The Law

Though Murasaki was apparently no longer in immediate danger, her illness had now lasted so many months that there appeared to be little hope of recovery. To Genji it seemed that her strength was gradually ebbing away. The thought of surviving her appalled him; and she herself, without anxiety for the future* (she was indeed to a singular extent devoid of such fetters as commonly bind us to the world), had no misgiving, save the thought of what her death would mean to one who had been her companion so long.

Her thoughts, as was natural, turned much upon the life to come, and her time was spent in numerous charities and consecrations. Best of all, she would still have liked to spend the remaining moments of her life in some place where they could be wholly devoted to religion, but Genji would not give her leave. However, he had himself often expressed an intention of pursuing the same course. Why should they not then do so together? But certain though their faith might be that in Amida’s Paradise the same lotus would be their throne, in the meanwhile, he in his convent and she in her nunnery, however near they might be, would not be able to meet. His anxiety, if she should grow suddenly worse, the mere thought that she was in pain, would (Genji well knew) make havoc of his meditations. Yes, he must content himself to lag behind, where so many frail creatures^† had gone forward unafraid.

She might indeed have acted without his permission; but to have obtained her end by such a course would, she knew, give her no satisfaction, and she felt aggrieved that her wish was still denied. Perhaps, however (she reflected), it was not his fault. No doubt some sin of her own was weighing upon her and holding her back from spiritual progress.

Some while ago she had caused a thousand copies of the Lotus Scripture to be made, and she now hastened to give them as an offering. The ceremony was to take place in the Nijo-in, which she had come to regard as her home. The robes for the seven ministrants were also her gift, and every detail, down to the stitching of the seams, was designed according to her directions. She had not told Genji what was afoot, but he naturally saw something of the preparations, and admired the taste and knowledge that marked her handling of religious as well as of all other activities; and he managed, while not knowing exactly what was needed, to make a few such general contributions as could not come amiss. Yugiri was in charge of the dancers and music. Presents and contributions poured in from the Emperor, the Crown Prince, the Empress, and all the great ladies at Court, in such numbers that the messengers would at any time have packed the corridors almost to overflowing. It may be imagined then what was the scene when they were added to the throngs that were already assembled for the Service.*

It was the tenth day of the third month. The trees were all in blossom, the weather mild and calm; indeed it seemed as though Paradise itself were not far away, and even an unbeliever could not but have regained his innocence. The Woodman’s Song, resounding from so many lips, moved Murasaki intensely, as indeed it would have done at any time in her life. But today the words had a new significance. “Though in life no prize awaits me, yet am I sad to know the firewood is burnt out and soon the flame will sink.” So she wrote, and sent the poem to the Lady of Akashi, by the hand of little Prince Niou. To answer in the same strain would be thought unfeeling, should anyone chance to hear of it, and though the reply seemed to her somewhat forced, the Lady of Akashi wrote: “For a thousand years did the Blessed One that hermit serve; and shall your flame so soon amid the faggots of his Law expire?”

All night long the chanting continued, to the perpetual beatings of gongs and drums. As dawn began to break and the colors of the flowers showed forth again where the morning air had rent the mist, Murasaki felt that spring, the season she had loved, still had the power to call her back. And while from every branch came a twittering of birds that made even the shrill music of the flutes seem dumb, the dancer stepped the dance of Prince Ling.^† The effect of the final movement, especially of the gay, rapid passage at the end (given the place and hour), was tremendous. Gifts poured in upon the performers, those present in their excitement stripping the cloaks off their own backs and heaping them before the dancers and musicians. Then followed a concert in which all the notable players at Court took their part. Everyone seemed happy and excited. “A little longer,” thought Murasaki; and she felt there were after all many things that it was sad to lose.

But she had on the day before exerted herself far more than usual, and was now very fatigued. When she thought that all these people, whom she had for so many years past seen at similar gatherings, such a one always with his flute, another with his zithern, were before her for the last time, she raised herself with an effort and looked fixedly at each one. And then there were the ladies with whom, at the summer and winter festivals, she had carried on a kind of rivalry. Sometimes, over these concerts and sports, there had even been, underneath the outward show of good manners, a certain element of jealousy and bitterness. Yet she loved them all; and now they, for a time at any rate, would stay behind, while she, all alone, set out she knew not whither.

So grave was her condition during the summer heats that the Akashi Princess obtained leave of absence from the Palace, and settled in the Nijo-in. She was to occupy the eastern wing, but ceremonies of reception took place in the Main Hall. The procedure was the same as that which Murasaki had witnessed many times before. But today it moved her strangely, for she felt it to be her last glimpse of the outside world; and as the names of the attendant officers were called, her ear strained eagerly for the response of this or that long-familiar voice. It was some, while since she had seen the Princess and there was much to say. “I am so glad you have come here first,” Murasaki greeted her. “I hear you are to be quartered far off in the eastern wing. Once you are settled there, it will be tiresome for you to come over here; and I am afraid I shall scarcely be able to visit you...”

The Princess remained with her a long while, and they were presently joined by the Lady of Akashi. During the conversation that followed, Murasaki made no allusion to her own approaching death. But she let fall now and then a few words, spoken very seriously and quietly, which showed that the transience of all human things ran constantly through her thoughts. Seeing the Akashi Princess’s children she shed a few tears. How dearly she would have loved to see what became of them! Her tear-stained face was so lovely, and she looked in every way so far the reverse of haggard or ailing, that the Princess could hardly believe the truth of the dismal reports she had heard. This mysterious and ever-growing weakness—whence came it and how had it begun? Murasaki did at last refer to her death, but in a quite matter-of-fact way, saying in the course of conversation: “There are one or two servants who have been here for years past. I do not like to think of their being left without support. Perhaps, when I am no longer here, you would not mind keeping an eye upon them,” and she named several of such officers and retainers to the Akashi Princess.

Presently, when the others had retired, to prayers or what not, Murasaki, during a respite of her malady, sent for little Niou, who was her favorite among all the royal children, and said to him: “If I were not here, would you sometimes think about me?” “Yes, indeed I would,” he said. “I love my father, the Emperor, and Madam my mother too; but not half as much as I love my dear granny. Without you I should be very sad,” and trying to hide his tears, he hastily brushed his sleeve across his face with so pretty a gesture that she could not help smiling. “When you are grown up,” she said, “you shall have this house for your own, and in the flower-season you will have the red plum and cherry-tree in front of your window. Enjoy them, and sometimes, should you think of it, offer a spray or two of blossom to the Lord Buddha.” He watched her face earnestly while she spoke, and nodded at the end. Then, feeling that he could no longer check his tears, he left the room.

The cool of autumn brought her a certain measure of relief; but the slightest exertion was sufficient to cause a relapse. The weather was at no time very severe; but as the season wore on she suffered from a continual sense of damp and chill. The time for the Princess’s return to Court had come. Murasaki longed to beg for an extension of her visit, but the Emperor was already chafing at her long absence. Messengers were continually arriving from Court, and it would have been impertinent to detain her for more than a few hours longer. Since it was utterly out of the question that Murasaki should pay the customary visit to the Princess’s quarters, the Princess, contrary to all precedent, condescended to visit her. The sick woman felt embarrassed at causing this difficulty; but she longed passionately to see the girl once more, and finally all the royal gear was carried to the Main Hall.

A cold wind had sprung up towards evening; but Murasaki, wanting to get a better view of the garden, had been helped onto a couch by the window. Genji was delighted to see her capable of so much exertion. “You seemed to get on much better today,” he said. “I believe it has given you new strength to have the Princess so near you.” His delight at her supposed improvement only brought home to her all the more poignantly how terrible was the blow that awaited him. “Hopes then the dewdrop upon the wind-swept grasses of the heath to build a safe abode?” Such was the acrostic* poem she recited; and he: “Where all things race so madly to their doom, why think one fragile dewdrop will be first to reach the destined goal?”

“Now,” she said presently, “you had better go back to your rooms. I am feeling very giddy; and though I know you would forgive me if I did not entertain you properly, I do not like to feel that I have been behaving badly.” Her screens-of-state were drawn in close about the couch. The Princess stood holding Murasaki’s hand in hers. She seemed indeed to be fading like a dewdrop from the grass. So certain seemed the approach of death that messengers were sent in every direction to bid the priests read scriptures for her salvation. But she had more than once recovered from such attacks as these, and it was hoped that this was merely another onslaught of the “possession” that had attacked her years before. All night long various prayers and incantations were kept going, but in vain; for she died next morning soon after sunrise.

The Akashi Princess was profoundly thankful that she had stayed to witness the end. The event, though so long expected, left all her people in a state of dazed bewilderment. Genji himself broke down completely, and when Yugiri arrived, felt disposed to put all arrangements into his son’s hands. Summoning him to where she lay, Genji said: “You know that it was always her desire to take Orders before she died; but not realizing how swiftly the end would come, I would not give her leave— which I now deeply regret. The chaplains who were on duty during the night have apparently all left the house, or at least I hear no sound of them. But there is probably still some priest or other to be found. It is not too late to do what may, with Buddha’s help, aid her on the dark road she must tread.”*

“I have known many cases,” said Yugiri, “in which a possessing spirit was thwarted by such a course, and it might well have been so in her case. They say that to have joined a holy Order for a single day or night brings great benefit in the life hereafter. But now that she is dead, what sense can there be in administering the tonsure? You will only be making the scenes which must ensue more depressing for yourself, without affording any assistance to her in the journey beyond the grave.” Certain priests had, it was found, stayed behind to watch the body, and sending for them Yugiri now instructed them in their duties. It was many years since his thoughts about Murasaki had been other than he could publish to all the world. But since he caught sight of her on the morning of the typhoon, he had often wondered whether they would ever again be brought together. Her voice he now knew he would never hear; but there was still a chance to see her once again, and while scolding one of the maids for the loudness of her sobbing, as though absent-mindedly, he pulled up a corner of the curtains. The daylight was still feeble, and he could see very little. But at that moment Genji^† himself held up the great lamp, bringing it so close to the couch that Yugiri suddenly saw her in all her loveliness. “And why should he not see her?” thought Genji, who knew that Yugiri was peeping. But in a moment he covered his eyes with his sleeve. “It is almost worse to see her now while she is still unchanged,” he said. “One thinks that she will speak, move...” Yugiri brushed away the tears that kept on dimming his eyes. Her hair lay spread across the pillows, loose, but not tangled or disorderly, in a great mass, against which in the strong lamplight her face shone with a dazzling whiteness. Never, thought Genji, had her beauty seemed so flawless as now, when the eye could rest upon it undistracted by any ripple of sound or motion. Yugiri gazed astounded. His spirit seemed to leave him, to float through space and hover near her, as though it were he that was the ghost, and this the lovely body he had chosen for his habitation.

As neither Genji nor any of the ladies who had been long in Murasaki’s service were in a condition to make the final arrangements, all this, as well as the duty of encouraging and consoling the bereaved, fell upon Yugiri. His life had brought him occasion to witness many scenes of sorrow, but none so pitiful as those that now ensued; nor did he imagine that it could ever fall to his lot again.

For many days afterwards he remained in close attendance upon his father, trying by every means he could think of to distract and console him. The equinoctial gales had begun to blow, and tonight it came back vividly to Yugiri’s mind how he had caught sight of her on the morning of the great typhoon. And then again on the day she died. That Genji should mourn was well enough; but what right had Yugiri to this grievous pain? And to hide his sorrow he drew a rosary towards him, and clicking the beads loudly he muttered, “Amida, Amida, Amida Buddha,” so swiftly that the falling of his tears could not be heard.

Day and night Genji wept, till it seemed that a veil of tears hung between him and the world. A thousand times he asked himself what use they had ever been to him—this beauty, of which so much had been said, these talents that were supposed to raise him above all his peers? No sooner did he come into the world than loneliness and sorrow fell to his share. And then as though Buddha feared that even now he might harbor some remnant of trust in life and its joys, loss upon loss was visited upon him, from all of which he had in the end recovered. But now at last this greatest of imaginable sorrows had indeed effected what all previous afflictions had failed to achieve. No longer did he ask for a day more in the world, save that he might devote it to penances and fasting. And yet, if anything stood between him and the demands of religion, it was this very sorrow, which by its insensate violence had so unarmed him that he knew himself to be in no fit state to take his vows. Often he prayed earnestly that a moment of oblivion might come in which he could embrace the life he craved for. There were times too when another consideration weighed with him. If he were at once to enter an Order, it would be thought that he had done so yielding weakly to an impulse of the moment—had been unhinged by the shock of a sudden bereavement; and this was an impression that he by no means wished to create.

Thus the struggle between his desire to embrace a different life, and his distaste for the impression he would create by doing so, further increased his agitation.

Even in the matter of condolences To no Chujo made a point of never going beyond what, in his view, the occasion strictly demanded. And it indicated on his part a very high view of Murasaki’s worth that he now not merely paid the formal visit of sympathy, but followed it by numerous letters. He remembered that it had been just this time of year, the middle of the eighth month, when his sister Aoi died; and of those who had then mourned her, how many had since followed in her tracks! So he was reflecting one cheerless evening, when autumn had more than ever set its mark upon the sky. Sending for his son Ben no Shosho, he wrote a long letter to Genji, and in the margin: “An autumn of the past seems like today, and adds fresh dewdrops to a sleeve already drenched with, tears.” Memories of the past, not only of the time when Aoi died, but of a thousand episodes in which he and To no Chujo had been linked together, now crowded to his mind, and it was through a stream of tears that he wrote the reply: “This grief and that are mingled in my thoughts, and only this I know: that hateful is this season and all its ways.” In the letter that he wrote with this poem there might have been, had he expressed the half of what he felt, a passionate outpouring of misery and despair. But he knew that To no Chujo was apt to regard the expression of such feelings as a sign of reprehensible weakness, and promising to write again later, he now merely said: “I cannot thank you enough for the sympathy that your many enquiries have shown.” “Though light in hue the dress...” So had Genji once* written. But custom could no longer restrain him, and he now wore what was not far removed from full mourning.

Nor indeed was grief confined to the immediate circles of the Court. It frequently happens that those who by favor have risen to such an eminence as that which Murasaki enjoyed are subjected to a good deal of general spite. Often they are felt, even when showing themselves most affable, to be so conscious of their superiority, that what they mean as kindness has merely the effect of making ordinary people additionally timid and uncomfortable. In Murasaki there was no suspicion of this. The rare loveableness of her nature had in one way or another made its impression even in the most unlikely quarters, and her partisans were as warm as they were ubiquitous. There were many who, though they belonged to a class of society very different from hers, could not during these autumn days hear with dry eyes either the rush of the wind or the cry of insects.

The Empress Akikonomu wrote constantly to Genji at this time. In one of her poems she said: “Rightly she judged (no more will I gainsay it) who to dead leaves and weary autumn fields gave but a grudging praise.”

This letter, listless though he was, he read many times, and felt that if anyone’s company could serve at this moment to distract him a little from his misery, it would be hers. “You that in far-off countries of the sky can dwell secure, look back upon me here; for I am weary of this frail world’s decay.” So he answered, and having folded the paper, sat for a long while gazing abstractedly before he sent it on its way.

So little could he trust himself to behave with proper dignity and restraint, that he altogether avoided the more public parts of the Palace, spending most of his time in a room near the women’s apartments at the back. Here he was able to pursue his devotions undisturbed. One thing only mattered to him now: to attain the certainty that, parted though they were upon earth, in Paradise they would for ever be refreshed by the dew of the same lotus.

The ceremonies of the Forty-ninth Day, for which (in his distraction) Genji had omitted to give any instructions, were arranged by Yugiri. And so time passed, Genji constantly thinking that he would tomorrow take the step for which he longed… But somehow he did not do so. For one thing, he longed first to see the Akashi Princess and her children.

Footnotes

* She had married off her adopted child, the Akashi Princess, to the Emperor.

† Utsusemi, Fujitsubo, Nyosan, etc.

* The service consisted of the reading of the Lotus Scripture; this required eight sittings. There was also the drama of the Woodman, one priest playing the part of Shakyamuni when he was a woodman, and the rest walking round him in circle and chanting the Woodman’s Song: “Had I not cut firewood and drawn water for the rishi, would you now possess the Scripture of the Lotus Flower?”

This refers to a legend that in a previous incarnation Buddha obtained the doctrine of the Lotus Scripture from a rishi whom he served as henchman.

† The Ranryo-o. Prince Ling had a face of womanish beauty and found that in battle his enemies were not afraid of him. He therefore took to wearing a ferocious mask. But some say he wore it to protect his complexion.

* Play on oku, “to settle” (of dew) and oku, “to rise from bed.”

* Administer the tonsure; this was often done to the dying, and occasionally to the dead.

† From inside the curtains.

* At the time of Aoi’s death. See Part I, p. 169. Full mourning was worn for a parent, but not for a wife.