Japanese Literature | Page 6

find it in your heart to leave me now?" Sadly and
tenderly looking up, she thus replied, with almost failing breath:--
"Since my departure for this dark journey, Makes you so sad and lonely,
Fain would I stay though weak and weary, And live for your sake
only!"
"Had I but known this before--"
She appeared to have much more to say, but was too weak to continue.
Overpowered with grief, the Emperor at one moment would fain
accompany her himself, and at another moment would have her remain
to the end where she then was.
At the last, her departure was hurried, because the exorcism for the sick
had been appointed to take place on that evening at her home, and she
went. The child Prince, however, had been left in the Palace, as his
mother wished, even at that time, to make her withdrawal as privately
as possible, so as to avoid any invidious observations on the part of her
rivals. To the Emperor the night now became black with gloom. He
sent messenger after messenger to make inquiries, and could not await
their return with patience. Midnight came, and with it the sound of
lamentation. The messenger, who could do nothing else, hurried back
with the sad tidings of the truth. From that moment the mind of the

Emperor was darkened, and he confined himself to his private
apartments.
He would still have kept with himself the young Prince now motherless,
but there was no precedent for this, and it was arranged that he should
be sent to his grandmother for the mourning. The child, who
understood nothing, looked with amazement at the sad countenances of
the Emperor, and of those around him. All separations have their sting,
but sharp indeed was the sting in a case like this.
Now the funeral took place. The weeping and wailing mother, who
might have longed to mingle in the same flames,[9] entered a carriage,
accompanied by female mourners. The procession arrived at the
cemetery of Otagi, and the solemn rites commenced. What were then
the thoughts of the desolate mother? The image of her dead daughter
was still vividly present to her--still seemed animated with life. She
must see her remains become ashes to convince herself that she was
really dead. During the ceremony, an Imperial messenger came from
the Palace, and invested the dead with the title of Sammi. The letters
patent were read, and listened to in solemn silence. The Emperor
conferred this title now in regret that during her lifetime he had not
even promoted her position from a Kôyi to a Niogo, and wishing at this
last moment to raise her title at least one step higher. Once more
several tokens of disapprobation were manifested against the
proceeding. But, in other respects, the beauty of the departed, and her
gracious bearing, which had ever commanded admiration, made people
begin to think of her with sympathy. It was the excess of the Emperor's
favor which had created so many detractors during her lifetime; but
now even rivals felt pity for her; and if any did not, it was in the
Koki-den. "When one is no more, the memory becomes so dear," may
be an illustration of a case such as this.
Some days passed, and due requiem services were carefully performed.
The Emperor was still plunged in thought, and no society had
attractions for him. His constant consolation was to send messengers to
the grandmother of the child, and to make inquiries after them. It was
now autumn, and the evening winds blew chill and cold. The

Emperor--who, when he saw the first Prince, could not refrain from
thinking of the younger one--became more thoughtful than ever; and,
on this evening, he sent Yugei-no Miôbu[10] to repeat his inquiries.
She went as the new moon just rose, and the Emperor stood and
contemplated from his veranda the prospect spread before him. At such
moments he had usually been surrounded by a few chosen friends, one
of whom was almost invariably his lost love. Now she was no more.
The thrilling notes of her music, the touching strains of her melodies,
stole over him in his dark and dreary reverie.
The Miôbu arrived at her destination; and, as she drove in, a sense of
sadness seized upon her.
The owner of the house had long been a widow; but the residence, in
former times, had been made beautiful for the pleasure of her only
daughter. Now, bereaved of this daughter, she dwelt alone; and the
grounds were overgrown with weeds, which here and there lay
prostrated by the violence of the winds; while over them, fair as
elsewhere, gleamed the mild lustre of the impartial moon. The Miôbu
entered, and was led into a front room in the southern