The Tale of Genji

Once upon a time, in a beautiful palace, there lived a young prince named Genji. Everyone admired him because he was kind, clever, and handsome. He was married to a lady named Aoi, who was quiet and graceful. But even though people praised her, Genji felt a little lonely. Aoi was always calm, like a still pond, and Genji sometimes wished she would laugh or cry like other people. One evening, an astrologer said that a certain star was making Genji's house unlucky. Genji felt relieved, because now he had an excuse not to go home. Instead, he rode to a simple house where one of his friends lived. The evening was warm, and he walked up and down the veranda, listening to the humming of mosquitoes. Behind the thin paper walls, he heard ladies whispering about him and reciting poems. He smiled, but his heart felt heavy.

Among the young men, Genji noticed a quiet boy with serious eyes. He learned that the boy was the youngest in a family that had once been important. His older sister was now a young stepmother in a house where the husband was away. Genji became curious about this lady. Late that night, when everyone else was asleep, he heard two voices through the wall—the boy and a sleepy, gentle voice. They were talking about him! Genji quietly slid the door open a little and found himself face to face with a tiny woman who thought he was a servant. He quickly apologized and said he only wanted to talk. She was so scared and shy that she could barely speak. She was not proud or angry, just firm like a young bamboo that will not bend. When dawn came, he let her go.

At home, Genji could not sleep. He thought about the shy lady and how different she was from everyone else. He decided to help her brother by giving him a job at the palace. Then he wrote her polite letters with poems that were warm but not too forward. She answered with short, wise words. One evening, he visited her again while her husband was away. She hid in a servant's room, pretending to have a backache. Genji waited until everyone was asleep. With the boy's help, he crept into the darkness, following the scent of perfume. But the woman he found was not the shy lady—she was a round, laughing girl who thought he had come for her. The real lady escaped, leaving behind only a thin scarf. In the morning, Genji kept the scarf as a memory. He and the shy lady both knew who he had really come for, and a mixture of guilt and admiration filled his heart.

One day, Genji's old nurse, who had become a nun, fell ill. While waiting at the gate of her small house, Genji noticed a poor trellis with pale flowers that only bloom in the evening. They sparkled with dew. A little girl came out and handed him a white fan with a poem written on it: 'These are evening faces.' Genji was delighted. He began a kind secret—with the help of the nurse's son, he visited the lady who lived in that house. She was quiet and simple, living high up under the roof. There was no fancy furniture or ceremonies. She was not used to taking care of herself. Genji did not tell her who he was. He came in a simple jacket, with only one servant waiting on the corner. She was afraid he might be a fox spirit in human form. He was afraid that the city would find out and she would disappear. Between fear and tenderness, they promised to be true. It was so easy that it frightened him.

Genji wanted to protect the quiet lady from gossip. He took her to an empty mansion with large rooms and overgrown ponds. The caretaker was loyal and kept the secret. But the lady, who had never been afraid before, now became frightened. Why would a prince choose a deserted house? Genji laughed and comforted her. They fell asleep. In the middle of the night, Genji dreamed of a tall, proud woman with a cold gaze who tried to pull his friend away. He clapped his hands, but the sound disappeared. The lamps went out. His beloved trembled, breathed heavily, and then became still. Genji talked and talked, trying to bring her back. But she grew cold. The nurse's son came with tears and told Genji to flee—the city would sing songs about this. Genji carried her small body like a child. She was taken to a mountain temple. Genji fell ill with fever. On the seventeenth night, he rode in disguise to the temple, fell into a ditch, prayed to the merciful goddess, and saw her face—never to blush again. He cried like a boy. Even in his dreams, he found no comfort, only the shadow of the proud lady from the city. Jealousy, people say, does not die with the body.

The servant girl Ukon told Genji a secret the dead lady had hidden: she had once been loved by Genji's best friend, and had a child she had to hide away. Everything that had been sweet now tasted sad. Genji fell ill again. A wise healer in the northern mountains was summoned. Genji went there in disguise. The old man whispered kind words and tied small prayer slips that carried him through the night. As Genji left, he looked down at some small houses in a valley. At one house with a tidy gate and a few trees, a flock of little girls ran out. One of them stopped his heart for a moment. Her face, messy from crying over a lost bird, was beautiful in a way he recognized but didn't know why. An old nun was stroking her hair. A nurse was scolding a boy. The old priest told Genji that a nun, sister of a great lord, lived there. Her daughter had once refused the court, had a difficult marriage, and died. The little girl was her child. Genji saw that she was the image of the woman he had loved first and most. He asked to take the girl with him. The nun politely refused—she was too young. Genji wrote a poem about dew clinging to a leaf, and the nun answered wisely. 'In four or five years, perhaps,' she said. Genji carried the scent of hidden incense, the nun's pure letter, and the child's quick face down the mountain.

Back in the city, the Emperor smiled and praised Genji for his journey. Aoi was as proud and cool as ever. Meanwhile, Fujitsubo, the lady Genji had never been able to forget, fell ill. A faithful lady-in-waiting carried secret letters between them. Then the nun in the mountains died suddenly. In the pouring rain, Genji went to her house. Through the walls, he heard his own name, and a trembling voice asking: if he still meant it, would he take the little girl to live among his women, safely? The girl woke up and called out like only a child can: 'Is the handsome prince here?' Her voice filled his chest with light. Soon a great lord came to take the child to his house. She cried. Before dawn, Genji came with one servant, crept in like a thief, and told the little girl—gently—that her father had sent him. The nurse packed quickly, crying at the broken promise but knowing the tide cannot be stopped. Genji took them to his western wing. He brought four little friends so she wouldn't be lonely, and every day she grew wiser and kinder. He wrote a poem about the Musashi plain for her on purple paper. She wrote back clumsily that she didn't understand all about plants and family. He laughed gently and called her Murasaki, which means 'purple.'

Rumors grew. Who was the hidden lady keeping the shining prince away from everyone? People made up stories: a kidnapped maid, a secret empress. Genji endured the Emperor's gentle scolding for being too cold to friendly ladies. Then came a great dance rehearsal in the red courtyard. Genji danced 'Waves of the Blue Sea' so gracefully that even princes wept. At the real festival, the wind blew and maple leaves sang; the whole court cried as if the season itself had risen in his dance steps. Rewards rained down. He went home to the little girl, who was laughing over a paintbrush and a toy. She didn't care about a man who made grown men cry with a few slow steps. At the same time, a secret grew: Fujitsubo was expecting a child. Priests were summoned in secret. In the second month, a baby boy was born. The Emperor thanked the gods with an unusually loud voice. Fujitsubo fought for her life. Genji sent a small pink flower and a poem about a flower that was his and not his. When the baby was shown at the fourth month ceremony, the Emperor placed him in Genji's arms and smiled: the resemblance to a young Genji was too clear. Genji wanted to sink through the floor. That night he slept badly. He played his flute softly by Murasaki's bed until his unease turned to a quiet hum.