Selections from Genji Monogatari | Page 6

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 part of the
building. At first the hostess and the messenger were equally at a loss
for words. At length the silence was broken by the hostess, who said:--
"Already have I felt that I have lived too long, but doubly do I feel it
now that I am visited by such a messenger as you." Here she paused,
and seemed unable to contend with her emotion.
"When Naishi-no-Ske returned from you," said the Miôbu, "she
reported to the Emperor that when she saw you, face to face, her

sympathy for you was irresistible. I, too, see now how true it is!" A
moment's hesitation, and she proceeded to deliver the Imperial
message:--
"The Emperor commanded me to say that for some time he had
wandered in his fancy, and imagined he was but in a dream; and that,
though he was now more tranquil, he could not find that it was only a
dream. Again, that there is no one who can really sympathize with him;
and he hopes that you will come to the Palace, and talk with him. His
Majesty said also that the absence of the Prince made him anxious, and
that he is desirous that you should speedily make up your mind. In
giving me this message, he did not speak with readiness. He seemed to
fear to be considered unmanly, and strove to exercise reserve. I could
not help experiencing sympathy with him, and hurried away here,
almost fearing that, perhaps, I had not quite caught his full meaning."
So saying, she presented to her a letter from the Emperor. The lady's
sight was dim and indistinct. Taking it, therefore, to the lamp, she said,
"Perhaps the light will help me to decipher," and then read as follows,
much in unison with the oral message: "I thought that time only would
assuage my grief; but time only brings before me more vividly my
recollection of the lost one. Yet, it is inevitable. How is