversation ended.
　 Their strange relationship remained uncertain.
　 Meanwhile Lady Murasaki was also collecting stories. She wished to gather the best tales for the young princess who lived with her. One day she held a book that contained pictures from an old story.
　 “This picture is beautifully drawn,” she said while looking at it carefully.
　 Nearby the little princess slept peacefully during her daytime rest. Lady Murasaki looked at the child and remembered her own younger days.
　 Genji also spoke to her about the stories.
　 “We should be careful,” he said. “Young girls should not hear stories that describe romantic love too early. If they learn such things too soon, they may believe that such behavior is natural.”
　 Lady Murasaki agreed. She chose carefully which stories would be copied and shown to the child. She avoided tales that described cruel stepmothers or dangerous love affairs.
　 Genji himself was very careful in raising the young princess. He wished her to become a perfect woman, gentle and wise.
　 The young prince, who was her brother, was allowed to visit her rooms. Genji believed that it was good for the two children to grow close as brother and sister. In the future they would rely on each other.
　 The prince was calm and thoughtful. Because of this, Genji trusted him.
　 When the children played together with dolls and small toys, the prince sometimes remembered the girl he truly loved, Kumoi no Kari. Thinking of her made his heart heavy, yet he continued to behave with dignity.
　 In another part of the capital, the Minister of the Right often thought about a lost daughter. Many years before, the child had disappeared with her mother. Since then he had never found her again.
　 Sometimes he spoke about this to his sons.
　 “If you ever hear of a young woman who might be my daughter,” he said, “tell me at once. Her mother was not an unimportant woman. I truly loved her.”
　 Recently he had even dreamed about the missing girl. When he asked a dream interpreter about it, the man suggested that news about the child might soon appear.
　 The minister began to speak about the matter more often.
　 And somewhere within the capital, the young woman he searched for was living quietly.
　 That woman was Tamakazura.

 
Chapter 26: Tokonatsu (常夏)

Part 1

　It was a day of strong summer heat. The sun burned high in the sky, and the air seemed heavy and still. On such a day, Genji went out to the eastern fishing pavilion of his residence so that he might enjoy a little cool air near the water. The pavilion stood beside the garden pond, where the wind could sometimes pass more freely than in the deep halls of the palace buildings.
　His son, the Middle Captain, was with him. Several close court officials were also sitting nearby. They were relaxed and dressed lightly for the heat. Before them were fresh fish from the rivers. There were sweetfish from the Katsura River and stonefish from the Kamo River. Servants prepared the fish on the spot, and the young men enjoyed watching the cooking before tasting the food.
　As they talked and waited, more visitors arrived. These were the sons of the Minister of the Right. They had come to visit the Middle Captain, but when Genji saw them he greeted them warmly.
　“You have arrived at just the right time,” Genji said with a smile. “I was beginning to feel lonely and sleepy. Your visit has saved us from great boredom.”
　He ordered sake to be brought at once. Bowls of chilled water and simple cold rice were also served. The young men laughed and ate eagerly. They were cheerful, and the summer heat seemed to trouble them less than it troubled Genji.
　A breeze moved through the open pavilion and touched the surface of the water. For a short time the air felt pleasant. Yet when the sun began to move toward the west, the heat grew heavy again. Even the sound of the cicadas seemed to carry waves of hot air.
　Genji sighed softly.
　“This heat is so strong that even the cool water has lost its value,” he said. “I must give up. I will rest for a while.”
　He lay down on one side, stretching his body slightly.
　After a moment he spoke again.
　“At times like this, one does not feel like listening to music. Yet doing nothing is also dull. It must be very hard for those who must go to court and perform their duties today. They cannot even loosen their belts or cords.”
　The young men laughed quietly.
　“Here in my house,” Genji continued, “we need not behave so strictly. Let us relax. Why not talk freely about something interesting? Does anyone know a strange story or a new rumor that might wake us from this sleepiness?”
　But none of the young courtiers answered. They sat with their backs against the cool railing and looked out toward the garden. The light wind moved the leaves of the trees. Beyond them the sound of insects rose in the hot afternoon air.
　At last Genji turned toward the young assistant counselor known as Ben no Shōshō.
　“Someone told me something recently,” Genji said. “I cannot remember who it was. They said that your father, the Minister of the Right, has recently brought home a daughter who was born somewhere outside his household. Is that story true?”
　The young man bowed slightly before answering.
　“It is not as great a matter as people say,” he replied. “This spring the Minister consulted a dream diviner. After that, a woman appeared and claimed to have a connection with our family. My elder brother, the Middle Captain, examined the matter. In the end the girl was brought to our house. But I do not know the details very well.”
　He smiled a little with embarrassment.
　“Still, it has certainly become a subject of gossip. Perhaps the dignity of the Minister has suffered somewhat.”
　Genji listened and nodded slowly.
　“So it is true,” he said.
　He laughed quietly.
　“When one searches even for a single stray goose that has left its flock, perhaps that search becomes a little greedy. In my own house I have very few daughters. If someone like that appeared, I might be glad to find her. Yet strangely, no one ever comes to claim such a connection with me.”
　The young men laughed softly.
　“Still,” Genji continued, “even if the situation causes trouble, she must still be the Minister’s daughter. When a man is young he may form many careless love affairs. The moon reflected in water that is not clear cannot remain perfectly bright.”
　He spoke with a playful smile.
　His own son, the Left Middle Captain, knew more of the true story, and he could not help smiling as well. But Ben no Shōshō and the courtier Tō no Jijū looked somewhat uncomfortable.
　Genji noticed this and laughed again.
　“Come now,” he said to his son. “Why do you not simply gather the fallen leaves instead? If you cannot win the heart of one sister, you might at least be satisfied with another.”
　The tone of his voice was teasing, but there was also a quiet meaning behind it.
　In truth, Genji and the Minister of the Right were generally good friends. Yet for many years there had been a slight distance between them. Their characters were different, and from time to time small feelings of rivalry appeared.
　Recently Genji had been especially displeased by the Minister’s attitude toward the young Middle Captain, who had suffered disappointment in love. Because of this, Genji sometimes spoke with a little sharpness when the Minister’s name was mentioned.
　As evening slowly approached, the air became cooler. A gentle wind passed over the garden pond. The young nobles did not wish to leave the pleasant place.
　Genji rose at last.
　“Stay and enjoy the cool air if you wish,” he said. “I fear I have become an old man whom young people avoid.”
　Saying this lightly, he began to walk toward the western wing of the residence.
　The young men followed him respectfully to see him off.
　The light of evening was now faint and soft. In the dimness it was difficult to tell one courtier from another, for they all wore similar robes.
　When they reached a place where someone inside the building could see outside, Genji quietly spoke to Tamakazura.
　“Come a little closer,” he said softly. “Stand where you can see the garden.”
　Tamakazura obeyed him and looked out.
　Genji pointed toward the young nobles.
　“Those are the young men I mentioned earlier,” he said. “The Captain did not bring them to you because he is too serious. Yet their curiosity is great. They would run here eagerly if they could.”
　He laughed quietly.
　“Among them there is not one who is completely indifferent to you. Even the daughter of a simple house attracts the interest of young men. And people always imagine my household to be grander than it truly is.”
　Tamakazura listened silently.
　“Until now,” Genji continued, “the ladies of the Rokujō estate were too high in rank for these young men to dream about. But now that you are here, all their attention gathers toward you. It might be amusing to observe their hearts from a distance and see whose love is deep and whose is shallow.”
　He spoke these words in a low voice beside her.
　In the garden before them there was a flower bed filled with pink dianthus blossoms. Only this single flower had been planted there. There were both Chinese and Yamato varieties, each carefully chosen for its beauty.
　The flowers glowed softly in the evening light.
　The young nobles walked near the flower bed. Some stopped for a moment, as if their hearts had been caught by the sight.
　Genji watched them quietly.
　“They are all fine young officials,” he said. “Their manners are good and their appearance has few faults. The Right Middle Captain is not here today, but he is older and especially elegant.”
　He glanced at Tamakazura.
　“Tell me,” he asked gently, “does he still send letters to you? You must not treat him with cold scorn.”
　Tamakazura lowered her eyes, and the soft evening wind moved through the garden.

Part 2

　Tamakazura lowered her eyes and did not answer at once. The evening air moved softly through the garden, and the pink blossoms of the dianthus swayed gently beside the low hedge. The young nobles still walked slowly among the flowers. Some paused to look more closely, and others spoke quietly together. From a distance their voices sounded calm and pleasant.
　Genji watched them with thoughtful eyes.
　“Among them,” he continued, “the Middle Captain from the Minamoto family stands out most clearly. His appearance has a natural grace. Even from far away one can see it.”
　He spoke in a calm voice, yet there was a slight seriousness in his expression.
　“The Minister of the Right does not wish to see his daughter united with the Middle Captain,” Genji said quietly. “That must be difficult for him. After all, they were born of the same noble family line. If the father himself holds high rank, the son who comes from the same blood should also be respected.”
　Tamakazura listened in silence.
　Genji sighed softly.
　“Perhaps,” he continued, “the Minister feels that the young man’s lineage is too perfect, too proud. Sometimes such noble blood creates its own troubles.”
　After a short pause one of the young courtiers said jokingly from the garden,
　“Perhaps someone here will say, ‘If the great lady will come, we shall gladly take her as a bride.’”
　The young men laughed quietly.
　Genji answered with a faint smile.
　“It is not that I wish to give her away so easily,” he said. “But it seems cruel to destroy the dreams that two young hearts once formed and then leave them broken for many years.”
　He spoke slowly, almost as if thinking aloud.
　“If rank and position are still too low for a public marriage, there are other ways. The girl might remain under my protection for a time. I could take responsibility until the proper moment arrives.”
　After speaking these words, Genji sighed again.
　Tamakazura listened with a troubled heart. Until now she had never fully understood that such distance existed between her true father and the man who protected her. The thought made her feel both sad and anxious.
　“Will the day when I can meet my father still be very far away?” she wondered silently.
　The sky had already grown dark, and no moon appeared that evening. Servants brought lanterns and placed them around the garden.
　Genji looked at the lights and shook his head.
　“The lanterns are too close,” he said. “They make the air feel hotter. A bonfire in the garden would be better.”
　He turned to a servant.
　“Light a small fire in the garden there.”
　Soon a gentle flame rose among the flowers, and the moving light cast soft shadows across the ground.
　Nearby there lay a fine Japanese harp, a wagon. Genji noticed it and pulled it toward himself. He touched the strings lightly and tested the sound. The instrument had been tuned to the ritsu mode, and its tone was deep and clear.
　Genji smiled slightly.
　“So you do have an interest in music,” he said to Tamakazura. “I had wondered if perhaps you did not.”
　He placed the harp upon his lap and played a few gentle notes. The sound flowed softly through the evening air.
　“On cool autumn nights,” Genji said, “when the moon is bright and the insects sing, the sound of this instrument is especially beautiful. It is not meant to be played with great show. Yet it is a strange instrument. Within its simple sound lies the root of all music.”
　He looked down at the harp with quiet affection.
　“People call it the Yamato harp. The name seems simple, but the depth of its sound is endless. It may have been made especially for women, who sometimes find other instruments difficult to play.”
　Tamakazura listened closely.
　“If you wish to learn,” Genji continued, “practice carefully and often. The instrument may seem simple, yet true skill is not easy to achieve.”
　He added with a small smile,
　“At present, the greatest master of this harp is the Minister of the Right himself. Even when he plays the simplest passage, the sound contains the spirit of many instruments.”
　Tamakazura’s heart moved when she heard this.
　For a long time she had wished to hear the music of her true father. She imagined the sound of his fingers upon the strings, and a deep longing rose within her.
　“If there is a musical gathering here,” she asked quietly, “would it be possible for me to hear him play?”
　Her voice carried a soft eagerness.
　“In the countryside,” she continued, “many people practice this instrument freely. I believed it was something easy to learn. But perhaps when a true master plays it, the sound is quite different.”
　Genji nodded.
　“Yes, it is so. The instrument is sometimes called the eastern harp, and some people treat it with little respect because of that name. Yet during great musical ceremonies in the palace, when the court officials bring the instruments, this harp is always placed first.”
　He touched the strings again.
　“It is the parent of all instruments.”
　The sound rose warm and bright in the evening air.
　“Practice will improve your skill,” Genji said gently. “And since you are the daughter of such a man, it would be natural for you to inherit his musical spirit.”
　He paused.
　“It may be difficult to hear him play freely in my house. Great masters rarely show all their skill. Yet someday you will surely hear it.”
　While speaking, Genji played again. The tone was rich and elegant.
　Tamakazura listened with wonder.
　“Could my father produce an even greater sound than this?” she thought.
　The longing in her heart grew stronger.
　Genji suddenly began to sing softly. His voice was deep and gentle as he sang an old poem about longing and separation. The final notes faded into the night air.
　Then he looked at Tamakazura.
　“Now,” he said with a smile, “try playing it yourself. Skill cannot grow if one is ashamed before others.”
　Tamakazura hesitated. She had learned the instrument long ago in Kyushu from a distant relative who claimed to belong to the royal line. Yet she feared her skill might be poor.
　“I cannot,” she said quietly.
　Genji laughed softly and continued playing. Tamakazura moved closer without realizing it, hoping to hear the sound more clearly.
　The wind passed through the garden again. The flame of the small fire trembled, and the sound of the harp seemed to travel farther into the night.
　Tamakazura tilted her head slightly.
　“It seems as if a strange wind has come,” she said. “The sound of the harp is growing stronger.”
　Genji looked at her face in the firelight and smiled.
　“Perhaps the wind comes from outside,” he said lightly, “because someone is listening so earnestly.”
　Then he stopped playing and gently pushed the harp away.
　Tamakazura felt a small disappointment.
　Several ladies-in-waiting had now approached, so Genji did not continue his playful words.
　Instead he looked out toward the garden again.
　“The young men have already left,” he said. “They did not even look fully at the dianthus flowers.”
　He paused thoughtfully.
　“I would like to show this garden to the Minister of the Right someday. Life is uncertain. When something should be done, it must be done quickly.”
　After a moment he added quietly,
　“It feels as if only yesterday the Minister spoke to me about you.”
　Hearing this, Tamakazura felt tears rise in her eyes.

Part 3

　Tamakazura felt tears rise quietly in her eyes. The words of Genji reminded her again of the father she had never truly known. The garden was dark now, and the small fire burned with a gentle light among the dianthus flowers. The red blossoms shone faintly in the flickering glow.
　Genji looked at the flowers and spoke slowly.
　“When one sees the color of these constant summer flowers,” he said, “one may wonder whether someone will someday search again for the old garden where they once grew.”
　His voice carried a tone of quiet reflection. The words reminded him of Tamakazura’s mother and of events from long ago.
　After a moment he spoke more softly.
　“Because of your mother,” Genji continued, “there are things about which I feel some guilt. That is why I have delayed telling your father the truth about you.”
　Tamakazura could no longer hold back her tears.
　She answered with a trembling voice.
　“If a small pink flower grows quietly beside the rough fence of a mountain hut,” she said, “who would ever think to search for its true root?”
　Her words were simple, yet full of sadness. The young beauty of her face and the sincerity of her feeling touched Genji’s heart deeply.
　As he looked at her, his feelings grew stronger. The affection he had long tried to control now pressed upon him more powerfully than before. He realized that it would be very difficult for him to suppress such emotion.
　Yet Genji also feared the consequences of his own heart.
　When he visited the western wing too often, people might begin to notice. At such times he forced himself to stay away for a while. But even then he could not stop thinking of Tamakazura. He would send letters on various pretexts, pretending that some small matter required his attention.
　Day after day his thoughts returned to her.
　“Why have I allowed myself to fall into such trouble?” he asked himself.
　If he simply followed his feelings, people would surely criticize him. Such blame would not trouble him greatly, but it would harm Tamakazura’s reputation. Even if he loved her deeply, she could never occupy the place of his first and most honored lady. That fact was clear even to Genji himself.
　To become merely one of many wives would not bring Tamakazura true happiness.
　“It would be better,” he thought, “for her to marry some honorable nobleman who would make her his only wife.”
　Sometimes he considered allowing Prince Hyōbukyō or the Right General to marry her. If she left his house and went to live with her husband, perhaps his own troubled heart would finally find peace.
　Yet each time Genji went to the western wing and saw her beauty, his resolution began to weaken. Recently he had also begun teaching her music, which brought them even closer together.
　The more he saw her, the harder it became to keep his distance.
　Tamakazura herself had once felt fear and resistance when Genji first showed such tenderness toward her. Yet she still trusted him deeply. She did not try strongly to avoid his affection. Her gentle replies and modest charm gradually increased the power of her attraction.
　Genji began to think that his earlier careful reasoning had been foolish.
　“Perhaps,” he thought, “I should allow her to marry some nobleman but keep her near me as well. Even after marriage, if I continue to love her deeply, the presence of a husband might not matter.”
　Such thoughts were reckless and dangerous. If he followed them, greater suffering might surely come. Genji’s nature was too passionate for half-hearted love. He knew that such a path might lead only to deeper trouble.
　While Genji struggled with these feelings, the Minister of the Right faced difficulties of his own.
　When the Minister had brought the newly discovered daughter into his house, many members of his household had criticized the decision. Even the officials who served him believed that the action had been too careless.
　Rumors spread through the city.
　One day the assistant counselor Ben no Shōshō mentioned to the Minister that Genji had asked about the matter.
　The Minister laughed when he heard this.
　“That is amusing,” he said. “In that house there is also a young lady whose existence no one had heard of before. Yet she is now treated with great care. The Minister of Genji rarely criticizes others, but for some reason he speaks sharply when my household is mentioned.”
　A courtier nearby replied,
　“The young lady in the western wing of Genji’s residence is said to have few faults. Prince Hyōbukyō himself wishes strongly to marry her. Because of that, people believe she must be quite exceptional.”
　The Minister shook his head.
　“People respect her only because she lives in Genji’s house,” he said. “Human nature is like that. She cannot be truly remarkable. If she had been born from a noble mother, people would have known about her long ago.”
　He spoke thoughtfully.
　“Genji is fortunate in many ways, but he has very few daughters born from his principal wives. The daughter from Akashi was born under strange circumstances, yet people believe she will have great fortune. But this new girl—who knows whether she is even truly his child?”
　The Minister laughed again.
　“Genji sometimes does very unusual things.”
　After speaking these words he fell silent.
　Then he said,
　“Still, I wonder who will finally marry that girl. Perhaps Prince Hyōbukyō will succeed. He and Genji have always shared similar tastes in elegant matters.”
　When he finished speaking, the Minister remembered his own daughter Kumoi no Kari with regret. If her marriage had been arranged more successfully, she too might have become the center of such attention.
　Because of this disappointment, he believed that the young Middle Captain must first gain higher rank before marriage could be permitted.
　Sometimes he even imagined that Genji himself might come to request the marriage. In that case the Minister planned to accept with reluctant dignity. Yet the Middle Captain himself showed no sign of impatience, so the matter remained unsettled.
　One day the Minister suddenly decided to visit Kumoi no Kari’s rooms.
　The young assistant counselor accompanied him.
　When they entered, the girl was sleeping during the afternoon heat. She wore a light summer robe and lay quietly upon the floor. Her small and graceful figure looked cool despite the warm day.
　Her skin shone faintly through the thin cloth of her robe. One delicate hand held a fan while her arm rested beneath her head as a pillow. Her hair lay beside her, not very long but soft and beautiful at the ends.
　The ladies-in-waiting nearby were also resting behind screens, so no one noticed the Minister’s arrival at first.
　He gently tapped his fan to make a sound.
　Kumoi no Kari looked up in surprise. Her cheeks were slightly red from sleep, and the innocent expression on her face seemed very charming to her father.
　“Sleeping carelessly in the daytime is not good,” the Minister said kindly. “Where are your attendants? A woman must always guard her dignity.”
　He continued speaking to her in a thoughtful tone.
　“A lady should not behave carelessly, yet she should also not hide herself completely from the world. Even the princess who may one day become empress is being educated in many arts. She is learning everything, but not so deeply that it becomes excessive.”
　The Minister smiled slightly.
　“Every person has natural talent. When she grows older and enters the court, she will surely become an impressive lady.”
　Kumoi no Kari listened quietly while her father spoke.
　Then he added gently,
　“I once had many hopes for your future. Though those dreams have not come true, I still wish you to live with dignity.”
　The evening shadows slowly lengthened across the room.
　Far away, the sound of summer insects began to rise again in the warm air.

 
Chapter 27: Kagaribi (篝火)

Part 1

　 People in the capital had begun to talk about a certain strange matter. They often spoke about “the new daughter of the Minister of the Right.” Whenever Lord Genji heard these rumors, he felt uneasy and thoughtful. He could not understand the minister’s behavior. At first, the minister had welcomed the girl with excitement and noise, as if he had found a precious treasure. But now people laughed about her in public.
　 One evening Genji spoke quietly about it.
　 “I cannot understand his heart,” he said. “He searched for the girl and brought her into his house with great excitement. But now he lets people laugh at her. It is not kind. If a girl is raised in a quiet room, people around her should protect her honor.”
　 Genji spoke slowly, thinking carefully about the minister’s character.
　 “He is proud,” Genji continued. “Perhaps he called the girl back without thinking deeply. Then he saw something he did not like. His pride was hurt. So now he treats her with coldness and allows people to speak badly. But even if the girl has faults, people around her could help her appear better in society.”
　 Genji felt sympathy for the young woman who was not loved by her father.
　 Tamakazura heard these words. They made her uneasy. She thought about her own life. She did not yet know the true heart of her real father. What if she met him one day and he looked at her with disappointment? What if she also became a cause for shame?
　 She sat quietly and thought about it.
　 Ukon, who was close to her, also spoke carefully.
　 “A father’s heart is not always easy to understand,” she said. “Even if he is your parent, it may still be difficult.”
　 These words made Tamakazura more thoughtful.
　 Yet at the same time, Genji’s behavior toward her remained gentle. He had feelings for her that caused trouble in his own heart, but he never forced her. His affection was quiet but deep. Because of this, Tamakazura slowly began to feel safe when she was with him. The fear that had once filled her heart became softer.
　 Summer ended. Autumn came quietly.
　 The air became cool. The wind moved gently through the gardens and fields. At this season, feelings of love and loneliness easily rose in people’s hearts.
　 Genji now visited Tamakazura often.
　 Sometimes he stayed with her for a whole day. They passed their time together in calm and quiet ways. One of the things he often did was teach her how to play the koto.
　 One evening early in the month, the moon rose for only a short time. Soon it sank behind the clouds. The sky became dim and gray. The wind moved through the tall reeds, and their leaves made a sad whispering sound.
　 The night air felt cool against the skin.
　 Inside the room, Genji and Tamakazura rested side by side. Between them lay the koto, which had been used earlier that evening. It served almost like a pillow as they leaned near it.
　 They were not sleeping deeply. It was more like a short rest in the quiet night.
　 Genji lay there thinking.
　 At last he let out a long breath.
　 “What a sad position this is,” he said softly.
　 His voice carried both warmth and pain.
　 The night grew deeper. Genji stayed awake longer than he intended. But he also knew that if he remained too long, people might begin to suspect something.
　 Finally he decided to leave.
　 When he stood up to go, he walked slowly toward the front garden. There he noticed that the fire in the garden brazier had grown weak. The flames were almost gone.
　 Genji stopped and looked at it.
　 The firelight was beautiful when it burned strongly. Without it, the garden would fall into dark shadow.
　 One of his attendants, the Captain of the Right Guard, had followed him outside.
　 Genji spoke to him.
　 “The fire is dying,” he said. “Make it burn again.”
　 The man quickly obeyed.
　 Near the flowing water in the garden stood a mayumi tree with wide branches. Beneath that tree the attendant rebuilt the fire. Soon the flames rose again, bright and lively.
　 The light spread across the garden.
　 Its glow reached the room behind them, lighting the space gently. It was not too bright. Instead, it created a soft and cool beauty.
　 In that warm light, Tamakazura’s figure became clearly visible.
　 Her hair fell smoothly down her back. When Genji touched it earlier, it had felt cool and soft. Now, in the firelight, it shone with quiet beauty.
　 She looked embarrassed and shy.
　 That shy expression made her even more charming.
　 Genji watched her.
　 For a moment he forgot that he had decided to leave.
　 He turned again to the attendant.
　 “Watch the fire carefully,” Genji said. “Do not let it go out. During the hot months, when there is no moon, a dark garden feels lonely and strange.”
　 The attendant bowed and promised to watch it.
　 Genji then looked back toward Tamakazura.
　 His feelings rose again in his chest.
　 Slowly he spoke a poem.
　 “The smoke that rises from this fire,” he said quietly, “is like the smoke of love in my heart. The flames may fade, but this smoke never disappears from the world.”
　 He paused and smiled sadly.
　 “This quiet suffering,” he continued, “is like a fire burning secretly beneath the ashes.”
　 Tamakazura felt troubled when she heard this.
　 She feared that if someone heard these words, rumors might begin again.
　 So she answered carefully.
　 “If that smoke disappears into the empty sky,” she said softly, “then perhaps people will not notice it. But if it stays near this fire, others may wonder about it.”
　 Her voice carried both kindness and caution.
　 Genji looked troubled.
　 He knew she was right.
　 For a moment he stood silently.
　 Then he said at last, “Very well. I will go now.”
　 He stepped out through the hanging curtain.
　 At that moment, another sound reached his ears.
　 From the eastern wing of the house came music.
　 A flute was playing.
　 Its sound was clear and skillful. It blended with the sound of a thirteen-string koto.
　 The music drifted through the cool night air.
　 Genji stopped walking.
　 He listened carefully.
　 “That must be the Head Captain,” he said. “No one else plays the flute like that.”
　 The sound was beautiful.
　 Instead of leaving, Genji remained where he was, listening in the garden light.
　 After a moment he sent a servant to the eastern wing with a message.
　 “Tell them I am here,” he said. “I stayed because the firelight in the garden is pleasant tonight.”
　 Soon three young nobles came from the eastern building.
　 They approached Genji respectfully.
　 One of them laughed lightly.
　 “The sound of autumn wind,” he said, “has entered the flute tonight.”
　 Genji smiled.
　 “Then let us answer it with music.”
　 He ordered that the koto be brought out.
　 When it arrived, he held it with affection and began to play.
　 The notes flowed gently into the night air.
　 Source Middle Captain lifted his flute and joined the music. He played in the mode called Banshiki-chō. The tone was calm and refined.
　 The Head Captain stood nearby, looking a little shy.
　 He seemed unwilling to join immediately.
　 Genji noticed.
　 “You are late,” Genji said with a small laugh.
　 The younger brother, the Assistant Captain, began clapping the rhythm softly.
　 Then he started to sing.
　 His voice was low and delicate. It sounded like the small ringing cry of autumn insects.
　 The music filled the garden.
　 The fire burned beneath the mayumi tree. Cool wind moved through the leaves.
　 Tamakazura listened from behind the curtain.
　 The sounds of flute, voice, and koto floated through the quiet night.
　 For a moment the sadness and confusion of many hearts seemed to disappear in the beauty of music.
　 But hidden feelings still remained in silence.
　 Especially in the heart of one man among them.
　 The Middle Captain played his flute calmly. Yet inside his chest there was a love he could not express.
　 He wanted to pour that feeling into the music and let it ring freely into the night.
　 But he controlled himself.
　 His playing remained gentle and careful, hiding the strength of the emotions within.
　 The night continued under the glow of the garden fire.

Part 2

　 The music continued to flow through the quiet autumn night. The garden fire burned steadily beneath the wide branches of the mayumi tree. The flames moved softly in the cool wind, and their light spread across the garden stones and the narrow stream nearby. The sound of water and the sound of music mixed together in a calm and beautiful way.
　 Genji sat with the koto resting across his knees. His fingers moved slowly over the strings. He did not rush. Each note came gently, as if he were speaking without words.
　 The young nobles listened carefully.
　 The Middle Captain stood slightly to one side. His flute remained near his lips. The sound he produced was clear and deep. It rose above the quiet rustling of the reeds and floated into the open night sky.
　 The Assistant Captain continued to keep the rhythm. His hands struck the beat softly, never too loud, but steady enough to guide the music.
　 Behind the curtain, Tamakazura listened.
　 She did not step forward. She remained in the shadow of the room. But the music reached her clearly. Each note seemed to pass gently through her heart.
　 She could hear Genji’s playing most clearly.
　 She knew the touch of his music well now. He had taught her for many days. When he played, his sound carried warmth and elegance. Even the quietest tone had feeling.
　 Tonight his music sounded especially thoughtful.
　 Genji himself seemed calm on the outside. But his mind was not calm.
　 While he played, many thoughts moved through him.
　 “How strange the heart can be,” he thought.
　 His eyes moved toward the curtain where Tamakazura sat hidden.
　 “I wished only to protect her,” he thought. “Yet now my heart grows restless when I am near her. This is not a simple feeling.”
　 His fingers continued to move across the strings.
　 The notes rose and fell like small waves.
　 “If I remain close to her like this,” he continued in his thoughts, “my feelings will only grow stronger. But if I stay away, the emptiness becomes even harder to bear.”
　 He let out a slow breath.
　 The music did not stop.
　 The Middle Captain also had thoughts he could not share.
　 He kept his flute raised, his posture respectful and controlled. But inside him there was a quiet storm.
　 He loved Tamakazura.
　 This love had grown slowly. At first it had been curiosity, then admiration, and now something deeper. Yet he could not easily speak about it.
　 The presence of Genji made everything more difficult.
　 The Middle Captain respected Genji deeply. Genji was older, wiser, and greatly admired by everyone. Standing beside him now, the young noble felt both admiration and pain.
　 “I cannot show my heart,” he thought.
　 His flute voice grew slightly stronger for a moment, then he quickly softened it again.
　 “If I let my feelings appear in the music,” he thought, “it may become clear to others. I must remain calm.”
　 So he continued to play carefully.
　 The Head Captain finally stepped forward.
　 He had been listening quietly for some time. Now he looked at Genji with a small smile.
　 “My lord,” he said, “if you continue like this, we will forget that the night is growing late.”
　 Genji looked up from the koto.
　 The firelight shone across his face.
　 “Music does that,” he answered calmly. “When the heart listens closely, time moves differently.”
　 The Head Captain laughed softly.
　 “That may be true,” he said. “But if we remain too long, people will begin to wonder what keeps us here.”
　 Genji understood the meaning.
　 He smiled slightly.
　 “You speak wisely,” he said.
　 Yet he did not stop playing immediately.
　 Instead he allowed the music to continue for several more moments. His fingers moved through one final pattern of notes. The sound rose gently and then slowly faded.
　 The Middle Captain lowered his flute.
　 The Assistant Captain stopped clapping the rhythm.
　 For a short moment, no one spoke.
　 Only the wind moved through the reeds again.
　 Then Genji placed his hand softly on the koto strings to quiet their final vibration.
　 The music ended.
　 “That was pleasant,” Genji said quietly.
　 The young nobles bowed slightly.
　 “Your playing leads us all,” the Middle Captain said respectfully.
　 Genji shook his head.
　 “No,” he replied. “Music belongs to the moment. Tonight the wind, the fire, and the season all joined with us.”
　 His eyes moved again toward the curtain.
　 “And perhaps,” he added softly, “someone inside has listened as well.”
　 Behind the curtain Tamakazura felt her face grow warm.
　 She had not meant to be noticed.
　 She remained still, hoping no one would call her forward.
　 But Genji did not say anything more.
　 Instead he stood up slowly.
　 The garden fire still burned brightly, but the night had grown deeper. The cool air now carried a stronger feeling of autumn.
　 Genji looked toward the sky.
　 “The moon has already gone,” he said. “Only the fire keeps the darkness away.”
　 The Middle Captain followed his gaze.
　 “Even without the moon,” he said quietly, “the night is beautiful.”
　 Genji nodded.
　 “Yes,” he answered. “Autumn nights often carry hidden feelings.”
　 The young nobles understood the deeper meaning behind his words, but none of them spoke about it.
　 After a moment the Head Captain said lightly,
　 “Shall we return to the eastern wing?”
　 Genji considered for a moment.
　 Then he nodded.
　 “Yes,” he said. “Let us not disturb the quiet house any longer.”
　 The men prepared to leave.
　 The garden fire continued to burn beneath the mayumi tree. Its light moved gently across the path as the nobles walked away.
　 Inside the room Tamakazura remained seated.
　 She listened to the fading sound of their footsteps.
　 The music had ended, but the feeling it left behind remained in her heart.
　 She thought about Genji’s poem.
　 The smoke of love rising endlessly from a hidden fire.
　 She understood now how dangerous such feelings could be.
　 Yet she also felt something else.
　 The night had been beautiful.
　 The sound of flute and koto still echoed softly in her memory.
　 Outside, the fire slowly lowered, and the quiet autumn wind continued to move through the garden.

 
Chapter 28: Nowaki (野分)

Part 1

　 Autumn had come to the great residence of Rokujo. In the garden where the Empress lived, many kinds of autumn grass had been planted that year. There were more kinds than usual. Between the grasses stood small fences made of dark wood and red wood. They were simple fences, but they looked very elegant among the plants. In the morning and evening, soft drops of dew rested on every leaf and flower. When people looked at the garden, it seemed almost like a wide field in the countryside. It was so beautiful that even the memory of spring mountains faded from the mind.
　 For a long time people had argued about which season was more beautiful, spring or autumn. Many people in old times had said that autumn was better. But those who had once seen the spring garden of Rokujo had often changed their opinion. They said that spring must be the best. Now, however, when they looked at this autumn garden, they again began to praise autumn. People’s opinions often changed like that, just as the world itself changes.
　 The Empress loved this garden very much. Because of it, she had continued living at her family residence for a long time. Of course, there were also pleasant events such as music gatherings. Yet the eighth month was the time when she remembered the death of her father, the former Crown Prince. Because of that, she lived quietly and avoided joyful celebrations. While she stayed there in this quiet way, the autumn flowers continued to grow and bloom.
　 Then one day the wild autumn wind came. This wind was called “nowaki,” the wind that blows across the fields and bends the tall grasses. That year the wind was stronger than usual. The color of the sky even seemed to change as the wind began to blow. When people saw the flowers bend and fade under the wind, their hearts felt pain. Even people who did not love nature very deeply felt sadness when they saw the flowers scattered and broken.
　 For the Empress, the sight was even more painful. Dew flew away from the flowers, and the plants were thrown into disorder. She watched them with deep feeling. Those who served her worried that she might even fall ill from sorrow. At such times, sleeves large enough to cover the face were useful—not in the spring when cherry blossoms fall, but under the lonely autumn sky.
　 As evening came, the shadows of the plants disappeared in the darkness. Only the sound of the wind grew stronger. It was frightening. The servants closed all the wooden shutters. After that, the Empress could no longer see the garden. She could only imagine the suffering of the flowers outside.
　 At the southern residence of the estate, the garden had just been repaired. Because of that, the small bush clovers in front of the building were still fresh. But the wind did not care. It struck them hard. Their branches shook wildly in every direction.
　 Lady Murasaki came out to the veranda and watched the garden. Broken branches lay everywhere. The autumn grasses had lost the dew that once rested on them. They looked lonely and weak.
　 At that time Genji was with a young princess inside the house. Meanwhile the young captain arrived. When he came to the eastern corridor, he happened to look through an open sliding door. He did not intend to spy on anyone. Yet when he saw the room inside, he noticed many court ladies gathered there.
　 The captain stopped walking.
　 He stood very still so that no sound would reveal him.
　 Because the wind was so strong, the folding screens inside the room had been put away. As a result, the inside of the room could be seen very clearly. At the far end of the veranda he noticed one woman sitting quietly.
　 She did not look like an ordinary court lady.
　 Her appearance was noble and beautiful. The captain felt as if a soft fragrance suddenly filled the air. To him it seemed like the moment in early morning when mist lifts from the sky and bright cherry blossoms appear among the clouds.
　 He stared without moving.
　 The beauty of the woman was so strong that it seemed to bring charm even to the face of the person who looked at her. The captain had never seen such beauty before.
　 The wind suddenly lifted the bamboo blind. Several court ladies hurried forward to hold it down. As they did so, the beautiful woman laughed gently.
　 Her smile was wonderful.
　 It was Lady Murasaki. She had remained near the veranda because she felt pity for the flowers in the storm.
　 Although many other ladies were also present, the captain did not notice them. His eyes were fixed only on her.
　 Then a thought came to him.
　 His father, the great minister Genji, had never allowed him to become too familiar with Lady Murasaki. Now the captain understood why. His father must have known that any man who saw her beauty could not remain calm.
　 Feeling suddenly ashamed of himself for secretly watching, the captain decided to leave. At that moment Genji opened a sliding door and entered the room.
　 “This is an unpleasant day,” Genji said. “The wind is too strong. Close all the shutters. There may be male servants nearby, so be careful.”
　 When the captain heard Genji’s voice, he stopped again and looked inside once more.
　 Lady Murasaki said something softly. Genji smiled as he looked at her face.
　 Genji himself was still young and handsome. When the captain saw them together, they did not look like parent and child at all. They looked like a beautiful man and a beautiful woman in the full bloom of life.
　 The captain felt this deeply.
　 But at that moment the wind pushed open the eastern shutters near him. The room inside might see him standing there. Alarmed, he quickly stepped back. Then he walked away toward the southern veranda, pretending that he had just arrived. He even coughed once to make a natural sound.
　 “That is why I said we must be careful,” Genji said inside the room. Only then did he notice that the eastern door had been open.
　 For many years the captain had never had a chance to see Lady Murasaki like this. Yet today the wind had moved even rocks, as people say in old sayings. Because of the wind, the careful lady had come near the edge of the room, and he had received a rare moment of joy.
　 At that time the household officials came running.
　 “The wind is extremely strong,” one of them reported. “It is blowing from the northeast. This side of the residence is somewhat safe, but the horse grounds and the fishing pavilion may be in danger.”
　 They gave orders to the servants and hurried away again.
　 Genji then asked, “Where has the captain come from?”
　 “I was at the residence of the Third Princess,” the captain replied. “But when people said the wind would grow stronger, I became worried. She is alone there, and the sound of the wind frightens her like a young child. I felt sorry for her, so I thought I should go back soon.”
　 “That is true,” Genji said. “You should go quickly. It may seem strange, but old people sometimes become like children again.”
　 Genji felt sympathy for the elderly princess.
　 The captain soon left the residence and went out into the wild night wind.
　 The storm continued through the night.
　 Branches broke. Roof tiles flew through the air. The captain finally reached the Third Princess’s residence.
　 When she saw him arrive safely, she looked greatly relieved.
　 “I have never experienced such a storm in my life,” she said with trembling voice.
　 The captain comforted her and stayed there through the night.
　 Yet as the wind roared outside, his thoughts returned again and again to the image he had seen earlier that evening.
　 The beautiful figure of Lady Murasaki remained clearly in his mind.
　 He tried to push the thought away.
　 “This is wrong,” he told himself. “Such thoughts are a terrible sin.”
　 But the image would not disappear.
　 He lay awake listening to the storm, unable to sleep. The face of Lady Murasaki appeared again and again before his eyes like a dream.
　 He had never seen such beauty in the past, and he believed he would never see it again in the future.
　 Slowly, toward dawn, the sound of the wind grew heavier and wetter.
　 Rain began to fall.
　 The long night of the storm was ending.

Part 2

　 The storm continued through the night. The captain lay awake in the residence of the Third Princess. The wind struck the building again and again, and each time the sound passed through the wooden walls like a deep cry from the sky. Large branches broke somewhere in the darkness, and sometimes he heard the sharp crash of roof tiles falling.
　 The princess sat quietly beside a lamp.
　 “This wind is terrible,” she said. “Even in my long life I have never known such a storm.”
　 Her voice trembled a little. The captain spoke gently and tried to comfort her. He told her that the buildings of Rokujo were strong and that the storm would surely pass before morning. The princess seemed calmer after hearing this, and she thanked him many times for coming through such dangerous weather.
　 Yet even while he spoke politely, the captain’s thoughts moved somewhere else. Again and again he saw the image of Lady Murasaki in the garden room. Her smile appeared before him as clearly as if she were standing there beside the lamp.
　 He closed his eyes and tried to rest.
　 “This is foolish,” he told himself. “I must not think about such a thing.”
　 She was his father’s wife. She was also his stepmother. A thought like this should never enter his heart. The captain knew this very well. He was a serious young man who respected his father deeply.
　 But still the image returned.
　 The wind roared through the night like a living thing. The sound of the storm filled the captain with a strange sadness. Because of that feeling, his thoughts moved again toward the beautiful woman he had seen only for a moment.
　 “There has never been such beauty in the world,” he thought. “And there will never be again.”
　 He tried to sleep, but he could not.
　 At last, near morning, the sound of the wind changed. It became heavier and wet. Rain began to fall in short bursts, striking the roof and the ground outside.
　 A servant entered quietly.
　 “At the Rokujo residence,” he reported, “some of the separate buildings are in danger of falling.”
　 The captain listened carefully. When he heard this news, he became worried about the people living there. Many people were always present around Genji’s own residence. But some of the other buildings of the large estate were quiet places where only a few attendants lived.
　 One of these places belonged to Lady Hanachirusato.
　 She was gentle and quiet, and the captain imagined her sitting alone in the storm.
　 “She must have felt great fear during the night,” he thought.
　 The sky outside was still dark when he rose. He left the Third Princess and began to travel toward Rokujo. The rain was cold and the wind still pushed strongly against the carriage. The sky looked heavy and gray.
　 As he rode through the storm, the captain felt restless.
　 “What has happened to me?” he thought. “Why does my mind feel so strange today?”
　 It seemed to him that his spirit was no longer steady inside his body. Something new had entered his heart, something that troubled him deeply.
　 “Have I gone mad?” he wondered.
　 He felt fear at this thought.
　 When he reached Rokujo, he first went to visit Lady Hanachirusato. She had indeed been frightened by the storm. Her servants told him that she had hardly slept during the night. The captain spoke kindly to her and tried to calm her fears.
　 After that he called the household officials. Together they looked at the damage that the storm had caused. Broken fences, fallen branches, and many other things needed repair. The captain gave careful orders about the work that must be done.
　 When this was finished, he walked toward the southern residence.
　 The shutters there were still closed, and most people had not yet awakened. The captain leaned against the wooden railing of the veranda and looked out at the garden.
　 The sight was sad.
　 The small hills of the garden had lost many branches. Grass and flowers were scattered everywhere. Pieces of roof bark and broken tiles lay across the ground. Some of the garden fences had fallen. The storm had left everything in confusion.
　 A little sunlight passed through the clouds. It touched the dew that still remained on some leaves. The drops of water shone faintly in the pale morning light.
　 The sky was heavy with mist.
　 While the captain looked at this quiet and broken garden, tears came into his eyes without warning. He quickly wiped them away and cleared his throat.
　 Inside the room Genji heard the sound.
　 “It seems the captain has come,” he said. “It is still early.”
　 Genji rose from his bed.
　 Someone beside him spoke softly, but the captain could not hear the words clearly. Then he heard Genji laugh gently.
　 “You must feel lonely this morning,” Genji said. “Last night you experienced a parting at dawn that you had never known before.”
　 The captain could not hear the woman’s reply. Yet from Genji’s tone he understood that the two of them still spoke with quiet affection. Their voices carried a feeling of closeness.
　 Soon Genji opened the shutters with his own hands.
　 Seeing that he stood very near the room, the captain stepped back a little so that he would not seem too close.
　 Genji noticed him.
　 “How was the princess?” he asked. “Was she pleased that you visited her?”
　 “Yes,” the captain answered. “She was very relieved. She cries even at small things now. I felt very sorry for her.”
　 Genji smiled a little.
　 “She will not remain long in this world,” he said quietly. “Serve her with true care while you can. I once heard her complain about the Inner Minister. That man loves bright and splendid things. Even his acts of respect for his parents are done in ways that surprise the world. But he does not understand the gentle feelings that should be shown in daily life.”
　 Genji paused for a moment.
　 “Still,” he continued, “everyone has faults. The Inner Minister is very clever and strong. In these later times he may be too powerful for the world.”
　 Then Genji suddenly remembered something.
　 “Did all the officials of the Empress come out during the storm last night?” he asked. “I feel uneasy about it.”
　 He prepared a message for the Empress, asking about her safety.
　 The captain received the message and walked toward the Empress’s residence.
　 His young figure in the early morning light looked very graceful as he passed through the corridors of the great estate.
　 When he reached the eastern building, he saw that a few shutters had been raised. The pale light of morning filled the veranda. Several court ladies stood there looking out at the garden.
　 They leaned against the railing and talked quietly among themselves.
　 The captain noticed that they wore beautiful layered robes. Even though the storm had passed only a short time before, they still looked neat and elegant. Their colors were soft shades of purple, pink, and yellow, suitable for the season.
　 Some young girls were walking in the garden with small baskets. They were gathering the flowers that had been broken by the wind. Sometimes they picked up a fallen branch of pink dianthus and placed it carefully inside the basket.
　 The scene appeared faint and mysterious inside the thin morning mist.
　 A gentle scent moved through the air.
　 The captain walked quietly so that he would not frighten them.
　 When the ladies noticed him, they did not show great surprise. Instead they rose calmly and went back into the room. Many of them had known the captain since childhood, when he had served the Empress during her entrance to court.
　 He delivered Genji’s message and spoke for a short time with the attendants.
　 The air of that residence felt especially noble and pure.
　 Yet even in that calm place the captain could not escape the thoughts that had troubled him since the previous evening.

Part 3

　 After speaking with the attendants of the Empress, the captain slowly left the eastern residence. The quiet morning air still carried the smell of wet grass. The storm had ended, but the world had not yet returned to its normal calm. Everywhere he walked, he saw signs of the wind’s power.
　 Broken branches lay across the paths. Small fences had fallen. The garden plants leaned in different directions as if they had fought through the night and now rested in silence.
　 The captain walked slowly, thinking.
　 His heart was still restless. Even while he had spoken with the court ladies of the Empress’s residence, his mind had not been fully present there. Again and again the same thought returned.
　 The face of Lady Murasaki.
　 He had seen her only for a short moment, but that moment seemed to remain bright inside his mind. Her smile appeared again before his eyes.
　 “This is foolish,” he said quietly to himself.
　 He tried to think about other things.
　 “She is my father’s wife. I must never think about her in such a way.”
　 Yet the thought did not leave him.
　 At last he returned to the southern residence where Genji lived.
　 The shutters there had now been opened, and the morning light filled the rooms. Genji and Lady Murasaki were standing near the veranda, looking out toward the garden. The flowers that Lady Murasaki had watched with such care the previous evening were now scattered across the ground.
　 Many branches had been broken.
　 The captain walked up the steps and bowed respectfully. Then he gave Genji the message from the Empress.
　 The reply had been gentle and polite.
　 The Empress had said that the storm had been frightening, but she had trusted that Genji would protect everyone. Because of that trust, she had felt calm when she heard that he had sent someone to ask about her safety.
　 Genji listened carefully.
　 “She is delicate,” he said. “Of course she would feel fear during such a night. All women must have felt frightened. The storm was strong enough to trouble even brave people.”
　 After saying this, Genji prepared to visit the Empress himself. Servants brought his clothing, and he moved into the next room to dress.
　 When he lifted the bamboo blind and entered that room, the captain noticed something.
　 Near the curtain a sleeve appeared for a moment. Someone had moved quickly, trying not to be seen.
　 The captain felt his heart suddenly beat faster.
　 “That must be her,” he thought.
　 The person had quickly placed a small screen nearby to hide herself. Only the edge of the sleeve had been visible.
　 The captain turned his face away at once and looked out into the garden.
　 “This is dangerous,” he thought. “I must control myself.”
　 Inside the room Genji stood before a mirror and adjusted his clothing. While he did so, he spoke softly to Lady Murasaki.
　 “The captain looked very fine this morning,” Genji said. “He is still young, but he already shows the grace of a man. Perhaps I feel this way because he is my son.”
　 Genji looked at his own reflection in the mirror as he spoke. Even now he believed that his own beauty had not faded.
　 After arranging his clothing carefully, he continued speaking.
　 “Whenever I meet the Empress, I feel a certain respect. She does not try to show wisdom openly, yet those who stand before her feel that she sees everything clearly. She has the gentle heart of a woman and at the same time the sharp mind of a wise judge.”
　 As Genji finished speaking, he started to leave the room. But then he stopped.
　 He had noticed something.
　 The captain stood outside looking toward the garden. Yet the direction of his gaze seemed strange.
　 Genji’s sharp mind quickly understood.
　 He returned to Lady Murasaki and spoke quietly.
　 “Yesterday, during the storm, the captain may have seen you,” he said. “The door toward the corridor was open.”
　 Lady Murasaki’s face turned red.
　 “That cannot be,” she answered quickly. “I heard no sound of footsteps in the corridor.”
　 “Still,” Genji said slowly, “it is possible.”
　 He spoke these words half to himself.
　 Then he left the room and walked toward the residence of the Empress.
　 The captain followed him.
　 While Genji entered the room of the Empress, the captain waited outside near the corridor. Several court ladies were gathered nearby. They spoke quietly together, and the captain exchanged a few light jokes with them.
　 Yet his mind was not calm.
　 A new worry had entered his heart, and he could not easily forget it.
　 When Genji finished his visit with the Empress, he walked toward another part of the estate. This was the residence of Lady Akashi.
　 Here the atmosphere was different.
　 The household officials had not yet arrived. Only several young attendants were outside in the garden. They were gathering the flowers that had been broken by the storm.
　 One young girl carefully lifted a branch of gentian that Lady Akashi loved. Another girl searched among the leaves for a morning glory that had fallen into the grass.
　 The work was slow and gentle.
　 Lady Akashi herself sat near the veranda, playing a koto with thirteen strings. Her face showed quiet sadness. The sound of the instrument was soft and lonely.
　 When she heard the servants announce Genji’s arrival, she quickly placed a small outer robe over her ordinary clothing. Even in such a sudden moment she wished to show proper respect.
　 Genji entered and sat for a short time near the edge of the room.
　 He spoke only about the storm.
　 He asked whether the wind had caused any damage and whether the night had been frightening.
　 Lady Akashi answered politely.
　 But Genji did not remain long.
　 Soon he rose and left.
　 When he was gone, Lady Akashi felt a quiet sadness in her heart.
　 She softly sang a poem.
　 The poem spoke of autumn reeds bending in the wind. It said that even the sound of wind passing through leaves could feel painful to a lonely heart.
　 Meanwhile Genji continued his visits.
　 From there he went to another residence where Lady Tamakazura lived.
　 Tamakazura had slept late that morning because the storm had kept her awake through the night. When Genji entered quietly, she was sitting before a mirror, arranging her hair.
　 The room was bright with autumn sunlight. Because the screens had been folded away during the storm, the light filled every corner.
　 Tamakazura’s beauty shone clearly in that light.
　 Genji sat down near her.
　 The wild wind of the previous night soon became a playful subject of conversation between them.

Part 4

　 Tamakazura looked at Genji with a troubled expression.
　 “You speak like that and cause me trouble,” she said. “When the wind was so strong last night, I felt as if I wanted the storm to carry me away somewhere far from here.”
　 Her voice sounded half serious and half playful. Genji looked at her face and laughed softly.
　 “To wish that the wind would carry you away is a rather light thought,” he said. “But if the wind did carry you somewhere, you must already have a place in mind where you would like to go.”
　 Tamakazura realized that her careless words might be misunderstood. She suddenly began to laugh.
　 The laughter made her face even brighter. Her cheeks were soft and round, like the small red sea fruit that grows near the coast. Between the dark lines of her hair, the color of her skin looked clear and warm. Her eyes were a little larger than those of most women, and some people might say that this was not perfectly elegant. Yet apart from that small thing, there was not a single fault in her beauty.
　 Outside the room, the captain had followed Genji to this residence. He waited quietly in the corridor. For a long time he had wished to see the face of Tamakazura closely. She was his half-sister, though they had different mothers, and because of that he rarely had the chance to look at her freely.
　 Today an unexpected chance appeared.
　 Near the corner of the room the bamboo blind had been left slightly disturbed because of the storm. A small gap remained between the blind and a screen.
　 The captain looked around.
　 No one seemed to notice him.
　 Slowly he lifted the edge of the blind and looked inside.
　 The screens had been folded away during the night. Nothing blocked his view. From the place where he stood, he could see the entire room clearly.
　 Genji and Tamakazura sat close together.
　 At first the captain simply watched them with curiosity. But as he continued to look, a strange feeling grew inside him.
　 Their manner was very familiar.
　 Of course Genji was her father. Yet Tamakazura was no longer a small child who could be held easily in a parent’s arms. She had grown into a beautiful young woman.
　 Still Genji spoke to her with playful words.
　 Tamakazura leaned slightly toward him as she answered.
　 Her long hair moved like waves and fell gently across her shoulder. She looked embarrassed and turned her face a little away, but she did not move far from him.
　 The captain’s eyes remained fixed on the scene.
　 “Is this proper?” he wondered.
　 He knew that Genji’s heart was easily moved by beauty. Perhaps, he thought, because Tamakazura had not been raised beside him since childhood, Genji sometimes forgot the distance that should exist between father and daughter.
　 The captain did not know the full truth of Tamakazura’s birth. Because of that ignorance, he misunderstood what he saw.
　 A cold feeling entered his heart.
　 “This is strange,” he thought. “Such behavior is not right.”
　 Yet he could not stop looking.
　 The two people inside the room continued speaking quietly. For a while their voices were too soft for him to hear clearly. Then Tamakazura spoke a short poem.
　 She said that the wild wind had made her feel weak, like a delicate autumn flower that might wither under a storm.
　 Genji answered with another poem. He spoke of white dew and of a flower that bends gently before the wind so that it will not be broken.
　 The captain heard only part of the words, but what he heard troubled him.
　 “This conversation is unpleasant,” he thought.
　 Still he wished to understand more.
　 But he also feared that Genji might suddenly notice him. If that happened, he would be deeply ashamed.
　 At last he stepped back from the blind and moved away quietly.
　 Genji soon finished speaking with Tamakazura. After leaving her residence, he walked to another part of the estate where Lady Hanachirusato lived.
　 The morning air had grown colder after the storm.
　 Inside the room several older court ladies sat together working with cloth. Some were cutting fabric. Others spread soft cotton on a small wooden chest. Pieces of dyed silk lay scattered around them.
　 The colors were beautiful.
　 One cloth was the color of dry autumn leaves. Another was pale purple. Some pieces had been woven with great care.
　 Genji looked at them with interest.
　 “What are these?” he asked. “Are they for the captain’s robes?”
　 One of the ladies laughed softly.
　 “Perhaps they are,” she answered.
　 Genji examined the cloth more closely.
　 “The autumn festival at the palace may not happen this year,” he said. “After such a storm it will be difficult to enjoy the flowers.”
　 He looked again at the rich colors of the fabric.
　 “This shade would suit the captain well,” he said. “Young people look best in fresh colors.”
　 After speaking for a while, Genji left that residence as well.
　 The captain had followed him through all these visits. Now he finally felt free to leave.
　 Yet his heart was still restless.
　 Many thoughts had gathered inside him during the morning.
　 At last he decided to visit his young sister.
　 She lived in another building of the estate.
　 When he arrived there, the nurse who cared for the girl greeted him.
　 “The princess is still in her room,” she said. “The storm frightened her greatly. Even this morning she does not wish to rise.”
　 The captain smiled gently.
　 “Last night’s weather was terrible,” he said. “I wanted to stay here and guard her room, but the princess at the Third Residence was also afraid. I had to go there.”
　 The court ladies laughed.
　 “Our little princess is frightened even by the wind from a fan,” one of them said. “Imagine how she felt during such a storm.”
　 The captain asked them for paper and an inkstone.
　 A lady brought a box containing fine paper and writing tools.
　 “This paper is too good for my purpose,” he said with a small smile.
　 Yet he accepted it.
　 The paper was pale purple.
　 He slowly ground the ink and held the brush for a moment, thinking carefully before writing.
　 His face looked calm and graceful as he worked.
　 The letter he wrote was not for any lady in that house.
　 It was meant for another woman, one who had recently begun to trouble his thoughts.
　 When he finished writing, he added a short poem. The poem said that even in a stormy evening, when clouds cover the sky, he could not forget the person who remained in his heart.
　 He attached the letter to a thin stem of grass whose top had been broken by the wind.
　 One of the ladies looked at it curiously.
　 “I once heard that a young officer used paper and flowers of the same color when he sent a poem,” she said.
　 The captain smiled.
　 “I do not have such elegant skill,” he answered. “And the person who receives this letter would not care about such things.”
　 Even while speaking kindly, he kept a polite distance from the ladies around him. His behavior showed the natural dignity of a noble young man.
　 Soon he wrote another letter.
　 Then he called a servant and sent both letters away.
　 The young court ladies watched the messenger leave. They were eager to know where the letters were going and what words had been written inside.
　 At that moment the little princess entered the room.
　 The court ladies quickly stood up and began to arrange the screens and curtains.
　 Curious about something new, the captain stepped toward the bamboo blind and looked through a small opening.
　 The young princess walked slowly into the room.
　 She wore a pale purple robe. Her hair did not yet reach the edge of her robe. The ends spread lightly behind her small figure.
　 She looked delicate and charming.
　 The captain remembered that he had sometimes seen her face when she was younger. Now she had grown more beautiful.
　 “When she becomes older,” he thought, “she will surely be very lovely.”
　 If the two women he had seen earlier could be compared to cherry blossoms and yellow mountain roses, this girl was like a cluster of purple wisteria flowers hanging softly from a tall tree.
　 The thought filled him with quiet wonder.
　 Looking at such beauty, the captain suddenly wished that he could spend his life simply watching these women.
　 Yet fate did not allow such things.
　 Lady Murasaki was his stepmother.
　 Tamakazura was his sister.
　 The young princess was also part of his family.
　 Because of this, the peaceful happiness of simply admiring them was impossible.
　 The captain felt as if his spirit were drifting somewhere far away.
　 With these thoughts in his heart, he finally left the residence and returned once more to the house of the Third Princess.

Part 5

　 When the captain returned to the residence of the Third Princess, the atmosphere there was very quiet. The storm had passed, but the feeling it left behind still remained in the air. The sky outside had grown dark again as evening approached.
　 Inside the building the princess was sitting before a small Buddhist altar. A lamp burned softly beside it. The light moved gently across the room and touched the wooden floor and the white paper walls.
　 The princess held prayer beads in her hands.
　 She was praying silently.
　 Several attendants sat nearby, but none of them spoke loudly. The calm voice of the princess reading her prayers filled the room.
　 The captain stood at a respectful distance and watched her.
　 The beauty of the women he had seen earlier that day still remained in his mind. Compared with them, the women of this house appeared quiet and simple. Their clothing was plain. Their movements were careful and slow.
　 Yet there was also a kind of peace in this place.
　 Some of the attendants were older women who had already taken the vows of Buddhist life. They wore dark robes. Their hair had been cut short.
　 Strangely, the captain felt that these women suited the atmosphere of this house better than the bright and elegant ladies of Rokujo.
　 Their calm presence made the room feel gentle and serious.
　 A little later the Inner Minister arrived to visit the princess.
　 Servants lit more lamps, and the room became brighter. The minister greeted the princess with proper respect and sat beside her. The two of them began to speak quietly.
　 The captain remained nearby.
　 Their conversation continued for some time. The princess asked about many things, and the minister answered politely. Yet after a while her voice changed.
　 She spoke again with sadness.
　 “It has been a long time since I have seen my granddaughter,” she said. “Why has she not come to visit me?”
　 As she spoke these words, tears appeared in her eyes.
　 The minister looked uncomfortable.
　 “She will come soon,” he said. “Recently she has become someone who spends much time in quiet thought. She has grown thin because of it. Truly, daughters bring endless worry to their parents.”
　 His voice sounded slightly cold.
　 The princess listened silently.
　 She understood that the minister had still not forgiven the mistakes of the past. Because of that, she did not speak openly about what she wished.
　 After a moment the minister continued speaking.
　 “I myself have another problem,” he said. “A daughter has appeared in my house who causes me great trouble.”
　 The princess looked surprised.
　 “Why is that?” she asked gently. “A daughter should always behave quietly and properly.”
　 The minister shook his head.
　 “That is what I believed,” he replied. “But this girl is different. Her behavior is strange. It is almost something to laugh at.”
　 The princess listened to him with quiet concern.
　 Their conversation continued late into the evening. Lamps burned steadily in the room, and the night outside grew deeper.
　 The captain sat silently while they spoke.
　 But even now his mind was not fully at rest.
　 The events of the day had filled his heart with many thoughts. The storm, the broken flowers, the quiet poems, the gentle voices of women—all these things had gathered together and created a strange feeling inside him.
　 Most of all he could not forget the moment when he had seen Lady Murasaki in the storm.
　 That single moment remained bright in his memory, like a clear light shining through mist.
　 He understood that such thoughts were dangerous.
　 Yet the memory would not leave him.
　 The captain lowered his eyes and sat quietly beside the lamp while the voices of the princess and the minister continued through the night.
　 Somewhere outside the wind moved softly through the broken grasses of the autumn garden.
　 The long day of the storm was finally coming to an end.
　 But the captain felt that something new had begun inside his heart—something that would not easily disappear.

 
Chapter 29: Miyuki (行幸)

Part 1

　 In the twelfth month, people in the capital began to talk about a great event. The Emperor would travel outside the city to a place called Oharano. This kind of royal outing was called a “miyuki,” an imperial journey. News of the event spread everywhere. Noble families, officials, and ordinary people all became excited. Everyone wished to see the grand procession with their own eyes.
　 On the morning of the day, the air was cold and clear. The Emperor left the palace at the sixth hour of the morning. His carriage moved slowly through the great Suzaku Avenue, the wide road that ran straight through the capital. After that, the procession turned west at Gojo Street and continued toward the fields of Oharano.
　 Many people had already gathered along the road.
　 The street was so full of carriages that it looked almost like a river of wheels and wood. Some carriages belonged to noble ladies. Others carried the families of officials. People stood close together, hoping to catch even a short view of the Emperor’s passing.
　 This journey was especially grand.
　 Many princes and high ministers had prepared carefully for it. Their horses were dressed with beautiful saddles and shining decorations. The attendants who followed them were tall and strong men chosen for their fine appearance. Their clothing was arranged with great care so that everything looked elegant and orderly.
　 The ministers of the right and left were present. The Inner Minister and many counselors also joined the procession. Nearly every important official in the court rode with the Emperor.
　 Their robes were bright.
　 The officials of the court wore pale blue outer robes. Beneath them appeared layers of deep red and purple cloth. Even officials of the fifth and sixth ranks wore these colors. When the long line of riders moved forward together, the colors flowed like a moving garden of silk.
　 From time to time small pieces of snow began to fall from the sky.
　 The snow was light and soft. It drifted slowly down through the cold air. The white flakes settled on the robes of the riders and on the manes of the horses. Instead of making the scene gloomy, the snow made it more beautiful. It seemed to give the procession a quiet and graceful charm.
　 Many of the princes and nobles also enjoyed falcon hunting. Because the procession would reach the fields later in the day, they had prepared special hunting robes. These garments were neat and simple, yet very elegant. They were ready to change their clothing when the hunting began.
　 Falconers rode among the guards.
　 These men belonged to the palace guards known as the Konoe, the Emon, and the Hyoe. They wore striking hunting clothes made from patterned cloth. Their robes were large and noticeable. The birds they carried on their arms looked proud and restless.
　 To the ladies watching from their carriages, this was a rare and exciting sight.
　 Many women had never seen such a display before. Because of that, they hurried eagerly to good places along the road. Some pushed their carriages forward through the crowd. Others tried to stand where the road was widest so they could see clearly.
　 But the crowd was very thick.
　 Some weak and poorly built carriages were pressed from every side. The wheels of those carriages were sometimes broken by the pressure of the crowd. When that happened, the vehicles stood sadly beside the road, unable to move.
　 One place was especially famous for watching the procession.
　 Near the Katsura River there was a bridge made from boats tied together. The open ground beside that bridge gave a clear view of the road. Because of this, many fine carriages gathered there early in the morning.
　 Among the noble ladies who came to watch was Tamakazura.
　 She had left the Rokujo residence with her attendants. Her carriage stood among many others near the river. She wore beautiful robes and had prepared herself carefully for the day.
　 From inside the carriage she watched the riders pass.
　 Many young officers rode in the procession. Their clothing was bright, and their faces were carefully arranged with noble dignity. Some of the younger ladies whispered excitedly when they saw these men.
　 “Look at that one,” one lady said softly.
　 “He is very handsome,” another answered.
　 But Tamakazura did not join their excitement.
　 She looked at the riders calmly.
　 Many men passed before her eyes. They were well dressed and carried themselves with pride. Yet she felt that none of them could be compared to the Emperor himself.
　 At last the imperial carriage appeared.
　 The great phoenix carriage moved slowly through the road. The Emperor wore a robe of deep scarlet. His form could be seen faintly through the curtains of the carriage.
　 Tamakazura looked carefully.
　 The Emperor’s face reminded her strongly of Genji, the great minister who had raised her. Their features were very similar. Yet there was something different about the Emperor’s appearance.
　 His beauty seemed even more noble.
　 Tamakazura felt that this must be the highest form of beauty in the human world. No other man could truly equal it.
　 She remembered how often she had admired Genji and the young captain who lived in the Rokujo residence. She had believed that noble men were always handsome. But today, as she watched the long line of riders, she noticed something strange.
　 Many of the officials looked similar.
　 Their faces seemed to share the same shape of eyes and nose. When she looked at them together, they almost appeared like copies of one another. Compared with the Emperor, their beauty seemed ordinary.
　 Even the young officers who caused such excitement among the ladies did not impress her very much.
　 Some women whispered loudly behind their sleeves.
　 “That middle captain is beautiful,” one said.
　 “That young lieutenant is even better,” another replied.
　 Tamakazura listened quietly.
　 To her eyes those men seemed unimportant.
　 Soon another noble rider appeared.
　 It was the Prince Hyobukyo.
　 After him rode the Right General, a powerful officer known for his great influence in the court. Today he wore full military dress. A long cord hung from his helmet, and a large quiver rested on his back.
　 His figure looked strong and graceful on horseback.
　 Many people admired his appearance.
　 But Tamakazura was not pleased.
　 His skin was dark, and his face carried a thick beard. When she looked at him, she felt a small feeling of dislike.
　 “A man should not look so rough,” she thought quietly.
　 In her young heart she believed that beauty must always be bright and gentle, like the white face of a carefully dressed woman.
　 While she watched the procession, Tamakazura also thought about something else.
　 Recently Genji had spoken to her about serving in the imperial court.
　 Until now she had avoided such a life.
　 She did not wish to enter the palace suddenly and struggle among many new people. The life of court service seemed difficult and uncertain.
　 But today, as she watched the Emperor and the nobles around him, a new thought appeared in her mind.
　 “Perhaps it would not be so bad,” she said quietly to herself.
　 “If I served the Emperor as a high lady of the court, it might be an honorable life.”
　 The long procession continued moving toward the fields of Oharano.
　 At last the imperial carriage stopped there.
　 Large tents were raised on the open ground.
　 The high ministers entered the tents to rest and eat their meal. Some of them removed their formal robes and prepared their hunting clothes for the sport that would follow.
　 The snow still fell lightly from the sky.
　 The wide fields of Oharano spread quietly beneath the pale winter light.
　 And many eyes continued to watch the Emperor and his nobles with wonder.

Part 2

　 The wide fields of Oharano stretched far under the pale winter sky. The snow that had fallen earlier still lay lightly across the grass. In some places it had already begun to melt, and the ground showed dark lines of earth beneath the thin white cover. The air was cold, but the sky had become brighter, and a soft light spread across the open land.
　 After the Emperor’s carriage arrived, the attendants quickly began their work. Servants hurried across the field carrying poles, ropes, and large pieces of cloth. Soon tall tents were raised for the Emperor and the high ministers. The cloth of the tents moved gently in the wind.
　 Inside the main tent, fine carpets were placed on the ground. Low tables were arranged in careful order. Servants brought warm food and cups of wine for the nobles who would rest there.
　 Outside the tents, many riders prepared for the hunt.
　 The princes and ministers who loved falcon hunting now changed their clothing. They removed their long formal robes and put on shorter hunting garments. These robes were strong and simple, but they were still very beautiful.
　 Some men wore deep blue cloth. Others wore soft gray or pale brown. The belts that held their robes were tied firmly around their waists so that they could move easily on horseback.
　 Falconers stood nearby with the birds resting on their arms.
　 The falcons were quiet, but their sharp eyes moved quickly as they looked across the wide fields. Their wings trembled slightly under the leather straps that held them in place.
　 A signal was given.
　 Riders began to move out across the fields in small groups. They spread out slowly so that the birds could be released in the best places.
　 From the place where the noble ladies watched, the scene was very exciting.
　 Many carriages had gathered at the edge of the field. The ladies inside lifted their blinds slightly so that they could see the hunt clearly. Their attendants stood beside the carriages and whispered to them about the riders.
　 Tamakazura remained inside her carriage.
　 She watched the field quietly through the small opening in the blind.
　 The riders looked graceful as they moved across the snow-covered ground. Their horses stepped lightly over the grass. The long lines of riders and the wide open sky created a beautiful picture.
　 Suddenly one falconer raised his arm.
　 The leather strap was removed.
　 The falcon flew upward.
　 Its wings spread wide as it rose into the air. The bird moved quickly across the field, searching the ground below. A moment later it turned sharply and flew down toward the grass.
　 A cry rose from the riders.
　 The falcon had seen its prey.
　 The riders followed quickly. Their horses moved fast over the frozen ground. Snow rose into the air behind them as the hunt continued.
　 From the carriages the ladies watched with excitement.
　 “Look at that bird!” one lady said.
　 “It flies so high,” another answered softly.
　 Tamakazura watched without speaking.
　 The sound of horses, birds, and voices filled the wide field.
　 At that moment another rider approached the area where the ladies were gathered.
　 He was the Right General.
　 The same man whom Tamakazura had noticed earlier in the procession now rode slowly near the line of carriages.
　 His armor shone in the winter light. The long cord of his helmet moved gently in the wind. A large bow hung at his side.
　 Many of the ladies looked at him with admiration.
　 “He is very strong,” one whispered.
　 “Yes,” another said. “He looks brave and powerful.”
　 But Tamakazura still felt the same small dislike she had felt before.
　 “His face is too rough,” she thought quietly.
　 She preferred a different kind of beauty.
　 She remembered Genji’s face, calm and bright. She remembered the young captain, whose appearance was graceful and refined.
　 Compared with them, this strong general seemed too heavy and rough.
　 While she thought this, the hunt continued across the field.
　 Several falcons had already been released. The birds flew high above the riders. From time to time they dropped suddenly toward the ground when they saw a small animal moving in the grass.
　 The riders shouted to one another and guided their horses quickly through the field.
　 The sound of the hunt spread across the open land.
　 Inside the main tent the Emperor rested for a time.
　 Servants brought him warm food and cups of wine. The ministers sat nearby and spoke quietly among themselves. They praised the beauty of the day and the skill of the falcons.
　 Some of them also talked about the young officers who had ridden so well in the hunt.
　 Outside, the snow began to fall again.
　 The flakes were small and light. They drifted down slowly through the cold air. When they touched the robes of the riders, they melted quickly and disappeared.
　 The hunt continued for a long time.
　 Tamakazura watched the wide field until her eyes began to grow tired. The sound of the riders became softer as they moved farther away.
　 She lowered the blind of her carriage and rested quietly inside.
　 Yet her mind continued to think about what she had seen that day.
　 The Emperor’s noble beauty, the long procession of riders, and the wide snowy fields all remained clear in her thoughts.
　 She also remembered the words Genji had spoken earlier.
　 Perhaps the life of the court would not be as difficult as she had once believed.
　 The idea slowly began to grow stronger in her heart.
　 Outside, the hunt still continued under the pale winter sky.

Part 3

　 The hunt continued for some time in the wide fields of Oharano. The riders moved across the land in long lines. From far away they looked like dark shapes moving slowly over the pale ground. The snow had almost stopped, and only a few small flakes still drifted through the cold air.
　 Tamakazura remained inside her carriage. She had lowered the bamboo blind for a while to rest her eyes. The noise of the hunt had grown distant, and the quiet sound of the wind moved gently across the fields.
　 After some time one of her attendants spoke softly.
　 “The riders are returning,” she said.
　 Tamakazura lifted the blind again and looked outside.
　 The riders were indeed coming back from the far side of the field. Their horses moved at an easy pace now. Some men carried small birds that the falcons had caught. Falconers walked beside them, holding the birds carefully on their arms.
　 The wide field slowly grew lively again as people returned toward the tents.
　 At that moment a young officer rode past the line of carriages where the ladies were watching. His horse stepped proudly, and the officer sat straight in the saddle. The cold air had turned his face slightly red.
　 Some ladies lifted their blinds quickly.
　 “Who is that?” one asked.
　 “That is the Middle Captain,” another answered.
　 Several of the ladies whispered excitedly. The young officer looked handsome, and his movements were smooth and confident.
　 Tamakazura looked at him only for a moment.
　 She lowered her eyes again.
　 The officer was indeed graceful, but still she felt that he could not compare with the beauty she had seen earlier in the Emperor’s appearance.
　 The riders continued to return one after another.
　 Soon the area around the tents became full again. Horses stood quietly while attendants took their reins. Falconers spoke together about the birds and their skill during the hunt.
　 The Emperor remained inside the large tent.
　 When the riders had all returned, a signal was given for the gathering of the nobles. The princes and ministers entered the tent once more. Servants brought more food and warm wine.
　 Laughter and quiet conversation could be heard from inside.
　 Outside the sky slowly began to change color. The pale winter sun moved lower in the sky, and the light became softer. Long shadows stretched across the fields.
　 Tamakazura watched the scene carefully.
　 The cold air touched her face through the small opening of the blind. She pulled her robe a little closer around her shoulders.
　 “The day is already ending,” she thought.
　 The long journey from the capital, the beautiful procession, and the exciting hunt had all passed quickly.
　 For a while she remained silent.
　 Then one of her attendants spoke again.
　 “Soon the procession will return to the city,” the woman said.
　 Tamakazura nodded slightly.
　 She watched as the attendants began to prepare the imperial carriage once more. Servants moved quickly across the field. The horses were brought forward again, and the guards arranged themselves in proper order.
　 The great tents were slowly taken down.
　 The cloth was folded carefully, and the poles were removed from the ground. Soon the wide field looked almost empty again.
　 Only the lines of riders remained.
　 When everything was ready, the imperial carriage moved forward.
　 The Emperor began the journey back to the capital.
　 The long procession followed behind him just as it had earlier in the day. Horses stepped calmly along the road, and the riders kept their places in careful order.
　 Many of the ladies in the carriages watched the procession once more.
　 Some of them spoke excitedly about the officers they had seen during the day.
　 “That young lieutenant was very handsome,” one said.
　 “Yes,” another answered. “And the Middle Captain looked very fine on his horse.”
　 Tamakazura listened quietly.
　 She did not speak.
　 Her thoughts moved again toward the Emperor. The noble beauty she had seen that morning still remained in her mind.
　 She also remembered Genji and the gentle care he had always shown her.
　 “If I entered the court,” she thought slowly, “perhaps I could serve near the Emperor.”
　 The idea no longer frightened her as it once had.
　 Instead it seemed almost natural.
　 The procession continued moving along the road toward the capital.
　 As the sun began to set, the sky grew pale and quiet. The fields of Oharano slowly disappeared behind them.
　 Tamakazura lowered the blind of her carriage and sat quietly inside.
　 The cold winter evening was coming.
　 Yet in her heart a new path for the future had begun to appear.

 
Chapter 30: Fujibakama (藤袴)

Part 1

　 Tamakazura had been thinking deeply about her future. Recently many people had begun to speak about the same matter. They said that she should go to the palace and serve there as a high lady. Both Genji and her real father, the Inner Minister, supported this plan. They believed that such a position would bring honor to her name.
　 Yet Tamakazura did not feel calm about this idea.
　 She sat quietly near the veranda of her room one evening and looked out at the sky. The color of the evening was deep and cold. Autumn had come, and the light of the sky felt lonely.
　 Inside her heart many worries were moving.
　 “Is this truly the right path for me?” she thought.
　 She could not easily decide.
　 If she went to the palace, she would serve the Emperor. This was a great honor, but it also brought danger. If the Emperor began to love her, other ladies in the palace might become jealous. The Empress and the other royal ladies might not welcome her kindly.
　 Tamakazura knew well that the palace was full of such quiet battles between women.
　 She also worried about something else.
　 Even Genji, who had raised her with great care, sometimes showed a playful manner toward her that made her uneasy. He was her guardian, yet he was still a man whose heart was easily moved by beauty. If she served the Emperor and similar feelings appeared there, what kind of life would she live?
　 These thoughts troubled her deeply.
　 “I do not belong fully to either family,” she thought with sadness.
　 Her birth had been uncertain for many years. Only recently had she been recognized as the daughter of the Inner Minister. Because of that long uncertainty, Tamakazura felt that her position in the world was still fragile.
　 “If trouble comes,” she thought, “who will truly protect me?”
　 She lowered her eyes and sighed softly.
　 Tamakazura did not have a mother to whom she could speak openly. The women who lived in the great Rokujo residence treated her kindly. The lady of the eastern house and the lady of the southern house were both gentle toward her. They behaved like mothers and daughters with her.
　 Yet they were noble ladies.
　 Tamakazura felt that she could not bring her secret worries to them. Speaking openly about such matters seemed impossible.
　 Because of this, she felt very lonely.
　 The evening wind moved softly through the garden. Tamakazura watched the fading light from the veranda. She wore mourning robes because her grandmother had recently died. The robe was a quiet gray color.
　 Strangely, this simple clothing made her beauty appear even brighter.
　 Several young attendants sat nearby and watched her.
　 They enjoyed looking at their lady. The calm sadness in her face made her seem even more graceful.
　 At that moment a visitor arrived.
　 A young nobleman entered the residence. His name was the Middle Captain, a son of Genji. He had often shown friendly feelings toward Tamakazura since the early days when she came to the Rokujo residence.
　 Today he wore a dark gray robe suitable for mourning. His court cap was arranged neatly, and his appearance looked especially elegant in the quiet evening light.
　 The attendants announced his arrival.
　 Tamakazura remembered that he had always treated her with warmth. Because of that long habit of friendly conversation, she did not wish to show cold distance now.
　 A bamboo blind hung between them, and a screen stood beside it, but the space was not completely closed.
　 The two of them began to speak.
　 The captain had come with a message from Genji. Something had been said in the palace, and Genji wished Tamakazura to hear the news. The captain explained the matter carefully.
　 Tamakazura listened calmly.
　 When she answered, her words were simple and clear. She did not speak too much, but her replies showed good understanding.
　 The captain felt pleasure as he listened to her voice.
　 “Speaking with her is always pleasant,” he thought.
　 For some time they continued talking about the message from Genji.
　 Yet inside the captain’s heart another thought was growing.
　 Some time earlier, on the morning after the great autumn storm, he had once seen Tamakazura’s face by chance. The memory of that moment had stayed in his mind. At that time he had tried to tell himself that she was like a sister to him.
　 But now things had changed.
　 Their true family relation had become clearer, and the old confusion that had restrained his feelings no longer remained.
　 Because of this, a new emotion had slowly grown inside him.
　 As he spoke with her now, he felt his heart becoming restless.
　 “Soon she will go to the palace,” he thought.
　 If she became a high lady serving the Emperor, many powerful men would gather around her. The Emperor himself might begin to love her.
　 When this thought entered his mind, the captain felt a painful pressure in his chest.
　 Still he tried to control himself.
　 He spoke gently and calmly, hiding his feelings.
　 After a short silence he said quietly, “My father asked me to speak carefully about this matter. He said I should not let other people hear what I say. Would it trouble you if I speak a little more freely?”
　 Tamakazura heard this and understood his meaning.
　 She gave a small signal to her attendants.
　 The women quietly moved away. Some went behind the screens. Others walked softly toward the far side of the room so that they could not hear the conversation clearly.
　 Soon the room became quiet.
　 Only the soft evening light and the faint sound of the wind remained between them.
　 The captain leaned a little closer toward the bamboo blind.
　 His voice became lower.
　 “The Emperor may have another reason for calling you to the palace,” he said. “It may not be only for official service.”
　 Tamakazura did not answer at once.
　 She understood the meaning behind his words.
　 The captain continued speaking, explaining carefully that if she wished to protect herself she must remain cautious at all times. Life in the palace was dangerous for a woman whose beauty attracted attention.
　 Tamakazura listened silently.
　 When he finished speaking, she released a quiet breath.
　 That soft sigh reached the captain’s ears.
　 The sound touched his heart strongly.
　 For a moment he could no longer control his feelings.
　 In his hand he held a small flower of purple fujibakama, a flower that bloomed in autumn fields.
　 Slowly he pushed the flower under the bamboo blind toward Tamakazura.
　 “This flower suits us today,” he said gently.
　 Tamakazura hesitated.
　 The captain did not release the flower.
　 At last she reached out her sleeve and tried to take it.
　 In that instant the captain lightly caught her sleeve.
　 His heart was filled with emotion, and the words of a poem came to his lips.

Part 2

　 The captain held the sleeve of Tamakazura for only a short moment. Yet during that moment his heart moved strongly. The purple flower of fujibakama rested between his fingers and the soft cloth of her sleeve. The smell of the flower was faint but sweet.
　 Tamakazura felt sudden surprise.
　 She had not expected such behavior. For a brief moment she did not know how to respond. Her hand remained still, holding the flower.
　 The captain spoke in a low voice. His words were gentle but full of feeling.
　 “This flower grows in the same field as the one where dew falls,” he said. “If two flowers share the same field and the same dew, they must understand each other’s sorrow.”
　 He then spoke a poem.
　 “We are like the fujibakama in the same field,” he said quietly. “Covered by the same dew, suffering the same sadness. Please give me even a small sign of kindness.”
　 His voice was soft but earnest.
　 Tamakazura felt troubled.
　 She had not expected the captain to speak in this way. Yet she did not wish to show anger or strong rejection. She understood that he was speaking from deep feeling.
　 Still she wished to keep a proper distance.
　 Slowly she moved her body a little backward.
　 The captain felt the movement through the cloth of her sleeve. Realizing that she wished to pull away, he gently released his hand.
　 Tamakazura answered with a poem of her own.
　 Her voice was calm.
　 “If the dew lies far across a distant field,” she said, “perhaps the pale purple flower may complain of sorrow. But such things do not belong to us.”
　 She paused for a moment and then added softly, “It is true that we are related as cousins. Beyond that, there is nothing more.”
　 The captain listened carefully.
　 He smiled a little, though his heart was heavy.
　 “You understand only the part that is easy to accept,” he replied. “But surely you know that my feelings go beyond that simple truth.”
　 He lowered his voice even more.
　 “Please do not misunderstand me,” he said. “I know that speaking like this may cause you to dislike me. For a long time I remained silent because I feared that result. But now I feel that even a small kindness from you would be enough for me.”
　 His words came slowly, as if each one required effort.
　 “I once believed that I stood far away from this matter,” he continued. “But now I suffer from the same kind of longing that troubles other men.”
　 The captain remembered another man who had loved Tamakazura deeply in the past. That man had suffered greatly and had once sent many letters to her.
　 At that time the captain had watched the situation calmly, thinking that he himself would never feel such pain.
　 Now things were different.
　 “It is strange,” he said quietly. “I once looked at that man and thought that his feelings were foolish. But now I know that love can cause the same pain in anyone.”
　 Tamakazura listened without speaking.
　 The captain continued for some time, explaining his feelings in careful words. He tried not to sound too passionate, yet the depth of his emotion appeared clearly in his voice.
　 Tamakazura began to feel uncomfortable.
　 The quiet evening air seemed heavy around her.
　 At last she spoke.
　 “I am feeling a little unwell,” she said gently. “Please forgive me. I think I must rest now.”
　 With those words she slowly stood up.
　 She moved deeper into the room, away from the bamboo blind.
　 The captain understood that the conversation had reached its end.
　 He let out a deep breath.
　 For a moment he remained sitting where he was. The flower of fujibakama still lay in his hand. He looked at it quietly.
　 “I should not have spoken so openly,” he thought.
　 Regret entered his heart.
　 Yet he also knew that the words could not be taken back now.
　 Slowly he stood and prepared to leave.
　 As he walked away from the residence, the night air felt cool against his face.
　 His mind was full of confusion.
　 “I may have made her dislike me,” he thought with worry.
　 Still, the feeling in his heart did not disappear.
　 While he walked through the quiet paths of the Rokujo estate, another memory appeared in his mind.
　 It was the memory of Lady Murasaki.
　 He had once seen her beauty during the morning after the great autumn storm. Since that time he had secretly wished to speak with her more freely.
　 But that hope seemed almost impossible.
　 Compared with the chance he had just experienced with Tamakazura, the distance between himself and Lady Murasaki felt even greater.
　 “When will I ever be able to speak with her like that?” he wondered.
　 Thinking of this made his heart heavy.
　 The captain continued walking through the southern part of the estate until he reached Genji’s residence.
　 Genji soon came out to meet him.
　 The captain reported the message he had delivered earlier.
　 Genji listened carefully.
　 “She has agreed at last to serve in the palace,” Genji said. “But it was not easy. She accepted the plan only with great reluctance.”
　 Genji sighed softly.
　 “I sometimes wonder whether her heart may be drawn toward another man,” he continued. “Prince Hyobukyo has sent her many passionate letters. I fear that she may feel sympathy for him.”
　 The captain listened quietly.
　 “Yet when she saw the Emperor during the imperial journey to Oharano,” Genji added, “she seemed deeply impressed by his beauty. Young women cannot help feeling admiration when they see the Emperor’s face even once.”
　 The captain nodded politely.
　 Their conversation continued for some time as they discussed Tamakazura’s future.
　 Genji spoke thoughtfully.
　 “She would be well suited to become the wife of a prince,” he said. “Her beauty and intelligence would make her a perfect lady of a noble house. At the same time, she could also serve well as a high lady in the palace.”
　 The captain listened to these words while trying to understand Genji’s true thoughts.
　 Many rumors had spread through the capital. Some people believed that Genji himself might wish to keep Tamakazura close to him forever.
　 The captain wondered about this possibility.
　 At last he spoke carefully.
　 “People in the world say many things,” he said. “Some even suggest that you wish to keep her near you as your own beloved.”
　 Genji laughed lightly when he heard this.
　 “People think too much,” he replied. “I only wish to help her follow the path chosen by her real father. A daughter must first obey her parent. That is the proper rule.”
　 The captain watched Genji’s face closely.
　 Genji continued smiling, but the captain felt that the truth might still be hidden behind those calm words.
　 The conversation ended soon after.
　 When the captain left Genji’s room, the night had grown deep.
　 The moon had risen high in the sky.
　 Its pale light spread across the quiet buildings of the Rokujo estate.
　 The captain walked slowly under the moonlight, thinking about everything that had happened that evening.

Part 3

　 The moon was bright above the roofs of the Rokujo residence. Its pale light spread quietly over the gardens and the long corridors between the buildings. The air of the autumn night felt cool and clear.
　 The captain walked slowly along the wooden veranda after leaving Genji’s room. His mind was still troubled by many thoughts.
　 He remembered the moment when Tamakazura had moved away from him behind the bamboo blind. Her quiet voice and careful words returned again and again to his mind.
　 “I spoke too much,” he thought.
　 The feeling of regret grew stronger as he walked through the silent garden paths.
　 At the same time another thought troubled him.
　 “Soon she will go to the palace.”
　 If Tamakazura became a high lady serving the Emperor, many powerful men would gather around her. Princes, ministers, and high officers would all wish to win her favor.
　 The captain felt a sharp pain in his heart.
　 “Once she enters the palace, I may never again speak to her so freely.”
　 The moonlight made the garden look almost unreal. White stones and pale flowers shone softly in the light.
　 For a long moment the captain stood still and looked up at the sky.
　 Then he slowly left the garden and returned to the southern part of the estate.
　 Meanwhile Genji remained in his room, thinking quietly about the same matter.
　 Tamakazura’s future had become a serious question for him.
　 Many men wished to marry her. Several powerful nobles had already sent letters asking for her hand. Among them was the Right General, a man of great influence in the court.
　 This general held an important position as commander of the palace guards. He often visited the captain and spoke with him about Tamakazura.
　 The general was thirty-two years old. He was known as a strong and capable man who might one day become a great minister.
　 Because of his position and ability, Tamakazura’s father did not reject the idea of such a marriage.
　 Yet Genji felt uncertain.
　 The general already had a wife.
　 She was the elder sister of Lady Murasaki. Because of that connection, the general often visited the Rokujo residence. But his marriage had never been happy.
　 For reasons that people did not fully understand, he did not love his wife. Sometimes he even spoke about her with cold humor. Instead of treating her as a respected wife, he joked that she was like an old grandmother.
　 Genji disliked this attitude.
　 “If he cannot treat his own wife with kindness,” Genji thought, “how could he treat Tamakazura well?”
　 For that reason Genji had little interest in supporting the general’s proposal.
　 The general, however, had become deeply interested in Tamakazura. He had heard from people close to her that she did not truly wish to enter palace service.
　 Because of this, he believed that he still had hope.
　 “If her father agrees,” he often said, “why should Genji alone stand in the way?”
　 Yet Genji remained cautious.
　 He wished to protect Tamakazura from a difficult marriage. At the same time he also felt responsible for her position in the world.
　 “Her future must be decided carefully,” he thought.
　 As autumn passed and the ninth month arrived, the mornings became colder. One morning the first frost of the season appeared in the garden.
　 The grass and small plants were covered with thin white crystals.
　 The air was clear and bright.
　 On that morning several attendants entered Tamakazura’s room carrying letters.
　 They moved carefully, almost shyly, because they knew that many men had written to her.
　 Tamakazura sat quietly while the letters were placed before her.
　 She did not open them herself.
　 Instead she allowed one of her attendants to read them aloud.
　 The first letter came from the Right General.
　 His message was filled with longing. He wrote that the eighth month was ending and that time was passing quickly. Soon Tamakazura would leave for the palace.
　 “If my love has no place in your heart,” he wrote, “my life will become very empty.”
　 His words were serious and emotional.
　 Another letter came from Prince Hyobukyo.
　 His message was sad and gentle.
　 He wrote that his own position in the world was weak and uncertain. Because of this, he did not dare hope too strongly for Tamakazura’s favor.
　 Yet he asked her not to forget his feelings.
　 A branch of bamboo had been sent with the letter. Frost rested on the leaves of the bamboo when the messenger arrived.
　 The attendants noticed this detail and whispered quietly among themselves.
　 “Each man shows his heart in a different way,” one of them said.
　 More letters followed.
　 Each message carried its own style. Some were written with strong emotion. Others used gentle and careful words. The paper, the color of the ink, and the faint smell of incense also showed the character of each writer.
　 Tamakazura listened silently.
　 She did not answer most of the letters.
　 At last one message moved her heart slightly.
　 It was the letter from Prince Hyobukyo.
　 After hearing it again, she decided to write a short reply.
　 Her answer was simple.
　 She wrote that even a small plant turning toward the morning sun still holds the drops of dew that rest upon it.
　 The meaning was gentle but distant.
　 When the prince received this short poem, he felt very happy. Even such a small reply gave him hope.
　 Yet many other letters continued to arrive.
　 Tamakazura now had many men who admired her. Because of this, people in the capital began to speak of her as a perfect example of a noble lady desired by many suitors.
　 Both Genji and the Inner Minister sometimes praised her in this way.
　 “She shows dignity and good judgment,” they said.
　 While these events continued, preparations slowly moved forward for Tamakazura’s future service in the palace.
　 The Emperor himself had heard that she would soon appear at court.
　 Because of this, he began to look forward to the day when he could finally see her.
　 The tenth month was chosen as the proper time for her entrance into palace service.
　 Until that day arrived, the letters of her many admirers continued to fill the quiet rooms of the Rokujo residence.

 
Chapter 31: Makibashira (真木柱)

Part 1
　 In the residence of the Inner Minister there was a lady who lived in deep sadness. She was the principal wife of the minister, and she had long held an honorable place in the household. Yet in recent years her heart had become heavy.
　 The reason for her sorrow was the minister’s love for another woman.
　 That woman was Tamakazura.
　 Tamakazura was young and very beautiful. She had recently come into the world of the capital after many years of uncertainty about her birth. When her true family was finally known, she became recognized as the daughter of the Inner Minister.
　 Because of this, the minister began to show her special care.
　 He sent her letters and gifts. He often spoke warmly about her. People in the capital began to talk about her beauty and grace.
　 These things caused great pain to the minister’s wife.
　 The wife had once believed that her place in the household was secure. She had given birth to children and had served her husband faithfully for many years.
　 Yet now she felt that her husband’s heart had moved away from her.
　 “Why must such things happen?” she thought often.
　 She tried to hide her sadness, but it was not easy.
　 Her daughter lived with her in the residence. The girl had grown into a young woman of fine character. She was known for her gentle nature and careful behavior.
　 This daughter also understood her mother’s sorrow.
　 When she saw the troubled look on her mother’s face, she felt deep concern.
　 One evening the daughter entered her mother’s room quietly.
　 The room was dim. A small lamp burned softly beside the wall. Outside, the wind of early autumn moved through the trees.
　 The daughter sat beside her mother.
　 “Mother,” she said gently, “you seem troubled again today.”
　 The mother did not answer at once.
　 She looked down at her hands for a long time.
　 At last she spoke.
　 “You are still young,” she said softly. “Perhaps you cannot fully understand the feelings of someone who has lived many years.”
　 The daughter listened quietly.
　 The mother continued speaking.
　 “A wife who grows older must accept many things. A man’s heart does not always remain the same.”
　 Her voice trembled slightly.
　 “Yet even when I tell myself this, the pain does not disappear.”
　 The daughter felt great sympathy.
　 “Please do not blame yourself,” she said kindly. “Father still respects you. Everyone in the house knows that you are the true lady of this family.”
　 The mother gave a faint smile.
　 “Respect is not the same as love,” she replied.
　 The room became quiet again.
　 The daughter could not easily answer those words.
　 After some time the mother spoke once more.
　 “I have been thinking of leaving this world,” she said slowly.
　 The daughter looked up in shock.
　 “Leaving the world?” she asked.
　 The mother nodded gently.
　 “I mean becoming a nun,” she explained. “If I take religious vows, I may finally find peace.”
　 The daughter felt tears rise in her eyes.
　 “Mother, please do not say such things,” she said.
　 The mother continued calmly.
　 “If I remain here, I will only continue to suffer. Watching another woman receive the affection that once belonged to me is very painful.”
　 The daughter lowered her head.
　 She understood her mother’s sorrow, yet the idea of losing her frightened her deeply.
　 “If you become a nun,” she said quietly, “what will happen to me?”
　 The mother looked at her daughter with great tenderness.
　 “You are strong and wise,” she said. “You will find your own path.”
　 The daughter shook her head slightly.
　 “I do not wish to lose you,” she said.
　 At that moment the wind outside grew stronger. The branches of the trees moved and made a soft sound against the walls of the house.
　 The mother listened to the sound for a moment.
　 Then she spoke again.
　 “Your father has already begun to make plans for Tamakazura,” she said.
　 The daughter knew that this was true.
　 People in the capital were speaking about Tamakazura’s future. Some said that she might soon enter the palace as a lady serving the Emperor.
　 Others believed that she might marry a powerful noble.
　 In any case, her position in the world was rising quickly.
　 The mother continued.
　 “When she becomes more important, my place will grow even smaller.”
　 Her voice was quiet but full of sadness.
　 The daughter could not deny this possibility.
　 For a long time the two women remained silent.
　 At last the daughter spoke again.
　 “Mother, if you truly wish to take religious vows, perhaps we should first speak with Father.”
　 The mother slowly shook her head.
　 “Your father would try to stop me,” she said. “He would say many comforting words. But those words would not change his heart.”
　 The daughter felt that these words might also be true.
　 She began to cry softly.
　 Seeing her daughter’s tears, the mother reached out and held her gently.
　 “Do not be afraid,” she said kindly. “Even if I take vows, I will still remain near you.”
　 The daughter leaned against her mother’s shoulder.
　 The quiet room filled with the soft sound of their breathing.
　 Outside, the autumn night continued to grow deeper.
　 In another part of the capital, Tamakazura lived peacefully in the residence of Genji. She knew nothing about the sorrow that filled the house of the Inner Minister.
　 Yet her future would soon bring great changes to many lives.
　 And the quiet decision forming in the heart of the minister’s wife would become the beginning of those changes.

Part 2

　 The days after that quiet conversation passed slowly in the house of the Inner Minister. The wife moved through the rooms of the residence as she had always done, yet her heart felt very different. Every familiar object now seemed to remind her of the years that had passed.
　 In the morning she sat near the veranda and watched the garden. Autumn had begun to change the colors of the leaves. Some had already turned pale yellow, and others showed a faint red along their edges. The cool wind moved gently through the branches.
　 The lady looked at the garden for a long time.
　 “How quietly the seasons move,” she thought.
　 Once she had lived here with confidence. She had believed that the house would always remain her world. Servants had respected her. Guests had greeted her with honor.
　 Now everything seemed uncertain.
　 When the servants entered the room, she greeted them calmly. She did not show anger or complaint. Yet those who knew her well could see the sadness hidden behind her gentle face.
　 Her daughter noticed these changes clearly.
　 Each day the girl stayed close to her mother. She tried to speak cheerfully and to bring small comforts to her.
　 One morning she entered the room carrying a branch of flowers from the garden.
　 “Mother, look at these,” she said softly. “They are very beautiful today.”
　 The lady lifted her eyes.
　 The flowers were small and pale purple. Their quiet color suited the calm autumn air.
　 The mother smiled faintly.
　 “They are lovely,” she said. “You always notice such things.”
　 The daughter placed the flowers in a small vase near the window.
　 “When the room has flowers,” she said, “it feels a little warmer.”
　 The mother looked at the vase for a moment.
　 “Yes,” she replied quietly.
　 Yet inside her heart another thought moved.
　 “Even flowers fade quickly,” she thought.
　 That afternoon the Inner Minister came to visit her.
　 He entered the room with his usual dignity. His robe was dark and carefully arranged. His face showed kindness, yet there was also a slight distance in his manner.
　 The wife greeted him politely.
　 “You have come,” she said.
　 “Yes,” he replied.
　 For a moment they spoke about ordinary matters of the household. The minister asked about her health. She answered calmly.
　 At last the wife decided to speak about the thought that had been growing in her heart.
　 She lowered her eyes.
　 “There is something I wish to ask,” she said quietly.
　 The minister looked at her with surprise.
　 “What is it?” he asked.
　 She spoke slowly.
　 “I have been thinking about taking religious vows.”
　 The minister was shocked.
　 “What are you saying?” he said.
　 His voice showed true concern.
　 “Why would you think of such a thing?”
　 The wife answered gently.
　 “My heart is tired,” she said. “I wish to spend the rest of my life in peace.”
　 The minister understood the meaning behind her words.
　 For a moment he could not answer.
　 At last he spoke.
　 “You should not think this way,” he said. “There is no reason for such sadness.”
　 The wife raised her eyes slightly.
　 “No reason?” she repeated softly.
　 The minister realized that he had spoken too quickly.
　 He tried to explain himself.
　 “You have always been the honored lady of this house,” he said. “Nothing will change that.”
　 The wife listened quietly.
　 “Honor is not what troubles me,” she replied.
　 Her voice remained calm, yet the pain inside it could be heard clearly.
　 The minister felt uneasy.
　 He understood that she was speaking about Tamakazura.
　 Yet he did not wish to discuss that matter openly.
　 For a moment both of them remained silent.
　 At last the minister spoke again.
　 “If you leave the world now,” he said, “people will think that our house is filled with sorrow. Your daughter will also suffer.”
　 The wife looked toward the place where her daughter had been sitting earlier that day.
　 “I know,” she said quietly.
　 Her love for her daughter made the decision difficult.
　 The minister continued speaking gently.
　 “Please wait a little longer,” he said. “There is no need to hurry into such a life.”
　 The wife did not answer immediately.
　 She understood that the minister wished to calm the situation.
　 Yet she also felt that his words did not truly change the reality of their lives.
　 At last she spoke again.
　 “I will think about it,” she said.
　 The minister seemed relieved to hear this.
　 “That is good,” he said.
　 He stayed with her for some time longer, speaking about small matters in order to lighten the mood.
　 Yet the quiet distance between them remained.
　 When he finally left the room, the evening light had already begun to fade.
　 The daughter soon returned to her mother.
　 She looked carefully at her face.
　 “Did you speak with Father?” she asked.
　 The mother nodded slowly.
　 “Yes,” she replied.
　 “What did he say?”
　 The mother smiled gently.
　 “He asked me to wait,” she said.
　 The daughter felt some relief.
　 “Then perhaps things will become better,” she said hopefully.
　 The mother did not answer.
　 She only looked toward the darkening garden.
　 Far away in another residence, Tamakazura continued her peaceful life under the protection of Genji.
　 Letters still arrived from many men who admired her beauty. People spoke about her future with excitement.
　 Yet the quiet sorrow growing inside the house of the Inner Minister was slowly preparing the path for the next events in this story.

Part 3

　 Some days passed after the conversation between the Inner Minister and his wife. The house continued its daily life, yet a quiet tension remained in the air. Servants moved carefully, speaking in soft voices. Everyone seemed to feel that something important might soon happen.
　 The minister’s wife spent more time alone.
　 She often sat near the veranda and looked at the autumn sky. The light of the season had become pale and gentle. The sound of insects could sometimes be heard in the garden at night.
　 These small sounds filled the quiet house.
　 Her daughter continued to stay close to her.
　 One evening the girl brought a small writing box and placed it before her mother.
　 “Mother,” she said gently, “perhaps writing a letter will help ease your mind.”
　 The mother looked at the writing box.
　 Inside were brushes, ink, and several sheets of soft paper.
　 For a moment she did not move.
　 At last she slowly opened the box.
　 “Perhaps you are right,” she said.
　 She dipped the brush into the ink and began to write.
　 The letter was not long. Her words were calm and respectful. Yet they carried the quiet sadness that filled her heart.
　 She wrote to a temple where a respected nun lived. This nun had once been known to her family.
　 The lady explained her wish to enter a religious life.
　 When she finished writing, she folded the letter carefully.
　 Her daughter watched her with worried eyes.
　 “Mother,” she said softly, “have you already decided?”
　 The lady placed the letter beside her.
　 “My heart has been moving in this direction for a long time,” she answered.
　 The daughter lowered her head.
　 “If you leave the world,” she said quietly, “I will feel very lonely.”
　 The mother reached out and touched her daughter’s hand.
　 “You are no longer a child,” she said gently. “Soon you will have your own life.”
　 The daughter did not answer.
　 She understood that her mother’s decision had become strong.
　 Some days later a reply came from the temple.
　 The messenger arrived in the early afternoon. He carried the letter with careful respect.
　 The lady opened it quietly.
　 The nun had written kind and thoughtful words. She said that the path of religion was not easy, but it could bring peace to a troubled heart.
　 She invited the lady to visit the temple if she truly wished to begin that life.
　 After reading the letter, the lady remained silent for a long time.
　 At last she spoke.
　 “It seems that the path is open.”
　 Her daughter felt a deep sadness when she heard these words.
　 “Will you leave soon?” she asked.
　 The lady looked toward the garden.
　 “Not immediately,” she said. “But I believe that day will come.”
　 Meanwhile news about Tamakazura continued to spread through the capital.
　 Many people spoke about her beauty and her noble manner. Several powerful men still wished to marry her.
　 Among them was the Right General, whose interest had not grown weaker.
　 Whenever he visited the residence of Genji, he tried to learn more about Tamakazura.
　 One day he spoke openly with Genji.
　 “I have long admired the lady Tamakazura,” he said.
　 Genji listened quietly.
　 The general continued.
　 “If it were possible, I would wish to become her husband.”
　 Genji smiled slightly.
　 “Many men think the same thing,” he replied.
　 The general nodded.
　 “I know that I am not the only one,” he said. “But I hope that my feelings may still be considered.”
　 Genji did not give a clear answer.
　 “Her future is still uncertain,” he said calmly. “Many things must be decided before such a matter can be settled.”
　 The general understood that Genji wished to delay the discussion.
　 Yet his interest did not fade.
　 At the same time, Prince Hyobukyo continued to send gentle letters to Tamakazura. His messages were filled with quiet longing.
　 Tamakazura read them politely but answered only rarely.
　 Her life at the Rokujo residence remained calm.
　 She spent her days speaking with the ladies of the house, reading poetry, and enjoying the peaceful gardens.
　 She did not know how deeply her presence had affected the house of the Inner Minister.
　 Yet the quiet decision forming in the heart of that household’s lady was already moving events forward.
　 Soon the lady would take a step that would change the lives of many people around her.
　 And when that moment arrived, the story of Tamakazura and the Inner Minister’s family would move into a new and uncertain chapter.

 
Chapter 32: Umegae (梅枝)

Part 1

　 Spring had come again to the capital. The sky looked clear and gentle, and the air felt fresh. In the great residence of Genji, many people were busy preparing for an important ceremony.
　 Genji’s young daughter was now eleven years old. It was time for her mogi ceremony, the ceremony that marked a girl’s coming of age. Genji wished to hold this event with great care and beauty.
　 He believed that such an important moment should be prepared perfectly.
　 Therefore the entire Rokujo residence became busy with many tasks.
　 On a calm day near the end of the first month, Genji decided to prepare special incense for the ceremony. He believed that beautiful fragrance should fill the rooms during the celebration.
　 Servants brought many kinds of fragrant wood and incense materials before him.
　 Some of these materials had recently arrived from the province of Daini. Others had been brought from distant lands long ago. Genji looked carefully at each piece and compared them one by one.
　 He examined their colors and shapes.
　 Sometimes he lifted a piece close to his nose and quietly breathed in its scent.
　 “Old things often have deeper beauty,” Genji said softly. “Cloth and incense are both like that. The older ones often carry a richer feeling.”
　 Because of this thought, he ordered the storehouses at the Nijō estate to be opened. Rare materials from China that had been kept there for many years were brought to the Rokujo residence.
　 When these items arrived, Genji examined them carefully.
　 The attendants watched him with admiration.
　 He seemed deeply interested in every small detail.
　 While this was happening, many other preparations for the ceremony were also underway.
　 Beautiful cloth was needed for coverings, cushions, and ceremonial seats. Genji carefully selected fine fabrics that had been given long ago by envoys from distant lands. These fabrics had rich colors and elegant patterns.
　 “These will be perfect for the ceremony,” he said.
　 New fabrics that had recently arrived were also beautiful, but Genji decided to send those as gifts to other people instead.
　 He wanted only the most refined materials for his daughter’s ceremony.
　 After arranging the fabrics, Genji returned to the incense preparations.
　 He divided the incense materials into several sets. Then he sent them to the different ladies who lived in the Rokujo residence.
　 Each lady received two kinds of materials.
　 With the materials Genji sent a message.
　 “Please prepare two kinds of incense,” he requested. “Use your own taste and skill.”
　 These ladies were not only members of his household. Some were women whom Genji deeply respected as friends.
　 When they received the materials, they began their work immediately.
　 The sound of metal mortars crushing incense wood could be heard in several parts of the residence. The women and their attendants worked carefully to mix the materials.
　 The residence was filled with quiet activity.
　 In one part of the estate, beautiful clothes were being prepared for the ceremony. In another place, gifts were being arranged for important nobles.
　 Meanwhile the sound of grinding incense continued softly.
　 Genji himself also worked on making incense.
　 He stayed in the southern section of the residence, away from the ladies’ quarters. There he worked alone with great concentration.
　 Somehow he had learned a secret method of preparing incense that had once been known in the time of Emperor Ninmyō.
　 Using this rare technique, he carefully mixed the fragrant materials.
　 In another building, Lady Murasaki was also preparing incense.
　 She had arranged a quiet room in the eastern wing where few people could enter. There she used a secret method that had once belonged to the family of Prince Shikibu.
　 Husband and wife both worked secretly.
　 Each hoped that their own incense would prove to be the finest.
　 They even joked that they would compare their incense and see which one was better.
　 It was a playful competition.
　 In every lady’s chamber only a few trusted attendants were allowed to help with the incense.
　 The preparation of the ceremony continued day after day.
　 Genji also paid great attention to the containers that would hold the incense.
　 He designed elegant boxes and jars. Special burners were made with careful craftsmanship.
　 “The incense must be placed in beautiful vessels,” he said.
　 When all the incense had been prepared, Genji planned to test each one carefully. The best fragrances would be placed into these containers for the ceremony.
　 Then one day in early February, the weather changed.
　 A light rain fell over the garden.
　 The rain made the air cool and soft. In the front garden a red plum tree was in full bloom.
　 Its flowers showed a deep color, and its fragrance filled the air.
　 On that day a visitor arrived.
　 It was Prince Hyōbu, Genji’s brother.
　 The prince had come to visit Genji before the ceremony.
　 Because the mogi ceremony would take place very soon, he wished to ask about the preparations and share in Genji’s thoughts.
　 The two brothers walked together in the garden.
　 They admired the beautiful plum blossoms.
　 Their relationship had always been warm and friendly.
　 While they were talking, a messenger arrived with a letter.
　 The letter had been sent from the former High Priestess of the Kamo shrine.
　 The message had been attached to a branch of plum blossoms.
　 The flowers had already begun to fall from the branch.
　 Prince Hyōbu noticed the letter immediately.
　 He looked at it with curiosity.
　 “What kind of message has arrived from there?” he asked with interest.
　 Long ago there had been rumors about a relationship between Genji and the former priestess.
　 Because of that past, the prince was naturally curious.
　 Genji smiled slightly.
　 “I once asked her a small favor,” he said calmly. “She has kindly prepared incense for me.”
　 Saying this, Genji quietly hid the letter.
　 Two beautiful containers were brought in with the gift.
　 They were placed in a dark wooden box made from aloeswood. The containers stood on small blue crystal legs.
　 Inside them were round pieces of incense.
　 Each piece had been carefully shaped into a small ball.
　 The decorations were elegant.
　 One container had a branch of five leaves attached to it. The other had plum blossoms.
　 Even the silk cords that tied the decorations were graceful.
　 Prince Hyōbu looked at them with admiration.
　 “These are beautifully made,” he said.
　 Then his eyes fell upon a poem written on the letter.
　 He read the poem aloud with a playful voice.
　 The atmosphere between the two brothers became light and pleasant as they stood beneath the fragrant plum blossoms.

Part 2

　 Prince Hyōbu held the letter lightly in his hand after reading the poem. His face showed quiet amusement. He looked at Genji with curiosity that he did not try to hide.
　 “This message has a delicate meaning,” the prince said with a gentle smile. “It seems that the writer wished to express something more than simple thanks.”
　 Genji laughed softly.
　 “You imagine too much,” he replied.
　 He reached out calmly and took the letter back into his sleeve.
　 “I only asked her to prepare incense,” he said. “She kindly answered my request.”
　 The prince continued to look at the elegant containers of incense that had been brought with the letter. Their shapes were graceful, and the colors of the cords and decorations were carefully chosen.
　 The faint fragrance from the incense had already begun to spread through the room.
　 “The scent is very fine,” the prince said.
　 He lifted one of the containers slightly and examined it closely.
　 “Whoever prepared this has a very refined sense of taste.”
　 Genji nodded slightly but said nothing more.
　 After a moment he gave instructions to a servant.
　 “Prepare a reply,” he said.
　 A sheet of soft paper was brought to him. The color of the paper was pale red, like the petals of the plum blossoms outside.
　 Genji thought quietly for a moment.
　 Then he wrote a poem.
　 When he finished writing, he attached the paper to a branch of plum blossoms taken from the garden.
　 The messenger prepared to leave with the reply.
　 Meanwhile Prince Hyōbu still seemed curious.
　 “I cannot help wondering what the letter truly said,” he said with a smile.
　 Genji shook his head lightly.
　 “There is nothing secret in it,” he replied. “But if people begin to imagine things, strange rumors may spread.”
　 The prince laughed.
　 “Rumors often grow from small things,” he said.
　 Soon after this conversation Genji remembered another matter.
　 Because the weather that day was damp from the rain, he believed it would be a good time to test the incense that had been prepared by the ladies of the residence.
　 “The air today is perfect for judging fragrance,” he said.
　 Messengers were sent to the different buildings of the Rokujo residence.
　 One by one the incense mixtures created by the ladies were brought to Genji’s room.
　 Each set arrived with its own decorations and containers.
　 Prince Hyōbu watched with interest.
　 “Please judge them,” Genji said. “There is no one else I trust for such a task.”
　 The prince laughed softly.
　 “You give me a difficult responsibility,” he replied.
　 Servants brought small incense burners and placed them before the prince. Carefully they placed tiny pieces of the incense into the burners.
　 Thin lines of smoke rose slowly into the air.
　 The room soon filled with many different fragrances.
　 Prince Hyōbu leaned forward and breathed in the scents carefully.
　 He closed his eyes slightly as he tried to understand each fragrance.
　 “This one is gentle,” he said after a moment.
　 Then he moved to the next burner.
　 “This one is stronger.”
　 He examined each mixture carefully, trying to find small differences in the fragrance.
　 Genji watched him with amusement.
　 “You are very serious,” Genji said. “Perhaps too serious.”
　 The prince smiled.
　 “If I must judge them, I should do it properly,” he replied.
　 The fragrances were indeed very different.
　 Some were soft and quiet.
　 Others were bright and lively.
　 One mixture created by the former High Priestess had a deep and calm fragrance that seemed to remain in the air for a long time.
　 Prince Hyōbu seemed especially impressed by that one.
　 “This fragrance is very refined,” he said. “It has great depth.”
　 Next came the incense prepared by Lady Murasaki.
　 She had created three different mixtures.
　 One of them was called Baika-kō, the fragrance of plum blossoms.
　 The prince inhaled the scent and nodded with pleasure.
　 “This one is bright and youthful,” he said. “It would be perfect for the gentle spring wind.”
　 Genji smiled with quiet pride.
　 Another mixture had been prepared by Lady Hanachirusato.
　 She had entered the competition with modest feelings.
　 Because she believed that others would surely create better fragrances, she had prepared only a single type.
　 Yet the scent was very pleasant.
　 It carried a feeling that reminded one of distant summer fields.
　 Prince Hyōbu nodded thoughtfully.
　 “This one is very comforting,” he said.
　 Finally the incense prepared by Lady Akashi was brought.
　 She had thought carefully about the traditional fragrances connected with the four seasons.
　 Because winter often seemed less celebrated than the other seasons, she had created a special fragrance for winter garments.
　 She had studied the methods used long ago in the court of Emperor Suzaku and improved them with great care.
　 The prince examined the fragrance slowly.
　 “This one is very elegant,” he said at last.
　 “It carries a rich and beautiful scent.”
　 Genji laughed lightly.
　 “You praise everything,” he said.
　 “You are too kind to every mixture.”
　 The prince smiled again.
　 “It is true that each one has its own charm,” he said.
　 Outside the rain had already stopped.
　 The clouds slowly moved away from the sky.
　 Soon the moon rose above the roofs of the residence.
　 Its soft light entered the room through the open blinds.
　 Servants brought wine and placed it before the two brothers.
　 The fragrance of incense still filled the air.
　 The two men began to talk about old times.
　 The moonlight, the scent of the plum blossoms, and the gentle wind of the night created a peaceful and beautiful atmosphere.
　 Slowly the evening grew deeper.
　 The sound of music could now be heard from another building in the residence.

Part 3

　 The sound of music grew clearer as the night deepened. From the servants’ hall nearby came the gentle tones of instruments being tested. Courtiers who served in the palace had gathered there to prepare for the music that would be performed during the ceremony on the following day.
　 Some tried the strings of their instruments. Others practiced the flute.
　 The soft notes moved through the night air and reached the place where Genji and Prince Hyōbu were sitting.
　 Genji listened for a moment.
　 “They are preparing already,” he said with a small smile.
　 Prince Hyōbu nodded.
　 “It seems the whole residence is awake tonight,” he replied.
　 Soon several young nobles arrived to greet Genji and the prince. Among them were the Head Captain, the son of the Minister of the Right, and the Assistant Captain of the Guards.
　 They had first intended only to greet Genji and then leave quietly.
　 But Genji stopped them.
　 “Do not leave so soon,” he said warmly. “Come and join us.”
　 Servants quickly brought several musical instruments into the room.
　 The young nobles accepted their places.
　 The Head Captain was asked to play the wagon, the ancient Japanese zither. He lifted the instrument and gently touched the strings.
　 A rich sound filled the room.
　 The melody was bright and lively.
　 The Assistant Captain of the Guards took a flute. He raised it slowly and began to play.
　 The sound of the flute was clear and graceful. The notes seemed to rise into the night sky.
　 The young nobles listened carefully and followed the rhythm.
　 Soon the music grew stronger.
　 One of the young men began to sing.
　 His voice was clear and beautiful.
　 The song he chose was “Umegae,” The Plum Branch.
　 The melody suited the season well, for the plum blossoms were now in bloom in the garden.
　 Prince Hyōbu and Genji sometimes joined the song, adding their voices softly.
　 It was not a grand musical performance.
　 Yet it was filled with charm and elegance.
　 The moon shone brightly above the garden. The wind moved lightly through the plum blossoms, spreading their fragrance through the air.
　 Everyone felt a gentle happiness.
　 Cups of wine were passed around.
　 When Prince Hyōbu received his cup, he recited a poem.
　 He looked toward the garden as he spoke.
　 “When I hear the voice of the nightingale,” he said, “my heart wanders even more among these flowers that have already captured my thoughts.”
　 Genji listened with pleasure.
　 Then he answered with a poem of his own.
　 “May this spring remain here forever,” he said, “so that this house filled with blooming flowers will never lose its beauty.”
　 After hearing this, Genji passed the wine cup to the Head Captain.
　 The young man accepted it and smiled slightly.
　 Then he recited another poem.
　 “Even the branch where the nightingale rests bends softly,” he said. “So let the sound of the flute continue through the night.”
　 The others laughed gently at his words.
　 The Assistant Captain of the Guards also added a poem.
　 His voice carried a playful tone.
　 The group enjoyed the moment greatly.
　 Music and poetry filled the night.
　 Time passed without anyone noticing.
　 At last the sky began to grow pale in the east.
　 Dawn was approaching.
　 Prince Hyōbu realized that he had stayed much longer than he had intended.
　 “I have enjoyed this night too much,” he said with a smile. “It is almost morning.”
　 Genji laughed.
　 “The night has been pleasant,” he replied.
　 The prince prepared to leave.
　 Before he departed, Genji ordered several gifts to be placed in the prince’s carriage.
　 One was a beautiful robe that had been prepared for Genji himself.
　 The other gifts were two jars of fine incense that had not yet been touched.
　 As the prince stepped into his carriage, he recited another poem.
　 “If the fragrance of these flowers moves to my sleeves,” he said, “will someone blame me for carrying it away?”
　 Genji laughed when he heard this.
　 “You seem worried about how you will explain yourself,” he said.
　 The carriage had already begun to move.
　 But Genji quickly sent a servant running after it with a final message.
　 The servant spoke Genji’s reply.
　 “People in your old home will surely admire you,” the message said, “when you return wearing garments filled with the fragrance of flowers.”
　 Prince Hyōbu heard the message and smiled with quiet amusement.
　 Meanwhile the preparations for the ceremony continued.
　 Later that evening Genji, Lady Murasaki, and the young princess moved to the western section of the residence where the ceremony would take place.
　 The Empress herself had agreed to take part in the event and assist in the ritual.
　 The rooms were filled with beautifully dressed ladies.
　 Their robes shone softly in the dim light of the lamps.
　 The ceremony began near midnight.
　 The young princess appeared in the gentle glow of the lamps.
　 The Empress looked at her with admiration.
　 “She is truly beautiful,” she thought.
　 Genji bowed respectfully before the Empress.
　 “Your kindness in helping with this ceremony is beyond anything we could expect,” he said.
　 The Empress answered with modest words.
　 “I have little experience with such matters,” she said. “I hope I have not made mistakes.”
　 Her gentle and youthful manner pleased everyone present.
　 As Genji looked around the room, he felt a deep happiness.
　 These elegant women were all part of his family.
　 Yet one thought still troubled him.
　 Lady Akashi, the mother of the princess, could not appear openly at this great ceremony. She remained hidden and could only hear about the event from a distance.
　 Genji felt a quiet sadness for her.
　 For a moment he even considered calling her to witness the ceremony.
　 But he decided that doing so might cause gossip among the nobles.
　 Therefore he kept his thoughts to himself.
　 The ceremony continued through the night.
　 Soon afterward another important event followed.
　 The Crown Prince celebrated his coming-of-age ceremony.
　 Many nobles hoped that their daughters might one day serve in his court.
　 But everyone knew that Genji intended to present his own daughter to the Crown Prince.
　 Because Genji held such great power and confidence, other families hesitated to compete with him.
　 Some feared that sending their daughters might only bring disappointment.
　 Yet Genji did not wish for the palace to remain empty of noble ladies.
　 “Court service should be a gathering of many noble daughters,” he said. “Only then will the palace truly flourish.”
　 Because of this, he delayed the moment when his daughter would enter palace service.
　 Hearing this decision, other nobles finally began sending their daughters to the palace as well.
　 Preparations for Genji’s daughter continued for several more months.
　 The Crown Prince himself grew impatient as he waited to meet her.
　 At last it was decided that she would enter the palace in the fourth month.
　 Genji prepared many beautiful objects for her new life.
　 He designed boxes, writing sets, and decorated books with great care.
　 Some books were written by famous calligraphers of the past.
　 Others were newly made by skilled artists of the present.
　 Genji examined every object personally.
　 He wished his daughter’s new life to begin with the greatest elegance and beauty.
　 And so the spring days passed quietly in the capital as the final preparations continued.

 
Chapter 33: Fuji no Uraba (藤裏葉)

Part 1

　 Spring had deepened in the capital. The air was warm and soft, and the gardens of the Rokujo residence were filled with new green leaves. The branches of the wisteria trees were beginning to grow long and heavy with purple flowers.
　 Many people were busy in Genji’s residence.
　 A very important event was approaching.
　 Genji’s beloved daughter, the young princess, would soon enter the Imperial Palace to serve the Crown Prince. Because of this, preparations were being made with great care.
　 Genji wished everything to be perfect.
　 In the large halls of the residence servants moved quietly but quickly. Boxes of beautiful robes were carried through the corridors. Skilled women sat together sewing and arranging clothing.
　 The bright colors of silk filled the rooms.
　 Some robes were pale green like new leaves. Others were soft purple like the wisteria flowers that were beginning to bloom.
　 Each garment was carefully chosen.
　 Lady Murasaki watched these preparations with a calm and thoughtful expression.
　 She sat beside a low table where many pieces of cloth had been spread out.
　 Several ladies were helping her.
　 One woman lifted a robe and held it toward the light.
　 “This one is very beautiful,” she said softly.
　 Lady Murasaki looked at it carefully.
　 The cloth was smooth and fine. The color was gentle and elegant.
　 “Yes,” she said after a moment. “But perhaps it is too bright.”
　 The robe was placed aside.
　 Another robe was brought forward.
　 This one was softer in color.
　 Lady Murasaki nodded.
　 “This will be suitable,” she said.
　 The ladies continued working quietly.
　 At another place in the residence Genji himself was also preparing gifts for the young princess.
　 He had ordered many objects to be made especially for her new life in the palace.
　 Beautiful writing boxes had been prepared.
　 Some were made of dark lacquer with delicate gold designs.
　 Others were decorated with small pieces of shining shell.
　 Genji examined each one with careful attention.
　 He lifted a brush and tested its softness.
　 He opened small boxes to look at the ink stones inside.
　 Everything had to be perfect.
　 “These things will be used in the palace,” he said to the attendants beside him. “They must show elegance and dignity.”
　 The attendants bowed respectfully.
　 Many famous calligraphers had also been asked to write poems for the princess.
　 Their writing was placed into beautiful albums.
　 These books would accompany her to the palace.
　 As Genji looked at these objects, many thoughts passed through his mind.
　 His daughter had grown up so quickly.
　 Soon she would begin a new life in the palace.
　 He felt both pride and a quiet sadness.
　 Meanwhile another house in the capital was also preparing for an important event.
　 This was the residence of the Minister of the Right.
　 His son, the Head Captain, would soon marry Genji’s daughter.
　 Because of this marriage, both families were busy with preparations.
　 The Minister of the Right wished the ceremony to be splendid.
　 In his house, many servants were also preparing clothing and gifts.
　 Boxes of robes were arranged carefully.
　 Musicians were being invited.
　 Everything was being organized for the coming celebration.
　 Yet the minister himself sometimes felt uneasy.
　 Genji had become the most powerful and respected man in the capital.
　 Compared with Genji’s wealth and influence, the minister sometimes felt that his own house was less impressive.
　 One evening he spoke quietly with his wife.
　 “Genji’s house shines like the sun,” he said. “Our preparations may appear simple beside his.”
　 His wife answered gently.
　 “You should not worry so much,” she said. “Our son is worthy of this marriage.”
　 The minister nodded slowly.
　 “Yes,” he said. “But we must still do our best.”
　 Meanwhile the young Head Captain himself often thought about the coming marriage.
　 He had already seen Genji’s daughter several times.
　 Her beauty had left a strong impression on him.
　 Whenever he remembered her, he felt a quiet happiness.
　 Yet he also felt nervous.
　 Becoming connected to Genji’s powerful family was an honor, but it also brought great responsibility.
　 “I must behave with great care,” he thought.
　 Back at the Rokujo residence the preparations continued.
　 One afternoon Genji walked through the garden with Lady Murasaki.
　 The wisteria flowers were now beginning to open.
　 Long purple clusters hung from the branches.
　 Their fragrance filled the air.
　 Genji stopped beside one of the trees.
　 He gently touched a cluster of flowers.
　 “Spring passes quickly,” he said quietly.
　 Lady Murasaki looked at the flowers.
　 “Yes,” she answered softly.
　 For a moment they both stood silently.
　 They were thinking about the same thing.
　 Soon the young princess would leave this house and begin her life in the palace.
　 The days of her childhood were ending.
　 A light wind moved through the garden.
　 The wisteria flowers swayed gently in the air.
　 Their purple petals shone softly in the sunlight.
　 As Genji looked at them, he felt both joy and sadness in his heart.
　 The season of change had arrived.
　 And with it, a new chapter in the lives of many people was about to begin.

Part 2

　 In the days that followed, the Rokujo residence grew even busier. Servants moved quietly through the halls carrying boxes and bundles. Everywhere there was the soft sound of silk cloth being folded and arranged. Ladies sat together in bright rooms, sewing and speaking in gentle voices. The air in the residence seemed filled with a quiet excitement.
　 The young princess herself remained calm.
　 She spent much of her time with Lady Murasaki. The two often sat together near the veranda where the spring air could enter the room. From there they could see the garden.
　 The wisteria flowers had opened more fully now.
　 Long clusters of purple blossoms hung from the branches like soft curtains.
　 Bees moved slowly around them.
　 One afternoon the princess looked toward the flowers and spoke quietly.
　 “The garden is very beautiful this year,” she said.
　 Lady Murasaki smiled gently.
　 “Yes,” she answered. “The wisteria blooms well this spring.”
　 For a moment neither of them spoke.
　 The princess seemed thoughtful.
　 At last she turned to Lady Murasaki again.
　 “When I go to the palace,” she said softly, “will I still be able to see flowers like these?”
　 Lady Murasaki felt a sudden emotion in her heart.
　 She understood that the girl was beginning to think seriously about leaving home.
　 “The palace also has beautiful gardens,” she replied gently. “But the flowers here will always remember you.”
　 The princess lowered her eyes.
　 “I will remember this place too,” she said.
　 Meanwhile Genji continued to prepare everything carefully.
　 One evening he called several trusted attendants to his room.
　 On the floor before him many objects had been arranged.
　 There were writing boxes, mirrors, incense containers, and decorated fans.
　 Some objects had been newly made.
　 Others were treasures that Genji had kept for many years.
　 He lifted one small box and opened it slowly.
　 Inside was a delicate writing set.
　 The brush handles were made of polished wood, and the ink stone had a smooth dark surface.
　 Genji examined it closely.
　 “This will be suitable for the palace,” he said.
　 The attendants nodded.
　 Next he looked at a decorated mirror.
　 Its back was covered with a design of flowers and flowing water.
　 When the light touched it, the metal shone softly.
　 Genji seemed satisfied.
　 “Place this among the gifts,” he said.
　 The attendants carefully wrapped the objects in fine cloth.
　 They placed them into special boxes that had been prepared for the journey to the palace.
　 While these preparations continued, messages moved back and forth between Genji’s residence and the house of the Minister of the Right.
　 The minister wished to confirm the day of the marriage ceremony.
　 After several discussions the date was finally decided.
　 When the message arrived, Genji read it quietly.
　 Then he called Lady Murasaki.
　 She entered the room calmly.
　 Genji showed her the letter.
　 “The day has been decided,” he said.
　 Lady Murasaki read the message carefully.
　 For a moment she remained silent.
　 “So soon,” she said at last.
　 Genji nodded.
　 “Yes. Time moves quickly.”
　 That evening the news spread through the residence.
　 The ladies spoke together in excited voices.
　 “The wedding day has been fixed.”
　 “The princess will soon enter the palace.”
　 Everyone felt both joy and sadness.
　 Late that night Genji walked alone in the garden.
　 The moon had risen high in the sky.
　 Its pale light covered the grass and flowers.
　 The wisteria blossoms shone softly in the moonlight.
　 Genji stood beneath the branches.
　 He looked up at the hanging clusters of purple flowers.
　 Their shape reminded him of the long sleeves of elegant robes.
　 The gentle fragrance filled the night air.
　 “How quickly the years pass,” he thought.
　 It seemed only yesterday that his daughter had been a small child.
　 Now she was ready to enter the palace and begin her life among the nobles.
　 Genji felt proud of her.
　 Yet he also felt the quiet loneliness that comes when a child leaves home.
　 After some time he returned to the house.
　 The lights inside the residence were still bright.
　 Ladies and attendants continued working late into the night.
　 Robes were being folded.
　 Gifts were being arranged.
　 The sounds of quiet voices and moving silk filled the rooms.
　 The entire residence was preparing for the great event that would soon arrive.
　 As the night grew deeper, the preparations continued without rest.
　 The coming days would bring celebration, ceremony, and great change for everyone connected to the house of Genji.
　 And beneath the blooming wisteria of spring, the lives of these noble families were slowly moving toward a new future.

Part 3

　 The days before the ceremony passed quickly. In the Rokujo residence every room seemed alive with quiet movement. Servants walked through the corridors carrying robes wrapped in silk cloth. Ladies sat together in bright chambers, arranging layers of garments and choosing the most beautiful colors. The sound of soft voices and moving fabric filled the air.
　 The young princess was carefully prepared for her new life.
　 Early each morning her attendants helped her dress in practice robes. These garments were not the final ceremonial robes, but they allowed her to grow used to the many layers she would soon wear.
　 One morning she stood before a large mirror.
　 Several ladies adjusted the sleeves of her robe.
　 “Please lift your arm a little,” one attendant said gently.
　 The princess raised her arm.
　 The long sleeve fell softly like a stream of cloth.
　 Another lady adjusted the collar.
　 “It must rest perfectly,” she said.
　 Lady Murasaki watched quietly from nearby.
　 She noticed every small detail.
　 Sometimes she stepped forward and corrected the position of a ribbon or the fold of a sleeve.
　 “This color should appear slightly more,” she said softly.
　 The attendants followed her instructions carefully.
　 The princess looked calm, but inside she felt both excitement and nervousness.
　 Soon she would enter the palace.
　 Many new people would see her.
　 She wished to behave perfectly so that her father would feel proud.
　 Later that day Genji came to visit the room.
　 When he entered, the ladies bowed respectfully.
　 The princess also bowed.
　 Genji looked at her carefully.
　 The layered robes gave her a graceful and noble appearance.
　 For a moment he said nothing.
　 Then he smiled gently.
　 “You have grown very beautiful,” he said.
　 The princess lowered her eyes shyly.
　 Lady Murasaki watched the two of them.
　 She felt a quiet happiness seeing Genji’s pride.
　 Yet she also felt a small sadness.
　 The young girl she had helped raise was about to leave this house.
　 Meanwhile at the residence of the Minister of the Right preparations were also reaching their final stage.
　 The Head Captain had received new ceremonial robes.
　 His attendants helped him try them on.
　 The cloth was rich and heavy.
　 The colors were deep and dignified.
　 When he stood before the mirror, he hardly recognized himself.
　 “You look very noble,” one attendant said.
　 The young man smiled slightly.
　 Yet his heart beat quickly.
　 Soon he would become the husband of Genji’s daughter.
　 This thought filled him with both pride and anxiety.
　 That evening the Minister of the Right spoke with his son.
　 They sat together in a quiet room.
　 Lamps burned softly beside them.
　 “This marriage is very important,” the minister said.
　 “You must behave with dignity at all times.”
　 The Head Captain bowed his head.
　 “I understand,” he answered.
　 The minister continued speaking.
　 “Genji’s house holds great power in the capital. Our family must show respect and grace.”
　 “Yes, Father,” the young man said.
　 His voice was calm, but inside he felt the great weight of responsibility.
　 Back at the Rokujo residence the final evening before the ceremony arrived.
　 The sky was clear and the moon shone brightly above the garden.
　 The wisteria flowers were now fully in bloom.
　 Their long purple clusters moved gently in the night wind.
　 Genji walked through the garden once more.
　 The fragrance of the flowers filled the air.
　 He paused beneath the wisteria branches.
　 Moonlight fell across the petals.
　 They seemed to glow softly in the pale light.
　 Genji thought about the many years that had passed.
　 His life had been filled with both happiness and sorrow.
　 Now another important moment had arrived.
　 Tomorrow his daughter would begin a new life.
　 After a while he returned to the house.
　 Inside, the ladies were making the final arrangements.
　 Boxes of robes were placed in careful order.
　 Gifts were prepared for the ceremony.
　 Every detail had been checked many times.
　 Late in the night Lady Murasaki came to speak with Genji.
　 She entered quietly.
　 “Everything is ready,” she said.
　 Genji nodded slowly.
　 “You have taken great care,” he replied.
　 Lady Murasaki smiled gently.
　 “It is a joyful event,” she said.
　 For a moment they both remained silent.
　 Each was thinking about the princess.
　 Finally Genji spoke again.
　 “The house will feel very different when she leaves.”
　 Lady Murasaki lowered her eyes.
　 “Yes,” she said softly.
　 Outside the wind moved lightly through the wisteria flowers.
　 Some petals fell slowly to the ground.
　 The quiet night continued.
　 Soon morning would arrive, and with it the great ceremony that would change the lives of many people connected to Genji’s house.
　 Beneath the blooming wisteria of spring, a new chapter of their story was about to begin.
 
Chapter 34: Wakana: Jō (若菜 上)

Part 1

　 It was the season of early spring. The air in the capital was soft and warm, and gentle winds moved through the gardens of the nobles. Plum blossoms had already begun to fall, and new green leaves appeared quietly on the trees. People said that the year had begun with many good signs.
　 In the great residence of Genji there was much activity.
　 Servants moved through the halls with careful steps. Ladies gathered in bright rooms to prepare robes and arrange beautiful objects. The residence always held many people, but now the movement seemed even greater than usual.
　 Genji himself had reached the highest place among the nobles of the capital.
　 Because of his position, many important people came to visit him. Messages arrived from the palace almost every day. Courtiers wished to speak with him about many matters of government.
　 Yet even in the middle of these busy days, Genji sometimes felt a quiet sadness in his heart.
　 One afternoon he sat alone near the veranda of his room. From there he could see the garden clearly. The sunlight fell softly across the grass, and small birds moved among the branches of the trees.
　 Genji watched them silently.
　 After a long moment he spoke softly to himself.
　 “How peaceful this garden looks.”
　 But his thoughts soon turned elsewhere.
　 The Emperor, who had ruled the country for many years, was now growing older. His health had become weaker, and many people in the court worried about the future.
　 Genji understood that great changes might soon come.
　 These thoughts made him quiet.
　 At that moment an attendant entered the room and bowed deeply.
　 “A message has arrived from the palace,” he said.
　 Genji lifted his eyes.
　 “Bring it here,” he replied.
　 The attendant placed the letter carefully before him.
　 Genji opened it slowly.
　 The message contained news about the Emperor’s condition. Though the letter spoke in calm words, Genji could understand the meaning clearly.
　 The Emperor was growing weaker.
　 Genji remained silent after reading the letter.
　 He placed it beside him and looked again toward the garden.
　 The spring wind moved lightly through the branches.
　 Lady Murasaki soon came to visit him.
　 When she entered the room, she noticed the serious expression on his face.
　 “Is something troubling you?” she asked gently.
　 Genji looked at her for a moment.
　 Then he answered quietly.
　 “News has come from the palace. His Majesty’s health is not strong.”
　 Lady Murasaki felt concern when she heard this.
　 The Emperor had always shown kindness toward Genji.
　 “That is sad news,” she said softly.
　 Genji nodded.
　 “Yes. The world may soon change.”
　 They both fell silent.
　 Outside, the garden still looked calm and beautiful, but they understood that events within the palace might soon affect the lives of many people.
　 Meanwhile another matter was also occupying Genji’s thoughts.
　 There was a young princess who had recently come to live in the palace.
　 She was the daughter of a former emperor, a girl of very noble birth.
　 Many people in the court spoke about her beauty and grace.
　 Genji had heard these reports.
　 Some nobles suggested that she might become a suitable bride for him.
　 Yet this thought made Genji uneasy.
　 He was no longer a young man.
　 His life already held many complicated relationships.
　 Still, the matter could not be ignored.
　 Because the princess was closely connected to the imperial family, any marriage involving her would carry great importance.
　 One evening Genji spoke about this matter with Lady Murasaki.
　 They sat together in a quiet room.
　 Lamps burned softly beside them, and the sound of insects could be heard faintly from the garden.
　 Genji spoke slowly.
　 “There is talk in the court about a certain princess.”
　 Lady Murasaki looked at him calmly.
　 “I have heard a little about her,” she said.
　 Genji continued.
　 “Some people believe she should be connected to my house.”
　 Lady Murasaki remained quiet for a moment.
　 Her face did not change, but inside she felt a slight pain.
　 She understood that Genji’s position in the court sometimes required such marriages.
　 At last she spoke gently.
　 “You must decide what is best.”
　 Genji looked at her carefully.
　 He knew that she spoke calmly, yet he also understood her feelings.
　 “I do not wish to cause you sorrow,” he said.
　 Lady Murasaki shook her head softly.
　 “Your duties are great,” she replied. “I understand that.”
　 Genji felt grateful for her kindness.
　 Yet the matter remained difficult.
　 Outside the wind moved again through the branches of the trees.
　 The spring night grew deeper.
　 In the quiet rooms of the Rokujo residence, thoughts of the future filled the minds of those who lived there.

Part 2

　 In the days that followed, talk about the young princess spread quietly through the capital. Courtiers spoke of her noble birth and gentle beauty. Some said that her manner was calm and dignified beyond her years. Others admired the grace with which she moved and spoke.
　 Genji heard these reports many times.
　 Sometimes the news came through formal messages from the palace. At other times it came through casual conversation among nobles who visited his residence.
　 One afternoon several courtiers were gathered with him in a pleasant room that faced the garden. The spring sun shone brightly outside, and the fragrance of new blossoms entered through the open screens.
　 The men spoke about many matters of court life.
　 At last one of them mentioned the princess.
　 “People say she is very beautiful,” the man said.
　 Another courtier nodded.
　 “Yes. Her beauty is quiet and elegant.”
　 The first man glanced at Genji.
　 “Many believe that someone of great position should become her husband.”
　 Genji understood the meaning behind these words.
　 He smiled slightly but did not answer at once.
　 After a moment he spoke.
　 “The future of such a noble lady must be decided with great care.”
　 The courtiers agreed politely.
　 But after they left, Genji remained thoughtful.
　 He walked slowly into the garden.
　 The day was bright and clear. New leaves shone softly in the sunlight, and the sound of birds filled the air.
　 Yet Genji’s thoughts were heavy.
　 If the princess truly entered his house, it would change the balance of his life.
　 Lady Murasaki already held the deepest place in his heart. He did not wish to cause her pain.
　 Still, the expectations of the court were difficult to refuse.
　 Later that evening he spoke again with Lady Murasaki.
　 They sat together beside a small lamp.
　 The light fell gently across the room.
　 Genji looked at her quietly.
　 “The matter of the princess continues to be discussed,” he said.
　 Lady Murasaki listened without interrupting.
　 “Many people seem to expect that she will become connected to my house,” Genji continued.
　 Lady Murasaki lowered her eyes for a moment.
　 When she spoke, her voice remained calm.
　 “If that is what the court wishes, it may be difficult to avoid.”
　 Genji watched her carefully.
　 “Does the thought trouble you?” he asked.
　 She hesitated.
　 Then she answered softly.
　 “It is natural that such things happen among people of high rank.”
　 Her words were gentle, yet Genji could sense the quiet sadness within them.
　 He felt uneasy.
　 “You have always been patient with me,” he said.
　 Lady Murasaki smiled faintly.
　 “I only wish for peace in this house,” she replied.
　 After that they spoke about other matters.
　 Yet both of them understood that the subject remained unresolved.
　 Meanwhile events within the palace continued to change.
　 The Emperor’s health did not improve.
　 Messages from the court became more serious.
　 Many nobles worried about the future of the government.
　 The Crown Prince, who would soon become the next ruler, was still young. Those who held great power in the court would play an important role during the coming years.
　 Because of this, Genji’s position had become even more important.
　 One day a messenger from the palace arrived with an official request.
　 The letter invited Genji to attend an important meeting concerning matters of state.
　 When he read the message, Genji understood that the time of change was approaching.
　 He prepared himself carefully.
　 On the morning of the meeting he dressed in formal robes.
　 The colors were deep and dignified.
　 His attendants adjusted the long sleeves and arranged his hair.
　 When everything was ready, Genji stepped outside.
　 His carriage waited at the gate.
　 As he entered it, he glanced once more toward the residence behind him.
　 Lady Murasaki stood quietly on the veranda watching his departure.
　 Their eyes met for a brief moment.
　 Genji gave a small nod.
　 Then the carriage began to move slowly through the streets of the capital.
　 As he traveled toward the palace, Genji’s thoughts returned once again to the young princess whose future might soon become connected with his own.
　 The quiet spring morning seemed peaceful.
　 Yet beneath that calm surface, many changes were beginning to take shape in the lives of the people of the court.

Part 3

　 The palace stood quiet beneath the pale light of the spring morning. As Genji’s carriage passed through the wide gates, the guards bowed deeply. The wheels moved slowly across the smooth ground of the courtyard. Around him the buildings of the palace rose with quiet dignity, their roofs shining softly in the sun.
　 Genji stepped down from the carriage.
　 His attendants arranged his long sleeves and straightened the folds of his robe. When everything was in order, he began to walk toward the inner halls where the meeting would take place.
　 Several nobles had already arrived.
　 They stood together speaking in low voices.
　 When they saw Genji approach, they bowed respectfully.
　 His position in the court had grown very high, and everyone recognized his influence.
　 Genji greeted them calmly.
　 Soon the meeting began.
　 Important matters concerning the government were discussed. Many people spoke about the Emperor’s weakening health and the need to prepare for the future.
　 The conversation continued for a long time.
　 Genji listened carefully and spoke when it was necessary. His words were calm and thoughtful. Because of this, many nobles looked to him for guidance.
　 When the meeting finally ended, the nobles slowly left the hall.
　 Genji remained behind for a short time.
　 As he walked through one of the long corridors of the palace, he noticed something unexpected.
　 At a distance he saw a small group of ladies moving quietly across the veranda.
　 Their robes were beautiful and elegant.
　 Among them walked a young woman whose appearance immediately caught his attention.
　 Her figure was slender and graceful.
　 Her robe was pale in color, like the soft light of early morning.
　 She moved slowly and with great dignity.
　 Genji understood at once who she must be.
　 This was the princess people had been speaking about.
　 He stopped walking.
　 The ladies passed along the veranda.
　 The princess did not look directly toward him, yet her presence was striking.
　 Her long hair fell smoothly down her back. Her movements were calm and natural.
　 For a moment Genji simply watched in silence.
　 “So this is the princess,” he thought.
　 Her beauty was not bright or dazzling.
　 Instead it was quiet and gentle.
　 That quiet elegance made an even deeper impression on him.
　 Soon the ladies disappeared behind a screen.
　 The moment ended.
　 Genji continued walking slowly through the corridor.
　 His thoughts were now more complicated than before.
　 Until this moment the princess had only been a subject of conversation. Now he had seen her with his own eyes.
　 Her presence remained clearly in his mind.
　 Later that day Genji returned to his residence.
　 The afternoon light was already beginning to fade when his carriage arrived at the gate.
　 Lady Murasaki heard the sound and came to the veranda.
　 She watched as Genji stepped down from the carriage.
　 When he entered the room, she greeted him quietly.
　 “You have returned,” she said.
　 Genji nodded.
　 “Yes. The meeting was long.”
　 She studied his face for a moment.
　 “You look thoughtful,” she said gently.
　 Genji sat down beside her.
　 For a short time he remained silent.
　 At last he spoke.
　 “Today I saw the princess.”
　 Lady Murasaki’s hands rested quietly in her lap.
　 She did not immediately answer.
　 Genji continued.
　 “She is very young. Her manner is calm and refined.”
　 Lady Murasaki listened carefully.
　 A faint sadness touched her heart, but she kept her voice steady.
　 “People have spoken of her beauty,” she said.
　 Genji nodded slowly.
　 “Yes. Their words were not exaggerated.”
　 The room grew quiet.
　 Outside the evening wind moved softly through the garden trees. The sound of leaves brushing together could be heard faintly.
　 Lady Murasaki looked toward the garden.
　 “Spring is moving quickly,” she said.
　 Genji followed her gaze.
　 The last light of the sun touched the branches of the trees.
　 For a moment neither of them spoke.
　 Both understood that new changes were beginning to move quietly through their lives.
　 In the capital the season of flowers continued, but beneath that gentle beauty the future was slowly unfolding.
　 The decisions that would soon be made would shape the lives of many people within Genji’s world.

 
Chapter 35: Wakana: Ge (若菜 下)

Part 1

　 Spring had already passed, and the early heat of summer began to touch the capital. The air was bright and clear during the day, and the sky above the city often appeared deep and wide. In the great residence of Genji, the gardens were filled with green leaves. Small streams moved quietly among the stones, and the sound of water brought a feeling of calm.
　 Yet inside the residence the hearts of many people were not calm.
　 The young princess who had recently entered Genji’s house had begun to live there as his wife. She was still very young, gentle in manner, and raised in the careful life of the palace. Her beauty was soft and pure, and everyone who saw her spoke about her noble appearance.
　 Because she was a daughter of the imperial family, her arrival brought great honor to Genji’s house.
　 But the change also created quiet uneasiness.
　 One evening Genji walked slowly through the garden. The sky had already grown dim, and a cool wind moved through the leaves of the trees. Lamps had been placed along the veranda, and their light shone softly across the wooden floor.
　 Genji paused beside a small pond.
　 The surface of the water reflected the pale evening sky.
　 He stood there for some time, thinking.
　 “The world changes so quickly,” he said softly to himself.
　 A servant approached and bowed.
　 “The princess asks if you will visit her tonight,” the servant said.
　 Genji nodded gently.
　 “Tell her that I will come soon.”
　 The servant bowed again and left quietly.
　 Genji remained beside the pond for a moment longer.
　 He felt both responsibility and hesitation.
　 The princess had come to his house through the wishes of many powerful people in the court. It was natural that he should treat her with kindness and attention.
　 Yet his heart was complicated.
　 His deepest feelings still belonged to Lady Murasaki.
　 At last Genji returned to the house.
　 He passed through several corridors where soft lamps burned beside painted screens. Ladies moved quietly through the halls, their robes brushing lightly against the floor.
　 Soon he arrived at the rooms prepared for the young princess.
　 When he entered, the attendants bowed and moved back respectfully.
　 The princess sat behind a screen.
　 Her long hair fell smoothly over her robe.
　 When Genji approached, she bowed deeply.
　 “I hope your evening has been peaceful,” Genji said gently.
　 The princess answered in a quiet voice.
　 “Yes, my lord.”
　 Her voice was soft and careful.
　 She had grown up in the palace, where every movement and every word followed strict rules.
　 Genji sat beside her.
　 For a moment neither of them spoke.
　 The room was very quiet.
　 Outside the sound of insects rose from the garden.
　 Genji tried to speak kindly.
　 “Have you become comfortable in this residence?” he asked.
　 The princess lowered her eyes.
　 “Everyone here has been very kind,” she said.
　 Her answer was polite and respectful.
　 Yet Genji sensed her shyness.
　 She was still adjusting to this new life far from the palace where she had grown up.
　 Genji spoke again.
　 “If there is anything you need, please tell the attendants. This house is now your home.”
　 The princess bowed slightly.
　 “Thank you,” she replied.
　 Their conversation remained gentle but distant.
　 Genji felt the difference in their ages and experiences.
　 She was young and innocent, still uncertain of the world beyond the palace.
　 Later that night Genji returned to his own rooms.
　 Lady Murasaki was waiting there.
　 When he entered, she greeted him calmly.
　 “You have been visiting the princess,” she said.
　 Her voice was quiet.
　 Genji sat down beside her.
　 “Yes,” he answered.
　 Lady Murasaki did not ask many questions.
　 She already understood what was happening.
　 Still, a quiet sadness rested in her heart.
　 For many years she had lived beside Genji with deep affection and trust.
　 Now another woman of great rank had entered his life.
　 Though Lady Murasaki tried to remain calm, she could not fully hide her feelings.
　 Genji noticed the slight change in her expression.
　 “You must not think that my feelings toward you have changed,” he said gently.
　 Lady Murasaki smiled faintly.
　 “I know your kindness,” she replied.
　 But her eyes showed quiet sorrow.
　 Genji felt troubled.
　 He wished to protect her happiness, yet the world of the court often demanded difficult choices.
　 Outside the night deepened.
　 The wind moved softly through the garden trees.
　 The new princess slept in her rooms, still learning the life of Genji’s house.
　 And Lady Murasaki sat quietly beside Genji, her heart filled with thoughts she did not speak aloud.
　 In the great residence, the lives of many people were slowly changing as the summer nights grew longer.
　 The calm beauty of the garden could not hide the quiet tensions that had begun to grow within the household.

Part 2

　 In the days that followed, life in Genji’s great residence began to take a new shape. The young princess slowly became used to the rooms prepared for her. Her attendants arranged her robes each morning, and ladies from the house came to greet her with careful politeness. Though everything around her was beautiful, she still felt a quiet loneliness.
　 The rooms were large and elegant.
　 Soft screens painted with flowers and birds stood beside the walls. Curtains of fine cloth hung near the veranda, moving gently when the wind entered the room. In the garden outside, tall trees spread their green leaves wide under the summer sky.
　 Yet the princess often sat quietly and looked toward the distance.
　 One afternoon two of her attendants spoke softly together.
　 “Her Highness still seems shy,” one lady said.
　 The other nodded.
　 “She has lived only in the palace until now. Everything here must feel strange.”
　 At that moment the princess turned toward them.
　 “Please do not worry about me,” she said gently.
　 Her voice was calm, but the attendants could see the sadness in her eyes.
　 Meanwhile Lady Murasaki continued to manage the affairs of the residence with her usual grace. She received visitors, arranged ceremonies, and spoke kindly with the many ladies who served in the house.
　 No one could easily see the pain she felt in her heart.
　 One evening she sat beside the veranda watching the garden.
　 The sky had grown dark, and small lights from the palace area could be seen far away in the distance. Fireflies moved slowly above the grass, their tiny lights shining and disappearing in the warm air.
　 Lady Murasaki watched them quietly.
　 Genji soon entered the room.
　 When he saw her sitting alone, he approached gently.
　 “You seem thoughtful tonight,” he said.
　 Lady Murasaki smiled faintly.
　 “The summer night is beautiful,” she answered.
　 Genji sat beside her.
　 For a moment they watched the fireflies together.
　 Then Genji spoke in a low voice.
　 “I know this change has brought you sorrow.”
　 Lady Murasaki lowered her eyes.
　 “Please do not worry about me,” she said softly.
　 Genji shook his head.
　 “Your happiness is important to me.”
　 Lady Murasaki did not answer.
　 The sound of the insects in the garden filled the silence between them.
　 After a moment she spoke again.
　 “The princess is very young,” she said. “She must feel uncertain in this new place.”
　 Genji nodded.
　 “Yes. I also thought about that.”
　 Lady Murasaki looked toward the garden.
　 “If she wishes, I would like to help guide her.”
　 Genji turned toward her with surprise.
　 “You would do that?”
　 Lady Murasaki smiled gently.
　 “She has come into this house with no close companions. It would be cruel to leave her alone.”
　 Genji felt deep respect for her kindness.
　 “Your heart is truly generous,” he said.
　 Lady Murasaki shook her head slightly.
　 “I only wish for peace.”
　 The next day Lady Murasaki sent a polite message to the princess.
　 The message invited her to visit the central garden of the residence.
　 When the princess received the message, she seemed both surprised and relieved.
　 “Lady Murasaki wishes to meet me?” she asked quietly.
　 One attendant nodded.
　 “Yes, Your Highness.”
　 Later that afternoon the princess arrived at the garden pavilion.
　 The summer air was warm, and the leaves of the trees cast soft shadows across the ground. A small stream ran beside the pavilion, and its gentle sound filled the quiet space.
　 Lady Murasaki was already waiting.
　 When the princess approached, both women bowed politely.
　 “I am pleased that you came,” Lady Murasaki said.
　 The princess answered respectfully.
　 “Thank you for inviting me.”
　 They sat together near the open veranda.
　 For a short time their conversation remained formal.
　 But Lady Murasaki spoke with such calm warmth that the princess soon felt more comfortable.
　 “Life in this house may feel unfamiliar,” Lady Murasaki said.
　 The princess nodded slightly.
　 “Everything is still new to me.”
　 Lady Murasaki smiled kindly.
　 “If there is anything you wish to ask, please speak freely.”
　 The princess looked at her with quiet gratitude.
　 “You are very kind,” she said.
　 As they continued speaking, the air between them slowly became more relaxed.
　 Lady Murasaki understood the young girl’s feelings very well. She had once been young herself, uncertain of the complicated world around Genji.
　 Now she offered the same gentle guidance she had once needed.
　 As the afternoon light began to fade, the two women continued their quiet conversation beside the garden stream.
　 In that moment a small feeling of peace began to grow inside the great residence, even though deeper changes were still waiting in the future.

Part 3

　 As the summer days passed, the life of the residence slowly became calmer. The young princess began to spend more time with Lady Murasaki. Their meetings were gentle and quiet. Often they sat together near the veranda where the garden could be seen clearly.
　 One afternoon the sky was bright and clear.
　 The leaves of the trees shone in the warm sunlight, and a soft wind moved through the garden. The sound of the small stream beside the house could be heard steadily, bringing a feeling of peace.
　 Lady Murasaki and the princess sat together beside an open screen.
　 The princess looked toward the garden.
　 “The garden here is very beautiful,” she said softly.
　 Lady Murasaki smiled.
　 “Genji takes great care in arranging every part of it.”
　 The princess nodded.
　 “I can see that.”
　 She watched a pair of small birds moving through the branches.
　 For a moment she seemed lost in thought.
　 Then she spoke again.
　 “When I lived in the palace, I could rarely see gardens like this.”
　 Lady Murasaki listened carefully.
　 “Life in the palace follows many rules,” she said gently.
　 The princess gave a small smile.
　 “Yes. Everything there is carefully controlled.”
　 Their conversation moved slowly and naturally.
　 As the princess spent more time with Lady Murasaki, her nervousness began to disappear little by little.
　 Meanwhile Genji watched these changes with quiet relief.
　 One evening he came to the garden where the two women were sitting.
　 The sky had begun to grow darker, and the first stars appeared above the trees.
　 When Genji approached, both women bowed politely.
　 “You seem to be enjoying the evening,” Genji said.
　 Lady Murasaki answered calmly.
　 “The air is pleasant tonight.”
　 The princess added softly, “The garden is very peaceful.”
　 Genji sat beside them.
　 For a while the three of them watched the garden together.
　 The sound of insects rose from the grass, and a gentle wind moved through the leaves.
　 Genji felt a quiet happiness in that moment.
　 Yet beneath that calm feeling another thought slowly appeared.
　 The princess was still very young.
　 Her future would bring many responsibilities and changes.
　 Genji wondered what kind of life awaited her in the years to come.
　 As the evening grew darker, Lady Murasaki spoke again.
　 “The night wind is becoming cooler. Perhaps we should return inside.”
　 The princess nodded.
　 “Yes.”
　 They stood and moved slowly toward the house.
　 Lamps had already been lit along the corridors.
　 Their soft light shone against the wooden floors and painted screens.
　 When they reached the inner rooms, the attendants bowed and prepared the evening arrangements.
　 Soon the princess returned to her own chambers.
　 Lady Murasaki remained for a moment beside Genji.
　 The quiet hallway seemed very still.
　 Genji looked at her gently.
　 “You have been very kind to the princess,” he said.
　 Lady Murasaki lowered her eyes slightly.
　 “She is alone in this house,” she replied. “It would be cruel not to help her.”
　 Genji felt deep respect for her words.
　 “Your kindness brings peace to this household.”
　 Lady Murasaki gave a small smile but did not answer.
　 After a moment she also returned to her rooms.
　 Genji remained standing in the corridor for a short time.
　 The warm summer air moved softly through the open screens.
　 From the garden came the quiet sound of water flowing over stones.
　 The residence seemed calm.
　 Yet Genji understood that life never remained still for long.
　 New joys and new sorrows would surely appear in the future.
　 For now, however, the great house rested in a brief moment of harmony.
　 Beneath the wide summer sky, the lives of those within the residence continued to move slowly forward, guided by quiet kindness and unspoken feelings.

 
Chapter 36: Kashiwagi (柏木)

Part 1

　 The illness of Kashiwagi did not become better. Even when the spring season came, his body grew weaker day by day. His father, the great minister, and his mother stayed beside him and watched him with deep sorrow. When Kashiwagi saw their grief, his heart became troubled.
　 At times he thought that wishing for death must be a great sin. Yet at the same time he felt that his life was no longer something precious. Since his youth he had carried a proud spirit, different from many other people. But after several painful disappointments, that pride had slowly changed into a dark way of thinking. He had even wished to leave the world and become a monk.
　 Still, when he saw the tears of his parents, he could not follow that path.
　 “My life has become a chain of suffering,” he thought.
　 Many painful thoughts lived inside his heart.
　 He believed that he had fallen into a place where neither the gods nor the Buddhas would help him. Perhaps this was the result of actions in a former life. All human beings must die one day, and no one lives forever. If he died while some people still felt pity for him, then perhaps the woman he loved would remember him with a little kindness.
　 “That alone will be enough,” he thought sadly.
　 If he continued to live, his name would only become worse. Worse still, his life would continue to cause pain both to himself and to the woman he loved. If he died, even the retired emperor, who might now feel anger toward him, might forgive everything after his death.
　 Because of these thoughts, Kashiwagi often wished for death.
　 One day his pain grew slightly lighter. His family members stepped outside the sickroom for a short time. While he was alone, Kashiwagi slowly prepared to write a letter.
　 His hands trembled badly.
　 The person he wrote to was the Third Princess.
　 He knew that news of his illness had surely reached her ears. Still, she had sent no message to ask about his condition. He believed that this silence was natural, yet it also made him deeply sad.
　 With great effort he began to write.
　 “My life is now very close to its end. Perhaps you have heard this news already. I know it is natural that you do not send messages to ask about me. Still, I feel very sad.”
　 His hand shook so much that he could hardly continue writing. He had many things he wished to say, yet his strength was already leaving him. In the end he quickly wrote a short poem.
　 “Even when the smoke of this burning life fades away, will the feelings that remain in my heart still stay behind?”
　 Beneath the poem he added a few more words.
　 “Please say only that you feel pity for me. Those words will be enough. I will carry them as a light while I walk into the dark world beyond life.”
　 With this he ended the letter.
　 Kashiwagi also wrote a message to a lady named Koshōshō, who served the princess.
　 “I wish to see you once more,” he wrote. “There are things I want to say directly.”
　 Koshōshō had known him since childhood because their families were connected. She had often felt troubled by his dangerous love. Yet now that she knew he was close to death, she could not stop her tears.
　 Holding the letter, she went to the princess.
　 “Please send at least a short reply,” she begged. “It may be the last message he will ever receive.”
　 The Third Princess answered in a quiet voice.
　 “My own life is uncertain as well. I feel pity for him as a suffering person. But I cannot bear to become involved again by sending letters. I do not wish to answer.”
　 Her words were not spoken with cold pride.
　 She still felt deep fear because of her own past mistake. From time to time the retired emperor’s silent sorrow appeared before her eyes, and this memory caused her terrible pain. Because of that fear, she wished to avoid all connection with Kashiwagi.
　 Still, Koshōshō continued to beg her.
　 At last the princess slowly took up a writing brush.
　 Her letter was short.
　 That evening, when darkness began to cover the city, Koshōshō secretly left the princess’s residence and went to Kashiwagi’s house.
　 At the same time Kashiwagi’s father was trying every possible method to cure his son. That night he had invited a famous mountain priest from Mount Katsuragi. The priest was said to have powerful spiritual abilities.
　 Loud voices of prayer filled the house.
　 The sounds of chanting and ritual bells reached the sickroom.
　 Many priests and monks had already been called from distant places. The minister hoped that at least one of them might discover the cause of the illness and drive away the evil spirit that people believed had attacked his son.
　 Some of these priests appeared strange and rough in their manners.
　 Kashiwagi could hear the deep voice of the mountain priest reading powerful spells.
　 The sound made him feel frightened.
　 “I cannot bear that voice,” he said weakly. “Perhaps my sins are too great. When I hear those loud prayers, I feel even closer to death.”
　 Unable to remain in bed, he slowly rose and moved toward the room where Koshōshō waited.
　 His father did not know this. The minister believed that his son was sleeping quietly.
　 Sitting with the mountain priest, the minister spoke in a low voice about the illness.
　 Even though he was an older man, the minister still carried a bright and lively nature. Yet now he spoke with deep seriousness.
　 “Please reveal the spirit that causes this sickness,” he begged. “Only then can we save my son.”
　 Meanwhile Kashiwagi spoke softly to Koshōshō.
　 “Listen,” he said.
　 His thin face showed both sadness and a strange smile.
　 “They say a woman’s spirit has entered my body. But if the spirit of the woman I love had truly come to stay with me, I would almost feel grateful.”
　 He gave a weak laugh.
　 “Of course that cannot be true. I alone am responsible for this foolish love. Many people before me have fallen into such sins. Yet knowing that does not calm my heart.”
　 His voice became weaker.
　 “To love her was already impossible. To bring her shame was an even greater sin.”
　 He lowered his head and began to cry.
　 “Life itself has become too bright and painful for my eyes,” he whispered.
　 Koshōshō listened while tears filled her own eyes.
　 Outside the chanting voices of the priests continued to echo through the house.
　 Inside the dim room, Kashiwagi waited with trembling hands for the reply from the woman he loved.

Part 2

　 Koshōshō carefully took out the letter from the princess. A small candle was brought into the room so that Kashiwagi could read it. The flame trembled gently in the quiet air, and its light fell across the thin paper.
　 Kashiwagi’s hands shook as he received the letter.
　 His body had grown extremely weak. His face had lost its color, and the strength that once filled his voice had almost disappeared. Yet when he looked at the handwriting of the princess, his eyes filled with tears.
　 The writing was delicate and beautiful, though it seemed faint and uncertain.
　 The princess had written:
　 “I hear about your illness with great concern. Yet you must understand why I cannot send messages freely. You say that something will remain after you are gone, but if sorrow remains in this world, I too will not live long.”
　 Then she had written a poem.
　 “If such sorrow fills the air, I wish that I could vanish with the smoke of those troubled thoughts.”
　 Beneath the poem she added a few quiet words.
　 “My own life may not be long either.”
　 That was all.
　 Kashiwagi read the letter slowly.
　 When he finished, he pressed the paper gently to his chest.
　 “These words…” he said weakly. “These words alone will become the greatest happiness of my life.”
　 Tears ran down his face.
　 “How foolish I have been,” he murmured. “How short and empty my life truly is.”
　 For a long time he could not speak.
　 Then he slowly asked for writing tools again.
　 Even lying on his side, he tried to write a reply.
　 His hand trembled so badly that the characters looked like the footprints of a bird across the paper.
　 At last he finished.
　 In the letter he wrote:
　 “Even if I become smoke and disappear into the sky, my heart will never leave the place where you live.”
　 Then he added a few more lines.
　 “Please look toward the evening sky from time to time. When I am gone, there will be no living person for others to watch or judge. In that way, perhaps you may think of me freely. Please do not forget me.”
　 His writing became uneven and confused.
　 The pain in his body grew stronger.
　 At last he could write no more.
　 “That is enough,” he said quietly.
　 Turning to Koshōshō, he spoke again.
　 “Please return soon. Tell the princess how close my death has come. I do not understand what strange fate has filled my heart with such forbidden love.”
　 Tears filled his eyes again.
　 Slowly he crawled back toward his bed.
　 Usually he would keep Koshōshō beside him and ask her to tell every small story about the princess. But tonight he spoke little.
　 Seeing this, Koshōshō felt deep sorrow.
　 She could not leave immediately.
　 In another room the nurse who had raised Kashiwagi since childhood was crying loudly. Servants moved quickly through the house, whispering to one another with anxious faces.
　 The minister himself seemed deeply troubled.
　 “He seemed a little better yesterday,” he said in confusion. “Why has he suddenly become weaker again?”
　 Kashiwagi heard his father’s voice.
　 He answered softly.
　 “Please do not worry so much. I will die soon in any case.”
　 Hearing these words, the minister began to weep.
　 Kashiwagi also cried.
　 At the same time, far away in another residence, a strange event began.
　 That evening the Third Princess suddenly showed signs of illness.
　 Experienced women noticed the signs at once.
　 They quickly sent word to the retired emperor.
　 The emperor was greatly surprised when he heard the news. In truth he had never suspected anything dishonorable about the princess. Because of this, he had once believed that the birth of a child would bring him great happiness.
　 Yet now he felt deep anxiety.
　 Priests and monks were called quickly to perform prayers.
　 Religious ceremonies had already been continuing for some time, but now even more powerful priests were gathered to protect the princess.
　 Throughout the night she suffered greatly.
　 At last, just as the sun began to rise, the child was born.
　 It was a boy.
　 When the retired emperor heard this news, his heart filled with troubled thoughts.
　 A boy would grow into a man whose face would be seen clearly by many people. If the child’s appearance resembled someone else, it might reveal a secret that must remain hidden.
　 “A girl might have been easier,” he thought.
　 Yet he also considered another thought.
　 Even if a boy carried uncertain blood, it might still be acceptable in the world of men. But for a woman who might one day become the mother of high nobles or even emperors, her birth must remain perfectly honorable.
　 In that sense, perhaps this result was better.
　 The retired emperor sighed deeply.
　 “This must be the punishment for my own sins,” he thought. “If I suffer in this world, perhaps the burden in the next life will become lighter.”
　 Because the truth of the princess’s secret was known to no one else, everyone believed that the retired emperor would be filled with joy at the birth of the child.
　 The officials of the household prepared grand celebrations.
　 Gifts arrived from many parts of the Sixteenth Ward residence. Each lady sent carefully designed objects to celebrate the birth.
　 Beautiful trays, cups, and boxes were arranged with great skill.
　 Five days later the ceremony of nourishment for the mother was held. The Empress herself sent fine robes and gifts. Food was prepared in large amounts, and many officials attended the celebration.
　 On the seventh night another ceremony was held from the imperial court.
　 It was carried out with great dignity.
　 Only Kashiwagi’s father, the great minister, could not fully take part in these celebrations. Because of his son’s illness, his heart remained filled with sorrow.
　 Thus, while great joy and great suffering existed at the same time in the capital, the fragile lives of many people continued to move toward uncertain futures.

Part 3

　 While joy filled the house of the princess, sorrow deepened in the house of Kashiwagi.
　 The night after Koshōshō returned with the princess’s reply, Kashiwagi’s strength fell quickly. His breathing grew weak, and his body felt cold even under many blankets. Servants moved quietly through the rooms, speaking in soft voices so that the sound would not trouble him.
　 His father sat beside the bed for many hours.
　 The minister looked at his son’s thin face and could hardly believe what he saw. Kashiwagi had once been a strong and beautiful young man. His voice had been clear, and his eyes had been bright with life. Now his cheeks were hollow, and his skin had become pale like paper.
　 The minister whispered sadly, “How could such a thing happen?”
　 Kashiwagi slowly opened his eyes.
　 “Father,” he said softly.
　 The minister leaned closer at once.
　 “I am here. Speak to me.”
　 Kashiwagi looked at him with gentle eyes.
　 “Please forgive me,” he said.
　 The minister felt a deep pain in his heart when he heard these words.
　 “Why do you speak like that?” he said quickly. “You have done nothing that needs forgiveness.”
　 Kashiwagi gave a weak smile.
　 “My life has been full of mistakes,” he said. “I have brought sorrow to many people.”
　 The minister shook his head again and again.
　 “No,” he said. “Do not speak of such things. You must think only of getting well.”
　 But Kashiwagi knew the truth.
　 He slowly turned his face toward the window. Outside, the sky was quiet and gray. A soft wind moved through the trees of the garden. The leaves made a faint sound that seemed very far away.
　 “Life is strange,” he thought. “It passes like the wind.”
　 For a long time he said nothing.
　 Then he spoke again.
　 “Father, please take care of my mother. She will feel great sorrow after I am gone.”
　 Hearing this, the minister could no longer hold back his tears.
　 “Do not say that you will be gone,” he cried. “You must live. You must live!”
　 Kashiwagi closed his eyes for a moment.
　 “I wish that I could,” he answered quietly.
　 His breathing grew weaker.
　 After some time the minister stepped outside the room for a short while. Servants followed him, asking many questions in frightened voices.
　 When the minister left, Koshōshō quietly entered the room again.
　 Kashiwagi opened his eyes and saw her.
　 “You have returned,” he said faintly.
　 “Yes,” she answered. “I wished to see you once more.”
　 Kashiwagi looked at her with deep gratitude.
　 “You have always been kind,” he said. “Please give one last message to the princess.”
　 Koshōshō lowered her head.
　 “I will do as you ask.”
　 Kashiwagi spoke slowly.
　 “Tell her that I feel no anger and no regret. Everything that happened was my own fault. I only hope that she may live in peace.”
　 His voice became very soft.
　 “Tell her that even after death, my heart will remember her.”
　 Tears fell from Koshōshō’s eyes.
　 “I will tell her,” she whispered.
　 Kashiwagi closed his eyes again.
　 The room grew very quiet.
　 Outside, the priests still chanted prayers. The deep sound of their voices moved through the house like distant waves. Yet the sound seemed far away from the silent room where Kashiwagi lay.
　 At last he spoke one more time.
　 “How peaceful the world seems tonight,” he said.
　 No one answered.
　 A short time later his breathing slowed.
　 Then it stopped.
　 The servants in the room looked at one another with pale faces.
　 One of them ran quickly to call the minister.
　 When the minister returned and saw his son lying still, he cried out loudly. His sorrow filled the entire house. The mother of Kashiwagi fell to the floor and wept without control.
　 News of Kashiwagi’s death soon spread through the capital.
　 Many people remembered his beauty, his talent, and his proud spirit. Some spoke of his mistakes with quiet voices, but most people felt only sadness.
　 When the message reached the house of the princess, Koshōshō brought the news carefully.
　 The Third Princess listened without speaking.
　 Her face became pale.
　 For a long time she remained silent.
　 At last she said quietly, “So he has gone.”
　 She lowered her eyes.
　 A deep sorrow filled her heart, yet she could not show it openly. Too many eyes watched her every movement. Too many secrets remained hidden inside her life.
　 That night she looked toward the dark sky.
　 “Perhaps he has already become smoke and risen into the air,” she thought.
　 The wind moved softly through the garden.
　 Somewhere far away a bell sounded in the quiet night.
　 The world continued to move forward, but the life of Kashiwagi had come to its end.

 
Chapter 37: Yokobue (横笛)

Part 1

　 Many people still spoke about the death of Kashiwagi. Even after many days had passed, those who had known him felt deep sadness when they remembered him. In the great residence of the Rokujo Mansion, Genji also often thought of him. Even when a person was not very close to him, Genji always felt sorrow when someone with talent or beauty died. Kashiwagi had come to visit him often, and among many young men Genji had thought of him as a very fine person. Because of this, the memory of Kashiwagi often returned to his mind.
　 When the forty-nine day memorial ceremony was held, Genji sent generous gifts to support the prayers. He also looked at the small child who did not yet understand that his father had died. Each time he saw the boy’s innocent face, a deep sadness rose again inside his heart.
　 “This poor child knows nothing,” Genji thought.
　 During the memorial services he also sent many offerings, including a large gift of gold. Kashiwagi’s father did not know the secret reason for Genji’s kindness. He simply felt deeply grateful.
　 “The lord of the Six-jō mansion is truly generous,” the minister said again and again.
　 The young general, who had been Kashiwagi’s cousin and close friend, also worked hard to make the memorial ceremonies beautiful. He sent gifts to Kashiwagi’s widow at the Ichijō residence so that she would not feel forgotten. Kashiwagi’s parents were moved by this kindness.
　 “We did not know that he cared so deeply for our son,” they said.
　 Seeing how many people came to the ceremonies also reminded them again of the strength and influence that their son had once held in the world.
　 At the temple where the retired emperor lived, sorrow also remained. The Second Princess had already suffered misfortune, and the Third Princess had now become a nun. As their father, the retired emperor could not stop feeling regret about their unhappy lives.
　 Yet he tried not to think too much about worldly matters.
　 When he prayed to the Buddha, he sometimes imagined that the Third Princess might also be praying somewhere far away. Since she had taken religious vows, he often sent her letters. Even small things in the mountains near the temple reminded him of her.
　 One day fresh bamboo shoots and wild mountain yams were brought from the nearby hills. Their simple smell of the mountains made him feel calm. He decided to send them to the princess together with a letter.
　 In the letter he wrote kindly about the spring mountains. Mist covered the hills so that everything looked soft and unclear.
　 “The mountains of spring are hidden by mist,” he wrote. “Still, I asked that these shoots be taken from the earth for you. They are small gifts, but they come from a place close to my heart.”
　 Then he added a poem.
　 “Even if we must walk different roads after leaving this world, try to find the same place where I go.”
　 His meaning was clear. Both father and daughter should follow the path of the Buddha.
　 The princess read the letter quietly.
　 Tears filled her eyes.
　 Just at that moment Genji entered the room. He saw her sitting there with a sad expression while she read the letter. Nearby stood a tray filled with the gifts from the temple.
　 Genji took the letter and read it.
　 The words touched his heart deeply.
　 The retired emperor wrote as if he felt that death might come to him soon. He said that even though he wished to see his daughter again, such a meeting might never happen.
　 When Genji read these lines, he felt troubled.
　 “The retired emperor must feel great sadness,” he thought. “He trusted me with his daughter, yet I failed to protect her happiness.”
　 The princess quietly wrote a reply.
　 She was modest and careful with every word. When the letter was finished, she sent it back with a gift of cloth for the messenger. The cloth was dyed in a deep blue color.
　 On a sheet of paper beside her writing table, Genji noticed that she had written a poem many times and crossed it out again and again. Curious, he picked up the paper.
　 The poem said:
　 “I long for a place that does not belong to this sad world. My heart wishes to walk a lonely mountain path.”
　 Genji looked at the poem and sighed.
　 “Your father worries about you,” he said gently. “If you speak of leaving this world too soon, it will only make him more sad.”
　 Since becoming a nun, the princess tried to hide her face whenever Genji came near. She did not wish him to see her clearly. Yet when Genji caught a glimpse of her, he could not help feeling regret.
　 Her face was still young and beautiful. She looked almost like a child.
　 “Why did things turn out this way?” he thought sadly.
　 Because these thoughts were painful, Genji usually kept a screen between them so that he would not see her too clearly.
　 At that moment the small boy woke up in the nurse’s room and crawled into the chamber. He moved quickly across the floor and caught hold of Genji’s sleeve.
　 Genji looked down and smiled.
　 The boy was dressed in a light robe of white silk. Over it he wore a soft red jacket with a small pattern from China. The robe was long, and the cloth dragged behind him on the floor.
　 Like most small children, his clothing did not stay neatly in place. Yet he looked charming and bright.
　 His skin was very white. His body was slender and graceful, almost like a young willow tree. The hair on his head was still soft and blue-black, like grass after rain.
　 His mouth was beautiful, and his eyebrows were long and elegant.
　 “These eyebrows are remarkable,” Genji thought.
　 The child reminded him of Kashiwagi. Yet the boy seemed even more beautiful than his father had been.
　 “How strange,” Genji thought. “He does not look very much like the princess either.”
　 When Genji looked at the child carefully, another thought entered his mind.
　 “Perhaps he resembles me.”
　 The idea made him uneasy.
　 The boy had already begun to walk a few steps by himself. When he saw the tray holding the bamboo shoots, he became curious. Without understanding what they were, he hurried over and began touching them with both hands.
　 He picked one up and put it into his mouth.
　 Genji laughed.
　 “That is not proper behavior,” he said. “If the ladies see you eating like that, they will say you are greedy.”
　 He lifted the boy onto his lap.
　 “Still, these eyebrows are truly wonderful,” he said again. “I have not looked closely at many children, but usually they all look alike at this age. This boy already has the face of a noble young man.”
　 He looked at the child thoughtfully.
　 “Perhaps this is dangerous,” he said softly. “In a house where there are also princesses, such beauty may one day cause trouble.”
　 The ladies nearby protested.
　 “Please do not say such unlucky things!”
　 But Genji only smiled.
　 The boy continued trying to chew the bamboo shoots. Water from the shoots ran down his hands as he bit them again and again.
　 Genji laughed once more.
　 “What a strange young gentleman,” he said.
　 Then he gently took the shoots away and spoke playfully:
　 “Even when life is full of sorrow, it is hard to throw away something like a young bamboo shoot.”
　 The child only laughed because he did not understand the words.
　 Soon he climbed down from Genji’s lap and crawled away.
　 Watching him, Genji felt deep affection growing in his heart. For a moment he almost forgot the painful events of the past.
　 “Perhaps fate brought this child to me,” he thought. “Perhaps everything that happened was decided long ago.”
　 Yet at the same time another feeling rose inside him.
　 “Among all the women in my life,” he thought, “the one who should have been my most perfect wife is now living as a nun.”
　 When he remembered this, he could not help feeling bitter regret.
　 The quiet afternoon slowly passed as Genji continued watching the child play.

Part 2

　 The young general often thought about the final words Kashiwagi had spoken before his death. Those words had remained in his mind like a small shadow that would not leave.
　 “What did he truly mean?” the general wondered many times.
　 He had thought about asking Genji directly. If he watched Genji’s face carefully, perhaps he might understand the truth. Yet each time he considered it, he stopped himself.
　 “If I ask carelessly,” he thought, “I may cause pain.”
　 Because of this he waited for a good moment.
　 One evening, when the air of autumn had grown quiet and a little sad, the general decided to visit the Ichijō residence, where Kashiwagi’s widow lived.
　 The house felt calm and gentle when he arrived.
　 From somewhere inside he heard the sound of a koto. The music was soft and slow, like the wind moving through leaves.
　 “She must have been playing just now,” he thought.
　 When the servants heard that the general had come, they could not keep him waiting long. They guided him to a room in the southern part of the house.
　 As he entered, he sensed that someone had just moved away deeper into the house. The faint sound of clothing brushing against itself reached his ears. The soft smell of perfume remained in the air.
　 The atmosphere felt graceful and refined.
　 Kashiwagi’s mother soon came forward to speak with him. Together they talked about the young man who had died.
　 For the general, the quiet house felt very different from his own home. In his residence many children ran through the halls and voices were always heard. Here the rooms were calm and silent.
　 Looking around, he noticed that the house seemed a little more lonely than before. Yet the elegance of a noble residence still remained.
　 Outside the garden had grown somewhat wild. Flowers and grasses moved gently in the evening wind. The sound of insects filled the air, like the distant murmur of a field.
　 In the fading light the general saw a koto lying near the veranda.
　 He walked toward it slowly.
　 The instrument had been tuned carefully, and it carried the faint warmth of someone who had played it often. He knew at once whose instrument it was.
　 “This must be the one Kashiwagi loved,” he thought.
　 The general sat beside it and touched the strings lightly.
　 A quiet tone filled the room.
　 “He was truly skilled with the koto,” the general said softly. “No one could forget the beauty of his playing.”
　 Then he spoke toward the inner room.
　 “You must have learned some of that skill from him. Please allow me to hear it.”
　 Kashiwagi’s mother answered gently.
　 “Since that sad day, she has shown no interest in music. Even when she was young she practiced only a little. Now she spends her days thinking quietly about the past. Music no longer comforts her.”
　 The general sighed.
　 “That is natural,” he said.
　 For a moment he pushed the instrument away from him.
　 “Even music cannot ease a heart that feels deep sorrow.”
　 After a short silence he spoke again.
　 “Still, please allow me to hear a little music tonight. Even our sad hearts might feel some comfort.”
　 He moved the koto closer to the curtain that separated the inner room.
　 “Those who were closest to him are the ones who can truly keep his music alive,” he said.
　 But he did not press the request strongly.
　 The moon had begun to rise outside.
　 In the clear autumn sky a few wild geese flew slowly across the light. Their cries echoed softly in the night air.
　 The general imagined that such a lonely scene might deepen the sadness of the lady inside the room.
　 A cool wind moved through the veranda.
　 At last the lady gently touched another instrument, a thirteen-string koto. The sound was quiet, almost like a whisper.
　 The simple notes filled the room with deep feeling.
　 The general felt his heart drawn toward the music.
　 Wanting to continue the mood, he took up a biwa and began to play a famous song called “Longing for the Beloved.”
　 “I may seem bold to play this song,” he said with a faint smile. “But perhaps it is fitting tonight.”
　 Then he invited her softly.
　 “Would you join me?”
　 The lady felt shy.
　 That song carried strong feelings of love, and it embarrassed her to play it together with him. So she did not answer.
　 Yet she listened carefully.
　 The deep sound of the biwa filled the room and seemed to touch her heart.
　 The general spoke again.
　 “Sometimes silence speaks more strongly than words,” he said.
　 At last she quietly joined him for only the final part of the melody.
　 Her playing was gentle but very beautiful.
　 When the music ended, she spoke softly.
　 “In the deep night we hear many sad sounds,” she said. “But some feelings cannot be spoken.”
　 The general wished the music had continued longer.
　 Yet she soon stopped playing.
　 “I have troubled you long enough tonight,” he said at last. “If I remain here until morning, the spirit of Kashiwagi himself might come to scold me.”
　 He prepared to leave.
　 “Perhaps I may visit again someday,” he added. “If the instruments remain here, we can continue the music.”
　 Kashiwagi’s mother then brought a gift.
　 It was a flute.
　 “This flute has been passed down for many years,” she said. “It should not remain forgotten in this quiet house. Please take it with you and play it sometimes.”
　 The general accepted it with respect.
　 “It may not suit someone as unskilled as I am,” he said.
　 Still he lifted the flute and tried playing a short melody. The clear sound of the flute echoed into the night.
　 “When I think of the one who used to play this,” he said, “the sound feels too bright for me.”
　 Kashiwagi’s mother spoke another quiet poem.
　 She described the lonely house where the sound of insects filled the garden just as it had in earlier autumns.
　 The general answered her with another poem about the flute, saying that the sound of the instrument remained even though the man who played it had disappeared.
　 Even after that exchange he felt unwilling to leave.
　 Yet the night had grown very late.
　 Finally he stepped out into the moonlight and began the journey home.

Part 3

　 When the general finally returned to his own home, the night had already grown very deep.
　 The gates of the residence were closed. The wooden shutters of the rooms had been lowered, and the house was quiet. Everyone had already gone to sleep.
　 As he stepped inside, he realized how different this place felt from the quiet Ichijō residence he had just left.
　 Here the house was full of life. Children lived in many rooms, and servants slept nearby. Even at night the place carried the warm noise of a large family.
　 Yet now the silence seemed heavy.
　 The general entered the house while singing softly.
　 His voice was beautiful, and the melody rose gently through the quiet halls.
　 “Why are all the shutters closed so early?” he said with a sigh. “On such a bright moonlit night, how can anyone go to sleep so soon?”
　 He ordered the servants to lift the shutters again.
　 Moonlight entered the room and spread across the floor.
　 Then he lay down near the veranda, looking out at the pale light in the garden.
　 “No one should sleep on a night like this,” he said toward the inner room. “Come out for a while. The night is too beautiful to waste.”
　 His wife heard his voice.
　 Yet she did not answer.
　 Someone had told her that her husband visited the Ichijō residence too often. Because of this rumor she felt unhappy when he stayed out late like this.
　 Though she knew he had returned, she pretended to be asleep.
　 From different rooms the soft voices of children could be heard as they talked in their sleep. The nursemaids moved quietly around them.
　 Listening to these sounds, the general compared his own lively house with the lonely residence he had just visited.
　 “How different they are,” he thought.
　 Taking out the flute he had received, he tried playing a few notes.
　 The clear sound floated gently into the night air.
　 As he played, he imagined the scene he had just left behind.
　 “The lady and her mother must still be awake,” he thought. “Perhaps they are looking at the same moon.”
　 He imagined them sitting beside the instruments they had played earlier. Perhaps they spoke quietly together while remembering the past.
　 These thoughts filled his mind as he lay there.
　 He could not understand why Kashiwagi had treated such a noble lady with only formal kindness instead of true love.
　 “How could he fail to see her value?” he wondered.
　 At the same time he thought about his own life.
　 He remembered how young he and his wife had been when they first met. Their love had begun simply, without pride or ambition.
　 Many years had passed since then.
　 Now his wife had become the mother of many children, and her character had grown strong and proud. Yet he felt that such change was natural.
　 While thinking these thoughts he slowly fell asleep.
　 Soon a dream appeared.
　 In the dream he saw Kashiwagi.
　 The young man stood beside him wearing the same robe he had worn during his illness. In his hand he held the very flute that the general had just received.
　 The sight surprised him.
　 “Why have you come?” the general asked in the dream.
　 Kashiwagi looked at the flute and spoke quietly.
　 “If the wind that blows through bamboo could become music forever, its sound would live long in the world.”
　 His voice sounded distant and sad.
　 “I wished for something more than this,” he added.
　 The general tried to ask what he meant.
　 But before he could speak again, the sound of a child crying broke the dream.
　 The general opened his eyes.
　 His young son had awakened and was crying loudly.
　 The nurse hurried to comfort him. The child continued to cry, and soon the general’s wife also rose from her bed.
　 A servant brought a lamp, and the warm light filled the room.
　 The general watched quietly as his wife lifted the child into her arms. Her pale face shone softly in the light. Strands of hair had fallen across her cheeks, and she pushed them back behind her ears.
　 The child was beautiful, with the same fair skin as his mother.
　 Though she seemed tired, she tried to calm him by giving him milk.
　 The general moved closer.
　 “How is he?” he asked gently.
　 The child continued to cry.
　 His wife looked at her husband with a little anger.
　 “He must be ill,” she said. “You spend your time outside enjoying yourself and looking at the moon. You even opened the shutters and let the night air inside. Perhaps some spirit has entered the house.”
　 The general laughed.
　 “You blame everything on me,” he said. “If I had not opened the shutters, the spirits would have had no way to come inside, is that it?”
　 His wife looked away.
　 “Please go over there,” she said quietly. “Someone might see you.”
　 The lamp light made her face bright, and she seemed shy to be watched so closely.
　 The general thought she looked charming.
　 Yet the child continued crying through most of the night. Servants scattered grains of rice to drive away evil spirits, and the house became noisy for a while.
　 The general remembered the dream of Kashiwagi and felt uneasy.
　 He looked again at the flute beside him.
　 “Perhaps this instrument still holds his feelings,” he thought.
　 Kashiwagi had loved the flute deeply. Now the instrument had come into his hands, yet he did not know what to do with it.
　 He did not wish to give it away, yet he also felt that it did not truly belong to him.
　 Thinking of Kashiwagi’s spirit wandering in sadness, he decided to offer prayers.
　 He ordered monks at the temple of Atago to read sacred texts for the dead man. He also asked other temples connected with Kashiwagi to perform the same prayers.
　 Even so, the flute still troubled him.
　 At last he decided to bring it to the Six-jō mansion.
　 On the day he went there, Genji was visiting the residence of one of the young princesses.
　 In the garden a small princess, only about three years old, was playing. She was being raised with great care by the lady of the house.
　 When she saw the general, she ran toward him happily.
　 “General,” she said, “please carry me to the other house!”
　 Her voice was polite, yet still childish.
　 The general laughed.
　 “If I carry you past the lady’s curtain, what will happen to me?” he asked playfully.
　 But he lifted her onto his knees.
　 “No one will see,” the princess said, covering her face with her sleeve.
　 Her gesture was very charming.
　 Carrying her carefully, the general walked toward the main hall.
　 There he saw Genji watching the children play together.
　 Another young prince noticed them and ran over.
　 “I want the general to carry me too!” he cried.
　 The little princess protested.
　 “No! He is my general!”
　 She pulled at the general’s robe.
　 Genji smiled at the scene.
　 “You must not argue like that,” he said kindly. “The general serves the emperor. He does not belong to only one of you.”
　 The children laughed and continued playing.
　 The general bowed respectfully.
　 Yet while he watched the children, his eyes were drawn to another boy nearby.
　 The boy was small and dressed in light blue clothing. His skin shone with remarkable beauty.
　 His eyes were bright and intelligent.
　 The shape of his eyes reminded the general strongly of Kashiwagi.
　 For a moment his heart beat quickly.
　 “Could it be…?” he thought.
　 The resemblance seemed too clear to ignore.
　 Looking at the boy, the general felt certain that Genji must also have noticed the same thing.
　 But Genji said nothing.
　 The question remained hidden in silence.
　 Later, when they sat together, the general spoke about his visit to the Ichijō residence. Genji listened with interest and sympathy.
　 When the conversation turned to Kashiwagi, Genji spoke carefully.
　 “If you wish to show kindness to that lady,” he said, “you must do so with a pure heart. Never let such friendship turn into something dangerous.”
　 The general answered calmly.
　 “There is no danger,” he said. “My purpose is only to comfort those who suffer.”
　 After a pause he spoke again.
　 “Last night I had a strange dream about Kashiwagi.”
　 He told Genji everything.
　 Genji listened without speaking.
　 Finally he said quietly, “That flute once belonged to a noble house long ago. Later it was given to Kashiwagi because of his skill. Perhaps it has now returned to the place where it should remain.”
　 The general understood the meaning.
　 The flute should stay with Genji.
　 He felt that Genji had understood the entire truth.
　 Yet Genji spoke no further about the matter.
　 A deep silence remained between them.

 
Chapter 38: Suzumushi (鈴虫)

Part 1

　 In the heat of summer, when the lotus flowers were still bright and full in the ponds, a great religious ceremony was prepared. It was for the Buddhist altar of the Princess who had taken the life of a nun. The prayer hall had been arranged with the greatest care. Almost everything there had been given by the Lord of the Rokujō Mansion. Fine decorations hung from the pillars. Long banners made from rich Chinese silk moved softly in the air.
　 Near the altar stood tables covered with beautiful cloth prepared under the direction of Lady Murasaki. The cloth had a gentle pattern like the spots of a young deer. The colors were soft and elegant, and people who saw them felt quiet admiration. Curtains around the platform were lifted so that the sacred space could be seen clearly. At the back hung a large picture showing the holy world of the Lotus Sutra. Before it stood shining silver flower vases filled with tall and graceful arrangements.
　 Sweet incense burned before the image of the Buddha. The smell was calm and deep. The figures of Amida Buddha and the two bodhisattvas beside him were carved from white sandalwood. Their faces were gentle and peaceful. Even the small vessels used for holy water were made with special care. Some were shaped like lotus flowers and made from white and blue stones. Small incense burners shaped like leaves sent soft smoke into the room.
　 Sacred scrolls of scripture had also been prepared. Six copies had been written to pray for souls wandering through the six worlds of suffering. One special scroll had been written by the lord himself with his own hand. He had worked on it for many months. The paper was specially made and very fine. When people looked at the writing from even a short distance, they felt almost dizzy from its beauty. The lines of ink seemed brighter than the gold lines that marked the page.
　 The scroll rested on a table made from fragrant wood. Everything around the altar had been chosen with great taste and care. Even the boxes that held the scrolls were elegant and finely made.
　 When the preparations were complete, the monks gathered for the ceremony. Young nobles came forward carrying incense. At that moment the lord of the mansion prepared to enter the prayer hall. Before going in, he first stopped at the small room where the Princess was staying.
　 The room was rather small and crowded. Many court ladies had gathered there. Some were beautifully dressed in bright robes even though the day was hot. There were so many of them that some young attendants had moved out to the veranda. The room was filled with smoke from incense burners. The ladies waved fans to spread the perfume, and the air grew thick with scent.
　 Seeing this, the lord smiled a little and spoke gently.
　 “Incense should not be burned so strongly that people cannot tell where the scent comes from,” he said. “When smoke rises like the top of Mount Fuji, it is too much. During the sermon you must sit quietly and listen carefully. Please do not make noise with your clothes or with your movements.”
　 The young ladies lowered their heads and listened to his instructions.
　 The Princess herself sat quietly among them. Surrounded by so many people, she seemed almost hidden. She leaned forward slightly, her small and graceful figure very still.
　 The lord noticed a child nearby and said softly to one of the attendants, “Take the young prince to another room farther away.”
　 The sliding doors between the rooms had been removed that day and replaced with hanging screens. The attendants moved quietly behind them.
　 The lord then spoke to the Princess about the ceremony that would soon begin. He explained the order of the ritual and the behavior expected during it. Yet while speaking, he felt deep sadness in his heart.
　 Beyond the screen he could see the altar placed where once there had been memories of love and happiness between them. That place had now become a holy space dedicated to the Buddha. The sight made him feel both sorrow and reverence.
　 He looked at her and spoke with emotion.
　 “I never imagined that I would live to see a day when such a ceremony would be held for you,” he said quietly. “But now that things have come to this, let us at least promise that in the next world we may live together peacefully upon the lotus flower.”
　 As he spoke these words, tears came to his eyes. He wrote a poem quickly upon the Princess’s scented fan.
　 We once promised
　 To share the same lotus seat,
　 Yet today we part—
　 The drops of dew between us
　 Are full of sorrow.
　 The Princess received the fan and read the poem. Then she gently wrote a reply beside it.
　 Even if we promise
　 To share the same lotus home,
　 Will your heart be calm?
　 When the lord read her answer, he laughed softly, though there was sadness in his voice.
　 “Do you still doubt me so much?” he asked.
　 Soon many princes and nobles arrived to attend the ceremony. Offerings for the Buddha came from the many ladies living in the Rokujō Mansion. Rich robes for the monks and many other gifts had been prepared under Lady Murasaki’s direction. The monks admired the careful work. Even the stitching of the robes was done with special skill.
　 The chief monk began to speak. He praised the Princess for leaving the glory of the world while she was still young and beautiful. He spoke about how rare it was for a person surrounded by luxury to turn toward the path of faith. His words were elegant and powerful. Many listeners felt moved and lowered their heads in quiet emotion.
　 At first the ceremony had been planned as a simple opening of the prayer hall. But messages and offerings arrived from the palace and from the retired emperor. Because of these gifts the event became far more splendid than expected. The monks who attended received many generous rewards and returned to their temples with joy.
　 After the Princess became a nun, the lord cared for her even more than before. His affection seemed endless. Some people suggested that she should move to another residence given to her by the emperor. They said it would look better to the world if she lived there.
　 But the lord refused.
　 “If she moves far away,” he said, “I will not be able to see her often. I wish to speak with her every day and help with whatever she needs. My life may not be very long. While I still live, let me at least fulfill this wish.”
　 Because of this, the Princess remained at the Rokujō Mansion.
　 The lord also repaired another residence that belonged to her. Valuable goods and income from her lands were stored there carefully. New storehouses were even built to hold the many treasures given to her by the retired emperor. In this way her future was made secure.
　 All the expenses for her life and for the many attendants who served her were paid by the lord himself.
　 Time passed, and autumn came.
　 In the garden near the Princess’s rooms the lord had the ground changed into a field of grass. Small shelves for sacred offerings were built there. The place looked quiet and beautiful.
　 Many older women who had served the Princess also became nuns and followed her life of faith. Some younger women wished to do the same. But the lord warned the Princess.
　 “Many people are excited by the moment,” he said. “But if their hearts are not pure, they will bring trouble to others. Choose only those who truly believe.”
　 In the end only a small group of devoted women became her companions.
　 The lord then released many insects into the grassy field. When the evening wind of autumn began to cool the air, their voices filled the garden.
　 Often the lord came to visit and listened to the sounds of the insects. He seemed to enjoy them very much and tried again and again to draw the Princess into conversation.
　 But the Princess felt troubled. Since becoming a nun she had found peace by leaving worldly love behind. Now such words only caused pain in her heart.
　 She began to think quietly that perhaps it would be better to live somewhere far away from the Rokujō Mansion. Yet she was gentle by nature and could not say this clearly.
　 One evening, before the moon had risen on the night of the fifteenth day, she sat near the veranda of the prayer room and counted her beads while praying.
　 Outside, several young nuns prepared flowers for the altar. The sound of water and the soft movement of vessels could be heard.
　 It was a lonely moment.
　 Just then the lord arrived.

Part 2

　 The lord stepped quietly onto the veranda. For a moment he stood still and listened. The garden was already deep in autumn. From the grass came many small sounds. Crickets sang in the darkness, and their voices rose and fell like gentle waves. The air was cool, and the scent of plants and damp earth moved softly in the night.
　 He spoke in a low voice.
　 “So many insects are singing tonight,” he said.
　 The Princess raised her eyes slightly but did not stop her prayer at once. The beads of her rosary moved slowly through her fingers. She tried to keep her mind calm, yet the sound of his voice stirred memories that she wished to forget.
　 The lord himself began softly to chant the name of Amida Buddha. His voice was quiet but clear. The sound passed gently through the open space and mixed with the voices of the insects outside.
　 Among the many sounds of autumn insects, one new voice rose brightly. It was the sound of a bell cricket. Its small clear note seemed to shine in the air.
　 The lord listened with interest.
　 “Each insect of autumn has its own charm,” he said. “But many people say that the pine cricket is the best of them all. Long ago the Empress sent people far away to fields and hills to catch them and bring them here. But even when they were brought to the garden, they did not sing as they had in the wild.”
　 He smiled slightly.
　 “Perhaps they prefer the deep mountains or lonely fields,” he continued. “Or perhaps they simply do not like living in a noble garden. But the bell cricket is different. It sings freely wherever it is placed. Because of that, people feel affection for it.”
　 The Princess listened quietly. The sound of the bell cricket entered her heart deeply. At last she spoke in a low voice.
　 “Even though I have come to feel sorrow for autumn itself,” she said, “I cannot push away the voice of the bell cricket.”
　 Her voice was soft and gentle, but it carried a quiet sadness.
　 The lord leaned forward slightly.
　 “What do you mean?” he asked. “I have done nothing that should make you feel resentment.”
　 Then he replied with a poem of his own.
　 “Even if you turn your heart away from this humble dwelling in the grass, the voice of the bell cricket will not leave you.”
　 For a moment neither of them spoke. The sound of the insects filled the silence.
　 After a while the lord asked that a koto be brought. It was unusual for him to play alone in such a quiet place. When the instrument was set before him, he touched the strings gently.
　 A deep sound flowed out into the night.
　 The Princess forgot even the rosary in her hands. She listened with complete attention. The music seemed to carry many feelings within it—loneliness, memory, and the passing of time.
　 Meanwhile the moon slowly rose in the sky. Its light spread across the garden. The grass shone silver, and the shadows of the buildings grew long and calm.
　 The lord played with deep feeling. As he listened to the sound of his own music, he seemed to think about the swift passing of life. The tone of the instrument became sadder and more beautiful.
　 At that moment another visitor arrived. Prince Hyōbu had expected that there might be music that evening, as there often was on nights of the autumn moon. When he heard the sound of the koto from outside, he entered the garden and approached.
　 Soon after, the Left General arrived as well, bringing several young nobles who loved music.
　 They gathered quietly and listened.
　 The lord looked up and laughed gently.
　 “I was feeling rather bored tonight,” he said. “I wondered whether someone might come and play music with me. So I began alone, hoping perhaps the sound would reach someone’s ears.”
　 He turned to the Princess.
　 “Let us prepare a seat for Her Highness here,” he said.
　 Soon more people came. News had spread that the emperor’s moon-viewing gathering at the palace had been canceled. Those who felt disappointed heard that people were gathering at the Rokujō Mansion and came there instead.
　 The nobles began by talking about the different insects of autumn. After that they started to play music together. Flutes, lutes, and zithers joined the sound of the koto. The garden became lively and full of gentle joy.
　 The lord looked at the bright moon above the garden.
　 “Whenever we look at the moon,” he said slowly, “there is always some sadness in the heart. But when we see the full moon of mid-autumn, we begin to think even about worlds beyond this one.”
　 His voice grew softer.
　 “There is someone who comes to my mind especially tonight,” he continued. “The late Captain of the Guards. He understood music and the arts better than almost anyone. When we gather like this and he is not here, it feels as though a fine fragrance has disappeared from the world.”
　 As he spoke, tears came to his eyes.
　 Behind the bamboo blinds, the Third Princess may have heard his words. The thought crossed his mind, though he did not show it. In truth, the memory of that man often returned on nights of music.
　 The emperor himself also remembered him whenever music was played.
　 The lord raised his cup.
　 “Tonight,” he said, “let us stay awake and celebrate the Festival of the Bell Crickets.”
　 The cups were passed around, and laughter filled the garden. Yet beneath the joy there remained a quiet feeling of autumn sadness.
　 After a time a messenger arrived from the Reizei Emperor. The emperor had also felt disappointed that there was no gathering at the palace. He had heard that many nobles were now at the Rokujō Mansion.
　 The messenger delivered a poem.
　 “Even though you live far above the clouds,” the poem said, “you do not forget the moon of an autumn night.”
　 The lord read the poem and smiled.
　 “It is kind of His Majesty to remember me,” he said.
　 Then he wrote a reply.
　 “The moonlight shines in the same sky,” he wrote, “yet the autumn seen from my own house is different now.”
　 His words held the quiet sadness of someone remembering the past and comparing it with the present.
　 The messenger received a cup of wine and gifts before returning.
　 Soon after that the lord decided to visit the Reizei Emperor in person. Though the decision was sudden, everyone quickly prepared.
　 Servants moved about arranging the carriages. Guards hurried back and forth through the gate. The quiet music of the evening slowly came to an end as the mansion filled with movement.
　 Prince Hyōbu joined the lord in the same carriage. The Left General and several other nobles followed behind. At first they had been dressed simply in light robes, but now they added more formal layers for the visit.
　 The moon had risen high in the sky. Its light covered the road as the small procession moved quietly through the night.
　 Young nobles walked ahead, playing soft notes on their flutes as they went.
　 The visit was not a formal ceremony. The lord went as he might have done long ago, simply as the great minister Genji visiting a friend.
　 When the Reizei Emperor received him, he was filled with joy. The emperor’s beauty was perfect, and the lord looked almost the same beside him. To those who saw them together, they seemed hardly different at all.
　 The emperor had left the throne while still young. Thinking about this made the lord feel deep sorrow.
　 Poems and music filled the rest of the night. Many beautiful verses were composed, but it would be difficult to record them all.
　 At dawn the gathering ended, and the nobles returned home.
　 Later the lord visited the residence of the Empress. He spoke with her for a long time.
　 “Now that Your Majesty lives in such quiet peace,” he said, “I wish that I could visit often and speak together about the past. But my position is strange. I am neither fully a monk nor fully a man of the world.”
　 He paused.
　 “Sometimes I think that perhaps I should leave everything and go to a remote temple in the countryside.”
　 He spoke seriously.
　 “When that day comes,” he continued, “please show kindness to the members of my family.”
　 The Empress listened carefully and answered with gentle feeling.
　 “Since the days when I lived in the palace,” she said, “I have had fewer chances to see you. I feel lonely about that. At times I too wish to leave the world and follow the path of faith. But I cannot decide anything without hearing your advice.”
　 The lord shook his head slowly.
　 “It is not easy to abandon the world,” he said. “Even those who truly wish to do so find many ties holding them back. If someone follows such a path only because others do so, it may lead to regret.”
　 The Empress listened but felt that he did not fully understand her heart.
　 She thought often of her mother, whose restless spirit was said to wander in suffering. Because of this, she wished strongly to pray for her mother’s peace.
　 Quietly she spoke of this sorrow, hoping the lord might say more.
　 He listened with sympathy.
　 “Even when people know the suffering that awaits them,” he said, “they cannot easily abandon human desire. But there are many ways to pray for the dead. We must think carefully and act with patience.”
　 Thus they spoke together about the sadness and uncertainty of human life. Yet both of them were still young and beautiful, and the world had not yet fully released its hold on them.
　 When morning came, the lord returned home with full ceremony, accompanied by many high officials.

Part 3

　 When the lord returned to the Rokujō Mansion that morning, the sky was already pale with early light. The night of music and poetry had ended, but the quiet feeling of autumn still remained in his heart. Many nobles had accompanied him back from the palace, as was proper when a man of his rank returned home.
　 Servants and guards moved carefully through the gate. The horses were led away, and the carriages were placed in order. The nobles bowed respectfully before leaving one by one. Soon the mansion became quiet again.
　 The lord walked slowly through the garden. Dew lay on the grass that had been planted near the Princess’s residence. The insects were now silent after their long singing during the night. Only the faint sound of wind moving through the leaves could be heard.
　 As he walked, the lord thought about many things. His mind moved between memories of the past and worries about the future. Life, he felt, was passing more quickly than he had once believed.
　 After resting a little, he went again to visit the Empress.
　 She received him with gentle calm. Her residence was quiet and orderly. Though she now lived peacefully and was honored by all, there remained a shadow of sadness in her heart.
　 The lord sat beside her and spoke thoughtfully.
　 “Now that Your Majesty lives in such a peaceful place,” he said, “I often wish that I could come here more freely. When we were younger, we met more often. Now the years pass quickly, and yet it becomes more difficult to speak together.”
　 He looked toward the garden outside.
　 “As time passes,” he continued, “memories grow stronger rather than weaker. The things we have seen and lived through remain deeply in the heart. Sometimes I wish to speak of them openly, but my position makes it difficult.”
　 The Empress listened quietly. She understood the meaning of his words.
　 The lord continued.
　 “I stand between two ways of life. I am not fully a monk who has left the world, yet I am no longer simply a man living for worldly success. Because of this, my actions are often limited.”
　 He paused for a moment.
　 “Lately I have even thought that perhaps I should leave the capital one day,” he said. “I might go to a temple far away in the countryside and spend the rest of my life there in peace.”
　 The Empress looked at him with concern.
　 “If that day comes,” he added softly, “I hope that Your Majesty will continue to care for my family. I have trusted you for many years.”
　 The Empress replied gently.
　 “When I lived in the palace before,” she said, “I could sometimes return to my family home. Those visits brought happiness. Now I rarely have such chances. Because of that, I often feel lonely.”
　 She lowered her eyes.
　 “At times,” she continued, “I have also thought of leaving the world and entering the religious life. Yet I do not know whether such a decision would be right. Since long ago I have depended on your advice. Without hearing your thoughts, I cannot act with confidence.”
　 The lord listened and then answered slowly.
　 “It is not easy to turn away from the world,” he said. “Even those who truly wish to do so often find themselves held back by many ties. A person who leaves the world simply because others do so may later regret it.”
　 He spoke kindly, but the Empress felt that he did not fully understand the deep worry within her heart.
　 Much of that worry came from thoughts of her mother.
　 Her mother, the Lady Rokujō, had died long ago. Yet strange stories about her restless spirit still circulated among people. It was said that her spirit sometimes appeared as a wandering ghost. When the Empress heard such stories, she felt great sorrow and fear.
　 Because of this, she often thought about the suffering that might follow death.
　 Quietly she tried to explain this feeling to the lord.
　 “I have heard troubling things about my mother’s spirit,” she said. “Even if such stories are uncertain, I cannot help thinking about them. When she died, I was young and did not think deeply about the world beyond death.”
　 Her voice grew softer.
　 “Now I wish to learn more about the teachings of the Buddha. If there is any way that I can help her spirit find peace, I want to do so.”
　 The lord felt sympathy when he heard these words.
　 He had kept many secrets about the strange events connected with the Lady Rokujō’s spirit. He had never spoken openly about them. Yet he understood the Empress’s pain.
　 “Even those who know about the fires of suffering cannot easily escape human desire,” he said gently. “People are bound by many feelings. It is not simple to cut those ties at once.”
　 Then he gave an example from Buddhist teaching.
　 “There was once the monk Mokuren,” he said. “Because he had reached great wisdom, he was able to rescue his mother from the suffering of hell. But such power is rare. Most people must help the dead in quieter ways—through prayer, good actions, and patience.”
　 He looked kindly at the Empress.
　 “If a person abandons the world suddenly while still surrounded by honor and beauty, that may also bring new troubles to the heart. Instead, it may be better to learn slowly and act wisely.”
　 The Empress listened in silence.
　 The lord continued.
　 “I also wish to pray for those who have died,” he said. “But there are many duties in this life. When the right time comes, I hope to spend my days quietly offering prayers for their peace.”
　 As they spoke, the morning sun rose higher. Light entered the room through the screens. Outside, servants moved softly through the garden.
　 Both the lord and the Empress felt the sadness of human life. They spoke about how quickly time passes and how uncertain the future can be.
　 Yet anyone who saw them would think that they were still in the full beauty of life. Their faces were calm and bright, and the world still surrounded them with honor and comfort.
　 Later that day the lord left the Empress’s residence.
　 Although the visit of the previous night to the Reizei Emperor had been quiet and informal, the return that morning could not be so simple. Now he had to travel with the full dignity of a retired emperor. High officials and guards walked beside his carriage.
　 As he moved through the streets of the capital, people bowed deeply.
　 The lord thought again of the Reizei Emperor. Among all those he loved, the emperor held a special place in his heart.
　 He felt great affection for the Lady Nyōgo, the mother of the Crown Prince, who had grown into a wise and fortunate woman. He also admired the Left General, who had become one of the most capable men of the time.
　 Yet even these feelings were not as strong as the love he felt for the Reizei Emperor.
　 The emperor himself also longed to see the lord more often. But their meetings were not easy to arrange. For that reason the emperor had chosen a quiet life away from the throne sooner than many expected.
　 The Empress lived happily now with her husband. They spent much time together like an ordinary married couple. Festivals and gatherings were held with great splendor.
　 Yet in the Empress’s heart there remained a strong wish to follow the path of faith for the sake of her mother’s spirit.
　 Because others did not agree with her wish to leave the world completely, she chose another path. She devoted herself to good works and religious acts that might bring peace to the dead.
　 The lord supported her in this effort.
　 Soon he arranged for a great religious service of the Lotus Sutra to be held. Eight sermons would be given, and many monks would take part.
　 In this way prayers would be offered for the spirits of the dead and for the peace of all living people.

 
Chapter 39: Yūgiri (夕霧)

Part 1

　 The night was very quiet. The air was cool, and the sky above the city was still dark. A man stepped out through a sliding door and slowly walked into the open air. The hour was late, almost the time when monks began their early prayers before dawn. The soft sound of a temple bell could be heard far away. The man paused for a moment and looked at the pale sky.
　 This man was the noble lord called Yugiri. Many people believed that he was a very serious and faithful husband. He had always shown good behavior in public, and he tried to live in a careful and proper way. People spoke well of him, and many thought that he was a model of loyalty and honor.
　 Yet inside his heart something had begun to change.
　 After the death of Kashiwagi, Yugiri often visited the house where Kashiwagi’s widow lived. The lady there was the Second Princess. Yugiri first came to that house because he wished to show respect for his dead friend. At least that was what people believed. When others spoke of his visits, they said, “He is a good man. He has not forgotten his old friend.”
　 But the truth in Yugiri’s heart was different.
　 Each time he visited that quiet house, he found his thoughts moving more and more toward the Princess herself. At first he tried to hide these feelings even from himself. He told his own heart that he was only showing kindness to the widow of his friend. But time passed, and the feeling did not disappear. Instead it grew stronger day by day.
　 Yugiri understood that his visits might seem strange if he suddenly showed love for the Princess. Because of that, he moved very carefully. He tried to appear calm and respectful. He spoke kindly and gently whenever he met the women of the house.
　 “Time will help me,” he thought. “If she sees my honest heart, she may slowly come to trust me.”
　 For that reason he did not rush forward. He waited for a chance when he could speak more openly. Yet such a chance had never come. The Princess herself was quiet and reserved. She did not speak freely with him. Often he could only hear her voice from behind a screen.
　 Still, Yugiri hoped.
　 “If I can only speak with her face to face once,” he thought, “I may be able to show her my true feelings.”
　 At that time another trouble came to the household.
　 The lady called the Miyasudokoro, who lived in the same residence, became very ill. People believed that a spirit was troubling her. She grew weak and suffered greatly, and prayers were ordered to drive away the spirit.
　 Because of this illness she was moved from the city to a small mountain villa in a place called Ono. The village lay near the foot of Mount Hiei. It was quiet there, far from the noise of the capital. Priests from the mountain temples were known to be skilled in prayer and in fighting evil spirits.
　 A famous priest lived there and had promised not to leave the mountain for some time. Because of that promise, it was easier to bring the sick lady near him than to bring the priest down to the city.
　 When the time came for the journey to the mountain villa, several carriages were needed. Servants walked ahead to prepare the road. Most of these arrangements were made by Yugiri himself. He sent the carriages and gave careful orders to the servants.
　 Strangely, the younger brothers of Kashiwagi did not show much concern. They were busy with their own matters, and they did not give much help. Because of that, Yugiri’s attention and kindness became even more noticeable.
　 Another nobleman, the Left Minister, had once tried to ask for the Princess in marriage. When he did so, the answer he received was strong and cold. The family clearly rejected his request. After that shameful moment he stopped visiting the house.
　 Compared with that failure, Yugiri’s quiet method seemed much wiser.
　 He did not speak openly about marriage. Instead he showed care and respect in many small ways. When he heard that prayers were being held for the sick lady, he sent many gifts to the priests. He also sent robes and offerings that were used in religious ceremonies.
　 He paid attention even to small details. Everything he sent was chosen carefully.
　 Because the sick lady was very weak, she could not write a reply. The women who served her wondered what to do. If one of them wrote a simple answer, Yugiri might think that his kindness was not fully appreciated. But if they did nothing, it might also seem rude.
　 After some discussion they decided that the Princess herself should write the reply.
　 The Princess accepted this duty quietly.
　 She wrote only a short letter, but the handwriting was very beautiful. The words were simple and calm, yet they carried a gentle warmth. When Yugiri received the letter, he held it in his hands for a long time.
　 “This letter…” he said softly to himself.
　 The feeling in his heart grew stronger than before.
　 After that day he began to send letters more often. Each letter was respectful and careful. He did not write anything too bold. Still, his meaning slowly became clearer.
　 But there was another problem.
　 His own wife, Lady Kumoi no Kari, was very observant. She watched his behavior carefully. It seemed possible that she already suspected something. Because of this fear, Yugiri did not dare to visit the mountain villa openly.
　 Even though he wished to see the Princess, he held himself back.
　 Days passed in this uneasy way.
　 At last autumn arrived. It was around the twentieth day of the eighth month. The countryside was very beautiful at that time of year. The fields and hills were filled with the quiet colors of early autumn.
　 Thinking of the mountain villa, Yugiri felt his desire to visit grow stronger.
　 “I have heard that a certain priest from the mountain has come down recently,” he said one day in a casual voice. “There is something I must discuss with him. Also, I should visit the sick lady and offer my sympathy.”
　 He spoke as if the journey were only a simple duty.
　 But his heart told a different story.
　 Soon he left his residence. He did not bring a large group of servants. Instead he chose only five or six trusted companions. They wore hunting robes and followed him quietly.
　 The road toward the mountain was peaceful. The hills were not very deep in the wilderness, yet the scenery was beautiful. The slopes near Matsugasaki showed the red and gold colors of autumn leaves. The natural beauty there seemed even richer than the carefully designed gardens of the capital.
　 At last the small villa appeared among the trees.
　 A simple fence of thin branches surrounded the grounds. Even though the building was only a temporary residence, it was arranged with great taste. Everything looked clean and elegant.
　 In the central building a room had been prepared for the prayers. A special altar stood there for the priests. The sick lady rested in a northern room that had been made into her sick chamber.
　 Because of this arrangement, the Princess stayed in a western room.
　 The sick lady feared that evil spirits might attack the Princess as well. For that reason she had wished the Princess to remain safely in the city. But the Princess insisted on coming to care for her.
　 Thus the quiet mountain villa held both sickness and secret longing.
　 And now Yugiri had come to its gate.

Part 2

　 When Yugiri arrived at the gate of the small mountain villa, the servants inside were surprised. They had not expected such a noble visitor that evening. One of the attendants hurried forward and bowed deeply. The quiet air of the place seemed to change as soon as Yugiri stepped inside the grounds.
　 The villa stood among tall trees. Their leaves had begun to change color. Some were pale yellow, some were deep red. The wind moved gently through the branches, and the leaves made a soft sound like distant whispers. The sky above the mountain was already growing dark, and the evening light lay softly over the hills.
　 Yugiri looked around slowly. The place felt very calm compared with the busy streets of the capital.
　 “This is a peaceful place,” he said quietly.
　 The servant led him toward the main building. The narrow path between the trees was covered with fallen leaves. Each step made a faint sound. The lamps inside the house had already been lit, and their warm light could be seen through the paper doors.
　 When the attendants inside heard that Yugiri had arrived, they began to move about in a hurry. Some prepared a room where he could rest. Others went to inform the women of the house.
　 The sick lady was still lying weakly in her room. Several priests were gathered nearby, chanting prayers. Their voices rose and fell in a slow rhythm. The sound filled the quiet house.
　 One of the attendants approached the Princess and bowed.
　 “The lord Yugiri has come,” she said softly.
　 The Princess remained silent for a moment.
　 She had expected that he might come one day. Yet now that the moment had arrived, she felt uncertain. Her heart began to beat a little faster.
　 “He has come all the way here…” she thought.
　 Still, she answered calmly.
　 “Please treat him with respect,” she said. “He has shown us much kindness.”
　 Meanwhile Yugiri had been shown into a room near the front of the house. He sat down and looked quietly around the space. The room was simple, but everything had been arranged carefully. The screens and curtains were plain but elegant.
　 The evening air moved softly through the open spaces of the house.
　 Soon one of the senior women of the household came forward to greet him. She bowed deeply from behind a screen.
　 “My lord,” she said, “it is a great kindness that you have come so far to visit this humble place.”
　 Yugiri answered in a gentle voice.
　 “I heard that the lady’s illness was very serious. I felt great concern. I wished to see how she is doing.”
　 The woman sighed softly.
　 “Her illness is still troubling her. The priests are praying day and night. We can only hope that their prayers will bring relief.”
　 Yugiri listened with a serious expression.
　 “That must be very difficult for all of you,” he said. “Please tell the lady that I have come to offer my respect and sympathy.”
　 The woman promised to carry his message.
　 After a short time she returned.
　 “The lady thanks you deeply,” she said. “She is too weak to meet visitors, but she wishes you to know that she remembers your kindness.”
　 Yugiri nodded slowly.
　 “I understand,” he said.
　 But his true thoughts were elsewhere.
　 He was wondering where the Princess might be.
　 The quiet room seemed to grow even more silent as the evening deepened. Outside, the sound of insects could be heard among the grasses. Their voices filled the cool autumn air.
　 At last Yugiri spoke again.
　 “I have heard that the Princess has come here to care for the lady,” he said.
　 The woman behind the screen hesitated slightly before answering.
　 “Yes,” she said. “She could not leave the lady alone in such a difficult time.”
　 Yugiri lowered his voice.
　 “She must be very tired after such long days.”
　 “She continues to care for the lady with great devotion,” the woman replied.
　 Yugiri was silent for a moment.
　 Then he said quietly, “If it is not troublesome, I would like to greet her as well.”
　 The woman understood his meaning, yet she also knew that such a meeting was not simple. The Princess was a noble lady, and she lived in careful seclusion.
　 Still, Yugiri had shown the family much kindness. It would be difficult to refuse him completely.
　 “I will carry your message,” the woman said carefully.
　 When the message reached the Princess, she sat very still for a moment.
　 Her attendants watched her quietly.
　 One of them spoke in a gentle voice.
　 “My lady, the lord Yugiri has come all this way. It may be difficult to refuse even a brief greeting.”
　 The Princess looked down at her hands.
　 “He has already done much for this house,” she said softly. “It would be rude to ignore his visit.”
　 Yet her voice carried a note of uncertainty.
　 Finally she agreed to send a reply.
　 “Tell him that I thank him for his concern,” she said. “If he wishes to speak, I will listen from behind the screen.”
　 The message was carried back to Yugiri.
　 When he heard these words, his heart beat faster.
　 “So she will speak with me,” he thought.
　 Soon the room was prepared. A screen was placed carefully so that the Princess could remain hidden from direct view. The lamps burned quietly in the room, and the soft autumn wind moved the curtains slightly.
　 Yugiri entered the room slowly and sat down near the screen.
　 For a moment neither of them spoke.
　 The silence between them felt deep and heavy.
　 At last Yugiri spoke in a gentle voice.
　 “I was worried when I heard of the lady’s illness,” he said. “I hope the prayers here will bring her peace.”
　 From behind the screen the Princess answered quietly.
　 “Thank you for your concern. Your kindness has helped us greatly during this difficult time.”
　 Her voice was soft and calm.
　 Hearing that voice so close to him made Yugiri’s heart feel strangely warm. He had heard her voice before, but tonight the quiet mountain setting seemed to make every sound clearer.
　 “You have come to care for her yourself,” he said. “That must be very tiring.”
　 The Princess replied gently.
　 “She has shown me great kindness in the past. It is only natural that I should stay beside her now.”
　 Yugiri lowered his head slightly.
　 “Your heart is truly admirable,” he said.
　 Again a brief silence followed.
　 The sound of the autumn insects outside seemed louder than before.
　 Yugiri’s thoughts were restless.
　 “If only I could see her face,” he thought.
　 But the screen between them remained unmoving.

Part 3

　 The quiet room held a strange feeling of closeness and distance at the same time. Yugiri sat on one side of the screen, and the Princess sat on the other. The thin screen allowed their voices to pass easily, yet it kept their forms hidden. The light from the lamps made soft shadows on the paper surface.
　 Yugiri listened carefully to the gentle sound of the Princess’s voice. Each word she spoke seemed calm and modest. Yet to him that calm voice carried a deep beauty.
　 For a moment he said nothing. He tried to choose his next words with care.
　 “The road to this place was very peaceful,” he said at last. “The hills are already showing the colors of autumn. It made me think how quiet life must be here compared with the capital.”
　 The Princess answered softly.
　 “Yes, it is very quiet here. At night we can hear the wind in the trees and the voices of insects. Sometimes the silence feels almost too deep.”
　 Her voice carried a faint sadness.
　 Yugiri understood that the sadness came from the illness of the lady they were caring for. He nodded slowly, though she could not see him.
　 “Such silence can make the heart feel lonely,” he said.
　 For a few moments they both remained quiet again. The sound of chanting from the priests drifted faintly through the house. Their prayers rose and fell like waves.
　 Yugiri spoke again.
　 “When I received your letter the other day, I felt great relief. I was glad to know that you were safe here.”
　 The Princess seemed surprised.
　 “My letter was very simple,” she said. “I fear that it was not worthy of your attention.”
　 Yugiri shook his head gently.
　 “No,” he said. “The simplicity of it made it even more meaningful.”
　 Behind the screen the Princess lowered her head slightly. She did not answer for a moment.
　 Yugiri’s thoughts grew restless again.
　 He had planned this visit for many days. Yet now that he was sitting so close to her, the words he wished to speak seemed difficult to say. He knew that he must move carefully.
　 “You have shown great courage by coming here,” he continued. “Many ladies of the capital would fear such a lonely place.”
　 The Princess gave a quiet reply.
　 “When someone close to you suffers, you cannot think only of your own comfort.”
　 Her answer was simple, yet it carried quiet strength.
　 Yugiri felt admiration for her.
　 “She is truly different from others,” he thought.
　 Outside the wind moved softly through the trees. A few leaves brushed against the roof with a faint sound. The autumn night was growing deeper.
　 Yugiri’s companions were resting in another room, speaking quietly among themselves. No one disturbed the calm meeting in this chamber.
　 After a while Yugiri spoke again, but his voice was lower now.
　 “Since the death of my friend Kashiwagi, I have often thought of this house,” he said. “I felt that I must not forget the people he loved.”
　 When the Princess heard Kashiwagi’s name, her voice became even softer.
　 “Yes,” she said. “His death brought great sorrow.”
　 For a moment the memory of the past hung heavily between them.
　 Yugiri continued slowly.
　 “He was my dear friend. Even now I remember many things we spoke about together.”
　 The Princess remained silent.
　 Yugiri knew that this subject touched painful memories. Yet it also gave him a reason to remain close to her.
　 “Because of him,” Yugiri said, “I have wished to protect those who were dear to him.”
　 The Princess answered quietly.
　 “Your kindness honors his memory.”
　 Again a short silence followed.
　 Yugiri’s heart was beating faster now. He felt that the time had come to speak more honestly.
　 Yet he still feared that his words might cause discomfort.
　 “There are many people in the capital,” he said slowly, “who believe that time can easily erase the past.”
　 The Princess did not answer immediately.
　 Yugiri continued.
　 “But some feelings remain even after many years.”
　 The Princess understood that his meaning had begun to change. She felt a quiet tension rise in her heart.
　 “My lord speaks in difficult words tonight,” she said gently.
　 Yugiri gave a small sigh.
　 “Perhaps I do,” he admitted. “This quiet place has made my thoughts speak more freely.”
　 The Princess remained silent again.
　 Yugiri looked at the screen between them. The thin paper seemed almost too fragile to hold back the feelings in his heart.
　 “If only there were no barrier between us,” he thought.
　 Yet he knew that the barrier was necessary.
　 He spoke again in a careful voice.
　 “You have lived through many sad events,” he said. “Even so, you continue to show calm strength. That is something I deeply respect.”
　 The Princess answered politely.
　 “You speak too kindly of me.”
　 Yugiri lowered his head slightly.
　 “No,” he said. “I speak honestly.”
　 The night continued to grow darker. The lamps burned steadily, and the sound of insects outside filled the air with a soft rhythm.
　 Yugiri felt that the moment was passing too quickly.
　 “I should not remain here too long,” he said. “It is late, and you must be tired.”
　 The Princess replied in a gentle tone.
　 “We are grateful that you came to visit. Your concern has brought comfort to this house.”
　 Yugiri hesitated.
　 Then he said quietly, “I hope that I may visit again.”
　 The Princess did not answer directly.
　 “If the lady’s condition changes, we will inform you,” she said.
　 Her careful words avoided giving a clear promise.
　 Yugiri understood the meaning behind her caution. Still, he felt that the quiet conversation had brought them a little closer than before.
　 After a moment he slowly rose from his seat.
　 “Please take care of yourself,” he said.
　 From behind the screen the Princess bowed deeply.
　 “Please travel safely,” she answered.
　 Yugiri stepped out of the room. The cool autumn air greeted him as he walked through the quiet corridor of the villa. The voices of the priests were still rising and falling in prayer.
　 As he prepared to leave the house, he looked once more at the silent building behind him.
　 “This night will remain in my memory,” he thought.

Part 4

　 Yugiri stepped out into the cool night air. The mountain villa stood quietly behind him, half hidden among dark trees. The sky above was clear, and many small stars shone faintly in the deep blue darkness. The sound of insects filled the fields and hills around the house.
　 For a moment Yugiri stood still and listened.
　 The voices of the priests inside the villa rose and fell as they continued their prayers for the sick lady. The sound reached him through the open spaces of the house. It seemed slow and endless, like a quiet river flowing through the night.
　 Yugiri slowly walked toward the outer gate where his attendants were waiting.
　 His companions rose quickly when they saw him approach. They had been speaking softly among themselves, but they stopped their conversation and bowed.
　 “My lord,” one of them said, “shall we prepare to return to the capital?”
　 Yugiri looked once more toward the house.
　 A faint light still shone through the paper doors of the western room. He knew that the Princess was somewhere inside that quiet space. The thought filled his heart with both warmth and unease.
　 “Yes,” he said quietly. “It is late. We should leave now.”
　 His attendants quickly prepared the horses. The small group began to move slowly down the narrow mountain road.
　 The path was dim, and only a small lantern guided their way. The light swung gently as they walked. Shadows moved across the ground like silent waves.
　 Yugiri rode in silence.
　 His companions did not disturb him. They understood that their lord wished to think quietly.
　 The night wind moved through the grasses beside the road. Occasionally a leaf fell from the trees and touched the ground with a faint sound.
　 Yugiri’s thoughts returned again and again to the voice he had heard behind the screen.
　 “Her voice was even more gentle than before,” he thought.
　 He remembered the calm tone with which she had answered his questions. Though her words were careful and polite, he felt that there was something deeper hidden beneath them.
　 “She is still very distant from me,” he thought. “Yet tonight I felt that our hearts were not completely apart.”
　 The road slowly carried him away from the mountain villa.
　 When he reached the lower hills, he turned once more to look behind him. The villa could no longer be seen. Only the dark shape of the mountain remained against the sky.
　 Meanwhile, back at the villa, the Princess had returned quietly to her room.
　 Her attendants closed the screens and arranged the lamps. The night air was cool, and the faint smell of autumn grass drifted through the house.
　 The Princess sat silently for a long time.
　 One of her attendants looked at her with concern.
　 “My lady,” she said gently, “the night has grown late. You should rest.”
　 The Princess nodded slowly, yet she did not immediately lie down.
　 Her thoughts were troubled.
　 The visit of Yugiri had left a deep impression on her heart. She remembered every word he had spoken. His careful tone and respectful manner had been impossible to ignore.
　 “He spoke kindly,” she thought.
　 Yet the Princess also understood that his words carried a deeper meaning. She could feel the quiet intention behind them.
　 “Why has he come so often to this house?” she wondered.
　 She had already guessed the answer, though she had never spoken of it.
　 One of her attendants spoke again.
　 “The lord Yugiri seems very sincere,” she said. “He has shown great kindness to this house.”
　 The Princess gave a quiet reply.
　 “Yes. He has helped us many times.”
　 But her voice carried a note of hesitation.
　 Another attendant added softly, “Many people speak well of him. They say he is a man of honor.”
　 The Princess lowered her eyes.
　 “Perhaps that is true,” she said.
　 The attendants sensed that their lady did not wish to discuss the matter further. They fell silent and began to prepare the room for sleep.
　 At the same time the priests continued their prayers in the main hall.
　 The sick lady lay quietly in her chamber. Her breathing was weak, but the chanting voices of the priests filled the room with steady sound.
　 The night slowly passed.
　 Far away, Yugiri and his companions finally reached the outskirts of the capital. The streets were still quiet, and the gates of many houses were closed.
　 When Yugiri arrived at his residence, the servants came forward with lanterns. They bowed deeply as he entered.
　 “You have returned late, my lord,” one of them said.
　 Yugiri nodded.
　 “The journey took longer than I expected,” he replied.
　 He walked slowly through the corridors of his house. The familiar rooms seemed strangely empty after the quiet beauty of the mountain villa.
　 When he reached his private chamber, he sat down alone.
　 The memory of the Princess’s voice returned to his mind once again.
　 “She answered every word carefully,” he thought. “Yet I could not tell what she truly felt.”
　 He leaned back and looked toward the open window.
　 The night sky above the capital looked very different from the clear sky over the mountains. The air here felt heavier and warmer.
　 Yugiri closed his eyes for a moment.
　 “If I continue to visit her,” he thought, “perhaps one day she will understand my heart.”
　 Yet even as he thought this, he knew that the path before him would not be easy.
　 The Princess lived in strict seclusion. Her position and honor placed many barriers between them.
　 Still, Yugiri could not turn his thoughts away from her.
　 At last he rose slowly and prepared to rest.
　 Outside his chamber the city of the capital slept quietly under the fading stars.
　 And far away in the mountain villa, the autumn insects continued to sing through the dark night.

Part 5

　 The next morning the mountain villa woke slowly. Pale light came over the hills, and a cool mist lay across the fields. The air was fresh and quiet. Only the soft voices of the priests could be heard from the prayer room. Their chanting had continued through the night without rest.
　 The attendants of the house moved carefully through the corridors so that they would not disturb the sick lady. They spoke in low voices and walked lightly across the floor.
　 The Princess had slept very little.
　 She had remained awake for a long time after Yugiri left. His words had continued to echo in her mind. Even after she finally closed her eyes, her sleep was light and uneasy.
　 Now, as morning came, she rose quietly.
　 One of her attendants approached and bowed.
　 “My lady,” she said softly, “the priests say that the prayers have brought a little peace to the lady during the night.”
　 The Princess nodded gently.
　 “That is good news,” she replied.
　 She walked slowly toward the chamber where the sick lady rested. The room was dim, and the smell of incense filled the air. Several priests sat nearby, still repeating their prayers in a steady voice.
　 The sick lady lay quietly beneath her blankets. Her face looked pale and weak.
　 The Princess sat beside her and watched her breathing.
　 “Please become stronger,” she thought silently.
　 One of the older attendants came forward and spoke in a low voice.
　 “The lord Yugiri showed great concern yesterday,” she said. “It must have been difficult for him to travel all the way to this place.”
　 The Princess gave a calm answer.
　 “Yes. His kindness should not be forgotten.”
　 Yet her thoughts were still troubled.
　 She remembered how his voice had changed during their conversation. At first his words had been polite and distant. But later his tone had become softer and more personal.
　 “He spoke as if he wished to say something more,” she thought.
　 The Princess understood that such feelings could bring danger. She lived in a world where reputation and honor were very important. Even a small mistake could cause great trouble.
　 Because of that, she tried to keep her heart calm.
　 Meanwhile in the capital Yugiri had already risen from his bed.
　 Although he had returned late during the night, he could not sleep for long. His thoughts were still full of the memory of the mountain villa.
　 As he prepared for the day, one of his attendants approached.
　 “My lord,” the man said, “there is a letter that arrived early this morning.”
　 Yugiri accepted the letter quickly.
　 The handwriting on the paper was graceful and delicate. He recognized it at once.
　 It was from the Princess.
　 His heart beat faster as he opened the letter.
　 The message was short and modest.
　 She thanked him for visiting the villa and for his concern about the sick lady. She also wrote that the prayers were continuing and that they hoped for improvement.
　 The words were simple, yet Yugiri read them many times.
　 “Even this small letter brings me joy,” he thought.
　 He held the paper carefully in his hands. The faint scent of the paper seemed to carry the quiet atmosphere of the mountain villa.
　 Yugiri soon prepared a reply.
　 His answer was respectful and gentle. He wrote that he was relieved to hear that the lady had rested during the night. He also expressed his hope that the prayers would soon bring complete recovery.
　 Yet beneath these polite words, his deeper feelings remained hidden.
　 When the letter was finished, he gave it to a trusted messenger.
　 “Take this to the mountain villa,” he said.
　 The messenger bowed and left at once.
　 After sending the letter, Yugiri stood for a moment beside the window of his chamber.
　 The city outside was already busy. Servants moved through the streets, and the sounds of daily life filled the air. Compared with the quiet mountain villa, the capital felt noisy and restless.
　 “How peaceful that place was,” he thought.
　 His mind returned again to the moment when he had spoken with the Princess through the screen.
　 “If I could meet her again,” he thought, “perhaps I could speak more clearly.”
　 Yet he knew that he must remain careful.
　 His wife, Lady Kumoi no Kari, watched his behavior closely. She was intelligent and quick to notice even small changes.
　 If she began to suspect the truth, his visits to the villa would become very difficult.
　 Because of that fear, Yugiri forced himself to appear calm and ordinary.
　 When his wife later spoke with him that day, he answered her questions in his usual manner. He did not mention the feelings that filled his heart.
　 Meanwhile the messenger traveled quickly toward the mountain villa.
　 The road passed through fields and small villages before reaching the hills near Mount Hiei. By the time he arrived, the sun was already moving toward the afternoon sky.
　 The attendants at the villa accepted the letter and brought it inside.
　 When the Princess received Yugiri’s reply, she read it quietly.
　 Her expression remained calm, yet she sensed the careful tone hidden within the words.
　 “He continues to show great attention,” she thought.
　 One of her attendants watched her face.
　 “My lady,” she said gently, “shall we prepare a reply?”
　 The Princess folded the letter slowly.
　 “Yes,” she answered.
　 She wrote another short message, thanking him once more for his concern.
　 When the letter was finished, the messenger carried it back toward the capital.
　 And so the quiet exchange of letters between the mountain villa and Yugiri’s residence continued.
　 Though their words remained polite and restrained, the feeling between them slowly deepened with each passing day.
　 Far above the hills, the early autumn sky remained clear and calm.
　 The voices of the insects continued to fill the fields.
　 And within the peaceful mountain villa, the Princess lived each day with quiet care, unaware of how strongly Yugiri’s heart was turning toward her.

Part 6

　 Yūgiri could not stop thinking about her. Even when he tried to be calm, his heart moved again toward the mountain house in Ono. He knew that people would say it was too early. The mourning period of forty-nine days had only just passed. A careful man should wait longer before doing anything. Still, the days felt too long to him. Each day seemed heavy and slow, and his mind would not rest.
　 “There is no need to fear rumors now,” he said softly to himself. “If I simply act as other men do, our bond will come true.”
　 He spoke these words quietly, but they showed how strong his feelings had become. Because of that feeling, he did not even think about his wife’s jealousy. His heart was already moving in another direction.
　 There was another reason for his confidence. Long before this time, the lady had written a letter. In that letter she had said that even if their meeting lasted only one night, she wished it to be a true bond. Yūgiri still kept that letter with great care. When he remembered those words, he felt certain that their fate could not be avoided.
　 It was the middle of the ninth month. The colors of the mountains and fields had begun to change. Leaves had lost their bright summer green and were turning pale and red. Even people who were not usually thoughtful felt sadness when they looked at the hills.
　 Cold wind came down from the mountain. The wind shook the leaves of the trees and the long vines that grew along the slopes. The sound of the moving leaves filled the quiet valley. In the middle of that sound, the voice of a monk chanting prayers could be heard from the temple nearby.
　 The mountain house itself felt very lonely. Few people moved inside. The garden had lost its summer life, and the fence around it looked old and silent. Just outside the fence, deer sometimes came down from the hills. They walked slowly across the fields without fear.
　 Farmers in the nearby rice fields had set up wooden clappers to frighten animals away. The sharp sound of those clappers rang again and again. Yet the deer did not always run. They stood in the yellow rice plants and cried in thin voices that seemed full of sorrow.
　 The water of the waterfall fell strongly down the rocks. Its sound was deep and heavy. To a person who was already full of troubled thoughts, that sound felt almost like a threat. It seemed to speak loudly to the heart.
　 In the grass, insects made faint sounds. Their weak voices rose from the dry plants. It was as if they were sharing the sadness of the season. Among the fading grass, small gentian flowers were blooming quietly. Their blue petals looked cold in the wind.
　 None of these sights were rare in autumn. Still, the place and the moment made them feel special. When a person carried sorrow in the heart, even ordinary things seemed to deepen that sorrow.
　 Yūgiri stood near the west door of the house. This was the same door where he had often spoken before. He sent a message inside, asking that his words be carried to the lady. After that, he remained standing there for a long time.
　 He did not move quickly. Instead, he looked slowly around the garden, as if he were lost in thought.
　 He wore a soft court robe that had become comfortable from long use. Beneath it was a beautiful deep purple garment with fine patterns. The evening sun was already losing its strength, but its light still reached the garden and touched his clothes.
　 The light fell across his face. It was bright enough to make his eyes narrow. Without hurry, he raised his fan and held it before his face to block the sunlight. His movement was simple and natural, yet it had great grace.
　 Watching from inside, several women servants whispered quietly.
　 “If a lady had beauty like that,” one of them said softly, “it would be enough.”
　 Another woman nodded. “Even when men try to look noble, they rarely look like this.”
　 They spoke in low voices so that Yūgiri would not hear them. Yet they could not stop looking at him. His calm figure, standing in the fading light, seemed almost unreal.
　 Still, the man himself was not thinking about how he looked.
　 His mind was full of the lady who lived in this lonely place.
　 “Will she see me?” he wondered.
　 He tried to read the quiet house. No sound came from inside. The wind moved the grass and leaves. The waterfall continued its deep voice. But the rooms of the house remained silent.
　 Yūgiri felt a small pain in his chest.
　 “She may still hate me,” he thought.
　 He remembered how much sorrow she had suffered. Many things had happened in her life. Some of those things were connected with him. Even if he wished for kindness now, he could not easily expect it.
　 Yet his feet had brought him here again.
　 He waited.
　 Time passed slowly. The light of the sun became weaker and softer. Long shadows spread across the garden.
　 At last a woman from inside the house came near the door. She did not open it widely. Instead, she spoke from behind the screen.
　 “My lord has come again,” she said.
　 Her voice was careful and polite.
　 “Yes,” Yūgiri replied gently. “Please tell her that I am here.”
　 The woman remained silent for a moment.
　 “The lady is not well,” she said at last. “Her heart is still troubled. She does not often see visitors.”
　 Yūgiri lowered his fan slowly.
　 “I understand,” he answered. “But I have come a long way. I only wish to speak a few words.”
　 The woman did not answer immediately. She seemed unsure. After another quiet moment, she spoke again.
　 “I will carry your message.”
　 Then she disappeared into the dark room.
　 Yūgiri stayed where he was. The wind moved the sleeves of his robe. Somewhere in the garden, an insect made a thin crying sound.
　 He listened to it and thought of the lady again.
　 “Even if she refuses me,” he said quietly to himself, “I cannot stop loving her.”
　 The autumn evening grew deeper around him. The sky slowly changed color above the silent mountains. And still Yūgiri waited before the west door of the lonely house.

Part 7

　 Time passed slowly while Yūgiri waited beside the west door. The evening light faded little by little, and the air grew colder. A thin mist began to rise from the valley, and the mountain wind carried the scent of dry leaves and wet earth. The sound of the waterfall became stronger as the quiet of night came closer. Yūgiri listened to that sound and felt that it matched the restless movement of his own heart.
　 Inside the house, the servant woman who had spoken to him walked quietly along a narrow corridor. The room of the lady was dark and calm. A lamp burned softly beside the screen, but its light was weak, and shadows filled the corners of the room.
　 The lady sat near the back of the room, leaning slightly against a cushion. Her face looked pale, and her long hair fell loosely over her robe. Since the death of the former minister, sorrow had not left her heart. The quiet mountain house had become her place of mourning.
　 When the servant knelt before her, she bowed her head.
　 “My lady,” she said softly, “Lord Yūgiri has come again. He stands by the west door and asks only to speak a few words.”
　 The lady did not answer at once. She lowered her eyes and remained silent for a long moment. The servant waited with patience, but the room stayed quiet except for the faint sound of wind outside.
　 At last the lady spoke.
　 “He should not come here so often,” she said in a low voice. “People may speak about it.”
　 Her words sounded calm, yet they carried a hidden sadness.
　 The servant bowed again. “Yes, my lady. I understand. Still, he has come a long way. He says he wishes only to speak.”
　 The lady slowly raised her hand and touched the sleeve of her robe. The cloth moved gently as the wind slipped through a small opening in the screen.
　 “His heart is too strong,” she said quietly. “I do not know how to answer him.”
　 She remembered many things. In the past, Yūgiri had often visited this place. Sometimes he spoke kindly, and sometimes his words had made her heart uneasy. The memory of those meetings returned to her now.
　 “If I see him,” she thought, “my heart may move again.”
　 That thought frightened her.
　 The servant remained kneeling. “Shall I tell him that you cannot see him?”
　 The lady closed her eyes for a moment. She seemed to search for a clear answer, but none came easily.
　 “No,” she said at last. “Do not send him away so quickly. It would be cruel.”
　 She paused and then continued.
　 “Let him speak from outside. I will listen from here.”
　 The servant bowed deeply. “I understand.”
　 She rose quietly and returned through the corridor toward the west door. The sound of her steps was soft, almost lost in the whisper of the wind.
　 Outside, Yūgiri had not moved from his place. The sky above the mountains had turned pale blue, and the first light of evening stars could be seen between the branches of the trees.
　 When the servant appeared again behind the screen, he lifted his head.
　 “Have you spoken to her?” he asked.
　 “Yes,” the servant replied gently. “The lady cannot meet you face to face. But she will listen to your words from within the room.”
　 Yūgiri felt both relief and sadness at the same time. At least she had not refused him completely.
　 “That is enough,” he said softly. “Please tell her that I am grateful.”
　 The servant stepped back slightly. The screen between them remained closed, and the room behind it stayed dark.
　 Yūgiri spoke toward the screen.
　 “My lady, I know that my visits trouble you. I have tried to control my heart, but I cannot forget you. Each day I think of this lonely house in the mountains.”
　 His voice was calm, but the feeling behind it was clear.
　 “When I remember your kindness in the past, I feel that my life cannot move forward unless I see you again. That is why I came today.”
　 Inside the room, the lady listened without moving. She kept her eyes lowered, but his voice reached her clearly.
　 Yūgiri continued.
　 “If my coming here causes you pain, I am sorry. But please understand my heart. I do not come only from desire. I come because our fate has already joined our lives.”
　 His words filled the quiet evening air. The insects in the grass continued their faint music, and the waterfall answered with its deep voice.
　 The lady finally spoke from behind the screen.
　 “You speak too strongly,” she said.
　 Her voice was soft but clear.
　 “Our lives are not joined so easily. Many things stand between us.”
　 Yūgiri listened carefully.
　 “I know that,” he replied. “But if I turn away now, my heart will never rest.”
　 The lady did not answer at once. The silence between them grew long again.
　 At last she said quietly, “You should return home tonight. The mountain road becomes dangerous in the dark.”
　 Yūgiri smiled faintly.
　 “Even if the road is dark,” he said, “I would not regret coming here.”
　 His words were simple, yet they carried deep feeling.
　 The lady lowered her head again.
　 “You must not speak like that,” she murmured.
　 Yet her voice was weaker than before.
　 Yūgiri heard that change. It gave him hope.
　 “Then allow me to visit again,” he said gently. “If you refuse me completely, I will obey you. But if there is even a small kindness in your heart, please do not close the door forever.”
　 The wind moved through the garden again, shaking the dry leaves. Their sound rose softly around the quiet house.
　 Inside the dark room, the lady sat in silence, thinking about his words.

Part 8

　 The lady remained silent for a long time after Yūgiri finished speaking. Inside the room the weak lamp moved slightly in the wind, and its light trembled across the floor. Outside, the evening had grown darker. The mountain air felt colder, and the insects in the grass continued their quiet crying.
　 Yūgiri stood still beside the west door. He did not try to hurry her answer. He knew that her heart was troubled and that she needed time. Even so, the waiting made his chest feel tight.
　 At last the lady spoke again from behind the screen.
　 “Your words are very strong,” she said softly. “But strength of feeling does not always bring peace.”
　 Her voice sounded calm, yet the sadness inside it could easily be heard.
　 “You speak as if fate has already decided everything. But I have lived long enough to know that people suffer when they trust fate too easily.”
　 Yūgiri listened carefully. He could feel the deep pain hidden inside her words. The quiet mountain house had been her shelter from the world. Now his visits disturbed that stillness.
　 “I understand your fear,” he replied gently. “But I cannot pretend that my heart is quiet. If I hide my feelings, I will only suffer more.”
　 The lady lowered her eyes.
　 “Many people suffer in silence,” she said. “Sometimes silence protects us.”
　 Yūgiri shook his head slowly, though she could not see the movement.
　 “Silence may protect the world,” he answered, “but it cannot protect my heart.”
　 His voice was not loud, yet the feeling inside it was strong and clear.
　 “When I first saw you here in the mountains,” he continued, “I thought your beauty belonged only to quiet sorrow. I believed that I should respect that sorrow and keep my distance. But the more I tried to stay away, the more my heart moved toward you.”
　 The lady listened without interrupting.
　 “Each season that passed,” Yūgiri said, “made my feelings stronger. Even when I returned to the capital, my thoughts remained here among these hills. I could not forget you.”
　 The wind outside moved through the tall grass again. The thin sound of insects rose and fell like a quiet song.
　 The lady finally spoke.
　 “Your kindness may be real,” she said slowly. “But kindness can still bring trouble. My life has already known too much sorrow.”
　 She paused before continuing.
　 “I fear that if I allow my heart to move again, new sorrow will follow.”
　 Yūgiri felt the weight of her words. He understood that her caution was not simple refusal. It came from deep pain.
　 “If sorrow must come,” he said quietly, “then I will accept it. I only ask that you do not close your heart because of fear.”
　 The lady did not answer immediately. She sat quietly, holding the edge of her sleeve between her fingers.
　 “People in the world already speak many foolish things,” she said at last. “If they see you visiting here again and again, they will add more cruel words.”
　 Yūgiri gave a faint smile.
　 “Let them speak,” he said. “Words cannot change the truth of a heart.”
　 The lady sighed softly.
　 “You say that because you are strong. But women must live carefully. A single rumor can follow us for the rest of our lives.”
　 Yūgiri grew quiet for a moment.
　 “Then tell me what I should do,” he said gently. “If you wish me to stay away, I will try to obey. But if there is even a small place for me in your heart, please do not send me away completely.”
　 The room remained silent again.
　 At last the lady spoke in a very soft voice.
　 “I do not know my own heart clearly,” she said.
　 These words were simple, yet they carried deep truth.
　 “When you speak like this, my mind becomes confused. I wish for peace, but your presence stirs many feelings.”
　 Yūgiri felt hope rise quietly inside him.
　 “Confusion may be the beginning of truth,” he said. “A calm heart sometimes hides its real feelings.”
　 The lady gave a faint, almost sad smile, though he could not see it.
　 “You speak as if you understand everything,” she said. “But the heart of a woman is not so easy to read.”
　 “That is true,” Yūgiri replied. “But I wish to learn.”
　 The night had now grown deep. The last color of sunset had disappeared behind the mountains, and only the pale light of the moon began to touch the sky.
　 Yūgiri looked toward the dark garden.
　 “It is late,” he said quietly. “I should not stay longer tonight.”
　 The lady listened without answering.
　 “But before I go,” he continued, “please allow me to return again. I will not press you with impatient words. I will simply come and speak with you.”
　 The lady thought carefully before answering.
　 “If you come too often, it will trouble the quiet of this place,” she said.
　 “Then I will come only when you allow it,” he replied.
　 Another silence followed.
　 At last she said slowly, “Very well. You may come again. But please remember the peace of this house.”
　 Yūgiri bowed his head deeply, even though she could not see him.
　 “I promise,” he said.
　 The wind moved gently across the garden. The thin sound of insects continued beneath the moonlight.
　 Yūgiri stepped back from the door.
　 “Good night,” he said softly.
　 Inside the room the lady did not answer, but she listened to the fading sound of his steps as he walked away through the dark mountain path.
　 Long after he had gone, she remained sitting quietly beside the lamp, thinking about the strange movement of her heart.

Part 9

　 Yūgiri walked slowly away from the mountain house. The narrow path between the fields was already dark, and the moon had just begun to rise above the distant hills. Its pale light touched the tops of the trees and the long grass beside the road. The cold wind moved gently across the valley, carrying the faint scent of autumn leaves.
　 He did not hurry.
　 Each step seemed to pull his thoughts back toward the lonely house behind him. Even though he had already walked some distance, he felt as if his heart had remained there beside the west door.
　 “She did not refuse me,” he said quietly to himself.
　 That small kindness gave him comfort. Yet it also made his feelings stronger. The calm voice of the lady still echoed in his mind.
　 “If I am not careful,” he thought, “my heart may become too bold.”
　 The road slowly descended toward the lower fields. A thin mist floated above the water of the rice paddies. When the moonlight touched the mist, it looked pale and quiet like a dream.
　 Somewhere in the distance a deer cried. Its long, lonely voice spread across the hills.
　 Yūgiri stopped for a moment and listened.
　 “Even the deer call to their companions,” he murmured. “How strange that human hearts must hide their voices.”
　 After a short rest he continued down the path. His servants followed him at a respectful distance, carrying small lanterns to guide the way.
　 Behind him, the mountain house slowly disappeared in the darkness.
　 Inside that quiet house, the lady still sat beside the weak lamp. The servant women had withdrawn quietly so that she could rest. The room felt calm again, but her heart did not share that calm.
　 She remembered every word that Yūgiri had spoken.
　 His voice had sounded warm and sincere. That warmth had touched a place in her heart that she had tried to keep closed.
　 “Why does he speak with such certainty?” she wondered.
　 She lifted her eyes toward the lamp. The flame moved softly in the wind, and its light made long shadows across the screen.
　 “Perhaps he truly believes that our fate is joined.”
　 The thought made her uneasy.
　 “But life is not so simple.”
　 She had lived long enough to know that affection often brought sorrow. The world of the capital was full of gossip and jealousy. Even a small mistake could damage a woman’s reputation forever.
　 Still, when she remembered the calm look on Yūgiri’s face as he stood in the evening light, her heart grew softer.
　 “He waited so patiently,” she thought.
　 The memory of that quiet waiting stayed with her. It had not been the behavior of a careless man.
　 She sighed quietly.
　 “Perhaps I should not have allowed him to return.”
　 Yet even as she spoke those words in her mind, she knew that she had not truly wished to send him away.
　 Outside, the night deepened.
　 The insects continued their soft music in the garden. The waterfall still fell steadily among the rocks, its sound now deeper in the quiet darkness.
　 The lady slowly lay down upon her bedding. Her long hair spread across the pillow like dark silk.
　 She closed her eyes, but sleep did not come easily.
　 Thoughts of Yūgiri returned again and again.
　 Meanwhile, far down the mountain road, Yūgiri had reached the place where his carriage waited. The lanterns beside it glowed softly in the night air.
　 One of his attendants stepped forward.
　 “My lord, the road grows colder,” the man said respectfully. “Shall we return to the capital?”
　 Yūgiri nodded.
　 “Yes.”
　 He stepped into the carriage and sat quietly while the servants prepared to leave.
　 As the carriage began to move, the wheels made a gentle sound on the earth. The road curved between the dark fields, and the mountains slowly faded behind him.
　 Yūgiri lifted the curtain slightly and looked back once more.
　 The house could no longer be seen.
　 Still, he whispered softly into the night.
　 “I will return.”
　 The carriage continued along the silent road.
　 The moon rose higher in the sky, shining calmly over the quiet valley where the lonely mountain house stood.

Part 10

　 In the capital, the days passed quietly after Yūgiri’s visit to the mountain house. Yet his heart did not grow calm. Even when he attended the duties of court life, his thoughts often wandered back to the quiet valley in Ono.
　 The palace was full of movement and voices. Courtiers walked through long corridors, and servants carried messages from one room to another. Music sometimes rose from distant halls where young nobles practiced their instruments. All of these things belonged to the ordinary life of the capital.
　 But to Yūgiri they seemed strangely distant.
　 When he listened to conversations among other nobles, he answered politely, yet his mind remained elsewhere. The image of the lonely house in the mountains stayed clear before him.
　 “She lives in such silence,” he thought.
　 The memory of the autumn evening returned again and again. He remembered the pale light on the garden, the sound of insects, and the calm voice that had spoken to him from behind the screen.
　 “Her heart is cautious,” he told himself. “But she did not send me away.”
　 That small sign of kindness continued to give him hope.
　 One afternoon he sat alone in his room, looking out across the garden of his residence. The leaves of the trees had begun to fall. Servants swept them quietly into small piles beside the path.
　 The air felt cool, and a thin cloud passed slowly across the pale sky.
　 Yūgiri held a brush in his hand.
　 “If I remain silent too long,” he thought, “she may believe that my feelings were only passing words.”
　 At last he decided to write a letter.
　 He prepared the paper carefully. The sheet was pale and smooth, with a faint fragrance of incense. After a moment of thought he began to write.
　 His words were simple but sincere. He spoke of the autumn mountains and of the quiet night when he had visited the house. He told her that the memory of that meeting had not left his heart.
　 When he finished writing, he read the letter once more.
　 “These words may still sound too strong,” he murmured.
　 Yet he knew that he could not soften them further without hiding the truth.
　 He sealed the letter and called a trusted servant.
　 “Take this to the mountain house in Ono,” he said. “Deliver it with care.”
　 The servant bowed deeply.
　 “Yes, my lord.”
　 Soon the messenger began his journey along the familiar road toward the hills.
　 Several days later the man reached the quiet valley where the lady lived. The mountain air was colder now. The trees had lost more leaves, and the grass beside the path looked pale and dry.
　 The house itself appeared even more silent than before.
　 When the messenger arrived at the gate, a servant woman came to receive the letter. She recognized the seal and understood immediately who had sent it.
　 “Please wait a moment,” she said.
　 She carried the letter inside.
　 The lady was sitting beside the window of her room. She had been watching the slow movement of clouds above the mountains. When the servant entered and placed the letter before her, she lowered her eyes quietly.
　 “From Lord Yūgiri,” the servant said.
　 The lady looked at the seal for a moment before opening it. Her hands moved slowly, as if she wished to delay the moment.
　 At last she unfolded the paper and read.
　 His writing was clear and graceful. The calm lines of the characters seemed to reflect his steady nature.
　 As she read, the quiet sincerity of his words reached her heart once again.
　 She placed the letter gently on her lap.
　 “He has not forgotten,” she thought.
　 The servant woman waited nearby.
　 “Shall I prepare an answer?” she asked softly.
　 The lady remained silent for a moment.
　 “If I do not reply,” she thought, “he may believe that I wish to end everything.”
　 Yet if she answered too warmly, his visits might become more frequent.
　 After some thought she nodded.
　 “Yes,” she said quietly. “Bring writing paper.”
　 The servant returned with a small writing table and a sheet of fine paper. The lady took the brush and held it for a moment without moving.
　 She did not wish to encourage him too strongly. Still, she felt that simple silence would be unkind.
　 At last she began to write.
　 Her reply was gentle but careful. She thanked him for remembering the lonely house and spoke briefly of the quiet autumn days in the mountains. She did not promise anything about the future, yet she did not refuse him either.
　 When the letter was finished, she sealed it and gave it to the messenger.
　 “Please deliver this safely,” she said.
　 The servant bowed.
　 “I will.”
　 Soon the messenger began the journey back toward the capital, carrying her quiet reply.
　 Meanwhile Yūgiri continued to wait.
　 Each day he wondered when the messenger would return. Although he tried to appear calm before others, his mind followed the road to the mountains again and again.
　 At last, one evening, the servant returned.
　 When Yūgiri saw the letter in his hands, a quiet light appeared in his eyes.
　 He broke the seal and read her words carefully.
　 The letter was not long, but its tone was gentle.
　 Yūgiri smiled softly.
　 “Her heart has not closed completely,” he said.
　 He folded the letter with care and placed it beside him.
　 Outside, the autumn wind moved through the garden of his residence. The dry leaves whispered together on the ground.
　 Yūgiri listened to that quiet sound and thought again of the mountains.
　 “Soon,” he said quietly, “I will visit her again.”

Part 11

　 After receiving the lady’s reply, Yūgiri felt a quiet warmth in his heart. The letter had been short and careful, yet it carried a gentle tone that gave him hope. He read it many times, each time noticing the calm grace of her writing.
　 “She does not refuse me,” he thought again.
　 Still, he understood that he must act with patience. If he rushed forward too quickly, he might cause her fear and regret. The memory of her cautious voice remained clear in his mind.
　 Several days passed before he decided to travel again to the mountain house. During that time the season continued to change. The leaves of the trees in the capital had turned deeper red and gold, and the air felt colder each morning.
　 One evening, after finishing his duties at court, Yūgiri quietly prepared for the journey.
　 He did not make a large display of his departure. Only a few trusted attendants accompanied him. They prepared horses and a simple carriage, and before long the small group began the familiar road toward the mountains.
　 The road out of the capital slowly climbed into the hills. The fields were quiet, and the harvest had already ended. Only pale stubble remained where the rice had once stood.
　 As the road rose higher, the air grew sharper and the scent of the forest became stronger. The sky was clear, and the moon shone brightly above the dark outline of the mountains.
　 Yūgiri lifted the curtain of the carriage and looked outside.
　 “This road seems longer than before,” he said quietly.
　 One of his attendants smiled respectfully.
　 “Perhaps your heart moves faster than the carriage, my lord.”
　 Yūgiri gave a faint laugh.
　 “Perhaps that is true.”
　 Yet he soon fell silent again, watching the quiet landscape as it passed.
　 When they reached the valley of Ono, the night had grown deep. The mountain house stood quietly among the trees, just as it had before. A faint light shone from one of the inner rooms.
　 Yūgiri stepped down from the carriage and walked slowly toward the west door. The wind moved gently through the garden, and the familiar sound of the waterfall rose from the rocks nearby.
　 A servant woman soon appeared behind the screen.
　 “Lord Yūgiri,” she said with polite surprise. “You have come again.”
　 “Yes,” he answered calmly. “Please tell the lady that I have arrived.”
　 The servant bowed and disappeared inside.
　 While he waited, Yūgiri looked across the quiet garden. The grass had grown thin, and many leaves lay scattered across the ground. The branches of the trees were already bare in some places.
　 “Winter is not far away,” he thought.
　 After a short time the servant returned.
　 “The lady will speak with you from within,” she said.
　 Yūgiri nodded.
　 “That is enough.”
　 He stood near the door, just as he had on the previous visit.
　 Inside the room, the lady sat behind the screen. She had known that he might return after receiving her letter, yet his presence still caused a quiet movement in her heart.
　 Yūgiri spoke first.
　 “My lady, thank you for your letter. Your words brought me great comfort.”
　 His voice sounded gentle in the night air.
　 “I was afraid that my visit had troubled you too deeply.”
　 The lady answered calmly.
　 “I did not wish to appear unkind. That is why I replied.”
　 Her tone was careful, yet not cold.
　 Yūgiri listened to the soft sound of her voice.
　 “The mountains grow colder,” he said. “Life here must be lonely.”
　 The lady looked toward the small lamp beside her.
　 “Loneliness can also bring peace,” she replied.
　 Yūgiri smiled faintly.
　 “Perhaps. But peace without warmth may become too quiet.”
　 The lady did not answer immediately.
　 “You speak again with strong feeling,” she said at last.
　 “I cannot hide it,” Yūgiri replied.
　 The wind moved through the garden once more. Dry leaves rustled softly along the ground.
　 After a moment he continued.
　 “If I come here only to disturb your peace, I will stop. But if my visits bring even a small change to the silence of this place, please allow me to continue.”
　 The lady lowered her eyes.
　 His words did not sound reckless. Instead they carried a calm sincerity that was difficult to refuse.
　 “You should not think of this house as empty,” she said quietly. “Its quiet life has meaning to me.”
　 “Then let me share that quiet,” Yūgiri answered.
　 The lady felt her heart move again at those words.
　 For a moment neither of them spoke.
　 At last she said slowly, “You may visit from time to time. But please remember that this house remains a place of mourning.”
　 Yūgiri bowed deeply.
　 “I will remember.”
　 The sound of the waterfall continued beneath the clear night sky.
　 Though their conversation had been simple, both of them felt that something had changed quietly between them.

Part 12

　 After that night, Yūgiri visited the mountain house several more times. He did not come too often, because he remembered the lady’s request. Still, each time he returned, the quiet valley seemed a little less distant to him.
　 The road through the hills became familiar. The fields, the small bridges, and the sound of the stream along the path were no longer strange sights. When the carriage entered the valley of Ono, Yūgiri always felt a calm warmth rise in his chest.
　 The lady also grew accustomed to his visits.
　 At first she spoke to him only from behind the screen. Her voice remained careful and distant. Yet little by little their conversations became longer. Sometimes they spoke about the quiet life of the mountains. At other times they remembered people and events from the capital.
　 One evening, when the sky was clear and the moon shone brightly above the valley, Yūgiri arrived once again at the west door.
　 The servant woman greeted him politely and soon carried his message inside.
　 The lady was sitting near the window. She had been listening to the sound of insects outside. When she heard that Yūgiri had come again, she closed her eyes for a moment.
　 “He is very patient,” she thought.
　 She knew that his visits were not simple curiosity. There was a steady warmth in his words that had not faded with time.
　 At last she said quietly, “Tell him that I will speak with him.”
　 When the servant returned to the door and gave this answer, Yūgiri smiled softly.
　 “Thank you,” he said.
　 The evening air was cool, and the garden lay quiet beneath the moonlight. The waterfall sounded deeper than usual, and the thin cry of a deer could be heard far away in the hills.
　 Yūgiri stood beside the door and spoke gently.
　 “The autumn nights grow colder each day.”
　 The lady answered from within.
　 “Yes. Winter will come soon.”
　 Her voice sounded calm, yet it carried a faint warmth that had not been present before.
　 Yūgiri noticed this change.
　 “When winter comes,” he said, “these mountains will become even more lonely.”
　 The lady gave a quiet reply.
　 “Loneliness is not always a burden.”
　 Yūgiri looked toward the pale moon above the trees.
　 “Perhaps not,” he said. “But when two people speak together, loneliness becomes lighter.”
　 The lady remained silent for a moment.
　 At last she said softly, “You always find words that move the heart.”
　 “I only speak what I feel,” Yūgiri answered.
　 Their conversation continued slowly, like the gentle movement of the wind in the trees. Neither of them hurried. The quiet rhythm of the night seemed to guide their voices.
　 After some time Yūgiri spoke again.
　 “When I return to the capital after visiting this place, everything feels different. The noise of the court seems distant, and the worries of the world appear smaller.”
　 The lady listened carefully.
　 “Then perhaps the mountains bring you peace,” she said.
　 Yūgiri shook his head slightly.
　 “It is not the mountains alone,” he replied.
　 The meaning of his words was clear, though he did not speak it directly.
　 The lady lowered her eyes.
　 “You should not place such meaning on my presence,” she said quietly.
　 “I cannot avoid it,” Yūgiri answered.
　 For a moment neither of them spoke.
　 The insects continued their thin music in the grass, and the moonlight spread softly across the garden.
　 At last the lady said in a gentle voice, “If your visits truly bring you comfort, then you may continue to come.”
　 These words were simple, yet they carried a quiet acceptance.
　 Yūgiri felt a deep sense of gratitude.
　 “Thank you,” he said softly.
　 He did not try to speak further. The calm understanding that had grown between them seemed more important than many words.
　 The night passed slowly around the lonely house in the valley. The wind moved softly through the trees, and the pale moon watched silently above the mountains.
　 In that quiet place, the distance between their hearts had begun to grow smaller.

Part 13

　 As the days passed, the quiet bond between Yūgiri and the lady slowly deepened. Their meetings remained calm and careful, yet both of them could feel that something had begun to change.
　 The valley of Ono had grown colder. Frost sometimes appeared on the grass in the early morning. The leaves that had once colored the mountains had mostly fallen, and the branches of the trees looked thin against the pale winter sky.
　 On one cold evening, Yūgiri once again made the journey from the capital.
　 The road through the hills felt silent and empty. A thin wind moved through the bare trees, and the sound of distant water followed the path beside the carriage.
　 Yūgiri sat quietly while the carriage moved forward.
　 “This place has become familiar to me,” he thought.
　 When they reached the valley, the moon had already risen. Its light spread across the quiet fields and the roof of the lonely house.
　 Yūgiri stepped down from the carriage and walked toward the west door as he had done many times before.
　 A servant woman soon appeared.
　 “Lord Yūgiri,” she said with a gentle bow. “The lady expected that you might come tonight.”
　 Yūgiri smiled slightly.
　 “Then my heart has not misunderstood hers,” he said.
　 The servant carried his message inside.
　 After a short time she returned.
　 “The lady will receive your words,” she said.
　 Yūgiri stepped closer to the door.
　 Inside the room, the lady sat beside a small lamp. The winter air had made the room colder, and a thick robe covered her shoulders.
　 Yūgiri spoke softly.
　 “The mountains look different now that winter has begun.”
　 The lady answered calmly.
　 “Yes. The valley becomes very quiet in this season.”
　 Yūgiri looked across the garden. The grass was pale, and the trees stood still beneath the moonlight.
　 “Yet the quiet of this place no longer feels lonely to me,” he said.
　 The lady listened but did not answer immediately.
　 “Why is that?” she asked at last.
　 Yūgiri replied without hesitation.
　 “Because I know that you are here.”
　 The words were simple, but their meaning was deep.
　 The lady lowered her eyes slightly.
　 “You should not speak so openly,” she said.
　 Yet her voice did not carry the same caution as before.
　 Yūgiri noticed this change.
　 “If my words cause you trouble, I will stop,” he said gently.
　 The lady shook her head softly.
　 “No. Your words do not trouble me.”
　 For a moment the quiet night surrounded them again.
　 At last the lady spoke in a thoughtful voice.
　 “When you first began visiting this place, I feared that your visits would disturb my peace. I believed that I must protect the quiet life of this house.”
　 Yūgiri listened carefully.
　 “But now,” she continued, “I realize that the silence of the mountains can also become too heavy.”
　 Yūgiri felt warmth rise in his heart.
　 “Then allow me to share that silence with you,” he said.
　 The lady remained quiet for a moment.
　 Then she answered softly, “Perhaps that would not be a burden.”
　 The wind moved gently across the garden. The branches of the trees made a faint sound against the night sky.
　 Their conversation continued for a long time.
　 They spoke of the capital, of old memories, and of the quiet life of the mountains. Neither of them tried to hurry the evening.
　 At last the night grew deep.
　 Yūgiri knew that he should return before the road became too cold.
　 “I will leave now,” he said quietly.
　 The lady did not answer at once.
　 After a moment she said softly, “Please come again.”
　 These simple words held a warmth that had never been spoken before.
　 Yūgiri bowed his head deeply.
　 “I will.”
　 He stepped away from the door and began to walk toward the waiting carriage.
　 The moon shone brightly above the valley, and the quiet mountain house remained still among the trees.
　 As Yūgiri rode back toward the capital, he felt certain that the distance between their hearts had finally begun to disappear.

 
Chapter 40: Minori (御法)

Part 1

　 Lady Murasaki had never fully recovered from the serious illness she had suffered some time before. Since that illness, her body had become weak. There was no single clear disease, yet she was always unwell. Day after day she felt tired, and her strength slowly faded. At first the changes were small, but after more than a year her frail condition became very clear to everyone around her. The people who served her noticed that her movements were slower and that her beautiful face had grown pale.
　 Prince Genji watched her carefully. He tried not to show his fear, but deep inside his heart he felt great sorrow. He often thought about what the world would be like if she were gone. Even imagining such a future caused him pain.
　 Lady Murasaki herself did not feel any regret about her life. She believed that she had received much happiness in this world. She had no children whose future worried her, and she had lived many peaceful years beside Genji. Yet when she thought about dying before him, her heart felt heavy. She feared that her death would cause him deep loneliness.
　 Because of these thoughts, she began to think more and more about religion. She wished to prepare her soul for the next life. Often she spoke quietly to Genji about becoming a nun. If she were allowed to shave her hair and enter religious life, she could spend her remaining days praying.
　 “Please allow me to become a nun,” she said gently to him more than once. “If I may do this while I still live, I can devote my heart completely to prayer.”
　 But Genji could not agree.
　 He himself had sometimes thought about leaving the world and becoming a monk. Yet he hesitated. If Lady Murasaki entered religious life, she would live apart from him. Their daily life together would end. Even though they might promise to meet again in the next world, their lives in this world would have to be separate.
　 Genji feared this separation.
　 He also feared that if he became a monk himself, he would have to give up all the attachments of the world. Once a person truly entered the religious path, one should not look back toward ordinary life again. That was the rule of the faith.
　 For that reason, Genji could not easily accept her wish.
　 Lady Murasaki understood his hesitation, yet she felt troubled. If she ignored his feelings and became a nun without permission, people might criticize her. Such an action would also leave her own heart uneasy.
　 Sometimes she wondered if this difficulty came from sins in a past life.
　 “Perhaps I carry heavy karma,” she thought quietly.
　 Still, she wished to do something that would help her soul. Long before this time she had ordered copies of the Lotus Sutra to be written. There were many volumes—one thousand copies in total. Now she decided that the moment had come to dedicate these sacred texts.
　 She planned a great Buddhist ceremony.
　 The ceremony would take place at the Nijō mansion, which had long been her beloved home. She carefully prepared everything needed for the event. The robes for the priests were chosen with great care. Different ranks of monks would receive different robes and gifts. Nothing was prepared carelessly.
　 Although she spoke about the ceremony as if it were a small private event, the preparations were actually very grand.
　 Genji himself did not take part in the early planning. Yet when he learned how carefully everything had been arranged, he felt proud of her devotion. She had always understood the importance of religious faith.
　 He decided that he would help in his own way.
　 Genji personally supervised the decoration of the reception halls where guests would gather. He arranged the furnishings and prepared the spaces where visitors would be welcomed. Meanwhile, the music and dance performances were organized by the Minister of the Left, who gladly offered his assistance.
　 News of the ceremony spread quickly.
　 The Emperor’s court, the Crown Prince, and many noble families sent offerings. Monks from many temples were invited to chant sacred sutras. Rich gifts and religious donations arrived from every direction. It seemed that everyone wished to take part in the ceremony.
　 Soon the Nijō mansion became a magnificent religious space.
　 People who arrived at the ceremony were amazed.
　 “When did Lady Murasaki prepare all of this?” they asked one another in wonder.
　 They could hardly believe that so many sacred texts had been copied and gathered together. They realized that this devotion had required many years of quiet effort.
　 Among the guests were several important ladies of the household. Lady Hanachirusato attended, as did Lady Akashi. The main hall of the residence was opened wide so that many people could sit and listen to the chanting.
　 The ceremony took place on the tenth day of the third month.
　 It was the height of spring. Flowers were blooming everywhere. The air was warm and gentle, and the sky was bright.
　 The beauty of the day made people feel as if they were close to the world of the Buddha. Even those who were not deeply religious felt their hearts touched by faith.
　 The monks chanted the sutras together. Their voices rose and fell in harmony. At times they sang ancient verses, including the famous lines about gathering firewood and drawing water while seeking the truth of the Lotus Sutra. Many people joined the chanting.
　 When the chanting ended, a deep silence filled the hall.
　 The quiet feeling moved everyone’s hearts. For Lady Murasaki, who already knew that her life was nearing its end, the moment felt especially sad.
　 She sent a poem to Lady Akashi through a young princess.
　 The poem spoke gently about life and death. It said that although her life itself did not seem precious, it was painful to think that the firewood of life would soon be used up.
　 Lady Akashi read the poem carefully.
　 She understood that it reflected Lady Murasaki’s feelings of approaching death. Yet she chose not to answer in a way that openly agreed with such sadness. Instead, she replied with a poem that spoke of hope and the long path of faith.
　 The night ceremony continued with music and chanting.
　 Instruments played softly in the background while monks recited the sutras. The sounds blended together beautifully. Slowly the night passed.
　 At dawn a light mist lay over the garden. Through the mist, many flowers could still be seen shining with color. Birds began to sing in the trees, and their voices sounded almost like musical instruments.
　 When the dance called “Ryōō” was performed, the nobles in attendance removed their robes and offered them as gifts to the dancers. The colors of these garments shone brightly in the morning light.
　 Princes and high officials who were known for their musical skill also performed. From the highest nobles to the lowest attendants, everyone seemed to share in the joyful celebration.
　 Yet Lady Murasaki could not fully share that joy.
　 She knew that her life was slowly fading.
　 As she watched the celebration, she felt only quiet sadness in her heart.

Part 2

　 Because she had remained awake for the entire ceremony the day before, Lady Murasaki felt very tired the next day. Her body, already weak, could not easily recover from such effort. She lay down quietly and rested while the sounds of celebration continued around the mansion.
　 Many nobles and attendants were still present. Music and dancing filled the halls. Guests talked and laughed together. Yet while others enjoyed the event, Lady Murasaki’s heart was full of quiet sorrow.
　 From her resting place she could sometimes see the people who had come to attend the ceremony. She looked toward the gathering of guests and watched them carefully.
　 “Is this the last time I will see them?” she wondered.
　 Many of these people had come to the mansion many times before. During festivals and seasonal gatherings they had shared music, poetry, and conversation. Their faces were familiar to her.
　 Now, as she watched them, even small details of their appearance seemed precious. A gesture, a smile, the way someone adjusted a sleeve or spoke quietly with another guest—such ordinary things suddenly felt deeply moving.
　 “Perhaps this is the last spring I will see,” she thought.
　 The thought did not frighten her, but it filled her with a gentle sadness.
　 Among the guests were several women who had long shared friendship with her. Although rivalry sometimes existed among noble ladies, time had also created a bond between them. They had spent many years together within the same household.
　 As Lady Murasaki looked at them, she felt another quiet pain.
　 “All of them will continue to live,” she thought. “But I will leave first.”
　 She knew that none of them could escape death forever, yet it seemed that she alone would disappear from their circle now.
　 When the celebration finally ended and the guests began to depart, the moment of farewell felt strangely painful.
　 It seemed almost like a parting between the living and the dead.
　 After Lady Hanachirusato returned to her residence, Lady Murasaki sent her a poem.
　 The poem spoke about the teachings of the Buddha. It said that although religious faith might one day end suffering, the bond they had formed through many lives would continue forever.
　 Lady Hanachirusato replied with gentle sincerity. She wrote that their bond would never be broken, even though the remaining years of life might be few.
　 After the ceremony ended, Genji ordered that many religious practices should continue.
　 Monks remained at the Nijō mansion to chant sutras without interruption. Special prayers were offered, and rituals for repentance and purification were performed regularly.
　 Genji had always arranged prayers for Lady Murasaki’s health, but now he increased these efforts even more. Priests were sent to distant temples so that prayers could be performed there as well.
　 Despite all these efforts, Lady Murasaki’s condition did not greatly improve.
　 When summer arrived, the heat made her suffering worse. Sometimes she felt as if her strength was disappearing completely.
　 Strangely, there was no clear illness that doctors could name. She did not suffer sharp pain, yet her body grew weaker day by day.
　 The women who served her began to worry deeply.
　 “What will happen?” they whispered among themselves.
　 Sometimes they feared that she might suddenly reach the final moment of life. Their sadness grew stronger each day.
　 Seeing this, Genji made another decision.
　 The Empress—his beloved daughter—was invited to leave the palace and stay temporarily at the Nijō mansion. She would live in the eastern wing of the residence.
　 According to custom, formal ceremonies were held to welcome her arrival. Officials announced their names and positions when they entered the mansion.
　 Lady Murasaki listened carefully as each name was spoken.
　 “That person has come… and that one also,” she said softly to herself.
　 Many high-ranking nobles had accompanied the Empress. Hearing their names reminded Lady Murasaki of the long history of the court.
　 When the Empress entered the residence, the two women soon met privately.
　 Their relationship had always been close—almost like that of mother and daughter. They spoke together quietly, sharing memories and feelings that only they understood.
　 Genji entered the room while they were speaking.
　 Looking at them with gentle affection, he said with a small smile, “Tonight I feel like a bird that has lost its nest. Perhaps I should find another room to sleep in.”
　 After saying this, he quietly left them alone.
　 Although he spoke lightly, he was happy simply to see Lady Murasaki sitting up and speaking with the Empress.
　 Yet Lady Murasaki understood that he was forcing himself to hope.
　 “If our rooms are too far apart,” she said later to the Empress, “it will be difficult for us to visit one another. My strength no longer allows me to move easily.”
　 Because of this, the Empress decided to remain in the same section of the mansion for the time being.
　 Lady Akashi also came frequently to visit. The three women sometimes spoke together in gentle, thoughtful conversations.
　 Lady Murasaki often felt that there were many things she wished to say before her death. She wanted to leave certain requests and express certain feelings.
　 Yet she hesitated.
　 “If I speak too clearly about the future,” she thought, “people may believe that I am showing too much pride in my own importance.”
　 Therefore she spoke carefully and indirectly.
　 Instead of giving clear instructions about what should happen after her death, she spoke about the sadness of human life and the uncertainty of the world.
　 Sometimes she said quietly, “When I am gone, please remember the women who have served me faithfully. Some of them have no family to care for them. Please show them kindness.”
　 Such words hinted at her thoughts without openly declaring them.
　 When she saw her young grandchildren, she sometimes became emotional.
　 “I wish I could watch you grow up,” she said softly one day. “Perhaps it is foolish of me to feel such attachment to life.”
　 Tears appeared in her eyes as she spoke.
　 Seeing this, the Empress also began to cry.
　 The quiet rooms of the Nijō mansion gradually filled with the heavy feeling that comes when people sense that the end of life is approaching.

Part 3

　 As the weeks passed, Lady Murasaki’s strength slowly continued to fade. The change was gentle and quiet, yet everyone around her could feel that the end of her life was coming closer. There was no sudden illness, no loud suffering, but the light of her life seemed to grow dim little by little, like the last glow of evening after sunset.
　 Genji watched this change with a heart full of sorrow.
　 Each day he visited her room many times. Sometimes he spoke to her softly. At other times he simply sat beside her in silence. Even the smallest moment together felt precious to him now.
　 When he saw her lying quietly on the bed, her face pale but calm, his heart trembled.
　 “Is this truly happening?” he asked himself again and again.
　 He remembered the many years they had spent together. From the time she had been a young girl, he had protected her and raised her with care. She had become the center of his household and the quiet joy of his life.
　 Now the thought of losing her felt almost unbearable.
　 Yet he tried not to show his pain too openly.
　 One evening he sat beside her and spoke gently.
　 “You must not lose hope,” he said. “Many people pray for your health. The monks chant the sutras day and night. Surely the Buddha will hear these prayers.”
　 Lady Murasaki looked at him with calm eyes.
　 “You are kind,” she said quietly. “But the world does not move according to our wishes.”
　 Her voice was soft, yet her meaning was clear.
　 She had already accepted the coming end of her life.
　 “I have received much happiness,” she continued slowly. “Because of your care, my life has been peaceful. I have nothing to regret.”
　 Genji lowered his head.
　 “Do not speak like this,” he replied. “You will live many more years.”
　 But even as he spoke, he knew that his words were only a wish.
　 Lady Murasaki did not argue with him. She simply smiled faintly.
　 After a moment she spoke again.
　 “There is one thing I still wish for,” she said. “Please allow me to become a nun.”
　 Genji remained silent.
　 This was not the first time she had asked. She had spoken of this many times before. Each time he had gently refused.
　 Now, however, the situation was different.
　 Her life was almost at its end.
　 He looked at her face and felt that refusing her wish might be cruel.
　 Yet his heart could not easily accept the idea.
　 “If you become a nun,” he thought, “she will already belong to another world.”
　 At last he spoke slowly.
　 “If your strength returns, we will speak about this again,” he said.
　 Lady Murasaki understood his answer.
　 It was neither agreement nor refusal.
　 She did not press him further.
　 Instead she closed her eyes for a moment, as if she were listening to something far away.
　 Outside the room the sound of insects could be heard in the garden. It was late summer now, and the night air carried the soft voices of crickets.
　 The sound filled the quiet room.
　 Lady Murasaki opened her eyes again and spoke gently.
　 “Listen to the insects,” she said. “Their voices are sad, yet also peaceful.”
　 Genji listened.
　 The sound of the insects did indeed seem strangely moving. In that quiet moment it felt as if all of nature shared their sorrow.
　 Days passed.
　 Religious ceremonies continued without interruption. Monks chanted sacred texts, and incense filled the air of the mansion. Messengers came and went, carrying prayers and offerings from many temples.
　 Yet Lady Murasaki’s condition did not change.
　 Sometimes she seemed slightly stronger. At other times her breathing became weak and slow.
　 One night she called for the Empress and Lady Akashi.
　 When the two women came to her room, she greeted them with a calm smile.
　 “Please forgive me,” she said quietly. “I have caused you both much worry.”
　 The Empress took her hand.
　 “Do not say such things,” she replied with tears in her eyes. “You must rest and grow strong again.”
　 Lady Akashi also tried to comfort her.
　 “Everyone prays for your health,” she said. “You will surely recover.”
　 Lady Murasaki looked at them kindly.
　 She knew that their words came from love.
　 Yet she also knew that her life was ending.
　 “Please take care of one another,” she said gently. “The world is uncertain, and people must support each other.”
　 The two women began to cry quietly.
　 Seeing their tears, Lady Murasaki felt a deep emotion in her heart.
　 “I am grateful,” she said softly. “Because of you, my life has been full of kindness.”
　 After speaking these words, she seemed to grow tired.
　 Her eyes slowly closed.
　 The room became very quiet.
　 Outside, the night insects continued their soft song in the garden.
　 Genji sat nearby, watching her face carefully.
　 The gentle rise and fall of her breathing was now very faint.
　 At that moment he felt a sudden fear, like a cold wind passing through his heart.
　 “Stay with me,” he whispered almost silently.
　 But the quiet flow of time continued, carrying them all toward the moment that none of them wished to face.
　 The long night moved slowly toward dawn.

Part 4

　 The night slowly passed, and the pale light of dawn began to appear beyond the garden. A faint mist covered the trees and flowers. The world seemed very quiet, as if everything were holding its breath.
　 Inside the room, the attendants moved softly so that they would not disturb Lady Murasaki. Lamps still burned with a gentle light. The smell of incense filled the air.
　 Genji had not slept at all.
　 He sat beside Lady Murasaki, watching her carefully. Her breathing was very faint now. Sometimes it seemed so light that he feared it had stopped.
　 “Please remain with me a little longer,” he thought again and again.
　 Yet he knew that such wishes could not stop the flow of time.
　 From time to time monks entered the room quietly and chanted sutras. Their voices were low and calm. The sound of the sacred words rose and fell like the gentle movement of waves.
　 Lady Murasaki opened her eyes once during this chanting.
　 She looked slowly around the room.
　 Her eyes rested for a moment on the monks who were praying. Then she turned her gaze toward Genji.
　 When their eyes met, she smiled faintly.
　 It was a small, peaceful smile.
　 Genji felt his heart tighten with sorrow.
　 He leaned closer and spoke softly.
　 “Is there anything you wish to say?” he asked.
　 Lady Murasaki moved her lips gently.
　 Her voice was very weak.
　 “Please… do not grieve too deeply,” she whispered. “Life in this world is always uncertain.”
　 These words were simple, yet they carried great meaning.
　 Genji could not answer.
　 Tears filled his eyes, and he lowered his head so that she would not see them.
　 After speaking those words, Lady Murasaki seemed to grow very tired. Her eyes slowly closed again.
　 The monks continued to chant.
　 The attendants knelt quietly around the room. Some of them tried to remain calm, but tears silently fell down their faces.
　 They had served Lady Murasaki for many years. To them she was not only their mistress but also a gentle and beloved protector.
　 Now they felt that their world was breaking apart.
　 Outside the room the sky grew brighter.
　 Birds began to sing in the garden trees. The sound of their voices entered softly through the open shutters.
　 The beauty of the morning felt strangely painful.
　 “How can the world still be so beautiful?” one attendant thought. “Does the world not know that she is leaving us?”
　 As the light of morning spread across the garden, Lady Murasaki’s breathing became even quieter.
　 Genji noticed the change immediately.
　 His body trembled.
　 “Call the priests,” he said quietly.
　 The monks moved closer and began to chant more strongly. Sacred words filled the room, rising like a prayer that tried to reach the heavens.
　 Lady Murasaki did not open her eyes again.
　 Her face was calm and peaceful.
　 It seemed as if she were simply resting after a long day.
　 But slowly, almost gently, her breathing faded away.
　 At last it stopped completely.
　 A deep silence filled the room.
　 For a moment no one moved.
　 Then the truth became clear.
　 Lady Murasaki had left this world.
　 One of the attendants began to cry softly.
　 Another covered her face with her sleeves. Soon quiet sobbing spread through the room.
　 Genji remained still.
　 He stared at Lady Murasaki’s face as if he could not understand what had happened.
　 “This cannot be real,” he thought.
　 He reached out slowly and touched her hand.
　 It was already growing cold.
　 At that moment the truth entered his heart with terrible force.
　 The person who had shared his life for so many years was gone.
　 His body shook, and tears began to fall without control.
　 Those who saw him weeping felt even deeper sorrow.
　 For a long time the room remained filled with grief.
　 Eventually the monks began to prepare the next religious rites. According to custom, prayers and ceremonies had to continue without delay.
　 The attendants carefully arranged Lady Murasaki’s body.
　 Her face remained beautiful and calm, as if she were sleeping peacefully.
　 Word of her death spread quickly through the capital.
　 Many people could hardly believe the news.
　 “Lady Murasaki is gone?” they asked in shock.
　 She had been one of the most admired women of the age. Her gentle character and quiet dignity had won the respect of many people.
　 Now the world felt empty without her.
　 At the Nijō mansion, mourning began.
　 Curtains were lowered, bright decorations were removed, and the joyful sounds of music disappeared.
　 Everywhere there was only quiet sorrow.
　 Genji could not bear to leave the room where Lady Murasaki had died.
　 He remained there for a long time, unable to move.
　 “Why must life be so short?” he thought bitterly.
　 He had known that death would come someday. Yet he had never imagined that the loss would feel so deep.
　 Even the beautiful garden outside now seemed full of sadness.
　 The flowers that had once brought joy now reminded him only of how quickly all things fade.
　 Thus the life of Lady Murasaki, which had been filled with quiet grace and deep love, came gently to its end.

 
Chapter 41: Maboroshi (幻)

Part 1

　 Spring had come again, but the season did not bring joy to Prince Genji. The soft light of the new year shone across the sky, and flowers slowly began to open in the gardens of the great residence. Yet Genji’s heart did not grow brighter. The loss of Lady Murasaki still filled his mind every day. The beauty of the season only reminded him that she was no longer there to see it.
　 Visitors came to offer New Year greetings, as they did every year. Noblemen and officials arrived at the gates of the mansion. Messengers announced their names. Servants carried gifts and polite letters.
　 Genji, however, did not appear in public as he once had. He told the visitors that he was unwell. Because of this, he remained behind the bamboo blinds in his private chambers.
　 Only one visitor caused him to change his mind.
　 When the Prince of Hyōbu came to call, Genji decided that he would meet him in person. Even then, he first sent a poem as a greeting before receiving the guest.
　 The poem said:
　 “My house has no one who praises the flowers.
　 Why has spring come to visit me?”
　 The words carried deep sadness. They spoke of a house that had lost its brightest flower.
　 When the prince read the poem, tears filled his eyes.
　 He replied with another poem:
　 “I came here hoping to follow the scent of flowers.
　 But now I see that spring itself has lost its way.”
　 After sending this reply, the prince walked slowly across the garden. He passed beneath a red plum tree that was beginning to bloom.
　 Genji watched him from inside.
　 The prince’s appearance was graceful and calm. Seeing him reminded Genji of the beauty of the red plum blossoms. In that moment Genji felt that no one else in the world could be compared with that quiet beauty.
　 The blossoms had just begun to open. Their soft red color shone gently in the cool air of early spring.
　 Yet the season did not bring the usual joy.
　 In past years, the New Year was filled with music and celebration. Musicians played instruments, and guests shared poetry and laughter.
　 This year everything was different.
　 Many of the women who had served Lady Murasaki still wore dark mourning robes. Even after so much time had passed, they could not easily return to bright colors. Their sadness remained deep.
　 They found comfort in only one thing.
　 Genji himself now spent most of his time in the rooms where Lady Murasaki had once lived.
　 In earlier years he had sometimes visited other women in the household. Now he almost never did so. Instead he remained quietly in these familiar rooms.
　 Sometimes he called several attendants to sit with him at night.
　 They did not come as lovers. Instead they sat nearby and talked together. Genji often asked them to tell stories about the past—especially about Lady Murasaki.
　 As he listened, memories returned to him.
　 In the past, when Lady Murasaki was alive, Genji had sometimes behaved carelessly. He had allowed himself to be drawn toward other women. At the time he had not fully understood how deeply such actions might hurt her.
　 Now, thinking back on those days, regret filled his heart.
　 “Why did I allow such foolish temptations?” he asked himself.
　 Lady Murasaki had always understood more than she showed. She had been wise and thoughtful. Even when she felt pain, she rarely spoke with anger.
　 Still, Genji remembered moments when he had seen sadness in her eyes.
　 Whenever he formed a new relationship with another woman, she would become quietly anxious. She wondered what might happen next.
　 Yet she never allowed herself to speak harshly or to show deep resentment.
　 Thinking of this kindness now caused Genji great sorrow.
　 “She understood everything,” he thought. “And yet she still endured it.”
　 Some of the older attendants remembered those years clearly. They began to tell stories about Lady Murasaki’s quiet strength.
　 One woman spoke about a winter morning long ago.
　 It had been a night of heavy snow. Cold wind had shaken the doors of the residence. Before dawn the sky was still dark and the snow continued to fall.
　 Lady Murasaki had waited alone in her room for the doors to open.
　 The cold had entered the room, and her body had begun to shiver.
　 When Genji finally came to see her, she greeted him calmly, as if nothing were wrong. She spoke kindly and smiled as usual.
　 Yet her sleeves were wet with tears.
　 She tried to hide this from him.
　 When Genji heard this story again, his heart ached.
　 “How much she must have suffered,” he thought.
　 That night he lay awake, thinking about her again and again. He wondered whether he might see her in a dream.
　 “Will I meet her again in another world?” he asked himself.
　 The night passed slowly.
　 Near dawn he heard a servant speaking outside.
　 “The snow has fallen deeply,” the woman said.
　 The simple words brought back a strong memory of the past.
　 For a moment Genji felt as if time had returned to those earlier years. It seemed that Lady Murasaki might still be beside him.
　 But when he turned his head, the place beside him was empty.
　 A great loneliness filled his heart.
　 He whispered a poem:
　 “In this sad world I once wished to disappear like melting snow.
　 Yet against my will, my life continues.”
　 After speaking these words, Genji slowly rose.
　 Servants brought water so he could wash his hands. Others opened the fire pots and stirred the buried charcoal until warm flames appeared.
　 Two trusted attendants, the Lady Chūnagon and the Lady Chūjō, came to sit with him.
　 Genji looked at them quietly.
　 “Last night felt especially lonely,” he said. “Sleeping alone is harder than I expected.”
　 Then he sighed.
　 “Even so, I must accept the life I have created. I have formed many relationships in this world. If I were to leave now, what would happen to all of you?”
　 As he spoke, he looked around the room.
　 The women listened in silence.
　 Soon Genji began his morning prayers.
　 His voice was calm as he read the sacred texts. Yet the sound of his chanting caused the attendants to cry. Even on an ordinary day the sound of prayer could move the heart. Now, knowing how deeply he suffered, the women could not hold back their tears.
　 Genji spoke again after finishing the prayers.
　 “I was born into a life that should have been fortunate,” he said slowly. “Yet sorrow has followed me again and again. Perhaps the Buddha wished me to learn the truth about the sadness of this world.”
　 He paused.
　 “Because I ignored that lesson in the past, I must now face this great loss.”
　 The attendants could not answer.
　 The room filled with quiet weeping.
　 In the evening Genji sometimes gathered several women who had once shared a close relationship with him. He spoke with them gently, remembering the past.
　 Among them was a woman called Lady Chūjō.
　 She had served Lady Murasaki since childhood. Over time Genji had grown fond of her as well, and she had once become his lover.
　 Because of this, she had always felt deep guilt toward Lady Murasaki. For many years she avoided Genji’s affection.
　 After Lady Murasaki’s death, however, Genji began to see her differently.
　 She had loved Lady Murasaki deeply. Because of this, he now treated her with special kindness, almost as if she were a living memory of the woman he had lost.

Part 2

　 Lady Chūjō had served Lady Murasaki since she was very young. Because of that long service, she knew Lady Murasaki’s heart better than most people. She remembered many small things about her mistress—the way she spoke softly, the way she smiled when someone read a good poem, the quiet grace that filled every movement she made.
　 Now, after Lady Murasaki’s death, these memories remained alive in her mind.
　 Genji also felt that Lady Chūjō carried a part of those memories.
　 Because of this, he treated her with a special tenderness. He did not approach her as a lover in the usual way. Instead, he seemed to see her as someone who kept alive the memory of the woman he had lost.
　 Lady Chūjō herself felt very uneasy about this.
　 She still blamed herself for the past. Even though Lady Murasaki had never shown anger toward her, the thought of her own mistake caused deep shame.
　 Therefore she tried to avoid Genji’s affection whenever possible.
　 Yet Genji could not become completely indifferent to her.
　 She was beautiful and gentle. Her character was calm, and she behaved with quiet dignity. Now that she wore mourning clothes, her appearance became even more delicate and touching.
　 Her dark robes hung softly around her small figure, and her hair fell loosely beside her pale face.
　 When Genji saw her like this, he often felt a deep sadness.
　 “She cared so much for Lady Murasaki,” he thought. “And now she also suffers because of that love.”
　 During these days Genji met very few people.
　 Even when high-ranking nobles came to visit him, he did not receive them openly. Princes and ministers sometimes came to the mansion, but he spoke with them only through the bamboo blinds.
　 He had a reason for this.
　 When he was with other people, he tried to control his feelings. He did not want anyone to see him lose his composure.
　 But he feared that if he met too many visitors, he might forget himself and show his grief openly.
　 “If people see my weakness,” he thought, “they will speak about it everywhere.”
　 Such rumors would embarrass him.
　 For that reason he chose to remain mostly alone.
　 He believed that it was better for others to imagine his sorrow than to witness it directly.
　 At times he also felt ashamed of his grief.
　 “If I say that I cannot meet visitors because I am exhausted with sorrow,” he thought, “people may think me weak.”
　 Yet if they saw him weeping in front of them, that would be even worse.
　 Therefore he lived quietly inside his rooms, avoiding the world.
　 Sometimes he visited the other women who lived in the mansion. But these visits were very rare.
　 When he saw them, he was reminded again that they were not Lady Murasaki.
　 The moment he realized this, sadness returned even more strongly.
　 Because of this, he soon stopped visiting them at all.
　 His daughter, the Empress, had already returned to the palace. But the young Third Prince remained at the residence with Genji.
　 The child helped to ease his loneliness.
　 One day the boy walked into the garden and looked carefully at the red plum tree and the cherry tree.
　 He spoke with great seriousness.
　 “My grandmother told me to take care of these trees,” he said.
　 Genji listened and felt a sharp pain in his heart.
　 The child spoke of Lady Murasaki as if she were still present.
　 “Grandmother said that these flowers must be watched carefully,” the boy continued. “I will protect them.”
　 The child walked slowly around the trees as if he truly had an important duty.
　 Genji watched him quietly.
　 The sight was both touching and painful.
　 Soon the second month of the year arrived.
　 Some flowers had already reached full beauty, while others were still waiting to open. The branches of many trees looked faint and soft through the thin mist of spring.
　 Among these flowers stood the red plum tree that Lady Murasaki had once planted.
　 One morning a bush warbler came to the tree.
　 The small bird sang brightly among the branches.
　 Genji stepped outside and stood quietly on the veranda.
　 He looked at the plum blossoms and watched the bird.
　 The sound of its song seemed cheerful, yet the scene filled him with sadness.
　 He spoke a poem:
　 “The owner who planted these flowers is gone.
　 Yet the warbler comes and sings as if nothing has changed.”
　 After speaking these words, he looked up at the sky.
　 A long sigh escaped from his lips.
　 As the days of spring continued, the garden slowly returned to its full beauty.
　 Trees that had lost their flowers were hidden behind new blossoms that opened afterward. This had always been Lady Murasaki’s design. She had arranged the garden so that one flower would appear after another, allowing the beauty of spring to remain for a long time.
　 Because of this careful planning, the garden now seemed filled with endless spring.
　 Yet this beauty only increased Genji’s sorrow.
　 “All of this was created by her,” he thought.
　 At that moment the young prince ran toward him.
　 His face shone with excitement.
　 “My cherry tree has finally opened!” the boy said proudly. “I do not want the petals to fall.”
　 He thought for a moment and then spoke again.
　 “If we put screens around the tree and hang cloth around it, the wind will not reach the flowers.”
　 The child seemed very pleased with this clever idea.
　 Genji smiled gently.
　 “Your plan is very wise,” he said.
　 Then he added softly, “It is even more practical than the poet who once wished for sleeves large enough to cover the blossoms.”
　 The boy laughed happily.
　 For a moment Genji also felt a small warmth in his heart.
　 Recently he spent most of his days with this child.
　 One afternoon he spoke quietly to him.
　 “The time we spend together may not last long,” he said.
　 Tears appeared in his eyes.
　 “Even if I remain alive, there may come a day when we cannot meet again.”
　 The boy looked surprised and frightened.
　 “Why do you say such things?” he asked.
　 “Grandmother said the same thing before she died. Your words sound just like hers.”
　 The child lowered his head and hid his face in his sleeves.
　 Genji leaned against the railing of the veranda and looked out over the garden.
　 Some of the women in the household still wore mourning clothes. Others had returned to normal dress, but they avoided bright colors.
　 Even Genji himself chose simple clothing.
　 His robe was plain and without decoration. The rooms around him had also become very simple. Many of the bright ornaments had been removed.
　 Everything in the mansion seemed quiet and restrained.
　 Looking at the garden once more, Genji spoke another poem softly.
　 “Will the storms destroy the hedge where she once walked?
　 The spring she loved still remains here.”
　 His voice carried deep sorrow.
　 Even after many months, his grief had not faded.

Part 3

　 One day, when Genji felt especially restless, he decided to leave his rooms and walk to another residence inside the great estate. He went to visit the lady who had once become a nun—the former princess who now lived quietly in religious retirement.
　 The young prince followed him. A servant carried the child, and the boy soon began to run about happily with the other young prince who lived there. The two children chased each other across the garden and forgot all their earlier promises about carefully watching the trees.
　 Genji watched them play.
　 For a moment their laughter brought a little light into his heart.
　 Inside the residence, the nun sat before a Buddhist altar. She was reading a sacred text in a calm and steady voice. Her life had become very peaceful. She did not seem troubled by worldly concerns.
　 In truth, she had not chosen the religious life because of deep spiritual suffering. Instead, she had entered it quietly after the changes of her life. Now she spent her days calmly in prayer.
　 Because she no longer worried about the world, her mind appeared very peaceful.
　 When Genji saw her like this, he felt a strange feeling.
　 “Even someone who entered religion without great struggle now lives in calm peace,” he thought. “Yet I, who have suffered so much, still remain tied to the world.”
　 He felt ashamed of himself.
　 On the altar shelf, flowers had been placed in a vase as an offering to the Buddha. The light of the evening sun shone on them, making their colors glow softly.
　 Genji looked at the flowers and spoke gently.
　 “Since the person who loved spring so much has gone,” he said, “the flowers in my garden seem empty and sad. But flowers placed before the Buddha somehow appear more comforting.”
　 Then he continued thoughtfully.
　 “The mountain roses near the western wing of the house are truly remarkable. Their blossoms are larger than any I have seen elsewhere. They bloom without worrying about elegance or modest beauty. Instead they display their bright color openly.”
　 He paused and sighed.
　 “The person who planted them is gone, yet they bloom more beautifully than ever. It is very sad to see.”
　 The nun replied with a short poem.
　 Her words suggested that in deep valleys spring may still arrive quietly, even if sorrow remains.
　 Genji listened politely, but he felt a slight discomfort in his heart.
　 “She speaks without thinking about my sorrow,” he thought.
　 Yet he did not show this feeling.
　 Instead his thoughts returned again to Lady Murasaki.
　 From the time she had been a small girl, he had known her. Her character had always been gentle and refined. She never spoke carelessly, and she always treated others with quiet respect.
　 Remembering her youth, her beauty, and the thoughtful words she often spoke, Genji felt tears rise in his eyes once again.
　 The soft evening mist began to fill the air.
　 The light of the setting sun made everything appear slightly blurred and dreamlike.
　 Leaving the nun’s residence, Genji continued walking through the estate until he reached the home of Lady Akashi.
　 He had not visited her for a long time.
　 When she heard that Genji had come, she was surprised. Still, she quickly arranged a seat for him and welcomed him with graceful courtesy.
　 Her calm intelligence appeared clearly in the way she received him. She spoke gently and behaved with careful respect.
　 Yet as Genji watched her, another thought entered his mind.
　 “She is admirable,” he thought. “But Lady Murasaki possessed a deeper elegance.”
　 Once again the memory of the woman he had lost rose before him like a vision.
　 The more he tried to escape from these memories, the more strongly they returned.
　 Genji felt troubled by his own heart.
　 “Why can I not free myself from this sorrow?” he wondered.
　 He began speaking about his life.
　 “Long ago,” he said slowly, “I understood that loving someone too deeply often brings suffering. Because of that knowledge, I tried to keep my heart free from attachment.”
　 He continued speaking.
　 “During the difficult years when I lived far away in exile, I sometimes thought that I could abandon everything in the world. I believed that even if my life ended in some distant mountain, I would have nothing to regret.”
　 He sighed deeply.
　 “But as I grew older, many new bonds appeared in my life. Children, family, and responsibilities tied me more firmly to this world. Because of these ties, I still cannot enter religious life.”
　 His voice carried quiet frustration.
　 Lady Akashi listened carefully.
　 She understood very well that his suffering came from the loss of Lady Murasaki.
　 “Even a person who seems to have everything,” she replied gently, “still carries many invisible bonds. For someone like you, leaving the world quickly would be very difficult.”
　 She continued speaking with calm sincerity.
　 “If a person enters religious life suddenly because of sorrow or disappointment, people often say that such a decision is unwise. It may be better to wait until the mind becomes truly calm.”
　 She looked at him with quiet concern.
　 “If you remain in the world a little longer, your family will feel secure. Later, when all your duties are finished, you may choose the religious path with complete peace.”
　 Genji listened.
　 Her words were reasonable, and he respected her wisdom.
　 Yet he still felt uncertain.
　 “If waiting is considered wise,” he said with a faint smile, “perhaps it is better to be foolish.”
　 Then he began speaking about earlier sorrows in his life.
　 He remembered the spring when his beloved mother, the former Empress, had died.
　 “That year,” he said quietly, “when I saw the cherry blossoms, I wished that they would bloom in mourning colors.”
　 He paused.
　 “At that time my grief was very deep, because I had loved her since childhood. But the sorrow I feel now is different.”
　 He looked down for a moment.
　 “When a man loses the woman who has lived beside him for many years, the pain is not only the loss of love. It is also the loss of shared memories.”
　 He spoke slowly, searching for the right words.
　 “I raised her from childhood. We grew older together. Now she is gone, and I remain behind alone. Every memory of her kindness and beauty returns to my mind.”
　 His voice became quiet.
　 “Because of these memories, my sorrow grows deeper each day.”

Part 4

　 Lady Akashi listened to Genji’s words in silence. She understood that his sorrow was not something that could easily be comforted. Therefore she did not try to argue with him or offer simple advice. Instead she sat quietly and allowed him to speak.
　 Outside the room the evening light slowly faded. The garden became soft and dark, and the sound of insects began to rise from the grass.
　 Genji looked out through the open blinds.
　 “When people speak of the sadness of losing parents,” he said slowly, “they often say that time will soften the pain. But the sorrow I feel now does not become lighter with time.”
　 He paused for a moment.
　 “Instead, the longer I live, the more I remember.”
　 His voice was calm, but deep grief lay beneath the calm words.
　 Lady Akashi folded her hands in her sleeves and lowered her eyes respectfully.
　 “Your sorrow is natural,” she said gently. “Anyone who shared so many years with such a lady would feel the same pain.”
　 She spoke carefully so that her words would not seem careless.
　 “But there are still many people who depend on you. Your children, your household, and the world itself look toward you. If you abandon everything too quickly, many hearts will suffer.”
　 Genji listened quietly.
　 Her words were true. He knew that many people still depended on him.
　 Yet his heart remained heavy.
　 “Even so,” he said softly, “my spirit grows tired of the world.”
　 At that moment a servant entered quietly and announced that the young prince was waiting outside. The boy had grown bored of playing in the garden and had come looking for Genji.
　 Genji smiled faintly.
　 “Bring him here,” he said.
　 The child soon entered the room. His face was bright and cheerful, and his sleeves were slightly dusty from running in the garden.
　 When he saw Genji, he ran toward him happily.
　 “Father, it is already dark,” he said. “Are we going home soon?”
　 Genji placed a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder.
　 “Yes,” he said. “We will return soon.”
　 Looking at the child’s innocent face, Genji felt a sudden warmth in his heart. For a brief moment his sorrow seemed to grow lighter.
　 “If I leave the world too soon,” he thought, “this child will be left without guidance.”
　 The thought troubled him.
　 After a short time Genji rose to leave.
　 Lady Akashi accompanied him to the veranda and bowed politely.
　 “Please take care of yourself,” she said softly.
　 Genji nodded.
　 Then he and the young prince began walking slowly back through the wide estate.
　 The night air was cool and gentle. A thin moon hung in the sky, and the white light fell softly over the garden paths.
　 As they walked, Genji’s mind once again returned to the past.
　 Everywhere he looked he saw memories of Lady Murasaki.
　 The paths they had once walked together, the trees she had planted, the buildings she had arranged with such care—everything reminded him of her presence.
　 “How strange,” he thought.
　 “Even though she has left this world, she still lives in every corner of this place.”
　 When they reached his residence, the servants quickly prepared the rooms for the night.
　 Lamps were lit, and the soft glow of light filled the quiet halls.
　 Genji sat alone for a long time.
　 He did not call for music or conversation. Instead he remained silent, thinking about the years that had passed.
　 He remembered the first time he had seen Lady Murasaki as a young girl. She had been shy and gentle, and her beauty had seemed almost fragile.
　 Over the years she had grown into a woman of perfect grace.
　 “No one will ever replace her,” he thought.
　 His eyes slowly filled with tears.
　 Even after so many months, the pain remained fresh.
　 Outside, the night insects continued their quiet songs.
　 The sound filled the darkness and seemed to echo Genji’s lonely thoughts.
　 At last he lay down to rest, but sleep did not come easily.
　 His mind continued to wander through memories.
　 He saw again the face of Lady Murasaki, calm and beautiful as always.
　 He heard again her gentle voice.
　 “Please take care of yourself,” she had once said.
　 Those simple words returned to him again and again.
　 Near midnight Genji rose from his bed and stepped quietly onto the veranda.
　 The moon had risen higher in the sky.
　 Its pale light covered the garden with a soft silver glow.
　 Looking out over the silent trees, Genji spoke quietly to himself.
　 “Perhaps one day I will leave this world and follow the path of the Buddha. When that day comes, I may finally find peace.”
　 He remained standing there for a long time.
　 The wind moved gently through the branches, and the leaves whispered softly in the darkness.
　 At last he returned inside.
　 The long night slowly passed.
　 When morning came, the light of the new day filled the garden once more.
　 Yet for Genji, the world still felt empty without the presence of the woman he loved.
　 Even so, life continued.
　 Duties remained, children still needed care, and the seasons continued to change.
　 Holding these thoughts quietly in his heart, Genji prepared to face another day.

 
[Kumogakure (雲隠)]

　 [The chapter called “Kumogakure,” which means “Hidden in the Clouds,” contains no story. In the original work by Murasaki Shikibu, this chapter has no narrative text.
　 In this modern Japanese translation, the poet and translator Yosano Akiko, added a short poem to express the feeling of this moment.
　 The poem suggests that the light of Genji’s life has disappeared.
　 The poem is:
　 “Is this darkness made of clouds,
　 or is it made of tears that fill the sky?
　 Because the light no longer appears,
　 this chapter cannot be written.”
　 With this poem, the story of the life of Prince Genji quietly reaches its end.]

 
Chapter 42: Niō Miya (匂宮)

Part 1

　After the death of Hikaru Genji, people often spoke about beauty. Many remembered how bright and noble he had looked. Yet after he was gone, it became difficult to find another man who seemed to carry the same shining beauty. Even among his many children and relatives, no one appeared quite the same.
　There were, of course, some young princes whose beauty people admired. The Emperor’s third prince was one of them. Another was the young prince who was the son of the Third Princess, who had grown up in the same great residence of Rokujo-in. These two young men were known everywhere for their elegant appearance. People often spoke about them with admiration.
　Still, when people compared them quietly with the memory of Genji, they felt something was different. These young princes were handsome and graceful. Their clothes were beautiful, their manners refined, and their rank in the court was very high. Anyone who met them would think them splendid young nobles. But they did not shine in quite the same way that Genji had once done.
　The Third Prince had been raised with great care by Lady Murasaki, who loved him deeply while she was alive. Because of this, he now lived in the Nijō residence, where many memories of earlier days remained. The Crown Prince was treated with the greatest respect, of course, but the Emperor and the Empress both loved the Third Prince greatly as well. They had even given him a palace room within the imperial residence.
　However, the prince did not enjoy life inside the palace as much as others might have expected. He preferred the more relaxed life of his own home. For this reason, he spent most of his time at the Nijō residence instead of staying in the palace.
　After his coming-of-age ceremony, he was given the title Hyōbu no Miya. His sister, the First Princess, still lived in the eastern wing of the southern quarter of Rokujo-in. The rooms there had not been changed since earlier times. She lived quietly there and often remembered her beautiful grandmother, whom she had loved very much.
　The Second Prince sometimes stayed in the main hall of Rokujo-in when he wished to rest. In the palace he used the residence called Ume-tsubo. He had married the second daughter of the Minister of the Right. People expected that he might one day become Crown Prince, and many nobles respected him greatly. He was known as a serious and reliable man.
　The Minister of the Right, who belonged to the Genji family, had several daughters. His eldest daughter served the Crown Prince and held a secure and honorable position. People believed that the next daughter would naturally marry the Third Prince in time. Even the Empress thought this might happen.
　Yet the prince himself did not seem interested in such a plan.
　He wished to marry for love.
　Because of this, the matter did not move forward. The minister’s family waited and watched, but the prince showed no sign that he wished to marry the girl.
　The Minister of the Right, Yūgiri, had a similar feeling about marriage among close relatives. He did not want people to think that all marriages were arranged only within the same family circle. Still, if the prince earnestly wished to marry one of his daughters, he would not refuse.
　Among his daughters, the sixth girl was especially admired. Many young nobles in the capital thought about her beauty and hoped they might one day marry her.
　After Genji was gone, life in Rokujo-in slowly changed. The ladies who had once lived there with him left one by one and returned to their own family homes. Only memories remained.
　Lady Hanachirusato moved to the Eastern Residence that had been given to her. The Empress spent most of her time inside the palace. Because of this, Rokujo-in became quiet and almost empty.
　Yūgiri, now the Minister of the Right, felt sadness when he thought about this change.
　“One often sees,” he said one day, “that a great house built with love during a man’s life becomes empty after his death. The buildings grow silent, and no one cares for them. It shows too clearly how quickly fortune rises and falls. I do not wish Rokujo-in to become such a place.”
　Because of this feeling, he decided to keep the residence active and lively for as long as he lived.
　He moved one princess to the northeastern quarter of the estate. Then he divided his time carefully between the residence in Sanjō and Rokujo-in. He spent fifteen nights each month in one place and fifteen nights in the other.
　Thus the beautiful buildings of Rokujo-in continued to be used. Long ago people had spoken of its Spring Palace as if it were a paradise on earth. Now it seemed that all of it had been built for the happiness of a single woman’s family line.
　Lady Akashi lived there with great peace. Several young princes were placed under her care, and she looked after them kindly.
　Yūgiri treated all the ladies of the house with deep respect, just as Genji had done before him. He honored them almost as if they were his own mothers.
　Yet sometimes he thought of Lady Murasaki with regret.
　“If she had lived longer,” he thought, “how gladly I would have served her with all my heart. Perhaps she might have accepted my sincere devotion at last.”
　These thoughts made him feel sorrow even now.
　Throughout the country, people still loved and admired Genji. When they spoke of him, they often felt that a great light had disappeared from the world.
　Those who had lived close to him—his wives, his children, his attendants—felt the loss even more deeply. Their tears seemed endless.
　And together with the memory of Genji, the memory of Lady Murasaki also remained strong. No one ever forgot her gentle presence.
　Even if spring flowers bloom only for a short time, their beauty remains in the heart long afterward.
　Among the younger generation there was one noble youth who attracted great attention.
　He was the young son of the Second Prince.
　Because Genji himself had once entrusted the boy to others, the Retired Emperor Reizei loved him very much. The emperor’s consort had no sons of her own and often felt lonely. She hoped that caring for this boy might bring comfort to her later years.
　The boy’s coming-of-age ceremony took place at the emperor’s palace when he was fourteen.
　Soon after that he received the court rank of chamberlain. In autumn he was already promoted to the rank of Middle Captain of the Right Guard.
　His advancement through the ranks seemed unusually fast. The emperor gave him honors again and again, and people wondered why his rise was so quick.
　Rooms were prepared for him near the imperial residence. The emperor himself planned the decoration. Only the most beautiful and skilled ladies-in-waiting were chosen to serve there.
　Young attendants, maidens, and servants were carefully selected so that the boy would live surrounded by grace and elegance. It was almost as if he were a princess rather than a young man.
　The emperor loved him like a precious toy.
　There was also an imperial princess who had been born to a lady of high rank. The emperor valued her greatly as well. Yet even she did not receive more attention than this young captain.
　The emperor’s affection for him was extraordinary.
　The boy’s mother now spent most of her time in religious practice. She held Buddhist ceremonies each month and listened to sacred readings twice a year. It seemed that prayer had become the main purpose of her life.
　Because of this, she depended on her son almost as if he were her own protector.
　The young captain often felt troubled by this.
　He was called constantly—sometimes to the emperor’s side, sometimes to the palace, sometimes by the Crown Prince and other princes who wished to spend time with him.
　“I wish I could divide my body into several parts,” he once sighed quietly.
　But there was also another problem that troubled his mind.
　Sometimes he heard strange hints about his own birth. The meaning was never clear, yet the words stayed in his memory. Even when he grew older, he could not forget them.
　“What is the truth of my life?” he wondered.
　“How was I born? What fate brought me into the world with such confusion?”
　Sometimes he whispered these questions to himself alone.
　No one answered him.
　The uncertainty slowly weighed on his heart.
　His thoughts returned again and again to the mystery of his birth. He wondered whether his mother had chosen the religious life because of some hidden sorrow connected with him.
　Yet he could ask no one.
　The question remained silent inside his heart.

Part 2

　The young Middle Captain often thought about these things in silence. When he walked alone in the quiet corridors of the palace, his mind returned again and again to the same question. Why had his mother suddenly taken religious vows while she was still young? Why had she left the life of the court so quickly?
　Sometimes he wondered whether his own birth had brought sorrow into her life. If that were true, he thought, then perhaps his existence had caused pain to those around him. This thought troubled him deeply.
　Yet he could ask no one.
　People spoke gently to him and treated him with great respect, but there were subjects that no one mentioned in his presence. He felt that the truth of his life was hidden in darkness. Because it was hidden, people avoided speaking of it.
　His mother spent her days in prayer. Morning and evening she recited sacred words and attended religious services. Still, the young captain sometimes felt that her faith was not strong and steady. He feared that her soul might not yet be at peace.
　For this reason he wished to support her spiritually.
　“If her faith is uncertain,” he thought, “then I must pray for her with all my heart. If she cannot walk the path of faith firmly, I will walk it for both of us.”
　He hoped that by doing so he might bring peace to her future life.
　At times he also thought about Genji, the great lord who had once lived at Rokujo-in and who had now passed away.
　“Perhaps,” he wondered quietly, “my birth caused sorrow to him as well.”
　This thought filled him with sadness. He sometimes wished that in another world he might meet Genji again and speak openly with him.
　Because of such thoughts, he did not feel joy when he entered adult life at court. Even though he was promoted quickly and surrounded by honor, he remained calm and serious.
　The Emperor also loved him greatly because of his connection with the imperial family. The Empress had known him since childhood, when he had played with her own children in the same residence. She continued to treat him with kindness.
　She often remembered Genji’s words.
　“This child was born late,” Genji had once said. “It is sad that I may not live to see him fully grown.”
　Thinking of those words, the Empress always felt deep sympathy for the young man.
　Yūgiri, the Minister of the Right, also valued him greatly. In fact, he treated the young captain with even more care than he sometimes showed his own sons.
　Long ago, Genji himself had been deeply loved by the emperor of his time. Yet Genji had also faced jealousy and opposition at court. His mother had died early, and he had lacked strong protection from her family. Because of this, he had often lived cautiously.
　Even when danger surrounded him, Genji had acted wisely. At one point he had even left the capital to avoid conflict. Through faith and careful thought he had planned his life calmly.
　The young Middle Captain lived in very different circumstances. From a young age he enjoyed every possible advantage. High rank, wealth, and powerful supporters surrounded him.
　Yet people also noticed something unusual about him.
　He did not possess a beauty that shocked the eye. Nothing about his face was striking at first glance. Still, when people looked at him closely, they felt a deep elegance and quiet dignity.
　His expression seemed wise and thoughtful.
　But the most remarkable thing about him was something else.
　He carried with him a natural fragrance.
　The scent was gentle, pure, and mysterious. Even when he walked far away, the faint perfume followed the air behind him. People sometimes turned their heads suddenly when they sensed it.
　It was not a perfume made by human hands.
　Because of this, people began to speak about him in wonder.
　The prince known as Hyōbu no Miya noticed this very clearly. Among all the young nobles at court, he admired beauty and elegance the most. When he learned that the young captain possessed such a natural fragrance, he felt both admiration and jealousy.
　From that time on, a quiet rivalry began between them.
　The prince loved perfumes and scents. Every morning and evening he carefully burned fine incense and scented his robes. His attendants prepared rare mixtures of fragrance, and he chose them with great attention.
　Even in his garden he preferred flowers that were known for their scent rather than their appearance. In spring he favored plum blossoms. In autumn he cared especially for plants like chrysanthemum and fujibakama, which held a gentle fragrance even after the flowers faded.
　Other flowers that people loved for their bright colors interested him less.
　In this way the prince tried to surround himself with beautiful scents at all times.
　The young captain, however, rarely used incense. Because his own body produced such a strong natural fragrance, he sometimes felt embarrassed by it. When he tried to move quietly at night, the scent betrayed his presence.
　For this reason he used little perfume.
　Yet even when he did nothing, the things around him seemed to take on his scent. The incense stored in his house gradually changed and became more refined. Flowers in the garden released deeper fragrance after he passed by.
　Even drops of rain on tree branches seemed to carry his scent.
　In autumn fields, when he walked past the wild fujibakama flowers, their simple smell changed into something more gentle and pleasing.
　People began to speak of the two young nobles with playful words.
　They called the prince Niō no Miya—“the Prince of Fragrance.”
　And they called the captain Kaoru—“the Fragrant Captain.”
　The two young men often met at the Nijō residence of the prince. They enjoyed music together, especially the flute. When they played, each tried to show his skill. Their rivalry was friendly but clear.
　Society watched them with great interest.
　Noble families with beautiful daughters quietly hoped that one of these young men might marry into their household.
　Sometimes the prince even sent letters to certain ladies in order to learn more about them. Still, he did not yet feel a deep desire to marry any particular woman.
　Only one lady truly interested him.
　She was the First Princess of the Retired Emperor Reizei.
　The prince had heard many stories about her beauty and intelligence. Her mother had been known as a wise and noble lady, and people believed the princess had inherited these qualities.
　The prince had also gathered secret information from ladies who served close to her.
　Little by little, admiration in his heart turned into something stronger.
　It was almost like love.
　Kaoru, however, thought very differently about life.
　He had already begun to feel that the world was empty and uncertain. Because of this, he believed that love affairs would only bring more trouble to the heart.
　“If I become deeply attached to someone,” he thought, “it will only make it harder to leave the world someday.”
　For this reason he avoided serious romance.
　At the age of nineteen he was promoted again and became a counselor of the third rank, while still holding his position as Middle Captain.
　The Emperor and the Empress both showed him great favor. To outside observers he seemed one of the most fortunate young men in the country.
　Yet inside his heart he carried a secret sadness.
　He believed that he might not truly be the son of Genji.
　Because of this hidden doubt, he could never feel completely happy. Unlike many young nobles of his age, he did not enjoy wild or careless pleasures.
　People often said that he behaved like a much older man.
　Quiet, thoughtful, and calm—that was how others described him.

Part 3

　Although Kaoru tried to live quietly and avoid deep emotion, he could not completely escape the world of love. His gentle manner and graceful appearance attracted attention wherever he went. Women who met him rarely forgot him.
　Sometimes a lady might speak to him playfully during a festival or a musical gathering. A light joke or a few kind words might pass between them. Yet these small moments often grew into something more serious.
　The women felt drawn to him.
　Kaoru himself did not intend to create such relationships. Still, once a woman had opened her heart to him, it was difficult for him to reject her completely. Because of this, he found himself involved in many quiet attachments.
　Yet none of these bonds were deep.
　He never allowed his feelings to grow strong. When he visited such women, he came secretly at night so that no one would notice. He tried to treat them kindly but without passion.
　“It is better,” he thought, “to keep these matters hidden.”
　Because of this, his visits were always quiet and careful.
　The women who cared for him often felt uneasy. Kaoru was gentle and considerate, but he remained distant. They could never be certain what he truly felt.
　Some of these women eventually chose another path.
　They entered service as ladies-in-waiting in the household of Kaoru’s mother at the Sanjō residence. By doing so they could remain near him without shame. Even if he rarely visited them, they could still see him from time to time.
　For many of them, this was enough.
　Kaoru’s calm beauty had a strange power. Even when he spoke little, people felt warmth when they looked at him. The women who loved him often tried to convince themselves that this quiet connection was enough to satisfy their hearts.
　“It is painful,” they sometimes thought, “but it would be even worse to lose him entirely.”
　So they remained in this uncertain position, neither fully loved nor fully abandoned.
　Kaoru himself did not notice the depth of their feelings. He believed that he behaved with kindness and fairness.
　“While my mother lives,” he once said, “I will visit her every day without fail.”
　Because of this habit, the women who served in that residence could at least see him regularly.
　Meanwhile, the Minister of the Right, Yūgiri, watched the situation with interest. Among his many daughters he hoped to arrange two important marriages. One daughter, he thought, might marry the Prince of Fragrance. Another might marry Kaoru.
　Yet he hesitated to speak openly.
　These matters involved close relatives and powerful families. If handled poorly, such marriages might cause unpleasant talk in society. Still, when he looked around the court, he saw no young men who could compare with these two.
　Among Yūgiri’s daughters, one girl stood out clearly.
　She was the sixth daughter, born to a lady named Tō no Naishi. The girl was very beautiful. Her character was gentle and intelligent, and she seemed free from faults.
　Yet because her mother’s rank was lower than that of Yūgiri’s other wives, people sometimes looked down on her. Yūgiri felt this was unfair.
　At that time the Second Princess of the family had no children of her own. She often seemed lonely.
　Because of this, Yūgiri brought the sixth daughter from her mother’s home and gave her to the princess as an adopted child. Now the girl was raised within the noble household of the princess.
　Yūgiri began to think carefully about the future.
　“If the right moment appears,” he thought, “I will show this girl to the two young nobles. When they see her, they will surely recognize her worth.”
　He believed that only a truly great man could understand the value of a truly great woman.
　Yet he did not wish to display the girl openly as if she were already a future empress. Instead he raised her in a bright and lively manner so that many people would notice her charm.
　In this way he hoped to attract the attention of the young princes.
　Not long afterward, a large event took place at court.
　After the New Year’s archery contest in the palace, a celebration was planned at the residence of the Minister of the Right. However, Yūgiri decided to hold the banquet at Rokujo-in instead. He invited many nobles, including Prince Niō.
　At the archery contest many princes had appeared, all of them now grown to adulthood. Among them, those born to the Empress looked especially noble and beautiful.
　Yet even among these elegant princes, Niō no Miya stood out clearly. His appearance was refined and graceful, and people already knew him as a man who loved beauty and style.
　The Fourth Prince also attended. He served as governor of Hitachi Province. However, he had been born to a lady of lower rank, and perhaps because of this he seemed less impressive beside the others.
　As usual, the competition ended with victory for the left side.
　When the contest finished earlier than expected, the commanders of the left and right guards prepared to leave. Yūgiri then invited several princes to ride with him in his carriage on the way to Rokujo-in.
　Prince Niō, the Prince of Hitachi, and another imperial prince joined him.
　Kaoru had been on the losing side of the contest. Quietly he began to leave the palace in his own carriage. But Yūgiri stopped him.
　“Will you not come to escort the princes?” the minister asked.
　Kaoru could not refuse.
　Soon several young nobles joined them as well. Among them were Yūgiri’s sons and other high officials. Together they traveled toward Rokujo-in.
　The road was somewhat long, and as they went along, light snow began to fall. Evening was coming, and the sky turned into a soft gray twilight.
　Someone began to play the flute.
　The music sounded beautiful in the cold air as the group approached the great residence.
　Rokujo-in appeared before them, quiet and elegant beneath the falling snow. On such a day it seemed that no other place in the world could be more suitable for a gathering of nobles.
　Inside the main hall preparations had already been made.
　Along the southern veranda seats were arranged. According to custom, Kaoru sat facing south. Opposite him, facing north, were the seats prepared for the princes and the high officials who had come as guests.
　Soon cups of wine were brought out.
　As the night deepened, the atmosphere became cheerful and relaxed. Music and dancing followed the drinking. At one point the dance called Motomeko was performed.
　The dancer raised one sleeve, then the other, moving with slow and graceful gestures. As the sleeves turned through the air, a gentle breeze entered the hall.
　At that moment the scent of plum blossoms from the garden drifted inside.
　The fragrance mingled softly with the natural scent that surrounded Kaoru. The mixture created a delicate and beautiful atmosphere.
　Some ladies-in-waiting were secretly watching from behind screens.
　“Even in the darkness,” one of them whispered, “we cannot see the color of the plum blossoms. But we can always recognize that gentleman by his fragrance alone.”
　They were speaking of Kaoru.
　The minister himself felt the same.
　In the light of the evening gathering, Kaoru’s appearance seemed even more elegant than usual. His posture was calm and dignified as he sat quietly among the guests.
　After watching him for a moment, the minister spoke.
　“Captain of the Right Guard,” he said kindly, “you must also add your voice. You are behaving too much like a silent guest.”
　Kaoru bowed slightly.
　In a clear and pleasant middle tone, he began to sing a short passage from the dance song.
　“Kami no masu…” he sang softly.
　His voice blended gently with the music in the hall.

Part 4

　Kaoru’s voice was calm and clear. It was not loud, yet it carried easily through the hall. Those who were listening felt that the sound suited him perfectly. His tone was soft, but it held a quiet strength.
　The music of the dance continued.
　The dancer turned slowly, raising his sleeves again. The wide silk sleeves moved like waves in the air. Each movement was graceful and careful. The lamps in the hall shone softly on the dancer’s robes.
　Outside, the snow continued to fall.
　The night had grown deeper, and the garden lay in pale silence. From time to time a light wind moved across the courtyard. When it did, the scent of the plum blossoms drifted once more into the hall.
　The fragrance mixed again with the natural perfume that surrounded Kaoru.
　The ladies who watched secretly from behind the screens whispered to one another.
　“How wonderful that scent is,” one of them said quietly.
　“Yes,” another answered. “Even when we cannot see him, we know when he is near.”
　The women spoke softly so that no one would hear them.
　Among the guests seated in the hall, many also noticed the gentle fragrance that seemed to move through the air. Some smiled slightly, recognizing the reason. Others looked toward Kaoru with interest.
　The Prince of Fragrance, Niō no Miya, also sensed it clearly.
　He watched Kaoru with a thoughtful expression.
　Niō himself was dressed beautifully that evening. His robes had been carefully scented with rare incense. The mixture of perfumes that he used had been prepared with great care. When he moved, a refined fragrance rose from his sleeves.
　Yet even so, Kaoru’s natural scent remained different.
　It was lighter and more mysterious.
　Niō felt again the strange rivalry that had grown between them. He admired Kaoru in many ways, but at the same time he wished to surpass him.
　The music in the hall continued. The sound of flutes, voices, and gentle laughter filled the room.
　Wine cups moved from hand to hand.
　As the evening went on, the mood of the gathering became more relaxed. Some of the nobles spoke about the archery contest that had taken place earlier that day.
　“The left side won again,” one man said with a smile.
　“It happens every year,” another replied.
　Laughter followed.
　Kaoru listened quietly but did not speak much. His calm manner made him seem older than the other young nobles present.
　Niō, however, enjoyed the lively mood of the gathering. He spoke freely with those around him. His eyes shone with energy, and his laughter was bright.
　The two young men seemed very different.
　Niō was warm, lively, and full of charm.
　Kaoru was quiet, thoughtful, and distant.
　Yet both possessed a beauty that attracted attention wherever they went.
　As the evening continued, servants brought more wine and food. Lamps were adjusted, and the hall grew warmer with conversation.
　The scent of incense from Niō’s robes mingled with the plum blossoms outside. Kaoru’s natural fragrance moved quietly through the air.
　The mixture created an atmosphere that many people later remembered.
　Those who had attended the gathering felt that the night had been unusually beautiful.
　Even the snow outside seemed to add to the elegance of the moment.
　Yūgiri, the host of the gathering, watched the guests with satisfaction.
　He was pleased that the evening had turned out so well. The princes and nobles appeared relaxed and happy.
　At times his eyes moved toward the two young men who sat among the guests.
　“Those two,” he thought quietly, “are truly remarkable.”
　In the entire capital there were few men who could equal them.
　Niō no Miya possessed brilliance and charm. Wherever he went, people noticed him immediately. His presence brought excitement to any gathering.
　Kaoru, on the other hand, held a different kind of power. His calm dignity and gentle manner drew people toward him slowly but deeply.
　Yūgiri remembered again his plan concerning his daughters.
　“If one of my girls could marry Niō,” he thought, “and another could marry Kaoru, it would bring great honor to our family.”
　Yet he knew such matters could not be forced.
　Marriage among nobles required careful timing and delicate understanding. A single mistake could damage reputations.
　Because of this, he decided to wait patiently.
　“The right moment will come,” he told himself.
　Meanwhile the music continued.
　Another dance followed the first. The flutes played softly, and the singers joined in. The rhythm of the music filled the hall with gentle movement.
　Some of the guests clapped their hands lightly to keep the beat.
　Outside, the snow had begun to fall more steadily.
　The garden of Rokujo-in lay quiet beneath the white flakes. The branches of the plum trees held a thin layer of snow. From time to time the wind shook the branches, and small drops of snow fell softly to the ground.
　Inside the hall the warmth of the lamps and the wine created a pleasant contrast with the cold night outside.
　The nobles spoke, laughed, and listened to music.
　For a moment it seemed as if the old days of Rokujo-in had returned.
　Long ago Genji himself had often held such gatherings in this very place. Music, poetry, and elegant conversation had filled these halls.
　Many of the older guests remembered those times.
　One man looked around the hall quietly.
　“Even now,” he thought, “the spirit of those days remains here.”
　Though Genji was gone, the beauty of the place continued.
　The young nobles who now filled the hall carried forward the elegance of the court.
　Among them, Niō no Miya and Kaoru stood at the center of attention.
　Their rivalry, their talents, and their different characters fascinated everyone who watched them.
　The night grew deeper.
　The music slowly softened, and the voices in the hall became quieter. Some guests spoke in low tones, while others simply enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere.
　Kaoru sat calmly, his posture straight and composed.
　Niō leaned slightly toward one of the princes, speaking with an easy smile.
　Yūgiri observed them both.
　In his heart he felt a quiet sense of wonder.
　The world had changed since the days of Genji. Yet new figures had appeared who seemed ready to shape the future.
　As the snow fell silently outside and the scent of plum blossoms drifted through the air, the gathering at Rokujo-in continued deep into the night.

Chapter 43: Kōbai (紅梅)

Part 1

　The man who was now called the Counselor of the Azechi Office was the second son of a former great minister. His older brother had been Kashiwagi, who once served as Captain of the Guards. From childhood this younger brother had shown talent and energy. He had a bright nature and enjoyed elegant things. Because of this, his position rose steadily as the years passed. Now he held high rank and had gained both influence and the trust of many people.
　He had been married twice. His first wife had died some years before. His present wife was the eldest daughter of the minister who had also recently passed away. In earlier days this lady had been married to a prince called Hyōbu no Miya. When that prince died, the counselor had quietly begun to visit her. At first their meetings had been secret, but as time passed their relationship became open, and they began to live together as husband and wife.
　From his first marriage the counselor had two daughters. For a long time he had no sons. This made him feel lonely. He prayed to the gods and the Buddhas for a child. At last a son was born to him by his present wife. The wife also had a daughter who had been born to the late prince. This girl was therefore the counselor’s stepdaughter.
　The counselor and his wife loved all the children kindly. They did not show a difference between the daughters of different mothers or the girl who had lost her father. Sometimes the ladies who served the girls argued with one another, and small quarrels arose between the groups of attendants. However, the wife was cheerful and generous by nature. She did not try to expose the faults of the attendants who served her stepdaughter. Even when the matter placed her own daughter at a disadvantage, she chose to calm the situation quietly. Because of this gentle behavior, the household remained peaceful.
　The daughters grew older little by little. When they reached the proper age, the counselor arranged their coming-of-age ceremony. For them he built a wide new residence with seven rooms in the main hall. The eldest daughter lived in the southern section, the second daughter in the western section, and the princess—the stepdaughter—lived in the eastern rooms.
　At first glance one might think that the princess had a lonely life. She had lost her father and lived in another man’s house. Yet she was not truly poor or without support. She had inherited property from her great-grandfather, her grandfather, and her father. Because of this wealth, her mother could raise her with the dignity of a noble lady. People in society spoke of her as a refined and gentle young woman.
　As the girls reached a suitable age, many marriage proposals began to arrive at the counselor’s house. Some messages even came from the palace and from the household of the Crown Prince. The counselor thought carefully about these possibilities.
　“Even if one of my daughters enters the palace,” he said to himself, “she may not receive the same favor that the Empress already enjoys. If she becomes only one lady among many, her life there may not be very happy.”
　At the same time he knew that the Crown Prince already had a favorite lady who was the eldest daughter of the Left Minister Yūgiri. Competing with that lady would not be easy.
　Still, he could not give up hope for his daughters. If he refused every opportunity for service in the palace, their future might become narrow and dull. After thinking carefully, he decided to send his eldest daughter to the Crown Prince’s court.
　She was seventeen or eighteen years old and had a bright and beautiful appearance. Preparations were made, and at last she entered the palace.
　The counselor felt great satisfaction. In his heart he also remembered his own father. Long ago his father had wished to raise a lady of their family to the position of Empress but had failed. The old minister had died with that regret still in his heart.
　“If my daughter gains favor at court,” the counselor thought, “perhaps my father’s spirit will feel comfort.”
　Soon news arrived from the palace. The ladies who accompanied the girl reported that the Crown Prince had shown her kindness and interest. The counselor was pleased to hear this.
　Because palace life could be difficult for a young woman at first, the girl’s stepmother went to the palace with her. This gentle woman worked hard to care for the girl and to maintain good relations with the other ladies there.
　After the eldest daughter left, the house of the counselor suddenly felt quiet. The second daughter especially felt the loss. The sisters had grown up together and had spent nearly all their time side by side.
　The princess in the eastern rooms also missed the eldest sister. Although they were not born of the same mother, the girls had always lived in harmony. At night they often slept in the same room. They studied music together and practiced many arts.
　In these activities the eastern princess had often served as their teacher.
　She was extremely shy. Even when speaking to her own mother she often lowered her face and avoided eye contact. Her modesty was so strong that some people wondered whether she might be ill.
　Yet her character was gentle and cheerful. She had a warm charm that made people love her.
　Because the counselor had sent one daughter to the palace and was planning a future for the second daughter, he began to worry about the princess.
　One day he spoke to his wife.
　“Please tell me what kind of marriage you wish for the princess. I intend to care for her just as I care for my own daughters.”
　His wife listened quietly.
　Then she answered with tears in her eyes.
　“It is difficult even to imagine marriage for her. Her nature is very delicate. If we force an ordinary plan upon her, it may bring her unhappiness. I think it is better to leave her future to fate. While I live, I will keep her near me. After that… perhaps she will choose the life of a nun.”
　Hearing this answer, the counselor felt both sympathy and curiosity.
　Although he behaved kindly toward the princess, he had never clearly seen her face. Whenever he approached, she hid herself behind curtains or screens.
　“It is troubling that you always hide,” he once said with a gentle complaint.
　Secretly he hoped for a chance to see her.
　But the princess was careful. She did not allow even a shadow of herself to appear before him.
　Sometimes he sat near the bamboo blinds and spoke softly.
　“While your mother is away,” he said once, “I will act as her substitute. Whenever you need something, you may call for me. Yet it seems you still do not think of me as a parent. That makes me sad.”
　From behind the curtain a faint answer came. The voice was soft and refined. Even from that slight sound he imagined that her face must also be beautiful.
　The more he thought about it, the more curious he became.
　“Perhaps,” he thought quietly, “she may even be more beautiful than my own daughters.”
　His curiosity only grew stronger.

Part 2

　After that day the Counselor of the Azechi Office thought about the young princess more often. Even though he had not seen her face, the sound of her gentle voice stayed in his mind. Sometimes when he sat quietly in his room, he remembered the soft tone that had come from behind the curtain.
　“Her voice is very refined,” he thought. “It is calm and pure. Perhaps her appearance is just as graceful.”
　This thought made him even more curious. Yet he knew that it would not be proper to force the matter. The princess was modest by nature, and he did not wish to make her feel fear or shame.
　One evening he came again to the room where she usually stayed. He sat near the bamboo curtain and spoke in a friendly voice.
　“For several months the house has been busy,” he said slowly. “Because of this I have not heard your music for a long time. The young lady in the western room practices the lute very seriously. She believes that she will soon become skilled.”
　He paused for a moment and then continued.
　“However, the lute can be difficult. When it is played poorly, it is hard for the ear to bear. If possible, please teach her carefully. Your music is very beautiful.”
　The counselor smiled as he spoke. He enjoyed talking about music.
　“I myself did not practice one art very deeply,” he added. “Still, in the old days I often joined the musical gatherings of the court. Because of that, my ears became trained to recognize good music.”
　He leaned a little closer to the curtain.
　“When I hear you play the lute,” he said kindly, “I remember those days long ago. In the past there were many masters of music. Now only a few remain. The Left Minister still plays with great skill. The young nobles Kaoru and Prince Niō also have remarkable talent. They practice music with great energy.”
　He laughed softly.
　“The prince plays well, but sometimes his stroke of the plectrum is a little weak. The great lord Genji once played with stronger power. But your playing reminds me very much of the music of that great house.”
　Behind the curtain the princess listened quietly.
　The counselor continued speaking with warm enthusiasm.
　“In the lute, the way one presses the strings is very important. Yet there is also another charm. When a woman plays, the sound of the plectrum changes slightly each time it touches the strings. That gentle difference creates a special beauty. Because of this, I often find the music of a woman even more pleasing than that of a man.”
　Then he turned toward the attendants.
　“Ladies, please bring the instrument,” he said.
　Some of the attendants moved quickly to obey him. They were not very careful about hiding their faces from the counselor, because he was the master of the house. Yet among them there was one young lady who remained completely still, refusing to show herself.
　Seeing this, the counselor pretended to be offended.
　“Even the attendants treat me like a stranger,” he said with a playful expression. “This is truly disappointing.”
　At that moment the young son of the counselor entered the room. He was dressed in formal court clothing because he was about to go to the palace. The boy looked very handsome in his robes.
　The counselor loved this only son deeply. When he saw the boy standing before him, his face became bright with affection.
　“You are going to the palace now,” he said. “Please carry a message to the lady who is staying in the palace.”
　The boy nodded.
　The counselor continued.
　“Tell her that I leave everything in her care tonight. Say that I may not come this evening. Tell her that I feel a little unwell.”
　After giving this message, the counselor looked at his son again.
　“Now play the flute for a moment,” he said. “You are often called to musical gatherings at court. It is troublesome if your skill is not good.”
　He smiled as he spoke, making it clear that he was joking.
　The boy lifted the flute to his lips and began to play a tune in the mode called Sōjō. The sound of the flute was clear and lively. The boy played with confidence.
　The counselor listened with pleasure.
　After a while he spoke again.
　“Your playing improves because you often practice together with your elder sister,” he said. “Please let the princess join you now so that your music can match perfectly.”
　Behind the curtain the princess seemed troubled by this request. She was very shy and did not like to appear before others.
　Still, after a moment a soft sound came from behind the curtain. She gently touched the strings of the lute.
　The instrument answered with a quiet note.
　She played only a few simple sounds, but the tone was clear and harmonious with the flute. The two instruments blended together in a delicate way.
　The counselor listened carefully.
　With a cheerful mood he began to keep the rhythm by whistling softly.
　Outside the room, near the edge of the roof, a red plum tree was in full bloom. The branches were covered with beautiful flowers. The counselor looked at the tree and admired its color.
　“This plum tree is especially fine,” he said.
　Then he turned to his son.
　“Prince Hyōbu no Miya is probably staying at the palace tonight,” he continued. “Please take one branch of these blossoms to him. Say that it is a small gift.”
　He smiled as he spoke and added a poetic line.
　“There are those who truly understand both color and fragrance.”
　As he spoke these words, he remembered something from long ago.
　“When the great lord Genji was at the height of his power,” he said slowly, “I was just a child. I often visited his house and saw him closely. Even now I cannot forget those days.”
　His voice became quiet.
　“People praise the princes of today,” he continued. “And indeed they are handsome and charming. Yet in my eyes they cannot equal even a small part of Genji’s brilliance.”
　He sighed softly.
　“Perhaps this feeling remains because I saw him with the eyes of a child. The impression he left was very deep. Even we who were only acquaintances feel sadness when we remember his death. How much greater must be the sorrow of those who lived beside him every day.”
　After saying this, the counselor seemed deeply moved. His shoulders sank slightly, and his voice became faint.
　Then he suddenly straightened himself again.
　“Very well,” he said. “Let us send the plum branch at once.”
　He ordered a servant to cut a branch from the tree. Then he placed a poem on red paper and gave it to his son.
　The boy placed the paper carefully inside his sleeve.
　The poem spoke about the fragrance of plum blossoms and the expectation that a nightingale would soon come to visit them.
　The boy liked Prince Niō very much. Because of this he felt happy to bring the message. Holding the plum branch and the poem, he hurried toward the palace.
　That evening Prince Niō was leaving the chamber where he had been on night duty near the Empress. He was walking toward his own residence when the boy from the counselor’s house arrived.
　Many court officials followed behind the prince. Among them the boy appeared, small and lively.
　Prince Niō noticed him immediately.
　“Why did you leave so early yesterday?” the prince asked kindly. “When did you come to the palace today?”
　The boy answered honestly.
　“Yesterday I went home too early, and I felt sorry about it,” he said. “When I heard that you were still here tonight, I hurried to see you.”
　The prince smiled.
　“You should come to visit me even when I am not in the palace,” he said. “Many young people gather at my residence. It is a lively place.”
　As they spoke together, the other attendants moved away a little to give them privacy.
　When the space became quiet, the prince began to tease the boy gently.
　“The Crown Prince must like you very much,” he said. “He probably does not wish to let you go. If you stay with me too long, someone else may steal his favor.”
　The boy tried to answer but became embarrassed.
　“His Highness holds me very close,” he said. “It becomes difficult to escape. But you…”
　Suddenly he stopped speaking.
　The prince laughed.
　“So you think I am a poor and powerless man?” he said playfully. “Perhaps you do not like me at all.”
　Then he lowered his voice.
　“Listen,” he said. “There is a princess in your house, the one who lives in the eastern rooms. Could you secretly ask whether she might care for me?”
　Hearing this unexpected request, the boy quickly presented the plum branch.
　“This is a gift from my father,” he said.

Part 3

　The young boy held out the branch of red plum blossoms with both hands. The flowers were bright and fresh. Their petals were deep red, and the scent rose gently into the cool night air.
　Prince Niō looked at the branch with great interest.
　“Ah,” he said softly, “this is very beautiful.”
　He took the branch carefully and examined it. The shape of the branch was graceful. The flowers were full and open. The color was rich, and the scent was stronger than he had expected.
　The prince loved flowers, especially plum blossoms. He held the branch close to his face and breathed in its fragrance.
　“The color of the red plum is very bright,” he said thoughtfully. “But people usually say that the white plum has the better scent. This branch seems to have both. It is very fine.”
　He continued to look at the flowers for some time. It seemed as if he did not wish to put the branch down.
　Then he turned again to the boy.
　“It would have been even better,” he said with a smile, “if I had received this after your mission had succeeded.”
　His words were playful, but his eyes were serious.
　The boy understood that the prince was speaking about the princess in the eastern room.
　Prince Niō still held the branch in his hand. The blossoms looked bright beside his sleeve.
　“Tonight you must stay at the palace for night duty, must you not?” he asked.
　The boy nodded.
　“Then stay with me instead,” the prince said warmly. “Come to my residence tonight.”
　The boy did not know how to refuse such an invitation. Because of this he could not go to the Crown Prince’s chambers as he had planned. Instead he followed Prince Niō to the prince’s private residence.
　The prince’s rooms were filled with delicate scents. The fragrance of incense rose softly in the air. Even the boy noticed how refined the smell was.
　Prince Niō himself was known for his elegant perfumes. The scent around him was strong but pleasant.
　The boy felt proud and happy to be allowed to stay so close to him.
　As they settled down for the night, the prince spoke again.
　“Why did the owner of this flower not go to serve in the Crown Prince’s palace?” he asked.
　The boy answered honestly.
　“I am not certain,” he said. “But I believe my father and mother hope that she will marry in the usual way rather than enter palace service.”
　Prince Niō listened quietly.
　He already knew that the counselor hoped to marry his own daughter to an important man. Other people had told him this.
　But the prince’s interest was not in that daughter.
　His thoughts were fixed on the princess of the eastern room.
　Because of this, he did not wish to give a clear answer about the plum branch. The boy slept in the prince’s residence that night.
　Early the next morning the boy prepared to return home.
　Prince Niō wrote a short poem before he left.
　He did not show strong emotion. Instead he wrote as if the message were only a simple reply.
　The poem spoke about the scent of flowers and how he could not pass by such fragrance without noticing it.
　After writing the poem he gave it to the boy.
　Then he spoke quietly.
　“Do not show this to the adults,” he said. “Take my words secretly to the princess.”
　The boy nodded.
　He loved the princess in the eastern room more than his other sisters. She had always been gentle to him. The boy often wished that her life could become bright and happy.
　Now he felt excited.
　Perhaps Prince Niō might become her husband.
　With this hope in his heart, he hurried back to his father’s house.
　When he arrived, he first showed the prince’s poem to his father.
　The counselor read it and smiled slightly.
　“This is a shy answer,” he said. “He behaves very carefully when dealing with men like the Left Minister or myself. Yet everyone knows that he is very active in love.”
　The counselor laughed quietly.
　“A man who is born so handsome cannot help becoming a lover,” he continued. “Still, when he pretends to be serious, it almost lowers his value.”
　The counselor spoke these words half in jest.
　Then he took paper and began to write another message. He gave the letter to his son.
　“Take this with you to the palace again today,” he said.
　The message contained a poem.
　It spoke about fragrance again. The counselor wrote that if the prince’s sleeve truly carried such noble scent, then the flowers themselves might gain a new and wonderful name.
　At the end of the letter he added a light apology.
　“Forgive this foolish love of poetry,” he wrote.
　When Prince Niō received the message, he read it carefully.
　At first he had thought that the counselor might simply be playing with poetry. But now he wondered whether the man was seriously inviting him to become connected with the family.
　This thought excited him.
　After thinking for a moment he wrote another poem.
　In it he said that if he went to a house filled with the fragrance of flowers, people might accuse him of loving beauty too openly.
　He sent this reply with the boy.
　When the counselor read it, he was not fully satisfied.
　At that time the counselor’s wife returned from the palace. She began telling him the news of what had happened there.
　“Your son came to the palace yesterday after staying on night duty,” she said. “When he entered the Crown Prince’s presence, a fine scent clung to his clothes.”
　She laughed softly.
　“No one else noticed it,” she continued. “But the Crown Prince immediately understood. He said, ‘You must have visited Prince Niō. That is why you did not come to see me.’”
　The counselor smiled.
　“Did Prince Niō send a letter?” the wife asked.
　The counselor answered calmly.
　“No, nothing special,” he said. “The prince loves plum blossoms. The red plum tree near our room was in full bloom, so I sent him a branch.”
　Then he spoke about fragrance.
　“The scent that surrounds Prince Niō is truly remarkable,” he said. “Even the ladies of the palace cannot prepare incense with such skill. Yet the fragrance of Kaoru is different. His scent is natural. It comes from his own body.”
　The counselor seemed thoughtful.
　“I often wonder what kind of past life could produce such a man,” he said. “When I think about it, I almost feel respect even for the plum tree that grows in our garden.”
　He smiled again.
　“Still,” he added, “plum blossoms seem to belong especially to Prince Niō.”
　Meanwhile the princess in the eastern room had already grown old enough to understand many things. She realized that Prince Niō had begun to show interest in her.
　Yet she had long ago decided something in her heart.
　She did not wish to marry and live an ordinary life in the world.
　Because of this, she remained silent.
　Many suitors came to ask for the hand of the second daughter of the house. That part of the residence became lively with talk of marriage.
　But the eastern rooms remained quiet.
　When Prince Niō heard about this, his interest only grew stronger. The quiet and hidden life of the princess seemed very attractive to him.
　He continued to call the young boy to his side. Often he gave him letters and asked him to carry them secretly.
　The counselor’s wife began to feel uneasy.
　“If these letters reach the wrong person,” she said once, “it will only cause trouble. The prince may not truly wish to marry her.”
　She knew that Prince Niō was famous for his many love affairs. People even said that he often visited the daughters of the Eighth Prince in Uji.
　Because of this, she feared that the princess might suffer if she married him.
　“She has already lived a difficult life,” the mother thought. “If she must marry, it should be with a man who can truly protect her.”
　For this reason she decided that the best answer would be refusal.
　Yet she also knew that Prince Niō held very high rank.
　Because of respect for his position, she sometimes wrote polite replies herself.
　The princess, however, continued to remain silent.

 
Chapter 44: Takekawa (竹河)

Part 1

　This story is about a noble family that lived after the time of the great lord Genji. The family once held great power, but that power had already begun to fade. The tale was told by an old woman who had once served in the household. She remembered many things, though even she admitted that time had made some details unclear. Because of this, the story might not be perfect. Some events might be remembered wrongly. Yet the heart of the story still remained.
　In that house had lived a powerful statesman, a Regent and Chancellor. He had been a man of great rank and influence. While he lived, many people came and went through the gates of his residence every day. His halls were bright with visitors, musicians, and courtiers. Servants hurried through the corridors. Messengers arrived from the palace.
　But the lord died suddenly.
　His death came before he could finish arranging the futures of his children. He had loved them deeply and often dreamed about their success. Sometimes he spoke happily about the daughters he hoped to present at court. He imagined them entering the palace and gaining honor and happiness. He planned everything carefully.
　Yet death came before those plans could be carried out.
　After he died, the house grew quiet. The property and lands remained large, but the energy of the household faded. Many people who once visited no longer came. They had been drawn more to the lord's power than to his family.
　The widow of the house was Lady Tamakazura. She had been famous for her beauty when she was young, and even now people still spoke of her grace. She had five children: three sons and two daughters.
　The sons had already grown up. They had taken their first adult court ranks and were beginning their careers. If their father had lived, they would have risen quickly. Even without his help, they were expected to succeed eventually.
　The daughters caused their mother greater worry.
　They had reached the age when noble girls were expected to marry or enter the palace. But their father was gone, and without his support their position felt uncertain. Tamakazura spent many long evenings thinking about their future.
　The emperor had once heard about the daughters. When their father still lived, he had spoken of sending one of them to serve in the palace. The emperor had not forgotten this. From time to time messages arrived asking about the girl.
　Yet Tamakazura hesitated.
　The emperor already favored one lady very strongly. Other women in the palace lived in loneliness and jealousy. If her daughter entered such a place, she might suffer. A mother could not easily send her child into such a difficult world.
　At the same time, refusing the emperor was also dangerous.
　Another possibility appeared as well.
　Retired Emperor Reizei sent a message. His words were gentle and thoughtful. In the letter he wrote that he had grown older and that his life had become quiet. If Tamakazura wished, he said, her daughter might come to serve him. He promised to treat the girl kindly, like a daughter of his own household.
　Tamakazura read the letter many times.
　Long ago she had refused a feeling the retired emperor once held toward her. She had married another man instead. Because of that memory, the emperor's words touched her heart with both gratitude and embarrassment.
　Still, she could not decide.
　Meanwhile another situation complicated the matter.
　A young nobleman from the house of the Right Minister had fallen deeply in love with her elder daughter. He was known as the Kurōdo Captain. He was handsome, talented, and well liked at court. His family held great power.
　He visited the residence often.
　Because the families were related, the visits were not unusual. The young men of the minister's family came frequently to play music or spend time with Tamakazura's sons. During these visits the Captain gradually formed connections with the women of the house.
　Through friendly servants he sent messages and poems.
　His feelings grew stronger each day.
　Tamakazura understood what was happening. She did not hate the young man. In fact he seemed a good match. Yet she had decided that her elder daughter should marry someone of the highest rank. She could not allow a secret romance to decide the girl's future.
　She spoke firmly to the women who served her daughters.
　“You must be careful,” she said quietly. “Do not allow anything improper to happen. The honor of this house must not be damaged.”
　The servants bowed and promised to obey.
　Yet the Captain did not give up.
　At the same time another young man sometimes visited the house.
　He was called Kaoru, the Fourth Rank Chamberlain. He was still very young, only about fourteen or fifteen, but his appearance already showed great promise. He was the son of Prince Genji's family and had been raised with great care.
　People often noticed his calm dignity. Unlike other youths, he did not speak foolishly or behave carelessly.
　Because Tamakazura's residence stood near another noble house he visited, Kaoru sometimes came along with the sons of the family. The women of the household quickly noticed him.
　Among the young nobles who visited, the Kurōdo Captain was perhaps the most beautiful. Yet Kaoru possessed a quiet elegance that surpassed everyone else. His presence felt gentle but noble.
　The young ladies' attendants often praised him loudly.
　“No one is like him,” they whispered to one another. “He truly stands apart.”
　Tamakazura also admired the boy.
　Sometimes she spoke with him kindly, as if he were her younger brother.
　“When I see you,” she once said softly, “I remember the kindness of the retired emperor long ago. Your face reminds me of those days.”
　Kaoru listened politely and answered with respect.
　Because of this friendly relationship, he visited the house without hesitation.
　One New Year's Day many relatives gathered there to offer greetings.
　Tamakazura's younger brother, now a high counselor, arrived first. Other noble relatives soon followed. The Right Minister himself came with his six sons.
　The minister appeared impressive and dignified. Even as he grew older, his face showed great strength. His sons were handsome as well, each wearing elegant robes suited to the celebration.
　Among them the Kurōdo Captain stood out.
　Yet those who watched closely noticed that he seemed distracted. His expression showed the sadness of someone in love.
　The minister spoke with Tamakazura across a screen.
　“I should visit more often,” he said. “But age has made me lazy. Please forgive my absence.”
　Tamakazura replied politely.
　“You are always kind to remember this house,” she said. “We have little importance now, yet you continue to show us favor.”
　After exchanging these words, Tamakazura quietly asked the minister for advice about her daughter's future. She spoke of the retired emperor's request.
　“Without strong supporters,” she said, “a girl may suffer in the palace.”
　The minister considered the matter carefully.
　“The retired emperor is still a magnificent man,” he said. “Many would be honored to send a daughter to him. Yet you must decide what is best for your child.”
　Their conversation continued for some time.
　As evening approached, most of the guests left to offer New Year's greetings at other residences.
　Later that day Kaoru came again to the house.
　When he appeared in the courtyard, the women immediately noticed him. His beauty seemed even greater than before.
　“Look,” whispered one attendant, “he is truly different from the others.”
　Another said boldly, “He would make a perfect husband for one of our princesses.”
　Their voices were loud enough that others laughed.
　Kaoru remained calm, though he understood their teasing.
　Tamakazura was praying in a small chapel room when he arrived. She sent a servant to invite him inside.
　He entered quietly and sat before the bamboo blinds.
　In the garden nearby, a young plum tree stood covered with tight buds. The first song of the bush warbler had not yet begun. The air carried the promise of early spring.
　The women of the house began to joke with Kaoru.
　They tried to draw romantic words from him.
　Yet he answered only with simple, polite sentences.
　His seriousness disappointed them.
　Finally one lady composed a poem about the first plum blossoms of the season and recited it playfully. Kaoru admired the quickness of her poetry and responded with a verse of his own.
　The room filled with laughter and light conversation.
　But Tamakazura soon appeared and scolded the attendants gently.
　“You trouble this serious young man too much,” she said.
　Kaoru heard this and thought quietly to himself that being called “serious” was not always a happy reputation.
　Still, he smiled politely.
　The evening continued with music, poetry, and conversation.
　Outside the garden the plum buds waited for spring, while inside the hearts of the young nobles began to move toward love and rivalry.
　And within the quiet residence, the future of the two sisters slowly approached its turning point.

Part 2

　Some days later, when the plum trees had begun to open their first flowers, Kaoru decided to visit the house again. The winter cold had already softened, and the air carried the gentle feeling of early spring. He remembered the laughter of the women during his last visit and the music that had sounded from the western hall. Those memories remained in his mind.
　That evening he entered the gate quietly.
　As he walked through the courtyard, he noticed another figure standing near the middle gate. The man seemed surprised and tried to move away into the shadows. Kaoru stepped closer and recognized him immediately.
　It was the Kurōdo Captain.
　The young man had been standing there listening to music from inside the house. From the western room came the sound of a lute and a thirteen-string koto. The music floated softly through the evening air.
　Kaoru understood at once what had happened. The Captain had come secretly, hoping to see or hear something of the princess he loved.
　Kaoru felt a quiet sympathy.
　“Please guide me inside,” he said gently. “I do not know the rooms of this house very well.”
　The Captain forced a small smile and walked beside him.
　They moved slowly toward the western corridor. A red plum tree stood near the walkway, its branches already heavy with blossoms. As they passed beneath it, Kaoru began to sing a short melody about plum branches. The Captain joined him.
　Their voices drifted across the garden.
　When the people inside heard the singing, someone opened the door slightly. The sound of a Japanese harp answered their song from within the room. The woman who played the instrument had skill and confidence.
　Kaoru listened carefully.
　“That player is very talented,” he said quietly.
　Together the two young men repeated the song again. The lute answered brightly, and the room seemed filled with music. Kaoru felt pleased by the artistic spirit of the house.
　At last they were invited inside.
　They entered the western room and sat near the bamboo blinds. The atmosphere was relaxed and friendly, very different from the formal gathering on New Year's Day. Kaoru allowed himself to speak more freely, even joking with the attendants.
　A harp was brought out from behind the blinds and placed before the guests.
　Both young men politely refused to play at first. They encouraged each other to take the instrument instead.
　Finally a servant girl appeared with a message from Tamakazura.
　“My lady says that your playing resembles the sound once made by the late Chancellor,” the girl said. “She hopes very much to hear you tonight.”
　Kaoru felt shy but accepted.
　He began to play.
　The sound of the harp flowed through the room with clear and beautiful tones. The notes spread outward like gentle waves. Even the people in distant rooms paused to listen.
　Tamakazura herself felt deeply moved.
　The music reminded her of her late husband, who had once played in the same way. Tears rose in her eyes.
　“How strangely he resembles the man who is gone,” she whispered. “Even the sound of the strings is the same.”
　Meanwhile the Kurōdo Captain sang a song with a clear and pleasant voice. No one in the room spoke critically; everyone was enjoying the moment too much.
　The music continued late into the night.
　Cups of wine were passed around, and the young men sang many songs together. Tamakazura's youngest son, who was still only a boy, did not play instruments very well. Instead he served the guests, offering cups and laughing with them.
　His friends teased him kindly.
　“You must sing something too,” one of them said.
　Finally he joined in singing a song called “Takekawa.” His voice was still youthful, but it sounded charming to the listeners.
　When the evening grew late, Tamakazura sent a small gift for the guests. It was a robe scented with fine incense.
　Kaoru accepted it politely but seemed uncertain.
　“I do not understand why I receive such a gift,” he said.
　Instead of keeping it, he placed it gently on the shoulder of the young son and prepared to leave.
　The people of the house tried to stop him.
　“Please stay longer,” they said.
　But Kaoru smiled and answered simply.
　“I only meant to visit briefly. I have already stayed too late.”
　With that he departed.
　After he left, Tamakazura spoke quietly to the attendants.
　“The Right Minister grows more and more like the retired emperor as he ages,” she said. “But this young man does not resemble the emperor in face. Instead he carries a gentle elegance that must have been the emperor's charm when he was young.”
　The attendants nodded in agreement.
　Even the faint fragrance that remained after Kaoru's departure seemed worthy of praise.
　Yet while everyone admired Kaoru, the Kurōdo Captain felt increasing sorrow.
　If visits like this continued, he thought, everyone would prefer Kaoru. His own hopes would become even weaker.
　When he finally left the house that night, he sent a poem of deep sadness.
　In the poem he wrote that while other people gave their hearts to the blossoms of spring, he alone wandered lost in the darkness of love.
　Someone behind the bamboo blinds answered with another poem. The reply suggested that even a plum blossom might notice the sorrow of such devotion.
　The exchange comforted him slightly, but not enough.
　The next morning Kaoru sent a letter to Tamakazura's household. He wrote politely that he hoped his sudden departure had not offended anyone.
　At the end of the letter he added a poem mentioning the song “Takekawa” that had been sung the previous night.
　The letter was shown to the members of the family.
　Tamakazura admired the writing.
　“Even his handwriting is beautiful,” she said. “How can someone so young already possess such perfection?”
　She compared it with the clumsy writing of her own sons and scolded them lightly.
　Tamakazura's youngest son wrote the reply. His handwriting still looked childish.
　After that day Kaoru began visiting the young boy more often. Through him he quietly expressed admiration for the elder princess of the house.
　As the Kurōdo Captain had feared, the entire household slowly began to favor Kaoru.
　Even the younger brother hoped secretly that Kaoru would one day marry his sister.
　Spring passed quickly.
　By the time the third month arrived, the garden was full of blooming and falling cherry blossoms. The quiet house seemed almost peaceful again. With few visitors, the women spent long hours simply watching the garden.
　Tamakazura's two daughters were now about eighteen or nineteen years old.
　Each had a different beauty.
　The elder sister possessed a brilliant and noble appearance. Her beauty was clear and proud. When she wore layered robes of pale cherry color, the elegance of her figure became even more striking.
　Many believed she should never marry an ordinary man.
　The younger sister had another charm. Her hair fell long and dark like fine threads of willow leaves. Her beauty was calm and refined rather than dazzling.
　That afternoon the two sisters sat facing each other, playing the game of go.
　Their young brother served as judge for the match.
　Their older brothers happened to pass nearby and peeked into the room.
　“Our little brother has become very important,” one of them laughed. “He now judges games between princesses.”
　The sisters lowered their eyes shyly and continued playing.
　Their eldest brother watched them with gentle affection. He had already reached his late twenties and carried himself with dignity.
　Looking at the blooming cherry tree in the garden, he felt a sudden sadness.
　“Whenever I walk through the palace,” he said quietly, “I often think how different things would be if our father were still alive.”
　The memory filled his eyes with tears.
　He wished that his sisters might someday become honored ladies of the court, just as their father had dreamed.
　The cherry blossoms drifted softly through the air while the family spoke of the past.
　Yet even in that peaceful moment, the future decisions about the sisters were slowly drawing nearer.

Part 3

　After the brothers left the room, the two sisters remained where they were. The game of go that they had begun earlier still lay unfinished between them. For a short time neither spoke. The garden outside was quiet, and the petals of the cherry blossoms fell slowly through the air.
　At last the elder sister smiled faintly.
　“Shall we continue the game?” she asked.
　The younger sister nodded. They moved the pieces again across the board.
　Soon their conversation turned playful.
　“Let us make a small wager,” the elder sister said. “You remember the cherry tree in the garden that we both loved when we were children?”
　“Of course,” the younger sister replied.
　“Then let us say that whoever wins two games out of three will own that tree.”
　The younger sister laughed softly.
　“Very well,” she said. “But you must not regret it later.”
　They began the match again.
　Because the weather had grown warm, the blinds were lifted, and several attendants gathered nearby to watch. Everyone leaned forward with interest. The quiet room filled with the soft sound of go stones touching the board.
　Outside the sky slowly darkened.
　As evening approached, the sisters moved their game closer to the veranda where the last light of day could still be seen. Lamps had not yet been lit. The fading light of spring made the room gentle and dreamlike.
　The attendants whispered excitedly.
　“Who will win?” one asked.
　“It looks as if the elder princess has the advantage,” another replied.
　At that very moment the Kurōdo Captain arrived at the residence.
　He had come, as he often did, hoping to meet the young brother. But the boy had gone out with his older brothers earlier that evening. The house seemed unusually quiet.
　The Captain walked slowly through the corridors.
　As he moved along the passageway, he noticed a half-open door. Curious, he stepped closer and looked inside.
　What he saw filled his heart with wonder.
　In the dim evening light the two princesses sat facing each other over the go board. Their robes glowed softly in the fading light. Around them several attendants watched in silence.
　The elder sister wore robes the color of cherry blossoms. Her beauty shone even through the dimness of the room.
　The Captain could hardly breathe.
　“This is like standing before a divine vision,” he thought.
　At first the evening light was too faint for him to see clearly. But as he continued watching, his eyes slowly grew used to the shadows. He soon recognized the elder princess, the one he loved.
　Her face appeared graceful and radiant.
　The sight pierced his heart.
　“Even if I never see her again,” he thought, “this one moment will remain in my memory forever.”
　The attendants were laughing quietly about the game.
　At last the elder sister placed a stone that decided the match.
　“The right side wins!” one of the women cried happily.
　Another attendant joked loudly.
　“Why does no one begin the victory music? When the right side wins, there should be celebration!”
　Laughter spread through the room.
　The younger sister accepted her defeat with a smile.
　The women continued teasing one another about the game and the cherry tree that had been promised as the prize.
　The Captain watched everything silently.
　He felt a strange desire to step inside and join the gathering. Yet he knew such a sudden appearance would be improper. The women believed themselves unobserved.
　Reluctantly he turned away and left the house.
　Even after returning home, the image of the princess remained before his eyes.
　“If only I could see her once more like that,” he thought again and again.
　From that day he wandered near the residence often, hoping for another chance glimpse.
　Meanwhile spring continued.
　Every day the sisters spent time in the garden watching the flowers. They compared blossoms and sometimes held playful contests between the flowers of different trees.
　One evening a strong wind rose suddenly. Cherry petals scattered across the garden like snow. The losing sister from the earlier game watched the falling blossoms sadly.
　She composed a poem about the restless wind that troubled the heart whenever it shook the cherry branches.
　One of the attendants answered with a gentle poem of comfort, reminding her that blossoms always fall quickly once they bloom.
　The elder sister also spoke softly, saying that even though blossoms fade, they should not be watched without feeling.
　Another attendant joked that the fallen petals might float across the garden pond and drift toward the side of the victorious team.
　A young girl ran into the garden and gathered many blossoms in her sleeves, laughing happily.
　Their playful conversation continued for some time.
　Yet while the girls enjoyed these simple moments, Tamakazura remained troubled.
　Days and months were passing quickly.
　Her daughters were already of marriageable age. Soon their future must be decided. Sitting alone in her room, she thought constantly about what path would bring them happiness.
　Messages continued to arrive from the retired emperor.
　The emperor's consort also wrote letters urging Tamakazura not to hesitate. She even joked that she would happily help care for the girl if she entered the palace.
　Such kindness made refusal difficult.
　At last Tamakazura began to feel that the decision might be part of fate. If the emperor wished so strongly for her daughter to serve him, perhaps it was meant to be.
　The preparations began quietly.
　Most of the necessary treasures had already been prepared long ago by the late Chancellor. Only small items remained to be arranged. Tamakazura selected robes and accessories for the attendants who would accompany her daughter.
　When the Kurōdo Captain learned of this decision, his despair became unbearable.
　He begged his mother to intervene somehow. The lady felt deep pity for her son and wrote a letter to Tamakazura asking her to consider his suffering.
　Tamakazura answered with sympathy but explained that the emperor's repeated requests made refusal impossible.
　In truth she still hoped that one day the Captain might marry her younger daughter. But the young man could not easily change his heart.
　After seeing the elder princess that evening by chance, his love had become even deeper.
　Knowing that all hope was lost, he felt as though life itself had ended.
　Unable to remain silent, he visited the young brother one day and spoke of his sorrow. The boy happened to be reading a letter that had arrived from Kaoru.
　When the Captain tried to hide the letter, the Captain quickly took it from his hands.
　The letter did not openly mention love. Yet its words suggested quiet sadness.
　At the end Kaoru had written a poem about how the passing months of spring brought feelings of regret.
　The Captain read it silently.
　“Some people can express their sorrow so calmly,” he thought bitterly. “But my heart cannot remain so quiet.”
　His own love burned too fiercely.
　That night he wandered through the house again, speaking with one of the attendants who had shown him kindness before.
　He confessed his pain openly.
　“Even one more moment like the evening when I saw her would be enough,” he said. “After that I could die without regret.”
　The attendant felt great pity but did not know how to comfort him.
　Outside the spring wind moved gently through the garden.
　And within the quiet residence, the fate of the elder princess had already begun to move toward the palace of the retired emperor.

Part 4

　At the beginning of the fourth month, the day finally arrived when the elder princess would enter the palace of the retired emperor.
　The entire residence became busy from early morning. Servants hurried through the halls. Carriages were prepared in the courtyard. Fine robes were arranged carefully for the journey.
　Many noble relatives came to assist.
　The Right Minister sent numerous attendants, carriages, and guards to escort the procession. Even though he had once hoped his son might marry the princess, he still behaved generously and with proper dignity.
　His wife, Lady Kumoi no Kari, also sent many gifts.
　She included several sets of beautiful robes to be distributed among the attendants. A letter accompanied the gifts. In it she explained that she had been occupied caring for her heartbroken son and had therefore not known about the preparations earlier.
　Though the words seemed calm, Tamakazura could sense the quiet sadness hidden within them.
　The Right Minister himself also sent a message.
　In the letter he apologized that he could not attend the ceremony in person because the day happened to fall during a period of ritual restriction. Instead he sent several of his sons to assist.
　Tamakazura received these gestures gratefully.
　“He is truly a thoughtful man,” she said to those around her.
　Other relatives arrived as well.
　Tamakazura's younger brother sent additional carriages for the attendants. Another nobleman, who was connected to the family through marriage, came personally to help organize the preparations.
　Yet while everyone worked busily, the absence of the late Chancellor was deeply felt.
　More than once the brothers said quietly to one another, “If Father were still alive, how grand this occasion would be.”
　Among all the guests, only one young man appeared in a very different state.
　The Kurōdo Captain had not been able to stop thinking about the princess. Even on this day he sent another letter.
　In the letter he wrote that his life itself seemed to be fading. If only the princess would speak one kind word to him, he said, he might still find the strength to live.
　When the letter arrived, the princess and her younger sister were sitting together in their room. They had spent most of their lives side by side. Their rooms were next to each other, separated only by sliding doors.
　Even such a small distance had once seemed too far for them.
　Now they were about to be separated entirely.
　The elder sister had already been dressed in splendid robes for the ceremony. Her appearance was breathtakingly beautiful.
　Seeing her sister like this filled the younger girl with sadness.
　They spoke little. Both felt the approaching farewell.
　When the attendant brought the Captain's letter, the elder sister hesitated before opening it. She knew that his feelings had become very serious.
　After reading the letter she sighed quietly.
　“Why would a man from such a respected family write with so little control?” she murmured.
　Yet she also understood that the words came from genuine sorrow.
　At last she wrote a brief reply.
　In it she suggested gently that even a single word of sympathy might be difficult in a world as uncertain as life itself. She added only a small phrase expressing faint understanding of his suffering.
　The letter was given to the attendant and sent back.
　When the Captain received it, he felt both joy and pain.
　The princess had answered him.
　Even such a small kindness felt precious.
　Yet the day of her departure had arrived.
　Tears filled his eyes again.
　Unable to control himself, he wrote another letter immediately. In it he asked whether he must truly leave this world without hearing even one sincere word from her.
　When the second letter reached the princess, she regretted having replied at all. Her brief kindness had only increased his suffering.
　She said nothing further.
　Meanwhile the preparations were completed.
　The attendants chosen to accompany the princess were all young and beautiful. Their robes shone brightly as they gathered in the courtyard. The procession looked almost as grand as the ceremony for presenting a lady to the emperor himself.
　Tamakazura first accompanied her daughter to visit one of the palace ladies. After that the princess was escorted to the palace of the retired emperor.
　It was already late in the evening when she entered her new residence.
　The retired emperor received her warmly.
　In earlier years, when he had ruled the country, his appearance had already been famous for its beauty. Now, though he lived more quietly, his charm seemed even greater.
　Seeing the young princess, he immediately felt great affection for her.
　Tamakazura did not remain long in the palace. The emperor had hoped she would stay to support her daughter during the first days. When she returned home sooner than expected, he felt a little disappointed.
　From that time onward the emperor's affection for the new lady grew steadily.
　Meanwhile Kaoru continued to serve close to the emperor.
　Like Genji long ago, he had become a favored companion. Because of this position, he often passed near the residence of the new princess.
　He wondered quietly how she now felt about the men who had once wished to marry her.
　One evening he walked in the palace garden with Tamakazura's young son. The two boys sat beside a pond where wisteria flowers hung from the branches of a pine tree.
　The purple blossoms reflected in the water.
　Kaoru looked up at them thoughtfully.
　Without speaking directly about his feelings, he recited a poem suggesting that if the wisteria flowers had been something he could hold in his hand, he might have compared their beauty with the pine beside them.
　The young boy understood the hidden meaning.
　He answered with another poem explaining that although the colors of the wisteria and the pine might appear to belong together, the heart cannot always follow its wishes.
　The boy truly felt sympathy for his friend.
　Kaoru listened quietly.
　In truth he did not suffer deeply from the lost opportunity. Yet he still felt a certain regret.
　The Kurōdo Captain, however, remained in complete despair.
　His sorrow grew so strong that people feared he might even harm himself. Some of the other men who had once admired the princess quickly turned their attention to the younger sister instead.
　But the Captain could not do so.
　After seeing the elder princess that evening by chance, his heart had chosen only her.
　Because of this he stopped visiting the house altogether.
　Even at court he rarely appeared. When he did attend, he left quickly and avoided meeting others.
　The retired emperor, meanwhile, continued to show great affection for the new princess.
　As the months passed, the entire palace began to notice her beauty.
　By the seventh month she became pregnant.
　Even during the discomfort of early pregnancy, her beauty remained striking. Those who saw her felt that all the praise spoken about her before had been fully justified.
　To comfort her during this time, the emperor often ordered musical gatherings in her residence.
　Kaoru was frequently invited to perform. His harp playing filled the halls with elegant music.
　Among the musicians who accompanied him was one of the attendants from Tamakazura's house—the same woman who had once played the harp during the evening visit months before.
　Hearing her music again brought back memories for Kaoru.
　The quiet night when he had first visited the house returned vividly to his mind.
　Time continued to pass.
　When the next year arrived, the palace celebrated the festival of the men's court dance called “Otoko Tōka.”
　Among the many young nobles chosen to perform, Kaoru was selected as the leader of the singers.
　The Kurōdo Captain also participated as one of the musicians.
　On the bright moonlit night of the fourteenth day of the first month, the performers first danced at the imperial palace. Afterward they visited the residence of the retired emperor.
　Many nobles gathered to watch.
　Among them were the emperor's consorts and the new princess.
　When the dancers approached the steps while singing the song “Takekawa,” the Captain suddenly remembered the night of music long ago at Tamakazura's house.
　The memory struck him so strongly that tears filled his eyes.
　Even now, after so much time had passed, his heart had not yet forgotten.

 
Chapter 45: Hashihime (橋姫)

Part 1

　In those days there lived a prince whom the world had almost forgotten. Long ago he had been born into a noble family. On his mother’s side he was also connected to high court nobles, and there had once been people who believed that he might even become emperor. But time had changed. Power had moved to another family, and the prince’s hopes slowly disappeared. The relatives who might once have supported him lost their influence or withdrew from public life. One after another they turned away from the world, leaving the prince alone.
　The prince had no strong allies in the court. Publicly and privately he had almost no one on whom he could depend. He lived quietly, separated from the busy world of politics and ambition.
　His wife had been the daughter of a great minister. When they first married, their parents had imagined a bright future for them. They had believed that the prince would gain honor and power, and that the couple would live a splendid life. But the years brought a very different fate. The prince lost his position, and the family’s influence faded away.
　Sometimes the princess remembered the dreams that her parents had once spoken about. When she thought of those hopes and compared them with their present life, she felt deep sadness. Yet she did not complain. The prince loved her deeply, and she was his only wife. They trusted one another completely, and their marriage was peaceful and sincere. That love gave her comfort even in difficult times.
　Many years passed, but they had no children. Their quiet life often felt empty. The prince sometimes said with a gentle smile that it would be pleasant if they had a beautiful child to brighten their lonely days.
　At last, quite unexpectedly, a child was born to them. It was a daughter. The prince loved the little girl with great tenderness. He watched over her carefully as she grew, and her presence filled the house with new life.
　Not long after that, the princess became pregnant again. The prince secretly hoped that the second child would be a boy. But when the child was born, it was again a daughter.
　The birth itself was safe, but soon afterward the princess became ill. Her strength faded quickly. Before long she died.
　The prince was overwhelmed with grief. In the world outside he had already faced cold treatment and disappointment, but he had endured everything because his gentle wife had been beside him. She had been the one bond that kept him from abandoning the world and becoming a monk.
　Now she was gone.
　To live alone was painful enough, but there were also the two small daughters who depended on him. A man of his rank was not supposed to raise children without the help of women and attendants. The prince thought seriously about leaving the world and becoming a monk. Yet whenever he looked at the two little girls, he felt that he could not abandon them.
　So he delayed his decision. Time passed. The daughters slowly grew older, and their beautiful faces became the prince’s daily comfort.
　The younger child, however, was not treated with much affection by the servants. Some of the women whispered among themselves.
　“When this child was born, our lady died. It is sad to think of it.”
　Because of such thoughts, they did not care for the younger princess with true warmth. But the prince never forgot the last words of his wife.
　On her deathbed, when her mind was already becoming weak, she had looked at the baby and spoken softly.
　“I will not live much longer. Please remember this child as my last gift to you. Love her and care for her.”
　Those words remained in the prince’s heart. The child had entered the world at the moment when his wife left it. Her birth seemed connected to sorrow, yet it was also the final wish of the woman he loved. Because of that, he cared for the younger daughter with special kindness.
　Both girls were beautiful. The elder daughter had a calm and noble air. Her face and manner showed natural elegance. The younger daughter had a soft and charming appearance. She was gentle and shy, and her sweetness touched everyone who saw her.
　The prince loved them equally, though each had her own different charm.
　Unfortunately, the prince’s household was not wealthy. As the years passed, the family’s resources became smaller and smaller. Maintaining the large residence became difficult. One by one the ladies who had served the household left because they feared poverty.
　When the princess had died, the prince had not even been able to choose a proper nurse for the younger child. The nurse who was appointed was of low rank and weak character. She soon abandoned the house while the child was still very young.
　After that the prince himself took care of the little girl.
　The residence itself was still large and beautiful, but it had begun to fall into ruin. The shapes of the garden ponds and hills remained as they had been in the past, yet everything looked neglected. Grass grew tall, and wild plants spread everywhere. Ferns hung from the eaves in thick green clusters.
　In earlier days the prince and his wife had enjoyed the changing seasons together. They had walked through the garden and admired the flowers and trees. Those moments had once been a source of happiness.
　Now the prince looked at the same garden alone. The colors of nature no longer brought him joy. Everything seemed distant and lonely.
　He spent most of his time in religious devotion. The small Buddhist altar in the house was kept very beautiful, and each day he prayed there with deep seriousness.
　Often he felt that his attachment to his daughters was the only reason he remained in the world at all.
　Some people spoke about him behind his back.
　“It is not good to mourn your wife forever,” they said. “Anyone feels sorrow at first, but time should bring change. If he married again, his household would become more stable.”
　Others even tried to introduce suitable women to him. They believed that a new marriage would help restore the family’s fortune.
　But the prince would not listen.
　As the years passed, his mind moved further and further away from the world. Though he still lived as a nobleman, his heart was almost like that of a monk. Since his wife’s death he had never once desired another woman.
　During the quiet hours between prayers, he spent time with his daughters. The girls were now growing older, and he taught them music and other arts. Sometimes they practiced the koto. At other times they played games of go or studied characters from Chinese poems.
　The elder princess showed a deep and thoughtful beauty. The younger princess had a softer and more innocent charm. Each had her own special grace.
　One spring day they sat beside the garden pond. The air was warm and gentle. Birds swam together on the water, calling softly to one another. The prince looked at them and suddenly felt the sadness of separation, remembering that he and his beloved wife could never be together again.
　The daughters sat near him with their instruments. The small figures of the girls looked delicate and lovely as they practiced their music.
　Tears rose in the prince’s eyes.
　He sang a sad poem about a water bird that had lost its mate and remained alone in the world.
　His voice trembled slightly as he wiped away his tears.
　Even in his sorrow the prince was still very handsome. His long years of strict living had made him thin, but that thinness gave him a quiet elegance. When he spent time with his daughters he always dressed with proper dignity, wearing an old but noble robe.
　The elder daughter quietly pulled a writing stone toward her and began to write characters on its surface.
　The prince noticed and smiled gently.
　“Do not write on the stone,” he said kindly. “Write on paper instead.”
　He handed her a sheet of paper.
　The girl blushed slightly and wrote a poem in careful characters.
　The younger daughter then wrote her own poem in a childish hand.
　The prince watched them with mixed feelings of joy and sorrow. Their clothes were simple and old. There were no attendants standing nearby as would normally be expected in a noble household. To see his two beautiful daughters living in such quiet poverty filled his heart with pain.
　Yet he could do little to change their fate.

Part 2

　The prince continued to guide his daughters in music. The elder princess played the biwa, and the younger practiced the thirteen-string koto. Because their father carefully taught them every day, both girls learned to play with surprising skill. Their small hands moved gently across the strings, and the quiet sounds filled the lonely house.
　The prince himself had never studied politics or the arts of governing the world. When he was young, he had lost both his father, the emperor, and his mother. Without strong protectors, he had not received the education that might have prepared him for public life. Instead he spent many years studying music with skilled musicians from the imperial music office. Because of that, he became very accomplished in music.
　He was known as the Eighth Prince, a younger brother of the great Genji. Long ago, during the time when Emperor Reizei had still been Crown Prince, there had been political struggles at court. Some people had tried to remove the Crown Prince and replace him with this Eighth Prince. Because of those dangerous events, the followers of Genji treated the prince coldly afterward. As Genji’s family grew stronger and stronger in power, the Eighth Prince gradually withdrew from the world.
　Misfortune after misfortune came to him. At last he lived almost like a monk, turning his thoughts away from worldly dreams.
　Then another disaster struck. The prince’s residence in the capital burned down in a fire.
　After that he had no suitable house in the city where he could live. Fortunately he owned a small mountain villa in Uji, far from the capital. With no better choice, he moved there with his daughters.
　Even though he had already given up many worldly desires, leaving the capital still made him sad. The place in Uji was close to the river where fishermen set their wicker traps for fish. It was not the most peaceful place for a quiet mountain life, but it was the only home available.
　Still, the natural scenery there was beautiful. The mountains and water gave the area a quiet charm. The prince spent many hours looking at the landscape and thinking deeply.
　Yet whenever he looked at the scenery, he remembered his wife and felt sorrow again.
　He composed a poem about the sadness of surviving when the people he loved had already vanished like smoke.
　His longing for the dead woman was so strong that it seemed almost impossible for him to continue living.
　In the capital few people had ever visited him, and in this distant mountain place there were even fewer visitors. The prince passed his days in deep silence. Often the mist covered the mountains from morning until evening, making the world feel dark and lonely.
　In Uji there lived a respected Buddhist monk known as an Ajari. He was famous for his deep knowledge of Buddhist teachings. Even when the imperial court invited him, he preferred to remain quietly in his temple in Uji.
　When the Ajari learned that the Eighth Prince had moved to the mountain villa and was studying Buddhist texts alone, he felt great respect for him. From time to time he came to visit the prince.
　The prince had previously studied religious books by himself, but the Ajari helped him understand the deeper meaning of the teachings. They often discussed how the world was temporary and full of suffering.
　One day the prince spoke openly to the monk.
　“In my heart I already feel like a disciple of the Buddha,” he said quietly. “But as you know, I still have young daughters. Because of them I cannot completely leave the world and become a monk.”
　The Ajari listened with sympathy.
　This monk sometimes visited the retired Emperor Reizei as well. He would explain Buddhist texts to the emperor and answer his questions.
　On one occasion, after leaving Uji, the Ajari went to the emperor’s palace. As usual, the emperor asked him about religious teachings.
　During their conversation the Ajari spoke about the Eighth Prince.
　“The prince is very intelligent,” he said. “His understanding of religion is already deep. Perhaps the Buddha has some special purpose for him. His state of mind is almost like that of a great monk.”
　The emperor nodded thoughtfully.
　“Has he not yet taken religious vows?” he asked.
　“No,” replied the Ajari. “He wishes to do so, but first it was because of his wife that he delayed. Now it is because of his daughters. He feels pity for them and cannot leave them alone.”
　The emperor sighed.
　“Young people sometimes call him a ‘holy man living in the world,’” he said. “He is a pitiful man.”
　At that time Kaoru, who held the rank of Middle Captain, was also present at court. Kaoru listened carefully to this conversation. He himself often felt that worldly life was empty. Yet he had not seriously devoted himself to religious practice. Hearing about the prince made him feel ashamed of his own weakness.
　He wondered what kind of mind a person must have to live like that prince.
　The Ajari continued speaking.
　“The prince’s daughters often play music together,” he said. “The sound of their koto and biwa sometimes reaches my temple along with the sound of the Uji River. When I hear it, I imagine the music of paradise.”
　The emperor smiled slightly at this.
　“That is interesting,” he said. “A household living so strictly might seem likely to lack such artistic grace. Yet it appears that the girls are talented.”
　Then he added another thought.
　“The prince worries about his daughters. If I live longer than he does, perhaps he could entrust them to me.”
　The emperor was thinking of an example from the past, when another princess had been placed under his protection.
　Kaoru listened silently. Strangely, he felt little curiosity about the daughters themselves. What attracted him most was the prince’s calm spirit and deep understanding of life. He felt a strong desire to meet him.
　As the Ajari prepared to return to Uji, Kaoru spoke to him privately.
　“Please tell the prince that I wish to visit him,” he said. “I would like to learn from him if he permits.”
　The emperor also sent a message expressing sympathy for the prince’s lonely life in the mountains. Along with the message he sent a poem about a heart that wished to escape the world but was separated by clouds.
　When the Ajari returned to the mountain villa, he proudly delivered the emperor’s message. The prince was very pleased. Because visitors rarely came to that remote place, a message from the emperor felt like a great honor.
　He welcomed the monk warmly and even prepared simple mountain food and wine to thank him.
　Then he wrote a reply poem, explaining that although he lived in Uji, his heart was not completely free from the troubles of the world.
　The emperor read the poem with sympathy.
　Meanwhile the Ajari also told the prince about Kaoru.
　“He has been interested in religious studies since his youth,” the monk explained. “But he fears that if he studies too seriously, people might think he is arrogant. So he tries to remain modest and does not show his devotion openly. Yet he greatly wishes to learn from you.”
　The prince listened thoughtfully.
　“Usually a person begins to dislike the world only after experiencing sorrow,” he said. “But this young man seems different. If someone who still enjoys success and youth already seeks religious truth, that is very unusual.”
　Soon after that, Kaoru began visiting the prince in Uji.
　The mountain villa looked even poorer than he had imagined. The building was simple, almost like a temporary hut. The sound of the river was strong and constant. At night the noise of the water made sleep difficult.
　Yet the prince himself seemed calm in this severe place.
　Kaoru often wondered how the two young daughters lived there. Did they feel lonely? Did they miss the gentle comforts of the capital?
　Sometimes he heard faint sounds from a room near the Buddhist altar. It seemed that the princesses lived there.
　An ordinary man might have been curious to meet them. But Kaoru reminded himself that he had come to learn from the prince, not to become involved in worldly temptations.
　So he devoted himself to listening carefully to the prince’s teachings.
　The prince explained religious ideas with kindness and clarity. He often used examples from everyday life so that Kaoru could understand easily. Kaoru felt that the prince’s wisdom was deeper than that of many famous monks.
　As time passed, Kaoru’s respect for the prince grew stronger and stronger.
　If several weeks passed without a visit, Kaoru felt a strange longing to see him again.

Part 3

　Because Kaoru respected the prince so deeply, the retired Emperor Reizei also began to take a greater interest in the quiet household at Uji. Messages from the emperor were sometimes sent there. What had once been a lonely mountain residence slowly became known again in the capital.
　The emperor also began sending gifts from time to time to support the prince’s household. Kaoru himself often sent both elegant objects and practical supplies whenever he had the chance.
　In this way about three years passed.
　Late in the autumn, the prince planned a special religious observance. He had a custom of holding devotional services in each season of the year. In this particular season the sound of the river near the house became very loud because fishermen were placing their wicker traps in the water. The prince thought that the noise would disturb prayer.
　For that reason he decided to go to the Ajari’s temple and remain there for seven days, devoting himself entirely to prayer and meditation.
　While the prince stayed at the temple, the two princesses remained alone in the mountain villa.
　Around that same time Kaoru suddenly remembered that he had not visited Uji for quite a long while. One night, when the pale moon was rising in the late hours before dawn, he decided to go there quietly.
　He did not want to attract attention, so he traveled with only a few attendants. The prince’s villa stood on the north side of the Uji River, and the road allowed travelers to approach without needing a boat.
　Kaoru rode on horseback.
　As he drew closer to Uji, the night mist grew thicker. Soon the road disappeared into a gray wall of fog. Trees surrounded the narrow path, and a strong wind began to blow through their branches. Drops of cold water fell from the leaves and soaked his clothes.
　Kaoru had rarely traveled through mountain paths at night. The cold air felt sharp against his skin, yet there was also something exciting in the strange atmosphere.
　He quietly recited a poem about fragile tears falling like drops of water from leaves shaken by the mountain wind.
　To avoid frightening the villagers, Kaoru did not allow his attendants to shout warnings along the road. They moved silently through narrow paths between rough fences made of branches. Sometimes they had to cross shallow streams, guiding the horses carefully so the sound would not echo in the night.
　Kaoru himself carried a natural fragrance that always surrounded him. As the wind carried that scent through the air, people sleeping nearby sometimes woke suddenly, wondering where the mysterious smell had come from.
　When Kaoru finally came close to the prince’s villa, he heard something unexpected.
　Faint music drifted through the mist.
　At first he could not even recognize the instrument. The sound was very soft and distant. Then he realized that it was the tone of a biwa. The melody echoed gently through the quiet mountain air.
　Because of the place and the moment, the music sounded more beautiful than ordinary performance.
　The clear sound of the biwa strings rose and fell, and occasionally another sound joined it. That second instrument was the koto.
　Kaoru stopped his horse and listened.
　He had heard people say that the prince’s daughters often played music together. Yet he himself had never heard them.
　“This is fortunate,” he thought quietly. “I should listen for a while.”
　He entered the gate of the villa silently and stood in the shadows.
　The music continued. The biwa produced clear tones, and the koto answered with soft echoes.
　Kaoru felt that he could remain there listening for a long time.
　But although he was careful not to make noise, the fragrance that surrounded him reached the house. A rough-looking guard who was staying there as night watchman stepped outside.
　The man soon recognized the visitor and bowed deeply.
　He explained that the prince was currently staying at the temple for his religious observance.
　“Shall I send word to the temple immediately?” the guard asked.
　Kaoru shook his head.
　“That is not necessary,” he replied gently. “The prince has gone there for prayer, and it would be wrong to disturb him. I only regret that I have come all this way through the mist and rain and must return without seeing him. If the princesses would kindly send even a short message of greeting, I would be grateful.”
　The guard smiled awkwardly.
　“I will report your words,” he said.
　As the man began to leave, Kaoru called him back.
　“Wait a moment,” he said.
　“I have long heard about the music of the princesses but have never had the chance to listen. Since they are playing now, I would like to remain hidden nearby and hear a little more. If I go openly near the room, they will surely stop. Is there a place where I could listen quietly?”
　The guard looked uncertain. Kaoru’s noble appearance and gentle manner impressed him greatly.
　“When no visitors are here, the ladies often play together like this,” he explained respectfully. “But if someone from the capital arrives, they immediately stop. The prince wishes to keep the existence of the princesses hidden.”
　Kaoru smiled slightly.
　“That is a useless effort,” he said. “Everyone already knows of them. People even mention them as examples of noble ladies.”
　Then he added kindly:
　“Please show me the place. You need not worry. I am not a man who comes here for romantic mischief. I only wish to observe their music.”
　The guard hesitated but finally agreed. He explained that a light fence separated the garden from the room where the princesses were sitting. From that fence it was possible to look quietly toward the veranda.
　Meanwhile Kaoru’s attendants were guided to another room of the house so that they would not disturb the quiet scene.
　The sky was still covered in mist, but the moon shone faintly through it. The princesses had rolled up the bamboo blinds slightly so they could see the pale light outside.
　Near the veranda stood a young girl and a maid dressed in thin clothing that looked cold in the autumn air.
　Inside the room one of the princesses sat near a pillar with a biwa resting in front of her. She held the plectrum in her hand and played with it absentmindedly.
　At that moment the moon suddenly appeared from behind a cloud.
　The girl looked up at the sky and said with a soft laugh,
　“Even with a plectrum instead of a fan, perhaps I can still invite the moon to come.”
　Her voice sounded gentle and playful.
　The other princess had been leaning slightly over her koto. She raised her head and smiled.
　“People may use a fan to call the setting sun,” she replied, “but no one invites the moon with a plectrum.”
　The second girl seemed to have a calmer and more refined beauty.
　“Still,” said the first one lightly, “this instrument also has some connection with the moon.”
　The two sisters continued exchanging playful remarks.
　Watching them, Kaoru was surprised. The women he saw were far more graceful than he had imagined. In old stories that women read, beautiful ladies often appeared suddenly in remote places. Kaoru had always thought such stories were unrealistic.
　Yet now he realized that such beauty could truly exist.
　Because of the thick mist he could not clearly see every detail of their faces. He silently wished that the moon would emerge again so he could look more closely.
　But just then someone inside the house announced that a visitor had arrived.
　Immediately the blinds were lowered. The attendants who had been standing outside quietly withdrew into the room. The sisters also moved away from the veranda.
　Their movements were calm and dignified. The faint sound of silk clothing brushing together reached Kaoru’s ears.
　The impression remained deeply in his mind.
　Slowly he stepped away from the fence where he had been watching.
　A strange feeling remained in his heart.

Part 4

　After leaving the place where he had secretly watched, Kaoru walked quietly back into the garden. The mist was still thick, and the pale moonlight made the whole mountain villa look dreamlike. For a moment he stood silently, remembering the gentle voices he had just heard and the graceful movements of the two sisters.
　Then he returned to the guard who had guided him earlier.
　“Because of your kindness,” Kaoru said softly, “my long journey has not been wasted. Please tell the ladies that I came and that I am grateful for their consideration.”
　The guard bowed again and hurried toward the inner rooms.
　Inside the house the princesses were confused and embarrassed. They did not know that Kaoru had secretly seen them, but they realized that the music they had been playing might have been heard by the unexpected visitor. The wind had carried his elegant fragrance through the room, and the unusual scent had already made them uneasy.
　“How careless we were,” they said to one another. “We did not even realize that such an important person had arrived.”
　Meanwhile Kaoru waited in the outer part of the house. The guard soon returned and said that he would inform the ladies of Kaoru’s words.
　Kaoru then called him again.
　“Listen,” he said gently. “I have heard about the princesses for a long time but have never been able to visit them properly. Tonight I came through deep mist and rain, hoping at least to greet them. If they would send even a few words in reply, I would be satisfied.”
　The guard nodded and again went inside.
　The princesses heard the message and felt even more embarrassed. They were not used to speaking with visitors, and none of the young attendants knew how to respond properly. Some of the women whispered nervously, unsure what to do.
　Kaoru waited for a moment, but no answer came.
　Finally he decided that he should speak again.
　The mist was still thick enough that his figure would not easily be seen. Quietly he walked toward the veranda of the room where he had watched the music.
　Sitting just outside the lowered blinds, he spoke politely.
　“Must I remain outside like this?” he asked with a gentle tone. “Surely I may receive at least a little kindness after coming so far through the night. I believe the prince already understands my sincere feelings, and I had hoped that the ladies would also recognize my loyalty.”
　His voice was calm and respectful.
　Inside the room the attendants were still confused. None of them dared answer such a noble visitor.
　The elder princess finally spoke in a very soft voice that was almost like a whisper.
　“The women here are inexperienced and do not know how to answer properly. Please forgive us.”
　Her voice was quiet and refined.
　Kaoru felt deeply moved by the sound.
　“I understand the sadness of life,” he replied earnestly. “Even though I live among ordinary people, my heart often turns away from worldly matters. Your father already knows this about me. Yet you may still see me as only another man from the busy world outside. That thought makes me sad.”
　He continued speaking sincerely.
　“I do not seek a careless or passing friendship. I have tried to live a life free from temptation. Perhaps you have heard this about me. I only hope that we may become friends who understand one another’s hearts and bring comfort to each other in lonely times.”
　The elder princess found it difficult to reply to such words. Her quiet nature made her hesitate.
　At that moment an elderly woman entered the room. She had been resting in another chamber and had just been awakened by the attendants. Seeing the confusion, she came forward to answer in place of the young ladies.
　Her voice sounded experienced and confident.
　“How unfortunate that our visitor has been made to sit outside,” she said. “Why did no one prepare a proper seat within the blinds? Young attendants often fail to recognize the importance of guests.”
　Her words made the princesses feel slightly ashamed, but they were also relieved that someone older was speaking.
　Kaoru listened with interest. Although the woman spoke boldly, her voice was refined and suggested that she had once served in a noble household.
　“I am grateful that you have come,” Kaoru replied. “Until now I felt completely alone here, as though I had no acquaintance at all. Meeting someone who understands the past gives me great comfort.”
　The old woman seemed deeply moved by his words. Suddenly she began to cry.
　“I tried for many years to remain silent,” she said through her tears. “But I have long wished for a chance to speak with you. I prayed again and again that such a moment would come. Now that it has arrived, my heart is full, and I cannot stop these tears.”
　Kaoru was surprised.
　“Why are you so moved?” he asked gently. “If there is something you wish to say, please tell me.”
　The old woman wiped her eyes and continued.
　“Perhaps you have heard that a lady named Kojijū once served in the household of the Third Prince in the capital,” she said slowly. “Many years ago I knew her well. Most of the people of our generation have already died, but I have remained alive and now serve here.”
　Kaoru listened carefully.
　The old woman lowered her voice.
　“There was once a noble lord,” she continued, “the elder brother of the man who is now called the Great Minister of the Right. That lord served as Captain of the Palace Guards. Perhaps you have heard his name.”
　Kaoru nodded faintly. The name sounded familiar.
　“When he became seriously ill,” the woman said, “he called me to his bedside. He knew that his life was ending. Before he died, he left a message for me to deliver someday.”
　She paused and looked toward Kaoru.
　“That message concerns you.”
　Kaoru felt his heart beat faster.
　“Please tell me everything,” he said.
　But the old woman shook her head gently.
　“Not tonight,” she replied. “If I speak too long now, the young attendants will complain that I have behaved improperly. Please remember that there is an old woman here who knows something about your past. If you wish to hear the rest, we must speak again another time.”
　Kaoru felt both curiosity and uncertainty. Her story sounded almost like a strange dream. Yet the words touched a secret doubt that had long existed in his heart.
　For the moment he decided not to press her further.
　“Very well,” he said. “I will remember what you have told me. Another day I hope we may speak again.”
　At that moment a distant temple bell sounded faintly through the thick mist. The sound came from the temple where the prince was staying for his religious retreat.
　The fog grew even deeper. The world around the mountain villa seemed lonely and mysterious.
　Kaoru rose slowly to leave.
　As he prepared to go, he felt deep sympathy for the princesses who lived in such isolation. Their gentle voices and quiet lives remained strongly in his mind.

Part 5

　The mist grew thicker as Kaoru stepped away from the veranda. The sound of the temple bell still floated faintly through the night air. It came from the temple where the prince was spending his days in prayer. The distance between the temple and the lonely villa seemed very great at that moment, and the quiet sorrow of the place touched Kaoru deeply.
　He thought about the two princesses who remained in the house. Their lives must be lonely and uncertain. It was natural that they spoke softly and showed such modest behavior.
　Standing in the mist, Kaoru spoke a gentle poem aloud.
　“In the pale light of dawn I cannot see the road that leads home. The mountain of Maki, which I came to visit, is hidden completely in the mist.”
　Then he added quietly,
　“This is a very lonely place.”
　For a moment he remained there, looking toward the house.
　Inside the room the elder princess listened. She felt moved by his words. Though she was shy, she decided to answer with a poem of her own. Her voice was so soft that it seemed almost to disappear into the fog.
　“The autumn mist grows even thicker around the mountain path. It separates us more and more.”
　After speaking she sighed quietly.
　The faint sound of her breathing reached Kaoru’s ears. It touched his heart in a strange way.
　The mountain villa itself contained nothing that might excite the ordinary desires of a young man. It was a simple place, poor and lonely. Yet Kaoru felt reluctant to leave. The quiet sadness of the princesses made him feel sympathy for them.
　Still, the sky was slowly becoming brighter. If the daylight grew stronger, he feared that his presence there might become embarrassing for the ladies.
　So he spoke once more.
　“We have only just become acquainted, and yet I already feel that our meeting is too short. One day, when we know each other better, I may speak of my disappointment tonight. I hoped that my sincerity would be understood more clearly.”
　After saying this he quietly withdrew from the veranda and returned to the outer room where his attendants waited.
　Some of the men who had come with him stood in the garden looking toward the river.
　“Many fishermen are gathering near the wicker traps,” one of them said. “Yet it seems that the fish are not entering the traps tonight. Everyone looks disappointed.”
　Kaoru listened and looked out toward the river.
　Small boats moved slowly through the dark water. Some carried bundles of branches that would be placed in the river as traps. The work looked cold and difficult. Even on the water the struggles of human life could be seen clearly.
　Watching the scene, Kaoru thought quietly to himself.
　“No one can be certain of peace in this world. Even those who seem to live in comfort may suddenly face suffering.”
　The thought remained in his mind.
　After resting for a short time, Kaoru asked for writing materials. He wished to leave a message for the princesses before returning to the capital.
　Taking a brush, he wrote a poem.
　“Thinking of the lonely lady of the bridge, I travel the swift river road. The drops that fall from the pole of the boatman wet my sleeves.”
　Beneath the poem he added a simple line.
　“Perhaps you spend your days looking only at such sad scenes.”
　He folded the paper carefully and gave it to the guard.
　The man carried it to the princesses’ room.
　The elder princess felt shy when she received the letter. She wished she had time to prepare elegant paper scented with incense, but there was no time. She quickly took a sheet of paper and wrote a reply.
　Her handwriting was graceful and beautiful.
　“Day and night the river of Uji flows past our home. Perhaps the drops from its waves have already soaked our sleeves.”
　Then she added a quiet explanation.
　“Our tears are so many that they almost lift our bodies from the ground.”
　When Kaoru read the reply, he felt very pleased. Everything about the writing suggested refinement and intelligence.
　Yet he also felt a strange sadness. The thought of the lonely sisters remained in his heart.
　Just then one of his attendants returned.
　“Your carriage from the capital has arrived,” the man said.
　Kaoru prepared to leave. Before departing he called the guard once more.
　“Please tell the prince,” he said, “that I will visit again when he returns from the temple.”
　As a gift for the guard, Kaoru removed the damp outer robes he had worn during the journey. He left them there and changed into fresh clothing that had been brought from the capital.
　The guard was astonished to receive such fine garments. They were beautiful robes made from costly white silk, and they carried Kaoru’s natural fragrance.
　Later, when the guard tried wearing them, the rich scent clung to his body in a strange way. Because he was not used to such noble clothing, he felt embarrassed whenever others noticed the fragrance. He even wished he could wash the robes to remove the scent, but of course that was impossible. The situation made people laugh quietly.
　Meanwhile Kaoru returned to the capital.
　Even after arriving home, he could not forget the conversation with the old woman in the villa. Her mysterious words troubled him. They seemed connected to a doubt that had always existed in his heart.
　At the same time the memory of the princesses remained vivid in his mind. They were even more graceful than he had imagined. Their quiet beauty stayed with him like a lingering dream.
　Soon after returning, Kaoru decided to write another letter to the elder princess.
　The message was not a love letter. Instead it was written with serious courtesy.
　On thick white paper he wrote carefully with a fine brush.
　“When I visited so suddenly, I fear that I spoke too much. Because of that concern, I could not say everything I wished before leaving. Please allow me, when I come again, to sit calmly before the blinds of your chamber. I hope to hear when the prince’s religious retreat will end. At that time I would like to visit again and speak with him.”
　After writing the letter he gave it to a trusted messenger and instructed him to deliver it to the old woman who had spoken with him.
　Kaoru also remembered the guard who had waited in the cold night. Feeling sympathy, he ordered several boxes of fine food to be prepared and sent to the villa. At the same time he sent gifts to the temple where the prince was staying, including silk and cotton cloth so that the prince could distribute them to the monks as offerings.
　When the prince finished his seven days of prayer and returned from the temple, he shared those gifts generously with the monks who had joined the ceremony.
　The mountain villa once again returned to its quiet life.
　Yet Kaoru’s thoughts continued to move toward Uji, where the lonely daughters of the prince lived beside the river.

Part 6

　When the prince returned from the temple, the women of the household told him about Kaoru’s visit. They also showed him the letter that had been sent afterward.
　The prince read it carefully.
　“This young man is not someone who should be treated coldly,” he said thoughtfully. “He is very different from ordinary suitors. If something were to happen to me, I believe he would care for this household with sincerity.”
　The prince spoke calmly, but his words made the daughters feel shy.
　They were not used to visitors, and the idea that someone from the capital might care about them made them uneasy.
　Kaoru soon received a letter from the prince expressing gratitude for the gifts he had sent to the temple. After reading the message, Kaoru decided that he should visit Uji again.
　Yet his thoughts were not simple.
　Sometimes he wondered whether his interest in the princesses might be a kind of temptation that would disturb his wish to live a calm and thoughtful life. At other times he remembered their gentle voices and felt that he wished to see them again.
　The strange story told by the old woman also continued to trouble him.
　Because of that story an old question about his own life had begun to rise again in his mind.
　Still, the memory of the princesses remained strong.
　Their quiet grace and natural beauty seemed very different from the women of the capital.
　Kaoru wondered what kind of life they had lived in that lonely mountain house.
　One evening he visited Prince Niou, the son of a high noble family. Niou was famous for his lively nature and his interest in romance. The two men often spent time talking together.
　That evening, after many other topics had been discussed, Kaoru finally began to speak about the prince of Uji.
　He described the lonely mountain villa and the calm character of the Eighth Prince.
　Then he slowly began to describe the princesses.
　Kaoru told the story of the misty night when he had secretly watched them playing music. He spoke carefully, choosing his words so that the beauty of the sisters seemed almost extraordinary.
　Niou listened with great interest.
　“Why did you not show me the letter you received from them?” he asked with a smile. “If I had received such a letter, I would certainly show it to my close friend.”
　Kaoru laughed slightly.
　“You never show me even a small part of the many letters you receive,” he replied. “But in truth, those princesses are not suitable companions for a man like me. They deserve someone far better.”
　He paused before continuing.
　“If possible, I would rather introduce them to you. You might find it interesting to discover such beautiful ladies hidden in a distant place.”
　Niou leaned forward with curiosity.
　Kaoru continued speaking, perhaps exaggerating slightly as he described the elegance and charm of the sisters.
　“At first I thought they would be stiff and overly serious women,” he said. “Living in such a religious household, they might have seemed distant from ordinary life. But when I saw them in the moonlight, I realized that they were truly beautiful. Their manner and their presence seemed almost perfect.”
　Niou’s interest grew stronger and stronger.
　“You must continue investigating,” he said eagerly. “Tell me everything you learn about them.”
　Then he laughed.
　“But I wonder how long you will keep speaking like a monk,” he added teasingly. “You always say that you wish to avoid worldly attachments. Yet I would like to see how long that attitude will last.”
　Kaoru smiled quietly but did not answer.
　In truth, his heart was troubled.
　The mysterious story of the old woman had awakened an old sadness within him. Because of that sadness, even the thought of beautiful women did not easily excite his feelings.
　Soon the tenth month arrived.
　Around the fifth or sixth day of the month Kaoru prepared to visit Uji once again.
　Some of his attendants suggested that they should watch the fishing traps in the river.
　“It is the season for the wicker traps,” one man said. “The fishing would be interesting to see.”
　Kaoru shook his head.
　“No,” he replied quietly. “We humans are no different from those small creatures caught in the traps of the river. I have no wish to watch such a thing.”
　Instead he traveled lightly, taking only a small number of attendants. He rode in a simple carriage and wore fine but modest robes made especially for the journey.
　When he arrived at the mountain villa, the prince welcomed him warmly. Simple but thoughtful dishes were prepared for the guest.
　After night fell, a lamp was placed nearby. The prince and Kaoru sat together discussing religious texts that they had studied before. Later the Ajari was also invited from the temple so that the three of them could exchange ideas.
　They spoke throughout the night.
　Outside the wind from the river blew strongly. The sound of water rushing through the valley mixed with the rustling of falling leaves. The lonely mountain villa felt almost frightening in the darkness.
　Near dawn Kaoru remembered the night when he had heard the princesses playing music.
　So he changed the subject of conversation.
　“Some time ago,” he said gently, “I visited here on a misty night and heard a beautiful sound of music. It lasted only a moment before it stopped. I have regretted ever since that I could not listen longer.”
　The prince smiled faintly.
　“Since I turned away from worldly pleasures,” he replied, “music has become less important to me. I have almost forgotten the art.”
　Yet after saying this, he ordered a servant to bring a koto.
　“When someone encourages me,” the prince added, “I sometimes remember old skills.”
　Then he asked that a biwa also be brought for Kaoru.
　Kaoru took the instrument in his hands and tested the strings lightly.
　After a moment he shook his head.
　“This is not the sound I heard that night,” he said quietly. “What I heard was far more beautiful. It must have been the work of another musician.”
　The prince looked surprised.
　“That must be a misunderstanding,” he replied. “There is no such skill in this house.”
　But Kaoru only smiled gently.
　In his heart he knew that the music had come from the prince’s daughters, whose quiet beauty had already begun to change his thoughts in ways he did not yet fully understand.

 
Chapter 46: Shii ga Moto (椎本)

Part 1

　It was a little after the twentieth day of the second month when Prince Hyōbu decided to visit the temple at Hase in the province of Yamato. This visit was not sudden. Long ago he had made a vow to go there, and now he had finally found the time. Yet there was another reason that quietly drew his heart in that direction. On the road to Hase lay the place called Uji. Many people spoke of Uji as a sad village. Even in old poems it was called a place of sorrow. Still, the prince felt strangely drawn toward it. The reason was clear to those who knew him well. The daughters of the Eighth Prince lived there.
　Many high officers went with him on this journey. Court nobles followed his carriage, and many attendants rode beside them. Only a few people of rank had been left behind in the capital. The prince was loved deeply by both the Emperor and the Empress, and because of that the world treated him with great respect. Those who had served the great house of the Rokujō-in also treated him almost as their lord.
　On the far side of the river stood land that now belonged to the Minister of the Right. It had once been part of the estate of the Rokujō-in. There was a pleasant villa there that looked over the wide flowing water. The minister had prepared a resting place for the prince and his company so that they could stop there on the way to Hase and again on their return. The minister himself wished to come and welcome the prince when he came back through Uji. But on that very day the court astrologers warned him that a day of strict religious caution had arrived. Because of this he could not leave his house. Instead he sent a messenger with words of apology.
　The prince was not unhappy about this. In truth he always felt a little uneasy when he was near the Minister of the Right. The minister’s son Kaoru, who held the post of Counselor Captain, came instead. The prince liked Kaoru very much. When he saw him arrive, he felt pleased. He thought that Kaoru’s presence would make it easier to deal with matters concerning the house of the Eighth Prince at Uji.
　The prince’s companions included many young nobles. The Minister’s sons were among them. There was the Right Controller, the Captain of the Guards, and other men of good birth. When they reached the villa beside the river, they found that the place had been prepared in a charming way. It was simple like a mountain retreat, yet everything was neat and tasteful.
　Boards for games had been placed out. There were boards for go and for sugoroku. Some men began to play games. Others walked along the riverbank and enjoyed the quiet view. The prince himself was not used to traveling far. The journey had tired him. He lay down to rest for a while and listened to the sound of the water.
　When evening came, he ordered that musical instruments be brought out. Soon the air filled with music. Flutes, lutes, and zithers sounded together. The wide river beside the villa seemed to join the music. The sound of flowing water moved softly beneath the notes of the instruments, and the music seemed even more beautiful because of it.
　Across the river stood the quiet residence of the Eighth Prince. The old prince lived there with his daughters in great simplicity. As he sat quietly in his house that evening, he heard the music drifting over the water. The wind carried the sound of flutes and zithers across the river.
　The Eighth Prince listened carefully.
　“That flute,” he said softly to himself. “It is played very well. Who can it be?”
　He closed his eyes for a moment as memories rose in his mind.
　“Long ago the lord of Rokujō-in played the flute in a graceful and gentle way,” he murmured. “But this sound is different. It is clear and deep. It reminds me of the music played by the great minister’s family.”
　He fell silent for a while.
　“So many years have passed,” he said at last. “I have lived far away from the pleasures of the world. Music, gatherings, laughter—those things have all been far from my life.”
　Yet even as he said these words, another thought troubled him. His daughters had grown into women of rare beauty and grace. They lived hidden here in this quiet place like jewels buried in the earth. It seemed such a waste.
　“If only Kaoru would take one of them as his wife,” he thought. “But he does not seem to have such a heart.”
　The old prince could not bear the thought of giving his daughters to shallow men who cared only for pleasure. Because of this he often lay awake deep into the night thinking about their future.
　Meanwhile, on the other side of the river, the young nobles were enjoying themselves greatly. They drank wine, played music, and laughed together. For them the night passed quickly.
　When morning came, Prince Hyōbu felt that it was a shame to leave Uji so soon. The sky was pale with spring mist. Some cherry blossoms had already begun to fall, while others were only just opening. The soft green of willow branches shone beside the river. The wide stream of Uji reflected the light of the sky and the shapes of the trees.
　The prince looked out over the landscape.
　“The gardens in the capital are beautiful,” he said, “but they do not have such wide and open views.”
　He felt reluctant to return to the city.
　Kaoru also felt a strong wish to visit the house of the Eighth Prince while they were here. But he hesitated. Many people were watching him. If he alone crossed the river by boat, they might think he was acting carelessly.
　Just then a messenger arrived.
　The messenger carried a letter from the Eighth Prince. It was addressed to Kaoru.
　The poem written in the letter said:
　“The mountain wind blows the mist apart,
　Yet white waves still lie between us far away.”
　The characters were written in a beautiful flowing hand.
　Prince Hyōbu saw the letter and smiled with interest.
　“This message comes from the house across the river,” he said. “Let me answer it.”
　He quickly wrote a poem in reply:
　“Though waves may lie between distant shores,
　Still the wind of Uji blows through them all.”
　Kaoru decided that he should go across the river himself. Several young nobles who loved music joined him. They stepped onto a boat together.
　As the boat moved slowly across the water, musicians played the piece called “Kansuiraku.” The sound of the instruments floated across the river.
　Soon they reached the residence of the Eighth Prince.
　The house stood beside the water. A long corridor looked out over the river, and a small bridge stretched from the veranda toward the flowing stream. The design was simple but elegant.
　Inside the rooms, the decorations were quiet and refined. Screens made from woven reeds stood in several places. Nothing seemed showy, yet everything showed careful taste.
　Musical instruments of fine quality had been brought out. The Eighth Prince welcomed his guests with gentle courtesy and offered them the instruments.
　A song called “Sakurabito” was sung in the mode of Ichikotsu.
　Everyone hoped to hear the Eighth Prince himself play the zither, for he was famous for his skill. But he played only a few quiet notes from time to time to accompany the others.
　The young nobles listened with great interest. Because they had rarely heard such deep and gentle sounds before, the music seemed very beautiful to them.
　The meal that followed was simple but graceful. Several young princes of royal blood were present, along with a few older nobles who had always shown sympathy for the quiet life of the Eighth Prince.
　Servants brought wine and food with calm and dignified manners. The gathering had the feeling of an old noble household.
　Some of the young men in Kaoru’s party could not help feeling curious about the daughters of the house. They imagined what the princesses might be like.
　Prince Hyōbu himself was especially interested. He had heard from Kaoru that the two sisters were very beautiful. Yet he could not move freely as he wished. That troubled him.
　Finally he could no longer hold back his feelings. He broke off a branch of blooming cherry blossoms and called for a handsome young page who had come with him from the capital.
　“Take this,” the prince said. “Deliver it with my letter.”
　The letter carried a poem:
　“Drawn by the scent of mountain cherry blossoms,
　I came and broke a branch for the same hair ornament.”
　The two sisters looked at the letter. Each tried to give the other the duty of answering it.
　“You should write,” said one.
　“No, you should,” said the other.
　At last an older lady of the household spoke gently.
　“In such matters,” she said, “it is best to answer lightly. It is only a graceful exchange of poems. If you act too seriously, it may appear strange.”
　Because of this advice, the younger princess finally wrote a reply.
　Her poem said:
　“Following the sign of the flower branch you broke,
　A traveler passes the hedge of a mountain home.”
　The characters were written in a beautiful feminine hand.
　The river wind blew freely across the water. The music from the southern shore reached the old prince’s house and pleased those who listened there.
　Before long the imperial messenger arrived to escort Prince Hyōbu back to the capital. Many attendants gathered. With them the prince left Uji.
　As the boats moved away, the young nobles looked back again and again toward the riverbank.
　The prince himself thought quietly, “I must return here again when the chance comes.”
　Many poems were composed on the journey, praising the beauty of the mountains and the river. But the writer of this tale does not know them all.
　Yet even after returning to the capital, Prince Hyōbu could not forget the daughters of Uji. Soon letters began to travel often between his residence and the quiet house beside the river.

Part 2

　Prince Hyōbu soon found that it was difficult to send letters to the princesses openly. People in the capital watched such matters closely. At first he had tried to send messages through Kaoru. But after a time he began to write directly to the house of the Eighth Prince. Letters traveled quietly along the road to Uji again and again.
　The old prince did not forbid these messages. Instead he spoke calmly to his daughters.
　“You may answer his letters,” he said. “But do not treat them as serious proposals. Think of them only as a light exchange of poems. A young prince may simply wish to amuse himself with elegant words.”
　When such advice was given, the younger princess sometimes wrote a short reply. The elder sister did not like even such harmless play. She felt that matters of love should not be treated lightly.
　The life of the sisters in their quiet mountain house remained lonely. Days in spring seemed long. The gentle warmth of the season only made their thoughts wander more deeply.
　Their father often watched them silently.
　The two girls had grown into women of rare beauty. The elder sister was already twenty-five years old. The younger was twenty-three. Their grace and refinement seemed almost too perfect for the quiet place where they lived.
　When the old prince looked at them, his heart felt both pride and sorrow.
　“Such daughters,” he thought, “should not remain hidden in this lonely house. Yet what kind of man could truly care for them?”
　That year astrologers had told him that it was a dangerous year for him. Because of this he spent even more time in prayer than before. Every day he devoted himself to Buddhist practice.
　In truth, the prince no longer felt strong attachment to the world. Often he wished to leave everything behind and become a monk. But one thought always held him back.
　His daughters.
　“If I abandon them,” he thought, “who will protect them?”
　Because of this worry he could not easily follow his wish to enter religious life.
　The ladies who served the household understood his concern. They could see the sadness in his face.
　Sometimes the prince spoke of the matter quietly.
　“If a man appeared who was not perfect but still honorable,” he said, “I might allow him to marry one of the girls without much trouble. If one daughter married, she might be able to help her sister. That would give me peace.”
　But no such man appeared.
　From time to time a young noble who had stopped at Uji on a journey to Hase or Kasuga would send a poem. Such men were usually only curious about the hidden princesses. Their letters were light and playful. They showed little real respect.
　When such messages arrived, the prince often refused to allow his daughters to answer them.
　Only Prince Hyōbu seemed to show real determination. He continued to send poems with sincere feeling. Perhaps, the old prince sometimes thought, it was the result of fate from a former life.
　Meanwhile Kaoru’s own life changed greatly.
　In the autumn he was promoted to the rank of Middle Counselor. His position at court became even more splendid than before. Many people admired his success.
　Yet Kaoru himself did not feel happy.
　Since learning the truth about his birth, he carried heavy thoughts in his heart. The story of his father’s past sins troubled him deeply. He felt sympathy for the suffering of the man who had died.
　“Perhaps,” Kaoru thought, “I must pray for him so that his sins may grow lighter.”
　Because of this feeling he gave much attention to religious practice. He also continued to help the old woman who had told him the truth long ago. He made sure that she never lacked money or comfort.
　One day Kaoru suddenly remembered that he had not visited the house of the Eighth Prince for some time. He felt ashamed.
　“I must go to Uji,” he said to himself.
　He set out at once.
　In the capital it still felt like late summer. But as he traveled toward the mountains, the air became cooler. Near Mount Otowa the wind began to blow more sharply. On the slopes of Mount Makio the leaves had already started to change color.
　Kaoru watched the scenery as he rode.
　“The beauty grows deeper the farther I travel,” he thought.
　When he arrived, the old prince welcomed him warmly. The quiet house seemed even more peaceful than before.
　The prince looked very pleased to see him.
　“You have come at the right time,” he said. “My heart has felt lonely lately.”
　The two men sat together for a long time. The prince spoke about many things that troubled him. Again and again his thoughts returned to his daughters.
　He did not speak directly, yet his meaning was clear.
　“After I am gone,” he said softly, “I hope that someone will sometimes visit this house. It would comfort the girls.”
　Kaoru understood his meaning at once.
　“Please do not worry,” he replied. “Since you have spoken these words to me, I will never forget them. As long as I live, I will not fail to care for your family.”
　The old prince listened to this promise with deep satisfaction.
　Late that night the moon rose slowly over the mountains. The quiet house lay in pale silver light. The old prince sat in prayer while speaking softly with Kaoru about the past.
　“The world today is very different from the one I once knew,” he said. “When I lived at court, there were many nights like this. On such evenings musicians gathered in the palace. Each played his instrument with great skill.”
　He paused for a moment, remembering.
　“Yet sometimes the most beautiful music came from the private rooms of the ladies of the court. In the late hours of night, when everything was quiet, a woman might gently play the zither alone. Such simple music could move the heart deeply.”
　Kaoru listened with respect.
　The old prince continued.
　“Women seem weak, yet they have great power over human hearts. Because of that power they are said to carry deep sin. Even for a father, daughters can become a painful attachment.”
　Kaoru nodded.
　“I understand your words,” he said. “For myself, I have tried to avoid such attachments. Perhaps that is why I have never felt the deep worries that fathers feel.”
　Then he smiled faintly.
　“Yet there is one thing that still holds my heart. It is music. Because of that love I cannot fully leave the world.”
　After a short silence Kaoru added:
　“If it is not troublesome, I would like to hear again the zither and lute that I once heard here.”
　The old prince seemed pleased by this request. He rose quietly and walked toward the rooms where his daughters lived.
　Soon afterward the soft sound of a thirteen-string zither began to flow through the silent house.
　The music was gentle and quiet. It rose and faded like wind moving through autumn grass.
　The young women played only for a short time. They felt shy about performing before a guest.
　The old prince returned to Kaoru.
　“This evening,” he said with a gentle smile, “I will leave the young people to speak together.”
　With that he went to the small Buddhist room to continue his prayers.
　Before leaving, however, he recited a poem:
　“Even if I am gone and this grass hut falls into ruin,
　I believe one promise will never fade.”
　Tears filled his eyes.
　“Perhaps this will be the last time we speak like this,” he said quietly.
　Kaoru felt deeply moved. He answered with a poem of his own.
　“How could the promise of our long bond ever fade,
　While this humble hut still stands?”
　The two men spoke for a while longer. Then Kaoru spent the rest of the night talking with the people of the household.
　Before dawn he left the quiet house of Uji.

Part 3

　Kaoru left the house before the sun had fully risen. The sky above the mountains was still pale, and the mist over the river moved slowly in the early wind. As he traveled back toward the capital, the quiet words of the old prince stayed in his heart. Again and again he remembered the feeling in the prince’s voice when he had spoken of his daughters.
　“Perhaps that will be our last meeting,” the old man had said.
　Kaoru had not believed those words at the time. The prince had often spoken about the sadness and uncertainty of life. Kaoru had thought it was only the reflection of a thoughtful mind. Now, however, those words returned to him with a strange weight.
　In the days that followed, Kaoru became busy with duties in the capital. Autumn ceremonies at court required his presence. Meetings, official letters, and visits to the palace filled his time. Yet even while speaking with other nobles, he sometimes found his thoughts drifting toward the quiet valley of Uji.
　Meanwhile, Prince Hyōbu also continued to think about the daughters of the Eighth Prince. He had planned to visit Uji again in the autumn to see the colored leaves of the mountains. Often he spoke of this plan with excitement.
　Letters from him arrived frequently at the house beside the river.
　The sisters read them with calm courtesy. They did not treat the prince as a foolish admirer, for his words were always graceful. Even in a short note his writing showed elegance and refinement.
　Yet they felt uneasy answering him. Their life had changed greatly after their father’s death. They now lived alone in a quiet house without the protection of a powerful lord.
　Because of this they wished to remain careful in all things.
　Only Kaoru’s letters were answered without hesitation. His words were always gentle and thoughtful. They carried the feeling of sincere concern rather than playful love.
　As autumn deepened, the health of the Eighth Prince slowly grew weaker.
　He often spoke of wishing to stay at the mountain temple for a time. There he hoped to spend his days in prayer without distraction. When he spoke with his daughters, he sometimes gave them advice about the future.
　“All people must die,” he said quietly one evening. “Such is the law of the world. When that moment comes, some find comfort if they know their family will live safely after them.”
　His voice grew softer.
　“But I cannot feel that comfort. I will leave you alone in this world. That thought brings me great sorrow.”
　The sisters listened silently. Tears gathered in their eyes.
　The old prince continued speaking with calm seriousness.
　“Even so, we must not allow such sorrow to weaken our faith. If we cling too strongly to worldly love, we may lose the path that leads to peace after death.”
　He looked at the two young women before him.
　“When I am gone, you must not allow yourselves to be carried away by foolish promises. Do not leave this quiet place because of empty words from men who seek only pleasure.”
　His daughters bowed their heads.
　“Remember this,” he said gently. “Your family has long been honored. Even if you live simply here, you must protect that honor.”
　The sisters felt great sadness hearing such words. They did not worry about their future as much as they feared losing their father.
　“How could we live even one day without him?” each secretly thought.
　The old prince seemed to sense their feelings. Yet he tried to keep his heart calm. Though he wished to free himself from attachment, the love of a father was not easily set aside.
　The day came when he prepared to leave for the mountain temple.
　Before departing, he walked slowly through the house. The buildings were simple and small. He had lived there for many years, never caring for luxury.
　Now he looked at the rooms with quiet eyes.
　“After I am gone,” he thought, “will my daughters be able to endure such a lonely place?”
　Tears filled his eyes as he recited his prayers.
　Then he called several older ladies who had long served the family.
　“When I am no longer here,” he said, “you must take good care of the princesses. Even though this house is poor, they must live with dignity.”
　The women bowed deeply.
　“If a family begins in humble circumstances,” the prince continued, “people do not judge them harshly when misfortune comes. But our house once held honor. Even if the world has forgotten us, we must not forget ourselves.”
　His voice remained calm, yet the women could feel the sorrow behind his words.
　Early the next morning he went again to the rooms of his daughters.
　“Do not feel lonely while I am away,” he told them. “Spend your time peacefully. Play music, read, and keep your hearts calm.”
　He looked at them once more before leaving.
　Then he turned and walked slowly toward the mountain temple.
　The sisters stood together after he had gone. The house felt even quieter than before. They spoke softly with each other as the days passed.
　“If one of us were gone,” the younger sister said once, “how could the other live here alone?”
　The elder sister tried to smile.
　“We will always remain together,” she answered.
　Yet both knew that life often moved in ways people could not foresee.
　Several days later, the sisters waited for news of their father’s return. The days of his religious retreat should soon have ended.
　One evening, as the sun began to set, a messenger arrived from the mountain temple.
　His face showed worry.
　“His Highness has fallen ill,” the messenger said. “Since this morning he has felt unwell and cannot return home.”
　The sisters felt their hearts tighten with fear. At once they prepared warm clothing and other things to send to the temple.
　Another message came soon afterward.
　“It does not seem to be a serious illness,” the messenger said. “He only feels weak. He wishes to rest quietly for a few days.”
　The sisters tried to comfort themselves with these words.
　But several more days passed, and still the prince did not return.
　At the temple the priest who cared for him watched carefully.
　“It may not be a great illness,” the priest said gently. “Yet sometimes the end of life comes quietly like this.”
　The old prince listened calmly.
　“Please do not worry about your daughters,” the priest continued. “Each person carries his own fate.”
　The priest also advised him not to leave the temple.
　“It would be better to remain here peacefully,” he said.
　These events took place around the twentieth day of the eighth month.
　Autumn had grown deep. The air carried a quiet sadness that seemed to touch everything.
　In the house at Uji, the two sisters waited anxiously.
　Early one morning, while the moon still shone brightly over the river, they stood beside the open shutters and looked out at the pale water below.
　At that moment another messenger arrived from the temple.
　His voice trembled.
　“His Highness passed away during the night.”
　The words seemed to stop the world.
　The sisters could not speak. They collapsed silently, as if their strength had vanished. At first even tears would not come.
　When grief is too great, the heart sometimes becomes empty.
　They lay motionless, unable to believe the news.
　The priest soon arranged the funeral rites according to the instructions the prince had given long before.
　The sisters begged to see their father once more. But the priest refused.
　“It is better not to deepen your sorrow with such attachments,” he said firmly.
　Hearing this, the sisters felt both anger and despair.
　Their father had often wished to become a monk. Yet he had remained in the world because he worried about leaving his daughters alone.
　Now that he had gone, the quiet house seemed filled with endless loneliness.
　News of the prince’s death soon reached Kaoru in the capital.
　When he heard it, he wept deeply.
　“Such a noble man,” he said softly. “And yet life ends so quickly.”
　He sent many offerings to the temple and to the house at Uji. He wished to show his respect and sympathy.
　When the sisters received these gifts, they could not help remembering Kaoru’s kindness over many years.
　The valley of Uji, however, remained filled with sorrow.
　The quiet house beside the river had become a place of mourning.

Part 4

　The news of the Eighth Prince’s death spread quietly through the capital. Many people felt sorrow when they heard it. Yet none felt the loss more deeply than Kaoru.
　He sat alone for a long time after receiving the message. The memory of his last meeting with the prince returned again and again to his mind.
　“Perhaps this will be the last time we speak like this.”
　The old prince had said those words with gentle sadness. At the time Kaoru had not taken them seriously. Now he blamed himself for not understanding.
　“Why did I not visit him again sooner?” Kaoru murmured.
　Tears came to his eyes.
　He quickly prepared gifts of mourning and sent them to the temple where the funeral rites were being held. He also sent many offerings to the house in Uji so that the sisters would not lack anything during this difficult time.
　In the quiet house beside the river, the two princesses lived as if lost in a dark dream.
　Days passed slowly. Morning came and evening followed, yet their grief did not grow lighter. They spent most of their time sitting silently together.
　Sometimes they tried to speak.
　“It feels impossible that he is truly gone,” the younger sister whispered.
　The elder sister nodded slowly.
　“Even yesterday,” she said, “we believed he would soon return.”
　Their tears came again and again. The ladies of the household watched them with great worry.
　“If this sorrow continues,” one servant said quietly to another, “their health will fail.”
　The women tried to comfort their young mistresses. They spoke gentle words and reminded them that life must continue.
　Yet the sisters could not easily accept such thoughts.
　When the funeral rites ended, the temple priest carried out the ceremonies exactly as the prince had instructed before his death. Everything was done quietly and with dignity.
　The sisters were not allowed to see their father’s body.
　At first they had begged to see him one last time. But the priest had refused firmly.
　“Such attachments will only deepen your suffering,” he had said.
　Because of this decision, the sisters felt resentment toward the priest. His calm devotion to religious rules seemed cold and distant to them.
　After the funeral, the house in Uji became even more silent.
　The room where their father had once lived remained unchanged. A small image of the Buddha stood there now as a memorial. Some monks came to chant prayers for the soul of the departed prince.
　Their voices filled the quiet halls with solemn sound.
　Kaoru continued to send help.
　He sent money for memorial services. He also sent gifts to the older lady called Ben no Kimi, who had long cared for the household. He arranged for monks to recite prayers regularly.
　Such kindness touched the hearts of the sisters. Even in their grief they could not forget his generosity.
　“He has always been kind to us,” the younger sister said softly one evening.
　The elder sister agreed.
　“Yes,” she replied. “Since long ago he has never failed to think of us.”
　Yet their sorrow remained heavy.
　As time passed, autumn deepened into the ninth month. The mountains around Uji turned red and gold with falling leaves. The sound of the river grew louder in the cool air.
　Everywhere they looked, the sisters saw reminders of loss.
　Leaves fell from the trees like tears from the sky. The wind through the branches seemed to carry the sound of endless mourning.
　Even the ladies of the household could not hide their sadness.
　“It seems impossible that life can continue like this,” one servant said.
　Still they tried to comfort the princesses.
　“Please remember,” they said gently, “that time will slowly ease your sorrow.”
　The sisters listened but did not answer.
　In the house some monks stayed for prayer. The room where the prince had lived was now treated as a sacred place. Those who had once served him came there to recite prayers and remember him.
　Prince Hyōbu also sent letters of sympathy again and again.
　Yet the sisters found it difficult to answer such messages. Their hearts were too heavy with grief. Many letters were left unanswered.
　Because of this the prince felt hurt.
　“Even now they treat me as a stranger,” he complained to his friends.
　He had once hoped to visit Uji in autumn to enjoy the colored leaves. He had even planned to hold a gathering there with poetry and music. But after hearing of the mourning in the house, he abandoned the plan.
　“Such pleasures would be cruel at a time like this,” he said.
　The forty-ninth day after the prince’s death finally passed. According to custom, this marked the end of the deepest mourning.
　Prince Hyōbu believed that by now the sisters might feel ready to exchange letters again. On a quiet evening when autumn rain moved through the sky, he wrote a long message to them.
　His poem said:
　“In the autumn mountain village where the stag cries,
　How lonely must the evening be with dew on the small bush clover.”
　Beneath the poem he added gentle words.
　“On evenings like this I cannot help thinking of the sadness you must feel.”
　The letter reached the house in Uji at dusk.
　The elder sister looked at it thoughtfully.
　“We should not continue to ignore him,” she said quietly. “Please write a reply.”
　She handed the letter to her younger sister.
　The younger princess took the brush slowly. For a moment she tried to prepare the ink.
　But suddenly tears filled her eyes.
　“I cannot write,” she said softly. “Even now it feels wrong that I can sit here and hold a brush. I thought that after father died I would never again do such ordinary things.”
　She pushed the writing stone aside and covered her face with her sleeve.
　The elder sister watched her with gentle sadness. She understood the depth of her sister’s grief.
　At that moment the messenger from the capital spoke from outside.
　“It is already very late,” he said. “If I am to return tonight, I must leave soon.”
　The elder sister hesitated.
　“Tell him to stay here for the night,” she said.
　But the messenger answered quickly.
　“His Highness expects an answer tonight.”
　Feeling sorry for the man, the elder sister finally took the brush herself.
　She wrote a short poem:
　“In this mountain village where tears close our eyes,
　Even the deer cry together beside the fence.”
　The room was dark, and she could barely see the ink on the black paper. Yet she finished the letter quickly and handed it to the waiting messenger.
　The man mounted his horse and rode back toward the capital through the dark road of the mountains.
　When Prince Hyōbu received the letter, he studied the handwriting carefully.
　“This is not the hand that wrote to me before,” he murmured.
　He wondered which of the sisters had written it.
　The thought kept him awake long into the night.

Part 5

　The messenger who carried the letter from Uji rode through the dark mountain road as quickly as he could. Rain clouds hung low over the hills, and the path through the bamboo fields was narrow and silent. Still, the man did not slow his horse. After about an hour he reached the residence of Prince Hyōbu in the capital.
　His clothes were wet from the damp night air when he was brought before the prince.
　Prince Hyōbu looked carefully at the letter. He examined the writing again and again.
　“This is different,” he said quietly.
　The characters seemed slightly more mature than those he had seen before. The brush strokes showed calm intelligence and grace.
　“Which of the sisters wrote this?” he wondered.
　He studied the paper for a long time. The night grew deep, but he did not go to bed. The ladies of his household whispered among themselves.
　“His Highness must find the letter very moving,” they said.
　Some of them felt a little jealous of the unknown woman who had written it.
　Early the next morning, while the mist of dawn still covered the gardens, Prince Hyōbu rose from bed and wrote another letter to Uji.
　His poem said:
　“When a stag cries in the morning mist
　Does everyone hear its lonely voice?”
　Beneath the poem he added a short message.
　“The sorrow in my heart is deeper than the cry of any stag.”
　When the letter arrived in Uji, the sisters read it quietly.
　But they did not answer.
　Their lives had become very different since their father’s death. When he had been alive, they could exchange poems with a nobleman without worry. His presence protected them.
　Now they felt that they must be careful in everything they did.
　“If we continue such playful exchanges,” the elder sister said softly, “people may speak badly of us.”
　The younger sister agreed.
　“Father warned us about such things,” she said.
　So they allowed the letter to remain unanswered.
　Even so, they did not think poorly of Prince Hyōbu. They understood that his letters were elegant and sincere. His writing showed refinement and beauty.
　Yet they felt that responding to him now might lead to trouble.
　Kaoru’s letters, however, were different.
　When Kaoru wrote, he did not speak of love or poetry alone. His words showed true concern for their well-being. Because of this the sisters always sent replies to him.
　After the mourning period ended, Kaoru decided to visit Uji again.
　The road through the mountains had become quiet and cold. Winter was near. The air carried the smell of fallen leaves and distant smoke from village fires.
　When Kaoru arrived at the house beside the river, the servants greeted him with deep respect.
　The house felt different now. Without the Eighth Prince, it seemed strangely empty.
　The two sisters had moved to rooms farther inside the house. They lived there quietly, wearing mourning clothes.
　Kaoru first called for Ben no Kimi, the elderly lady who had long served the family.
　She came slowly to greet him. Her face showed signs of long sorrow.
　“How sad these days have been,” she said.
　Kaoru nodded.
　“I also feel great grief,” he replied.
　Through the old woman he sent a message to the sisters.
　But the younger princess answered from behind a curtain.
　“We have lived these days as if wandering in a sad dream,” she said. “Even now it feels difficult to look upon the world outside.”
　Kaoru listened with sympathy.
　“Your devotion to your father is admirable,” he said gently. “Yet I too feel sorrow, and there is no one else to whom I may speak of it. If you would allow me to come a little closer, I might share words that could ease our hearts.”
　The old lady repeated his request.
　At first the elder sister hesitated. Speaking with a man so directly would have felt improper while their father lived.
　But she remembered Kaoru’s kindness during the funeral. She also remembered her father’s trust in him.
　Slowly she moved a little nearer to the curtain.
　Kaoru spoke in a soft voice.
　“Please do not treat me like a stranger,” he said. “Your father allowed me to visit freely. If we keep too much distance now, my journey here will feel empty.”
　The elder sister answered quietly from behind the screen.
　“Since his death we have felt lost,” she said. “Even stepping outside our rooms feels difficult. The world seems too bright for us now.”
　Her voice sounded weak with grief.
　Kaoru felt deep sympathy.
　He began to speak gently about the Eighth Prince. He described the old man’s kindness, his calm spirit, and the trust he had placed in Kaoru during their last meeting.
　As he spoke, the elder sister sometimes answered softly. Her voice remained faint, yet Kaoru could feel the sadness behind it.
　Through the curtain he could see the shadow of her figure. The dark color of her mourning clothes seemed to deepen the quiet sorrow of the room.
　At one moment Kaoru murmured a poem almost to himself:
　“Even when I see the pale grasses of autumn change color,
　I cannot forget the dark sleeves of mourning.”
　The elder sister heard the words.
　For a moment she tried to reply. Her voice rose softly but then faded away before the words were clear.
　Kaoru did not press her to continue.
　Instead he spoke for a while with Ben no Kimi. The old woman began telling many stories about the past.
　She spoke about the days when the Eighth Prince had still lived happily with his family. She spoke about the early years of the princesses and about the quiet life they had shared.
　All these memories made Kaoru feel even deeper sorrow.
　As he listened, he remembered the strange story of his own birth that this old woman had once revealed to him.
　Because she knew that secret, he did not treat her like an ordinary servant. Even though she had grown old and frail, he spoke to her with kindness.
　“From childhood I have known sadness,” Kaoru said quietly. “When I lost the protection of the former emperor, the world seemed empty to me. Even now, though my rank grows higher, I feel little joy.”
　Tears came to his eyes as he spoke.
　The old woman began to cry as well.
　Kaoru’s face sometimes reminded her of the late nobleman Kashiwagi. Seeing him brought back memories she had tried to forget.
　The room grew silent except for their quiet weeping.
　At last Kaoru stood to leave.
　It felt improper for him to stay the night in a house where only women lived. Yet he hesitated before stepping outside.
　The empty rooms reminded him again of the gentle prince who had once welcomed him there.
　The evening had grown dark.
　A servant approached and spoke quietly.
　“It is already very late.”
　As Kaoru walked outside, a flock of wild geese passed overhead, crying loudly in the cold sky.
　Kaoru looked up and recited another poem:
　“Through the mist of autumn sky the wild geese cry,
　Reminding us that this world is only a brief lodging.”
　The sound of the river flowed beneath the night wind as he slowly left the lonely house of Uji.

Part 6

　The sound of the river followed Kaoru as he left the house and walked toward his carriage. The night air of Uji had grown colder. A thin mist floated above the dark water, and the moon hung pale between drifting clouds.
　Kaoru stopped for a moment before entering the carriage. He looked back toward the quiet house.
　The buildings were almost hidden in darkness. Only a faint light showed from the rooms where the sisters lived.
　“How lonely that house must feel now,” he thought.
　His heart felt heavy as he climbed into the carriage.
　The road back toward the capital was quiet. Only the sound of the wheels and the steady steps of the horses could be heard. Kaoru sat silently during the journey. The image of the elder princess standing behind the curtain remained clear in his mind.
　Her voice had sounded weak with grief. Yet even in sadness it had carried a refined beauty.
　“The old prince trusted me,” Kaoru said softly to himself. “If I fail to care for his daughters, I would betray his kindness.”
　This thought stayed with him even after he reached the capital.
　During the following days Kaoru sent gifts again to the house at Uji. He sent food, cloth, and other useful things. He also arranged for monks to visit regularly and recite prayers for the soul of the late prince.
　The sisters received these gifts with gratitude.
　“Kaoru always remembers us,” the younger sister said.
　The elder sister nodded quietly.
　“Father believed in his kindness,” she replied.
　Life in the mountain house slowly began to change. The first days of deep mourning passed, though the sadness did not disappear.
　The women of the household tried to return to ordinary duties. They cleaned the rooms, arranged the gardens, and prepared simple meals.
　Even so, the house still felt empty.
　Sometimes the younger sister would sit beside the river and listen to the sound of the flowing water.
　“It seems as if the river carries away everything,” she said one evening.
　The elder sister sat beside her.
　“Yet the river never stops,” she answered gently.
　The younger sister sighed.
　“I wonder if we will live here forever like this.”
　The elder sister did not answer.
　She too had begun to worry about the future.
　Their father had always protected them. Now they lived alone in a place far from the capital. Without a strong guardian, their position in the world felt uncertain.
　Meanwhile Prince Hyōbu continued to send letters.
　When he heard that Kaoru had visited Uji again, he felt both curiosity and jealousy.
　“Why does Kaoru go there so often?” he asked his attendants.
　Some of them laughed softly.
　“Perhaps the beauty of the princesses has captured his heart,” one man suggested.
　Prince Hyōbu smiled but did not answer.
　In truth he himself still wished to see the sisters again. Yet he knew that a visit during their mourning might appear disrespectful.
　One evening he spoke about the matter with Kaoru.
　“You have been to Uji again,” the prince said casually. “How are the daughters of the Eighth Prince?”
　Kaoru answered calmly.
　“They remain deeply sad. Their father’s death has left them alone in a very quiet place.”
　Prince Hyōbu listened with interest.
　“They must feel great loneliness,” he said.
　Kaoru nodded.
　“Yes,” he replied.
　The prince leaned forward slightly.
　“Perhaps I should visit them someday,” he said. “It might bring them comfort.”
　Kaoru hesitated before answering.
　“Such a visit might cause unnecessary talk,” he said carefully. “For now it may be better to wait.”
　Prince Hyōbu laughed softly.
　“You speak like a guardian already,” he said.
　Kaoru did not reply.
　In truth his own feelings had begun to change.
　At first he had felt only sympathy for the sisters. But during his last visit he had begun to sense something deeper. The quiet dignity of the elder princess had touched him strongly.
　Yet Kaoru’s nature was thoughtful and cautious.
　“My life should be devoted to prayer and reflection,” he often told himself.
　Because of this belief he tried to keep his heart calm.
　Winter came quietly to the valley of Uji.
　Cold winds blew through the mountains. Frost covered the ground in the early morning. The river flowed dark and heavy beneath the pale sky.
　The sisters remained inside the house most of the time.
　One evening the younger sister spoke softly.
　“It is strange,” she said. “Since father died, Kaoru seems almost like our only connection to the world.”
　The elder sister listened in silence.
　After a moment she answered quietly.
　“Yes.”
　The younger sister continued.
　“When he speaks, his words feel sincere. I believe father trusted him for a reason.”
　The elder sister lowered her eyes.
　“Perhaps,” she said softly.
　Though she tried to remain calm, Kaoru’s presence had begun to trouble her heart.
　Outside the wind moved through the bamboo groves near the river. The sound rose and fell like distant voices.
　The quiet house of Uji stood alone beneath the winter sky.
　And far away in the capital, Kaoru continued to think about the promise he had once made to the Eighth Prince.

 
Chapter 47: Agemaki (総角)

Part 1

　The sound of the river wind had always been familiar to the princesses who lived at Uji. For many years they had heard the flowing water of the Uji River day and night. Yet in that autumn the sound seemed different. The wind that moved across the water felt restless and heavy, and the two sisters could not listen to it without remembering their father.
　Almost a full year had passed since the Eighth Prince had died. The anniversary of his death was approaching. Because of that, the house beside the river had become busy again.
　The sisters were preparing for the memorial service that would be held for their father. Monks would come from the temple, and many sacred objects had to be prepared. The women of the household spoke together about the many small things that were necessary.
　Yet the sisters themselves could do very little.
　“This must be done,” one servant would say.
　“That cloth must be prepared,” another would add.
　The princesses listened and gave quiet instructions, but most of the work was arranged by others. Kaoru had already taken care of the larger matters. Without his help the service might never have been prepared properly.
　The sisters knew this well.
　“If Kaoru were not helping us,” the younger sister once said softly, “I do not know how we could manage anything.”
　The elder sister nodded.
　She too felt deep gratitude. Since their father’s death Kaoru had remained their strongest supporter. Every important arrangement had been made through him.
　One afternoon Kaoru himself came to visit.
　When he arrived at the house the servants greeted him respectfully. Soon afterward the priest from the mountain temple also arrived. The preparations for the memorial service had to be discussed together.
　The sisters were sitting inside their room. They were making decorative cords that would be used to tie fragrant offerings.
　The cords were made of soft threads twisted together in beautiful patterns. When the threads were tied into a knot, the knot formed a round shape called an “agemaki.”
　As they worked, the sisters spoke quietly about their father.
　“Even now,” the younger sister said, “I feel as if he might return.”
　The elder sister answered with a sad smile.
　“We cannot see him again,” she said gently.
　Tears came to both of them as they continued their work.
　At that moment Kaoru approached the veranda outside their room. The curtain was partly open, and through a small space he could see the colorful cords that hung near the edge of the blinds.
　He understood at once what the sisters were doing.
　“Even the poet Ise once said she wished to string her tears like jewels,” Kaoru said softly.
　His voice was calm and thoughtful.
　The sisters felt shy hearing such elegant words. They could not easily answer him.
　In their hearts they remembered another old poem. The poet Ki no Tsurayuki had written that even the road of living people could feel lonely like the road of death.
　Yet they did not speak these thoughts aloud.
　Kaoru had brought writing materials with him. On a sheet of paper he wrote a poem and sent it to the elder sister.
　“Let us tie the knot of a long promise into this agemaki,” he wrote.
　“Let our hearts twist together in the same place.”
　The poem showed clearly that Kaoru wished for a deep and lasting bond.
　The elder sister read it carefully.
　She felt troubled.
　Kaoru’s feelings were sincere, yet she could not easily accept them. After their father’s death she had begun to think that she should live quietly without marriage.
　Still, it would be rude to ignore the poem.
　After a moment she wrote a reply.
　“Our tears are too weak to string together,” she wrote.
　“How could we tie such a long promise with them?”
　When Kaoru received the poem, he sighed quietly.
　“If we never meet,” he said softly, “what use is the thread of jewels?”
　Yet he could not speak directly about his feelings.
　The elder sister’s dignity made him hesitate. Whenever he tried to express his love openly, her noble character seemed to stand before him like a wall.
　Because of this he changed the subject.
　Instead of speaking about himself, he began talking about another matter. Prince Hyōbu had often written letters to the younger sister. Kaoru now asked the elder sister about this possibility of marriage.
　“Prince Hyōbu seems very serious in his feelings,” Kaoru said.
　His voice was thoughtful.
　“Perhaps you should consider his proposal more carefully.”
　The elder sister listened quietly.
　After a moment she answered.
　“Your kindness has brought us closer than anyone in the world,” she said. “But you must understand our position.”
　She spoke slowly and thoughtfully.
　“While our father lived, he never once spoke about our marriage. Because of that I have always believed that he wished us to live quietly without such concerns.”
　She paused before continuing.
　“Still, my sister is young. It would be painful to see her life fade away in this lonely place.”
　Her voice carried deep sorrow.
　Kaoru listened with sympathy.
　He felt that the elder sister was speaking honestly. Yet her words also suggested that she was willing to sacrifice her own happiness for the sake of her younger sister.
　That thought made Kaoru uneasy.
　After speaking with the elder sister, Kaoru called the old woman Ben no Kimi and spoke privately with her.
　“Before his death,” Kaoru said, “the prince told me something important.”
　The old woman listened carefully.
　Kaoru continued.
　“He said that he wished me to take responsibility for the future of his daughters.”
　The old woman nodded slowly.
　She had heard similar words from the prince before.
　Kaoru went on speaking.
　“But the elder princess refuses my feelings,” he said. “Sometimes I wonder if she cares for someone else.”
　The old woman shook her head at once.
　“That cannot be true,” she replied firmly.
　She explained that many servants had already left the household after the prince’s death. Some of them had tried to persuade the sisters to accept marriage proposals. Yet the elder princess had never listened to such advice.
　“Her only wish,” the old woman said, “is that the younger princess might one day find happiness.”
　Kaoru listened in silence.
　Her words moved him deeply.
　Even so, the situation remained difficult. The elder sister continued to resist his love, while Prince Hyōbu continued to pursue the younger sister.
　As the evening grew darker, Kaoru walked outside and looked toward the river.
　The wind moved across the water, and the sound of the flowing current filled the valley.
　“Life is uncertain,” Kaoru thought quietly.
　The preparations for the memorial service continued inside the house.

Part 2

　The autumn wind blew softly through the valley of Uji. The river flowed quietly beside the house, carrying fallen leaves along its dark surface. Inside the residence the preparations for the memorial service continued with careful attention.
　The elder princess sat with several attendants, arranging the sacred cords that would decorate the offerings. The threads were twisted carefully and tied into rounded knots. When the work was finished, the cords would be placed beside incense and sacred objects for the ceremony.
　The younger princess sat nearby. Though she tried to help, her thoughts often drifted away.
　“Father would have known how everything should be arranged,” she said softly.
　The elder sister paused and looked at her.
　“Yes,” she answered. “Whenever something troubled us, he always knew what to do.”
　Both sisters fell silent.
　Outside, the wind moved the bamboo leaves with a faint rustling sound. The atmosphere of the house seemed filled with memory.
　Not far away, Kaoru was speaking again with the old woman Ben no Kimi.
　He seemed thoughtful and somewhat troubled.
　“The elder princess always speaks kindly,” Kaoru said. “Yet she never allows me to come closer.”
　The old woman nodded slowly.
　“Her heart is very proud,” she replied. “She believes she must protect her father’s wishes.”
　Kaoru sighed.
　“But if she remains alone forever, her life will become very lonely.”
　The old woman understood his concern.
　“Perhaps,” she said, “she hopes that you will marry the younger princess instead.”
　Kaoru looked surprised.
　“That cannot be,” he answered quickly. “My feelings cannot change so easily.”
　He paused before continuing.
　“If I truly loved one sister and then married the other, what kind of man would I be?”
　The old woman watched him carefully. His face showed real sincerity.
　She spoke gently.
　“Even so, both princesses depend on you now. Without your help they would have great difficulty living here.”
　Kaoru nodded.
　“I know,” he said quietly.
　At that moment a servant approached to announce that the priest had finished preparing the sacred texts for the ceremony.
　Kaoru and the old woman returned to the main room.
　The sisters were still working.
　The elder princess had placed several finished cords on a tray beside her. Their delicate colors shone softly in the lamplight.
　Kaoru watched her for a moment.
　The graceful movement of her hands seemed very beautiful.
　After a moment he spoke.
　“Your work is very skillful,” he said.
　The elder princess looked down modestly.
　“It is only a small task,” she replied.
　Kaoru sat quietly for a while.
　The peaceful scene moved him deeply. The quiet house beside the river seemed far removed from the noisy world of the capital.
　At last he spoke again.
　“Prince Hyōbu still writes often,” he said.
　The younger princess looked slightly embarrassed.
　“Yes,” she answered.
　The elder sister looked thoughtful.
　“He seems sincere,” she said. “Yet my sister must decide for herself.”
　Kaoru nodded.
　In truth he did not fully trust Prince Hyōbu’s feelings. The prince was known for his lively nature and romantic adventures.
　Kaoru worried that the younger princess might be hurt.
　After a moment he said carefully,
　“Prince Hyōbu is a noble man, but his heart may not be steady.”
　The younger princess lowered her eyes.
　“I do not think about such things,” she said softly.
　The elder sister glanced at her.
　She understood her sister’s shy nature.
　“Perhaps,” the elder princess said gently, “it would be better if we waited for the future to decide such matters.”
　Kaoru did not answer at once.
　The light of the lamp flickered slightly as the wind moved outside.
　Finally he spoke again.
　“Your father once trusted me,” he said quietly. “Because of that I cannot ignore your future.”
　His voice was sincere.
　The elder princess listened with calm dignity.
　“We know your kindness,” she said. “Without your help we could not remain here peacefully.”
　Kaoru bowed his head slightly.
　“Then please allow me to continue helping you,” he said.
　The elder princess gave a small nod.
　“We are grateful,” she replied.
　As the night grew deeper, the conversation turned to memories of the past. Kaoru spoke about the Eighth Prince’s quiet wisdom and gentle character.
　The sisters listened with tears in their eyes.
　After some time Kaoru stood to leave.
　The wind had grown colder, and the river sounded louder in the dark valley.
　Before departing he recited a poem softly.
　“The autumn wind moves through the valley,
　Yet the memory of the past remains in the heart.”
　The elder princess answered with a quiet voice.
　“Though the river flows endlessly,
　Some memories never fade.”
　Kaoru felt deeply moved by her words.
　Yet he also felt the distance that still separated them.
　As he stepped outside, the night sky above the mountains looked dark and endless. The sound of the river followed him down the path.
　Inside the house the sisters remained seated beside the lamp.
　The younger princess looked at her sister.
　“Do you think Kaoru truly wishes to marry you?” she asked.
　The elder princess hesitated.
　“Perhaps,” she said quietly.
　The younger sister watched her carefully.
　“Then why do you refuse him?”
　The elder princess looked toward the dark garden outside.
　“Because,” she said slowly, “your happiness is more important than mine.”
　The younger princess felt tears fill her eyes.
　“Please do not say such things,” she whispered.
　But the elder sister only smiled gently.
　Outside, the autumn wind continued to move through the valley.

Part 3

　The days that followed were filled with quiet preparation for the memorial service. The house beside the river became busier than it had been for many months. Servants moved from room to room carrying incense, cloth, and ritual objects. Monks from the nearby temple arrived to arrange the sacred texts.
　Yet even with so many people present, the house still felt lonely.
　The elder princess often sat silently beside the veranda, looking toward the flowing river. The water moved steadily through the valley, never stopping.
　“Life passes in the same way,” she thought. “Everything moves forward, even when the heart wishes to remain still.”
　The younger princess sometimes joined her there.
　One afternoon she sat beside her sister and watched the autumn leaves fall into the water.
　“Do you remember when father used to sit here?” she asked quietly.
　The elder sister nodded.
　“Yes,” she answered. “He would watch the river and speak about the past.”
　The younger sister sighed softly.
　“It feels strange that we are now alone here.”
　The elder princess did not answer immediately.
　She too felt the same sadness.
　Inside the house Kaoru was again speaking with Ben no Kimi. The old woman had served the family for many years, and she knew the sisters’ feelings better than anyone.
　Kaoru looked troubled.
　“The elder princess still refuses my feelings,” he said.
　Ben no Kimi listened carefully.
　“Her heart is proud,” she replied. “She believes she must protect the dignity of her father’s house.”
　Kaoru sighed.
　“Yet I cannot give up,” he said quietly.
　The old woman looked at him thoughtfully.
　“Perhaps your love is stronger than you realize.”
　Kaoru did not answer.
　His thoughts were confused.
　When he first visited Uji he had felt only sympathy for the lonely sisters. But over time that sympathy had slowly become something deeper.
　Still, the elder princess remained distant.
　Later that evening Kaoru spoke again with the sisters.
　The lamp burned softly in the room. Outside the wind moved through the bamboo leaves.
　Kaoru sat near the curtain that separated him from the women.
　“The memorial service will be held soon,” he said. “Many monks will gather here.”
　The elder princess answered quietly.
　“We are grateful for all your help.”
　Kaoru paused before speaking again.
　“Your father once told me something important,” he said slowly.
　The sisters listened carefully.
　“He said that he trusted me to watch over you after his death.”
　The younger princess lowered her head.
　The elder sister remained silent.
　Kaoru continued.
　“Because of that promise, I cannot forget this house.”
　His voice carried deep sincerity.
　After a moment the elder princess spoke.
　“We know your kindness,” she said gently. “But you must not feel bound by such words forever.”
　Kaoru looked surprised.
　“Why do you say that?” he asked.
　The elder princess answered calmly.
　“Because we cannot allow our lives to burden yours.”
　Kaoru felt troubled by her words.
　“You are not a burden,” he said firmly.
　The elder princess did not respond immediately.
　Finally she spoke again.
　“Your life belongs to the world of the capital,” she said. “You hold an important position at court. Our quiet house is far removed from that world.”
　Kaoru understood her meaning.
　She believed that he should marry a woman of high rank in the capital rather than remain connected to a lonely house in the mountains.
　Yet Kaoru could not accept that idea.
　“The world of the capital does not bring me happiness,” he said softly.
　The room became silent.
　The younger princess listened carefully to their conversation. She could sense the quiet tension between them.
　After a moment she spoke.
　“Perhaps the future will decide these things,” she said gently.
　Her words seemed to calm the atmosphere.
　Kaoru smiled slightly.
　“Yes,” he replied. “Perhaps it will.”
　The conversation soon turned to lighter matters. They spoke about the autumn scenery and the beauty of the valley.
　The younger princess described how the mist rose above the river each morning.
　“When the sun appears,” she said, “the mist slowly disappears.”
　Kaoru listened with interest.
　“I would like to see that someday,” he said.
　The elder princess answered quietly.
　“The valley is beautiful in every season.”
　The night grew deeper.
　The sound of the river seemed louder as the wind increased.
　At last Kaoru stood to leave.
　Before stepping outside he looked once more toward the curtain.
　“Please take care of yourselves,” he said.
　The elder princess answered softly.
　“You as well.”
　Kaoru stepped out into the cold night air.
　Above the valley the moon shone faintly through drifting clouds.
　As he walked toward his carriage, he murmured a poem.
　“Though the river flows far away,
　The heart still remembers the quiet valley.”
　Inside the room the younger princess turned toward her sister.
　“He truly cares for you,” she said.
　The elder princess lowered her eyes.
　“Perhaps,” she answered quietly.
　Yet in her heart she felt uncertain.
　Outside the wind moved through the bamboo groves beside the river.

Part 4

　The next morning the valley of Uji lay under a pale sky. Thin mist rose slowly from the surface of the river, and the sound of water flowing between the stones seemed even clearer in the quiet air. The house beside the river stood still, its wooden roofs dark with night dew.
　Inside the house the sisters had already risen.
　The elder princess sat beside the veranda, looking out toward the mist that covered the valley. The younger sister came and sat quietly beside her.
　For a while neither of them spoke.
　At last the younger sister said softly, “Last night Kaoru seemed very serious.”
　The elder princess did not answer immediately.
　She watched the river for a long moment before speaking.
　“He has always been sincere,” she said gently.
　The younger sister looked at her carefully.
　“Then why do you continue to keep distance from him?” she asked.
　The elder princess lowered her eyes.
　“Because I am not certain that marriage would bring happiness,” she replied quietly.
　The younger sister seemed surprised.
　“But Kaoru is a kind man,” she said.
　The elder princess nodded.
　“Yes. That is exactly why I hesitate.”
　The younger sister did not understand.
　“What do you mean?” she asked.
　The elder princess spoke slowly.
　“If I accept his love, his life will become tied to this lonely place. I do not wish to hold him back.”
　The younger princess looked troubled.
　“But he himself chooses to come here,” she said.
　The elder sister smiled faintly.
　“Sometimes kindness makes people forget their own path.”
　The younger sister fell silent.
　At that moment one of the servants approached.
　“The monks have begun preparing the prayer hall,” she said.
　The memorial service for their father would soon begin.
　The sisters stood and returned to the inner rooms.
　Monks from the temple had already arrived. Their robes moved quietly as they arranged the sacred objects and incense stands.
　The room slowly filled with the soft smell of incense.
　Kaoru arrived again before the ceremony began.
　He entered the house quietly and greeted the attendants. When he heard the low voices of the monks reciting prayers, his face became serious.
　The elder princess spoke to him from behind the curtain.
　“You have come again,” she said.
　Kaoru answered respectfully.
　“Today is an important day.”
　The chanting of the monks soon began.
　Their voices rose slowly, filling the hall with deep and steady sound. The rhythm of the prayers seemed to move like waves across the quiet house.
　The sisters sat together behind the curtain.
　Tears sometimes filled their eyes as they listened.
　“Father must hear these prayers,” the younger sister whispered.
　The elder princess gently touched her sleeve.
　“Yes,” she said softly.
　Kaoru sat in another part of the hall, listening with deep respect. He remembered the calm and thoughtful character of the Eighth Prince.
　“A man like him should not be forgotten,” Kaoru thought.
　The ceremony continued for many hours.
　Offerings were placed before the image of the Buddha. Incense smoke rose slowly into the air, forming thin gray lines that drifted toward the ceiling.
　Outside the autumn wind moved through the valley.
　After the prayers ended, the monks remained for a while to speak quietly with Kaoru about future memorial services. Kaoru listened carefully and promised to continue supporting the temple rites.
　The sisters heard his voice through the screen.
　“He always thinks of everything,” the younger princess said softly.
　The elder sister nodded.
　When the monks finally left the house, the evening had already begun to fall.
　The sky above the mountains had turned pale red, and the river reflected the fading light.
　Kaoru remained for a short time longer.
　The elder princess spoke to him quietly.
　“Today’s ceremony was peaceful. Father would have been grateful.”
　Kaoru answered gently.
　“It is only a small way to repay his kindness.”
　The younger princess added softly, “You have done far more than that.”
　Kaoru did not reply at once.
　Instead he looked toward the garden where the autumn wind moved through the grass.
　“Your father once spoke to me about the future,” he said slowly.
　The sisters listened carefully.
　“He worried that this house would become lonely after he was gone.”
　The elder princess felt tears rise again.
　Kaoru continued.
　“Because of that he asked me to watch over you.”
　His voice was quiet but firm.
　The elder princess answered softly.
　“You have already done more than enough.”
　Kaoru shook his head slightly.
　“Not yet,” he said.
　The younger princess watched them both.
　She felt that something unspoken still existed between them.
　Night soon covered the valley.
　The lamps inside the house were lit, and their soft light shone against the wooden walls.
　Kaoru prepared to leave.
　As he stepped outside, the cold wind touched his face. The sound of the river seemed stronger in the darkness.
　He paused and looked back toward the house.
　“The quiet of this place never changes,” he thought.
　Behind him the lamps still glowed faintly through the screens.
　Inside, the sisters sat together in silence.
　After a moment the younger sister spoke.
　“Do you think our lives will remain like this forever?”
　The elder princess looked toward the dark garden.
　“I do not know,” she said quietly.
　The wind moved through the bamboo once again, and the sound of the river continued through the night.

Part 5

　The days after the memorial service passed slowly in the quiet valley of Uji. Autumn had already begun to fade, and the air grew colder with each morning. Frost sometimes appeared on the grass beside the river before the sun rose.
　The sisters continued to live quietly in the house.
　After the ceremony many monks had returned to the temple, and the servants again carried out their ordinary duties. The house became calm once more.
　Yet the feeling of emptiness remained.
　One evening the younger princess stood beside the veranda and looked at the river. The pale moon had risen above the mountains, and its light spread across the dark water.
　The elder sister soon came to stand beside her.
　“You are still awake,” she said gently.
　The younger sister nodded.
　“I could not sleep,” she replied.
　They both looked out toward the flowing water.
　The younger princess spoke softly.
　“Since the memorial service ended, the house feels even quieter.”
　The elder sister understood.
　“During the ceremony there were many people here,” she said. “Now the silence has returned.”
　The younger sister hesitated before speaking again.
　“Do you think Kaoru will continue to visit us?”
　The elder sister remained silent for a moment.
　“He has always been kind,” she answered carefully.
　The younger sister turned to her.
　“But kindness alone cannot explain his actions,” she said.
　The elder princess did not reply.
　In her heart she knew that Kaoru’s feelings were deeper than simple kindness.
　Yet she continued to hold herself back.
　At the same time Prince Hyōbu still thought often about the younger sister.
　His curiosity had not faded. Though he had not visited Uji openly, he sometimes spoke about the sisters with his close friends.
　One evening he spoke again with Kaoru.
　The two men were sitting together in the capital, speaking quietly after a gathering at court.
　Prince Hyōbu smiled as he turned the conversation toward Uji.
　“You seem to visit that lonely valley often,” he said.
　Kaoru answered calmly.
　“Someone must care for the daughters of the late prince.”
　Hyōbu laughed lightly.
　“Is that the only reason?” he asked.
　Kaoru looked at him without expression.
　“What other reason would there be?”
　Prince Hyōbu leaned back.
　“You know very well that the beauty of those sisters is famous,” he said.
　Kaoru did not answer.
　Hyōbu continued speaking with playful curiosity.
　“Tell me honestly. Which of the two has captured your heart?”
　Kaoru replied quietly.
　“Such matters should not be discussed lightly.”
　Hyōbu studied his face for a moment.
　Then he laughed again.
　“Your silence tells me everything,” he said.
　Kaoru changed the subject.
　“And what about you?” he asked. “You once wrote many letters to the younger princess.”
　Hyōbu smiled.
　“Yes, she is very charming.”
　Kaoru spoke carefully.
　“Her life is quiet and innocent. If you pursue her carelessly, you may cause pain.”
　Hyōbu waved his hand lightly.
　“You think too seriously,” he said.
　Kaoru’s voice became firmer.
　“Not everything in the world is a game.”
　Hyōbu watched him with curiosity.
　“You speak as if you are already their guardian.”
　Kaoru did not deny it.
　“Perhaps I am,” he said.
　After that their conversation moved to other topics.
　Yet Prince Hyōbu continued to think about the sisters.
　Meanwhile the winter wind began to blow across the valley of Uji.
　One morning the younger princess looked out of the window and saw that the river banks were covered with frost.
　“Winter has arrived,” she said quietly.
　The elder sister joined her.
　“Yes,” she answered.
　The air outside looked pale and cold.
　Later that day a letter arrived from Kaoru.
　The younger sister carried it to her elder sister.
　“It is from him,” she said.
　The elder princess opened it slowly.
　Kaoru had written a poem.
　“Though winter wind blows through the valley,
　My thoughts remain beside the river of Uji.”
　Beneath the poem he had added a few gentle words.
　“The cold season has begun. Please take care of your health.”
　The elder sister read the letter twice.
　Her expression remained calm, but the younger princess could see that she was moved.
　“You should answer him,” the younger sister said.
　The elder princess hesitated.
　“Perhaps a short reply is proper.”
　She took the brush and wrote slowly.
　“The river flows even in winter cold.
　Yet the heart remembers those who care.”
　When the letter was finished, she gave it to the servant who would carry it to the capital.
　After the servant left, the younger sister looked at her.
　“Your poem sounded warm,” she said with a small smile.
　The elder princess lowered her eyes.
　“It was only a polite answer.”
　Yet in her heart she felt a quiet emotion she could not easily name.
　Outside the winter wind moved across the valley.
　The river continued its endless flow beside the silent house.
　And far away in the capital, Kaoru waited for the reply.

 
Chapter 48: Sawarabi (早蕨)

Part 1

　Spring came again to the valley of Uji. The mountains slowly turned soft green, and the river flowed gently beneath the pale sky. Yet for the young lady who still lived in the mountain house, the beauty of spring brought little comfort. Since the death of her elder sister, every season seemed filled with quiet sorrow. Even when the sunlight touched the trees and flowers began to open, her heart felt empty and uncertain.
　She often sat beside the veranda and looked out toward the river. The soft sound of birds and the color of the new grass reminded her of the days when she and her sister had spoken together about poetry and the beauty of nature. They had once shared every small joy of life. Now she lived alone, and those memories seemed to float around her like a dream.
　“How strange it is that I still live,” she sometimes thought.
　Her elder sister had always been the one who understood her feelings. When something beautiful appeared in the garden, they would speak about it together. When sadness came, they would comfort each other with poems and quiet words. Without that gentle presence beside her, every day felt longer and more silent.
　Even the flowers that opened in the garden seemed lonely.
　One morning a letter arrived from the temple where the priest who had cared for their father lived. The messenger carried a small basket as well as the letter. Inside the basket were fresh mountain plants—young shoots of fern and wild herbs that had just appeared in the early spring.
　The priest had written a few simple words.
　“Now that the new year has begun,” he wrote, “I wonder how you are living. I continue to pray for your happiness before the Buddha every day. These young plants were gathered in the mountains by the temple boys. They were first offered to the Buddha. Please accept them.”
　The writing looked awkward and uneven. It was clear that the priest had written it with great effort. At the bottom of the letter he had added a poem written in large, separated characters.
　When the young lady read the poem, tears filled her eyes.
　The poem spoke about the first fern shoots of spring and the many years that had passed while the writer continued to remember someone dear.
　She felt deeply moved by the sincerity of the words. The priest’s writing was simple, even clumsy, but it carried real feeling. Compared with the beautiful letters written by noblemen in the capital, these plain words seemed closer to her heart.
　She picked up a brush and began to write her reply.
　Her hand trembled slightly as she wrote.
　“This spring,” she wrote in her poem,
　“to whom shall I show these young mountain plants,
　gathered as a memory of the one who is gone?”
　When the letter was finished, she gave a gift to the messenger and sent him back toward the temple.
　As she watched him leave, the servants of the house looked at her carefully.
　Her appearance had changed during the months of mourning. She had grown slightly thinner, and the sadness in her heart had softened the expression of her face. Yet this change made her beauty even more striking.
　Some of the women whispered quietly among themselves.
　“She now resembles her elder sister very closely,” one said.
　“Yes,” another answered. “If one were not careful, one might believe the elder princess had returned.”
　While they spoke in this way, news from the capital continued to arrive.
　Kaoru, the nobleman who had loved the elder sister, still mourned her deeply. People said that he remained lost in grief and often seemed absent-minded.
　When the younger princess heard these stories, her heart felt strangely moved.
　“His love for my sister was sincere,” she thought.
　At the same time another nobleman had begun to think seriously about her future.
　Prince Niou, who had once visited Uji and admired the sisters, now found it difficult to travel there as he had before. Court duties and other obligations made the journey almost impossible. Because of this he decided that the young lady should come to live in the capital instead.
　“It would be better if she lived near me,” he thought.
　After some time had passed, Kaoru went to visit Prince Niou one evening.
　The air of early spring was cool and quiet. When Kaoru arrived, the prince was sitting near an open window. He was playing softly on a thirteen-string zither and enjoying the gentle fragrance of blooming plum flowers nearby.
　The scene felt peaceful and elegant.
　Kaoru approached the tree and gently broke off a small branch covered with blossoms. Holding it in his hand, he stepped inside the room.
　Prince Niou smiled when he saw him.
　“You come like the spirit of spring itself,” the prince said.
　Then he recited a playful poem about the hidden beauty of the flower branch Kaoru carried.
　Kaoru answered with a light joke, pretending to worry that breaking the branch might cause trouble.
　Their conversation soon became more serious.
　The prince asked about the young lady in Uji.
　“How does she live now?” he asked.
　Kaoru spoke quietly about her loneliness and her deep grief after the loss of her sister.
　As he described the situation, he also spoke about his own sorrow. He remembered the many moments he had shared with the elder sister and the quiet love that had never fully become marriage.
　While he spoke, his voice sometimes trembled.
　Prince Niou listened with sympathy. He had a sensitive heart and easily felt the sadness of others. Before long tears appeared in his eyes as well.
　Outside the room the sky had grown dark.
　A soft spring mist began to cover the night, and the wind rose suddenly, bringing a cold feeling that reminded them that winter had not fully disappeared.
　The lamps flickered in the wind, and at one moment the light almost went out.
　Yet the two men continued talking.
　Kaoru spoke about the strange path his life had taken. Though he had loved deeply, that love had never brought him happiness. Even now he felt that the peace he desired remained far away.
　Prince Niou listened carefully and tried to comfort him.
　His gentle words slowly eased the heaviness in Kaoru’s heart.
　For a long time they continued speaking in the quiet room while the spring night deepened outside.

Part 2

　The wind outside the palace continued to blow through the early spring night. From time to time the thin clouds moved across the moon, and the light inside the room changed softly. Prince Niou had set the zither aside, and the two men now sat facing one another.
　Kaoru still held the branch of plum blossoms that he had broken in the garden.
　The fragrance of the flowers drifted gently through the room.
　Prince Niou watched his friend for a moment.
　“You still think often of the lady who died in Uji,” he said quietly.
　Kaoru lowered his eyes.
　“Yes,” he replied.
　His voice was calm, yet sorrow remained inside it.
　“Even now,” he continued, “I sometimes feel that her memory follows me everywhere.”
　Prince Niou listened carefully.
　“You loved her deeply,” he said.
　Kaoru nodded slowly.
　“But my love brought her no happiness,” he answered.
　The two men fell silent for a moment.
　Outside the wind shook the branches of the plum tree. Some petals fell and drifted across the garden.
　Prince Niou spoke again.
　“And what about her younger sister?” he asked.
　Kaoru looked slightly surprised.
　“Why do you ask that?” he said.
　Prince Niou smiled faintly.
　“Because I have not forgotten her.”
　Kaoru did not answer at once.
　He knew very well that Prince Niou had once been interested in the younger princess.
　After a moment he said quietly,
　“She still lives in the house beside the river.”
　Prince Niou leaned forward slightly.
　“That place must be very lonely now,” he said.
　Kaoru nodded.
　“Yes,” he replied. “Her sister is gone, and her father is gone as well.”
　Prince Niou thought for a moment.
　“Then perhaps she should not remain there,” he said.
　Kaoru looked at him carefully.
　“What do you mean?”
　The prince answered calmly.
　“I am thinking that she should come to the capital.”
　Kaoru remained silent.
　Prince Niou continued speaking.
　“If she stays in that lonely valley forever, her life will slowly fade away.”
　Kaoru understood the truth of those words.
　Still, he felt a strange uneasiness.
　“And where would she live if she came here?” he asked.
　Prince Niou smiled slightly.
　“Near me.”
　Kaoru knew the meaning behind that answer.
　The prince had already begun to imagine bringing the young lady into his household.
　For a moment Kaoru felt a sharp pain in his heart.
　He tried to hide it.
　“If that happens,” he said carefully, “you must treat her with great respect.”
　Prince Niou laughed gently.
　“You speak like her guardian again.”
　Kaoru did not deny it.
　“Her father once trusted me,” he said quietly.
　The prince looked thoughtful.
　“Then perhaps you should help arrange this matter.”
　Kaoru felt troubled.
　In his heart he still remembered the quiet dignity of the elder sister who had died. Now the younger sister’s future seemed to be moving toward a new path.
　After a moment he said slowly,
　“If she comes to the capital, the journey will not be easy for her.”
　Prince Niou nodded.
　“Yes, I understand that.”
　He paused before continuing.
　“But life cannot remain still forever.”
　Kaoru could not argue with that.
　Outside the palace the wind began to calm, and the night grew quieter.
　After some time the conversation turned to other matters of court life. Yet both men continued to think about the young lady in Uji.
　Far away in the valley beside the river, she was also thinking about the future.
　That evening she sat in her room with a few attendants.
　A small lamp burned beside her, casting soft light across the wooden floor.
　One of the women spoke gently.
　“A message has arrived from the capital.”
　The young lady looked up.
　“From whom?” she asked.
　“From Prince Niou.”
　The attendants placed the letter in her hands.
　She opened it slowly.
　The writing was beautiful and elegant.
　The prince asked about her health and spoke kindly about the sadness she must still feel after losing her sister.
　At the end of the letter he added a poem about the early spring plants that grow again after winter.
　When she finished reading the letter, the young lady sat quietly.
　One of the attendants asked,
　“Will you send a reply?”
　The young lady hesitated.
　“I do not know what to say,” she answered softly.
　Her heart was still filled with memories of the past.
　The house beside the river had been her home since childhood. Every tree and every stone held some memory of her father and sister.
　The thought of leaving that place filled her with uncertainty.
　Yet she also knew that life could not remain unchanged forever.
　The attendant spoke again.
　“The prince seems very sincere.”
　The young lady looked at the letter once more.
　“Perhaps,” she said quietly.
　But her heart remained uncertain.
　Outside the house the spring night continued peacefully.
　The sound of the river moved through the valley as it had done for many years.
　Yet the future of the young lady was slowly beginning to change.

Part 3

　Several days passed after the letter from the capital arrived. During that time the valley of Uji slowly changed as spring moved forward. The mountains became brighter with new leaves, and the sound of birds filled the quiet air. Yet the young lady who lived in the mountain house felt little joy in these signs of the season.
　Each morning she walked for a short time beside the veranda and looked toward the river. The water moved steadily, carrying small branches and fallen leaves along its surface.
　“Everything continues to move forward,” she thought.
　But her own heart remained uncertain.
　The attendants of the house had begun speaking more often about the future. They believed that the young lady should not remain alone in Uji forever.
　One afternoon an older attendant spoke gently.
　“The world of the capital is very different from this quiet place,” she said. “There you would find many people and many opportunities.”
　The young lady listened but did not answer immediately.
　“This house holds the memory of my father and my sister,” she said at last.
　The older woman nodded.
　“Yes. But memories alone cannot support a life.”
　The young lady lowered her eyes.
　The truth of those words troubled her.
　Later that same day another letter arrived from the capital. This time the message had been sent through Kaoru.
　When the letter was brought to her room, she opened it slowly.
　Kaoru’s writing was calm and careful, as always.
　He spoke about the coming of spring and the beauty of the flowers that had begun to open in the capital. Then he gently mentioned the plan that Prince Niou had been considering.
　“The prince wishes to welcome you to the capital,” he wrote.
　The young lady read the line several times.
　Kaoru’s letter continued.
　“The journey may seem difficult at first. Yet I believe it would bring you a new life and new comfort.”
　The words were written with kindness, but they also carried quiet persuasion.
　When she finished reading, the young lady folded the letter slowly.
　For a long time she sat without speaking.
　One of the attendants asked carefully,
　“Does the letter contain important news?”
　The young lady nodded.
　“Yes.”
　The women waited quietly.
　Finally she said,
　“Prince Niou wishes me to come to the capital.”
　The attendants exchanged glances.
　Some of them seemed pleased.
　“That would be a great honor,” one woman said.
　Another added,
　“Life here has become too lonely.”
　The young lady listened to their words.
　In her heart she felt both hope and fear.
　That evening she walked alone in the garden for a short time. The sky had turned pale gold as the sun began to set behind the mountains.
　She stopped beside a small tree where young shoots had begun to grow.
　The sight reminded her of the basket of ferns that the temple priest had sent earlier in the spring.
　“New life always appears again,” she thought.
　Yet leaving the valley felt like leaving the past behind forever.
　When night came she sat beside the lamp and began writing a reply.
　Her brush moved slowly across the paper.
　She thanked Prince Niou for his concern and wrote that she would consider his invitation carefully.
　After finishing the letter she sealed it and gave it to the messenger.
　The messenger left early the next morning.
　The road from Uji to the capital passed through hills and forests. As the messenger rode away, the young lady stood on the veranda and watched until he disappeared among the trees.
　Days later the reply reached the capital.
　Prince Niou read the letter with great interest.
　Kaoru was present when the message arrived.
　The prince smiled after reading it.
　“She has not refused,” he said.
　Kaoru nodded quietly.
　“That is true.”
　Prince Niou looked pleased.
　“Then we must prepare a place for her here.”
　Kaoru remained silent.
　Although he knew this arrangement might bring happiness to the young lady, a strange feeling had begun to grow in his heart.
　He remembered the quiet nights in Uji and the memory of the elder sister who had died.
　Now the younger sister was moving toward a different future.
　Prince Niou noticed Kaoru’s thoughtful expression.
　“You do not seem pleased,” he said.
　Kaoru answered calmly.
　“I am only thinking about how quickly life changes.”
　The prince laughed lightly.
　“Change is the nature of the world.”
　Kaoru could not argue with that.
　Meanwhile, preparations slowly began for the young lady’s journey from Uji to the capital.
　Attendants gathered clothing and other necessary things. The house that had once been quiet with mourning now became busy with activity.
　Yet for the young lady herself, each step toward departure felt heavy.
　She often stood beside the river and looked at the flowing water.
　“Soon I may leave this place forever,” she thought.
　The river continued to move through the valley as it always had.
　And with each passing day, the moment of departure came closer.

Part 4

　The days before the journey passed quickly in the valley of Uji. The quiet house that had once seemed empty was now filled with movement and soft voices. Servants carried boxes, folded garments, and arranged small objects that would travel with their lady to the capital.
　The young lady watched these preparations with mixed feelings.
　Sometimes she felt hope. At other moments she felt deep sadness.
　“Everything in this house carries a memory,” she thought.
　Each room reminded her of her father and her elder sister. The veranda where they had once spoken together, the garden where they had listened to birds, and the path beside the river where they had walked in the evenings—all these places seemed to speak to her heart.
　One morning she walked slowly through the house with an older attendant who had served the family for many years.
　The woman said gently,
　“You must not think that leaving this place means forgetting it.”
　The young lady looked at her.
　“But once I go to the capital, my life will change.”
　The attendant nodded.
　“Yes. Yet the memories of this valley will always remain with you.”
　They stopped beside a window that looked out toward the mountains.
　The spring sunlight touched the distant trees, and the air carried the smell of fresh leaves.
　The young lady sighed softly.
　“My sister loved this season,” she said.
　The attendant bowed her head.
　“She did.”
　Both women remained silent for a moment.
　Meanwhile in the capital Prince Niou continued preparing for the young lady’s arrival.
　He ordered that rooms be arranged for her in his residence. Beautiful screens were placed in the chambers, and soft curtains were hung near the veranda.
　Flowers were planted in the garden so that the view from her room would be pleasant.
　When Kaoru visited the prince again, he saw these preparations.
　“You are taking great care,” Kaoru said.
　Prince Niou smiled.
　“Of course,” he replied.
　Kaoru watched the servants working.
　For a moment he felt an uneasy emotion.
　“She will enter a very different world,” he thought.
　Later that day Kaoru returned to his own residence.
　As he walked through his garden he saw the branches of the cherry trees beginning to open.
　The pale blossoms reminded him of the valley of Uji.
　“Perhaps she will be happier here,” he said quietly to himself.
　Yet the thought did not fully comfort him.
　Back in Uji the time of departure finally arrived.
　The young lady’s attendants gathered early in the morning. Carriages had been prepared, and several servants stood ready beside them.
　The road to the capital was long and difficult, so they wished to leave before the sun rose too high.
　The young lady stood beside the veranda for a final moment.
　She looked toward the river and the mountains that surrounded the valley.
　The wind moved gently across the water.
　“This place has been my home for so many years,” she thought.
　Tears filled her eyes.
　One of the attendants spoke softly.
　“It is time.”
　The young lady nodded.
　She stepped into the carriage slowly.
　As the wheels began to move, the servants and attendants followed behind.
　The road climbed through the hills that surrounded the valley.
　From the window of the carriage the young lady watched the familiar landscape pass by.
　The river slowly disappeared behind the trees.
　The path then turned toward a steep mountain road.
　The journey was difficult.
　The road was narrow, and the carriage moved slowly over the stones. Sometimes the young lady felt tired and leaned against the cushions inside the carriage.
　When the sun began to set, the sky turned pale with evening light.
　A thin moon appeared above the distant mountains.
　The young lady looked toward it and spoke quietly to herself.
　“Even the moon leaves the mountains to cross the sky.”
　The words came to her like a poem.
　She felt as if her own life were moving away from the past in the same way.
　Late that night the group finally approached the capital.
　The buildings and gates of the city appeared in the distance.
　The young lady had never lived there before.
　“What kind of life waits for me here?” she wondered.
　Soon the carriage entered the residence that Prince Niou had prepared.
　The gates opened, and the carriage passed through a large courtyard.
　Servants carrying lanterns stood ready to welcome her.
　Prince Niou himself came forward.
　He stepped toward the carriage and gently helped her step down.
　The young lady felt shy and uncertain.
　Yet she could see that the prince treated her with great care.
　Inside the residence everything had been prepared beautifully.
　Lamps glowed softly in the rooms, and fine screens stood beside the walls.
　Even the rooms of the attendants had been arranged with attention.
　The young lady looked around with quiet surprise.
　Prince Niou smiled.
　“I hope this place will bring you comfort,” he said.
　The young lady bowed her head.
　“Thank you,” she answered softly.
　Outside the night wind moved through the garden of the capital.
　Far away the river of Uji continued to flow through the valley she had left behind.

Part 5

　After the long journey from the valley of Uji, the young lady spent her first night in the new residence with little sleep. The rooms were beautiful and carefully arranged, yet the unfamiliar surroundings made her feel uneasy.
　Lamps burned softly behind the screens. The quiet voices of attendants could be heard moving in the corridors.
　The young lady lay awake and listened to these sounds.
　“This place is very different from Uji,” she thought.
　In the mountain house the nights had been filled only with the sound of the river and the wind in the bamboo. Here in the capital the air carried distant voices, footsteps, and the faint movement of carriages passing outside the gates.
　The new world around her seemed both bright and uncertain.
　Early the next morning the attendants helped her prepare for the day.
　Sunlight entered the room through the open screens, and the garden outside appeared fresh and green. Cherry trees were beginning to bloom, and their pale flowers moved gently in the spring wind.
　One of the attendants spoke softly.
　“The prince will come to greet you later this morning.”
　The young lady nodded quietly.
　She felt shy about meeting him again so soon after the journey.
　Meanwhile Prince Niou had already risen.
　He walked through the garden outside the residence, enjoying the soft air of the early spring morning. The branches of the cherry trees were covered with light pink blossoms.
　Kaoru arrived not long afterward.
　The two men walked together beneath the trees.
　Prince Niou smiled.
　“She arrived safely last night,” he said.
　Kaoru nodded.
　“That is good to hear.”
　The prince looked pleased.
　“You should visit her today,” he added.
　Kaoru hesitated slightly.
　“Perhaps later,” he replied.
　In truth Kaoru felt uncertain about seeing her so soon.
　His heart still carried many complicated emotions.
　The prince did not notice his hesitation.
　“The residence seems to suit her well,” he continued.
　Kaoru looked toward the building.
　“Yes,” he said quietly.
　For a moment he remembered the quiet house beside the river. Compared with that lonely place, the residence in the capital appeared bright and full of life.
　Later that day the young lady sat with several attendants in her room.
　They spoke about the journey and about the new surroundings.
　One of the women said,
　“This residence is very beautiful.”
　Another added,
　“The prince has shown great care.”
　The young lady listened politely.
　“Yes,” she answered.
　Even so, she felt a quiet longing for the mountains of Uji.
　The garden outside the window was elegant and well arranged, but it lacked the wild beauty of the valley she had left behind.
　Soon a servant arrived with a message.
　“Kaoru has come to visit.”
　The young lady looked surprised.
　“Already?”
　The attendants smiled slightly.
　“He has always shown great concern for you.”
　The young lady lowered her eyes.
　“Please show him respect,” she said softly.
　Kaoru entered the residence quietly.
　The attendants guided him to a seat near the veranda. From there he could see part of the garden and the cherry trees that were beginning to bloom.
　After a moment a message was sent to the young lady.
　She replied politely and allowed a short meeting through the screen.
　Kaoru spoke gently.
　“Your journey must have been difficult.”
　The young lady answered from behind the curtain.
　“Yes, the road through the mountains was long.”
　Kaoru continued,
　“I am glad that you arrived safely.”
　The young lady remained silent for a moment.
　Then she said softly,
　“You have always helped us with kindness.”
　Kaoru felt moved by her words.
　“Your father once asked me to watch over you,” he replied.
　The young lady lowered her head behind the screen.
　“I remember.”
　For a short time they spoke about the valley of Uji.
　Kaoru described how the cherry trees there would soon bloom.
　The young lady listened quietly.
　Memories of the mountain house returned to her heart.
　Finally Kaoru said,
　“If you ever wish to speak about the past, please do not hesitate to call for me.”
　The young lady answered gently,
　“Thank you.”
　The conversation ended soon afterward.
　Kaoru rose and stepped outside.
　The cherry blossoms moved softly in the spring wind.
　As he walked away from the residence, he felt a strange mixture of relief and sadness.
　“Her life has entered a new path,” he thought.
　Yet even while he tried to accept this change, the memory of the past still held his heart.
　In the garden the blossoms continued to fall slowly through the air.

 
Chapter 49: Yadorigi (宿木)

Part 1

　The time was one of quiet sadness in the imperial palace. In the women’s quarters there lived a lady known as the Lady of Fujitsubo. She was the daughter of the late Minister of the Left. Long ago, when the Emperor had still been Crown Prince, she had entered the palace early and had been deeply favored by him. Because of this long affection, the Emperor continued to care for her even after many years had passed.
　Yet the years had not brought her the same fortune that others in the palace had known. The Empress had given birth to many royal children, and each of them had grown into honorable princes and princesses. The Lady of Fujitsubo, however, had borne only a single daughter, a princess who was known as the Second Princess.
　The lady loved this daughter with great devotion. Since she knew that she herself had lost the competition of the palace, she wished at least to make the life of this child bright and secure. The princess became the center of her hopes for the future. Everything that the lady could give in love and care was given to the young girl.
　The princess was also very beautiful. Her appearance was graceful and refined, and the Emperor himself showed her great affection. Although the Empress’s eldest daughter was treated with the highest honor in the court, the Second Princess did not live a lesser life. She was still a royal daughter, and her position in the palace was elegant and splendid.
　The house of her late grandfather had once held great power, and the remains of that influence still supported her household. Because of this, there was no lack of wealth. Her attendants wore fine clothing, and the residence where she lived was decorated according to each season of the year. The rooms changed with flowers and colors that matched the time of spring, summer, autumn, or winter. Everything around her showed the rich dignity that belonged to a noble princess.
　When the princess reached the age of fourteen, her mother began preparing for the ceremony of her coming of age. This ceremony, called the Mogi ceremony, would mark her entrance into womanhood. From the spring of that year, the Lady of Fujitsubo devoted herself completely to the preparations. She wished the event to be more beautiful than any ordinary ceremony.
　Servants searched through the storehouses for precious objects that had been handed down from their ancestors. Old treasures were carefully brought out and examined. The lady planned to use them to decorate the ceremony so that it would be remembered for its elegance.
　She worked on these preparations with great energy. Yet during the summer she began to suffer from a strange illness. People whispered that perhaps a spirit had possessed her. The sickness grew worse very quickly.
　Not long afterward, the Lady of Fujitsubo died.
　Her death caused deep sorrow in the palace. The Emperor himself mourned greatly. Because she had always been kind and gentle, many of the court officials also felt that the palace had become lonely without her presence. Even ladies who had not served her closely spoke with sadness when they remembered her.
　For the young Second Princess the loss was far more painful. She was still a young girl, and her mother had been her only strong support. The Emperor worried deeply about her loneliness. He thought of her often with pity and concern.
　After the forty-nine days of mourning had passed, the Emperor quietly ordered that the princess should come to live near him in the palace. When she arrived at the former residence of Fujitsubo, the Emperor visited her often to comfort her.
　She wore black mourning clothes, and in those dark robes she looked even more delicate and beautiful. Her manner was calm and dignified. The Emperor soon noticed that her character was intelligent and thoughtful. In some ways she seemed even deeper and quieter than her mother had been.
　These qualities gave the Emperor some comfort. Yet another thought troubled him. The princess had no powerful uncle who could support her in the world. Her mother’s brothers held only modest positions. One was an official of the treasury, and another served in a minor office. They were respectable men, but they did not possess great influence.
　For a woman, the Emperor knew, such weakness in family support could become a disadvantage in the future. Because of this, he felt that he alone carried full responsibility for the princess’s life. The thought weighed on his heart.
　One autumn day the chrysanthemums in the palace garden were still blooming brightly. Their colors had not yet faded, though the season was already turning cold. Light rain clouds moved across the sky, and now and then a short shower fell. The day felt quiet and somewhat lonely.
　On that day the Emperor went first of all to the residence of Fujitsubo. As he sat with the princess, he began speaking about her late mother. The princess answered him politely and calmly. Her replies were thoughtful, and she spoke with a seriousness that seemed older than her years.
　The Emperor watched her with affection. While he listened to her speak, another thought slowly formed in his mind.
　“Surely,” he thought, “there must be a worthy husband for such a princess.”
　He remembered the marriage of the Third Princess to the lord of the Rokujo estate. At that time some people had said that a royal princess might remain unmarried and live with sacred dignity. Yet that marriage had produced a fine son, the noble Kaoru, and the princess continued to receive the respect of the world.
　The Emperor considered this example carefully. If the Second Princess remained unmarried, he feared that her lonely life might lead her into some unfortunate situation. Even without intention, a woman alone in the world might fall into trouble or become the subject of unkind gossip.
　Therefore he thought it would be best to choose a husband for her while he himself was still alive and strong enough to guide her future.
　“Who,” he wondered, “would be the most suitable man?”
　After thinking about many possibilities, his mind returned again and again to one person.
　That man was Kaoru, the noble Middle Counselor.
　Kaoru possessed dignity, intelligence, and refinement. As the son of the Third Princess, he had noble blood, and his character was respected by everyone. Even if he had other loves, the Emperor believed that he would never treat a wife with disrespect.
　Still, Kaoru remained unmarried. It would not be long before he chose a wife for himself. The Emperor thought that he should hint at his wishes before that happened.
　Some time later the Emperor was playing a game of go in the palace. Evening was approaching, and the light of the sky began to grow soft. Outside, short showers of autumn rain passed across the garden. The chrysanthemums shone beautifully in the fading light.
　The Emperor looked at them for a moment and then called to a court attendant.
　“Who is in the chamber of the courtiers today?” he asked.
　The attendant bowed and answered, “The Prince of Nakatsukasa, the Prince of Kozuke, and the Middle Counselor Kaoru are present.”
　“Call the Middle Counselor here,” the Emperor said.
　Soon Kaoru entered the room. Even from a distance a gentle fragrance seemed to surround him. His appearance was elegant and noble, and everyone in the court admired his refined manner.
　The Emperor smiled.
　“Today’s autumn rain feels brighter than usual,” he said. “It is a pleasant day. Yet I do not feel like listening to music. When one wishes to pass the time quietly, a game of go is often the best choice.”
　He ordered the board to be brought near and invited Kaoru to play.
　Kaoru did not think this invitation unusual. The Emperor often called him close in this friendly way. But after the game began, the Emperor spoke again with a playful tone.
　“It would be good if we had some interesting prize for the winner,” he said. “But the prize I have in mind is something that cannot be given away for a small defeat. Can you guess what it might be?”
　Kaoru suddenly became tense. It seemed that he had understood the hidden meaning behind the words.
　The game continued. They played three matches, and the Emperor lost two of them.
　Laughing lightly, he said, “Ah, how unfortunate. Very well. Today I shall give you only one chrysanthemum from this garden.”
　Kaoru did not answer. Instead he stepped down to the garden, chose a beautiful chrysanthemum, and returned with it in his hand.
　Then he spoke a poem.
　“If this flower were one that bloomed on an ordinary fence in the world, I would pick it freely with my own heart.”
　The poem carried a gentle meaning. The Emperor understood the feeling behind it and answered with a poem of his own.
　“Even though the garden flowers may fade under frost, the color that remains still keeps its beauty.”
　Though the Emperor spoke in hints like this from time to time, Kaoru did not move quickly toward marriage. His nature was cautious, and he did not easily change his way of life.
　“Marriage is not my true wish,” he thought to himself. “Many proposals have come to me before, and though I felt pity for those ladies, I refused them all. If I take a wife now, I will become like an ordinary man of the world.”
　And deep within his heart another thought remained.
　He still remembered the woman of Uji who had died. Because of that memory, he could not feel eager about any new marriage.

Part 2

　Although the Emperor often spoke in gentle hints about the Second Princess, Kaoru did not immediately act upon them. Outwardly he remained calm and respectful, but within his heart he felt hesitation. The thought of marriage itself did not attract him. For many years he had refused proposals that would have pleased most men of his rank.
　“Why should I change my life now?” he often thought quietly to himself. “If I suddenly take a wife, people may think that I have returned to the ordinary world. I have always wished to live differently.”
　Yet his thoughts were not guided only by pride or philosophy. There was another reason hidden much deeper in his heart.
　He still remembered the woman of Uji.
　Her image had never disappeared from his mind. Even though time had passed, the sadness of her death remained strong. Sometimes he wondered why fate had allowed him to love her yet never become her husband. That question returned to him again and again.
　Because of this memory, the Emperor’s plan did not fill him with excitement. The Second Princess was noble and beautiful, but Kaoru’s heart still moved toward the past.
　While these thoughts troubled him, events in other houses also continued to develop.
　The Minister of the Left had long hoped to marry his daughter, the Sixth Princess, to Prince Hyōbu. He had believed that Kaoru might once agree to marry the girl, but when Kaoru refused the proposal, the minister turned his hopes toward the prince instead.
　Prince Hyōbu had not clearly accepted this plan. Even so, he often sent letters to the young lady and showed interest in her. The minister believed that if the prince were persuaded patiently, the marriage would finally take place.
　The minister spoke frequently to the Empress about this matter. He explained that good husbands were difficult to find and that daughters should not be allowed to remain unmarried for too long.
　The Empress listened with concern. At last she spoke to Prince Hyōbu herself.
　“The minister has waited a long time,” she said gently. “It is not kind to delay forever. A prince’s honor often depends on the strength of those who support him. You must think carefully about your future.”
　She continued her advice at length, explaining how powerful families could help a prince rise in the world. She reminded him that even men who already had wives sometimes married again when the situation required it.
　Prince Hyōbu listened politely.
　In truth he did not dislike the minister’s daughter. Yet he also disliked the idea of becoming too closely connected with a powerful political house. Such a marriage might take away some of his freedom.
　Still, he knew that opposing the minister too strongly would create enemies. Slowly his resistance weakened.
　Even so, Prince Hyōbu remained a man of many interests. His attention often moved from one lady to another. He had not yet forgotten the daughter of the Azetchi Dainagon, a young woman famous for her beauty, who was sometimes called the Lady of the Red Plum.
　His curiosity toward women continued to lead him toward many small adventures.
　The year passed without major events. Meanwhile the mourning period for the Second Princess had ended. Because of this, the Emperor no longer needed to wait before arranging her marriage.
　From time to time people approached Kaoru and spoke to him quietly.
　“If His Majesty truly wishes it,” they said, “he will allow the marriage immediately.”
　Hearing such words, Kaoru felt that it would be rude to remain completely silent. At last he began sending occasional letters through the attendants of the Second Princess. These letters were written in the polite language of a suitor.
　The princess never showed any sign of rejection. Her attendants received the letters respectfully.
　Even so, Kaoru’s heart remained distant from the matter.
　When he thought quietly about his future, the face that returned to his mind was always the same—the woman of Uji who had died.
　“Why,” he sometimes asked himself in sorrow, “did fate join our lives so closely, only to separate us before we could truly be together?”
　The more he thought about it, the more mysterious it seemed.
　“If she had lived,” he continued in his thoughts, “even if she had been of low rank, I would gladly have made her my wife.”
　Sometimes he imagined that perhaps some faint image of her might still exist somewhere in the world.
　“If only there were some way,” he thought, “to see even the shadow of her again.”
　These feelings made his heart restless. Because of them, the coming marriage with the Second Princess did not bring him joy.
　At the same time another woman was suffering quietly.
　This was Naka no Kimi, the younger sister of the woman Kaoru had loved in Uji.
　She now lived in the residence of Prince Hyōbu. Although the prince treated her kindly, rumors had begun to spread about his new marriage to the minister’s daughter.
　When Naka no Kimi heard these rumors, her heart filled with unease.
　“I always knew that such a day might come,” she thought sadly. “I have no strong family behind me. How could I hope for lasting happiness?”
　She remembered the peaceful days she had once spent in the mountain village of Uji with her father and her elder sister. At that time the world had seemed lonely but calm.
　Now the capital felt far more painful.
　Prince Hyōbu had often spoken loving words to her. He had promised that their bond would never change. Because of those promises she had slowly allowed her heart to rest in his affection.
　But if he married another woman from a powerful family, what would become of her position?
　“Perhaps,” she thought bitterly, “I will return to Uji one day and live there quietly again.”
　The thought filled her with shame. Returning after marriage would surely bring gossip from the people of the village.
　“How foolish I have been,” she said to herself. “My sister understood the world better than I did.”
　Her elder sister had refused Kaoru’s love and had even wished to become a nun. At the time Naka no Kimi had not understood such determination.
　Now she began to see its meaning.
　“She must have known how uncertain the world is,” she thought.
　These reflections brought tears to her eyes.
　Yet she did not speak openly about her sorrow. She decided to remain silent and pretend that she knew nothing of the prince’s new marriage.
　Meanwhile Prince Hyōbu, perhaps feeling some guilt, behaved more affectionately than usual toward her. Day after day he spoke of the future and promised that their love would continue beyond this life.
　But Naka no Kimi’s body had begun to feel weak.
　Since early summer she had often felt tired and had little desire for food. She spent much of her time lying quietly indoors.
　Prince Hyōbu had never observed the condition of pregnancy closely before. At first he believed that the heat of summer was simply making her uncomfortable.
　Yet sometimes he looked at her thoughtfully and said,
　“Perhaps you are carrying a child. I have heard that women often feel like this at such a time.”
　Naka no Kimi became embarrassed when he said such things. She tried to deny it gently, and since none of the attendants spoke clearly about it, the prince never became completely certain.
　Autumn arrived.
　One day Naka no Kimi heard that the prince’s first visit to the minister’s daughter would take place in the eighth month.
　The news reached her through quiet whispers among the servants.
　The prince himself did not speak about it directly. Perhaps he feared that the words would hurt her.
　Yet this silence made the pain even deeper.
　Until now he had never spent nights away from her except for official duties at the palace. But recently he had begun to remain at court more often.
　“He is preparing me for the future,” she realized.
　Kaoru also heard about the coming marriage. When he imagined the loneliness that Naka no Kimi would soon feel, he could not help pitying her.
　“The prince’s heart is easily moved,” he thought. “Even if he loves her, the bright new bride will surely attract his attention.”
　The more he considered it, the more he blamed himself.
　Long ago he had been the one who arranged the marriage between Prince Hyōbu and Naka no Kimi. At that time he had acted almost recklessly, trying to escape from his own painful love for her sister.
　Now he wondered if his decision had brought suffering to everyone.
　During many sleepless nights these thoughts troubled him.
　The sound of the wind often woke him before dawn. When he lay awake in the darkness, memories of the past filled his mind. The world seemed empty and uncertain.
　“Why is my heart so stubborn?” he asked himself.
　Even though he had several ladies living in his household, none of them had captured his true affection. He had always believed that he could live calmly without deep attachment.
　Yet now he saw that his heart was still bound to the memory of the woman who had died.

Part 3

　These troubled thoughts did not leave Kaoru even when morning came. On one autumn dawn he had remained awake the entire night. A thin white mist covered the garden, and the flowers appeared faintly through it. Among the many plants, a single morning glory caught his eye.
　The flower looked fragile. Drops of dew rested on its petals, shining softly in the pale light.
　Kaoru watched it quietly.
　“How uncertain life is,” he murmured to himself.
　The morning glory had long been used as a symbol of the briefness of human life. As he looked at it, his heart filled again with memories of the woman who had died in Uji.
　He had fallen asleep only lightly beside the open veranda. The doors of the room had been left raised through the night, and the cool air had entered freely. Now the dawn mist drifted slowly across the garden.
　For a long moment he simply watched the flowers.
　At last he called a servant.
　“Prepare a simple carriage,” he said. “I wish to visit the Northern Residence.”
　After giving this order he changed his clothes.
　When he stepped down into the garden his appearance was striking even in the quiet morning light. He had not intended to appear elegant, yet an unusual grace surrounded him. His figure was refined and noble, far beyond that of ordinary men who tried to appear fashionable.
　He bent slightly and pulled the morning glory closer.
　The movement caused the dew to fall from the petals.
　Holding the flower in his hand, he spoke softly.
　“Shall I admire this color only for this brief moment? Even the dew that rests upon it may vanish at any time.”
　Then he plucked the flower and carried it with him.
　Soon afterward he entered his carriage and set out through the mist toward the residence of Prince Hyōbu.
　As the carriage approached the gates of the mansion, Kaoru wondered whether he had arrived too early. If the prince had spent the night elsewhere, the household would still be sleeping.
　“It would be awkward to knock loudly at the gates,” he thought. “People might think I am too familiar with the place.”
　He called one of his attendants and ordered him to look quietly through the entrance.
　The man returned after a moment.
　“The shutters are already raised,” he reported. “It seems the ladies are awake and busy inside.”
　Kaoru stepped down from the carriage and walked slowly through the mist into the garden.
　The ladies of the house soon noticed him.
　At first they thought that their master, Prince Hyōbu, had returned secretly during the night. But the faint fragrance carried by the damp air was unmistakable. They realized that the visitor was Kaoru.
　Some of the younger attendants whispered quietly to one another.
　“He truly is an extraordinary man,” one said softly. “Yet perhaps he is a little too calm and pure.”
　Their movements remained graceful and quiet as they brought cushions and arranged a seat for him.
　Kaoru smiled gently.
　“It is an honor that you allow me to sit here,” he said. “But I feel sad when I am received only from behind the curtains. Because of that, I hesitate to visit too often.”
　One of the ladies answered playfully.
　“Then what would satisfy you?”
　Kaoru replied,
　“A quiet room in the north wing would be pleasant for an old friend like myself. But of course such matters depend on your lady’s wishes. I cannot complain.”
　He leaned slightly against the wooden beam beside the veranda while he spoke.
　The attendants laughed softly and whispered toward the inner room, encouraging their mistress to appear.
　Naka no Kimi had always been gentle and reserved. She had never possessed the boldness that some women showed toward men. Yet time had passed since their earlier meetings, and now she felt less embarrassed than before.
　Kaoru’s voice was calm and gentle. It reminded her strangely of her elder sister.
　“I have heard that your health is poor,” he said kindly. “What illness troubles you?”
　Naka no Kimi could not answer clearly. She spoke only a few vague words.
　Kaoru already suspected the reason for her weakness. The thought made him feel even greater pity.
　Sitting quietly outside the curtain, he began speaking about the difficulties of life and the patience that people must learn when facing sorrow. He spoke as a brother might speak to comfort a younger sister.
　As Naka no Kimi listened, his voice seemed more and more familiar to her. It resembled the voice of the sister she had lost.
　Kaoru himself felt a similar confusion.
　“How strange,” he thought. “Her voice sounds almost exactly like the voice of the one who died.”
　The feeling filled his heart with pain.
　“If it were not improper,” he thought, “I would raise the curtain and speak to her face to face.”
　But he remained where he was.
　After a moment he spoke again.
　“I once hoped to live my life quietly, without becoming deeply involved in worldly sorrow,” he said. “Yet fate has brought me many regrets. I see now that human hearts are weak.”
　As he spoke, he looked down at the morning glory resting on his fan.
　The white petals had begun to fade slightly. A faint color of red appeared within them.
　He gently passed the flower through the curtain.
　Then he recited a poem.
　“Perhaps this morning glory should be admired from afar. The dew that rests upon it reminds me of promises that cannot last.”
　Naka no Kimi took the flower in her hand.
　She had not expected such a gift. The petals still held a few drops of dew.
　Yet even while she watched, the flower began slowly to close and wither.
　She answered quietly with a poem of her own.
　“The flower fades before the dew has even disappeared. The dew remains behind, as though sorrow lasts longer than beauty.”
　After speaking these words she fell silent.
　Her quiet voice and gentle manner reminded Kaoru even more strongly of her sister. The memory caused him deep sadness.
　For a while he remained silent, and then he spoke again.
　“Autumn always fills me with melancholy,” he said. “Recently I visited Uji again. The garden and fences had fallen into ruin. Seeing that place brought tears to my eyes.”
　He continued speaking about the past—the death of his father, the sadness that had once filled the great houses of the capital, and the way time slowly softened even the deepest grief.
　As he spoke, tears came into his eyes.
　Naka no Kimi listened quietly behind the curtain.
　She too had been thinking constantly of her sister. Hearing Kaoru’s sorrow awakened her own memories, and soon she could no longer stop her tears.
　The two of them sat separated by the thin curtain, yet their sadness joined them closely.
　At last Naka no Kimi spoke again.
　“Sometimes I think that life in the mountains might be easier,” she said. “The world in the capital is filled with sorrow. If it were possible, I would like to return quietly to Uji.”
　Her voice trembled slightly.
　“When the memorial day for my father arrives later this month, I wish to hear the temple bell in the mountains again. If you would kindly arrange it, I would like to visit the old residence.”
　Kaoru listened carefully.
　“That journey would be very difficult for a lady,” he replied. “Even men find the road dangerous. But the memorial services have already been arranged. The priest there will take care of everything.”
　He continued speaking seriously about the temple and the possibility of turning the old house into a place devoted to prayer.
　Naka no Kimi understood that he had also guessed her deeper wish—to leave the capital and remain in Uji forever.
　But Kaoru advised against such a decision.
　“Please do not think of withdrawing from the world so quickly,” he said gently. “Whatever happens, you must endure with a generous heart.”
　As the sun rose higher, the sounds of servants gathering in the house became louder. Kaoru realized that he had stayed long enough.
　“If I remain here any longer,” he thought, “people may misunderstand.”
　He stood slowly.
　“I am not accustomed to being received only from behind curtains,” he said lightly. “But perhaps I will visit again.”
　With those polite words he prepared to leave.
　Before departing he called one of the senior attendants of the household.
　“I heard that the prince left the palace last night,” Kaoru said. “I came hoping to greet him, but it seems he has not yet returned.”
　The attendant answered respectfully.
　“His Highness will surely return today.”
　Kaoru nodded.
　“Then perhaps I will see him later this evening.”
　After saying this he left the residence.
　Yet as he walked away, the sound of Naka no Kimi’s quiet voice remained in his mind. The memory of her sister returned once more, bringing with it the same painful regret.
　“Why,” he asked himself again, “did I allow such a mistake to happen?”

Part 4

　After leaving the residence of Prince Hyōbu, Kaoru walked slowly toward his carriage. The morning mist had already begun to disappear, and the autumn sunlight shone more clearly across the garden paths. The leaves of the trees had started to change color. Some branches showed deep red and pale gold, signs that the season was turning.
　Kaoru paused for a moment before entering the carriage.
　The conversation with Naka no Kimi remained strongly in his thoughts.
　“Her voice,” he murmured to himself, “is so much like her sister’s.”
　The memory stirred his heart painfully.
　He remembered the quiet evenings in the valley of Uji, when he had once spoken with the elder sister beside the river. Her calm words and gentle manner had always carried a quiet strength.
　“If she had lived,” he thought, “how different everything would be now.”
　At last he stepped into the carriage.
　The horses moved slowly through the streets of the capital. People along the road recognized the noble counselor and bowed respectfully as the carriage passed.
　Yet Kaoru paid little attention to these greetings.
　His thoughts remained far away in the past.
　Meanwhile inside the residence Naka no Kimi remained seated quietly behind the curtain.
　The morning glory that Kaoru had given her rested in her hand.
　The petals had almost closed now, and the dew had disappeared.
　One of the attendants approached gently.
　“Shall I remove the flower?” she asked.
　Naka no Kimi shook her head.
　“No,” she said softly. “Leave it here a little longer.”
　The attendant stepped back without speaking further.
　Naka no Kimi continued to look at the fading flower.
　“It is just like life,” she thought.
　Happiness appeared only briefly and then disappeared.
　Her heart felt heavy with sadness.
　She knew that Prince Hyōbu’s marriage to the minister’s daughter would soon take place. Although he had not spoken openly about it, the servants had already begun preparing for the event.
　“When the new bride arrives,” she thought, “my place in this house will become smaller.”
　The thought frightened her.
　She tried to remember the kind words the prince had spoken to her many times before.
　“Our bond will never change,” he had said.
　Yet promises made in love often changed when the world moved in a different direction.
　Naka no Kimi sighed quietly.
　One of the younger attendants whispered to another,
　“Our lady seems very sad today.”
　The older attendant replied softly,
　“You must speak carefully. She carries great worry in her heart.”
　They did not say the rest of their thoughts aloud.
　Some of the women had already begun to suspect that Naka no Kimi was expecting a child.
　Because of this possibility, they watched her condition closely.
　As the morning continued, Prince Hyōbu returned from the palace.
　When he heard that Kaoru had visited earlier, he seemed slightly surprised.
　“So he came here this morning?” he said.
　One of the attendants answered,
　“Yes. He spoke kindly with our lady and asked about her health.”
　The prince nodded thoughtfully.
　“Kaoru has always been considerate,” he said.
　He then entered the room where Naka no Kimi was resting.
　She greeted him politely.
　The prince noticed that her face looked pale.
　“You still seem weak,” he said gently.
　Naka no Kimi answered quietly,
　“It is nothing serious.”
　The prince sat beside her and spoke with unusual tenderness.
　“You must take care of your health,” he said. “Autumn winds can be harsh.”
　He spoke for a long time about many small matters, trying to make her feel comfortable. Yet he did not mention the approaching marriage.
　Naka no Kimi understood the reason for his silence.
　“He does not wish to hurt me,” she thought.
　But this kindness made her feel even more sorrowful.
　Later that evening Kaoru received a message from Prince Hyōbu.
　The prince invited him to visit again so that they could speak together.
　Kaoru accepted the invitation.
　When he arrived at the residence that night, the autumn moon shone brightly above the garden. Its pale light fell across the roofs and trees, creating long shadows.
　Prince Hyōbu welcomed him warmly.
　“I heard that you came this morning,” the prince said. “I regret that I was not here to greet you.”
　Kaoru smiled faintly.
　“I only wished to ask about your health,” he replied.
　They sat together near the veranda, drinking wine and watching the moon.
　After some time the prince began speaking about the future.
　“There are many responsibilities that come with rank,” he said. “Sometimes a man must accept arrangements that he did not originally desire.”
　Kaoru understood what he meant.
　“You speak of your coming marriage,” he said quietly.
　The prince laughed gently.
　“News travels quickly.”
　Kaoru remained calm.
　“I only hope that everyone involved will find happiness,” he said.
　The prince looked thoughtful.
　“You arranged my first marriage,” he said after a moment. “Do you regret that decision now?”
　Kaoru answered slowly.
　“At the time I believed it would bring peace to many hearts.”
　He did not say more.
　The prince watched him carefully.
　“Life is never simple,” he said at last.
　The two men fell silent.
　The moonlight shone across the garden, touching the fallen leaves on the ground.
　Somewhere in the distance a bell sounded from a temple.
　Hearing the sound, Kaoru suddenly remembered the valley of Uji once again.
　The memories returned to him as clearly as if they had happened only yesterday.
　“Perhaps,” he thought quietly, “the past will never truly leave me.”
　And with that thought his heart remained filled with a sadness that no new event could easily erase.

Part 5

　The night grew deeper as Kaoru and Prince Hyōbu continued their quiet conversation. The moon had climbed high in the sky, and the light in the garden had become pale and still. The autumn wind moved gently through the trees, causing a few leaves to fall across the stone path.
　For a long time neither man spoke.
　The sound of the distant temple bell faded slowly into silence.
　Prince Hyōbu poured more wine into the small cup before Kaoru.
　“You seem troubled tonight,” he said.
　Kaoru looked toward the garden before answering.
　“Autumn often brings old memories,” he replied calmly.
　The prince nodded.
　“That is true,” he said.
　After another pause he spoke again.
　“You visited Naka no Kimi this morning.”
　Kaoru did not hide the fact.
　“Yes.”
　The prince studied his expression carefully.
　“Did she seem very unhappy?”
　Kaoru chose his words with care.
　“She appears weak,” he said. “The season may not suit her health.”
　Prince Hyōbu sighed quietly.
　“I worry about her,” he said.
　For a moment his voice carried real concern.
　Yet both men understood the unspoken truth between them.
　Soon the prince’s new marriage would change the household completely.
　Kaoru lowered his eyes.
　“You must treat her with kindness,” he said gently.
　Prince Hyōbu answered at once.
　“Of course.”
　Yet Kaoru knew that life often moved in ways that promises could not control.
　The moonlight continued to shine across the garden.
　After some time Kaoru rose to leave.
　“It is late,” he said.
　Prince Hyōbu stood and accompanied him to the veranda.
　“Let us meet again soon,” the prince said.
　Kaoru bowed slightly.
　“Certainly.”
　When he stepped into the carriage outside the gate, the night air felt cold and clear.
　The road through the capital was quiet at that hour. Only a few lanterns burned along the streets.
　As the carriage moved forward, Kaoru leaned back and closed his eyes.
　The events of the day returned to his mind.
　He remembered Naka no Kimi’s quiet voice behind the curtain.
　He remembered the fading morning glory flower in her hand.
　And beyond these memories stood the image of her sister, the woman he had loved long ago in Uji.
　“Time passes,” he thought.
　Yet the past remained strangely alive within his heart.
　In the residence of Prince Hyōbu, Naka no Kimi had also not yet fallen asleep.
　The night felt long and restless.
　She lay quietly beneath the covers, listening to the faint sounds of the household. Somewhere in the building an attendant moved softly along the corridor.
　She thought about Kaoru’s visit that morning.
　His words had been kind, yet they had awakened many memories of the past.
　“My sister trusted him,” she thought.
　For a moment she imagined what life might have been like if fate had arranged things differently.
　But such thoughts only brought pain.
　She placed the morning glory flower beside her pillow.
　The petals had now completely closed.
　“Even flowers cannot remain open forever,” she whispered.
　Tears filled her eyes.
　Outside the window the autumn moon shone through the branches of the trees.
　The light fell softly across the room.
　In another part of the city the Emperor was also awake.
　He had recently spoken again about the future of the Second Princess. The matter of her marriage to Kaoru remained in his thoughts.
　“Such a noble young man,” the Emperor said quietly to himself, “should not remain alone forever.”
　Yet he also understood that Kaoru’s heart was not easily moved.
　“He carries many memories,” the Emperor thought.
　The palace around him was silent.
　The night wind passed softly through the outer corridors.
　Meanwhile Kaoru’s carriage had reached his residence.
　When he stepped down, the servants hurried forward with lanterns.
　He walked slowly through the garden toward his rooms.
　The leaves of the trees shone faintly in the moonlight.
　The quiet beauty of the night seemed peaceful, yet inside his heart many thoughts continued to move.
　Before entering his room he paused once more.
　The wind carried the scent of autumn flowers across the garden.
　“The world changes without stopping,” he thought.
　Prince Hyōbu’s new marriage would soon take place.
　Naka no Kimi would face a difficult future.
　And the Emperor still hoped that Kaoru himself would accept the hand of the Second Princess.
　All these events were approaching at once.
　Kaoru looked toward the sky.
　The moon moved slowly among the clouds.
　“Perhaps,” he said softly, “human hearts are like the moon—always moving, yet never able to escape the night that surrounds them.”
　With that quiet thought he entered his room.
　The autumn night continued in silence.

 
Chapter 50: Azumaya (東屋)

Part 1

　In those days a noble man known as the Right Commander Kaoru had begun to hear rumors about a young lady who lived far from the center of court life. This girl was the adopted daughter of the Governor of Hitachi. Though Kaoru had become curious about her, he did not act quickly. The house of the governor stood in a place that people sometimes spoke about with slight contempt, and Kaoru feared that visiting such a place might cause gossip.
　“If I go there too easily,” he thought, “people will say that I have acted without dignity.”
　Because of that concern he did not even send a letter. Yet messages about him sometimes reached the young lady’s household through a nun called Ben no Ama. She hinted to the girl’s mother that Kaoru might wish to marry the young lady.
　The mother, known as Lady Hitachi, listened to these hints with mixed feelings. She had heard that Kaoru was a man of great character and refinement. However, she believed that such an excellent man could never truly love her daughter.
　“If only we were people of higher rank,” she sometimes thought sadly.
　The household itself was large and complicated. The Governor of Hitachi had many daughters. Some of them had been born to his late wife, and others were younger children still growing up in the house.
　The daughters who belonged to the governor’s own blood had already been carefully married to suitable husbands. Their father had worked hard to arrange those matches.
　The girl whom Lady Hitachi loved most, however, was her own daughter from a previous marriage. Though the governor treated her politely, he did not show the same affection that he gave to his own children.
　Lady Hitachi felt this difference painfully.
　“If I do nothing,” she thought, “this girl will remain here forever without happiness.”
　Because of this fear she devoted her days to caring for the young lady and searching for a good husband for her.
　The girl herself had grown into a graceful young woman. Her beauty was quiet and refined. If she stood among the governor’s daughters, no one would notice at once that she was not his child. Yet Lady Hitachi believed that her daughter possessed a dignity beyond the others.
　“She seems like a lady of high birth,” she often thought.
　That belief made her even more anxious about the girl’s future.
　Suitors occasionally came to the governor’s house. Some young men, hearing that many daughters lived there, hoped that one of them might become their bride.
　Lady Hitachi observed each of these men carefully.
　Most of them seemed unsuitable.
　At last one suitor appeared whom she considered acceptable. He was a young officer known as the Lieutenant of the Left Guard. He was about twenty-two or twenty-three years old. People said that he was calm in nature and good at study, though he was not especially brilliant.
　This young man had once failed in his first marriage. Now he wished to marry again.
　Lady Hitachi thought deeply about his proposal.
　“He may not be perfect,” she said to herself, “but he seems kind. If he marries my daughter, he will probably treat her with sympathy.”
　She therefore began to answer his letters and sometimes guided her daughter in writing replies.
　The mother had already made up her mind.
　“Even if the father does not care for this child,” she thought, “I will protect the man who becomes her husband. Once he sees her beauty, he cannot help loving her.”
　With that hope she began preparing secretly for the marriage. She planned for it to take place in the eighth month.
　Many objects were prepared for the ceremony. She ordered new furnishings and had musical instruments brought into the house. Beautiful boxes decorated with gold and shell inlay were gathered and set aside as gifts for the bride.
　The governor himself lived in a grand style. Though he was not of the highest rank, his family had once been connected to powerful officials. He possessed great wealth and took pride in displaying it.
　Yet his taste was somewhat rough.
　From his younger years he had often served in distant provinces such as Mutsu, far from the elegant life of the capital. Because of this his speech had become slightly rough, and his manners sometimes carried a provincial flavor.
　He did not love poetry or music deeply, though he enjoyed archery and lively gatherings. He liked to invite many people to his house for entertainment.
　During such events servants dressed beautifully and musicians played. Guests gathered to compose simple poems or to celebrate festivals during the night.
　These entertainments appeared impressive from the outside, and many people spoke well of the governor’s household.
　Among those who visited frequently were men who praised the governor’s appearance and called him a man of noble character.
　Yet Lady Hitachi sometimes watched these gatherings with quiet embarrassment.
　She felt that the true elegance of court life was different from these noisy celebrations.
　Meanwhile the Lieutenant continued to send messages about the marriage. When the eighth month approached he became impatient.
　“If we are to marry,” he said through the mediator, “it would be best to choose a day early in the month.”
　Hearing this, Lady Hitachi felt that she must reveal an important truth before the wedding took place.
　She called the mediator to her side and spoke seriously.
　“There is something you must tell the lieutenant,” she said.
　The man listened carefully.
　Lady Hitachi continued,
　“The young lady whom he wishes to marry is not the governor’s true daughter. She is my child from an earlier marriage.”
　She lowered her eyes.
　“Because of that, I have prepared everything myself. Her father has taken little part in these arrangements. I fear that when the lieutenant learns this truth, he may feel disappointment.”
　The mediator promised to deliver her message.
　Soon afterward he went to meet the Lieutenant.
　When the young officer heard the news, his expression changed at once.
　“Why did no one tell me this earlier?” he said sharply.
　His voice grew colder.
　“An adopted daughter may seem the same as a true daughter,” he continued, “but people in society do not think so. If I enter that house as the husband of a stepchild, others may laugh at me.”
　The mediator tried to calm him.
　“I did not know the truth myself,” he explained quickly. “I believed that she was the governor’s own daughter.”
　Yet the Lieutenant remained uneasy.
　His thoughts began to turn in another direction.

Part 2

　After hearing that the young lady was not the true daughter of the Governor of Hitachi, the Lieutenant sat silently for a long moment. His expression showed clear disappointment.
　“This changes the matter,” he said at last.
　The mediator looked troubled.
　“But the lady herself is said to be very beautiful,” he replied. “Her mother loves her deeply and wishes to see her happy.”
　The Lieutenant shook his head slowly.
　“Beauty alone is not enough,” he said. “If I marry into a house of provincial rank, people will already speak badly of me. But if the bride is not even the governor’s true child, then I will appear foolish in the eyes of the world.”
　His tone became colder.
　“It will seem as if I wished only to enjoy the governor’s wealth.”
　The mediator listened carefully. He understood that the young officer’s pride had been wounded.
　Yet the mediator was a clever man. He thought quickly of another possibility.
　Leaning closer, he spoke quietly.
　“The governor has several daughters of his own,” he said. “Among them there is one whom he loves very much. She is still young but already very charming.”
　The Lieutenant raised his eyes.
　“Is that so?”
　The mediator nodded.
　“If you wish, I could speak to the governor and see whether such a marriage might be arranged instead.”
　The Lieutenant remained silent for a moment.
　He began thinking about his own position in society.
　“The governor is wealthy,” he said slowly. “His influence may grow even greater in the future.”
　He looked again at the mediator.
　“Very well,” he said. “If the governor himself agrees, I would consider marrying his real daughter.”
　The mediator felt relieved.
　“Then I will visit the governor at once,” he replied.
　Soon afterward the mediator traveled to the governor’s residence.
　The governor had heard of this man before but had never spoken with him directly. When the servant announced that he had come with a message from the Lieutenant, the governor allowed him to enter.
　The governor sat in a large room decorated with many objects. Screens covered with bright pictures stood along the walls, and shelves displayed fine boxes and ornaments.
　The mediator bowed respectfully.
　“I have come to speak about the marriage that has been discussed between the Lieutenant and the young lady of this house,” he said.
　The governor looked slightly surprised.
　“I had heard something about such a plan,” he replied. “But the matter has been arranged mostly by my wife.”
　The mediator explained the situation carefully.
　He spoke about the Lieutenant’s concerns and then described the new idea.
　“If the Governor would permit it,” he said, “the Lieutenant would be honored to marry one of your true daughters.”
　The governor’s eyes brightened immediately.
　“Is that so?” he said with enthusiasm.
　He leaned forward eagerly.
　“Among my daughters there is one whom I love more than the others,” he continued. “She is still young, but she is very dear to me.”
　The mediator listened with satisfaction.
　The governor continued speaking in a loud and cheerful voice.
　“Many men have asked for her hand,” he said. “But I have not yet chosen anyone. I always feared that a careless husband might bring her sorrow.”
　He struck his knee proudly.
　“But if the Lieutenant wishes to marry her, I will gladly accept!”
　The mediator smiled.
　“The Lieutenant will be very pleased to hear this.”
　The governor continued speaking with great excitement.
　“I will treat him with the greatest respect,” he said. “As long as I live, he will never lack anything. Even if he wishes to rise to the highest offices, I will support him with all my wealth.”
　The mediator listened politely.
　Some of the governor’s words seemed slightly exaggerated, yet the overall message was clear: the governor welcomed the marriage.
　After leaving the house, the mediator returned quickly to the Lieutenant.
　He reported everything he had heard.
　The Lieutenant listened carefully.
　“The governor seems eager to accept the marriage,” the mediator said.
　The young officer nodded slowly.
　“Then we will proceed,” he replied.
　Though he had earlier shown anger, his thoughts had already turned toward the advantages of such a match.
　“Life becomes easier when one has a powerful father-in-law,” he thought quietly.
　Meanwhile, inside the governor’s house, Lady Hitachi soon heard about the change.
　When she learned that the Lieutenant would now marry the governor’s own daughter instead of her child, she felt as if the ground had disappeared beneath her feet.
　For a moment she could not speak.
　“So this is how the world treats my daughter,” she thought bitterly.
　She walked away without answering her husband.
　Her eyes filled with tears.
　At last she went to the room where her daughter was sitting quietly.
　The girl looked calm and gentle as always.
　Seeing her beautiful face made the mother’s sorrow even greater.
　“What kind of fate awaits this child?” she wondered.
　Sitting beside her daughter, Lady Hitachi spoke softly to the girl’s nurse.
　“People’s hearts are cruel,” she said.
　The nurse nodded sadly.
　“But perhaps this is for the best,” she replied. “A man who abandons his promise so easily might not have been a good husband.”
　Lady Hitachi sighed deeply.
　“Even so, I must find a better future for her.”
　The two women began speaking quietly about what might be done next.
　Outside the room, preparations for the governor’s daughter’s wedding had already begun.
　Servants carried furniture into the rooms, and decorations were placed everywhere.
　Yet in the quiet chamber where Lady Hitachi and her daughter sat together, the atmosphere remained heavy with sadness.

Part 3

　While the governor’s household became busy with preparations for the new marriage, the quiet room of Lady Hitachi remained calm and almost forgotten. The sound of servants moving through the corridors reached them from time to time, yet inside the room the atmosphere was still and heavy.
　Lady Hitachi sat beside her daughter and looked carefully at her face.
　The girl appeared calm, but the mother knew her child’s gentle nature well. She understood that the girl would never complain openly, even when her heart was troubled.
　“You must not worry,” Lady Hitachi said softly.
　The girl lowered her eyes.
　“I am not unhappy,” she answered politely.
　Her voice was gentle and quiet.
　Yet the mother could hear the sadness hidden within those simple words.
　Lady Hitachi felt a sharp pain in her heart.
　“If only your birth had been different,” she thought. “The world would treat you with more kindness.”
　The nurse who had raised the girl since childhood sat nearby. She spoke carefully.
　“Perhaps this event will bring a better future,” she said.
　Lady Hitachi turned toward her.
　“How can that be?” she asked.
　The nurse continued slowly.
　“A man who changes his promise so easily may not have been a faithful husband. It is possible that heaven protected our lady by preventing this marriage.”
　Lady Hitachi listened but did not immediately answer.
　After a moment she sighed.
　“Perhaps you are right,” she said quietly.
　Outside their room the governor himself was speaking loudly with several servants. His voice carried easily through the corridors.
　“Prepare everything carefully!” he said.
　“This wedding must show the dignity of our house.”
　Servants hurried back and forth carrying boxes and cloth.
　Some of the governor’s daughters gathered together, whispering excitedly about the coming celebration.
　One of them laughed softly.
　“Father seems happier than anyone else,” she said.
　Another replied,
　“He has always loved our youngest sister the most.”
　Their conversation was full of lighthearted excitement.
　Yet none of them spoke about the quiet girl who sat with Lady Hitachi.
　Her existence seemed almost invisible in the busy household.
　The young lady herself heard the distant voices and understood clearly what was happening.
　“The marriage has changed,” she thought calmly.
　She did not blame the Lieutenant.
　From childhood she had already understood that her position in the household was uncertain.
　“Mother has always worried about my future,” she thought.
　Remembering her mother’s anxious efforts made her feel a quiet sadness.
　She looked gently at Lady Hitachi.
　“Please do not be troubled because of me,” she said softly.
　Lady Hitachi was surprised by the girl’s calm words.
　“How can I avoid worry?” she replied.
　“Your happiness is the most important matter in my life.”
　The girl lowered her head slightly.
　“Then I will try to remain cheerful.”
　Her quiet dignity touched her mother deeply.
　At that moment a servant appeared at the door.
　“Lady,” he said respectfully, “a message has arrived.”
　Lady Hitachi took the letter.
　It came from Ben no Ama, the nun who had sometimes spoken about Kaoru in the past.
　Lady Hitachi opened the letter carefully.
　As she read it, her expression slowly changed.
　The nurse noticed the difference.
　“Is there important news?” she asked.
　Lady Hitachi nodded slowly.
　“It seems that Lord Kaoru has heard something about our daughter,” she said.
　The nurse’s eyes widened.
　“Lord Kaoru?”
　The name carried great meaning.
　Kaoru was known throughout the capital as a man of extraordinary refinement and virtue. Many noble families wished to connect themselves with him.
　Lady Hitachi continued reading the message.
　The nun explained that Kaoru had recently spoken about the young lady with curiosity and sympathy.
　Though he had not yet taken any clear action, it seemed that he had not forgotten her.
　Lady Hitachi held the letter tightly.
　Hope began to return slowly to her heart.
　“Perhaps heaven has not abandoned us,” she said.
　The nurse smiled gently.
　“That would indeed be fortunate.”
　The young lady listened quietly.
　She had heard Kaoru’s name before, but she had never seen him.
　“A great nobleman like him could never truly notice someone like me,” she thought.
　Yet the calm way her mother spoke about the message made her curious.
　Lady Hitachi carefully folded the letter.
　“We must remain patient,” she said.
　“If Lord Kaoru truly shows interest, we must behave with great care.”
　The nurse nodded.
　“Such a man would bring honor to our lady.”
　Outside the room the preparations for the governor’s daughter’s wedding continued noisily.
　Servants laughed and spoke excitedly as they arranged decorations and clothing.
　But inside the quiet chamber, a different feeling had begun to grow.
　It was a small and uncertain hope.
　Lady Hitachi looked once more at her daughter’s calm face.
　“Perhaps,” she thought, “her true fate has not yet appeared.”

Part 4

　After reading the letter from the nun, Lady Hitachi remained thoughtful for a long time. The paper rested quietly in her hands, and her eyes moved again over the words that spoke of Kaoru’s interest.
　The room around her was silent.
　Only the distant noise of servants preparing for the governor’s daughter’s wedding could be heard.
　Lady Hitachi looked toward her daughter.
　The girl sat quietly beside the window. The soft light of the afternoon fell across her face, making her appear calm and distant.
　“If Lord Kaoru truly thinks of her,” Lady Hitachi thought, “perhaps her future will not be as dark as I feared.”
　Yet she did not wish to build hope too quickly.
　She folded the letter carefully and placed it inside a small box.
　“We must not speak openly about this matter yet,” she said to the nurse.
　The nurse nodded.
　“Yes. Until we know more, it is better to remain quiet.”
　Meanwhile the governor’s household became even more lively as the day of the wedding approached.
　Servants carried silk clothing into the rooms. Musicians arrived with instruments. Bright screens were placed in the hall where guests would gather.
　The governor walked proudly through the house, giving instructions to everyone.
　“Everything must be perfect,” he said loudly.
　“This wedding will show the strength of our family.”
　His voice carried through the halls.
　The daughters of the house spoke excitedly with one another about the coming celebration.
　Some of them tried on new robes.
　Others practiced music for the evening gathering.
　Their laughter echoed through the corridors.
　Yet Lady Hitachi and her daughter remained mostly apart from these preparations.
　The mother preferred to stay in her own rooms, where the atmosphere was calmer.
　One evening, as the sun was setting, the nurse approached Lady Hitachi quietly.
　“There is someone at the gate,” she said.
　Lady Hitachi looked surprised.
　“Who is it?”
　“A messenger from Lord Kaoru,” the nurse replied.
　Lady Hitachi felt her heart beat quickly.
　“Bring him here,” she said.
　A moment later the messenger entered the room and bowed respectfully.
　He carried a letter written on fine paper.
　Lady Hitachi accepted it with careful hands.
　When she opened the letter, she recognized the elegant style of Kaoru’s writing.
　The message was polite and gentle.
　Kaoru wrote that he had heard about the young lady’s situation and felt sympathy for her. Though he had never met her directly, he wished to know more about her character and circumstances.
　“If the lady’s mother allows it,” the letter said, “I would be grateful to learn something about her life.”
　Lady Hitachi finished reading slowly.
　The nurse watched her face with interest.
　“What does he say?” she asked quietly.
　Lady Hitachi answered,
　“He asks only to know more about our daughter.”
　The nurse smiled slightly.
　“That is already a good sign.”
　Lady Hitachi nodded.
　“Yes.”
　She thought carefully about how to answer.
　“We must write a reply that shows both respect and dignity,” she said.
　“Our daughter must not appear desperate for his attention.”
　The nurse agreed.
　“Lord Kaoru is known for his refined judgment. He will notice every detail.”
　Lady Hitachi called for writing materials.
　Sitting beside the lamp, she began composing a reply.
　Her words described her daughter’s quiet nature and her modest upbringing. She did not exaggerate, yet she carefully expressed the girl’s gentle character.
　When the letter was finished, she read it once more.
　Then she sealed it and gave it to the messenger.
　“Please deliver this respectfully,” she said.
　The messenger bowed and left.
　After he had gone, Lady Hitachi looked again at her daughter.
　The girl had remained quiet during the entire conversation.
　“You have heard everything,” Lady Hitachi said gently.
　The young lady nodded.
　“Yes.”
　Her voice remained calm.
　“Do not feel anxious,” her mother continued. “Lord Kaoru has only asked about you. Nothing more.”
　The girl answered softly,
　“I understand.”
　Yet inside her heart she felt a quiet curiosity.
　She had heard many stories about Kaoru’s kindness and wisdom.
　“What kind of man is he?” she wondered.
　That night the house remained busy with wedding preparations.
　Musicians practiced their instruments.
　Servants moved through the corridors carrying lanterns.
　But in the quiet room of Lady Hitachi, mother and daughter spoke softly together.
　A small hope had begun to grow in their hearts.
　Far away in another part of the capital, Kaoru sat alone in his study.
　The evening wind moved gently through the garden outside his room.
　He had recently received many reports about the governor’s household.
　Among them were details about the quiet young lady who lived there.
　Kaoru thought deeply.
　“Her situation seems unfortunate,” he said quietly to himself.
　He remembered the sadness that had surrounded the sisters of Uji.
　“Perhaps,” he thought, “this girl also lives quietly in the shadow of others.”
　The thought stirred sympathy in his heart.
　As he waited for Lady Hitachi’s reply, Kaoru felt a growing curiosity about the young woman he had never yet seen.

Part 5

　Several days later the messenger returned to Kaoru’s residence. He carried the letter that Lady Hitachi had written with such care.
　Kaoru received the letter in the quiet room where he usually read and wrote. The afternoon light entered softly through the open screens, and the garden outside appeared calm beneath the pale sky.
　He opened the letter slowly.
　The handwriting was neat and modest, yet the tone carried a quiet dignity.
　Lady Hitachi explained her daughter’s life simply. She wrote that the girl had grown up quietly and had not been raised among the proud daughters of powerful families. Because of that, she possessed a gentle nature and did not seek attention.
　“She has little experience with the world,” the letter said, “but her heart is sincere.”
　Kaoru read the letter carefully from beginning to end.
　When he finished, he placed it beside him and remained silent for a long time.
　“Her situation truly resembles that of the sisters of Uji,” he thought.
　The memory of those sisters returned clearly to his mind.
　One had died after many sorrows. The other had married Prince Niou and now lived within the complicated world of the capital.
　“Fate moves people in strange ways,” he murmured quietly.
　Kaoru looked out into the garden.
　A few autumn leaves drifted slowly through the air and settled upon the ground.
　“Perhaps this girl also lives quietly while the world passes around her,” he thought.
　His curiosity about her grew stronger.
　Meanwhile, in the governor’s residence, the wedding preparations had reached their busiest moment.
　Servants moved quickly through the halls carrying clothing, decorations, and boxes of gifts. The governor himself walked through the house with great excitement.
　“The guests will arrive soon,” he said loudly.
　“Everything must be ready.”
　Musicians gathered in one of the large rooms to prepare for the evening celebration. Their instruments produced bright sounds that echoed through the corridors.
　Many visitors had already begun to arrive.
　Yet in Lady Hitachi’s rooms the atmosphere remained quiet and separate from the joyful noise.
　The young lady sat near the window with a small piece of embroidery in her hands. Though she worked carefully, her thoughts wandered often.
　She wondered about the nobleman who had written to her mother.
　“Why does he wish to know about me?” she asked herself.
　She had heard that Kaoru was known for his kindness and wisdom. Many people admired his calm character.
　Yet she could not imagine why such a man would show interest in someone like herself.
　The nurse watched the girl quietly.
　“You seem thoughtful today,” she said gently.
　The young lady smiled faintly.
　“Perhaps I am thinking too much.”
　The nurse laughed softly.
　“Young ladies often do.”
　A servant entered the room at that moment.
　“Lady Hitachi asks that you come to speak with her,” he said.
　The girl rose at once and followed him.
　Lady Hitachi sat beside a small writing table. When her daughter entered, she looked up with a gentle expression.
　“I have received another message,” she said.
　The girl waited silently.
　“Lord Kaoru has read my letter,” Lady Hitachi continued. “He has written again.”
　The girl felt her heart move slightly.
　Lady Hitachi handed her the new letter.
　The writing was calm and elegant.
　Kaoru expressed gratitude for the explanation about the young lady’s life. He wrote that he respected the dignity with which Lady Hitachi had raised her daughter.
　He did not yet speak openly about marriage.
　Instead he asked politely whether he might continue to learn more about the young lady in the future.
　The girl finished reading and returned the letter to her mother.
　Her face remained calm.
　Yet Lady Hitachi could see a quiet brightness in her eyes.
　“What do you think?” the mother asked softly.
　The girl answered carefully.
　“Lord Kaoru seems very considerate.”
　Lady Hitachi nodded.
　“Yes. He is known for his thoughtful nature.”
　She folded the letter slowly.
　“We must not hurry,” she said.
　“But it may be that your fate is beginning to appear.”
　The young lady listened quietly.
　The busy sounds of the wedding celebration echoed faintly through the house.
　Yet inside the small room another story had begun to unfold.
　Far away, Kaoru also sat quietly in his study.
　The evening light was fading.
　He thought once more about the quiet young woman he had never seen.
　“I wonder what kind of life awaits her,” he said softly.
　The autumn wind moved gently through the garden outside his room.
　With calm patience Kaoru decided to observe the situation carefully.
　For now he would wait.
　Yet the thought of the young lady in the governor’s house had already begun to occupy a small place in his heart.

 
Chapter 51: Ukifune (浮舟)

Part 1

　On an autumn evening long ago, the Prince of Hyōbu had once seen a beautiful young woman. The memory of that moment had never left his mind. Even now, after much time had passed, he could not forget the soft image of her face. She did not seem to be the daughter of any famous noble family. Yet her beauty had been very graceful and gentle. Because the prince had a warm and romantic nature, he often thought about her again and again. What troubled him most was that she had disappeared afterward as if she had been only a dream.
　Sometimes he spoke with irritation to his wife, the Lady of the Middle Chamber.
　“You become jealous even when I wish to play with a light love affair. I did not think you were such a person,” he said.
　When she heard these words, the lady suffered in silence. She sometimes felt that she might tell him the truth. Yet she did not dare to do so.
　The young woman whom the prince remembered so strongly was her own younger sister, hidden away in Uji. Although the prince had not formally taken her sister as a wife, the lady knew he might become dangerously involved if he learned the truth. The prince had a passionate and impulsive nature. If he wished to see a woman, he would go even to her family home without hesitation.
　Because of that nature, the lady feared a disaster. Even now, after so much time had passed, the prince still remembered that mysterious woman. If he discovered where she lived, something shameful might happen.
　So the lady remained silent.
　She did not wish to lie cleverly, because that was not her nature. Instead, she allowed herself to appear like an ordinary jealous wife. To others, she seemed simply to resent her husband’s wandering heart. Only she knew the truth she hid.
　Meanwhile, Kaoru the Minister waited calmly. He trusted the woman he loved. He did not hurry to see her. Even though he knew she might be waiting for him with longing, he controlled himself carefully.
　His position in the court had become very high. Because of this, traveling secretly to Uji was not easy. If he went without reason, many people would notice.
　“Even if love calls me,” he once thought, “this road to Uji is more difficult than any road forbidden by the gods.”
　Yet he had already made careful plans.
　At first he had only wished to protect the young woman and give her peace. Uji was quiet and far from the noise of the capital. But now he wished to prepare a better life for her.
　He had secretly begun building a residence in the capital where she might one day live. When the time came, he hoped to bring her there slowly and safely. If people gradually accepted her as his wife, there would be fewer cruel rumors.
　He wished to avoid sudden gossip about her family or her past.
　Even the Queen of Nijō Palace must not misunderstand the situation. Kaoru wanted to appear loyal and thoughtful toward everyone.
　Because he had a calm and patient nature in matters of love, he endured his longing.
　Still, he quietly prepared everything.
　Although his duties had increased and his position had become more important, he never neglected the Lady of Nijō Palace. The court ladies sometimes found this surprising.
　But the Lady of the Middle Chamber understood him better now. She had begun to see the depth of Kaoru’s character. She believed his kindness was the kind of love that continued even after death.
　People respected him greatly in society. His promotions at court had been remarkable.
　Sometimes, when the Prince of Hyōbu behaved carelessly or selfishly, the lady thought sadly about her own life.
　“I am unfortunate,” she sometimes told herself. “I am not the wife my sister wished me to become. I suffer many troubles quietly.”
　Yet her life had become somewhat calmer than before.
　Their young son was growing into a charming child. When the prince looked at the boy, he sometimes thought that perhaps no other children would be born to him. Because of that feeling, he began to treat the Lady of the Middle Chamber with greater kindness.
　He respected her more than before, and among all his wives he now loved her most deeply.
　So her days passed more peacefully.
　After the New Year had begun, the Prince of Hyōbu came to the Nijō residence. It was shortly after the first day of the year. The young boy had just grown a little older, and the prince happily kept him near his side.
　Around noon, a small servant girl ran into the room.
　In her hands she carried several things. One was a large pale-green letter. Another was a small decorative basket with a pine branch attached. There was also a second folded letter.
　Without thinking much, the girl placed them before the lady.
　The prince looked at the objects with curiosity.
　“Where did these come from?” he asked.
　The girl answered quickly.
　“A messenger came from Uji. The message was meant for Lady Tayū. But the messenger looked confused, so I thought Lady Tayū would show the letter to you as usual. That is why I brought it here.”
　She spoke very quickly and proudly.
　“This basket is covered with gold leaf,” she added happily. “And the pine branch looks real.”
　The prince smiled when he heard this.
　“Then I must see how fine this work is,” he said.
　He reached for the basket.
　At that moment the Lady of the Middle Chamber felt great trouble rising in her heart.
　“Please take the letter to Lady Tayū,” she said quickly.
　Her face had become slightly red.
　The prince noticed this change immediately.
　He began to imagine something. Perhaps Kaoru had secretly sent the letter. Perhaps he had even said it came from Uji to hide the truth.
　Smiling quietly, the prince took the letter into his own hands.
　Yet even then he hesitated.
　“If I open this and read it,” he said playfully, “will you hate me for it?”
　“It is only a simple letter between women,” the lady replied calmly. “You would not find it interesting.”
　“Still, I want to see what women write to each other,” the prince said.
　He opened the letter.
　The handwriting was young and graceful.
　“I have not been able to see you since then,” it said. “The year ended without meeting again. The mountain village is very lonely. The mist never leaves the peaks.”
　Farther inside the letter was another short message.
　“This small gift is for the young lord. It is only a poor offering.”
　The prince continued reading.
　There was another letter written in a different hand, probably by a lady-in-waiting.
　It spoke of the New Year, of the health of everyone in the household, and of the quiet life in the Uji residence. It also mentioned that the young lady there still felt frightened because of a troubling event that had happened before.
　The prince read the letters several times.
　His curiosity grew stronger and stronger.
　Finally he looked at his wife and asked quietly:
　“Now you may tell me. Whose letters are these?”

Part 2

　The Lady of the Middle Chamber answered carefully.
　“I heard that the daughter of a man who once lived in that mountain residence is staying there now because of certain circumstances. It must be from her.”
　The Prince of Hyōbu listened closely to these words. The letters did not sound like ordinary messages between servants. The mention of “the troublesome event” surely referred to something he already remembered. And the gift sent for the young boy showed a delicate hand and a gentle heart.
　His curiosity became stronger.
　He looked again at the small basket that had been sent from Uji. It was beautifully made. A branch of tachibana berries had been attached to it, bright and fresh. With it came a short poem.
　“Though the year has not yet grown old,
　know that my heart waits faithfully for you.”
　The poem itself was simple. Yet because it might have been written by the woman who had long remained in his thoughts, the prince felt strangely moved.
　“You should send a reply,” he said at last. “Is it not cold to ignore such a letter? Why did you look angry when I read it? It is not something that needed to be hidden.”
　After saying this, he quietly left the lady’s room.
　When he had gone, the Lady of the Middle Chamber spoke softly to one of her attendants.
　“The prince saw the letter. I feel sorry for that young woman in Uji. Perhaps the little girl took the letter from the messenger without anyone noticing.”
　One of the older attendants became angry.
　“If we had seen it first, we would never have allowed the child to bring it here. That girl is careless and always acts without thinking. A child’s character often shows what kind of adult she will become.”
　The lady gently stopped her.
　“Do not speak so harshly. She is only a child.”
　The girl had entered service only the previous winter. Because she had a pretty face, the prince himself liked her and treated her kindly.
　Meanwhile, the Prince of Hyōbu returned to his own chambers.
　The letters had stirred many thoughts in his mind.
　For some time he had heard that Kaoru still visited Uji from time to time. Some people even said he sometimes stayed there overnight. At first the prince had believed Kaoru visited the place only because it reminded him of a woman he had loved long ago.
　But now another idea began to grow in his mind.
　Perhaps Kaoru had hidden a new lover there.
　If that were true, it would explain many things.
　The prince called for a man named Tokikata, who served as an inner secretary. Tokikata had connections with Kaoru’s household and often heard information from that side.
　When the man arrived, the prince first gave him ordinary instructions about selecting books of poetry for a gathering. Then he spoke casually.
　“Kaoru still goes to Uji sometimes, does he not? I hear he built a fine temple there. I would like to see it one day.”
　Tokikata bowed and replied:
　“Yes, it is said to be very impressive. He built a hall for constant Buddhist prayer as well. Since last autumn he has been visiting Uji even more often than before. Some servants whisper that he keeps a woman there.”
　The prince leaned forward slightly.
　“A woman?” he asked.
　“Yes,” Tokikata continued. “They say she is very important to him. Many workers from his estates take turns serving at the mountain residence. Supplies are quietly sent there from the capital as well.”
　The secretary lowered his voice slightly.
　“One of my acquaintances heard this story in December. He wondered what kind of woman might be living in such a lonely place.”
　The prince felt a sudden excitement.
　Everything seemed to become clear.
　“What kind of woman is she?” he asked.
　“I do not know her identity,” Tokikata said. “But the old nun who lived there before still remains in a separate building. The lady herself lives in the new residence with several attendants.”
　The prince laughed softly.
　“How interesting. Kaoru always tries to appear more serious than other men. Yet he hides a lover in secret. That is quite surprising.”
　He spoke lightly, but inside his mind many thoughts were moving quickly.
　Could this woman be the same mysterious beauty he had once seen?
　The possibility excited him greatly.
　From that day onward the Prince of Hyōbu could think of little else.
　Court events continued as usual. Ceremonies such as archery contests and banquets were held in the palace. But the prince had little interest in these matters. Because he held no administrative duties like other nobles, he had plenty of time.
　Instead he spent his days thinking about how he might secretly travel to Uji.
　He called Tokikata again one evening.
　“If I asked you to help me with a difficult task,” the prince said slowly, “would you do your best?”
　Tokikata bowed deeply.
　“I will serve you in any way I can.”
　The prince lowered his voice.
　“That woman in Uji… she may once have been my lover. She disappeared long ago. I wish to see her with my own eyes and discover the truth.”
　He paused.
　“I must do this without anyone knowing.”
　Tokikata listened carefully.
　“The road to Uji crosses rough mountain paths,” he said. “But the distance is not so great. If Your Highness leaves in the evening, you could arrive around midnight. If you return before dawn, no one would notice.”
　The prince nodded slowly.
　“You are right. I have traveled that road once or twice before.”
　Yet he hesitated.
　“Still, it may seem reckless for a man of my rank to behave in such a way.”
　But by now the idea had already taken hold of his heart. He could not abandon it.
　So he began to prepare.
　He chose only a few trusted companions—two or three men who already knew the roads around Uji, Tokikata himself, and one young officer who had grown up with him.
　Tokikata secretly confirmed that Kaoru would not be visiting Uji on the night they planned to travel.
　Then the prince set out.
　As he followed the familiar road, memories returned again and again. Long ago Kaoru had once brought him to that same mountain residence. They had shared many secrets then.
　Now he was traveling there again—but for a very different reason.
　He wore simple clothing so that no one would recognize him. Most of the journey he rode on horseback.
　At first he felt uneasy, even frightened. Such secret behavior was new to him.
　But his curiosity was stronger than his fear.
　As the road grew darker and the mountains rose around them, his heart beat faster.
　“If I truly see her tonight,” he thought, “how happy I will be.”
　Yet another thought troubled him.
　“If I can only look at her secretly and cannot reveal myself, will that truly satisfy me?”
　Even this small possibility made his chest tighten with emotion.
　They traveled quickly.
　By the time the moon had climbed high in the sky, the Prince of Hyōbu and his companions were already approaching Uji.

Part 3

　Because they had hurried along the road, the Prince of Hyōbu reached Uji around nine o’clock at night. The mountain air was cold, and the quiet valley felt very different from the lively capital. The sound of the river moved softly in the darkness, and the houses of the residence stood silent under the pale moonlight.
　Tokikata had learned the arrangement of the residence from a man who worked in Kaoru’s household. Therefore he avoided the places where guards and servants usually stayed. Instead he led the prince around the western side of the garden.
　A simple fence made of reeds separated that side from the rest of the grounds. Tokikata carefully broke a small opening in the fence and slipped inside. Although he knew the layout of the place from what he had heard, he had never entered the residence before. Even he felt uneasy in the darkness.
　Still, the house was quiet and there were few people nearby. Moving slowly across the garden, he searched for signs of light.
　Soon he saw a faint glow from a room facing the south side of the main building. The light of a lamp flickered inside, and through the night air came the soft sound of silk garments brushing together.
　Tokikata returned quickly to the prince and whispered:
　“The people inside are still awake. Please come this way.”
　He guided the prince carefully along the same path he had taken. When they reached the veranda, the prince stepped up quietly and moved toward a place where a small gap could be seen in the lattice shutters.
　Inside, another bamboo curtain hung behind the lattice, and it made a soft rustling sound in the night breeze. The residence had been newly built and looked elegant, but because it stood in the mountains the construction was somewhat rough. Small cracks remained in the wooden panels. No one had imagined that a visitor might look through them.
　The prince found a narrow opening and looked inside.
　Three or four women sat under the bright lamp. They were sewing quietly. Nearby a young servant girl twisted thread between her fingers.
　The prince suddenly felt a shock of recognition.
　He had seen that servant girl before. On that autumn evening long ago, in the flickering light of a lamp, she had been present.
　“Am I imagining things?” he wondered.
　Yet the more he looked, the more certain he became.
　Another young attendant named Ukon was also there. The prince remembered hearing her name that night long ago.
　Then his eyes moved toward the young woman who sat slightly apart from the others.
　She lay resting on her arm while gazing quietly at the lamp. Strands of her hair had fallen across her forehead. Her expression was gentle and graceful, and her beauty resembled that of the lady in the western residence of the capital.
　The prince felt his heart tremble.
　While he watched, Ukon spoke as she bent forward to fold some cloth.
　“When you return to your home in the capital,” she said, “it may not be easy for you to come back here soon. But the lord has promised to visit after the appointments at court next month. The messenger yesterday said the same thing. What did he write in his letter?”
　The young lady did not answer. She seemed lost in thought.
　Ukon continued gently:
　“If he happens to miss you when he comes, that would be unfortunate.”
　Another woman nearby joined the conversation.
　“You should write to him clearly. You must also tell him about your visit to the temple. It is not good for you to leave secretly too often now. After your pilgrimage you should return here quickly. Though this residence feels lonely, it is peaceful and comfortable. The capital may seem like a strange place after living quietly here.”
　Another attendant added her own opinion.
　“For now it is best to remain here calmly and wait for the lord’s plans. When he brings you to the capital later, you will be able to meet your parents properly. The old nurse always tries to hurry everything. She was the one who insisted on arranging this pilgrimage and sending word to your family. That may cause trouble.”
　Ukon sighed.
　“I do not understand why she was brought here at all. Some people create unnecessary worries.”
　Listening to these conversations, the prince began to understand the situation more clearly.
　So there truly was a young lady hidden here.
　Soon the women began speaking about people in the capital.
　“The lady of Nijō Palace is truly fortunate,” one of them said. “Since the young prince was born, the affection of the great lord toward her has grown stronger.”
　Another woman replied:
　“If our lord loved this lady as deeply, she would lose nothing in comparison.”
　At these words the young lady raised herself slightly.
　“Please do not speak in such a way,” she said softly. “Do not compare me to the princess. If such words reached her ears, I would feel deeply ashamed.”
　Her voice was gentle and refined.
　The prince studied her face carefully.
　“Who is she?” he wondered.
　Her appearance resembled that of the Lady of the Middle Chamber. Yet she also possessed a delicate beauty of her own. The lady in the capital was more elegant and dignified, but this young woman had a tender charm that filled every small movement.
　The prince’s heart began to race.
　He had searched for this woman in his thoughts for so long. Now she sat only a short distance away.
　“How can I leave now?” he thought.
　As he continued watching, the attendants began to grow sleepy.
　Ukon stretched and spoke with a tired voice.
　“I am so sleepy. Last night we did not sleep at all. If we wake early tomorrow we can finish this sewing. Even if the carriage from the capital arrives quickly, it will probably not come before eight or nine.”
　The women gathered their sewing materials and placed them near a screen. Then, one by one, they lay down nearby and soon fell asleep.
　The young lady moved slightly farther into the room and lay down as well.
　Ukon went into a small northern chamber for a short time, then returned and lay near the young lady’s bed.
　The prince watched quietly until he was certain everyone was asleep.
　Now there was only one thing he could do.
　Slowly he reached out and tapped gently on the lattice shutter.
　Ukon stirred and spoke.
　“Who is there?”
　The prince cleared his throat softly.
　The sound carried the calm dignity of a nobleman’s voice.
　Ukon immediately thought of Kaoru.
　She rose quickly and came toward the door.
　“Please open the door,” the prince said quietly.
　Ukon spoke with surprise.
　“You have come at such an unexpected hour. The night is already very late.”
　“I heard that you were preparing to leave for a journey,” he replied in a low voice that closely resembled Kaoru’s. “When I heard this, I hurried here at once. But I met with trouble on the road. Please open quickly.”
　Believing completely that the visitor was Kaoru, Ukon opened the shutter.
　The prince stepped inside.
　“Please dim the lamp,” he said. “I do not wish anyone to see my appearance tonight.”
　Ukon hurried to move the lamp farther away.
　“Do not wake anyone,” he continued softly. “Tell no one that I have arrived.”
　His voice was so skillfully disguised that she felt no doubt.
　The prince entered the sleeping chamber and approached the young lady.
　He removed his outer robe and lay beside her as if he were her husband.
　Ukon spoke quietly:
　“That place is too close to the edge. Please move to your usual bed.”
　But the prince gave no answer.
　Soon the attendants covered the pair with bedding and withdrew to sleep farther away.
　Because Kaoru’s servants rarely stayed long at the residence, the women there did not know his appearance well. They accepted the visitor without suspicion.
　One of the women even whispered to another:
　“Our lord must truly love her. Even after such hardship on the road he has come secretly to see her.”
　Another answered:
　“Be quiet. Voices travel far at night.”
　Then the room grew silent.
　Only the faint sound of breathing remained in the darkness.

Part 4

　The young lady soon realized that the man beside her was not Kaoru.
　At first she felt a sudden shock so strong that she could hardly breathe. She wished to cry out, but the stranger gently covered her mouth and held her close so that she could make no sound.
　Her mind was full of confusion.
　Yet the man’s presence was powerful. His arms held her firmly, and his voice, though quiet, carried a strong and urgent feeling. She felt as if she had been caught inside a dream.
　If she had known from the beginning that this was a stranger who had entered the house secretly, she might have resisted more strongly. But everything had happened so suddenly and silently that she felt lost between fear and disbelief.
　The prince spoke softly to her.
　Slowly he began to explain who he was.
　He told her about that autumn evening long ago at Nijō Palace, when he had first seen her in the light of the lamps. He spoke about the longing he had felt since that night and the restless days he had spent thinking about her.
　Hearing these words, the young lady finally understood.
　The man beside her was the Prince of Hyōbu.
　When she realized this, her shame became even greater. Tears rose in her eyes. She thought immediately of her elder sister, the Lady of the Middle Chamber. What would she think if she knew of this terrible event?
　Unable to bear the thought, the young lady began to weep quietly.
　The prince also felt deeply moved. He too shed tears.
　He believed that after this night it might be impossible for them to meet again. Because of this fear, his emotions grew even stronger.
　Outside, the night slowly passed.
　The eastern sky began to grow pale. From time to time the prince’s attendants coughed softly outside the house to remind him that morning was approaching.
　Ukon also heard these sounds and rose to attend to her morning duties. She approached the room carefully.
　The prince felt that he could not bring himself to leave.
　His heart was still tied to the young lady beside him.
　Yet he knew he could not remain openly in the house. If he stayed too long, someone might discover his presence.
　After thinking for a moment, he called Ukon quietly.
　When she came close, he spoke to her in a low voice.
　“You may think my actions selfish,” he said, “but I cannot return to the capital today. Tell my attendants to hide somewhere nearby and wait quietly. And send Tokikata back to the capital. He must explain that I have gone to a mountain temple for religious retreat.”
　Ukon felt faint with shock when she heard these words.
　She now understood the terrible mistake she had made the night before. Believing the visitor to be Kaoru, she had opened the door without suspicion.
　But now the truth was clear.
　Even so, she forced herself to remain calm.
　“Today a carriage from the young lady’s family will arrive to take her on pilgrimage,” she said carefully. “What should we do then? If Your Highness remains here, it will cause great confusion.”
　The prince shook his head.
　“I cannot leave,” he replied firmly. “If I still possessed even a little self-control, I would never have done such a thing. But now it is too late. Whatever others may say, I cannot separate myself from her.”
　Ukon listened silently.
　At last she said gently:
　“Then please return to the capital today. If your feelings remain strong, another opportunity will come. Today is too dangerous.”
　But the prince would not change his mind.
　“I cannot,” he said again. “Please protect this secret. Everything else I will bear myself.”
　Ukon understood that persuasion would not succeed. She quietly left the room and spoke with the attendants who had accompanied the prince.
　“The prince wishes to remain here today,” she told them. “You must try to persuade him again. This situation is very dangerous.”
　Tokikata listened with concern.
　“His feelings are very deep,” he said. “When we see how strongly he longs for her, it is difficult for us to think about our own safety.”
　Soon after this, Tokikata departed for the capital to carry the prince’s message.
　Meanwhile Ukon returned to the house and began making careful preparations.
　She told the other women:
　“The lord wishes to remain unseen today. Something unfortunate happened on the road last night, so he does not wish anyone to look at him. His clothing will be brought secretly later.”
　One of the attendants whispered in alarm.
　“Perhaps something terrible happened near Kobata Mountain. I have heard that dangerous men sometimes appear there.”
　Ukon quickly answered:
　“Speak quietly. If the guards outside hear such talk, they may become suspicious.”
　Inside her heart she trembled with anxiety.
　She prayed silently that Kaoru would not send a messenger that day. If such a person arrived, she did not know how she could explain the situation.
　That day had originally been planned as the young lady’s pilgrimage to Ishiyama Temple. Her mother had arranged the journey and sent a carriage to fetch her.
　Because of this, Ukon and the other attendants had already prepared themselves through purification rituals the day before.
　“It is unfortunate,” one of the women said, “that the journey must now be canceled.”
　Around eight o’clock in the morning the shutters of the residence were opened. Ukon alone attended to the young lady’s room. She lowered the bamboo blinds and placed a sign outside indicating that the lady was observing ritual seclusion.
　She planned to say that the young lady had experienced a disturbing dream and must remain indoors.
　Inside the room two washing basins were brought for the morning.
　When the prince saw them, he felt an unexpected jealousy.
　He imagined Kaoru using such things during his visits. The thought disturbed him deeply.
　“I will wash my face in the water you have used,” he said suddenly to the young lady. “I do not wish to use the other basin.”
　The young lady was surprised.
　Kaoru had always behaved calmly and quietly. The prince’s passionate emotions were very different. Watching him, she began to understand that this was what true intensity of love looked like.
　Yet her heart was troubled.
　“If this secret becomes known,” she thought, “how ashamed I will be. And how much pain my sister will feel.”
　The prince continued speaking with tenderness.
　“It pains me greatly that I do not know whose daughter you are,” he said. “Please tell me honestly. Even if your family were poor, my love would not change.”
　But the young lady remained silent.
　Though she answered him sweetly in other matters, she would not reveal her family name.
　The prince found this even more charming.
　Meanwhile the morning passed.
　Around nine o’clock the carriages sent from the capital finally arrived at the mountain residence. Two vehicles stood at the gate, and several rough-looking men from the eastern provinces accompanied them.
　They spoke loudly and noisily as they entered.
　The court ladies inside hid themselves, embarrassed by the men’s rough behavior.
　Ukon quickly began writing a letter to the lady’s mother, the Lady of Hitachi.
　In the letter she explained that the young lady had experienced ritual impurity and had also seen a troubling dream. Because of this she would remain in seclusion for the day and could not travel to the temple.
　After finishing the letter, Ukon arranged food for the visitors and sent messages to the other buildings in the residence.
　Thus the day passed in anxious secrecy.
　Inside the quiet room, the prince and the young lady remained together alone.
　For the prince, every moment beside her felt precious beyond words.

Part 5

　The long winter day passed quietly in the mountain residence.
　Usually the young lady felt lonely in that place. Day after day she watched the distant mountains and the cloudy sky above the valley, feeling that time moved too slowly. But on this day the hours seemed strangely short.
　The prince remained with her in the room, and neither of them wished the day to end.
　They sat together in silence for long moments. Sometimes they spoke softly, sometimes they simply looked at each other.
　The prince could not take his eyes from her.
　Her beauty had no sharp brilliance like the beauty of a famous lady in the capital. Instead it was gentle and delicate. Every small movement of her hands and every change in her expression seemed full of quiet charm.
　Because the prince loved her so passionately, he felt that he had never seen such beauty before in his life.
　The young lady also found herself looking at him with wonder.
　She had believed that Kaoru was the most handsome man in the world. His calm dignity and noble appearance had always impressed her deeply. But the Prince of Hyōbu possessed another kind of beauty—bright, graceful, and full of warmth.
　The more she looked at him, the more she felt that he surpassed even Kaoru in physical charm.
　After some time the prince pulled a writing box toward him. Taking a sheet of paper, he began to draw small pictures while they talked.
　He sketched flowers, birds, and landscapes with quick, elegant strokes. His skill was remarkable.
　The young lady watched him with growing interest.
　Finally he drew a picture of a man and a woman sitting together.
　When the drawing was finished, he placed it before her.
　“When I cannot come to see you,” he said gently, “look at this and remember me.”
　Then he spoke again with deep emotion.
　“I wish we could remain together like this forever.”
　Tears suddenly filled his eyes.
　On the paper he wrote a poem.
　“Even if I promise to live a long life,
　sorrow remains in my heart,
　for no one knows
　what tomorrow may bring.”
　After writing the poem, he spoke quietly.
　“Because my love for you is so strong, I cannot help fearing the future. I worry that death may come before I can see you again. Why did I search so desperately for you and finally find you? Perhaps it only made my suffering greater.”
　The young lady took the brush he offered her. Her hand trembled slightly as she wrote her reply.
　“If only I had believed
　that life itself is uncertain,
　I would not have grieved so deeply
　for the changes of the heart.”
　When the prince read her poem, he smiled softly.
　“Have you already been disappointed by someone whose love changed?” he asked teasingly.
　She turned her face away slightly.
　“Why do you question me about things I cannot speak of?” she said gently.
　Her youthful voice sounded sweet even in complaint.
　The prince watched her closely.
　“Someday I will learn the truth,” he thought.
　Evening slowly approached.
　The sun sank behind the mountains, and the winter sky grew dark.
　At last Tokikata returned from the capital.
　He met Ukon quietly and reported what had happened there.
　“Messages arrived from the Empress,” he said. “She was worried because the prince did not appear yesterday. The Minister of the Left was also displeased. He said it is careless for a man of such rank to disappear without telling anyone where he has gone.”
　Tokikata smiled slightly.
　“I explained that the prince had gone secretly to visit a holy monk in the eastern mountains. That seemed to satisfy them for now.”
　Then he added jokingly:
　“Women are dangerous creatures. Even a serious man like me has been drawn into telling lies for their sake.”
　Ukon answered quietly:
　“Your lie was useful. By saying that the prince visited a holy monk, perhaps the sin of your deception will disappear.”
　She sighed.
　“But it is truly astonishing that the prince chose such a moment to come here.”
　After hearing this report, the prince felt both relief and anxiety.
　He spoke to the young lady with seriousness.
　“My life is filled with restrictions,” he said. “I wish I could be an ordinary court official with fewer responsibilities. Then I could visit you freely.”
　He continued after a moment.
　“Kaoru will surely be angry if he learns what has happened. He has trusted me since we were young. Even though we are relatives, our friendship has always been very deep.”
　The prince lowered his head.
　“If he discovers this secret, I will feel great shame.”
　Then he spoke again with strong determination.
　“That is why I must keep everything hidden. Someday I will take you away from this place. We will live somewhere far from curious eyes.”
　The young lady listened silently.
　His passionate words stirred her heart, yet fear remained within her.
　The next morning came too quickly.
　The prince could not remain any longer. If he stayed another day, suspicion would surely arise in the capital.
　His attendants coughed softly outside the room to remind him that it was time to leave.
　Still he hesitated.
　He took the young lady with him to the doorway, and they stood together in the cold air.
　The wind blew across the valley, and frost lay thick upon the ground.
　The prince spoke with deep sorrow.
　“My heart is confused beyond words. Even the tears that fall before me hide the path I must take.”
　The young lady also wept.
　She answered him with trembling voice.
　“My sleeves are already wet with tears. How can I hold back this sorrow of parting?”
　The dawn wind grew stronger.
　At last the prince mounted his horse.
　Yet even then he turned back again and again, looking toward the residence.
　His attendants urged the horses forward firmly. They knew that delay would only create greater danger.
　Slowly the mountain residence disappeared behind them.
　As they crossed the frozen bank of the Uji River, the sound of the horses’ hooves breaking the thin ice echoed through the cold air. Each sound filled the prince with sadness.
　“How strange,” he thought. “Once before I walked this road through the mountains. And now fate has brought me here again.”
　When the Prince of Hyōbu finally returned to the Nijō residence in the capital, he felt restless and troubled.
　Because the Lady of the Middle Chamber had never told him the truth about the young woman in Uji, he now felt resentment toward her silence.
　He went to his own chamber and tried to sleep, but sleep would not come.
　His mind was full of longing.
　At last he rose and went to see his wife.
　She greeted him calmly, knowing nothing of what had happened.
　Looking at her beautiful face, the prince felt strange emotions.
　Her beauty was even greater than that of the young lady in Uji. Yet the memory of that hidden lover continued to fill his heart.
　Unable to control his thoughts, he lay down quietly and spoke in a troubled voice.
　“My health feels very poor,” he said. “I fear that I may die soon.”
　He looked at her seriously.
　“If I die while loving you so deeply, will your heart soon turn toward another man?”
　His words surprised her greatly.
　She could not understand why he spoke in such a strange way.
　“If the Minister Kaoru heard you speak like this,” she said quietly, “he would think I had spoken ill of him. Your suspicion causes me deep pain.”
　The prince continued sadly.
　“I have always treated you with kindness. Everyone knows that I am not a cold husband. Yet you do not love me as deeply as he does. That is what troubles my heart.”
　Hearing these words, the lady became silent with sorrow.
　She believed he was speaking about Kaoru.
　The prince, however, thought of another woman entirely.
　Both of them suffered quietly, each misunderstanding the other.
　And far away in the quiet mountains of Uji, the young lady remained alone, holding the memory of that sudden night in her heart.

Part 6

　After the prince returned to the capital, his thoughts remained constantly in Uji.
　Even when he tried to rest in his own chamber, he could not forget the young woman he had left behind in the quiet mountain residence. Her gentle voice, her delicate face, and even the tears she had shed at their parting continued to return to his mind again and again.
　The Lady of the Middle Chamber did not understand the cause of his strange behavior.
　She believed he was troubled because of Kaoru. Since the prince had spoken of jealousy and suspicion, she assumed he had heard some rumor about her connection with Kaoru in the past.
　Because of this misunderstanding, she also felt great sorrow.
　“Why does he doubt me so deeply?” she thought.
　The prince, however, was thinking of something entirely different.
　He now knew that the young woman hidden in Uji truly existed. The discovery filled him with excitement, yet it also caused great difficulty. He had no easy way to visit her again.
　For several days he remained restless.
　At last he wrote a long letter filled with passionate feeling. Every line expressed his longing and the pain he felt while separated from her.
　Sending such a letter was not simple. He had to be careful that no one would discover the secret. Finally he chose an ordinary servant who knew nothing about the situation and gave him the message to carry.
　When the letter arrived in Uji, Ukon received it first.
　She had already become accustomed to telling small lies in order to protect the secret of that night. She had told the other women that the prince sometimes sent friendly letters because he had once known her.
　Even so, she understood that the situation was becoming dangerous.
　“If Lord Kaoru learns the truth,” she thought, “everything will collapse.”
　The young lady read the prince’s letter with trembling hands.
　His words were full of affection and desperate longing. He wrote about the happiness of their meeting and the sorrow he felt now that they were separated again. He also promised that he would find some way to see her once more.
　The young lady felt many emotions at once.
　She was touched by the depth of his love. Yet she also felt fear.
　Her life had already been uncertain. She lived hidden in the mountain residence, waiting for Kaoru’s plans for her future. Now another powerful man had suddenly entered her fate.
　She remembered the moment when the prince had appeared beside her in the darkness of that night. Everything had happened so quickly that she still wondered whether it had been a dream.
　Ukon watched her anxiously.
　“What will happen now?” she thought.
　The young lady herself could not answer that question.
　Sometimes she remembered the prince’s passionate face and the tears he had shed at dawn. At other times she thought of Kaoru, who had first brought her to Uji and promised to care for her.
　Between these two memories her heart grew troubled.
　Meanwhile the days in the mountain residence continued quietly. The river flowed beside the hills, and mist often covered the valley in the early mornings.
　But the peaceful appearance of that place hid a growing storm of emotions.
　The prince waited impatiently in the capital.
　The young lady waited anxiously in Uji.
　And somewhere between them stood Kaoru, who knew nothing yet of what had already happened.

 
Chapter 52: Kagerō (蜻蛉)

Part 1

　In the mountain residence at Uji, a terrible event had happened. The young lady Ukifune had suddenly disappeared. No one knew where she had gone. The people of the house searched everywhere with great fear, but they could not find even the smallest trace of her. The confusion and sorrow in the house were so great that it was difficult to describe.
　Servants ran through the rooms and along the corridors. Some searched the garden and the path near the river. Others asked questions again and again, hoping that someone had seen the young lady leave during the night. But no one had seen anything clearly.
　The sound of crying filled the residence.
　Some women covered their faces with their sleeves. Others fell to the floor and wept loudly. The air in the house felt heavy and painful, like a storm that would not end.
　The lady’s mother had sent a messenger from the capital the day before. That messenger had stayed overnight at the house. Because he had not returned, the mother became worried and sent another messenger early in the morning. The second messenger had left while the rooster was still crowing.
　Now the women of the house did not know what they should write in reply.
　The nurse and the other attendants gathered together, speaking in confused voices.
　“What shall we say?” one woman cried.
　“How can we explain this?” another asked.
　No one had a clear answer.
　At that moment, two women understood something terrible.
　They were Ukon and the lady’s attendant. These two had secretly known about the young lady’s deep sorrow in recent days. They had seen her silent tears and her troubled thoughts.
　Because of this, a fearful idea entered their minds.
　Perhaps the young lady had thrown herself into the river.
　Neither woman wished to believe such a thing, yet the thought would not leave their hearts.
　Ukon took the letter that had arrived from the mother. Her hands trembled as she opened it. The paper shook slightly in her fingers because she was crying.
　The letter was full of gentle concern.
　“I am very worried about you,” the mother wrote. “Perhaps because of this worry I cannot sleep well. Even when I fall asleep, I have strange dreams. I feel as if something attacks me in the night. I wake up frightened again and again.”
　Ukon read these lines slowly. Her tears fell onto the paper.
　The letter continued.
　“I hear that the day of your move is coming soon. Until that time, I wish you could stay in my house. Today it looks as if rain will fall, so perhaps it is not a good day for travel.”
　When Ukon finished reading, she began to cry loudly.
　Near the letter lay another paper. It was the answer that Ukifune herself had written the night before.
　Ukon picked it up carefully.
　When she read the words written by her young mistress, her sorrow became even deeper. Now she understood that the young lady had already prepared herself for death. The sadness in the letter showed that clearly.
　Ukon pressed the paper against her face and cried.
　“We were together from childhood,” she said through tears. “We had no secrets between us. Why did you hide this from me at the end?”
　Her crying became so strong that she could hardly breathe.
　Meanwhile the nurse sat nearby in silence. The shock of the event had made her mind almost empty. She repeated the same words again and again.
　“What shall we do? What shall we do?”
　She could think of nothing else.
　At the same time, the prince who loved Ukifune had also become worried. The letter he had received from her seemed strange. Her words had felt unusual and sad.
　Because of this, he feared that something terrible might happen.
　“Perhaps she will disappear somewhere,” he thought anxiously. “Perhaps she will leave without telling anyone.”
　Unable to calm his heart, he sent a messenger to Uji.
　The messenger arrived at the mountain residence and immediately noticed something strange. The house was filled with loud crying. Women were shouting and weeping everywhere.
　He tried to give the letter he carried, but no one came forward to receive it.
　Finally he asked one of the lower servants what had happened.
　The servant spoke quietly.
　“The young lady died suddenly last night,” she said. “All the women are in shock. No one is able to answer messages now.”
　The messenger did not understand the deeper truth. He believed the words he had heard and returned quickly to report them.
　When the prince heard this report, he could not believe it.
　“This must be a dream,” he said to himself.
　She had not been seriously ill. Her letters sometimes mentioned that she felt unwell, but nothing had seemed dangerous. In her last letter she had even written gentle words full of feeling.
　“How could she suddenly die?” he asked again and again.
　Unable to rest, he called one of his trusted men.
　“Go to Uji at once,” he ordered. “Learn the truth with your own eyes. Speak to the people there. Find out what has really happened.”
　The man bowed and prepared for the journey.
　That evening he rode quickly toward Uji.
　The rain had already stopped, but the road was still wet and muddy. His horse moved carefully along the dark path through the hills.
　When he reached the mountain residence, he entered quietly so that no one would notice him easily.
　Inside the house he heard many voices speaking in confusion.
　Some people said the funeral would happen that very night.
　Hearing this, the messenger felt a sudden shock run through his body.
　“This cannot be true,” he thought.
　He asked to see Ukon, but the attendants answered him.
　“She cannot rise from bed,” they said. “She has no strength. If you come again later in the night, perhaps you may meet her.”
　The messenger hesitated.
　“But I cannot return without learning the truth,” he insisted. “Please let me speak to someone who knows what happened.”
　Because of his strong request, another attendant finally came to meet him.
　Her eyes were red from crying.
　“A terrible thing has happened,” she said. “No one expected such an end. We cannot even find words to describe our sorrow. Everything feels like a dream.”
　As she spoke, she began to cry again.
　From deeper inside the house came the voice of the nurse. She was crying loudly and calling for her lost mistress.
　“My princess! Where have you gone? Please return! Even your body cannot be found! Every day I saw you and never grew tired of seeing you. Your happiness was the reason I lived. Why did you leave us like this?”
　Her desperate voice echoed through the halls.
　Hearing these cries, the messenger began to suspect that something more mysterious had happened.
　The truth, however, was still hidden in confusion and sorrow.

Part 2

　The messenger stood quietly in the dark corridor and listened to the sounds of grief. The voices of the women rose and fell like waves. Some cried loudly, while others spoke in broken whispers. The entire house seemed filled with sorrow.
　The nurse’s voice could still be heard from the inner rooms.
　“My princess,” she cried again, “where have you gone? Please return to us. Even if you have died, let us at least see your body. How can we live without knowing where you are?”
　Her words were filled with pain. The sound of her crying made the messenger uneasy. Something about the situation did not seem natural.
　He turned again to the attendant who stood before him.
　“Please tell me the truth,” he said seriously. “Has someone hidden the young lady? Has she been taken away somewhere? I have been sent here by my lord himself. He wishes to know the truth. If I return without clear information, I will fail in my duty.”
　The attendant looked troubled. She lowered her eyes and hesitated before answering.
　“No one has hidden her,” she said slowly. “If that were the case, we would not be in such deep sorrow. Everyone in this house is suffering. No one understands how this terrible event happened.”
　The messenger listened carefully.
　“Before this,” the attendant continued, “our lady had been very unhappy. She had many worries in her heart. Recently there were also difficult messages sent from the capital. Because of these troubles, her mind became confused. Something unexpected happened, and she lost both body and life.”
　She did not speak clearly about the cause. Her words only suggested that something tragic had taken place.
　The messenger understood that she was hiding the full truth.
　Still, he felt that pressing her further might only increase her suffering.
　“Then I will return for now,” he said gently. “When your hearts are calmer, perhaps you can tell us more. My lord himself may come here to learn the truth.”
　The attendant shook her head quickly.
　“That must not happen,” she said with concern. “If all secrets become known now, it may harm the memory of the young lady. She wished certain things to remain hidden. Please allow them to remain hidden.”
　Her voice trembled as she spoke.
　The messenger realized that there were matters too painful to reveal openly. Seeing her distress, he decided not to ask more questions.
　Soon after, he quietly left the house and began the long journey back to the capital.
　Meanwhile another visitor arrived at the mountain residence.
　It was Ukifune’s mother.
　She had traveled through the rain after hearing troubling news. When she entered the house and saw the grief around her, she felt her heart break.
　“How could this happen?” she cried.
　If someone dies in an ordinary way, people can accept it with time. Even if the sorrow is deep, they can perform the funeral rites and say farewell. But in this case there was no body, no clear explanation, and no peace.
　The mother could not understand it.
　She began to imagine strange possibilities.
　“Perhaps demons have taken her,” she said in fear. “Or perhaps some animal spirit has stolen her away. In old stories such things sometimes happen.”
　Her attendants tried to calm her, but she could not control her thoughts.
　Another idea soon came into her mind.
　“Could someone from the capital have taken her away secretly?” she asked. “Could one of the attendants have helped such a plan?”
　She began to question the servants closely.
　“Have there been any new women serving in the house recently?” she demanded.
　One servant answered respectfully.
　“There were some who wished to leave because the house was too quiet,” she said. “They promised to return after the young lady moved to the capital. But none of them remain here now.”
　The mother listened, but the answers gave her little comfort.
　The house had been almost empty in recent days. Several attendants had gone to visit their families. Because of this, only a few people had remained when the tragedy happened.
　The confusion of that night now seemed even more frightening.
　Among the women of the house, however, two people understood the situation better than the others.
　They were Ukon and the attendant who had known the young lady’s secrets.
　These two remembered Ukifune’s sorrow in the days before her disappearance. They remembered how she had spoken about death and how she had cried alone.
　One day they found a poem she had written and hidden beneath her writing tools.
　When they read the poem, their hearts filled with dread. It sounded like the farewell words of someone who had already decided to die.
　Outside the house, the sound of the Uji River could be heard. The water rushed loudly over the rocks.
　Listening to that sound, the women felt a terrible fear.
　“Perhaps the river has taken her,” one of them whispered.
　The idea made them shiver.
　Even so, they said nothing about it to the others. The truth was too painful, and they wished to protect the young lady’s name.
　Later that night they spoke quietly with the mother.
　They explained everything they knew. They told her about the young lady’s sorrow, her difficult situation, and the confusion that had filled her heart.
　As the mother listened, her face became pale.
　“Then she threw herself into the river?” she asked in a trembling voice.
　The women could not answer clearly, but their silence was enough.
　The mother felt as if her own life were leaving her body.
　“If that is true,” she said weakly, “then I should also go into the river and follow her.”
　She wished to search along the water and recover her daughter’s body. At least then she could perform the proper funeral rites.
　But the attendants stopped her.
　“The river flows strongly,” they explained. “If she entered the water, the current would have carried her far away. Searching now will only cause more rumors.”
　After hearing this, the mother could only sit in silence.
　Her heart felt empty and lost.
　The women of the house then decided on a difficult plan.
　Since the body could not be found, they would hold a funeral as if it were present. They would prepare the young lady’s belongings and perform the rites quietly.
　That night they placed her bedding, clothing, and personal items into a carriage. Only a few trusted monks were told the truth.
　The carriage was taken to a lonely field across the river.
　There, far from the eyes of strangers, the monks performed the funeral ceremony.
　A small fire was lit.
　The flames rose briefly into the dark night.
　Soon the fire died away.
　Watching the ceremony, the nurse fell to the ground and cried loudly. Her sorrow was so great that she could hardly stand.
　The quiet field echoed with the sound of her grief.

Part 3

　The fire burned quietly in the dark field near the river. Only a few monks stood there, chanting prayers in low voices. The wind moved slowly across the grass, carrying the faint smell of smoke into the night air.
　The ceremony was very small.
　No great crowd gathered. No rich decorations were prepared. Everything was done quickly and in silence. The people of the house wished to avoid attention, because the truth of the young lady’s death was too painful and too uncertain.
　Still, a few villagers watched from a distance.
　Some of them whispered among themselves.
　“Is this really the funeral of the young lady?” one asked.
　“It seems too simple,” another replied. “A woman from such a noble house should have a much grander ceremony.”
　Others spoke in a different way.
　“Perhaps this is the custom in the capital,” they said. “When a woman is not the main wife, the funeral may be done quietly like this.”
　Their voices carried through the dark night, and the servants of the house heard them.
　These words caused new pain.
　The attendants knew the truth. They knew that the ceremony was only a sign, because the young lady’s body had never been found. But they could not explain this to the world.
　Therefore they said nothing and endured the whispers.
　After the ceremony ended, the monks slowly returned to the house. The servants followed in silence. The mountain residence felt colder and emptier than ever before.
　Ukon and the attendant worked carefully to protect the young lady’s secret.
　They spoke firmly to the servants.
　“You must tell everyone that the young lady died suddenly,” they said. “Do not repeat strange stories or guesses. Speak only of an ordinary death.”
　The servants agreed.
　Some of them had already begun to suspect that the young lady had thrown herself into the river. But the attendants warned them strongly not to speak of such things.
　“If rumors spread,” Ukon said quietly, “her name will suffer. We must protect her even after death.”
　Because of this, they tried to control every word that left the house.
　At that time Kaoru was far away from Uji.
　He had gone with his mother to the temple at Ishiyama. His mother was ill, and she wished to pray there for healing. Because of this, Kaoru had remained near her side.
　Even so, his thoughts often turned toward Uji.
　The quiet mountain residence and the gentle young lady who lived there frequently returned to his mind. He wondered how she was living and whether she was lonely.
　Unfortunately, no clear messages had arrived from Uji in recent days.
　While Kaoru remained at the temple, one of the people from his estate traveled to Ishiyama. Only then did the terrible news reach him.
　When he heard that Ukifune had died, he could hardly believe it.
　“How could this happen?” he asked again and again.
　The messenger explained that the funeral had already been held the previous night.
　Kaoru felt deep regret when he heard this.
　“Why was I not told sooner?” he said with pain in his voice. “Even if death cannot be avoided, the final ceremony of a human life should not be done in such haste.”
　Because he could not leave the temple while his mother remained there in prayer, he sent a trusted servant to Uji with a message.
　In the message he said:
　“I received the terrible news of this sudden misfortune. I wished to come immediately, but I must remain here beside my mother because of her illness. I hear that the funeral has already been performed. Why was this done without consulting me? Even if the result would be the same, it would have been better to wait. Such matters concern the honor of the household.”
　When the servant arrived at Uji and delivered this message, the people of the house began to cry again.
　Their grief was still fresh, and hearing Kaoru’s words reopened their wounds.
　None of them could answer him properly.
　They only bowed their heads and wept.
　Meanwhile Kaoru himself remained in deep sorrow.
　He thought about the young lady again and again.
　Her gentle face appeared clearly in his memory. He remembered the quiet beauty of her appearance and the soft kindness of her voice.
　Thinking about these things made his heart ache.
　“While she lived,” he said to himself, “I did not fully understand how dear she was to me.”
　He realized that he had often delayed visiting her. He had believed there would always be more time in the future.
　Now that time was gone forever.
　These thoughts filled him with regret.
　At the same time, Kaoru began to question himself.
　“Perhaps this happened because I did not protect her properly,” he thought. “I left her in that lonely place near the river. Because of my carelessness, danger may have reached her.”
　The sound of the river came to his mind.
　The strong current of the Uji River now seemed terrible to him.
　“Why did I leave her there so long?” he asked himself again.
　Feeling these thoughts growing stronger, he decided to return to the capital as soon as possible. Remaining beside his praying mother while his heart was full of such sorrow felt wrong.
　Therefore he soon returned to his residence in the city.
　When he arrived, he did not visit the princess who was his wife. Instead he sent a message explaining his situation.
　“Nothing serious has happened,” he wrote politely. “However, there has been a death among people connected to my household. For a short time I must remain quietly in mourning.”
　After sending this message, Kaoru withdrew into solitude.
　Alone in his chamber, he thought constantly about Ukifune.
　The more he remembered her, the deeper his sorrow became.
　“She must have suffered greatly,” he said softly to himself. “Yet I did not understand her heart.”
　Tears filled his eyes as he continued to think about her lost life.

Part 4

　After returning to the capital, Kaoru tried to live quietly. Yet his mind never rested. The memory of the young lady followed him everywhere.
　Sometimes he sat alone for many hours without speaking. Servants passed silently through the halls, but he hardly noticed them. His thoughts were always the same.
　“Why did I not bring her to the capital sooner?” he asked himself again and again.
　If she had lived in the city under his protection, perhaps none of this would have happened. The lonely mountain residence near the river now seemed like a terrible mistake.
　Kaoru remembered every small detail of their meetings.
　He remembered the way she lowered her eyes when she spoke. He remembered how gently she answered his words. Even her quiet sadness now seemed beautiful in his memory.
　Thinking of these things made his sorrow even deeper.
　Because of this pain he began to pray more often. He spent long hours reading sacred texts and repeating prayers. Sometimes he wondered whether the gods or the Buddha had allowed this tragedy to happen for some hidden reason.
　“Perhaps I am being punished,” he thought.
　He believed that his heart had never fully left the world. Even though he had often spoken about religious life, he still felt strong attachment to people and love.
　“Maybe this sorrow is meant to teach me something,” he whispered quietly.
　While Kaoru suffered in this way, the prince who loved Ukifune was also in deep grief.
　When he first heard of her death, he had almost lost consciousness. For several days he could hardly move or speak. The people around him believed he had become seriously ill.
　Servants and priests gathered in worry.
　“Perhaps an evil spirit has attacked him,” some said.
　Others called for prayers and rituals to protect him.
　After several days the prince slowly recovered his strength. His tears had almost run dry, yet his heart remained heavy.
　He did not wish the world to know the true cause of his sorrow.
　Therefore he allowed people to believe that he was suffering from illness. He remained in his chambers, receiving only a few close visitors.
　Yet whenever he was alone, memories of Ukifune returned strongly.
　He remembered the night he had secretly visited her. He remembered how beautiful she had looked in the moonlight and how shyly she had spoken.
　These memories filled his heart with longing.
　“If only she were still alive,” he thought.
　Meanwhile news of the prince’s strange illness spread through the capital. Many important people came to ask about his health.
　Even Kaoru heard these rumors.
　When he heard them, a troubling thought entered his mind.
　“Perhaps the prince loved her more deeply than I knew,” he thought.
　Kaoru had already suspected that the prince had feelings for Ukifune. Now he began to believe that their relationship had been stronger than he had imagined.
　Because of this idea, his feelings became complicated.
　The sadness he felt for the young lady remained strong, but another emotion slowly appeared beside it. He felt a strange bitterness.
　“If she had lived,” he thought, “perhaps I would have been known as a man who was betrayed.”
　Remembering this possibility cooled his sorrow slightly. The image of the young lady in his heart became less pure and simple than before.
　Even so, he still felt deep regret.
　“No matter what happened,” he said quietly, “she has died. The suffering she felt must have been great.”
　For this reason he decided that he should visit the prince and offer sympathy.
　It would seem strange if he avoided the prince while so many others were visiting him.
　Therefore Kaoru prepared himself to go to the prince’s residence.
　At that time another death had recently occurred in the royal family. Because of this, Kaoru was wearing mourning clothes of a dull gray color.
　His thin face and quiet expression made him appear even more graceful than usual.
　When he arrived at the residence, most visitors had already left. The evening was calm and silent.
　The prince was resting in his private chamber.
　Although he appeared weak, it was clear that his illness came more from sorrow than from the body itself.
　He allowed Kaoru to enter.
　When the prince saw Kaoru’s face, he suddenly felt embarrassed. Tears quickly gathered in his eyes. He tried to hide them, but it was difficult.
　At last he spoke.
　“My illness is not very serious,” he said softly. “But everyone says that my condition looks dangerous, so they make a great fuss. His Majesty and the Empress are both worried about me. Thinking about this makes me uneasy. And it also reminds me how uncertain life is.”
　As he spoke these words, he wiped his tears with his sleeve.
　But the tears did not stop.
　Kaoru watched him quietly.
　The prince believed that Kaoru did not understand the true cause of his sorrow. He thought Kaoru would only assume that he feared death.
　In truth, the prince’s tears were for Ukifune.
　Kaoru also tried to hide his own emotions. Yet when he saw the prince crying, his own eyes filled with tears as well.
　The two men sat together in silence for a moment.
　Then the prince began to speak again.
　“There is something I wish to tell you,” he said slowly. “For a long time I have kept many thoughts in my heart. It is painful to carry them alone.”
　His voice trembled slightly.
　“In that quiet place in the mountains where you once visited,” he continued, “there lived a woman who was related to someone I loved in the past. Because she reminded me of that person, I sometimes wished to see her face.”
　He paused for a moment before continuing.
　“However, because of my position in the world, I could not visit her openly. People are quick to speak badly about such things. So she remained in that lonely place.”
　The prince lowered his eyes.
　“Suddenly she died,” he said quietly. “This sorrow has made me feel again how empty life can be.”
　When he finished speaking, tears again flowed down his face.
　Kaoru listened carefully.
　His own heart was full of confusion, yet he tried to remain calm.
　The conversation between the two men continued in the quiet room as evening deepened outside.

Part 5

　Evening slowly deepened outside the prince’s residence. The sky grew dark, and the sounds of the city became quiet. Inside the room the lamps burned softly, casting gentle light across the floor.
　The prince sat with lowered eyes.
　For a long moment neither man spoke.
　Kaoru understood that the prince had revealed something important, yet the full meaning of his words remained uncertain. The prince had spoken of a woman who reminded him of someone from the past. He had said that her sudden death caused him deep sorrow.
　But Kaoru knew very well who that woman must be.
　Still, he did not say her name.
　Instead he answered quietly.
　“When a life ends suddenly,” Kaoru said, “the sorrow left behind becomes even deeper. If we know that someone suffered alone, the regret becomes almost unbearable.”
　The prince listened to these words and nodded slowly.
　His voice was low when he answered.
　“Yes. That is exactly how I feel. I cannot stop thinking about what might have happened in her final moments. Did she feel alone? Did she believe that no one cared for her?”
　As he spoke these words, tears again gathered in his eyes.
　Kaoru watched him carefully.
　In his heart many different thoughts were moving.
　At first he had believed that the prince’s sorrow was only a passing feeling. But now, seeing the prince’s grief so clearly, Kaoru began to realize that the prince’s attachment to Ukifune had been very deep.
　This realization troubled him.
　For a moment he felt a quiet anger.
　“If the prince loved her so deeply,” Kaoru thought, “why did he not protect her more carefully?”
　Yet he did not speak this thought aloud.
　Instead he answered with calm words.
　“No one can control the path of life completely,” Kaoru said. “Even when we wish to protect someone, the world sometimes moves in a different way.”
　The prince listened to this and sighed softly.
　“Perhaps you are right,” he said.
　The room again fell silent.
　Outside, a faint wind moved through the trees of the garden. The leaves rustled quietly in the darkness.
　At last the prince spoke once more.
　“There is something else I must confess,” he said slowly. “You once told me that you wished to care for that woman in the mountains. When I heard this, I felt jealous. Because of this jealousy I behaved foolishly.”
　Kaoru raised his eyes slightly.
　The prince continued.
　“One night I went secretly to that place,” he said. “I wished only to see her face and speak with her for a moment. But the night was dark, and the situation became confused. I entered her room unexpectedly.”
　His voice became softer.
　“After that night,” he said, “I could not forget her.”
　When Kaoru heard these words, his heart tightened.
　Now he understood the truth clearly.
　The prince had met Ukifune secretly during the night. Something important had happened between them. Although the prince did not describe everything, the meaning was obvious.
　Kaoru lowered his eyes.
　The image of Ukifune that had lived in his heart began to change again.
　For a long time he had imagined her as a gentle and pure woman who had suffered quietly. Now he realized that her life had been filled with complicated feelings and hidden events.
　Yet this understanding did not remove his sorrow.
　Instead it created a deeper sadness.
　“She must have been very troubled,” he thought.
　Between two powerful men, each loving her in different ways, she had lived in confusion and fear. Her heart must have been pulled in two directions.
　Kaoru finally spoke.
　“It is difficult for any woman to live peacefully when many people expect different things from her,” he said quietly.
　The prince listened carefully.
　Kaoru continued.
　“Perhaps her heart became too tired. Perhaps she believed there was no place in the world where she could live calmly.”
　These words made the prince tremble.
　For the first time he began to imagine Ukifune’s suffering in this way.
　“Then we both caused her pain,” he said slowly.
　The realization filled him with deep regret.
　The two men sat together in silence once again.
　Outside the night grew darker.
　At last Kaoru stood to leave.
　“You should rest now,” he said gently. “Your body has been weak for several days. If you do not recover, many people will become worried.”
　The prince nodded.
　“Thank you for coming,” he said softly.
　Kaoru bowed and left the room.
　As he walked through the quiet corridors of the residence, his thoughts returned again to Ukifune.
　Now her memory seemed more distant, like a dream slowly fading with the morning light.
　Yet the sadness of her story remained in his heart.
　When he stepped outside into the cool night air, he looked up at the sky.
　The moon shone faintly above the rooftops of the capital.
　Kaoru watched the pale light for a long moment.
　“In this world,” he said quietly to himself, “love often brings suffering.”
　With that thought, he slowly returned to his carriage and departed into the silent night.

 
Chapter 53: Tenarai (手習)

Part 1

　Around that time, in the mountains of Yokawa on Mount Hiei, there lived a respected monk. People called him the Sōzu. He was known for his wisdom and calm spirit. He lived quietly in the temple, far from the busy world of the capital.
　The Sōzu was already an old man. His hair had become thin and gray, and his face showed the marks of many years. Yet his mind remained clear and strong.
　His family also lived nearby.
　He had an elderly mother who was over eighty years old. He also had a younger sister who was about fifty. Both women had taken the life of nuns. They lived together peacefully, spending their days in prayer.
　One year the old mother wished to make a pilgrimage.
　“Before my life ends,” she said, “I wish to visit the holy temple at Hase in Yamato.”
　This temple was famous for its sacred power. Many people believed that the Bodhisattva there listened kindly to prayers.
　The Sōzu agreed to her request.
　Because he trusted one of his disciples very much, he asked that monk to accompany the women. This monk was an ajari, a priest trained in sacred rituals.
　“Please guide them safely,” the Sōzu said.
　The group left the mountains and began their journey.
　When they reached the temple at Hase, they prayed with great devotion. They offered gifts to the temple and read sacred scriptures. They also performed many acts of kindness, hoping to gain merit for the future.
　After finishing their prayers, they began the journey home.
　At first the road was peaceful.
　But when they reached a mountain path called Narazaka, trouble appeared.
　The old mother suddenly became ill.
　Her breathing grew weak, and her body lost strength.
　The travelers became worried.
　“If we continue the journey like this,” they said, “she may die on the road.”
　After some discussion they decided to stop in Uji.
　There was a house there belonging to someone they knew. They hoped the old woman could rest for a short time and regain her strength.
　But her illness became worse.
　Seeing this, the travelers sent a messenger to Yokawa to inform the Sōzu.
　The Sōzu had promised himself that he would not leave the mountain during that year. He had made this vow as part of his religious practice.
　Yet when he heard that his mother was ill far from home, his heart became restless.
　“I cannot allow my mother to die on the road,” he said.
　Breaking his vow, he quickly left the mountain and hurried to Uji.
　When he arrived, he found the house small and uncomfortable. The rooms were narrow, and the building was not very clean.
　The owner of the house had also begun to complain.
　“If someone dies here,” the owner said quietly, “the house will become impure. I am preparing for a sacred pilgrimage myself. This situation troubles me.”
　The Sōzu understood the man’s feelings.
　“He speaks reasonably,” he thought.
　Therefore he decided to move the sick woman to another place.
　Near Uji there was an old residence that had once belonged to a retired emperor. It was called the Uji-in. Now it stood almost empty.
　The Sōzu knew the keeper of that place.
　He sent someone to ask if they could stay there for a short time.
　The answer soon returned.
　The keeper had left for a pilgrimage to Hase just the day before. Only an old guard remained at the building.
　The guard came to guide them.
　“If you wish to stay,” he said, “there is an empty hall in the main building. Travelers going to Nara or Hase often sleep there.”
　The Sōzu nodded.
　“That will be fine,” he said.
　Soon the group moved to the old residence.
　The place felt lonely and somewhat frightening.
　Tall trees surrounded the buildings, and the garden had grown wild. The wind moved through the branches with a soft but uneasy sound.
　The Sōzu looked around quietly.
　“Monks,” he said, “read the scriptures.”
　The disciples began to chant sacred words.
　Their voices echoed softly in the dark buildings.
　Meanwhile one of the ajari and another monk decided to examine the grounds. They took a servant with them who carried a torch.
　Holding the bright flame, they walked toward the back of the garden.
　There the trees grew thick and dark. Their branches covered the sky like a roof.
　The monks moved carefully.
　Suddenly one of them stopped.
　“Look,” he said.
　On the ground near the roots of a large tree something white could be seen.
　The torchlight moved closer.
　At first they wondered if it might be a fox in human shape. Stories of fox spirits were well known in such lonely places.
　One monk stepped forward bravely.
　But another stopped him.
　“Do not go too close,” he warned. “It may be something dangerous.”
　Yet the man with the torch walked nearer.
　When the light fell clearly on the shape, they saw the truth.
　It was a young woman.
　Her long hair lay around her like dark silk. She leaned against the rough roots of the tree and cried quietly.
　The sight surprised them deeply.
　“This is strange,” one monk whispered.
　“Very strange,” the other replied.
　They quickly returned to tell the Sōzu what they had seen.

Part 2

　When the monks returned, they spoke quickly to the Sōzu.
　“Master,” one of them said, “there is something strange in the garden. At first we thought it was a fox spirit, but when we looked carefully, it seemed to be a young woman.”
　The Sōzu listened with interest.
　“A woman?” he asked calmly. “In this deserted place?”
　The monks nodded.
　“She was sitting beneath a large tree,” they explained. “Her hair was long and beautiful, and she was crying quietly.”
　The Sōzu stood up.
　“Let us go and see,” he said.
　Several monks followed him into the garden. The torchlight moved through the darkness as they walked.
　The night air felt cold and damp. Tall trees stood close together, and the wind made soft sounds in the leaves.
　When they reached the place, the woman was still there.
　She had not moved.
　She sat beside the roots of the tree exactly as before. Her long hair covered part of her face, and her body trembled as she cried.
　The monks watched her carefully.
　“Perhaps she is not human,” one whispered.
　“Fox spirits sometimes take human shape.”
　But the Sōzu shook his head slowly.
　He studied the woman for a moment.
　Then he spoke.
　“No,” he said. “This is a real person. She is not a spirit.”
　The monks were surprised.
　“Are you certain?” one asked.
　“Yes,” the Sōzu replied. “Look carefully. Her body still has warmth. She is alive.”
　One brave monk stepped closer.
　He spoke loudly.
　“Who are you?” he asked. “Are you a spirit, a demon, or a human being? Speak your name.”
　The woman did not answer.
　She only pulled her robe over her face and cried more deeply.
　The monk tried again.
　“You cannot hide,” he said. “Our master is a great priest. Nothing evil can remain hidden before him.”
　Still the woman said nothing.
　She only bent forward and wept.
　The monks began to feel uneasy.
　The strange scene in the dark garden made their hearts uneasy. Yet they were also curious.
　Just then the old guard of the residence came walking slowly toward them.
　Someone had called for him.
　The guard looked at the woman without surprise.
　“Ah,” he said calmly, “it is probably the work of foxes.”
　The monks stared at him.
　“Foxes?” they repeated.
　The guard nodded.
　“Strange things often happen under this tree,” he explained. “Foxes like this place. Sometimes they make people see unusual sights.”
　One monk asked him a question.
　“Have you ever seen something like this before?”
　The guard laughed softly.
　“Two years ago,” he said, “a child was found here. Someone’s baby, only two years old. It had been taken and left beneath this tree.”
　“What happened to the child?” the monk asked.
　“It survived,” the guard replied. “Foxes enjoy frightening people, but they rarely harm them.”
　The monks looked at each other.
　The story sounded strange, but the guard spoke with complete calm.
　The Sōzu thought quietly for a moment.
　“Even if fox spirits brought her here,” he said at last, “she is still a human being. If we leave her here in the rain, she may die.”
　One disciple spoke with concern.
　“But Master, we already have a sick woman inside. Bringing a stranger into the house may cause trouble.”
　Another monk agreed.
　“Yes,” he said. “If she dies inside the building, the place will become impure.”
　The Sōzu listened patiently.
　Then he answered gently.
　“Think about this carefully,” he said. “Even a fish in a pond or a deer in the mountains deserves compassion. If we see a creature suffering, we should try to help it.”
　He paused before continuing.
　“This woman is human. Her life may be very short, but even one extra day of life is valuable. If she is meant to die, we cannot change that. But we must not abandon her while she still breathes.”
　The monks could not argue with these words.
　The Sōzu then gave a clear command.
　“Carry her inside,” he said.
　One strong monk stepped forward and carefully lifted the woman in his arms.
　Her body felt light and weak, as if all strength had left it.
　Some disciples still complained quietly.
　“This may bring trouble,” one whispered.
　“Perhaps,” another replied.
　But others felt pity.
　“We cannot leave her in the rain,” they said.
　The monks carried her into a quiet room away from the sick mother.
　They laid her gently on a mat.
　The woman looked pale and fragile. Her eyes remained closed, and her breathing was weak.
　At that moment the carriages carrying the old mother and the other nuns arrived at the residence.
　The house became busy.
　Servants moved quickly through the halls, bringing bedding and medicine for the sick woman.
　After the noise settled, the Sōzu remembered the mysterious girl.
　He turned to one of his disciples.
　“How is the woman we found in the garden?” he asked.
　The disciple answered honestly.
　“She still looks very weak,” he said. “She does not speak. It is as if her spirit has been taken away.”
　Just then the Sōzu’s sister overheard their conversation.
　“What woman?” she asked with curiosity.
　The Sōzu explained everything.
　“It is something I have never seen before,” he added. “In all my years, nothing like this has happened.”
　His sister became interested.
　“Please let me see her,” she said.
　She walked quickly to the room where the woman lay.
　Inside the quiet room, the young woman lay alone.
　Her beauty surprised everyone who saw her.
　She wore fine white robes and red trousers. A gentle fragrance rose from her clothing.
　Her face was pale but very beautiful.
　When the nun saw her, tears suddenly filled her eyes.
　“She looks like my daughter,” she said softly.
　The nun’s daughter had died not long before. The loss had left a deep wound in her heart.
　Now, seeing this beautiful young woman, she felt as if her lost child had returned.
　Without hesitation she gave an order.
　“Bring her to my room,” she said.
　The attendants carefully lifted the unconscious woman and carried her away.

Part 3

　The attendants carried the young woman gently through the quiet corridors. The old residence was large, but many of its rooms were empty. Their footsteps echoed softly on the wooden floor.
　At last they reached the nun’s room.
　The nun had already prepared a place for the woman to rest. She had laid out clean bedding and placed warm blankets nearby.
　“Put her here,” she said kindly.
　The attendants lowered the woman onto the bedding. Her body felt light, and she did not move.
　The nun sat beside her and looked closely at her face.
　The young woman’s beauty was clear even in her weak condition. Her long black hair spread across the pillow like dark silk. Her skin was pale, and her lips were faintly colored.
　“Poor child,” the nun whispered.
　She touched the woman’s hand gently.
　The hand felt cold.
　“Bring warm water,” the nun said.
　One attendant hurried away and soon returned with a small bowl of warm water. Another brought a clean cloth.
　The nun carefully wiped the woman’s face.
　Slowly the woman’s breathing became a little steadier.
　The nun spoke softly.
　“You are safe here,” she said. “Do not be afraid.”
　For a long time the woman did not open her eyes.
　The nun remained beside her, watching quietly.
　Outside the night continued to deepen. The wind moved softly through the trees, and distant water could be heard from the river.
　Inside the room the lamps burned quietly.
　After some time the young woman’s eyelids trembled.
　Slowly she opened her eyes.
　At first her gaze was empty. She looked around the room as if she did not understand where she was.
　The nun leaned closer.
　“Do you hear me?” she asked gently.
　The woman blinked several times.
　At last she spoke in a faint voice.
　“Where… am I?”
　Her voice sounded weak, like a whisper carried by the wind.
　The nun answered calmly.
　“You are safe in a temple residence near Uji,” she said. “Some monks found you in the garden beneath a tree.”
　The woman listened quietly.
　She tried to remember something.
　Her brow tightened slightly, but no clear memory came to her.
　“A tree…?” she repeated softly.
　The nun nodded.
　“Yes. You were sitting there alone in the rain.”
　The woman closed her eyes again.
　For a moment it seemed she might lose consciousness once more. But after a few breaths she opened them again.
　Her eyes filled slowly with tears.
　“I… do not understand,” she whispered.
　The nun felt deep pity.
　“Do not force yourself to remember,” she said kindly. “Your body is weak. Rest first.”
　The woman nodded slightly.
　The nun gave her a small amount of warm water. With help she drank a little.
　Her breathing became calmer.
　Soon the Sōzu’s sister returned to speak with the nun.
　She looked again at the young woman.
　“How is she now?” she asked.
　“She has awakened,” the nun replied quietly. “But she seems confused. Her mind is not clear.”
　The sister studied the woman carefully.
　“Her clothes are fine,” she said. “She must come from an important family.”
　The nun agreed.
　“Yes. And yet she was left alone beneath that tree. It is very strange.”
　The sister lowered her voice.
　“Perhaps she was taken by spirits,” she suggested.
　Stories of spirits and foxes were common in such places.
　The nun thought for a moment.
　“Perhaps,” she said. “But whatever the cause, she is a human being who needs care.”
　The sister nodded.
　“Then we must help her.”
　Meanwhile the young woman listened quietly to their conversation.
　Their voices sounded distant, like echoes in a dream.
　Her mind felt heavy and unclear.
　When she tried to remember the past, her thoughts became painful.
　Images appeared for a moment and then disappeared.
　A dark river.
　A cold night.
　The sound of water moving in the darkness.
　These memories frightened her.
　She turned her face away and closed her eyes again.
　Tears slipped slowly down her cheeks.
　The nun noticed this.
　She gently wiped the tears away.
　“Do not be afraid,” she said softly. “You are safe now.”
　The young woman whispered weakly.
　“I wanted… to disappear.”
　The nun felt shocked by these words.
　“Disappear?” she repeated.
　The woman nodded faintly.
　“Yes… I wished to leave this world.”
　Her voice trembled as she spoke.
　“Everything had become too painful.”
　The nun remained silent for a moment.
　Then she spoke with calm kindness.
　“Life often brings suffering,” she said. “But it also brings new paths we cannot see yet.”
　The young woman listened quietly.
　The nun continued.
　“Perhaps the gods protected you. Perhaps they wished you to live a little longer.”
　The woman did not answer.
　But her breathing slowly became steady.
　Outside the night passed quietly.
　In the lonely residence beside the river, the young woman who had wished to vanish from the world began a new and uncertain life.

Part 4

　Morning light slowly entered the room. The pale sunlight passed through the paper screens and spread softly across the floor.
　The young woman opened her eyes.
　For a moment she did not move. She lay quietly and listened to the sounds around her. Somewhere outside a bird was calling. The sound was clear and gentle.
　She realized that she was still alive.
　This thought filled her with a strange feeling. Part of her felt relief. Another part felt deep sorrow.
　“Why am I still here?” she thought.
　The memories of the night returned slowly.
　She remembered walking alone in darkness. She remembered the cold wind and the sound of water near the river. Her heart had been full of pain.
　“I will end everything,” she had thought.
　Yet now she was lying in a quiet room, wrapped in warm blankets.
　She turned her head slightly.
　The nun was sitting nearby, reading from a sacred book. Her voice was soft and calm.
　When she noticed that the woman was awake, she closed the book.
　“You are awake,” she said gently.
　The young woman tried to sit up, but her body felt weak.
　The nun quickly helped her.
　“Do not hurry,” she said kindly. “Your strength has not yet returned.”
　The woman looked around the room again.
　“Is this a temple?” she asked quietly.
　“It is a residence connected with the temple,” the nun replied. “You are safe here.”
　The young woman lowered her eyes.
　She seemed uncertain about what to say next.
　After a long silence she spoke again.
　“Did you bring me here?” she asked.
　The nun shook her head.
　“No. Some monks found you in the garden. They carried you inside.”
　The woman listened carefully.
　Her hands trembled slightly.
　“Then… I was not alone?” she said softly.
　“No,” the nun answered. “You were discovered before anything terrible could happen.”
　The woman closed her eyes again.
　Tears slowly appeared.
　“I had hoped that no one would see me,” she whispered.
　The nun felt deep pity.
　“You must have suffered greatly,” she said quietly.
　The young woman did not answer.
　Instead she asked another question.
　“Where is this place exactly?”
　“It is near Uji,” the nun explained. “Travelers often pass through this area when going to temples.”
　The woman seemed surprised.
　“Uji…” she repeated.
　The name stirred something in her memory. Images moved through her mind like shadows.
　She remembered a river flowing beneath a bridge. She remembered dark water and cold wind.
　Her body trembled.
　The nun noticed the change in her face.
　“Do not force your thoughts,” she said gently. “Your mind still needs rest.”
　The woman nodded slowly.
　For a long time she remained silent.
　The nun then asked a careful question.
　“Child, do you have a family who may be searching for you?”
　The woman hesitated.
　Her expression became troubled.
　At last she answered.
　“Perhaps they believe I am dead.”
　The nun looked surprised.
　“Dead?” she repeated.
　The woman nodded faintly.
　“Yes. That would be better for them.”
　The nun studied her carefully.
　It was clear that the woman carried a deep sorrow in her heart.
　“You do not need to tell us everything now,” the nun said gently. “But remember this. A life that continues always has new possibilities.”
　The young woman listened quietly.
　She seemed uncertain whether to believe these words.
　After a moment she spoke again.
　“I once wished to become a nun,” she said slowly.
　The nun raised her eyebrows with interest.
　“You wished to enter religious life?”
　The woman nodded.
　“Yes. I believed that if I left the world, my heart might become peaceful.”
　The nun considered her words.
　“Sometimes that path truly brings peace,” she said. “But it must come from clear understanding, not from despair.”
　The young woman lowered her eyes.
　“I understand,” she said softly.
　At that moment the Sōzu entered the room.
　His face was calm and gentle.
　The nun greeted him respectfully.
　“Master, she has awakened,” she said.
　The Sōzu looked kindly at the young woman.
　“It is good that your life was saved,” he said.
　His voice carried quiet strength.
　The young woman bowed her head weakly.
　“Thank you for helping me,” she whispered.
　The Sōzu spoke again.
　“Do not think that your life has no value,” he said. “Even a moment of life can lead to wisdom.”
　The woman listened carefully.
　His words felt different from ordinary speech. They were calm but powerful.
　The Sōzu continued.
　“If your heart seeks peace, you may remain here for a time. Rest your body. Clear your mind.”
　The young woman looked up slowly.
　For the first time a small expression of hope appeared on her face.
　“May I truly stay here?” she asked.
　“Yes,” the Sōzu answered.
　The woman closed her eyes again.
　A quiet tear slipped down her cheek.
　It was not a tear of despair.
　It was the first tear of relief she had felt in many days.
　Outside the temple residence the morning sun rose higher above the mountains. The river near Uji flowed quietly as it always had.
　And within the quiet rooms of the old residence, the young woman who had wished to disappear from the world began to walk slowly toward a different future.

 
Chapter 54: Yume no Ukihashi (夢浮橋)

Part 1

　Kaoru arrived at the great temple on the mountain and spent the day there in prayer. As usual, he offered sacred books and images of the Buddha with deep respect. The air in the temple halls was cool and quiet, and the smell of incense rose slowly into the still air.
　On the following day he traveled to the temple at Yokawa. The chief monk there, the Sōzu, welcomed him warmly. The two men had known each other before, and they had often worked together in prayers and sacred rituals. Yet their friendship had grown stronger in recent years.
　Not long before, a royal prince had fallen seriously ill. During that time the Sōzu had performed powerful prayers, and these prayers had seemed to help the prince greatly. Because of this, Kaoru had begun to respect the monk even more deeply. For this reason Kaoru had climbed the long mountain road to visit him.
　The Sōzu received him with careful kindness. The monks prepared a quiet room for their guest. Kaoru sat calmly while servants brought simple food, and a bowl of rice soaked in hot water was placed before him.
　For a while the two men spoke peacefully about many things. They talked about the temple, about religious practice, and about the changing seasons on the mountain. As evening approached, the area around them became quiet.
　At that moment Kaoru moved closer to the Sōzu and lowered his voice. “May I ask you something?” he said gently.
　The monk looked at him with calm interest. “Please ask whatever you wish.”
　Kaoru hesitated for a moment. His eyes lowered slightly as if he were thinking carefully about his words. “Do you know anyone living near the village of Ono?” he asked.
　The Sōzu nodded. “Yes,” he replied. “There is an old house there. My mother lives in that place.”
　Kaoru listened closely.
　The monk continued speaking. “My mother is very old now. She wished to live somewhere quiet. Because I spend most of my life here in the temple, it seemed best for her to stay nearby. If she needs help, I can go to her even at night.”
　Kaoru nodded slowly. “I have heard that the area around Ono has become rather empty in recent years,” he said. “Many houses have disappeared.”
　After saying this, Kaoru leaned forward again, and his voice became even softer. “There is something else I wish to ask,” he said. “However, I feel some hesitation. If I ask too directly, you may wonder why I wish to know such things.”
　The monk watched him quietly.
　Kaoru continued. “I have heard a rumor,” he said. “Someone told me that a certain woman who is connected to me is living in that mountain house.” His voice trembled slightly. “If this rumor is true, I would like to understand how such a thing happened.”
　The Sōzu remained silent.
　Kaoru spoke again. “I have also heard,” he continued slowly, “that the woman was given the vows of a nun by one of your disciples.” His eyes rose for a moment. “Is that story true?”
　The room became very quiet.
　The Sōzu felt a heavy weight in his heart. From the beginning he had suspected that the woman they had saved was not from an ordinary family. Her beauty and her behavior had made this clear. Now, seeing Kaoru standing before him, he understood something more. “This man must have loved her deeply,” he thought.
　The Sōzu felt troubled. He began to wonder whether he had made a mistake. Perhaps he had allowed the woman to become a nun too quickly. Perhaps he should have asked more questions about her past.
　For a moment he did not know how to answer. If he hid the truth, the problem might become worse later. If he spoke honestly, Kaoru might suffer great pain.
　After thinking carefully, the monk finally decided. “You must be speaking about a certain strange event that happened last year,” he said quietly.
　Kaoru’s heart began to beat faster.
　The Sōzu slowly explained everything. “My mother and my younger sister once made a pilgrimage to the temple at Hase,” he said. “On their way back they stopped to rest at a place called Uji.” The monk paused briefly. “During that time something very unusual happened.”
　Kaoru listened without moving.
　The Sōzu continued. “While they were resting at an old residence near the river, they discovered a young woman lying beneath a tree in the garden.”
　Kaoru’s breath became shallow.
　“At first they believed she was dead,” the monk said. “Her body was cold, and she did not move.” But after looking carefully, they noticed something. “She was still breathing.”
　The Sōzu described what had happened next. The monks had prayed for her. They had performed sacred rituals and called upon the power of the Buddha. Slowly the woman’s life returned.
　“For several months she remained like a person who had just awakened from death,” the monk explained. “She could not remember her past clearly. She seemed lost in her own mind.”
　The monk lowered his eyes. “Later she told us something very sad,” he said. “She believed that a spirit still followed her.”
　Kaoru listened silently.
　“She said she wished to leave the world,” the monk continued. “She asked to become a nun.”
　The Sōzu sighed deeply. “Because she begged us with such sorrow, I allowed the ceremony to take place.”
　He lifted his eyes toward Kaoru. “Only later did I begin to wonder whether she belonged to a noble family.”
　Kaoru felt as if he were standing inside a dream. The woman he had believed dead was alive, yet she had become a nun.
　Tears rose suddenly in his eyes, but he tried to hide them. “So it was true,” he thought. “She did not die in the river.”
　But another thought quickly followed.
　“She is alive… yet she has left the world.”
　His heart felt both joy and pain at the same time.

Part 2

　Kaoru sat silently after hearing the monk’s story. His hands rested quietly on his knees, but his heart moved like water in a storm. For a long time he had believed that the young woman had died. Many people had spoken about it. Some said she had fallen into the river. Others said she had disappeared into the darkness of the mountains. Kaoru himself had imagined many terrible possibilities. “Perhaps she ended her life,” he had thought again and again. These thoughts had caused him deep pain.
　Yet now the monk’s words had changed everything. She had not died. She had been found alive. And now she was living quietly as a nun in a lonely mountain village. For a moment Kaoru felt great relief. “She lives,” he thought. But the feeling did not remain simple. The relief quickly mixed with another emotion. He felt regret, confusion, and sorrow at the same time. “Why did she choose this path?” he asked himself.
　The Sōzu watched Kaoru carefully. The monk could see that the young man was trying to control his feelings. At last Kaoru spoke again. “You have told me everything honestly,” he said. His voice remained calm, but his eyes were still wet. “Because of that, I feel both grateful and troubled.”
　The Sōzu bowed his head slightly. “I also feel troubled,” he said. “At the time I did not know who she was. If I had known her true situation, perhaps I would have acted differently.”
　Kaoru shook his head slowly. “No,” he replied. “You did not do anything wrong.” He paused before continuing. “You saved her life.”
　The room became quiet again. The sound of wind moved softly through the trees outside the temple building.
　Kaoru then began to explain the truth. “The woman you saved,” he said, “is not an ordinary person.” The Sōzu listened carefully. “She belongs to a branch of the royal family,” Kaoru continued. “I did not marry her in the usual way. But our hearts had become deeply connected.” He looked toward the floor. “Because of certain events, our relationship grew quickly.”
　The monk nodded.
　Kaoru spoke again. “However, she never lived in a position of shame or dependence. I tried to treat her with respect.” His voice became quieter. “Then one day she suddenly disappeared.”
　The memory returned clearly. Kaoru remembered the confusion of that time. He remembered the fear that had spread through the household.
　“We searched everywhere,” he said. “But we could find no trace of her.”
　Many rumors had begun to appear. Some people had believed she had taken her own life. Others believed she had been taken away by spirits. Kaoru himself had felt lost. “I could not understand how such a thing had happened,” he said.
　The Sōzu listened with deep sympathy.
　Kaoru continued speaking. “Now I see that she survived.” He paused. “And yet she has chosen to leave the world.”
　The monk folded his hands calmly. “Perhaps that choice came from deep suffering,” he said. “Sometimes people believe that religious life will free them from pain.”
　Kaoru thought quietly. “Perhaps,” he answered.
　After a moment he spoke again. “There is one person who still suffers greatly because of her disappearance.”
　The Sōzu raised his eyes.
　“Her mother,” Kaoru said softly. “She continues to mourn for her daughter every day.”
　The monk sighed. “The pain of parents is very deep,” he said.
　Kaoru nodded. “Because of that, I wish to tell her the truth.”
　But he also felt uncertain. “If the mother learns that her daughter lives as a nun,” he thought, “she may try to bring her home.”
　Such a meeting might disturb the woman’s new life.
　Kaoru spoke these thoughts aloud. “I must act carefully,” he said.
　The Sōzu agreed. “Yes. The situation is delicate.”
　Kaoru then made a request. “Would you please come down from the mountain with me tomorrow?” he asked. “If we speak with her together, perhaps we can understand her wishes.”
　The monk considered this. At last he answered. “I cannot leave the temple today or tomorrow,” he said. “However, after a short time I will travel down and speak with her.”
　Kaoru felt slightly disappointed. Yet he understood the monk’s duties. “Very well,” he said. “I will wait.”
　The conversation continued until evening. As the sun disappeared behind the mountains, the temple bells sounded softly through the air.
　Kaoru prepared to return to the capital.
　Before leaving, he called a young boy to his side. The boy was a relative of the young woman. His face was beautiful and gentle.
　Kaoru looked at him carefully. “This boy is close to her family,” he told the Sōzu.
　Then he spoke quietly to the boy. “You must deliver a letter for me.”
　The boy listened with serious attention.
　Kaoru explained his plan. “When you meet her, do not immediately say that I sent you. First tell her that someone has been searching for her.”
　The boy nodded.
　Kaoru placed a letter in his hands. “Take this,” he said. “Give it to her directly.”
　The boy held the letter carefully. He understood that the task was important.
　As night fell over the mountain temple, Kaoru began his journey back. His mind was filled with hope and fear.
　“Tomorrow,” he thought, “I may finally learn the truth of her heart.”

Part 3

　Kaoru left the temple after night had fallen. The mountain road was dark, and only the light of torches moved slowly along the path. The wind in the high trees made a quiet sound, and sometimes the cry of an animal could be heard far away in the forest. Kaoru rode silently, his mind fixed on a single thought. “She lives.” For many months he had believed that she was gone forever, and the news he had heard that day had shaken his heart deeply. Yet the joy of knowing she lived was mixed with sorrow. “She has become a nun,” he thought. That fact felt heavy in his heart.
　As the group came down the mountain road, Kaoru spoke quietly to his attendants. “Spread out the line,” he said. “And keep your voices low.” The men obeyed immediately. Soon the road became narrower as they approached the quiet area near Ono where the nun’s house stood. Kaoru considered stopping there. “If I go now,” he thought, “I might see her.” The thought made his heart beat faster. Yet another feeling stopped him. “It would not be proper to appear suddenly,” he told himself. The woman had chosen a religious life, and meeting her without warning might cause trouble for her. After thinking carefully, he decided to continue his journey home. “Tomorrow the boy will go,” he said quietly.
　The boy rode nearby among the attendants. This boy was the younger brother of the young woman. When Kaoru looked at him, he felt both hope and sadness, for the boy’s face reminded him of her. “Come here,” Kaoru said. The boy quickly moved closer. Kaoru lowered his voice so that no one else could hear. “Do you remember your older sister?” he asked.
　The boy’s eyes widened. “Yes,” he answered softly. “I remember her.”
　Kaoru nodded. “Everyone believed that she had died,” he said. The boy’s face became serious. “But she did not die.” The boy stopped breathing for a moment. “She is alive,” Kaoru continued. “And tomorrow you will go to see her.”
　Tears suddenly appeared in the boy’s eyes. He tried to hide them, but his voice shook. “Is it true?” he asked.
　Kaoru smiled gently. “Yes. But you must not tell anyone yet.” The boy nodded strongly.
　“Your mother must not hear about this until the time is right,” Kaoru said. “If she learns suddenly, she may become very upset.” The boy understood. Their mother had suffered greatly after her daughter disappeared. “You must be careful,” Kaoru continued. “Go quietly. Speak with her. Bring back her answer.”
　The boy held the letter tightly. “I will do it,” he said.
　Kaoru looked at him with kindness. “You are brave,” he said.
　The group finally reached the capital late that night. Kaoru returned to his residence, but he could not sleep. He walked slowly through the quiet rooms as memories of the past returned again and again. He remembered the first time he had seen the young woman, the gentle way she spoke, and the sadness that often appeared in her eyes. “Why did everything happen this way?” he wondered.
　When morning arrived, Kaoru immediately prepared the boy for his journey. Only a few trusted attendants were allowed to go with him. Kaoru also sent a guard who had once traveled many times to Uji. This man knew the road well. Before the boy left, Kaoru spoke to him once more. “When you see her,” he said, “give her my letter with your own hands. Do not let anyone else take it.”
　The boy bowed. “I understand.”
　Soon the small group left the capital and began their journey toward the mountains. The road followed the river. Morning mist rose slowly from the water, and birds flew low above the trees. After several hours they reached the quiet village of Ono. The house of the nun stood near the edge of the mountain. Tall summer trees surrounded the building, and fireflies sometimes floated near the garden at night.
　Inside the house the young woman lived quietly. She spent most of her time in prayer. Yet even as she tried to forget the world, memories of the past returned to her again and again. On that morning she sat near the open veranda, from where she could see the mountain path.
　Suddenly several lights appeared on the road. Torches moved slowly through the trees. The women of the house looked at each other. “Who could be coming here?” one asked. Another answered, “Perhaps a noble traveler.”
　The young woman watched silently. For a moment the scene reminded her of something from the past. Long ago, on a similar mountain road, someone had come searching for her. The memory filled her heart with painful longing. She lowered her eyes and whispered quietly, “Amida Buddha…” She repeated the sacred name again and again. Even so, the past would not leave her heart.
　Soon a servant entered the room. “A messenger has arrived from the temple,” the woman said.
　The nun of the house looked surprised. “Bring him here,” she said.
　A young boy stepped onto the veranda. His clothes were fine, and his face was bright and beautiful.
　The moment the young woman saw him, her heart stopped.
　It was her younger brother.

Part 4

　The young woman saw the boy standing on the veranda. For a moment she could not breathe. The boy’s face had grown older since she had last seen him, yet it was still the same face she remembered from long ago. “My brother…” she thought. The memory struck her heart like sudden light. She quickly turned her face away. “No,” she told herself. “I must not let him see me.” She had believed that everyone in her family thought she was dead. If they saw her now in the robes of a nun, what would they feel? Shame and confusion filled her heart.
　The nun who cared for her spoke gently. “Please come inside,” she said to the boy. The boy stepped quietly into the room. He looked around carefully. The house was simple and quiet. The air smelled faintly of incense and mountain flowers.
　The nun spoke kindly. “You have come from the temple?” The boy bowed politely. “Yes. I bring a letter.”
　The nun studied him closely. The boy’s face was beautiful, and his clothing showed that he came from an important family. “Please sit,” she said. The boy sat near the screen. The young woman remained hidden behind a curtain. She could hear every word, but she did not show her face.
　The nun then asked softly, “May I ask who you are?”
　The boy hesitated. His heart was beating fast. He knew that his sister was somewhere in the room, yet she would not come forward.
　At last he spoke. “I have brought a letter from the Sōzu,” he said. “It must be given directly.”
　The nun nodded. “Very well.” She accepted the letter and looked at the name written on the outside. The writing showed clearly that it was meant for the young woman. The nun brought it to her.
　The young woman took the letter with trembling hands. She already knew what it must contain. Slowly she opened it.
　The words inside explained everything. The Sōzu wrote that Kaoru had visited the temple and learned the truth. He had spoken of their past and of the love that had once connected them. The letter also said that Kaoru wished to meet her again.
　When she read these words, her face grew pale. “He knows,” she thought. “Everything has been discovered.” Her heart filled with fear and shame.
　At the bottom of the letter there was also a poem written by Kaoru. She recognized his handwriting immediately. The sight of it made her chest ache.
　The nun watched her carefully. “What does it say?” she asked.
　The young woman could not answer. Tears fell slowly onto the paper.
　The nun sighed softly. “It seems that someone cares for you very deeply,” she said.
　The young woman covered her face. “Please,” she whispered, “do not speak of it.”
　The nun looked troubled. “But the boy is waiting for an answer,” she said.
　The young woman shook her head. “I cannot meet him,” she said. “Not now.”
　The nun tried to persuade her. “He is your brother,” she said kindly. “You must have many things to say to each other.”
　The young woman remained silent.
　After a long time she spoke again. “When I left the world, I believed that everyone would forget me,” she said quietly. “Now everything has returned.” Her voice trembled. “I cannot face them.”
　The nun felt pity. Yet she also understood that hiding forever would not solve anything.
　Meanwhile the boy waited anxiously. He had hoped to see his sister again. “Please tell her that I came,” he said. “Even if she will not meet me.”
　The nun went back to the curtain. “The boy asks only to see you once,” she said gently. “He has come with great hope.”
　The young woman closed her eyes. Memories returned again. She remembered her mother’s face. She remembered her younger brother as a small child. Tears filled her eyes. Yet she still could not move.
　“Tell him…” she whispered. “Tell him that the person he seeks may not be here.”
　The nun looked surprised. “But that is not true.”
　The young woman lowered her head. “Please say it anyway,” she said.
　The nun returned to the boy with a troubled expression. “She is very weak,” she explained. “Her mind is still confused.”
　The boy felt disappointed. “May I give the letter myself?” he asked.
　The nun hesitated. At last she allowed it.
　The boy approached the curtain slowly. He pushed the letter forward. “Please take this,” he said quietly.
　The young woman reached out from behind the curtain and accepted it. For a brief moment the boy saw her hand. He recognized it immediately. His heart trembled. “It is really her,” he thought.
　He waited for a reply. But the young woman said nothing.
　At last she pushed the letter back toward the nun. “I cannot answer today,” she said weakly. “Please return later.”
　The boy felt deep sadness. He had come hoping for joy. Instead he found only silence.
　Slowly he stood and bowed. “Then I will go,” he said.
　The nun escorted him outside.
　As he left the house, the boy looked back once. The quiet mountain home stood still among the trees. Somewhere inside it his sister remained hidden from the world.
　When he returned to the capital, Kaoru waited anxiously for his report. But the boy could tell him only one thing.
　“She lives,” he said. “But she will not see anyone.”
　Kaoru listened in silence. His heart became heavy again. The woman he loved was alive, yet she remained farther away than ever.