Selections from Genji Monogatari | Page 7

my boy? Of
him, too, I am always thinking. Time once was when we both hoped to
bring him up together. May he still be to you a memento of his
mother!"
Such was the brief outline of the letter, and it contained the following:--
"The sound of the wind is dull and drear
Across Miyagi's[11] dewy lea,
And makes me mourn for the motherless deer
That sleeps beneath the Hagi tree."
She put gently the letter aside, and said, "Life and the world are
irksome to me; and you can see, then, how reluctantly I should present

myself at the Palace. I cannot go myself, though it is painful to me to
seem to neglect the honored command. As for the little Prince, I know
not why he thought of it, but he seems quite willing to go. This is very
natural. Please to inform his Majesty that this is our position. Very
possibly, when one remembers the birth of the young Prince, it would
not be well for him to spend too much of his time as he does now."
Then she wrote quickly a short answer, and handed it to the Miôbu. At
this time her grandson was sleeping soundly.
"I should like to see the boy awake, and to tell the Emperor all about
him, but he will already be impatiently awaiting my return," said the
messenger. And she prepared to depart.
"It would be a relief to me to tell you how a mother laments over her
departed child. Visit me, then, sometimes, if you can, as a friend, when
you are not engaged or pressed for time. Formerly, when you came
here, your visit was ever glad and welcome; now I see in you the
messenger of woe. More and more my life seems aimless to me. From
the time of my child's birth, her father always looked forward to her
being presented at Court, and when dying he repeatedly enjoined me to
carry out that wish. You know that my daughter had no patron to watch
over her, and I well knew how difficult would be her position among
her fellow-maidens. Yet, I did not disobey her father's request, and she
went to Court. There the Emperor showed her a kindness beyond our
hopes. For the sake of that kindness she uncomplainingly endured all
the cruel taunts of envious companions. But their envy ever deepening,
and her troubles ever increasing, at last she passed away, worn out, as it
were, with care. When I think of the matter in that light, the kindest
favors seem to me fraught with misfortune. Ah! that the blind affection
of a mother should make me talk in this way!"
"The thoughts of his Majesty may be even as your own," said the
Miôbu. "Often when he alluded to his 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