Archive of Our Own

The camellias were in full bloom, white and yellow spread across the hillside. Elsewhere, the roots of pine trees were knotted over ancient rocks. The scene was quite charming, though To no Chujo had no eyes for the pleasures of his surroundings. For him the road to the temple seemed endless. His men tried to amuse him by repeating gossip heard from other travellers, but he drew his sleeve over his face and tried to sleep.

Since the end of the second month he had suffered from a persistent headache. It was not too serious, but it stopped him from going on his usual evening visits, and people started saying the usual sort of thing: that he was lovesick, his thoughts so intensely focused upon one person that he could get no rest.

Upon the concerned advice of the Minister of the Right, he went to a certain temple outside the capital in search of a cure. When he arrived, To no Chujo sat in his carriage with the curtains rolled up and looked around him with dull interest. A number of monks walked to and fro, and then another carriage drew up alongside him. From the looks of the retainers, he supposed the occupant was some grand lady. Who might she be? For a while he amused himself by trying to guess her identity. So engrossed did he become that he forgot his headache. He leaned out of his carriage, and at that moment a gentle wind blew down the hillside and he breathed in a familiar scent.

He retreated into his carriage, startled. The scent was unmistakeable; indeed, it was known to everyone—but how could it be here? To no Chujo shivered with dread, then he realised the scent came from the summer clothes, so recently taken from their storage chests, worn by the occupant of the other carriage. The fragrance aroused his curiosity as well as waking affectionate memories. The lady concealed from him must be her, he thought—little Murasaki. He had heard about her, of course; Genji spoke of her sometimes, praising her beauty and virtues and the way she had grown up so pliant and perfect, but To no Chujo had never had the opportunity to meet her.

He considered how best to approach her. Accustomed to Genji’s love, she would surely reject any common overtures made to her. To be sure of her attention, To no Chujo took up his fan and upon it wrote:

Perhaps it was unfair of him. After he sent the note over, he wished he could take it back.

Murasaki received the fan with only the smallest interest. No one knew she was here, so she assumed that a gentleman bored with his prayers had decided to indulge himself in a flirtation. She opened the fan, which was very elegant and made of blue and white Chinese paper and showed a scene of waves along the seashore. This together with the lines of the poem showed he knew her identity and situation. It also revealed his boldness and, she thought, a touch of bitterness.

For a while she sat wondering how to reply. Not long ago, she would have dashed off something immediately, but Genji’s banishment had made her more circumspect, and she was aware of her vulnerability. But she must send a response, otherwise things could get awkward. She asked Shonagon to make enquiries about the gentleman, but before the page-boys could come back and report, Murasaki became aware of the scent rising from the fan. She lifted it closer. The fragrance trapped within the folds of the paper was familiar to her in an allusive way, and then she remembered she had often detected this scent upon Genji’s robes, and sometimes, on his skin.

“It is To no Chujo,” she said, and when Shonagon said nothing, Murasaki took out her writing box and composed a reply. Sleeping in spring oblivious of dawn, she began:

She sent it over to him.

To no Chujo laughed when he saw it, but he also felt a moment of pain. Her writing was so like Genji’s, fine and distinguished but with a feminine grace that made it entirely her own. He folded the fan and tucked it into his sash, then strode over to her carriage.

“This petal did not fall, this flower did not fade.” He tried to lift the curtain to see her, but a cry of alarm from within the carriage made him take a step back. “You rebuke me for using unseasonal imagery.”

How very sure of himself he is! Murasaki thought. “It is hardly my place to rebuke you. The use of unseasonal imagery suggests you are out of sorts with the world.”

“How could I be otherwise, when our mutual acquaintance sits sighing on unfriendly shores far distant?” Even engaged in such a conversation, To no Chujo was careful not to mention any names.

Murasaki was glad of his discretion.

But we are his constant.” She paused, not wanting to admit the knowledge she had but unable to let it pass without comment. “I heard you visited him at the end of the second month.”

Through the patterned silk of the curtain she saw him glance up in surprise. “He told you?”

“Yes,” she said, though Genji himself had not told her—she had heard it reported from the garrulous messenger who brought the letters from Suma. Now she wondered why To no Chujo looked so discomfited.

“What else did he tell you?”

“That he gave you a horse, and you gave him a flute.” She saw To No Chujo’s expression change again, though she could not guess why.

“We should talk further,” he said, “but in private. Here the crows may listen and carry tales far and wide.”

She was about to give her assent when Shonagon leaned forward. “My lady, he is your husband’s closest friend.”

Murasaki nodded. “That is why I should receive him.”

Shonagon looked troubled. “No, my lady—that is why you should not.”

The monastery’s guest rooms were small but comfortable. Murasaki sent her women away to sleep, and for a while she listened to their chatter through the thin partition. Shonagon remained with her, concerned about her safety but unwilling to admit such fears. Time passed and the night grew dark. Shonagon brushed Murasaki’s hair until it shone in the lamplight. They talked a little, and then not at all, and Murasaki began to regret the invitation. How like a man to take things lightly! Probably he had found some other lady, one who would bend more easily for him.

She had taken off her dress robe to prepare for bed when he tapped at the door. Shonagon blocked his way for a moment, then seeing that he was determined to come in, she moved aside. Murasaki withdrew behind a screen. It looked as if he wanted to join her, but then he recalled himself and knelt on the mats close to the door.

To no Chujo had been drinking, both to ease his headache and to gather his courage for this meeting. All evening he had debated with himself the wisdom of taking Murasaki in his arms. Surely it would be natural for those bereft of a mutual love to take solace in one another, but he disliked the thought that both of them would have their attentions fixed far away. As a result, his poetry had quite left him, and he felt miserable.

Murasaki noticed his sad sighs and felt sorry for him. “Why did you come here?” she asked, aware of the double meaning in her words.

He chose only to answer the superficial question. “For the last month I have suffered from persistent headaches. I heard there was a monk here skilled in treating such complaints.”

She had been afflicted with a similar illness once and recalled the cure. “A hot tea of fresh angelica will soothe your head.”

After a moment of silence, he said, “You suffer like I do.”

It was not quite a question, but she answered it anyway. “Yes.”

The silence lengthened. Shonagon moved behind her, plain silks rustling, to adjust the fall of the lamplight. To no Chujo leaned forward, anxious for a glimpse of Murasaki through the screen, but Shonagon had cleverly directed the light elsewhere and all he saw was a shadow.

It was unbecoming to ask so direct a question, but Murasaki was impatient to know. “How was he, when you saw him?”

“How was he...?” To no Chujo hesitated. He knew women liked to hear the smallest details, but he did not want to give up the information. He wanted to keep the memories of that visit to Suma locked away, jealously guarded. Careful of his words, he said, “He was himself. He does not change. It is those around him who change.”

Murasaki recoiled slightly, thinking it was a rebuke. “Knowing him changes us.”

“Yes.” To no Chujo sounded passionate. “It does indeed.”

They were silent again. Goodness me, she thought, this will not do! I have had better conversation from my dolls! She moved closer to the screen, the better to see him in his coloured silks of chestnut brown and pale blue. “I had a pet bird once,” she told him. “When I was a little girl, I kept a sparrow in a cage. My grandmother begged me to release him, telling me it was a sin to keep him, but he was a pretty little thing, and he would hop to my outstretched hand and feed from my palm. In my childish way I thought because he came to me willingly, he was content to be a pet.”

To no Chujo wept when he heard this. “It is a sin to imprison any living creature,” he said, “but we do, for our own amusement and pleasure. Even if we have the best of intentions towards our pet, even if we love them dearly, it is still a sin.”

Murasaki looked down at her hands. “I have often wondered whether the sparrow would have loved me if I hadn’t caged him. I suppose not, since when my grandmother’s maid set him free, I never saw him again.”

To no Chujo sighed. “At least you had the joy of his song for a while.”

“But did he sing for me, or for the food I gave him?” Murasaki asked.

Another silence fell, and she saw that To no Chujo was uncomfortable. “The image you paint is not one I would wish to admire,” he said at last.

“Forgive me. The last few months have been empty and my thoughts turn first in one direction and then in another, as fickle as the breeze.” She smiled, though he could not see its warmth. “Tell me about Suma.”

Here is a safe topic, thought To no Chujo, and he began reciting a list of all the things he had seen in that place: the restless grey of the sea, the foam left on the shore, the sharpness of salt in the air and the smoke of the fishermen’s bonfires. He described the bleak landscape and how Genji’s residence complemented it in its pleasing simplicity, “like a painting,” he said, “from a Chinese scroll.”

“He is trapped,” she said. “Like a sparrow, he remains in his cage. His release is dependent upon the whims of others.”

To no Chujo gave a wistful sigh.

“What did you talk about, you and he?” she asked.

He became wary. “About court matters. And then for a long time we did not speak at all. We—we wrote poetry.” It was not a lie, To no Chujo thought. Their poetry was lips and tongues upon flesh, bodies bent in anger and frustration, the taste of sea-spray, but it was poetry all the same. He had felt useful at the time, pleased to share in his friend’s misery, but now he merely felt used.

“Poetry,” she said. “For all that he trained me to appreciate it, I do not understand it. Or perhaps that is wrong: I understand it well enough, but I wish we did not have to hide behind the words of others. I wish we could speak freely.”

“You and he, or you and I?” To no Chujo asked.

She laughed, a charming sound, but her deliberate lack of response annoyed him, and he recited:

“Why should I covet a paltry catch?” she asked.

“Perhaps it is not so paltry.”

“It is.” She spoke with certainty. “Otherwise he would not have let you go.”

The depth of her understanding shocked him, and he became angry. “I still have some freedom.”

“Perhaps.”

Embarrassed as well as furious, To no Chujo stood and tore down the screen separating them. Shonagon uttered a cry of protest and shrank back. Murasaki started to lift her sleeve to hide her face, then stopped. She looked up at To no Chujo, looked at him properly, and saw how handsome he was, his features as sharp as a blade and his mouth soft, a striking combination of masculine and feminine. His anguish made him beautiful, and in that moment she thought he was easily the equal of Genji.

They stared at each other for a long time, then he bowed and backed away, his gaze cast down. Murasaki felt hot and cold both at once, and lowered her eyes in confusion. Her heart beat fast, like waves on the shore, and she could smell the sea.

When she looked up again, To no Chujo had gone.