A Tale of False Fortunes (16 page)

At length the emperor arrived. His handsome face was radiant with a smile as he looked at the little princess in the nurse’s arms. He sighed in spite of himself, “Ah, to think that half a year has passed without my seeing this darling child.” He felt
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sorry that the child was not a boy, for then he could have treated the empress with greater dignity.

The empress dowager took the little princess and returned to her quarters. After that the emperor met with the empress, whom he had not seen in nearly a year and a half. At first he feigned an air of reservation, seemingly somewhat embarrassed that the passionate tone of his daily letters and poems to her had reached the point of distraction. The empress’ hair was even longer and more luxuriant than before. Although there was nothing about her to suggest she had become a nun, at first she maintained decorum and placed a screen between them.

Before she knew it, the emperor had removed the screen. As he looked at her face illuminated by a lamp, fond memories at once welled up in his heart, and his discretion melted away like light snow. He pulled her close to his side as if to wrap himself in her smooth skin, which was like glossy white silk draped over her frame. Restraining tears, he spent an entire night in an agitated state of mind.

The empress herself was helpless against a powerful resur-gence of feelings for the emperor, who during their long separation had become quite an adult, his voice and frame manly.

On the pretext of wanting to have the little princess at his side where he could watch her (though in reality he wished only to be with the empress), he decided that mother and daughter should stay in the apartments of the empress’ household. He himself went there every morning and had their meals brought to them there.

Though he realized that the regent and all of the related nobles in the Shòkòden and Kokiden Palaces would not be pleased, the emperor did not demur at such considerations and continued to go to the empress.

It was whispered about disparagingly among men and women at the palace that it was unbecoming to treat a nun with such pomp and splendor, but Michinaga dismissed such com-plaints nonchalantly. “When a man becomes infatuated with a woman, he will always go through a phase of caring nothing about honor or about the opinion of society. Until now, his majesty was a mere boy. This passion that we see in him now is
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just an indication that he has reached full manhood. If he didn’t have at least that much spirit about him, how could he be called the lord of all under heaven? I myself am rather pleased to see it.”

Michinaga clearly perceived a certain defiance toward himself in the emperor’s unreserved affection for the empress.

The emperor seemed prepared to defend his consort from all criticism. He felt apprehensive about having her remain in the apartments of the empress’ household and before long moved her to a building directly connected to the Seiryòden Palace, where he could visit her even during the day between affairs of state, and where he could go on his own at night and return at daybreak.

He no longer frequented the Kokiden and Shòkòden Palaces and did not even send letters.

For nearly a year thereafter, he never failed to go to the empress at night. Soon she was once again with child.

She had suffered from morning sickness during her previous pregnancy, but this time her condition was much worse. She was barely able to eat at all and ended up returning to her parental home, much to the disappointment of the emperor. If possible, he would have liked for her to give birth to a prince at the palace, but even he was not permitted to break precedent to such a degree.

Within the bedchamber on the evening before she was to return to her parents’ home, the empress looked steadfastly at the emperor and said, gently stroking his slightly disheveled sidelocks as a mother or elder sister might do, “If I have a prince, I’ll return as soon as possible. In the meantime please try to get along with your mother and with the regent.” The empress was ashamed that, in spite of having become a nun, she had continued in conjugal relations and had even become pregnant. And yet her affection for the emperor exceeded her shame, and she found it difficult to part. When she had first come to the palace he was still just a boy playing with tops, but now he had become quite a man, able resolutely to keep both anger and patience within himself, and had become a worthy object of her love.

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“No matter what anyone says, you must not believe it unless it comes directly from my own mouth. Even my mother cannot correctly relay what I feel for you. . . .” With that, the emperor embraced her so tightly that she could hardly breathe. His arms were full of the power of newly attained manhood.

Next to the curtained dais, like a coiled white serpent, Kureha was intently listening to the pledges between the emperor and empress, who were like lovers in hiding from the world.

The author of
A Tale of False Fortunes
implies that the outcome would have been much better had the unhappy parting of Kureha and Yukikuni at the time of the fire really been the end of their relationship:

In the spring, Kureha went to the country. Upon visiting
the cottage of the nun under whose charge she had been
placed, she found that she had come at a good time: the
old woman was preparing to leave on a pilgrimage to
Hase. She said that the peonies were in full bloom along
the roofed steps leading to the Temple and asked Kureha
if she would not accompany her. Kureha was delighted
and readily consented. They arrived at a place called Tsu-baichi, where they spent the night in a suitable lodge, and
climbed the stairs to the temple on the next day.

The spring day was resplendent. Though it was an
arduous climb up the long, roofed stairway, the sight of
peonies in full bloom on both sides was indescribable: red,
white, and pink—the very essence of the season. Kureha
began to feel somewhat refreshed in spirit, as if she were
strolling through Buddha’s paradise. The nun said that it
was through the providence of Lord Buddha that they
were even able to behold such a sight; continuing up the
steep steps, she repeated mantras until she was out of
breath. As the daughter of a Shinto shamaness, Kureha
was unaccustomed to invoking Buddha’s mercy, but to her
dispirited heart, still bitter from her parting with Yukikuni,
the unusual sight of the peonies in full bloom seemed glorious and was a comfort to her.

Toward evening they went up into the temple. The
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lamps were lit, and they listened to the priest chant sutras.

The nun’s quarters were immediately to the right of the
image of Buddha, owing perhaps to the Regent’s influence
having become so pervasive. Having finished her evening
recitation of the sutras, the old woman was fatigued and
dozed off sitting up. Unable to sleep, Kureha went out to
the passageway. A misty moon was high in the sky and the
air was thick with the fragrance of flowers. The charming
scene, veiled in spring mists, did not seem at all like that
of a mountain temple, and it was utterly captivating.

Kureha was surprised when someone came up from
behind and gently embraced her shoulders. It was Yukikuni. Although both a sadness and an unforgettable bitterness immediately filled her heart as his shadowed face
abruptly drew close to hers, it was nevertheless difficult
for her to move from the spot. She thought she might be
dreaming and said, flustered, “What are you doing here?”
She tried to shake her shoulder free, but Yukikuni did not
yield and took her in his embrace.

“I said nothing at the time when you denounced me,
but my heart has grown heavier since then. When I heard
that you had gone with the nun on a pilgrimage to Hase,
I decided to throw myself at Kannon’s mercy. I set aside
the duties of office and followed you here.” It was not
that her contempt and bitterness were alleviated at hearing these words; it was rather as if a heretofore unknown
physical impulse took over. She yielded to Yukikuni’s entic-ing and slept with him in a room far removed from the
image of Buddha.

What were Yukikuni’s intentions in reviving his intimacy with Kureha? Was it that his conscience required him to make amends for having wronged her at the time of the fire at the Nijò mansion? More likely, it was because of the peculiar sen-sitivity of one in love: he must have felt apprehensive that some evil might befall the empress if dark resentments continued to fester in Kureha’s tenacious heart, through which coursed the blood of a medium.

It was through her pledge to Yukikuni, the first man she had
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loved, that Kureha had come to know physical intimacy, and for that reason he had an absolute power over her. Though she stubbornly refused to forgive him completely, she was unable to reject his advances.

Thus, beginning with the pilgrimage to Hase, the amorous relationship between Yukikuni and Kureha was rekindled.

Nowhere does
A Tale of False Fortunes
reveal whether this revival of the love affair resulted from the natural passions in Yukikuni’s heart, or whether the old nun—at Michinaga’s command, to satisfy some end—had contrived to bring the two young people together. Since it was Michinaga who had worked behind the scenes to bring Yukikuni and Kureha together initially, I think it would be natural for this story if the regent worked secretly to bring about this reunion at Hase as well.

That such gaps occur here and there is one obvious flaw in the writing.

An Edo-period author writing in a pseudoclassical style would not be likely to create such inconsistencies, and in that light it is quite conceivable that
A Tale of False Fortunes
is the rather inept scribblings of a woman who lived toward the end of the Monarchical Age or the beginning of the Kamakura period.

Korechika and Takaie were pardoned from their exiles and returned to the capital. Though they remained distanced from the seats of power, they nevertheless were given offices worthy of their lineage. This probably occurred less than a year after Empress Teishi gave birth to Princess Shûshi. There are discrep-ancies in the various records concerning the timing of their return, but it is reasonable to assume that the empress’ having borne the first imperial child, though a princess, was only the ostensible reason for the pardon; in reality it could only have occurred after Michinaga felt assured that political power was securely in his own grasp and that he would not have to yield one inch.

For one thing, Michinaga’s suppression of Korechika and Takaie had been too harsh. Perhaps feeling cautioned lest public sympathies tilt toward the two brothers, the regent even gave Korechika a position corresponding in status to minister.

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Nevertheless, that they formerly belonged to the opposition—

combined with the fact that their sister was the mother of the first imperial daughter—worked against them. And it was not only for Korechika and Takaie that things were difficult; there were local officials and nobles who, out of diffidence toward Michinaga, intentionally neglected to supply the provisions to which the empress was entitled for her maintenance when, for example, she returned to her parental home.

As mentioned previously, the account in
A Tale of Flowering
Fortunes
was written as a sort of panegyric to the household of Michinaga. There he is portrayed as not bearing the slightest grudge toward the empress’ brothers for their past antagonism.

According to that account, the regent personally furnished carts and arranged for a cortege for the empress’ comings and goings, and Korechika felt obliged and embarrassed at Michinaga’s thoughtful attentiveness to such details. However, it is apparent from other sections that such things were only superficial kindnesses. It is recorded, for example, that the emperor himself hesitated, because of Michinaga, to send messengers to the empress.

The author of
A Tale of Flowering Fortunes
writes as though everyone were deferential toward Michinaga because he was a magnanimous and broad-minded man of wealth and influence.

But nobles were keenly perceptive of the will of an absolute ruler and would not do anything to provoke his displeasure.

Beginning with Korechika’s return to the capital, the author of
A Tale of False Fortunes—
who had up to that point followed many of the accounts in the other work—clearly began to take a very different course.

This change is noticeable after the decline of the former regent’s household, in the section in the earlier work known as

“Radiant Fujitsubo,” which describes the installment at court of Michinaga’s eldest daughter, Shòshi, later known as Jòtòmon’in.

A Tale of Flowering Fortunes
describes the beautiful appearance of the young lady, who was twelve years old at the time. It praises her clever personality and portrays as perfectly natural that the emperor’s special affection should be focused on the new lady in her dazzling robes and appurtenances. Actually, Michinaga probably had more refined tastes than any previous
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head of the Fujiwara clan, and one can easily imagine the sumptuous results of his efforts to adorn Shòshi’s surroundings to charm the heart of the emperor. From its earliest sections,
A Tale
of False Fortunes
records Michinaga’s diligence in collecting information about those aspects of the empress’ personality that so captivated the emperor. The regent certainly did not neglect the most meticulous preparations in this first step toward the realization of a long-cherished wish.