The Tale of Genji, Page 30

  All the monks of the mountain temple, down to the least of them, were pleased, because Genji's stay while he read the Sixty Scrolls57 and sought help with perplexing passages seemed a bright reward for their prayers and a signal honor for their buddha.58 Quiet reflection on the world and its ways should have discouraged him from turning home again, but the thought of one lady bound him, and he did not linger. Before leaving he generously commissioned scripture readings at the temple, bestowed gifts on all who deserved them—monks high and low and local mountain folk—and exhausted the sum of holy works. Ragged woodcutters gathered here and there, weeping, to see him on his way. Within his black-draped carriage he wore mourning,59 so that one saw little of him, but the least glimpse showed that there was no one like him in the world.

  His darling seemed to have grown still more beautiful during his absence, and on finding her so subdued and apprehensive about the state of his affections (for the undignified confusion of his feelings had no doubt been obvious to her), he was touched by her “fading leaf” poem and gave her more than his usual attention.

  The autumn leaves he had sent her from the mountains were brighter in color than those from his own garden, and since he could not ignore the message of the dews that had stained them,60 and deplored in any case his own prolonged silence, he sent some to Her Majesty, ostensibly as a gesture of civility.

  To Ōmyōbu he wrote, “I have been surprised to learn that Her Majesty is at the palace, but while I would not have her neglect the Heir Apparent, I have preferred not to cut short the days I had set aside for practice and prayer, and that is why you have had nothing from me for so long. Viewing autumn leaves alone reminds me of admiring brocade in the dark.61 Please show Her Majesty these when you find the moment to do so.”

  They were indeed fine branches, and while examining them Her Majesty noticed the usual tiny note. She paled, because her gentlewomen were watching, and she thought how hateful he was still to be pursuing her this way; surely they would wonder why so thoroughly tactful a man should suddenly take to doing this sort of thing. She was sufficiently annoyed to have the branches put in a vase and placed beside an outer pillar, and she gave him no more than a correct reply, confining herself to generalities and expressing her confidence in all that he had to say about the Heir Apparent. Her message conveyed her unrelenting vigilance, and he read it with bitter disappointment, but since he had always done so much for her, he feared to arouse suspicion now, and he went to the palace on the day when she was to withdraw.

  He called first on His Majesty, who was enjoying an idle moment, and they talked over old times. His Majesty looked very like their father, although he had an even sweeter grace, and his face was gentle and kind. They were extremely glad to see each other. His Majesty had heard of Genji's relations with his Mistress of Staff, and he had noted signs of it himself, but he felt that the affair was after all not new and that since it had lasted so long already, they might as well continue to indulge their feeling for one another. He spoke never a word of reproach. After he had questioned Genji on a wide range of subjects, including passages of the classics that eluded him, the two began explaining to each other their love poems,62 and His Majesty took this opportunity to observe how beautiful the High Priestess had been on the day when she set out for Ise. Genji then confided to him the story of that extraordinary dawn at the Shrine on the Moor.

  The moon of the twentieth night rose at last,63 inspiring His Majesty to observe that the moment called for music. Genji answered that he preferred to go and assist Her Majesty, who was, he gathered, to leave that evening. “His Late Eminence charged me with looking after her, you see, and since she appears to have no other support, her welfare concerns me for the sake of the Heir Apparent.”

  “His Late Eminence urged me to accept him as my own son,” His Majesty said, “and I try to keep an eye on him, but I do not see what more I can do. His handwriting and so on seem accomplished beyond his years; in fact, it is he who is a credit to me, for I do nothing well.”

  “On the whole he is very clever and behaves in a grown-up manner, but he still has far to go.” Genji gave him an account of the young Prince.

  As he withdrew, a certain Secretary Controller, the son of the Fujiwara Grand Counselor, the Empress Mother's elder brother, met the advance members of his escort, who were discreetly clearing his path. The Controller, a brilliant young man in high favor, was on his way to his sister's in the Reikeiden.64 He stopped for a moment and solemnly intoned, “A white rainbow curved across the sun; the Heir Apparent trembled.”65

  The shocked Genji could not very well reprove him. He often heard about the Empress Mother's alarming hostility, and he pretended to notice nothing, despite irritation that a close relative of hers should have such gall. He apologized to Her Majesty for the lateness of the hour, having been in waiting on the Emperor until just a moment ago.

  There was a brilliant moon, and Her Majesty remembered how at such times His Late Eminence had called for music and shown a lively feeling for beauty. She grieved to see how much had changed, even if the palace remained the same. Through Ōmyōbu she sent her visitor,

  “Perhaps ninefold mists cut me off from all the world, for my longing goes

  to the moon so far away, riding high above the clouds.”66

  She was near enough that a glimpse of her, however faint, called up Genji's old feeling for her, and he wept, forgetting all the hurt that he had suffered.

  “The bright moon still shines as in autumns we once knew, all those years ago,

  but the mists that hide its light are a cruel trial to bear,”

  he replied. “‘The mists, like the heart,’ they say67—it must have been the same long ago.”

  Her Majesty did not wish to leave the Heir Apparent, and she gave him lengthy advice about what to do and what not, but she was disappointed to find that he did not take it all in very well. Usually he retired early, but he seemed to want to stay up until she left. She was especially touched to see that he refrained from begging her to stay, despite being indignant that she meant to go away again.

  Genji reflected on the Controller's pointed allusion and was moved by the prick of conscience to feel the world's censure keenly. For a long time he did not correspond with the Mistress of Staff. The skies were promising the first early-winter rains when it was she who sent him word, for reasons of her own.

  “While autumn wore on, bitter winds set in to blow, and I languished still,

  your silence, and nothing else, pervaded day after day,”

  she had written. He was not displeased that she should feel deeply enough in this saddest of seasons to contrive a secret note, so he had the messenger wait, opened the cabinet where he kept his Chinese paper, chose a particularly fine sheet, and prepared his brush with great care. The gentlewomen present nudged each other and wondered who the lady could be, for his every gesture was a lover's.

  “I gave up once I understood that no correspondence with you could lead further,” he wrote. “And while I suffered on,68

  Are my tears to you, wept in longing memory while we do not meet,

  no more than the common rain shed by early-winter skies?

  If only we were really in touch, how easily we might forget this dreary rain!” It had become quite a passionate letter. A good many ladies must have claimed his attention this way, and he made sure that his replies were not discouraging, although he felt deep attachment for none.

  Her Majesty was variously occupied with preparations for her Rite of the Eight Discourses,69 which was to follow the anniversary observances for His Late Eminence. A heavy snow fell on the anniversary day, early in the eleventh month. From Genji she had this:

  “That unhappy day when he was taken from us has come round once more,

  but when shall we see again the man we once knew so well?”

  Today was so sad for her, too, that he had a reply:

  “Living on this way is a burden while it lasts, but to meet again

/>   this day among all others makes him seem present once more.”

  She had made no effort to dress up her writing, but to him it certainly conveyed supreme distinction. Although not strikingly unusual or fashionable, it resembled no one else's. He quelled his thoughts of her today and gave himself up to offices of prayer, wet with drops from the evocative snow.

  The Eight Discourses were held a little past the tenth of the twelfth month. It was an imposing event. By Her Majesty's order the scripture scrolls dedicated each day, with their jade rollers, their silk gauze covers, and their beautifully decorated wrapping, were more splendid than any ever seen before. Since even as a matter of common practice she made it a point to do things exceptionally well, her arrangements this time were obviously a marvel. The altar furnishings and the very cloths on the altar tables brought to mind thoughts of paradise.

  Nun's short hair

  The first day was dedicated to the former Emperor, the donor's father, the second to the Empress her mother, and the third to His Late Eminence. On the day for the Fifth Scroll70 the senior nobles overcame their fear of giving offense71 and attended the rite in great numbers. Her Majesty had chosen the day's Lecturer so well that the familiar passages, beginning with the one about gathering firewood and so on, were profoundly inspiring.72 The Princes in the procession bore offerings of many kinds,73 but those prepared by Genji far surpassed the others. Perhaps I seem only to repeat the same praises about him, but I cannot help it, because he was a wonder to behold whenever one had the good fortune to do so.

  Her Majesty reserved the last day's merit for herself, and everyone was astonished when she had it announced to the Buddha that she would renounce the world. His Highness of War and Genji were both aghast. His Highness went in to her halfway through. After insisting that her mind was made up, she summoned the Abbot of the Mountain, and when the rite was over, she had him informed that she wished to receive the appropriate Precepts.

  A commotion spread when the Abbot, her uncle, approached and cut off her hair,74 and her residence filled with loud weeping. It is strangely moving whenever anyone, however insignificant and however obviously old, takes the great step of leaving the world, and that so great a lady should do so without having ever hinted at her plan gave her brother still more reason for ceaseless tears. Those present had found the rite itself sufficiently stirring, and they all left with wet sleeves.

  His Late Eminence's sons felt even sorrier for her when they recalled her better days, and each gave her a message of sympathy. Genji stayed behind, at a loss for what to say and in a state of dark confusion, but he went to her after the Princes had left, since people were sure to wonder otherwise what had come over him.

  The household was quiet at last, and the women were clustered here and there, sniffling and blowing their noses. Brilliant moonlight on the snowy garden brought back unbearably scenes from days gone by, but he mastered himself sufficiently to ask, “What was it that decided you and made you so suddenly…?”

  She replied through Ōmyōbu, as always, “There was nothing abrupt about my decision, but I knew that it would cause a stir, and I was afraid I might falter.”

  Genji divined her presence behind the blinds, caught a rustling of silks from the women waiting on her as they moved quietly about, and was touched, although not surprised, to gather from certain other sounds that their grief had not yet abated. Outside, the wild wind blew, but within her blinds the air was fragrant with her intense, “deep black” scent75 and with a trace of her altar incense. Genji's own fragrance mingled so beautifully with both that one could think only of paradise.

  A messenger came from the Heir Apparent. The memory of talking with her son so shook her fortitude that she could not answer, and it was Genji who provided her reply.

  The household was too agitated for him to be able to tell her all he wished.

  “Though I, too, aspire to give my heart to those skies where a clear moon shines,

  I should only wander still in the darkness of this world,”76

  he said; “I so wish it were possible, but alas… I envy you your decision!” That was the best he could do, while she, with her women nearby, could convey nothing to him of her own suffering.

  Her heart was very full.

  “What I have renounced covers the common troubles that beset us all,

  but, ah, when will even I truly give up all the world?

  Its worries are still mine,” she answered, some of what she said having no doubt been tidied up by her messenger. Genji withdrew sick at heart, in thrall to boundless sorrow.

  At home again he lay down alone in his own room, but his eyes would not close, and each time disgust with the world invaded him, he was assailed by anxiety for the Heir Apparent. It had been his father's wish to have the young Prince's mother, at least, uphold her son's dignity before all, but now that her unhappiness had led her so far, she could never reclaim her former rank; and what if he, too, were to abandon him? So ran the thoughts that kept him wakeful hour after hour.

  He wanted her to have the furnishings for her new life from him, and he

  Privy banquet

  therefore hastened to have them ready before the end of the year. His generosity included Ōmyōbu as well, since she had taken vows with her mistress. A full account of all this seems not to have reached me; there would have been just too much to tell. That is a shame, though, because this is just the sort of occasion that may yield fine poetry.

  Genji could now call on Her Cloistered Eminence more openly than before, and at times he even spoke to her in person. Not that that secret yearning had left him, but what he desired was even less possible now.

  The New Year had come, and with it new life to the court, but news of the privy banquet and the mumming only confirmed Fujitsubo in her present solitude, and while she went quietly about her litanies and prayers, keeping her thoughts on the life to come, she felt as though she was putting behind her at last all that had so troubled her before. Apart from the chapel that had always been hers she had built another specially, south of her west wing, and she now moved to this rather isolated retreat in order to pursue her intent devotions.

  It was there that Genji visited her. The breath of the New Year had not touched her silent, all but deserted dwelling, where one now encountered no more than a few faithful members of the Empress's household,77 their heads bowed and to all appearances sadly downcast. Only the Blue Roans came round as usual,78 and her women went to see them. No wonder the senior nobles, who once had flocked to her, now took another path to gather at the residence across the avenue.79 This did not surprise her, but it was very sad, and the vision of Genji, who had come all the way to find her—a sight splendid enough to be worth a thousand callers—somehow brought tears to many an eye.

  Her visitor himself seemed deeply affected, and after glancing about he sank into silence. In this new life of hers the borders of her blinds and the standing curtains around her were blue-gray, and through the gaps between them he glimpsed sleeves of gray or yellow:80 a prospect that for him evoked only greater depths of grace and beauty. “Indeed, a most discerning…,” he murmured,81 pensively noting how the outdoor scene alone—the thin ice now gone from the lake, the willows on the bank—kept faith with the seasons. He looked incomparably elegant as he did so.

  “Now that I perceive a nun lives here, gathering sea-tangle sorrows,

  briny drops spill from my eyes upon this, the Isle of Pines,”82

  he said; and since her rather small room was given over to the altar, her low answer sounded quite near:

  “Of the world I knew there remains no trace at all on this Isle of Pines,

  and it is a miracle any wave should come to call.”83

  He could not stop his tears, and he said little else before he left, for the gaze of nuns who had renounced worldly ways embarrassed him.

  “What an absolute marvel he has turned out to be!” the old nuns cried to their mistress in tearful praise. “When all the wo
rld was his and he had not a care in it, one wondered how anyone that fortunate could know much of life; but he is very thoughtful now, and almost anything makes him look so sad that one's heart goes out to him.” Memories flooded through their mistress, too.

  Her Eminence's retainers failed to receive their due when the appointments list was announced, and to the bitter disappointment of many, promotions that should have come to them as a matter of course or as their patron's normal prerogative84 were withheld. There was no reason why in her new condition she should lose her former dignity or be deprived of her established emoluments,85 but that condition was nonetheless the pretext for the many changes that now came upon her. Despite having given up just such concerns, she was often pained to see her retainers in distress, as though cast adrift, but her one heartfelt wish was to have the Heir Apparent's accession proceed smoothly, even at the cost of her own ruin, and to this end she dedicated her unflagging devotions. Having a secret reason to dread the worst, she calmed her fears by begging the Buddha to lift her burden of sin from her and grant her forgiveness. Genji saw her feelings and understood them well. His own people often encountered similar disappointments, and he therefore shut himself up at home in disgust with the world.

  His Excellency of the Left was sufficiently upset by the change that now pervaded his own world, public or private, to tender his resignation, but His Majesty remembered how greatly His Late Eminence had trusted this adviser, and how at the last he had commended him to his successor as an enduring pillar of the realm, and accordingly he considered him too valuable to release. Although he repeatedly declined to accept the resignation, His Excellency stubbornly resubmitted it again and again, until at last he was able to withdraw to his residence. Now that single faction flourished as never before. His Majesty was left forlorn once the Minister whose weight steadied the realm had removed himself from its affairs, and the wise everywhere groaned.