The tale of Genji
Lady-in-Perpetual-Attendance.
Seeing all this, Lady Kōkiden began to fear that the new prince, for
whom the Emperor seemed to have so marked a preference, would if she
did not take care soon be promoted to the Eastern Palace.[4] But she
had, after all, priority over her rival; the Emperor had loved her
devotedly and she had born him princes. It was even now chiefly the
fear of her reproaches that made him uneasy about his new way of life.
Thus, though his mistress could be sure of his protection, there were
many who sought to humiliate her, and she felt so weak in herself that
it seemed to her at last as though all the honours heaped upon her had
brought with them terror rather than joy.
Her lodging was in the wing called Kiritsubo. It was but natural that
the many ladies whose doors she had to pass on her repeated journeys
to the Emperor’s room should have grown exasperated; and sometimes,
when these comings and goings became frequent beyond measure, it would
happen that on bridges and in corridors, here or there along the way
that she must go, strange tricks were played to frighten her or
unpleasant things were left lying about which spoiled the dresses of
the ladies who accompanied her.[5] Once indeed some one locked the
door of a portico, so that the poor thing wandered this way and
that for a great while in sore distress. So many were the miseries
into which this state of affairs now daily brought her that the
Emperor could no longer endure to witness her vexations and moved her
to the Kōrōden. In order to make room for her he was obliged to shift
the Chief Lady of the Wardrobe to lodgings outside. So far from
improving matters he had merely procured her a new and most embittered
enemy!
The young prince was now three years old. The Putting on of the
Trousers was performed with as much ceremony as in the case of the
Heir Apparent. Marvellous gifts flowed from the Imperial Treasury and
Tribute House. This too incurred the censure of many, but brought no
enmity to the child himself; for his growing beauty and the charm of
his disposition were a wonder and delight to all who met him. Indeed
many persons of ripe experience confessed themselves astounded that
such a creature should actually have been born in these latter and
degenerate days.
In the summer of that year the lady became very downcast. She
repeatedly asked for leave to go to her home, but it was not granted.
For a year she continued in the same state. The Emperor to all her
entreaties answered only ‘Try for a little while longer.’ But she was
getting worse every day, and when for five or six days she had been
growing steadily weaker her mother sent to the Palace a tearful plea
for her release. Fearing even now that her enemies might contrive to
put some unimaginable shame upon her, the sick lady left her son
behind and prepared to quit the Palace in secret. The Emperor knew
that the time had come when, little as he liked it, he must let her
go. But that she should slip away without a word of farewell was more
than he could bear, and he hastened to her side. He found her
still charming and beautiful, but her face very thin and wan. She
looked at him tenderly, saying nothing. Was she alive? So faint was
the dwindling spark that she scarcely seemed so. Suddenly forgetting
all that had happened and all that was to come, he called her by a
hundred pretty names and weeping showered upon her a thousand
caresses; but she made no answer. For sounds and sights reached her
but faintly, and she seemed dazed, as one that scarcely remembered she
lay upon a bed. Seeing her thus he knew not what to do. In great
trouble and perplexity he sent for a hand litter. But when they would
have laid her in it, he forbad them, saying ‘There was an oath between
us that neither should go alone upon the road that all at last must
tread. How can I now let her go from me?’ The lady heard him and ‘At
last!’ she said; ‘Though that desired _at last_ be come, because I go
alone how gladly would I live!’
Thus with faint voice and failing breath she whispered. But though she
had found strength to speak, each word was uttered with great toil and
pain. Come what might, the Emperor would have watched by her till the
end, but that the priests who were to read the Intercession had
already been dispatched to her home. She must be brought there before
nightfall, and at last he forced himself to let the bearers carry her
away. He tried to sleep but felt stifled and could not close his eyes.
All night long messengers were coming and going between her home and
the Palace. From the first they brought no good news, and soon after
midnight announced that this time on arriving at the house they had
heard a noise of wailing and lamentation, and learned from those
within that the lady had just breathed her last. The Emperor lay
motionless as though he had not understood.
Though his father was so fond of his company, it was thought better
after this event that the Prince should go away from the Palace. He
did not understand what had happened, but seeing the servants all
wringing their hands and the Emperor himself continually weeping, he
felt that it must have been something very terrible. He knew that even
quite ordinary separations made people unhappy; but here was such a
dismal wailing and lamenting as he had never seen before, and he
concluded that this must be some very extraordinary kind of parting.
When the time came for the funeral to begin, the girl’s mother cried
out that the smoke of her own body would be seen rising beside the
smoke of her child’s bier. She rode in the same coach with the Court
ladies who had come to the funeral. The ceremony took place at Atago
and was celebrated with great splendour. So overpowering was the
mother’s affection that so long as she looked on the body she still
thought of her child as alive. It was only when they lighted the pyre
she suddenly realized that what lay upon it was a corpse. Then, though
she tried to speak sensibly, she reeled and almost fell from the
coach, and those with her turned to one another and said ‘At last she
knows.’
A herald came from the palace and read a proclamation which promoted
the dead lady to the Third Rank. The reading of this long proclamation
by the bier was a sad business. The Emperor repented bitterly that he
had not long ago made her a Lady-in-Waiting, and that was why he now
raised her rank by one degree. There were many who grudged her even
this honour; but some less stubborn began now to recall that she had
indeed been a lady of uncommon beauty; and others, that she had very
gentle and pleasing manners; while some went so far as to say it was a
shame that anybody should have disliked so sweet a lady, and that
if she had not been singled out unfairly from the rest, no one would
have said a word against her.
The seven weeks of mourning were, by the Emperor’s order, minutely
observed. Time passed, but he still lived in rigid seclusion from the
ladies of the Court. The servants who waited upon him had a sad life,
for he wept almost without ceasing both day and night.
Kōkiden and the other great ladies were still relentless, and went
about saying ‘it looked as though the Emperor would be no less
foolishly obsessed by her memory than he had been by her person.’ He
did indeed sometimes see Kōkiden’s son, the first-born prince. But
this only made him long the more to see the dead lady’s child, and he
was always sending trusted servants, such as his own old nurse, to
report to him upon the boy’s progress. The time of the autumn equinox
had come. Already the touch of the evening air was cold upon the skin.
So many memories crowded upon him that he sent a girl, the daughter of
his quiver-bearer, with a letter to the dead lady’s house. It was
beautiful moonlit weather, and after he had despatched the messenger
he lingered for a while gazing out into the night. It was at such
times as this that he had been wont to call for music. He remembered
how her words, lightly whispered, had blended with those strangely
fashioned harmonies, remembered how all was strange, her face, her
air, her form. He thought of the poem which says that ‘real things in
the darkness seem no realer than dreams’ and he longed for even so dim
a substance as the dream-life of those nights.
The messenger had reached the gates of the house. She pushed them back
and a strange sight met her eyes. The old lady had for long been a
widow and the whole charge of keeping the domain in repair had fallen
upon her daughter. But since her death the mother, sunk in age and
despair, had done nothing to the place, and everywhere the weeds
grew high; and to all this desolation was added the wildness of the
autumn gale. Great clumps of mugwort grew so thick that only the
moonlight could penetrate them. The messenger alighted at the entrance
of the house. At first the mother could find no words with which to
greet her, but soon she said: ‘Alas, I have lingered too long in the
world! I cannot bear to think that so fine a messenger as you have
pressed your way through the dewy thickets that bar the road to my
house,’ and she burst into uncontrollable weeping. Then the
quiver-bearer’s daughter said ‘One of the Palace maids who came here,
told his Majesty that her heart had been torn with pity at what she
saw. And I, Madam, am in like case.’ Then after a little hesitation
she repeated the Emperor’s message: “For a while I searched in the
darkness of my mind, groping for an exit from my dream; but after long
pondering I can find no way to wake. There is none here to counsel me.
Will you not come to me secretly? It is not well that the young prince
should spend his days in so desolate and sad a place. Let him come
too!” This he said and much else, but confusedly and with many sighs;
and I, seeing that the struggle to hide his grief from me was costing
him dear, hurried away from the Palace without hearing all. But here
is a letter that he sent.’
‘My sight is dim’ said the mother. ‘Let me hold His letter to the
light.’ The letter said:
‘I had thought that after a while there might be some blurring, some
slight effacement. But no. As days and months go by, the more
senseless, the more unendurable becomes my life. I am continually
thinking of the child, wondering how he fares. I had hoped that his
mother and I together would watch over his upbringing. Will you not
take her place in this, and bring him to me as a memory of the
past?’ Such was the letter, and many instructions were added to it
together with a poem which said ‘_At the sound of the wind that binds
the cold dew on Takagi moor, my heart goes out to the tender lilac
stems_.’
It was of the young prince that he spoke in symbol; but she did not
read the letter to the end. At last the mother said ‘Though I know
that long life means only bitterness, I have stayed so long in the
world that even before the Pine Tree of Takasago I should hide my head
in shame. How then should I find courage to go hither and thither in
the great Palace of a Hundred Towers? Though the august summons should
call me time and again, myself I could not obey. But the young prince
(whether he may have heard the august wish I know not) is impatient to
return, and, what is small wonder, seems very downcast in this place.
Tell his Majesty this, and whatever else of my thoughts you have here
learnt from me. For a little child this house is indeed a sorry
place....’ ‘They say that the child is asleep’ the quiver-bearer’s
daughter answered. ‘I should like to have seen him and told the
Emperor how he looks; but I am awaited at the Palace and it must be
late.’
She was hastening away, but the mother: ‘Since even those who wander
in the darkness of their own black thoughts can gain by converse a