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 future⁶⁸⁴ (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.

Though Murasaki was apparently no longer in immediate danger, she had been ill for many months. There seemed little hope that she would recover. To Genji, it seemed that her strength was gradually fading. The thought of outliving her horrified him. Murasaki herself had no anxiety about the future.⁶⁸⁴ (Indeed, she was unusually free from the ties that commonly bind us to the world.) Her only worry was what her death would mean to Genji, her companion for 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 creatures⁶⁸⁵ had gone forward unafraid.

Naturally, her thoughts often turned to the life to come. She spent her time doing many charitable works and making religious offerings. More than anything, she still wanted to spend the rest of her life somewhere she could devote herself entirely to religion. But Genji would not let her go. He had often said that he intended to do the same. Why, then, could they not do it together? They might be certain that they would share a lotus throne in Amida’s Paradise. But until then, he would be in his convent and she in her nunnery. However close the two might be, they would not be able to meet. Genji knew that if she suddenly grew worse, his anxiety would ruin his meditations. Even the thought that she was in pain would do the same. Yes, he must be content to stay behind, while so many frail creatures⁶⁸⁵ had gone forward without fear.

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.

She could have acted without his permission. But she knew that achieving her goal that way would give her no satisfaction. She felt hurt that he still refused her wish. Perhaps, though, she thought, it was not his fault. Surely some sin of her own was weighing on her and holding back her 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 Nijō-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. Yūgiri 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.¹⁶⁰

Some time ago, she had arranged for a thousand copies of the Lotus Scripture to be made. Now she hurried to give them as an offering. The ceremony would take place at the Nijō-in, which she had come to regard as her home. She also gave the robes for the seven officiants. Every detail, down to the stitching of the seams, was designed according to her instructions. She had not told Genji what she was planning, but he naturally saw some of the preparations. He admired the taste and knowledge she brought to religious matters, as she did to everything else. Though he did not know exactly what was needed, he managed to make a few generally useful contributions. Yūgiri was in charge of the dancers and music. Gifts and contributions poured in from the Emperor, the Crown Prince, the Empress, and all the great ladies at Court. Their messengers were so numerous that they could have filled the corridors almost to overflowing at any time. One can imagine the scene when they joined the crowds already gathered for the service.¹⁶⁰

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 to-day 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 any one 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?’

It was the tenth day of the third month. All the trees were in bloom, and the weather was mild and calm. It seemed as if Paradise itself were near, and even an unbeliever could not help but regain their innocence. The Woodman’s Song rang out from so many voices and moved Murasaki deeply, as it would have at any time in her life. But today its words had a new meaning. She wrote: ‘Though no reward awaits me in life, I am sad to know the firewood has burned up and the flame will soon die.’ She sent the poem to the Lady of Akashi with little Prince Niou. If anyone heard of it, an answer in the same spirit would seem unfeeling. So, though the reply seemed a little forced to her, the Lady of Akashi wrote: ‘The Blessed One served that hermit for a thousand years. Can your flame die so soon among the bundles of firewood of his Law?’

All night long the chanting continued, to the perpetual beatings of gongs and drums. As dawn began to break and the colours 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.⁶⁸⁶ 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. Every one seemed happy and excited.

The chanting continued all night, accompanied by the constant beating of gongs and drums. As dawn broke, the morning air tore through the mist, and the colors of the flowers appeared again. Murasaki felt that spring, the season she had loved, still had the power to call her back. Birds twittered from every branch, making even the shrill music of the flutes seem silent. As they sang, the dancer performed the dance of Prince Ling.⁶⁸⁶ The final movement had a tremendous effect, especially its lively, rapid ending, given the place and hour. Gifts poured in for the performers. In their excitement, those present stripped off their own cloaks and piled them before the dancers and musicians. A concert followed, in which all the notable musicians at Court took 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.

‘A little longer,’ thought Murasaki. She felt that, after all, there were many things she would be 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.

But she had done far more than usual the day before, and now she was very tired. She thought of all the people before her, whom she had seen at gatherings like this for so many years. One always brought his flute, another his zither. Now she was seeing them for the last time. With an effort, she raised herself and looked closely at each one. There were also the ladies with whom she had competed at the summer and winter festivals. At these concerts and sporting events, there had sometimes been jealousy and bitterness beneath their outward politeness. Yet she loved them all. And now they would stay behind, at least for a time, while she set out alone for she knew not where.

So grave was her condition during the summer heats, that the Akashi Princess obtained leave of absence from the Palace, and settled in the Nijō-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 to-day 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....’

Her condition was so serious during the summer heat that the Akashi Princess obtained leave from the Palace and moved into the Nijō-in. She was to stay in the eastern wing, but the reception ceremonies were held in the Main Hall. The ceremony followed the same procedure Murasaki had witnessed many times before. But today it moved her in a strange way, because she felt it was her last glimpse of the outside world. As the names of the attending officers were called, she listened eagerly for one familiar voice after another. It had been some time since she had seen the Princess, and there was much to say. ‘I am so glad you have come here first,’ Murasaki said in greeting. ‘I hear you are to stay far away in the eastern wing. Once you are settled there, it will be troublesome for you to come over here. And I am afraid I shall hardly 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.

The Princess stayed with her for a long time, and the Lady of Akashi soon joined them. As they talked, Murasaki said nothing about her approaching death. But now and then she spoke a few words, seriously and quietly, showing that she was always thinking about how fleeting all human things are. When she saw 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 so far from haggard or ill, that the Princess could hardly believe the grim reports she had heard. Where had this mysterious, growing weakness come from? How had it begun? At last Murasaki did mention her death, but in a matter-of-fact way. During the conversation, she said, ‘There are one or two servants who have been here for years. I do not like to think of them being left without support. Perhaps, when I am no longer here, you would not mind looking after them.’ She named several such officers and attendants 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 favourite 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.

Soon, when the others had gone off to pray or do other things, Murasaki felt some relief from her illness. She sent for little Niou, her favorite among all the royal children. She asked him, ‘If I were not here, would you sometimes think about me?’ ‘Yes, of course I would,’ he said. ‘I love my father, the Emperor, and my mother too, but not half as much as I love my dear granny. Without you, I would be very sad.’ He tried to hide his tears, quickly brushing his sleeve across his face. The gesture was so pretty that she could not help smiling. ‘When you grow up,’ she said, ‘this house will be yours. In the flowering season, the red plum and cherry tree will be in front of your window. Enjoy them, and sometimes, if you think of it, offer a sprig or two of blossom to the Lord Buddha.’ He watched her face intently as she spoke and nodded when she finished. Then, feeling that he could no longer hold back 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.

The cool autumn weather brought her some relief, but the slightest effort made her ill again. The weather was never very severe, but as the season went on, she felt constantly damp and cold. The time had come for the Princess to return to Court. Murasaki longed to ask her to stay longer, but the Emperor was already growing impatient with her long absence. Messengers kept arriving from Court, and it would have been improper to keep the Princess more than a few hours longer. Murasaki could not possibly make the customary visit to the Princess’s rooms. So the Princess, going against all precedent, made the exceptional gesture of visiting her instead. Murasaki felt embarrassed to cause this difficulty, but she longed passionately to see the girl once more. Finally, all the royal belongings were 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 on to a couch by the window. Genji was delighted to see her capable of so much exertion. ‘You seemed to get on much better to-day,’ 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 acrostic⁶⁸⁷ 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?’

A cold wind had risen toward evening. But Murasaki wanted a better view of the garden, so she had been helped onto a couch by the window. Genji was delighted to see that she could manage so much effort. ‘You seemed much better today,’ he said. ‘I believe having the Princess so near has given you new strength.’ His delight at her apparent improvement made her feel even more keenly how terrible the coming blow would be for him. ‘Can a dewdrop on the wind-swept grass of the heath hope to find a safe home?’ Such was the acrostic⁶⁸⁷ poem she recited. He replied: ‘When all things race so madly toward their end, why think one fragile dewdrop will be the first to reach it?’

‘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.

‘Now,’ she said after a while, ‘you had better go back to your rooms. I feel very dizzy. I know you would forgive me if I did not entertain you properly. But I do not like to feel that I have behaved badly.’ Her screens were drawn close around the couch. The Princess stood holding Murasaki’s hand. She seemed to be fading like a dewdrop on the grass. Death seemed so close that messengers were sent everywhere to ask priests to read scriptures for her salvation. But she had recovered from such attacks more than once before. It was hoped that this was merely another attack of the ‘possession’ that had struck her years before. Prayers and incantations continued all night, but in vain. She died the 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 Yūgiri 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.’⁶⁸⁸

The Akashi Princess was deeply grateful that she had stayed to witness the end. Though everyone had expected it for so long, her death left all her people dazed and bewildered. Genji himself broke down completely. When Yūgiri arrived, Genji felt inclined to leave all the arrangements to his son. He called Yūgiri to where she lay and said: ‘You know she always wanted to take religious vows before she died. But I did not realize how soon the end would come, so I would not allow it. I deeply regret that now. The chaplains who were on duty during the night have apparently all left the house. At least, I cannot hear them. But there is probably still a priest to be found. It is not too late to do what may, with Buddha’s help, aid her on the dark road she must travel.’⁶⁸⁸

‘I have known many cases,’ said Yūgiri, ‘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 Yūgiri 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 Genji⁶⁸⁹ himself held up the great lamp, bringing it so close to the couch that Yūgiri suddenly saw her in all her loveliness. ‘And why should he not see her?’ thought Genji, who knew that Yūgiri 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....’ Yūgiri 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. Yūgiri 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.

‘I have known many cases,’ said Yūgiri, ‘where a possessing spirit was thwarted by taking such a step. It might have worked in her case too. They say that joining a holy Order for even a single day or night brings great benefit in the next life. But now that she is dead, what sense is there in cutting her hair as a sign of joining the Order? You will only make the scenes that must follow more painful for yourself. You will not help her on her journey beyond the grave.’ Some priests, it turned out, had stayed behind to watch over the body. Yūgiri sent for them and gave them their instructions. For many years, he had felt nothing for Murasaki that he could not have openly declared to the world. But since he had caught sight of her on the morning of the typhoon, he had often wondered whether they would ever meet again. He now knew he would never hear her voice. But he still had a chance to see her once more. He scolded one of the maids for sobbing so loudly and, as if absent-mindedly, lifted a corner of the curtains. The daylight was still weak, and he could see very little. But then Genji⁶⁸⁹ himself held up the great lamp. He brought it so close to the couch that Yūgiri suddenly saw her in all her loveliness. ‘And why should he not see her?’ thought Genji, who knew Yūgiri was peeping. But a moment later, Genji covered his eyes with his sleeve. ‘It is almost worse to see her now, while she is still unchanged,’ he said. ‘One thinks she will speak, move....’ Yūgiri brushed away the tears that kept blurring his vision. Her hair lay in a great mass across the pillows, loose but neither tangled nor untidy. Against it, her face shone a dazzling white in the strong lamplight. Genji thought her beauty had never seemed so flawless. Now the eye could rest on it without being distracted by the slightest sound or movement. Yūgiri gazed at her in wonder. His spirit seemed to leave him, float through space, and hover near her. It was as though he were the ghost, and hers the lovely body he had chosen to inhabit.

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 Yūgiri. 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.

Neither Genji nor the ladies who had long served Murasaki were able to make the final arrangements. So Yūgiri had to take care of everything, as well as encourage and comfort those who were grieving. He had witnessed many sorrowful scenes in his life, but none as heartbreaking as those that followed. He could not imagine ever witnessing such scenes 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 to-night it came back vividly to Yūgiri’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 Yūgiri 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.

For many days afterward, he stayed close to his father, trying every way he could think of to distract and comfort him. The equinoctial winds had begun to blow. That night, Yūgiri vividly remembered catching sight of her on the morning of the great typhoon. He remembered seeing her again on the day she died. It was natural for Genji to mourn, but what right did Yūgiri have to feel such terrible pain? To hide his sorrow, he pulled a rosary toward him and clicked the beads loudly. He muttered, ‘Amida, Amida, Amida Buddha,’ so quickly that no one could hear his tears falling.

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 harbour 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.

Day and night Genji wept, until it seemed a veil of tears hung between him and the world. A thousand times he asked himself what his beauty and talents had ever done for him. People had praised his beauty so much and said his talents raised him above all his peers. Yet loneliness and sorrow had been his lot from the moment he was born. He had suffered loss after loss, as though Buddha feared he still had some trust in life and its joys. In the end, he had recovered from them all. But now the greatest sorrow imaginable had finally done what all his earlier suffering had failed to do. He no longer wished for another day in the world, except to devote it to penance and fasting. Yet this very sorrow stood between him and the demands of religion. Its senseless violence had left him so helpless that he knew he was in no state to take his vows. He often prayed earnestly for a moment when he could forget his sorrow and embrace the life he longed for. At times, another thought weighed on him. If he entered a religious order at once, people would think he had weakly given in to a passing impulse. They would think the shock of a sudden loss had unbalanced his mind. He was determined not to give that impression.

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.

He wanted a different life, but he disliked the impression that changing his life would create. This struggle made him even more agitated.

Even in the matter of condolences Tō no Chūjō 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 Shōshō, he wrote a long letter to Genji, and in the margin: ‘An autumn of the past seems like to-day, 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 Tō no Chūjō 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 Tō no Chūjō 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 once⁶⁹⁰ written. But custom could no longer restrain him, and he now wore what was not far removed from full mourning.

Even when offering condolences, Tō no Chūjō made a point of doing only what he thought the occasion required. So it showed how highly he valued Murasaki that he not only paid a formal visit of sympathy, but followed it with many letters. He remembered that his sister Aoi had died at this same time of year, in the middle of the eighth month. And how many of those who had mourned her had since followed her in death! He was thinking of this one gloomy evening, when the sky looked more autumnal than ever. He sent for his son Ben no Shōshō and wrote a long letter to Genji. In the margin he wrote: ‘An autumn of the past seems like today, adding fresh dewdrops to a sleeve already soaked with tears.’ Memories crowded into Genji’s mind, not only of Aoi’s death, but of countless moments he and Tō no Chūjō had shared. Tears streamed down his face as he wrote his reply: ‘This grief and that are mixed in my thoughts. I know only this: I hate this season and all its ways.’ If he had expressed even half of what he felt, his letter might have poured out misery and despair. But he knew that Tō no Chūjō tended to see such feelings as a shameful sign of weakness. So he promised to write again later and said only: ‘I cannot thank you enough for the sympathy shown by your many inquiries.’ ‘Though light in hue the dress....’ Genji had once⁶⁹⁰ written those words. But custom could no longer restrain him, and he now wore clothing 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 favour 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.

Grief was not confined to those closest to the Court. People who rise through favor to a position as high as Murasaki’s often face widespread resentment. Even when they are most friendly, they are often thought to be so aware of their superiority that their intended kindness only makes ordinary people more timid and uncomfortable. No one suspected Murasaki of this. Her exceptionally lovable nature had made an impression even in the most unlikely places. She had devoted supporters everywhere. Many belonged to a very different social class from hers. Yet during those autumn days, they could not hear the rush of the wind or the cry of insects without tears.

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.’

Empress Akikonomu wrote constantly to Genji at this time. In one of her poems she said: ‘She was right to give only reluctant praise to dead leaves and weary autumn fields. I will no longer argue with her.’

This letter, listless though he was, he read many times, and felt that if any one’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.

Though listless, he read the letter many times. He felt that if anyone’s company could distract him a little from his misery just then, it would be hers. He replied, ‘You who can live safely in the distant lands of the sky, look back at me here. I am weary of the decay of this fragile world.’ He folded the paper and sat staring into space for a long time before sending it.

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.

He could not trust himself to behave with proper dignity and restraint, so he avoided the more public parts of the palace. He spent most of his time in a room near the women’s apartments at the back. There he could pray undisturbed. Only one thing mattered to him now. He wanted to be certain that, though they were apart on earth, they would be refreshed forever by the dew of the same lotus in Paradise.

The ceremonies of the Forty-ninth Day, for which (in his distraction) Genji had omitted to give any instructions, were arranged by Yūgiri. And so time passed, Genji constantly thinking that he would to-morrow 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.

Yūgiri arranged the Forty-ninth Day ceremonies. Genji, distracted by grief, had failed to give any instructions for them. And so time passed. Genji kept thinking that tomorrow he would take the step he longed to take.... But somehow he never did. For one thing, he wanted to see the Akashi Princess and her children first.