Genji was wondering whether such an opportunity would ever occur again. How would he be able even to send her letters? And thinking of all the difficulties that awaited him, he became very despondent. Chūjō arrived to fetch her mistress. For a long while he would not let her go, and when at last he handed her over, he drew her back to him saying ‘How can I send news to you? For, Madam,’ he said raising his voice that the maid Chūjō might hear ‘such love as mine, and such pitiless cruelty as yours have never been seen in the world before.’ Already the birds were singing in good earnest. She could not forget that she was no one and he a Prince. And even now, while he was tenderly entreating her, there came unbidden to her mind the image of her husband Iyo no Suke, about whom she generally thought either not at all or with disdain. To think that even in a dream he might see her now, filled her with shame and terror.
It was daylight. Genji went with her to the partition door. Indoors and out there was a bustle of feet. As he closed the door upon her, it seemed to him a barrier that shut him out from all happiness. He dressed, and went out on to the balcony. A blind in the western wing was hastily raised. There seemed to be people behind who were looking at him. They could only see him indistinctly across the top of a partition in the verandah. Among them was one, perhaps, whose heart beat wildly as she looked...?
The moon had not set, and though with dwindled light still shone crisp and clear in the dawn. It was a daybreak of marvellous beauty. But in the passionless visage of the sky men read only their own comfort or despair; and Genji, as with many backward glances he went upon his way, paid little heed to the beauty of the dawn. He would send her a message? No, even that was utterly impossible. And so, in great unhappiness he returned to his wife’s house.
He would gladly have slept a little, but could not stop trying to invent some way of seeing her again; or when that seemed hopeless, imagining to himself all that must now be going on in her mind. She was no great beauty, Genji reflected, and yet one could not say that she was ugly. Yes, she was in every sense a member of that Middle Class upon which Uma no Kami had given them so complete a dissertation.
He stayed for some while at the Great Hall, and finding that, try as he might, he could not stop thinking about her and longing for her, at last in despair he sent for Ki no Kami and said to him ‘Why do you not let me have that boy in my service,—the Chūnagon’s son, whom I saw at your house? He is a likely looking boy, and I might make him my body-servant, or even recommend him to the Emperor.’ ‘I am sensible of your kindness’ said Ki no Kami, ‘I will mention what you have said to the boy’s sister.’ This answer irritated Genji, but he continued: ‘And has this lady given you step-brothers my lord?’ ‘Sir, she has been married these two years, but has had no child. It seems that in making this marriage she disobeyed her father’s last injunctions, and this has set her against her husband.’
Genji: ‘That is sad indeed. I am told that she is not ill-looking. Is that so?’
Ki no Kami: ‘I believe she is considered quite passable. But I have had very little to do with her. Intimacy between step-children and step-parents is indeed proverbially difficult.’
Five or six days afterwards Ki no Kami brought the boy. He was not exactly handsome, but he had great charm and (thought Genji) an air of distinction. The Prince spoke very kindly to him and soon completely won his heart. To Genji’s many questions about his sister he made such answers as he could, and when he seemed embarrassed or tongue-tied Genji found some less direct way of finding out what he wanted to know, and soon put the boy at his ease. For though he vaguely realized what was going on and thought it rather odd, he was so young that he made no effort to understand it, and without further question carried back a letter from Genji to his sister.
She was so much agitated by the sight of it that she burst into tears and, lest her brother should perceive them, held the letter in front of her face while she read it. It was very long. Among much else it contained the verse ‘Would that I might dream that dream again! Alas, since first this wish was mine, not once have my eye-lids closed in sleep.’
She had never seen such beautiful writing, and as she read, a haze clouded her eyes. What incomprehensible fate had first dragged her down to be the wife of a Zuryō, and then for a moment raised her so high? Still pondering, she went to her room.