beginning to recount to her the disasters and miscalculations of the past when the cock crowed, and fearing detection he hastened away.
The moon was like last night, just on the point of setting; it seemed to him a symbol of his own declining fortunes. Shining through the dark purple of her dress the moonlight had indeed, as in the old poem, ‘the leaden look of those who weep,’ and she recited the poem: ‘Though to the moonlight my sleeve but narrow lodging can afford, yet might it dwell there for ever and for ever, this radiance[1] of which my eyes can never tire.’ He saw that she was deeply moved by this parting and in pity sought to comfort her with the poem: ‘In its long journeying the moon at last shall meet a clearer sky; then heed not if for a while its light be dimmed.’ ‘It is foolish,’ he added, ‘to spoil the present with tears for sorrows that are still to come,’ and with that he hurried away, that he might be out of the house while it was still dark.
At home he had a great many things to arrange before his departure. First of all he had to give instructions concerning the upkeep of his palace to the few faithful retainers who had taken the risk of remaining in his service. When these had at last all been assigned their functions, difficulties arose about some of the attendants who were to have gone with him into exile, and a fresh choice had to be made. Then there was the business of deciding how much luggage he should take with him to his mountain fastness. Some things were obviously indispensable; but even when he cut down his equipment to the barest possible necessities there were still all kinds of odds and ends, such as writing-materials, poems, Chinese books, which all had to be fitted into the right sort of boxes. And then there was his zithern; he could not leave that behind. But he took
- ↑ Genji.
