Anthology of Japanese Literature (28 page)

They continued on their journey. The Emperor, noticing that the direction from which they had come was now veiled over in mist, thought, "How great a distance I have come!" Each day that elapsed took him farther from the capital and increased his melancholy. Even the branches of cherry, which he had seen in their first faint bloom, with the passage of the days and the miles had lost their color more and more, and now lay scattered whitely on the twisting roads that led up and down through the mountains. He felt as though he were passing over patches of melting snow.

Yes, it would be extremely difficult but, he consoled himself, if he managed to keep alive he might yet be able to carry through his plans, though this was not to be depended on. . . .

At Nakayama of the Three-day Moon he recalled the poem that long ago the Emperor Gotoba had written about the place. How sad those times had been!

They were now half-way to their destination. The soldiers of the escort, high and low alike, changed to costumes of a style even gayer and more fashionable than those in which they had left the capital. Although in most respects it was paltry and strange for an Imperial procession, the evidence of the care which had been taken for their entertainment all along the way was such that the procession did not seem so wretched after all; the Emperor's reception was in fact most courteous. He was now an exile, but there seemed still to be a lingering respect for one who had been a sovereign and had ruled his country with majesty. He was treated everywhere with the greatest deference. Those who knew about ancient matters declared that on that procession to exile of former days no such courtesies had been shown.

About the first day of the fourth moon, recalling his life at the palace, the Emperor wrote:

At the port of Yasuki in the province of Izumo he boarded ship. Twenty-four large and innumerable small vessels followed his. As the boats were rowed far out to sea and the way back was obscured by ever thickening mist, his spirits sank, and he felt that he understood for the first time what it meant to be "separated by two thousand leagues."
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Thus he arrived in Oki.

Nothing remained in the way of relics of that former exile. There was a handful of houses and, in the distance, only a shed where the fishermen burnt salt. When he cast his eyes on this most miserable view, all thoughts of himself left his mind, and he recalled instead the events of the past. With sorrow and humility he tried to imagine what it must have been like for that other Emperor to have ended his days in such a place, and he realized that his present exile stemmed from his desire to fulfill the aspirations of his ancestor. Countless thoughts pursued him: he wondered whether the former Emperor in his grave was now taking pity on him.

The Emperor fixed upon a temple called Kokubunji, which was situated somewhat inland from the coast, as his residence, and had it renovated suitably. Now that he had definitely entered upon the life he was henceforth to lead, he felt calmed, but he still experienced an indescribable sensation of unreality. When all the soldiers who had escorted him to Oki withdrew, a terrible silence fell over the place, which made him feel all the more depressed. . . .

On the twenty-second day of the third moon the coronation procession took place in the capital, dazzling everyone by its splendor. The cloistered sovereigns, Gofushimi and Hanazono, who rode together, stopped their carriage by the eastern gate of the palace to watch the procession. Everything had been arranged with the greatest care and went off beautifully.

But, alas, the Emperor Godaigo's consort was wrapped in grief, as she had been since their parting, and never raised her head. Her sorrow was understandable: added to the unhappiness caused by a distant separation, there were the pangs in her heart that gave her no surcease. Without emotion, as if it were happening to someone quite remote, she received the news that her title of Empress had been taken from her, and a name as a nun bestowed. It was now for her a world bereft of joy. In days past she had grieved because she had been mocked at and made the object of universal gossip,
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and the Emperor had shared her distress, but now she gave no thought at all to such matters. The various altars that had been erected for prayers for her safe delivery had been damaged beyond recognition and forgotten. Her days were now given over entirely to confused thoughts about the sadness of the world. As time went on without her even taking the necessary medicines, she fell insensibly into a decline, and it did not seem that she could long survive. From Oki there came only very infrequent messages, all of which contributed to her anxiety and depression. There was no certainty that they would meet again, and they were both exceedingly unhappy at the thought that, the uncertain world being what it is, they might soon end their lives still thus separated.

Naiji no Sammi, who accompanied the Emperor to Oki, had given birth to several of his children. Because of their tender years they were not sent to exile, but their guardian was changed, and they moved to a house in the northern hills. Although they were still small, they were aware of what had happened and often, when no one could see them, they would burst into tears of longing for their parents. The eldest of the children was seven years old. In his new surroundings the sky was dismal, and the fiercely blowing mountain winds made him sadder than before. He recited verses in Chinese and in Japanese:

The garden pines are dark with age, the autumn wind is cold;
The bamboo leaves grow thick, white snow now covers all.

It was most touching to see how, boy though he was, he kept a melancholy silence. Even though he spoke no word, everyone could guess from his appearance how deeply he lamented the fates of both those in Kyoto and in Oki. . . .

This year there was an Imperial procession to the Kamo Festival, which was so unusual that people devoted the utmost care to the sightseeing carriages, and the stands along the way were built with greater splendor than ever before. The deputies of the reigning and cloistered sovereigns vied with one another as to who would present the most stunning appearance. The courtiers and the young men of noble families—all those who were privileged to wear the forbidden colors—attended in bright and elegant attire. Even their attendants created with their costumes the brilliant effect of a bouquet of flowers. From the carriages the court ladies' robes in every color—wistaria, azalea, verbena, carnation, and iris—overflowed in a most gay and charming manner.

When the festival was over and things had quieted down, all those nobles who had been seriously implicated as partisans of the Emperor Godaigo were sent to distant exile. The Major Counselor Kimitoshi had shaved his head and was spending his days in quiet retirement, but his crime was apparently unpardonable, and it was reported that he had been sent under escort to the distant north. About the same time also the Middle Counselor Tomoyuki was sent to the east. Among the many offenders his crimes were reported to be the most serious, and it seemed likely that a punishment even severer than exile would be his fate. His wife had served in the palace, and had formerly enjoyed the favors of the Emperor Godaigo and borne him a princess, but later he yielded her to Tomoyuki, although the latter was still of inferior rank at the time. During the years since then they had loved each other with a rare passion, and now that the world was proving so cruel to one after another of the great men, her worries could not but be extreme. As the days went by she grew increasingly unhappy, but as long as she knew that Tomoyuki still remained in Kyoto she could at least take comfort from asking the blowing winds about him. She realized, of course, that sooner or later he would share the same fate as the others, but when she heard that the moment had come, her feelings were quite indescribable. This spring, when the Emperor had left the capital, she thought that she had wept all the tears she possessed, but some indeed remained—she wept now more even than before, until it seemed she would weep her whole body away. Tomoyuki, torn by regret and an unbecoming weakness, wished that things could be again as they were, but suddenly reflecting that he must not let others see him in this womanish state he changed his expression and feigned indifference, as if he were completely undisturbed. Here are some of the many poems he composed during the winter of the previous year, after his arrest:

The lay priest Sasaki, the Lord of Sado, escorted him from the capital. At Ausaka Barrier Tomoyuki wrote:

They stopped for a while at a place called Kashiwabara, where the priest was apparendy waiting for a reply to the message he had sent to Kamakura about Tomoyuki's disposition. During this time the priest related to him various tales in which he showed his sympathy. "Everything that happens is the result of actions committed in a former existence. You are not the only one who has been implicated, and I couldn't very well help you if I didn't help the others. It is hard for a man to be born as I was into a warlike family, and to have to spend all his time in service with his weapons." He did not say directly what he thought, but Tomoyuki understood what he was hinting at.

The priest had also served as escort on the Emperor's journey to Oki, and he began to relate what had happened on the way. "It was a most exalting and moving experience. I could easily imagine how you who had waited on him day and night must have felt about him. In every respect he equalled the grandeur of the sovereigns of old, and I was led to think that it was his very excess of ability in these degenerate and ill-starred times which caused things to happen as they did." Even when he discussed quite ordinary matters, he added telling observations, speaking always in a most gentle manner. The priest tried to make up for the unhappy situation by treating Tomoyuki most solicitously, offering him wines which were extravagant for one in his position, if a little rough owing to the remoteness of the place.