and Genji seemed far handsomer than any of his brothers. It may be that I remark too frequently upon the fact, but what am I to do when it strikes me afresh each time I see him?
On the last day, Fujitsubo offered prayers and vows of her own. In the course of them she announced her intention of becoming a nun. The assembly was incredulous. Prince Hyōbu and Genji were visibly shaken. The prince went into his sister’s room even before the services were over. She made it very clear, however, that her decision was final. In the quiet at the end of the reading she summoned the grand abbot of Hiei and asked that he administer the vows. As her uncle, the bishop of Yokawa, approached to trim her hair, a stir spread through the hall, and there were unpropitious sounds of weeping. It is strangely sad even when old and unremarkable people leave the world, and how much sadder the sudden departure of a lady so young and beautiful. Her brother was sobbing openly. Saddened and awed by what had just taken place, the assembly dispersed.
The old emperor’s sons, remembering what Fujitsubo had been to their father, offered words of sympathy as they left. For Genji it was as if darkness had settled over the land. Still in his place, he could think of nothing to say. He struggled to control himself, for an excess of sorrow was certain to arouse curiosity. When Prince Hyōbu had left he went in to speak to Fujitsubo. The turmoil was subsiding and the women, in little clusters, were sniffling and dabbing at their eyes. The light from a cloudless moon flooded in, silver from the snow in the garden.
Genji somehow managed to fight back the tears that welled up at the memories the scene brought back. “What are you thinking of, taking us so by surprise?”
She replied, as always, through Omyōbu: “It is something on which I deliberated for a very long time. I did not want to attract attention. It might have weakened my resolve.”
From her retreat came poignant evidence of sorrow. There was a soft rustling of silk as her women moved diffidently about. The wind had risen. The mysterious scent of “dark incense” drifted through the blinds, to mingle with the fainter incense from the altars and Genji’s own perfume and bring thoughts of the Western Paradise.
A messenger came from the crown prince. At the memory of their last interview her carefully maintained composure quite left her, and she was unable to answer. Genji set down an answer in her place. It was a difficult time, and he was afraid that he did not express himself well.
“My heart is with her in the moonlight above the clouds,
And yet it stays with you in this darker world.
“I am making excuses. Such resolve leaves me infinitely dissatisfied with myself. ”
That was all. There were people about, and he could not even begin to describe his turbulent thoughts.
Fujitsubo sent out a note:
“Though I leave behind a world I cannot endure,
My heart remains with him, still of that world.
And will be muddied by it.”
It would seem to have been largely the work of her sensitive women. Numb with sorrow, Genji made his way out.
Back at Nijō he withdrew to his own rooms, where he spent a sleepless night. In a world that had become in every way distasteful, he too still thought of the crown prince. The old emperor had hoped that at least the boy’s mother would stay with him, and now, driven away, she would probably feel constrained to relinquish her title as well. What if Genji were to abandon the boy? All night the question chased itself through his mind.
He turned to the work of fitting out the nunnery and hurried to have everything ready by the end of the year. Omyōbu had followed her lady in taking vows. To her too, most feelingly, he sent gifts and assurances of his continuing esteem.
A complete description of such an event has a way of seeming over-done, and much has no doubt been left out; which is a pity, since many fine poems are sure to be exchanged at such times.
He felt more at liberty now to call on her, and sometimes she would come out and receive him herself. The old passions were not dead, but there was little that could be done to satisfy them now.
The New Year came. The court was busy with festive observances, the emperor’s poetry banquet and the caro1s. Fujitsubo devoted herself to her beads and prayers and tried to ignore the echoes that reached her. Thoughts of the life to come were her strength. She put aside all the old comforts and sorrows. Leaving her old chapel as it was, she built a new one some distance to the south of the west wing, and there she took up residence, and lost herself in prayer and meditation.
Genji came calling and saw little sign that the New Year had brought new life. Her palace was silent and almost deserted. Only her nearest confidantes were still with her, and even they (or perhaps it was his imagination) seemed downcast and subdued. The white horses, which her entire household came out to see, brought a brief flurry of the old excitement. High courtiers had once gathered in such numbers that there had seemed room for no more, and it was sad though understandable that today they gathered instead at the mansion of the Minister of the Right, across the street. Genji was as kind and attentive as ever, and to the women, shedding unnoticed tears, he seemed worth a thousand of the others.
Looking about him at these melancholy precincts, Genji was at first unable to speak. They had become in every way a nunnery: the blinds and curtains, all a drab gray-green, glimpses of gray and yellow sleeves — melancholy and at the same time quietly, mysteriously beautiful. He looked out into the garden. The ice was melting from the brook and pond, and the willow on the bank, as if it alone were advancing boldly into spring, had already sent out shoots. “Uncommonly elegant fisherfolk,” he whispered, himself an uncommonly handsome figure.
“Briny my sleeves at the pines of Urashima
As those of the fisherfolk who take the sea grass.”
Her reply was faint and low, from very near at hand, for the chapel was small and crowded with holy objects:
“How strange that waves yet come to Urashima,
When all the things of old have gone their way.”
He tried not to weep. He would have preferred not to show his tears to nuns who had awakened to the folly of human affairs. He said little more.
“What a splendid gentleman he has become,” sobbed one of the old women. “Back in the days when everything was going his way, when the whole world seemed to be his, we used to hope that something would come along to jar him just a little from his smugness. But now look at him, so calm and sober and collected. There is something about him when he does the smallest little thing that tugs at a person’s heart. It’s all too sad.”
Fujitsubo too thought a great deal about the old days.
The spring promotions were announced, and they brought no happiness to Fujitsubo’s household. Promotions that should have come in the natural order of things or because of her position were withheld. It was unreasonable to argue that because she had become a nun she was no longer entitled to the old emoluments; but that was the argument all the same. For her people, the world was a changed place. Though there were times when she still had regrets, not for herself but for those who depended upon her, she turned ever more fervently to her prayers, telling herself that the security of her son was the important thing. Her secret worries sometimes approached real terror. She would pray that by way of recompense for her own sufferings his burden of guilt be lightened, and in the prayer she would find comfort.
