Japanese Literature | Page 8

overpowering affection for her,
he said that perhaps all this might have been because their love was
destined not to last long. And that though he ever strove not to injure
any subject, yet for Kiri-Tsubo, and for her alone, he had sometimes
caused the ill-will of others; that when all this has been done, she was
no more! All this he told me in deep gloom, and added that it made him
ponder on their previous existence."
The night was now far advanced, and again the Miôbu rose to take
leave. The moon was sailing down westward and the cool breeze was
waving the herbage to and fro, in which numerous mushi were
plaintively singing.[12] The messenger, being still somehow unready to
start, hummed--
"Fain would one weep the whole night long, As weeps the
Sudu-Mushi's song, Who chants her melancholy lay, Till night and
darkness pass away."
As she still lingered, the lady took up the refrain--

"To the heath where the Sudu-Mushi sings, From beyond the clouds[13]
one comes from on high And more dews on the grass around she flings,
And adds her own, to the night wind's sigh."
A Court dress and a set of beautiful ornamental hairpins, which had
belonged to Kiri-Tsubo, were presented to the Miôbu by her hostess,
who thought that these things, which her daughter had left to be
available on such occasions, would be a more suitable gift, under
present circumstances, than any other.
On the return of the Miôbu she found that the Emperor had not yet
retired to rest. He was really awaiting her return, but was apparently
engaged in admiring the Tsubo-Senzai--or stands of flowers--which
were placed in front of the palaces, and in which the flowers were in
full bloom. With him were four or five ladies, his intimate friends, with
whom he was conversing. In these days his favorite topic of
conversation was the "Long Regret."[14] Nothing pleased him more
than to gaze upon the picture of that poem, which had been painted by
Prince Teishi-In, or to talk about the native poems on the same subject,
which had been composed, at the Royal command, by Ise, the poetess,
and by Tsurayuki, the poet. And it was in this way that he was engaged
on this particular evening.
To him the Miôbu now went immediately, and she faithfully reported
to him all that she had seen, and she gave to him also the answer to his
letter. That letter stated that the mother of Kiri-Tsubo felt honored by
his gracious inquiries, and that she was so truly grateful that she
scarcely knew how to express herself. She proceeded to say that his
condescension made her feel at liberty to offer to him the following:--
"Since now no fostering love is found, And the Hagi tree is dead and
sere, The motherless deer lies on the ground, Helpless and weak, no
shelter near."
The Emperor strove in vain to repress his own emotion; and old
memories, dating from the time when he first saw his favorite, rose up
before him fast and thick. "How precious has been each moment to me,
but yet what a long time has elapsed since then," thought he, and he

said to the Miôbu, "How often have I, too, desired to see the daughter
of the Dainagon in such a position as her father would have desired to
see her. 'Tis in vain to speak of that now!"
A pause, and he continued, "The child, however, may survive, and
fortune may have some boon in store for him; and his grandmother's
prayer should rather be for long life."
The presents were then shown to him. "Ah," thought he, "could they be
the souvenirs sent by the once lost love," as he murmured--
"Oh, could I find some wizard sprite, To bear my words to her I love,
Beyond the shades of envious night, To where she dwells in realms
above!"
Now the picture of beautiful Yô-ki-hi, however skilful the painter may
have been, is after all only a picture. It lacks life and animation. Her
features may have been worthily compared to the lotus and to the
willow of the Imperial gardens, but the style after all was Chinese, and
to the Emperor his lost love was all in all, nor, in his eyes, was any
other object comparable to her. Who doubts that they, too, had vowed
to unite wings, and intertwine branches! But to what end? The murmur
of winds, the music of insects, now only served to cause him
melancholy.
In the meantime, in the Koki-Den was heard the sound of music. She
who dwelt there, and who had not now for a long time been with the
Emperor, was heedlessly protracting her strains until this late hour of
the