There were no really alarming symptoms. She was vaguely unwell, no
more. The days passed. Genji sent repeated inquiries, but there was no
relief from his worries about another invalid, a more important one.
It was still too early for Aoi to be delivered of her child. Her women
were less than fully alert; and then, suddenly, she was seized with labor
pains. More priests were put to more strenuous prayers. The malign spirit
refused to move. The most eminent of exorcists found this stubbornness
extraordinary, and could not think what to do. Then, after renewed efforts
at exorcism, more intense than before, it commenced sobbing as if in pain.
"Stop for a moment, please. I want to speak to General Genji."
It was as they had thought. The women showed Genji to a place at
Aoi's curtains. Thinking--for she did seem on the point of death--that Aoi
had last words for Genji, her parents withdrew. The effect was grandly
solemn as priests read from the Lotus Sutra in hushed voices. Genji drew
the curtains back and looked down at his wife. She was heavy with child,
and very beautiful. Even a man who was nothing to her would have been
saddened to look at her. Long, heavy hair, bound at one side, was set off
by white robes, and he thought her lovelier than when she was most
carefully dressed and groomed.
He took her hand. "How awful. How awful for you." He could say
no more.
Usually so haughty and forbidding, she now gazed up at him with
languid eyes that were presently filled with tears. How could he fail to be
moved? This violent weeping, he thought, would be for her parents, soon
to be left behind, and perhaps, at this last leave-taking, for him too.
"You mustn't fret so. It can't be as bad as you think. And even if the
worst comes, we will meet again. And your good mother and father: the
bond between parents and children lasts through many lives. You must tell
yourself that you will see them again."
"No, no. I was hurting so, I asked them to stop for a while. I had not
dreamed that I would come to you like this. It is true: a troubled soul will
sometimes go wandering off." The voice was gentle and affectionate.
"Bind the hem of my robe, to keep it within,
The grieving soul that has wandered through the skies."
It was not Aoi's voice, nor was the manner hers. Extraordinary--and
then he knew that it was the voice of the Rokujo~ lady. He was aghast. He
<P 169>
had dismissed the talk as vulgar and ignorant fabrication, and here before
his eyes he had proof that such things did actually happen. He was hor-
rified and repelled.
"You may say so. But I don't know who you are. Identify yourself."
It was indeed she. "Aghast" --is there no stronger word? He waved the
women back
Thinking that these calmer tones meant a respite from pain, her
mother came with medicine; and even as she drank it down she gave birth
to a baby boy. Everyone was delighted, save the spirits that had been
transferred to mediums. Chagrined at their failure, they were raising a
great stir, and all in all it was a noisy and untidy scene. There was still the
afterbirth to worry about. Then, perhaps because of all the prayers, it too
was delivered. The grand abbot of Hiei and all the other eminent clerics
departed, looking rather pleased with themselves as they mopped their
foreheads. Sure that the worst was past after all the anxious days, the
women allowed themselves a rest.
The prayers went on as noisily as ever, but the house was now caught
up in the happy business of ministering to a pretty baby. It hummed with
excitement on each of the festive nights. Fine and unusual gifts came from
the old emperor and from all the princes and high courtiers. Ceremonies
honoring a boy baby are always interesting.
The Rokujo~ lady received the news with mixed feelings. She had
heard that her rival was critically ill, and now the crisis had passed. She
was not herself. The strangest thing was that her robes were permeated
with the scent of the poppy seeds burned at exorcisms. She changed
clothes repeatedly and even washed her hair, but the odor persisted. She
was overcome with self-loathing. And what would others be thinking? It
was a matter she could discuss with no one. She could only suffer in
distraught silence.
Somewhat calmer, Genji was still horrified at the unsolicited remarks
he had had from the possessive spirit. He really must get off a note to the
Rokujo~ lady. Or should he have a talk with her? He would find it hard to
be civil, and he did not wish to hurt her. In the end he made do with a
note.
Aoi's illness had been critical, and the strictest vigil must be con-
tinued. Genji had been persuaded to stop his nocturnal wanderings. He
still had not really talked to his wife, for she was still far from normal. The
child was so beautiful as to arouse forebodings, and preparations were
already under way for a most careful and elaborate education. The minister
was pleased with everything save the fact that his daughter had still not
recovered. But he told himself that he need not worry. A slow convales-
cence was to be expected after so serious an illness.
Especially around the eyes, the baby bore a strong resemblance to the
<P 170>
crown prince, whom Genji suddenly felt an intense longing to see. He
could not sit still. He had to be off to court.
"I have been neglecting my duties," he said to the women, "and am
feeling rather guilty. I think today I will venture out. It would be good if
I might see her before I go. I am not a stranger, you know."
"Quite true, sir. You of all people should be allowed near. She is badly
emaciated, I fear, but that is scarcely a reason for her to hide herself from
you."
And so a place was set out for him at her bedside. She answered from
time to time, but in a very weak voice. Even so little, from a lady who had
been given up for dead, was like a dream. He told her of those terrible days.
Then he remembered how, as if pulling back from a brink, she had begun
talking to him so volubly and so eagerly. A shudder of revulsion passed
over him.
"There are many things I would like to say to you, but you still seem
very tired."
He even prepared medicine for her. The women were filled with
admiration. When had he learned to be so useful?
She was sadly worn and lay as if on the border of death, pathetic and
still lovely. There was not a tangle in her lustrous hair. The thick tresses
that poured over her pillows seemed to him quite beyond compare. He
gazed down at her, thinking it odd that he should have felt so dissatisfied
with her over the years.
"I must see my father, but I am sure I will not be needed long. How
nice if we could always be like this. But your mother is with you so much,
I have not wanted to seem insistent. You must get back your strength and
move back to your own rooms. Your mother pampers you too much. That
may be one reason why you are so slow getting well."
As he withdrew in grand court dress she lay looking after him as she
had not been in the habit of doing.
There was to be a conference on promotions and appointments. The
minister too set off for court, in procession with all his sons, each of them
with a case to plead and determined not to leave his side.
The Sanjo~ mansion was almost deserted. Aoi was again seized with
a strangling shortness of breath; and very soon after a messenger had been
sent to court she was dead. Genji and the others left court, scarcely aware
of where their feet were taking them. Appointments and promotions no
longer concerned them. Since the crisis had come at about midnight there
was no possibility of summoning the grand abbot and his suffragans.
Everyone had thought that the worst was over, and now of course every-
one was stunned, dazed, wandering aimlessly from room to room, hardly
knowing a door from a wall. Messengers crowded in with condolences, but
the house was in such confusion that there was no one to receive them.
The intensity of the grief was almost frightening. Since malign spirits had
more than once attacked the lady, her father ordered the body left as it was
<P 171>
for two or three days in hopes that she might revive. The signs of death
were more and more pronounced, however, and, in great anguish, the
family at length accepted the truth. Genji, who had private distress to add
to the general grief, thought he knew as well as anyone ever would what
unhappiness love can bring. Condolences even from the people most im-
portant to him brought no comfort. The old emperor, himself much
grieved, sent a personal message; and so for the minister there was new
honor, happiness to temper the sorrow. Yet there was no relief from tears.
Every reasonable suggestion was accepted toward reviving the lady,
but, the ravages of death being ever more apparent, there was finally no
recourse but to see her to Toribe Moor. There were many heartrending
scenes along the way. The crowds of mourners and priests invoking the
holy name quite overflowed the wide moor. Messages continued to pour
in, from the old emperor, of course, and from the empress and crown prince
he great houses as well.
The minister was desolate. "Now in my last years to be left behind
could see him without sharing his sorrow.
Grandly the services went on through the night, and as dawn came
over the sky the mourners turned back to the city, taking with them only
a handful of ashes. Funerals are common enough, but Genji, who had not
been present at many, was shaken as never before. Since it was late in the
Eighth Month a quarter moon still hung in a sky that would have brought
melancholy thoughts in any case; and the figure of his father-in-law, as
if groping in pitch darkness, seemed proper to the occasion and at the same
time indescribably sad.
A poem came to his lips as he gazed up into the morning sky:
"Might these clouds be the smoke that mounts from her pyre?
They fill my heart with feelings too deep for words."
Back at Sanjo~, he was unable to sleep. He thought over their years
together. Why had he so carelessly told himself that she would one day
understand? Why had he allowed himself silly flirtations, the smallest of
them sure to anger her? He had let her carry her hostility to the grave. The
regrets were strong, but useless.
It was as if in a trance that he put on the dull gray mourning robes.
Had she outlived him, it occurred to him, hers would have been darker
gray.
"Weeds obey rules. Mine are the shallower hue.
But tears plunge my sleeves into the deepest wells."
He closed his eyes in prayer, a handsomer man in sorrow than in
happiness. He intoned softly: "Hail, Samantabhadra, in whose serene
<P 172>
thoughts all is contained." The invocation seemed more powerful than
from the mouth of the most reverend priest.
There were tears in his eyes as he took the little boy up in his arms.
"What would we have to remember her by?" he whispered to himself.
The sorrow would be worse if he did not have this child.
Princess Omiya took to her bed in such a sad state that services were
now commenced for her. The preparations for memorial rites were the
sadder for the fact that there had been so little warning. Parents grieve at
the loss of the most ill-favored child, and the intensity of the grief in this
case was not to be wondered at. The family had no other daughters. It was
as if--it was worse than if the jewels upon the silken sleeve had been
shattered to bits.
Genji did not venture forth even to Nijo~. He passed his days in tears
and in earnest prayer. He did, it is true, send off a few notes. The high
<P 173>
priestess of Ise had moved to a temporary shrine in the guards' quarters
of the palace. Making the girl's ritual purity her excuse, the Rokujo~ lady
refused to answer. The world had not been kind to him, and now, gloomier
than ever, he thought that if he had not had this new bond with the world
he would have liked to follow what had for so long been his deepest
inclinations and leave it entirely behind. But then he would think of the
girl Murasaki at Nijo~. He slept alone. Women were on duty nearby, but
still he was lonely. Unable to sleep, he would say to himself: "In autumn,
of all the seasons." Summoning priests of good voice, he would have them
chant the holy name; and the dawn sky would be almost more than he
could bear.
In one of those late-autumn dawns when the very sound of the wind
seems to sink to one's bones, he arose from a lonely, sleepless bed to see
the garden enshrouded in mist. A letter was brought in, on dark blue-gray
paper attached to a half-opened bud of chrysanthemum. In the best of
taste, he thought. The hand was that of the Rokujo~ lady.
"Do you know why I have been so negligent?
"I too am in tears, at the thought of her sad, short life.
Moist the sleeves of you whom she left behind.
"These autumn skies make it impossible for me to be silent."
The hand was more beautiful than ever. He wanted to fling the note
away from him, but could not. It seemed to him altogether too disingenu-
ous. Yet he could not bring himself to sever relations. Poor woman, she
seemed marked for notoriety. No doubt Aoi had been fated to die. But
anger rose again. Why had he seen and heard it all so clearly, why had it
been paraded before him? Try though he might, he could not put his
feelings toward the woman in order. He debated at great length, remem-
bering too that perhaps he should hold his tongue out of respect for the
high priestess.
But he finally decided that the last thing he wanted was to seem cold
and insensitive. His answer was on soft, quiet purple. "You for your part
will understand, I am sure, the reasons for this inexcusably long silence.
