The Tale of Genji, Page 47

  That year the world was in turmoil. A flurry of oracles on matters of state had shaken it from its complacency, and in the heavens the light of sun, moon, and stars shone strangely, while patterns in the clouds gave frequent alarm. Memorials from experts in many lines of knowledge mentioned strange and disturbing events. His Grace alone suffered at heart from having some idea why.14

  Her Cloistered Eminence had been ill since early spring, and by the third month her condition was so grave that His Majesty made a progress to call upon her. He had been too young to mourn His Late Eminence's15 loss deeply, but this time he betrayed such distress that his mother felt keen sympathy. “I did not expect to escape this year,” she said, “but then, I did not really feel so very unwell, and since I did not wish to seem to advertise any miraculous presentiment of my own passing, I made no effort to pray more than before for my own happiness in the life to come. I had thought I might call and quietly talk over the past with you, but I seldom felt well enough to do so, and alas, I have not in the end managed to dispel my misgivings.” She spoke very weakly. This was her thirty-seventh year.16 His Majesty looked on her with regret and sorrow, for she was nevertheless in the full flower of youthful beauty. Her months of poor health had already worried him, in a year that required such vigilance, and he was appalled to learn that she had taken no unusual precautions at all.17 He had only recently grasped her condition, and he commissioned relief of every kind. Genji, too, worried greatly that for months she should have complacently assumed nothing more to be wrong than her usual complaint. His Majesty was then obliged to end his visit and return, amid many sad farewells.

  Pain had kept Her Cloistered Eminence from expressing herself well, but she understood on silent, sustained reflection that whereas she had stood above all others in high destiny and worldly glory, she had also suffered more in her heart. Despite everything it seemed to her a tragedy that His Majesty should never have any inkling of the truth,18 and she felt that this one thing would burden her unhappy spirit forever.

  Merely from the standpoint of the interests of His Majesty's court, Genji grieved that its greatest figures should soon follow one another in death. Privately, his sorrow was beyond measure, and there was no prayer or rite that he neglected to commission. The torture of no longer being able to tell her, a last time, all that he had set aside himself these many years, brought him to the standing curtain near where she lay, and there he questioned her women about her condition. Those closest to her were all there, and they informed him fully.

  “My lady never once relaxed her devotions during all these last months of poor health,” they said, “until she entered a decline so serious that by now she will not even touch a bit of fruit. There is no hope for her, no hope at all.” Many of them were weeping.

  Her Eminence spoke, so faintly that Genji caught only a few of her words.19 “I have often had occasion to appreciate all you have done for His Majesty, as His Late Eminence asked you to do, but I put off saying so for a long time because I did not know when I would be able to thank you as warmly as I would have liked, and now I am afraid it is too late.”

  Genji was beyond answering her, and he made a pathetic figure as he wept. He wondered why he betrayed such weakness while others' eyes were on him, but in truth he had succumbed to the abyss of his sorrow, helpless as he was—since wishes are unavailing—to stay the loss of a lady he had known so long, a lady whom all would miss so sorely in their way. “I am of very little use,” he said, “but I have always tried my best to do what needed to be done for him, and it is a great blow now to find you like this, when His Excellency's passing has already taught me that all is vanity; I do not think I shall survive it long.” She expired as he spoke, like a dying flame, and he was left alone to mourn.

  Among those acknowledged truly to matter, it was she whose kindness had embraced the whole world, and although to accept the protection of the mighty often means to court trouble as well, she never committed the smallest lapse of that kind, for she would allow no one in her service to do anything that might cause others distress. With respect to good works, under the wise reigns of the past there were those who, when urged to do so, performed them with grandeur and magnificence, but Her Majesty was not like that. She simply gave all she could spare from her own resources, or from the revenue due her from sinecures, benefices, and emoluments,20 and since her generosity always proceeded from the heart, she was mourned by the most churlish mountain ascetic.21 At her funeral the world rang with cries of universal grief. All the privy gentlemen wore black, and spring ended in gloom.

  For Genji, the sight of the cherry tree before his Nijō residence brought back times like the party in honor of the blossoms.22 “Just for this year, I beg,”23 he murmured and withdrew to his private chapel lest someone notice him, there to weep all day. The setting sun shone bright, each bough at the mountains' rim stood out sharply, and gray wisps of cloud trailed across the sky.24 He who no longer had eyes for anything was still deeply moved.

  “Those thin wisps of cloud trailing there over mountains caught in sunset light

  seem to wish to match their hue to the sleeves of the bereaved,”

  he said; but alas, there was no one to hear him.

  Once the rites were over and quiet had returned, His Majesty remained disconsolate. A certain Prelate who had served both Her Cloistered Eminence and her exalted mother as Chaplain, and whom Her Eminence had greatly trusted and revered, enjoyed His Majesty's devout esteem as well, for he was a most holy man and had fulfilled many an imperial vow.25 At seventy he had gone into retreat to prepare for his end, but he emerged from it again to pray for Her Cloistered Eminence and then answered His Majesty's call to stay on in his service. When Genji, too, urged him to remain in service as before, he consented. “Night attendance26 is very hard for me now,” he said, “but I shall put my heart into it for her sake, in accordance with your most august wishes.”

  Monk

  One quiet night, just before dawn, no one else was in waiting nearby, and some attendants were already on their way home. He was talking to His Majesty about this and that, clearing his throat now and then the way old people do, when he began, “Your Majesty, I have things to say that are very difficult to place before you, and I believe that I might only call down punishment upon myself if I were to do so, and yet it would be a grave offense for me not to, and I would remain in terror of the eye of Heaven;27 moreover, it would profit you nothing if I were to end my life with these things still locked up painfully in my heart.” He stopped and could not bring himself to proceed.

  His Majesty wondered what he meant. Is he then prey to a regret so consuming that its bitterness may live on after his death?28 Alas, a monk may be saintly and still harbor an abyss of jealous evil. “I have felt close to you ever since I was a child,” he said, “and it pains me that you should have been concealing such profound rancor.”

  “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but my way is to spread rather than conceal even the profundities of the Esoteric path, which the Buddha himself would have us keep secret.29 How could my heart harbor such dark recesses? No, this is a crucial matter affecting past and future, and the evil rumor of it, damaging both to Their Late Eminences30 and to His Grace who now governs the realm, might easily get out in the end. An old monk like me has no use for regret, whatever trouble he may bring upon himself. I speak of this to you only because the Protectors31 wish me to do so. My dear lord, Her Late Eminence was in despair after you were conceived, and she felt the need to order prayers from me, although it was not for me to judge just what the matter was. She grew increasingly fearful when everything went wrong and His Grace was unjustly accused, and she entrusted me with more prayers; and when His Grace heard that, he added even more on his own. I continued to perform them until Your Majesty's accession. This is what I know.”

  His careful account threw His Majesty into an agony of horror, amazement, sorrow, and dread. When he remained speechless, the Prelate feared that he had angered
him by speaking, and he had begun to steal away when His Majesty called him back. “If I had never known this, I would have carried the offense with me into the hereafter, and it actually disturbs me a little that you have never told me before. Does anyone else know?”

  “No, Your Majesty. Ōmyōbu and I are the only ones who have any inkling of the truth. That is what frightens me.32 This is why Heaven is now issuing so many disastrous warnings and why there is such unrest in the world. It was one thing when you were too young to understand, but now that you are at last of age and competent to comprehend all matters, great or small, Heaven is proclaiming your offense. Everything seems to begin with one's parents. I was afraid that you might never know what the transgression was, and that is why I have told you what I my-self had resolved to forget.” Day came while he spoke, weeping, and he withdrew.

  His Majesty's mind reeled at the nightmarish truth he had just learned. He trembled for His Late Eminence and was overcome by pity and dismay that His Grace should serve the realm as a mere commoner; and both these preoccupations caused him such anguish that he did not come forth until the sun was high in the sky. He now found the sight of Genji, who arrived in alarm when told he was unwell, extremely difficult to bear, and upon noting his tears Genji assumed that they were for Her Late Eminence, since he was mourning her so deeply at the time.

  That same day His Highness of Ceremonial passed away, and the news only added to His Majesty's lament that such troubles should have come upon the world. Under the circumstances Genji remained in close attendance and was not even able to go home. His Majesty remarked during a quiet conversation, “My reign seems to be coming to an end. I myself feel strange and fearful, and these disturbances have affected the whole realm. I have so far refrained from taking any decisive step, in deference to Her Late Eminence's feelings, but, you know, I would much prefer a quieter life.”

  “You cannot consider it,” Genji replied. “The current disturbances do not necessarily have anything to do with whether government is ordered well or ill. Misfortune may occur under the wisest reign. Even in Cathay troubles have broken out wrongfully under a sage Emperor. It has happened in our land, too.33 Besides, at their age it was perfectly natural,34 and there is really no reason for concern.”

  Genji marshaled all the arguments he could, but I should not have repeated any of them.35 In a sober costume that inclined unusually toward black, he looked exactly like His Majesty. His Majesty had long ago noted the resemblance in his mirror, but after what he had heard, and after scrutinizing his face more closely, he wanted very much to broach the subject with him; and yet it would so obviously upset him to do so that he timidly retreated from touching on it at all, passing instead to more commonplace topics that he discussed with unusually personal warmth. To Genji's sharp eye his deferential manner appeared strangely new, but it never occurred to him that he had actually been told the truth.

  His Majesty was eager to question Ōmyōbu, but he did not wish her to find out that he now knew his mother's secret. No, he thought, he would somehow hint to His Grace at what the matter was and ask him whether history offered any similar examples; but when no appropriate occasion arose, he plunged into his studies more ardently than ever in order to peruse all sorts of works. These taught him that while in Cathay there had been many such irregularities, some open and some concealed, no example of the kind was to be found in Japan. And even if something like that happened, how, if it was kept that well hidden, could knowledge of it have been passed on? Yes, there were several instances in which a first-generation Genji36 had been appointed Grand Counselor or Minister, had gone on to be appointed a Prince, and then had at last acceded to the imperial dignity.37 His Majesty considered invoking His Grace's superior ability to abdicate in his favor.

  He privately decided that Genji would be named Chancellor at the autumn appointments, but when he mentioned in that connection what he planned for himself, the shocked and terrified Genji let him know that anything of the kind was out of the question. “His Late Eminence was pleased to prefer me to his other sons,” he said, “but it certainly never occurred to him to abdicate in my favor. How could I now ignore his wishes and rise to a dignity so far beyond me? No, my only desire is to serve the realm as he intended and, when I am a little older, to give myself to my devotions in quiet retirement.” To His Majesty's intense disappointment, he spoke on this subject as he had done before.

  Genji preferred to put off accepting his appointment as Chancellor, despite confirmation of it, and he therefore received only a promotion in rank and a decree permitting him to come and go from the palace in an ox-drawn carriage.38 This by no means satisfied His Majesty, who made it clear that he thought Genji should become a Prince, but Genji doubted that anyone at court would support such a move. Besides, the Acting Counselor had just become Grand Counselor and Commander of the Right, and once he had risen a step further, Genji would be able to leave everything to him and one way or another to live in peace.

  Genji thought the matter over further. He felt very sorry for Her Late Eminence, and after seeing His Majesty so troubled, he wondered who could have revealed her secret to him. Ōmyōbu had moved away to serve the new Mistress of the Wardrobe, and she now had a room in the palace.39 He talked to her and asked her whether her late mistress could have by chance given His Majesty any hint. “No, my lord, certainly not,” Ōmyōbu replied. “My lady was terrified to think that any breath of it might reach His Majesty, even as she feared for him in case he should suffer for the offense.” Once more Genji felt boundless longing for so extraordinarily prudent a lady.

  Genji's support for the Ise Consort had succeeded brilliantly, and she enjoyed His Majesty's highest favor. In wit and looks she left nothing to be desired, and he watched over her as though over a treasure. In the autumn she withdrew to Nijō. He did up the main house there magnificently, and this time he treated her as a father should.

  An autumn rain was quietly falling when Genji made his way to where the Consort lived, moved by the garden's profusion of dew-laden colors to wet his sleeves in memory of all that had once been. Carefully groomed and utterly beguiling in dark gray, and with his prayer beads well hidden—for these upsetting events had meant a succession of fasts—he went straight in through her blinds. She spoke to him herself, with only a standing curtain between them.

  “All the petals are gone from the garden,” he began. “This year has been so sad, but it is touching that the flowers still enjoyed their season's display.” It was a pleasure to see him leaning that way against a pillar in the light of the setting sun. He talked to her about the past and about that dawn when he had found it so hard to leave the Shrine on the Moor.

  Her Highness noted how deeply moved he was. She, too, perhaps in sympathy, showed signs of the most appealing tears, and her slightest movement seemed dazzlingly soft and graceful. What a shame I never really saw her! His heart beat wickedly.

  “In the old days, when I should have been free of care, I still managed to suffer constantly from my own wanton ways, and among those whom I hurt by doing things I should not have done, there are especially two who never surrendered to me and who died in pain. One of them, you see, was your mother. She was in a very dark mood at the end, for which I will always be extremely sorry, and I had hoped that I might afford her some comfort by serving you as I have done and by gaining your goodwill, but I am afraid the smoke that rose from her pyre may linger on blackly even now.” He said nothing of the second.

  “Everything I wanted to do in those years when I was no one has turned out little by little,” he went on. “The lady in the east pavilion, whose circumstances once worried me so, is now secure. Pleasant as she is, she and I understand each other, and we give each other no trouble at all. Now that I am back, the pleasure of serving the realm as I do means little enough to me. Will you please be good enough to understand, though, that while I find my waywardness difficult to master, I have in all I have done for you kept myself under strict control.
I shall be very sorry if you can offer me no word of sympathy!”

  The Consort was too embarrassed to reply.

  “I see. Ah, you are too cruel!” He shifted the topic elsewhere. “What I want now is to spend the rest of my life free of sorrow and to devote myself in seclusion to prayers for the life to come; but actually, I regret not having anything yet to remember this one by.40 I have a daughter, after all, and despite her failings I long to see how she will grow up. Forgive me, but I hope that you will wish to promote the greatness of this house by assisting her after I am gone.”

  The way she gave him her reply—the merest hint delivered in a single, artless word—appealed to him keenly, and he stayed on talking to her quietly until evening.

  “Quite apart from these weighty hopes of mine, I should like to indulge in the pleasures of the seasons—the blossoms, the autumn leaves, the changing skies. People have long weighed the flowering woods in spring against the lovely hues of the autumn moors, and no one seems ever to have shown which one clearly deserves to be preferred. I hear that in China they say nothing equals the brocade of spring flowers, while in Yamato speech41 we prefer the poignancy of autumn, but my eyes are seduced by each in turn, and I cannot distinguish favorites among the colors of their blossoms or the songs of their birds. I have in mind to fill a garden, however small, with enough flowering spring trees to convey the mood of the season, or to transplant autumn grasses there and, with them, the crickets whose song is so wasted in the fields, and then to give all this to a lady for her pleasure. Which would you choose?”