29

The Akashi lady slipped away from the southeast quarter when she heard what sort of letter had come. Her new eminence made it impossible for her to see as much of her mother as in earlier years, but she had to find out for herself what sad news had come. The old nun seemed heartbroken. The lady had a lamp brought near and read the letter, and she too was soon weeping helplessly.

She thought of little things that had happened over the years, things that could have meant nothing to anyone else, and her longing for her father was intense. She would not see him again. She now understood: he had put his faith in a dream as the true and sacred word. It had become an obsession, and a source of great unhappiness and embarrassment for the lady herself. She had feared at times that she might go mad—and now she saw that the cause of it all was one insubstantial dream.

The old nun at length controlled her weeping. “Because of you, we have had blessings and honors quite beyond anything we deserved. The sorrows and trials have been large in proportion. Though I certainly was not a person of any great distinction, I thought that our decision to leave the familiar city and live in Akashi was itself somehow a mark of distinction. I did not expect that I would be as I am now, a widow and not a widow. I had thought that we would be together in this world and that we would share the same lotus in the next world, where my chief hopes lay. Then your own life took that extraordinary turn and I was back in a city I thought I had left forever. I was happy for you and I grieved for him. And now I learn that we are not to meet again. Everyone thought him a very eccentric and unsociable man even before he left court, but two young strong. We had faith in each other. We are still almost within calling distance of each other, and we are kept apart. Why should it be?” The old lady's face was twisted with grief.

Her daughter too was weeping bitterly. “What good are promises of great things? I do not consider myself worthy of any great honors, but it does seem too sad that he should end his days like a forgotten exile. It is easy to say that what must be must be. He has gone off into those wild mountains, and we cannot any of us be sure how long we will live. It all seems so empty and useless.”

They gave the night over to sad talk.

“Genji knows that I was in the southeast quarter last night,” said the lady. “I am afraid he will think it rude and selfish of me to have come away without leave. I do not care about myself, but I have her to think of.” She returned at dawn.

“And how is the baby?” asked her mother. “Don't you suppose they might let me see him?”

“Oh, I am sure of it. You'll see him before long. The princess speaks very fondly of you, and Genji remarked by way of something or other that if things go well—it was inviting bad luck to make distant predictions, he said, but if things go well he hopes that you will be here to enjoy them. I cannot be sure, of course, what he had in mind.”

The old lady smiled. “There you have it. For better or for worse, I seem to have been meant for peculiar things.”

The Akashi lady had someone take the letter box to the southeast quarter.