The tale of Genji
she seemed as she lay motionless on the bed at times almost to fade
out of existence. He gazed at her with fond concern. Her hair, every
ringlet still in its right place, was spread out over the pillow.
Never before had her marvellous beauty so strangely impressed him. Was
it conceivable that year after year he should have allowed such a
woman to continue in estrangement from him? Still he stood gazing at
her. ‘I must start for the Palace,’ he said at last; ‘but I shall not
be away long. Now that you are better you must try to make your mother
feel less anxious about you when she comes presently; for though she
tries hard not to show it, she is still terribly distressed about you.
You must begin now to make an effort and sit up for a little while
each day. I think it is partly because she spoils you so much that you
are taking so long to get well.’ As he left the room, robed in
all the magnificence of his court attire she followed him with her
eyes more fixedly than ever in her life before. The attendance of the
officers who took part in the autumn session was required, and Aoi’s
father accompanied Genji to the Palace, as did also her brother who
needed the Minister’s assistance in making their arrangements for the
coming political year. Many of their servants went too and the Great
Hall wore a deserted and melancholy aspect. Suddenly Aoi was seized
with the same choking-fit as before and was soon in a desperate
condition. This news was brought to Genji in the Palace and breaking
off his Audience he at once made for home. The rest followed in hot
haste and though it was Appointment Evening[18] they gave up all
thought of attending the proceedings, knowing that the tragic turn of
affairs at the Great Hall would be considered a sufficient excuse. It
was too late to get hold of the abbot from Mount Tendai or any of the
dignitaries who had given their assistance before. It was appalling
that just when she seemed to have taken a turn for the better she
should so suddenly again be at the point of death, and the people at
the Great Hall felt utterly helpless and bewildered. Soon the house
was full of lackeys who were arriving from every side with messages of
sympathy and enquiry; but from the inhabitants of that stricken house
they could obtain no information, for they seemed to do nothing but
rush about from one room to another in a state of frenzy which it was
terrifying to behold.
Remembering that several times already her ‘possession’ had reduced
her to a trance-like state, they did not for some time attempt to lay
out the body or even touch her pillows, but left her lying just as she
was. After two or three days however it became clear that life was
extinct.
Amid the general lamentations which ensued Genji’s spirit sank
with the apathy of utter despair. Sorrow had followed too fast upon
sorrow; life as he saw it now was but a succession of futile miseries.
The messages of condolence which poured in from all the most exalted
quarters in the Court and City merely fatigued and exasperated him.
The warmth of the old ex-Emperor’s messages and his evident personal
distress at Aoi’s death were indeed very flattering and mingled a
certain feeling of gratification with her father’s perpetual weeping.
At the suggestion of a friend various drastic means were resorted to
in the hope that it might yet be possible to kindle some spark of life
in the body. But it soon became evident, even to their reluctant eyes,
that all this was too late, and heavy at heart they took the body to
Toribeno. Here, in the great flat cremation-ground beyond the town,
the horrors that they had dreaded were only too swiftly begun. Even in
this huge open space there was scarcely room for the crowds of
mourners who had come from all the great palaces of the City to follow
behind the bier and for the concourses of priests who, chanting their
liturgies, flocked from the neighbouring temples. The ex-Emperor was
of course represented; so were the Princess Kōkiden and the Heir
Apparent; while many other important people came in person and mingled
with the crowd. Never had any funeral aroused so universal a
demonstration of interest and sympathy. Her father was not present:
‘Now in my declining years to have lost one who was so young and
strong is a blow too staggering ...’ he said and he could no longer
check the tears which he was striving to conceal. His grief was
heart-rending. All night long the mournful ceremonies proceeded, but
at last only a few pitiful ashes remained upon the pyre and in the
morning the mourners returned to their homes. It was in fact, save for
its grandeurs, much like any other funeral; but it so happened that
save in one case only death had not yet come Genji’s way and the
scenes of that day haunted him long afterwards with hideous persistency.
The ceremony took place in the last week of the eighth month. Seeing
that from Aoi’s father all the soft brightness of this autumn morning
was hid in the twilight of despair and well knowing what thoughts must
be passing through his mind, Genji came to him and pointing to the sky
whispered the following verse: ‘Because of all the mists that wreathe
the autumn sky I know not which ascended from my lady’s bier,
henceforth upon the country of the clouds from pole to pole I gaze
with love.’
At last he was back in his room. He lay down, but could not sleep. His
thoughts went back over the years that he had known her. Why had he
been content lazily to assume that in the end all would go right and
meanwhile amused himself regardless of her resentment? Why had he let
year after year go by without managing even at the very end to
establish any real intimacy, any sympathy between them? The bitterest
remorse now filled his heart; but what use was it? His servants
brought him his light grey mourner’s dress and the strange thought
floated into his mind ‘What if I had died instead and not she? She
would be getting into the woman-mourner’s deep-dyed robe,’ and he
recited the poem: ‘Though light in hue the dress which in bereavement
custom bids me wear, yet black my sorrow as the gown thou wouldst have
worn;’ and as thus clad he told his rosary those about him noted that
even the dull hues of mourning could not make him look peaked or drab.
He read many sūtras in a low voice, among them the liturgy to
Samantabhadra as Dispenser of the Dharmadhātu Samādhi, which he
recited with an earnestness more impressive in its way than the
dexterous intonation of the professional cleric. Next he visited the
new-born child and took some comfort in the reflection that she
had at least left behind her this memorial of their love. Genji did
not attempt to go even for the day to the Nijō-in, but remained buried
in recollections and regrets with no other occupation save the
ordering of masses for her soul. He did however bring himself to write
a few letters, among them one to Rokujō. The Virgin Elect was already
in charge of the Guardsmen of the Gate and would soon be passed on by
them to the Palace-in-the-Fields. Rokujō accordingly made her
daughter’s situation an excuse for sending no reply.[19] He was now so
weary of life and its miseries that he seriously contemplated the
taking of priestly vows, and might perhaps have done so, had there not
been a new bond which seemed to tie him irrevocably to the world. But
stay, there was the girl Murasaki too, waiting for him in the wing of
his palace. How unhappy she must have been during all this long time!
That night lying all alone within his royal curtains, though watchmen
were going their rounds not far away, he felt very lonely and
remembering that ‘autumn is no time to lie alone,’ he sent for the
sweetest voiced among the chaplains of the palace. His chanting
mingled with the sounds of early dawn was indeed of almost unendurable
beauty. But soon the melancholy of late autumn, the murmur of the
rising wind took possession of him, and little used to lonely nights
he found it hard to keep his bed till morning. Looking out he saw that
a heavy mist lay over the garden beds; yet despite the mist it was
clear that something was tied to the stem of a fine chrysanthemum not
far away. It was a letter written on dark blue paper.[20] The
messenger had left it there and gone away. ‘What a charming idea!’ he
was thinking when he suddenly recognized the hand. It was from
Rokujō. She began by saying she did not think, having regard to her
daughter’s situation, that he would be surprised at her long delay in
answering his previous note. She added an acrostic poem in which,
playing upon the word chrysanthemum (_kiku_) she told him of her
distress at hearing (_kiku_) of his bereavement. ‘The beauty of the
morning’ she ended, ‘turned my thoughts more than ever towards you and
your sorrow; that is why I could not choose but answer you.’ It was
written even more elegantly than usual; but he tossed it aside. Her
condolences wounded him, for after what he had seen he knew that they
could not be sincere. Nevertheless he felt that it would be too harsh
to break off all communication with her; that he should do so would in
fact tend to incriminate her, and this was the last thing he desired.
After all, it was probably not _that_ at all which had brought about
the disaster; maybe Aoi’s fate was sealed in any case. If only he had
chanced never to see or hear the fatal operation of her spirit! As it
was, argue with himself as he might, he doubted whether he would ever
be able to efface the impression of what had been revealed to him at
that hideous scene.
He had the excuse that he was still in deep mourning and that to
receive a letter from him would inconvenience her at this stage of her
daughter’s Purification. But after turning the matter over in his mind
for a long while, he decided that it would be unfeeling not to answer
a letter which had evidently been written with the sole object of
giving him pleasure and on a paper lightly tinted with brown he wrote:
‘Though I have let so many days slip by, believe me that you have not
been absent from my thoughts. If I was reluctant to answer your
letter, it was because, as a mourner, I was loath to trespass upon the
sanctity which now surrounds your home, and this I trusted that
you would understand. Do not brood overmuch upon what has happened;
for “go we late or soon, more frail our lives than dew-drops hanging
in the morning light.” For the present, think of it no more. I say
this now, because it is not possible for us to meet.’
She received the letter at her daughter’s place of preparation, but
did not read it till she was back in her own house. At a glance she
knew at what he was hinting. So he too accused her! And at last the
hideous conviction of her own guilt forced itself upon her acceptance.
Her misery increased tenfold.
If even Genji had reason to believe in her guilt, her brother-in-law,
the ex-Emperor, must already have been informed. What was he thinking
of her? Her dead husband, Prince Zembō, had been the brother whom he
had loved best. He had accepted the guardianship of the little girl
who was now about to be consecrated and at his brother’s earnest
entreaty had promised to undertake her education and indeed treat her
as though she were his own child. The old Emperor had constantly
invited the widowed lady and her daughter to live with him in the
Palace, but she was reluctant to accept this offer, which indeed was
somewhat impracticable. Meanwhile she allowed herself to listen to
Genji’s youthful addresses and was soon living in constant torment and
agitation lest her indiscretion should be discovered. During the whole
period of this escapade she was in such a state of mingled excitement
and apprehension that she scarcely knew what she was doing. In the