The Tale of Genji: (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition) (Junichiro Breakdown of Genji)

by Murasaki Shikibu

  She was lost in melancholy musings when her mother arrived and the ascetics gathered from here and there to pursue their clamorous midday rites. She had none of her women with her, and the Nun had seized this chance to come very close to her indeed.

  “This will not do!” her mother chided the Nun. “You are not to wait on my lady without a low curtain of your own before you!91 With this wind a gap could blow open. Behave like a physician, for example. It is too long since you were young.” She was quite annoyed.

  The Nun, who in her own estimation was behaving perfectly well and who could hardly hear, only nodded and answered, “Beg pardon?” Actually, at sixty-five or sixty-six she was not as old as all that, and she wore her habit with sprightly distinction. Her swollen eyes, glistening with tears, made it plain that she had unfortunately been dwelling on the past.

  The Consort's mother's heart sank. “She must have been onto some sort of nonsense about years ago. I suppose she has been telling you tall tales about the past, fed by preposterous fantasies of her own. She makes me wonder whether I am dreaming!” She smiled ruefully as she watched the Consort, so graceful and pretty, and now so unusually preoccupied and subdued. She could hardly believe that a young lady this exalted was her daughter. It must have upset her to hear about that sad business, she reflected. I was meaning to tell her myself once she rose to the very heights. Fortunately, this will not convince her that she cannot do so, but the poor thing must be feeling very downcast.

  Once the prayer rites were over, she had refreshments set before the Consort and pressed her sympathetically to take some. The helplessly weeping Nun gazed at her granddaughter in wonder and delight. Face smiling and mouth hideously agape, she was all damp and puckery about the eyes. She ignored her daughter's glances of sharp disapproval.

  “Ripples of old age come wrinkling upon a shore generously blessed:

  who could blame such an old nun for constantly dripping brine?92

  Once upon a time,” she said, “they used to put up with old people like me!”

  The Consort wrote on a piece of paper that lay beside her inkstone,

  “I would have that nun dripping brine still be my guide to far Awaji,

  that I might see for myself that reed but upon the shore.”93

  This was too much for her mother, who wept.

  “He who left this world to remain forevermore on Akashi Shore,

  even he, cannot have cleared all the darkness from his heart!”

  With words like these she sought to disguise her tears.

  What a shame I remember nothing of that dawn when we left him there! the Consort said to herself.

  She gave birth easily, a day or two after the tenth of the third month, and despite all the earlier anxiety she suffered no great pain. Her mother was utterly delighted, since to crown it all the baby was a boy, and Genji felt relief at last.

  A glittering series of birth celebrations would certainly have enlivened the Nun's old age, but otherwise they would have been wasted in that cramped, secluded house, and the Consort therefore prepared to move back to the southeast quarter. The lady from the east wing there had come for the birth, and she looked lovely all in white,94 holding the young prince in her arms as though she were his grandmother. Everything moved and fascinated her, since she had never been through this herself or even been present on such an occasion. She continued holding the little boy, although he was still difficult to manage, and his real grandmother allowed her to do so and busied herself meanwhile with looking after his baths.95 A Dame of Staff—the one who had brought the Heir Apparent notice of his appointment96—oversaw them, and she was moved to see the Consort's mother act so scrupulously as Bath Nurse,97 since she knew something of her background and was ready to deplore any lapse. Instead, however, the lady showed such surprising distinction that she seemed obviously born to her good fortune after all.

  There would be no point in recounting every ceremony that took place during this time.

  On the sixth day the Consort returned to her proper home. His Majesty sponsored the birth celebration on the night of the seventh day. Perhaps it was on His Eminence's behalf, since he had now renounced the world, that an imperial order appointed the Chamberlain Controller from the Chamberlains' Office to arrange the event in grand style. Her Majesty provided the gowns that the guests received as rewards, and she had them made even more beautifully than for an occasion at court. The Princes and the Ministers of State, too, all hastened to do their part magnificently.

  Genji never tried to keep these festivities simple; on the contrary, they displayed such unheard-of grandeur that the finer, quieter touches of elegance, ones that should have been noted and passed on to generations to come, drew no attention at all. Soon enough he, too, held the young Prince in his arms. “The Commander has several by now,” he remarked, “but he still prefers me not to see them, and must say I hold that against him. Look what a dear little boy I have anyway though!” No wonder he was so taken with him!

  Day by day the young prince grew as though being stretched. Genji called no untried nurses and so on, and he chose from among the women in his service only the quickest and most distinguished. Wise and dignified though she was, the Consort's mother effaced herself whenever necessary and never indulged in any show of pride, for which everyone praised her. The mistress of the east wing already knew her informally, and the young Prince's charm now turned her old reproachful feelings to full warmth and respect. She who so loved children busied herself making godchild dolls and whatnot with her own hands, like a girl. Day and night she spent her time looking after the baby. The Nun with her old-fashioned ways was extremely put out that she might not see the young Prince as she pleased, and alas, now that she had seen him, she missed him so much that her very life seemed to hang in the balance.

  When the news reached Akashi, no aspiration to sage detachment could quell the old man's joy. “Now I can leave this world behind with a light heart,” he told his disciples. He turned his house into a temple, to which he assigned all the surrounding rice fields and similar wealth. He meant next to shut himself away at a place where no one would find him again, one he had long ago made his own, too far into the province's mountains ever to be frequented. One little concern remained, but after all his years at Akashi he simply left that to the buddhas and gods and moved away. In recent years he had sent a messenger to the City only when one was specially needed, although he had had the messengers from there take back at least a line of advice on one thing or another for the Nun. Now, as a last gesture to the world he was leaving, he addressed a letter to his daughter.

  “For some years now I have inhabited the same world as you and yet felt somehow quite different from before, which is why I have neither written, except as necessary, nor sought to learn your news. Letters in kana take me time to read,98 and moments spent otherwise than calling the Name are moments lost. That is why I have sent you nothing. I gather that your daughter is now with the Heir Apparent and that she has borne him a son. That is a very great joy. I say that because although I am only a mountain ascetic and desire no worldly glory, I must confess that I have for many years thought of nothing but you, even during my day and night devotions, and that my prayers have been for you, to the neglect of any longing of mine for the dew on the lotus.

  “My dear, one night in the second month of the year when you were born, I had a dream. My right hand held up Mount Sumeru,99 and to the mountain's right and left the sun and moon shed their brightness on the world. I myself stood below, in the shadows under the mountain, and their light did not reach me. I then set the mountain afloat on a vast ocean, boarded a little boat, and rowed away toward the west. That was my dream. I then woke up, and that very morning I, even I, began to hope, although I also wondered at heart why I should look forward to anything so grand. Then you were conceived. After that, both secular writings and the scriptures gave me so many reasons to believe in dreams that although unworthy I was awed, and I sought to rear you f
ittingly. The task seemed far beyond my poor means, however, and that is why I undertook the journey here, where I stooped to absorb myself in the affairs of this province and gave up any hope that old age might return me to the City. During my time on this shore I said a great many prayers in my heart, for you were all my hope. Happily, the time has now come for you to give thanks in return for their fulfillment. Please do so above all at the Sumiyoshi Shrine, as soon as our young lady has become Mother of the Realm and all that I have prayed for is accomplished. Doubt is no longer possible. Now that my consuming desire is all but satisfied, and I may trust in rebirth at the highest of the nine degrees in paradise, westward beyond the one hundred thousand buddha-lands, I shall pursue my practice among the pure trees and waters of the most distant mountains while I await my call to the lotus throne.100

  “That dawn is coming, when the long-awaited light will shine forth at last,

  and I would now have you know all I dreamed so long ago.”

  Here he had written the month and day.

  “Do not seek to know the month and day of my death,” he had added. “Why should you wear mourning as people always do? Reflect that you are a transformed presence101 and simply work for an old monk's benefit.102 Whatever pleasures this life offers, do not forget the life to come. We shall meet again, as long as I can reach the place where I long to go. Have faith that we shall be together when you reach the shore beyond this world.”

  With his letter came a large, sealed aloeswood box containing the texts of all the prayers that he had addressed to the Sumiyoshi Shrine.

  To the Nun he had sent only a few words. “On the fourteenth day of this month I shall leave my humble dwelling and go on into the depths of the mountains, where I shall leave my worthless body to feed the bears and the wolves. You must remain patiently as you are until the time I anticipate has come.103 We shall meet again in the light.” That was all.

  The Nun read the letter and then questioned the holy monk who had brought it. “He went off into the trackless mountains three days after he wrote it,” the monk replied. “We went to the foot of them with him, but there he turned us all back and continued on with only one monk and two acolytes. I had thought after he renounced the world that we would never grieve again, but there was more sorrow to come. He put his kin and biwa beside him—the ones he played so often, sitting against a pillar between spells of practice—and drew music from each once more; then he bade farewell to the Buddha104 and left them as offerings in the chapel. He left most of his other possessions, too, as offerings, and what he did not he gave out to the more than sixty disciples105 who were so close to him through the years, each according to his station. Finally, he sent me with what remained to you in the City. Then at last he withdrew into the clouds and mists of a certain distant mountain, leaving us who remained in the house to our grief.” The worthy speaker had gone down there from the City as a boy and would now stay on as an old man, and he was desolate. Even the Buddha's wise disciples, so deeply versed in his teaching upon Vulture Peak, were stricken with grief when his flame expired, and the Nun's sorrow naturally exceeded all measure.

  Document box

  The Consort's mother was in the southeast quarter, and she came quietly when word of the letter reached her. She could not very well do so without adequate reason, for she now upheld the utmost gravity of deportment, but she gathered that this was something disturbing, and she was sufficiently concerned to make a discreet visit. She found her mother overcome, and she could not withhold her tears either when she drew up the lamp and read the letter. Memories—things that could have meant nothing to anyone else—came to her out of the past, and she who had always missed her father so much realized with a bitter pang that she would never see him again. She could not stop weeping. Her father's account of his dream gave her faith in the future, and yet she also thought, Why, then, all my misery, when he sent me off in that strange way of his to a place where I should never have gone, came from his trust in a little dream and his hopes for the heights it promised! At last she had understood.

  The Nun spoke after a long silence. “Thanks to you, he and I were able to pride ourselves on good fortune far beyond what we deserved; and great griefs and worries, yes, we had those as well. I know that he had not distinguished himself, but it still seemed a strange, strange fate to leave our home in the City for obscurity far away, and even then I never imagined that he and I might be separated, since I believed all those years that after this life we would share the same lotus. Then, suddenly, that extraordinary thing happened. My reward for returning to the world I left has made me happy, but at the same time I have always missed him and worried about him, and it is very hard to have in the end to leave this life without seeing him again. His peculiarities led him to rail against the world even when he was in it, but still, we were young and trusting, and no couple could have been more devoted. We shared a very deep faith in each other. Why must I be parted from him, when he is still so close that his letters come quickly?” She wept bitterly.

  “It means nothing to me to have risen above others in the end,” the Consort's mother said. “No glory I enjoy can make any difference, when I matter so little anyway, but what is cruel is that now I shall never know what became of him. I suppose his destiny explains everything that has happened, yet it seems such a waste that he has vanished forever into the mountains and that since life is always so fragile, he will soon be no more!”

  They continued their sad conversation through the night. “His Grace saw me there yesterday,” she said, “and I will seem delinquent for suddenly slipping away. For me that hardly matters, but for the sake of His Highness's mother I cannot simply do as I please.” She went back at daybreak.

  “How is His Highness?” the Nun asked, shedding fresh tears. “I so long to see him!”

  “And you shall, I am sure, very soon. My lady the Consort seems to remember you fondly. His Grace has apparently remarked that although he does not wish to peer into the future, he hopes that, assuming all goes well, you will live to see the day. I wonder what he means.”

  The Nun smiled. “There!” she said happily. “I knew it! My destiny is so unlike anyone else's!”

  The Consort's mother set off to join her daughter and had the box of prayers brought with her.

  The Heir Apparent often begged his Consort to return to the palace. “I can hardly blame him,” Lady Murasaki said. “He must be very concerned about her, especially after this remarkable event.” She prepared to have the young Prince quietly visit his father.

  The Heir Apparent's Haven106 preferred to stay where she was for the time being, having learned her lesson about the difficulty of obtaining leave to withdraw. What she had just been through, a frightening experience for someone so young, had slimmed her features a little and given her a marvelous elegance. “She has not yet recovered, and she should not go until she is able to look after herself properly,” her mother declared, but Genji disagreed. “With her new fineness of feature,” he said, “he will only be better pleased with her than ever.”

  One quiet evening, after the mistress of the east wing and her women had gone home, the Consort's mother went to her daughter to tell her about the box of prayers. “My lady, I ought not to show you these until thanks to you they have been fully answered, but life is too uncertain for that. There are certain little things that I believe I should tell you now, you see, while I still have my wits about me, because if anything were to happen to me before you are fully able to make up your mind on your own, it might not be possible for me, considering who I am, to have you beside me at the end. I know that the writing is strange and forbidding,107 but please read it anyway. Keep the prayer sheets in a nearby cabinet and go through them when you can, and please do as they say.108 Do not discuss them with anyone. Now that I have seen you come this far, I, too, would prefer to renounce the world, for I am by no means at peace. You must never take lightly the goodwill of the lady of the east wing. When I see what a rare wonde
r she is, I only hope that she will enjoy a life far longer than mine. As to my staying with you or not, my condition is too humble to allow me to do so, and that is why I ceded you to her in the first place. I never imagined, though, that she would do as much for you as she has; I always assumed that in that respect she would be like anyone else. As things are, I have no anxiety about you, your upbringing, or your future.” She went on this way at length.

  The Haven listened with tears in her eyes. Her mother, who should have been entirely at ease with her, was always correct and extremely deferential. The letter was written in a horribly forbidding hand on five or six sheets of thick Michinokuni paper, yellowed with age but still beautifully scented. She was deeply moved, and her profile, with her by now quite damp sidelocks, had a sweetly noble grace.

  Genji had been with Her Highness,109 and he now entered so suddenly through the panel between them that she could not hide the papers; she only drew up a standing curtain to conceal at least her person. “Is your little Prince awake?” he asked. “I cannot be away for a moment without missing him.”

  The Haven failed to answer him. “My lady has sent him to the east wing,” her mother replied.