Chūjō had thought it was merely dread of the old Emperor’s rebukes—coupled with a sense of obligation towards Aoi’s father whose kindness had always been so marked and also towards the Princess her mother, who had cherished him with an unfailing patience and fondness—that had made it difficult for him to break off a relationship which was in fact becoming very irksome. Often indeed Genji’s apparent indifference to Aoi had been very painful to him. Now it was evident to him that she had never ceased to hold an important place in his affections, and this made him deplore more bitterly than ever the tragedy of her early death. Whatever he did and wherever he went he felt that a light was gone out of his life and he was very despondent.
Among the withered undergrowth in the garden Genji found to his delight a few gentians still blossoming and after Chūjō was gone he plucked some and bade the wet-nurse Saisō give them to the child’s grandmother, together with the verse: ‘This gentian flower that lingered amid the withered grasses of the hedge I send you in remembrance of the autumn that is passed.’ ‘To you’ he added ‘it will seem a poor thing in contrast to the flowers that are gone.’ The Princess looked at her grandson’s innocent smiling face and thought that in beauty he was not far behind the child she had lost. Already her tears were pouring faster than a stormy wind shakes down the dry leaves from a tree, and when she read Genji’s message they flowed faster still. This was her answer: ‘New tears, but tears of joy it brings,—this blossom from a meadow that is now laid waste.’
Still in need of some small employment to distract his thoughts, though it was already getting dark he began a letter to Princess Asagao who, he felt sure, must long ago have been told of his bereavement. Although it was a long time since he had heard from her he made no reference to their former friendship; his letter was indeed so formal
