From his early childhood the one thing that he had never been able to

endure was the feeling of inferiority. In small things and great it had

always been the same: if he could not gain the prize, win the game,

receive the highest appointment, he at once conceived the profoundest

contempt for himself and felt his whole life to be utterly useless.

And now, when things had indeed gone far more wrong with him than ever

before, this feeling of self-contempt was so overwhelming that all

thought of his earthly existence became intolerable to him. He would

have been happiest had it been possible to end his days in some country

temple; but he knew only too well that his parents’ distress at such

a step would be continually present in his mind, and utterly destroy

the peace which such a place would otherwise afford. Supposing he did

after all recover from this illness? Worse than the general scandal and

discredit, worse than the spectacle of Nyosan’s misery and disgrace,

would be the knowledge that Genji no longer respected him. They had

been friends for so long, were bound together by so many ties of common

recollection and experience; and only in this one matter had he

ever betrayed this friendship. He knew that when he was dead, nay, so

soon as it was apparent that he was dying, his final act of treachery

would be forgotten, and the long years of their intimacy be cherished

and remembered. So sure was he of this that it made the prospect of

death doubly welcome to him.

One day, being left alone for a little while, he wrote a letter to

Nyosan, in which he said: ‘I imagine you heard that I had fallen

dangerously ill. You have, since then, shown no sign of wanting to

know what has become of me. Perhaps that is quite natural under the

circumstances, but it makes me sad to feel....’ His hand trembled so

much that he could not write all he meant to, and closed suddenly with

the poem: ‘Even amid the smoke that hangs above my smouldering pyre

shall burst into new brightness the unquenchable glitter of my love.’

‘Give me one kind word,’ he added, ‘to light my steps through the

darkness that my own folly has cast about the path where I must walk.’

This he sent by the hand of Kojijū along with many last messages and

injunctions. The servant-girl, though she was well enough used to being

employed on these errands (for the affair had begun when she was a

mere child), had since Kashiwagi’s abuse of her good offices been in a

state of violent indignation against him. But now, hearing such phrases

as ‘for the last time’ and ‘never again,’ she at once lapsed into

tears, and when she delivered the letter, besought Nyosan to answer it

while there was still time. ‘I am sorry that he is ill,’ said Nyosan;

‘but I am far too wretched now all day long to feel very differently

because this thing or that has gone wrong. Kashiwagi has made enough

mischief already, and I am not going to make more by being caught in

correspondence with him.’ Such resolutions on her part were never the

result of firmness, but rather of fear that Genji, who had still only

referred in vague terms to her escapade, might again find it

necessary to speak to her upon this shameful subject—a prospect that

filled her with the utmost misery and dismay. But Kojijū began quietly

preparing the Princess’s writing things, and presently, with many

hesitations, she produced an answer, which Kojijū under cover of night

managed to convey secretly to Tō no Chūjō’s house.

The quiet of Kashiwagi’s apartments now began to be rudely disturbed;

for Tō no Chūjō, still desperately clinging to the hope that his son’s

life could be saved, was continually bringing to the bedside some new

miracle-worker or healer. Ascetics from mount Katsuragi, famous clerics

from the great temples and priests from obscure village shrines,

holy men of every rank and description filled the house. Among the

magic-workers whom, at their father’s bidding, Kōbai[124] and the rest

brought back from the hills, were some Yamabushi[125] of the most

repulsive and ferocious aspect; nor were the priests from nearer at

hand much less uncouth in appearance, as with wildly rolling eye and

harsh voice they intoned their Sanskrit spells. The soothsayers and

diviners were for the most part agreed that the evil influence at work

upon the sick man was of a feminine kind. But they did not succeed in

detecting any actual ‘possession,’ and it was in the hope of finding

some one who could dislodge this mysterious influence that Tō no Chūjō

had collected this motley crowd of clerics and healers. ‘How I hate

this noise!’ cried Kashiwagi at last. ‘It may be because of my sins—I

do not know—but so far from giving me any comfort this jangle of holy

words dismays me, and I feel I should live longer were it utterly to

cease.’ So saying, he dragged himself into the inner room. His real

object was to meet Kojijū, but to Tō no Chūjō it was given out that

Kashiwagi was asleep. Chūjō was no longer young; but he was still

for the most part very lively and amusing in his conversation. To see

him now solemnly and endlessly discussing Kashiwagi’s symptoms with

these grim practicants was a strange and saddening spectacle. Listening

from the inner-room Kashiwagi overheard him saying: ‘I am convinced

there is a definite “possession,” and I implore you not to rest till

you have detected it.’ ‘What is that he is saying?’ said Kashiwagi

to Kojijū. ‘I suppose the soothsayers have discovered that it is a

female influence; for I am sure my father still knows nothing of the

real story. Well, if indeed her spirit clings to mine I am proud to

die from such a cause. But as for my offence itself, we make too much

of it. Such things have happened often enough in the past, and will

happen again. What makes me glad to die is not remorse for my guilt,

but a strange terror that comes over me when I think that Prince Genji

knows my secret. In some way it is his glamour, his dazzling ascendancy

that, after what has happened, make life impossible for me. From the

moment I met his gaze on the night of the music-practice some sudden

cleavage took place in my soul, and its brighter element floated away

from me, far off, perhaps to her side, leaving only the dull dross

behind. Kojijū, should you find a soul at large in the New Palace, bind

it fast to your girdle and bring it back to me.’ He was now very weak,

and said this half laughing, half crying. Kojijū then told him Nyosan

had received his message. Her shame, her contrition, her downcast

gaze and sunken cheeks—all appeared so vividly before him that he did

indeed feel as though, at the mere mention of her name, his soul was

torn from him and drawn irresistibly to her side. ‘So soon as I have

heard that she has passed safely through her present danger,’ Kashiwagi

continued, ‘I shall be ready to depart. You remember that dream I

had—of a cat following me into the room? I never consulted any one

about it, but in my heart of hearts I always knew what it foretold.’

The intensity of his passion, which seemed, while he lay here inactive,

continually to gather fresh depth and concentration, struck Kojijū

usually as something morbid and terrifying. But now she could not

withhold her sympathy and began weeping bitterly. Kashiwagi now sent

her to fetch a paper candle and by its light examined Nyosan’s reply.

Her hand was still unformed, but was beginning to have certain good

points in it. ‘Do not suppose,’ she wrote, ‘that I have all this while

been indifferent to your sufferings. But was it easy for me to express

my sympathy? Put yourself for a moment into my position. As for your

poem, “May the smoke of my ashes mingle with the flame of your pyre,

for to evade the torment of condemning thoughts my need is as great

as yours.”’ Never had she addressed him in such a tone; this at least

was something to carry into the other world. His reply looked much as

though birds with wet feet had walked over the paper; for he wrote

it lying on his back, and the ill-guided pen strayed weakly in every

direction. ‘Though nought of me remains save smoke drawn out across the

windless sky, yet shall I drift to thee unerringly amid the trackless

fields of space.’

That evening Nyosan was much indisposed, and the more experienced

among her gentlewomen at once recognized that her delivery was at

hand. They sent hastily for Genji, who, as he made his way to the New

Palace, could not help reflecting how happy and excited this news

would have made him, if only the child had indisputably been his. As

it was, he must show not only the elation but all the solicitude of an

expectant father. Services of intercession must be ordered, priests

and miracle-workers summoned to the palace, spells and incantations

set at work. Her travail lasted all night. At the first ray of morning

sunlight a child was born. It was hard indeed for Genji to

receive this news, and to be told too that the child was a boy, with

all the paternal pride and thankfulness that the occasion (if he were

not to betray his secret) so urgently demanded. As things were, he

was certainly glad that it was a boy; for with a girl’s upbringing

he would have been expected to take much more trouble, whereas a boy

can be left to his own devices. But should the child, when it grew

up, show a striking resemblance to Kashiwagi, this would be far more

likely to attract notice in a boy than in a girl. With how strange an

appropriateness he had been punished for the crime[126] that never

ceased to haunt his conscience! The only consolation was that sins for

which we are punished in this world are said to weigh less heavily

against us in the life to come. In point of fact he did for the child

all that those who believed it to be his own could possibly expect

of him. The Birth Room was fitted out with the utmost prodigality

and splendour, and the usual trays, magic boxes[127] and cake-stands

poured in from every side, the donors vying with one another in the

elegance and ingenuity of the designs with which these customary

gifts were adorned. On the night of the fifth day there arrived

from the ex-Empress Akikonomu a present of delicacies for the young

mother, and gifts for each of her ladies chosen according to their

rank and standing, the presentation of which was carried out in the

most formal and imposing manner. On the seventh night the Emperor’s

presents arrived and were delivered by his State messengers with all

the solemnity of a public occasion. Tō no Chūjō was anxious to show

his good will towards Genji upon what appeared to be so auspicious an

occasion; but owing to Kashiwagi’s alarming condition he was unable to

appear in person. However, the callers included almost every other

figure of importance whether at the Palace or in the Government. It may

be imagined, however, that all these ceremonies, in which to outward

appearances Genji was intimately concerned, gave him in reality nothing

but awkwardness and discomfort. There was even talk of a grand feast

and concert; but with these he managed to dispense.

Nyosan was completely shattered by the ordeal through which she had

just passed, the alarming experience of a first childbirth having come

upon her at a time when she was already in a very enfeebled and morbid

condition. She would not take even so much as a cup of broth; the

presence of the child only served to remind her of her disaster, and

she heartily wished that she might never recover. Genji did what he

could to give those about him the impression that he took an interest

in the child; but days passed without his ever asking to see it, and

this one fact was enough to set the older nurses gossiping: ‘You’d

think he would show more feeling than that,’ they said. ‘Such a lovely

child as Madam has given him, and he never chooses so much as to set

eyes on it!’ These remarks were overheard by Nyosan. This, she felt,

was only a foretaste of the attitude that he was about to take up

towards herself and the child. Under such circumstances life at the

Palace would not, she well knew, be endurable; and she determined so

soon as she was strong enough to enter a nunnery.

He did not spend the night in her apartments, but every morning he

looked in to see how she was getting on. ‘I am sorry I have spent so

little time with you,’ he said. ‘The truth is, I have lately been much

absorbed in various penances and devotions. I feel that I have not

much time left in which to make ready for the life to come—and in any

case there was no use in visiting you when all the ceremonies, with

their attendant bustle and disturbance, were going on in your

part of the house. But I am very anxious to know how you are. Do you

feel quite strong again?’ So saying he bent over her couch and gazed

at her. Raising her head, Nyosan replied, not in the childish voice

that he knew, but in a strangely sobered and disillusioned tone: ‘I

do not think I should have lived through it, had I not known that to

die in such a way[128] is reckoned shameful in the world to come. I am

going to enter a nunnery and see whether I cannot live on there long

enough to lighten the burden of my sins.’ ‘Do not say such things,’

he answered. ‘That the experience through which you have just passed

should have tried you severely is natural enough; but surely it was

not so terrible as to deprive you of all wish to live?’ Did she really

mean what she had said? He was appalled at the idea of her carrying out

such a resolution. And yet he knew well enough all the difficulties

that would arise if they attempted to go on living as though nothing

had happened. He knew his own feelings, knew that no effort of his

own could alter them, and that, try as he might to forget the past,

Nyosan would suffer at every instant from the knowledge that in his

heart of hearts he had not forgiven her. And other people, her father

for example, would inevitably notice the change in their relations.

If, on the other hand, she insisted upon taking her vows, it would

be far better that she should do so at once, making her ill-health

the pretext. Otherwise the step would certainly be attributed to his

unkindness. But then his eye fell upon her long, lovely hair, that

should by rights have delighted his eyes for so many years longer;

and the idea of its being shorn from her by the cleric’s knife was

intolerable to him. ‘Come, come,’ he said; ‘you must pluck up your

courage. Things are not so bad as that. Look at Murasaki, she was

much worse than you have been; but now she is quite out of danger.’

He persuaded her to drink a little of her soup. She was certainly

very thin and pale, indeed in every way alarmingly fragile. But

nevertheless, as he looked at her lying motionless on the bed, he

thought her singularly beautiful, and at that moment all thought of her

unfaithfulness vanished from his mind. To such beauty all things could

be forgiven.

The ex-Emperor Suzaku was much perturbed by the accounts of Nyosan’s

slow recovery. She on her side had, since her extreme physical weakness

set in, felt the need of his support far more than she had ever done

during the early years of their separation, and her women constantly

heard her moaning to herself, ‘If only my father were here! I cannot

bear to die without seeing him once again.’ A messenger was sent

to Suzaku’s mountain temple, it being thought right he should know

that she was continually asking for him. Immediately upon this the

ex-Emperor did what he had thought never in his life to do again—he

left the precincts of the temple, and under cover of night made his way

to the New Palace. Genji was quite unprepared for this sudden arrival,

but hastened to thank the august visitor for the singular honour he

had conferred upon them by his coming. ‘Well,’ said Suzaku, ‘a few

weeks ago no one would have been more surprised than myself if it had

been suggested that I should ever appear in your midst again. But I

have lately been so much perturbed by the accounts of Nyosan’s health

that I find it impossible to go on with my ordinary round of prayers

and devotions. The thought that she, a mere child, may go first, and

I, old and enfeebled, be left behind without even the consolation of

having seen her these many months past, is so terrible to me, that

though I well know my sudden reappearance may easily give great

offence,[129] it was without a moment’s hesitation that I thus hastened

to her side.’ Even in his monastic garb Suzaku was still a graceful and

attractive figure; and though, to escape attention, he had dressed in

the simple black robes of a common priest, his bearing gave to them a

certain dignity and grace of line that made the sight of his altered

guise less saddening than is usually the case. Genji’s eyes indeed

filled with tears when Suzaku first entered the room; but they were

tears of envy rather than sorrow. ‘I do not think there is much the

matter with her,’ he said. ‘Considering how little proper nourishment

she has taken in the last few weeks it would be strange if she were not

feeling out of sorts. But if you do not mind putting up with a rather

uncomfortable seat....’ So saying, he led the ex-Emperor to her bed

and motioned him to a low divan that had been pushed alongside of it.

With the help of her people she shifted a little towards the near side

of the bed. He raised the bed-curtain and said gently: ‘I am afraid

I look very much like the household chaplain arriving to read the

evening incantations. But it does not seem that I shall ever make much

of a name for myself in that line, for all my prayers on your behalf

appear to be singularly unsuccessful. If I have come, it was not in

the belief I could be of any use to you, but merely because I could

not endure to stay away.’ ‘If you had not come,’ she answered amid her

tears, ‘I do not think I should have lived for many hours. But now that

you are here, let me take my vows before it is too late.’ ‘This is a

very serious matter,’ he answered. ‘Of course, if you have considered

it properly and are certain that you would not repent of such a step,

I should be the last person in the world to oppose it. But you are

very young. Should you survive this illness, you have in all

probability a long while yet to live. Your renouncement of the world

at such an age would cause great astonishment, and hard things would

inevitably be said of those on whom your happiness here is supposed to

depend. I hope you have reflected upon these points....’ Then turning

to Genji: ‘I think we ought to consider whether such a step would not

in any case be a great help to her. Even if, as she fears, she has

only a very short time to live, her wishes in such a matter ought to

be respected.’ ‘She has been saying this for days past,’ said Genji.

‘But I had the impression that the evil influence which has possessed

her was causing her to speak thus in order that we might be deceived,

and I paid no attention.’ ‘Doubtless,’ answered Suzaku, ‘when spirits

suggest evil courses to us it is better not to obey them. But when some

one who is obviously in the last stages of weakness and exhaustion

asks us to take a certain step, we are likely afterwards to suffer

from great remorse if we pay no attention to the request.’ This then,

thought Suzaku to himself, was Genji’s attitude towards the loved being

whose happiness he had so confidently entrusted to his keeping. It was

evident, from the way in which Genji spoke, that Nyosan’s wishes had

long ceased to have any importance to him. Indeed, the tone of what

he had just heard fitted in only too well with rumours that had been

reaching him for years past. Well, if Genji’s treatment of her was such

that she preferred the rigours of the cloister, much scandal would

certainly be avoided were she to take her vows now, when her illness

offered a reasonable excuse. However unsatisfactory Genji might have

proved as a husband, he had certainly provided very handsomely for

her in material ways. This fact would under ordinary circumstances

have made it difficult to remove her from his control. But if she

took orders Suzaku could establish her very comfortably in that

roomy pleasant palace in the Third Ward, which his father, the

old Emperor, had once presented to him. While he was alive, he could

keep an eye upon her himself; and Genji, whatever might be his other

preoccupations, would surely not be so unfeeling as wholly to abandon

her. But as to that, events would show.

On finding that Suzaku was not averse to Nyosan’s project, Genji (with

now no thought in his head of the wrong that she had done him) rushed

to her bedside, beseeching her at least to wait until she was stronger.

‘At present and for a long while to come you would be far too weak to

perform the offices of a nun. Eat, drink, recover your strength, and

then will be time to talk more about this.’ But she shook her head,

hating the hypocrisy (as it seemed to her) that forced him to act thus

in Suzaku’s presence. He saw at once that she thought his forgiveness

only a pretence; but how was he to convince her? It was now nearing

dawn, and as Suzaku wished to be back in his monastery before daylight,

it was necessary to act at once. Choosing from among the priests who

were on night-duty in her apartments those who seemed to him most

suitable for the task, he brought them to her, bade them administer

the vows and shave her head. To see those long and lovely tresses cast

aside, to hear her recite the dismal vows, was more than Genji could

bear, and he wept bitterly during the whole of the ceremony. Nor could

Suzaku stand by unmoved while the child for whom he had desired every

worldly blessing, upon whom he had lavished a hundred times more care

than upon any of the rest, made that renouncement of which none would

dream who hoped for further happiness in this earthly life. ‘You can

say the prayers when you are stronger,’ he said hastily and drove away.

For it was growing rapidly lighter. Nyosan was now so weak as to be

but half conscious of what was going on, and she did not bid him

farewell or, apparently, even notice his departure.

During the course of the early morning rituals a ‘possession’ declared

itself, and presently, in tones of laughing malice, a voice was heard

to say: ‘Ha, ha! you thought you were done with me. No such thing.

When number one turned me off, I took service with my lady here, and,

unsuspected of you all, have been giving her my very best attention

ever since. Now I shall go back....’

The news that Nyosan had taken her vows was the final blow to

Kashiwagi’s last flickering desire of recovery. He thought often of

Ochiba, and wished that he could have had her with him. But his parents

had now taken such complete possession of him that he feared she

would feel her position more acutely here than at home, and instead

he made the hopeless suggestion that he should be moved for a while

back into his own house. To this they naturally refused consent. He

discussed Ochiba’s future with various people. Her mother had always

been strongly opposed to the match, and had only yielded to the

insistence of Tō no Chūjō, and also of Suzaku himself, who thought that

he had found in Kashiwagi the straightforward, steady-going husband

that Nyosan’s disaster had taught him to prefer—a man who would be so

flattered by the offer of this connection with the Imperial Family

that all his energies would be spent in proving himself worthy of the

honour! Kashiwagi blushed when he remembered what had been expected of

him. ‘I hope,’ he said to his own mother one day, ‘you will do what

you can for Ochiba when I am gone. I know it is wretched for her to be

left like this, and though it is not my fault that our life together

has lasted for so short a time, she will have the feeling that she has

got very little out of this alliance.’ ‘It’s no good your asking such

things of me,’ said his mother. ‘I shall be in my grave almost

as soon as you.’ It was evident that she did not mean to be of any

use, and he turned to his brother Kōbai, to whom he gave a number of

detailed instructions about this and his affairs in general. Kashiwagi

had always been regarded in the family as a model of solidity and

good sense. His brothers and other young men of the household had

looked upon him as a kind of general parent and protector, so that the

prospect of his loss was a shattering blow to them all.

The Emperor, too, was greatly distressed, and being told that Kashiwagi

was not expected to live much longer, he thought he might safely confer

upon him the rank of Counsellor Extraordinary. He hoped that perhaps

the excitement of receiving this promotion might act as a spur to

Kashiwagi’s failing strength, and even bring him back once more on

a final visit to the Palace. Kashiwagi was of course delighted; but

was obliged to reply that it was impossible for him to receive the

investiture in person.

The first visitor who came to congratulate him on this honour was

Yūgiri, with whom he had always been on particularly intimate terms.

The gate nearest Kashiwagi’s apartments was thronged with riders and

coaches; but since the turn of the year he had been too weak even to

sit up in bed, and was able to receive none of these visitors. But the

very fact of his extreme weakness warned him that, if he were ever

to see Yūgiri again, it would be as well not to let this opportunity

pass, and asking him to forgive the untidy condition of the room, he

dismissed the priests and attendants who were at his bedside, that he

and Yūgiri might enjoy this final visit undisturbed. ‘I hoped to find

you a little stronger to-day. I thought that perhaps this promotion

...’ Yūgiri said, pulling aside the bed-curtains. The white bed-clothes

and (despite his apologies) the neatness and cleanliness of all his

surroundings made Kashiwagi’s abode seem positively enviable in

its brightness and peace. Pleasant perfumes had just been burnt in

the room, and it was evident that the sick man was determined, though

he could do nothing for Yūgiri’s entertainment, not to let the visit

remain in his memory as a disagreeable experience. Yūgiri bent close

down over the pillow, but Kashiwagi was so weak that his voice was

scarcely audible, and it seemed as though he had great difficulty in

breathing. ‘You do not look nearly so bad as I had expected,’ said

Yūgiri. ‘One would never guess you had been laid up for so long.’ But

as he said these words he was obliged to pause and dry his tears. ‘Tell

me about this illness of yours,’ he went on. ‘When did it first begin

to be so serious? Though I know you so well, I feel very much in the

dark about it all.’ After telling him a good deal about the outward

course of his illness, Kashiwagi said: ‘But it is all connected with

something that has been very much on my mind. I ought perhaps to have

spoken about this before; but there cannot be any use in doing so

now. I have often longed to speak to some one, to my brothers, for

example. But whenever I was on the point of talking about it, there

seemed some reason why that particular person was out of the question

as a confidant on such a subject. It was—how shall I say?—a kind of

awkwardness that had arisen between Genji and me. For weeks past I had

been meaning to go into it with him, and already the thing had begun

to weigh so much upon me that life was becoming quite unendurable,

when suddenly he sent for me of his own accord. It was the night of

the music-rehearsal. The moment I entered his presence I felt that

in his heart he was condemning me, and when I met his eyes there was

something in them that robbed me of all courage, of all desire to face

my shame; and since that day I have not known an instant’s happiness or

peace. Of course, Genji must always have regarded me as in every

way far beneath him; but ever since I was a boy he had always shown

the greatest confidence in me. I felt I must have all this out with

him; for if I died with it on my conscience I should be held back from

Salvation in the life to come. However, it is too late now.... But the

greatest kindness you could do me would be to explain matters to him

when I am gone. I know quite well that he will at once forgive me then.

If you would only consent to do that....’ Obscure as this request was,

Yūgiri had some notion what it was about. However, he dared not assume

that he had guessed correctly, and only replied: ‘I think your fears

are entirely imaginary. My father invariably speaks of you with the

greatest good will, and since your illness he has been very anxious

about you, and shown quite clearly again and again how heavy a loss to

him your death would be. If there has been any sort of misunderstanding

between you, why did you not tell me about it before? I am sure I could

easily have cleared it up for you.’ ‘Perhaps it would have been better

if I had,’ he answered. ‘But every day I thought that next day I should

be stronger and more able to tell about such a thing as this, and so in

the end I have left it till too late. Of course, it is essential that

not a hint of this business should go any further. I only spoke to you

because I was sure you would one day contrive to bring up the subject

and do your best to make him see the thing in its true light.

‘And there is something else. Do what you can for Ochiba. I do not want

Suzaku to think that I have left her with no one to keep an eye upon

her.’ There was much more that he eagerly desired to say. But his voice

had quite given out, and when he was finally furnished with paper and a

brush, all he had strength to write was: ‘Please go away!’

Once more the miracle-workers crowded round the bed, his parents

were hastily summoned, as also his sisters, Lady Chūjō and Yūgiri’s

wife, Kumoi. Tamakatsura too, who did not forget that Kashiwagi had

been her suitor before he became her brother, was extremely upset by

the news of his condition, and had many services on his behalf read in

her favourite temples. Yet all was to no purpose, for he now expired

in the presence of his family; but so suddenly that there was no time

to fetch Lady Ochiba from the house in the First Ward. Though he had

never really given her his affection, he had always treated her with

the greatest possible consideration and outward kindness, and she had

no feeling of grievance against him. She was only sad at being left a

widow at so early an age, after having been married to a husband who

seemed, as she thought when looking back upon it, to have taken no

pleasure in life at all.

Nyosan, who since his unhappy exploit had often thought that death

would not be too bad a punishment for him, was aghast to hear of his

end. She remembered how he had predicted the birth of her child.

Perhaps he had not come that day intending to do any harm. Some

meetings (her religion taught her) are ordained by Fate.[130] Had she

after all judged his transgression too harshly?

Yūgiri thought again and again of Kashiwagi’s mysterious request.

That the trouble to which he had alluded was in some way connected

with Princess Nyosan he could not doubt. To begin with, Kashiwagi had

repeatedly betrayed by signs of one sort or another the fact that he

took a particular interest in her. This in the case of Kashiwagi,

usually so reticent, so perfectly in command of himself, meant that

some tremendous force was at work within, and it was not difficult

to imagine that such a passion might have broken out in some painful

scene or indiscreet declaration. Indeed, it was almost certain that a

definite scandal had occurred; if not, why had Genji permitted

the Princess to take her vows at such a ridiculously early age, and

upon the pretext of an illness that appeared to be of very little

consequence?

He did not mention the matter to any one, not even to Kumoi, who shared

all his secrets. But he was determined, next time an opportunity

occurred, simply to repeat to Genji what Kashiwagi had said, and see

whether Genji could make sense of it all, or no. Meanwhile there

was another visit he must pay. For Ochiba, alone with her mother

in that vast, empty palace, the days passed in cheerless fashion

enough. Occasionally one of her brothers-in-law would look in; but

apart from this she had no company and no distractions. From time

to time she would catch sight of his favourite hawk or horse, or

merely of some falconer or groom moping disconsolately about, and

note how man and beast alike wore the same cast-off, ownerless air,

and a like impression of gloom was created by the sight of his other

possessions—his lute and zithern above all, which looked so forlorn

with their strings detached.[131] Over the trees in front of the house

there hung already a thick haze of blossom. These things, she thought,

as she gazed out of the window, went on just as before; and amid her

women who crept to and fro in their dark mourning dress she was feeling

very lonely, when suddenly there was a sound of shouting and a great

ringing of hoofs in the road outside. She expected the sounds to pass

by and fade away into the distance. But to her surprise the cavalcade

drew up at her own door. For a moment she forgot everything, and

thought this was Kashiwagi driving back from the Palace. A note was

brought in. It must of course be Kōbai or one of his brothers. Who else

indeed ever came near her? It caused her some perturbation to discover

that the visitor was no less a person than Yūgiri. She was on the

point of sending her women to make him welcome, when she reflected

that this was not the sort of treatment to which he was probably used,

and in the end her mother ushered him into the side-room of the great

hall. He expressed his sorrow at her daughter’s bereavement and told

her how, shortly before his death, Kashiwagi had committed Princess

Ochiba to his care. ‘I hope before very long to have an opportunity of

showing you that I take this duty very seriously indeed. I should have

come to talk the matter over with you before, had not this last month

been crowded with Court functions which etiquette obliged me to attend.

You can imagine that, as far as my own inclinations were concerned,

I have not been feeling at all in the mood for such junketings, and

would far rather have remained quietly at home. I can judge something

of what poor Ochiba’s feelings must be by what I have seen and heard at

Tō no Chūjō’s house. The loss is after all a far heavier one for her

than for his parents.’ Ochiba’s mother had at first been rather shy

of this unwonted visitor; but his tone was friendly and reassuring.

‘Poor thing!’ she said. ‘We older people do our best to keep up her

courage. After all, she is not the only young widow in the land. She

must try to remember that. I have lived long enough myself to know

that loss and sorrow are what we must expect as our portion in this

life. If happiness comes in, it is only by the way. And I do indeed

wish she would try to be more cheerful. If she goes on like this she

will soon follow him to the grave. You, I know, were Kashiwagi’s great

friend; but I must tell you that I was opposed to this match from the

start. I don’t know why Suzaku was so pleased about it. I suppose he

wanted to do Tō no Chūjō a good turn. But it now seems that, though the

reasons I gave may have been very bad ones, I was perfectly right in my

objection, and I only wish I had not let them talk me down. Not

that I foresaw what would happen. I was merely old-fashioned enough to

disapprove in any case of a marriage outside the Imperial Family. It

turned out, however, to be something even worse than such an alliance.

For her life with Kashiwagi was such that you could call her neither

wife nor maid. That she should now pine to death at the loss of such a

husband may be very good for his reputation in the world outside; but

as her mother I cannot be expected to applaud the sacrifice.’

It was growing late, and as he was due at Tō no Chūjō’s house he was

obliged to retire. Ochiba did not put in an appearance. But this was by

no means his last visit to the palace in the First Ward.

It was the fourth month, and the same level shade of green lay upon

every thicket and wood. The grief-stricken palace and those in it

who had been committed to his charge recurred constantly to Yūgiri’s

thoughts during these enjoyable summer days. One afternoon, finding the

time hang heavy on his hands, he set out earlier than usual upon his

visit to the First Ward. He noticed that a film of grass was already

spreading across the courtyards, and here and there where the sand

had worn thin or in sheltered crannies along the walls, clumps of

motherwort had already squeezed themselves a place. Ochiba’s seat was

to-day for the first time surrounded by thin, summer curtains-of-state,

which, as the wind and light of the early afternoon filtered through

them, looked delightfully fresh and cool. He was met by a little

girl, whose exquisitely poised head pleased him, though she, like

every one else in the house, wore garments that by their drab colour

told the same sad tale. While he waited to learn whether Ochiba could

receive him (her mother was unwell and was said to be lying down) he

was looking at the copses in front of the house and thinking that

they at least knew nothing of what had befallen its inmates and

did not scruple to flaunt their gay summer tints, when he noticed an

oak and a maple, both conspicuous for the brightness of their fresh

foliage, standing side by side, their branches intertwined. ‘I wonder

how they became such friends?’ he said to one of Ochiba’s ladies, and

approaching the curtains-of-state, he recited the verse: ‘What to the

oak you gave, now to its trusted friend the maple-tree, ungracious

Goddess of the Woods, will you deny?’ ‘Those soft summer clothes look

very well on him,’ whispered the ladies-in-waiting, as Yūgiri bent

over the curtains. ‘What elegance! What grace!’ A maid called Shōshō

presently brought the answer: ‘Though the oak be fallen, not yet to

a chance comer shall I give the small twigs of the roof.’ Ochiba’s

mother now appeared, and Yūgiri hastily moved further away from the

curtains. ‘All these weeks of sorrow and disturbance have upset my

health,’ she said, ‘and I am very shaky. But really, it is so good of

you to keep on coming like this, that I felt I must make an effort to

thank you in person.’ She did certainly look very unwell. ‘I am afraid

you are having a very difficult time with Ochiba,’ he said. ‘It is

of course natural that she should be upset; but there is a limit to

all things. We must accept what Fate sends, and make the best of it.

After all, life is short—our sorrows will soon be over.’ But what he

was really thinking was that this Ochiba had obviously a great deal

more in her than people had led him to suppose. Why was it that she

mourned so inconsolably for some one whom she had scarcely known? He

was determined to probe the mystery, and asked all manner of questions

about her. Perhaps she felt now, more than during his lifetime, that

her marriage had rendered her ridiculous in the eyes of society.

Poor thing! She was far from being a great beauty. Yet she was not

downright ugly, or certainly did not appear to be so from what he

had been allowed to see of her. But even if she were, one ought not

to be unkind to a woman merely on account of her plainness, any more

than one had a right to take liberties with her merely because she was

handsome. ‘Please sometimes try to be quite frank with me and confide

your difficulties to me as you would have done to Kashiwagi.’ There was

nothing actually improper in this speech of Yūgiri’s, but it was said

in so impassioned a tone of voice as to be somewhat embarrassing.

Meanwhile Kashiwagi’s loss continued to be severely felt in the country

and at Court. He had been unusually popular in every class of society,

and among people of all ages and professions. Even the most unlikely

kitchen-men and tottering dames at Court continually bemoaned his loss;

while the young Emperor, whose constant companion he had been at all

concerts, feasts and excursions, felt a bitter pang whenever he thought

of the past. And indeed there were few occasions upon which some did

not suddenly exclaim: ‘O Kashiwagi, poor Kashiwagi!’ Only Genji knew

that he had not quitted the world without leaving one small keepsake

behind him, a fact that would have interested the friends of the

deceased, but unfortunately could not be communicated to them.

Nor was this memento of Kashiwagi’s career any longer so insignificant

a creature. For by the time autumn came round it was already crawling

on the floor, and was destined soon to learn other accomplishments.

[124] Younger brother of Kashiwagi.

[125] Mountain ascetics.

[126] His relations with his father’s mistress, Fujitsubo.

[127] Sets of boxes fitting one into the other.

[128] Those who die in childbirth are much handicapped in spiritual

progress beyond the grave.

[129] Suggest that he was meditating a _coup d’état_.

[130] Karma.

[131] In sign of mourning.

CHAPTER IX

THE FLUTE

The first anniversary of Kashiwagi’s death had come. Every day Genji

felt his loss more keenly. The number of persons with whom he was on

easy and informal terms was in any case none too great. But Kashiwagi

had been something more than this. They had shared each other’s lives

and thoughts—at least until the disastrous episode which Genji now

did his best to forget. Besides the masses that on his own account

he caused to be said in Kashiwagi’s memory, he set apart a sum of a

hundred golden pieces which he spent on services that in his own heart

he regarded as being performed in the name of Kaoru, the dead man’s

child. But this must of course remain a secret; for he continued to

bring up the boy as though he were his. Yūgiri not only celebrated the

anniversary in the most solemn manner, but was upon this sad occasion

so prodigal in his attentions to the ladies in the First Ward[132] that

Tō no Chūjō could not help remarking it. ‘Yūgiri,’ he said, ‘is taking

a far larger share in managing my poor son’s affairs than I should ever

have expected. Kōbai and the rest are not nearly so active. He must

have been far more intimate with Kashiwagi than I supposed.’ Yūgiri’s

zeal and all the other marks of the affection and esteem in which

the deceased had been held, served but to make his parents feel more

bitterly the pang of his untimely loss.

To Suzaku, had not the affairs of this world been by now of shadowy

import to him, the tragic outcome of all his paternal solicitude

would indeed have been a shattering blow. Here was Ochiba left

stranded, after a short experience of a marriage that had from the

first been mere mockery; and Nyosan, his beloved Nyosan, for whom he

had hoped such splendid things, dead—at least to all the friendly

and human part of life. As it was, however, it gave him considerable

pleasure to think that his daily occupations—his own round of prayers,

penances and offerings—had now become hers, and he constantly wrote

to her upon small matters connected with the religious life. One day

he sent her a bamboo sprout taken from a wood near his retreat and

some _tokoro_[133] dug up on the neighbouring hillside, and in the

margin of his letter, which was a very long one, he wrote: ‘I send

you these tokens of a hermit’s life, none too easy to come by, now

that the spring mist lies so thick upon the hills. “Though far behind

me you walk upon Salvation’s path, go boldly on and let my goal be

yours.”’[134] She was reading this poem with tears in her eyes, when

Genji entered. What were those strange objects reposing in the lacquer

bowls which she usually kept filled with fruit? Then he saw that she

was reading a letter from Suzaku, which she handed to him. It was very

long, contained many reflections upon his own approaching death, and

lamenting the impossibility of their ever meeting again. The passage

about the _tokoro_ came oddly from Suzaku’s pen, belonging as it did to

pietism rather than to poetry; but Genji read it with a feeling of deep

remorse. No doubt Suzaku had suffered great anxiety and disappointment

over Nyosan’s marriage; and though Genji could not regard this as his

own fault, ‘I do indeed hope,’ he said, ‘that you have no intention of

taking your father’s hint. That you should dream of scaling these

mountain fastnesses is a terrible idea.’ Now that his relation to her

could only be of the slenderest kind, he began to be more than ever

struck by her rather childish beauty, the effect of which seemed only

to be enhanced by the way her hair was cut at the sides, so that its

ends lay flat against her cheeks. It had all been his fault. It was he

who had allowed her to drift away from him; and as though in a futile

effort to repair the remissness of past years he now came very close to

her curtains and spoke to her almost caressingly.

The little boy was asleep in his nurse’s quarters; but presently he was

waked, and crawling into the room made straight for Genji and grabbed

at his sleeve. He was dressed in a little shirt of white floss, over

which was a red coat with a Chinese pattern finely worked upon it. The

skirts of this garment were remarkably long and trailed behind him in

the quaintest way; but it was (as is usual with children of that age)

quite open at the front, showing his little limbs, white and smooth

as a fresh-stripped willow wand. There was certainly in his smile and

the shape of his brow something that recalled Kashiwagi. But where

had the child got his remarkably good looks? Not from his father, who

was passable in appearance, but could not possibly have been called

handsome. To Nyosan, curiously enough, he could see no resemblance.

Indeed the expression that chiefly gave character to the boy’s face (or

so Genji contrived to fancy) was not at all unlike his own.

The child was just beginning to walk. As soon as he entered the room he

caught sight of Suzaku’s strange-looking roots lying in the fruit-dish,

and toddled in that direction. Anxious to discover what sort of things

they were, he was soon pulling at them, scattering them over the floor,

breaking them in pieces, munching them, and in general making a

terrible mess both of himself and the room. ‘Look what mischief he is

up to,’ said Genji. ‘You had better put them somewhere out of sight. I

expect one of the maids thought it a good joke to tell him they were

meant to eat.’ So saying, he took up the child in his arms. ‘What an

expressive face this boy has!’ he continued. ‘I have had very little

to do with children of this age, and had got it into my head that they

were all much alike and all equally uninteresting. I see now how wrong

I was. What havoc he will live one day to work upon the hearts of the

princesses that are growing up in these neighbouring apartments![135]

I am half sorry that I shall not be there to see. But “though Spring

comes each year....”’[136] ‘How can you talk of such a thing?’ every

one said with horror. Little Kaoru was cutting his teeth, and thinking

that one of Suzaku’s bamboo-shoots would be just the thing to press

against his swollen gums, he managed to grab at them, and dribbling

monstrously, thrust one into his mouth. ‘Now he’s really enjoying

himself,’ said Genji. ‘What depraved tastes children do have! “Though

there be that in its stem which is bitter to recall, yet from this

bamboo-shoot no more my heart can I withhold.”’ Reciting this acrostic

poem, he took the child by the hand and tried to persuade him to put

the thing down. But Kaoru, smiling broadly, took not the slightest

notice, and with a great clatter crawled away with his prize as fast as

his arms and legs could carry him.

As the weeks went by, the child grew more and more attractive, and

before long even the ‘touch of bitterness’ that its existence had been

wont to lend to Genji’s thoughts utterly disappeared. He felt that the

child, now a source of so much delight to him, was destined to be

born in that way and no other. Kashiwagi had but been the instrument

of Fate. Among the strange inconsistencies of his apparently enviable

lot, none (thought Genji) was more curious than this, that the one lady

in his household who was of faultless lineage, young, beautiful, in

every way immaculate, should after a short spell of marriage with him

declare her preference for the convent! At such moments some of the old

bitterness against Kashiwagi would for a while return.

All this time Yūgiri had been turning over in his mind what Kashiwagi

had said to him on his death-bed. Had he been entirely ignorant of what

it referred to, he would probably have discussed the matter with Genji

long ago. But as it was, he knew just enough to feel that the subject

was a very embarrassing one, and he wondered whether he should ever

have the courage to embark upon it.

One melancholy autumn evening when he went to pay his accustomed visit

to the ladies in the First Ward, he found Ochiba busily engaged in

playing upon her zithern. She did not wish to be disturbed, and he was

shown into the southern or side-room. As he took his seat he heard

the swish of retreating skirts and caught a pleasant whiff of scent,

those things denoting (as he guessed) that a bevy of ladies had, at

the news of his arrival, hastened to take cover in the inner room. The

visit began by his usual conversation with Ochiba’s mother. While they

were talking together of old times he could not help contrasting the

utter stillness and desolation of this house with the lively stir and

bustle that went on from dawn to dusk in his own palace, teeming as it

did with unruly children and their innumerable attendants. There was

a dignity, a severity about the place; and looking round him he felt

that he who broke in upon this flat tranquillity with so much as a

hint of common passions and desires, who fluttered this decorous

stillness by any coarse vehemence or unwarranted familiarity, would

be guilty of a breach of taste, for the condemnation of which no word

could be strong enough. He was given a zithern, and recognized it to be

Kashiwagi’s. After playing a few chords he said to Ochiba’s mother: ‘I

know the tone of this instrument; it is the one that Kashiwagi used, is

it not? How I wish that your daughter would play something on it. They

say that a dead man’s touch lingers in the instruments that he played,

and can be recognized even after his death.’ ‘I fear that cannot be so

in this case,’ the mother replied, ‘for after his death the strings

were removed, and those are new ones. Ochiba has played very little

lately, and is, I am sorry to say, in danger of forgetting all that her

father taught her. Suzaku, who, as you know, took a lot of trouble with

his daughters’ music, often said Ochiba was the one that showed the

greatest promise. But since all this trouble came, I fear her playing

has gone utterly to pieces....’ She begged him to play again; but he

refused, saying that if any hand could waken the echoes of Kashiwagi’s

touch, it would be that of Ochiba; and he insisted upon the zithern

being laid near her chair. But she seemed disinclined to comply with

his wish, and he did not press her.

The moon was shining out of a cloudless sky; a flight of wild geese

passed over the house, wing to wing, in faultless line. How she,

companionless, must envy that blissful troop![137] At last, moved by

the beauty of the autumn evening, with its sudden stirrings of light

wind, cool to the skin, she took up a large Chinese zithern and played

a few chords, which by their passionate intensity stirred his feelings

far more than mere words could have done. But she showed no

inclination to play in concert with him, and as it was now very late,

he made ready to depart. Just as he was leaving, the mother handed

him a flute. ‘This had been in his family for years,’ she said; ‘but

there is no use in its lying idle in this deserted house. He used to

play it as he sat in his coach, and its music blended with the cries

of his outriders. I long to hear it played so again, even in another’s

hand....’ He saw at once that it was Kashiwagi’s familiar flute, and

remembered having often heard him express the hope that it would fall

into the hands of some one who could make good use of it, and not

merely be treated as a keepsake when he was gone. Yūgiri played a

few runs upon it and then suddenly stopped. ‘You let me play on his

zithern,’ he said, ‘and encouraged by you I felt no compunction. But

somehow when it comes to playing on this flute....’ He broke off, and

Ochiba’s mother recited the poem: ‘To-night at last has the voice

of the cicada sounded as of old in the dewy bushes round my house.’

‘Though hole for hole, unaltered are the notes the flute gives forth,

what should these fingers conjure from it now, save the choked sound of

tears?’ So Yūgiri answered, and after many hesitations and delays, at

last, far on into the night, went back to his own house.

The shutters were closed and every one was asleep. Kumoi had heard the

extraordinary trouble he was taking in arranging the affairs of the

two ladies in the First Ward. It seemed to involve his coming home

very late at night; and though Kumoi distinctly heard him arrive on

this occasion, she felt in no mood for conversation, and pretended to

be asleep. ‘Why have you locked yourselves in like this?’ he cried,

when he was at last admitted. ‘I should have thought that with such a

moon as this abroad in the heavens no one would have the heart to shut

their windows.’ So saying he threw back the shutters, and rolled up the

blinds of her divan, while he himself took a seat at a point from

whence he could see the beauties of the night. ‘How any one can lie

a-bed when there are such sights to be seen, I cannot imagine,’ said

Yūgiri. ‘Do come here and look. I hate your not seeing it!’ But she was

in a bad temper, and pretended not to hear. The apartments seemed to be

littered with children, their little faces blank with the vacancy of

infant slumber, and wherever he turned were bevies of dames-in-waiting,

nurses and the like—a perfect tangle of sleeping forms. Again he

contrasted this crowded scene with the death-like mansion that he had

just left. Taking the flute out of his pocket he played a few notes.

Were they already asleep in the First Ward, or was Ochiba at any rate

thinking of him, wishing he were still in the house? Perhaps she was at

this very instant playing upon the zithern that he had placed within

her reach. Had she changed the tuning?[138] And her mother too, she

was a fine player on the Japanese zithern. So his thoughts rambled on

as he lay in bed. Why was it, he asked himself, that Kashiwagi had

seemed to take so little interest in Ochiba? Though no one could say

he had actually ill-treated her. The idea that if one possessed Ochiba

one could ever grow tired of her seemed to him preposterous. Yet he

knew that such things did happen, and indeed it was rarely enough that

any attachment subsisted unaltered through the years—his own relation

to Kumoi was the one example that occurred to him. And the result was

that by this exclusive fidelity he had spoilt her. She had grown a

trifle touchy and exacting.... At this point he fell asleep. He dreamt

that Kashiwagi appeared to him, and picking up the flute examined it

curiously. It occurred to Yūgiri even in his dream that it had been

unwise of him to play on it, for this had certainly drawn Kashiwagi’s

ghost to his side. ‘Could I, like the wind among the reed-stems,

blow where I would, then into the hands of a true heir should fall

the music of this flute.’ So the dream-figure recited; and Yūgiri was

about to question it concerning the meaning of this strange verse, when

he woke with a start. One of his children was crying. The piercing

noise went on and on. It would not take its milk, and the nurses were

scurrying about, evidently in great concern. Presently Kumoi took the

child in her own arms and sat with it near the lamp, her hair thrown

back behind her ears and her dress open in front, showing the pretty

curves and undulations of her breast. She did not attempt to feed the

child, but let it put its lips to her breasts, and by one device and

another had soon stopped its tears. Yūgiri was now standing by her

side. ‘Is there anything amiss with the child?’ he asked, and to show

his concern began scattering handfuls of rice and reciting spells of

protection; an activity which, if it did not greatly help the child,

served at least to dispel the impression of his own dream. ‘It is no

use your doing that,’ she said. ‘The boy is ill. Probably he caught

some infection when you insisted upon opening the window. You come

back like this, after amusing yourself I don’t know how or where, and

flood the house with unwholesome night air, merely that you may have

the pleasure of staring at the moon.’ But he saw from her face that

she was no longer cross, and was now only teasing him. ‘I am certainly

very much to blame,’ he said, ‘if it is true that “infections” can

only enter through doors and windows. Had any one else suggested this

I should have thought it a rather infantile view. But coming from the

mother of half a dozen children it must of course be treated with

respect.’ After that he sat silently watching her in a manner that

Kumoi found very disconcerting, and she said at last: ‘Had not you

better go to bed? I am afraid I am not dressed for show.’ She was

conscious that, sitting in the full glare of the lamp, she did not look

her best. So far from being irritated by this coquetry, Yūgiri felt

touched that she should still care so much what impression she made

upon him. The child did indeed seem to be very much indisposed. It

continued to cry at intervals all through the night, and no one in the

house got much sleep.

Yūgiri was worried about this flute. The dream seemed clearly to

indicate that it had not reached its right destination. Kashiwagi

certainly could not have wanted it to go to a woman. What good could

it be to her? And there was no man who seemed to come into question.

Recollecting his last interview with Kashiwagi, Yūgiri became more

than ever convinced that he had died with some desperate entanglement

clinging about his soul, some secret or remorse such as might for ever

hold him back from Release; and turning over in his mind what were

generally considered the best ways of dealing with such a case, he

arranged for all manner of services to be said on behalf of Kashiwagi’s

soul at Otagi[139] and at the various temples with which the dead man’s

family had been connected. He thought of dealing with the flute by

offering it as present to some Buddhist shrine; but on reflection he

saw that this would be less than civil to the lady who had just given

it to him, and he determined to consult his father upon the subject.

Genji, he was told, was with the Akashi Princess. As he was passing

through Murasaki’s apartments Yūgiri was greeted by little Niou, now

three years old. He was Murasaki’s great favourite, and perhaps the

prettiest of all the children in the palace. ‘Will you pick me up,

please,’ he said, ‘and do yourself the honour to carry me back to my

mummy?’ He still got his words mixed up, and applied to himself the

terms of respect that he heard his nurses use when they spoke of

him. ‘Come up then,’ said Yūgiri, laughing. ‘But we shall have to pass

in front of Lady Murasaki’s screen. Won’t she think that very rude?’

‘She can’t see you now,’ said Niou, covering Yūgiri’s face with his

little sleeve; and thus, guided by the child, Yūgiri arrived blindfold

at the Akashi Princess’s door. Here Kaoru was playing along with the

other Akashi children. Seeing Niou being deposited upon the threshold,

his elder brother, Ni no Miya, rushed up to Yūgiri crying: ‘Me too, a

ride!’ But Niou tried to stop Yūgiri from taking the other child in

his arms. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘he’s my uncle Yūgiri, not yours. I want

him for my own.’ ‘Behave yourselves, children,’ cried Genji, who was

standing near by. ‘Yūgiri does not belong to either of you. As a matter

of fact, he is the Emperor’s gentleman, and if His Majesty were to hear

that either of you had stolen the Colonel of his Bodyguard, he might be

very angry. As for you, Niou, you’re a little rascal. You are always

trying to get the better of your elder brother!’ ‘Ni no Miya,’ said

Yūgiri, ‘is already beginning to forgo his rights with quite an elderly

resignation. In a child of his age such unselfishness is alarming.’

Genji thought he had never seen three such charming children, and

despite the hubbub they were creating, smiled indulgently upon them

all. At last, however, he said: ‘But this is no place to receive a

visitor; let us go somewhere where we can talk more comfortably.’

So saying he led the way to his own room. But they had hard work to

escape, for the three little princes clung to them tightly and would

not leave go. It was of course quite wrong that Kaoru, the child of a

commoner, should be brought up with the Akashi Princess’s children.

But, as Genji well knew, the slightest sign on his part that he was

conscious of this impropriety would be taken by Nyosan as a reproach.

He was indeed, as has before been noted, particularly good at

guessing what effect his actions would have upon the feelings of

others; and he therefore lost no opportunity of showing that the child

ranked with him on exactly the same plane as his own grandchildren.

Yūgiri had often watched Kaoru from a distance, but had never made

friends with him. Seeing the little boy now peeping at him through a

chink in the screen, he picked up a spray of cherry-blossom that had

fallen to the floor and, holding it out, called the child to him.

Instantly he came toddling along, in his dark blue overall, that

contrasted so strongly with the even pallor of his skin. He was,

thought Yūgiri, a far handsomer child than the two Akashi boys. Was it

only his fancy—the fruit of a suspicion that had long ago formed in his

mind—or did Kaoru really bear a certain resemblance to poor Kashiwagi?

In the expression of the eyes and the way they were set (though in the

child this peculiarity was far more marked) there was something that

he could not remember to have met elsewhere. And that smile too....

Was he imagining? No. Surely Genji could not see that smile without at

once thinking of Kashiwagi. And if so, what did he make of it all? The

Akashi princes were a pair of sturdy, quite ordinary good-looking boys.

But Kaoru had about him something refined, distinguished, that would

have marked him out among a hundred other well-born children. ‘What

a terrible pity it is,’ thought Yūgiri, ‘that Tō no Chūjō, who is so

heartbroken at Kashiwagi not even leaving a child behind to continue

his name, should not know the truth about this little one—always

supposing that it is the truth....’ And despite all Tō no Chūjō’s past

hostility, Yūgiri felt a longing to give him this great pleasure;

though when he came to think how he should do so, he saw that the idea

was quite impracticable. Meanwhile, he was making friends with Kaoru,

who was not in the least shy, and they were soon having wonderful

games together.

Genji listened with a slightly ironical smile to Yūgiri’s description

of his recent visit to the First Ward, and after a few enquiries about

such parts of the story as concerned old friends and acquaintances,

he said suddenly: ‘I hope you are not behaving in such a way as to

give Princess Ochiba a false impression. I know by bitter experience

that there is a grave risk of this. No doubt you are acting entirely

out of regard for the memory of your friend; but any one who hears of

these numerous visits is likely to draw a very different conclusion.

For your own sake as well as hers you must be careful to make it

clear that you have completely disinterested motives for frequenting

the house.’ Advice on this sort of subject was, thought Yūgiri, his

father’s speciality. How high-minded were Genji’s principles, and how

unsuccessful he was in applying them! ‘So far from being censured for

my attentions to those two ladies,’ he answered, ‘I should certainly be

thought to have behaved very badly if I had not taken their affairs a

little in hand. I daresay my description of these visits might easily

give the impression that either she or I had not been very discreet.

But everything depends upon the circumstances under which things are

said or done. A remark that might be very impertinent at one moment may

be perfectly harmless at another. Much again (as I am sure you will

admit) depends upon the character and age of the people concerned.

Ochiba is no longer very young, and I am by no means given to

miscellaneous flirtations. If our relation sounds to you to be somewhat

too informal, it is because I know that she takes life seriously, and

she, that I am to be trusted.’ Hence he led on the conversation to a

point at which it was quite natural that he should recount his dream.

Genji listened without making any comment; but he perfectly well

understood the meaning[140] of the dream. ‘I know the flute of which

you speak,’ he said at last. ‘As a matter of fact it ought, properly

speaking, to be in this house, for it belonged to Murasaki’s father.

He allowed Kashiwagi to take it away one day after the Lezpideza

Concert, knowing that he was such a fine player. Of course, Ochiba’s

mother would not know anything of this; it was quite natural that she

should give it to you.’ This was a mere invention, and Genji was fairly

certain that Yūgiri recognized it as such, and all the time knew quite

well who was this mysterious ‘heir’ spoken of by Kashiwagi in the

dream. But until Yūgiri made some more definite sign of being in the

secret, Genji was not going to give himself away. Yūgiri, seeing that

his father was not at all inclined to take him into his confidence,

thought he had better postpone the attempt (long overdue) to deliver

Kashiwagi’s cryptic death-bed message. But the temptation to get the

thing over was too much for him, and he said at last, as though it were

a casual recollection: ‘Soon before Kashiwagi died he gave me various

instructions concerning the disposition of his affairs, and at the same

time charged me with some mission that was connected with his devotion

towards you; or so it seemed. But though he made several attempts to

explain the matter I never succeeded in discovering what it was, nor on

subsequent reflection have I ever been able to make out exactly what he

meant.’ He rather overdid these protestations of bewilderment, with the

result that Genji became more certain than ever of his having learnt

the whole secret. But he was still determined not to commit himself. ‘I

certainly know no reason why Kashiwagi should ever have thought that I

was cross with him,’ he said. ‘As for the dream, I will think it over

quietly and let you know how you should act. There is a saying among

old women that dreams should only be discussed by daylight!’ It

was evident that nothing was to be got out of him. But the story Yūgiri

had just told must have made some impression upon his father. What

precisely was going on in Genji’s mind, he respectfully wondered.

[132] Kashiwagi’s widow (Princess Ochiba) and her mother.

[133] A bitter root.

[134] _Tokoro_ also means ‘place, destination.’ ‘Seek out the same

_Tokoro_ as I have done,’ i.e. leave the City and take refuge in a

mountain retreat.

[135] The little daughter of the Akashi Princess.

[136] ‘Though Spring comes back each year and fresh flowers bloom, we

shall be there to see them only so long as Fate gives us leave.’

[137] The male and female wild goose were supposed to fly wing

interlocked with wing.

[138] In sign of dislike for him.

[139] Where Kashiwagi had presumably been buried.

[140] That the flute should be given to Kashiwagi’s son Kaoru.

CHAPTER X

YŪGIRI

So high was Yūgiri’s reputation for prudence and fidelity that his

constant visits to the First Ward gave rise to no scandal whatever,

and were merely regarded as a touching proof of his attachment to

Kashiwagi’s memory. And hitherto his behaviour had indeed been beyond

reproach; but down underneath his thoughts was a feeling that things

would not always go on like this. Ochiba’s mother was at a loss how to

thank the young man for his extraordinary kindness. She was now less

and less able to distract herself, and his continual letters and visits

were her chief source of pleasure. In his relation towards, Ochiba

there had at the beginning been nothing of gallantry or sentiment, and

this had become so much a matter of habit that a sudden change on his

part would, for both of them, have been very embarrassing. But sooner

or later circumstances would surely arise such as would put their

friendship naturally and imperceptibly on to a less formal footing.

Such circumstances certainly did occur; but watching Ochiba closely he

was obliged to confess that she seemed singularly unwilling to avail

herself of them. Tired of these experiments, he was just beginning

to think it would be better to tell her straight out that he was in

love with her, and see how she took it, when the mother fell seriously

ill and was moved away from the City to her estate on the hills. Her

former chaplain, a man of great sanctity, who had frequently been

successful in exorcising demonic seizures and possessions, was now

living in the hills, under a strict vow never to leave the village. But

fortunately his place of retreat was quite near to her estate,

and it was with a view to securing his services that she now left

the City. The outriders and the carriage in which she travelled were

supplied by Yūgiri. It might have been supposed that this would offend

Ochiba’s brothers-in-law, whose business it clearly was to supply such

assistance. But as a matter of fact they were fully occupied with

their own affairs, and it never even occurred to them to offer their

services. The only one that took any personal interest in Ochiba was

Kōbai, but he had always found her so discouraging that in the end he

gave up going to the house.

There seemed to be no end to Yūgiri’s thoughtfulness. When he heard

that services of intercession were being held at the old lady’s

bedside, he sent alms for the priests and new vestments. The letter

of thanks was written by Ochiba herself, for the mother was too ill

to write, and every one agreed that it would be uncivil to send a

letter dictated to an ordinary amanuensis. The handwriting pleased him

uncommonly, and so agreeable was it to receive such a letter, even

though the writer was merely transmitting another’s sentiments, that

he wrote to Ochiba’s mother even more often than before, in the hope

of receiving similar replies. He longed, of course, to visit them in

their country home; but he knew that Kumoi would regard this as a

confirmation of her worst suspicions, and he decided, for the present

at any rate, that it would be a mistake to go.

But as the autumn drew on he longed more and more to find out how

things were going. Moreover, he knew that on the hills the leaves would

be changing, and he had a burning desire to get out into the country.

The excuse he made was that the old chaplain, who seldom left his

solitary and unapproachable retreat, had consented to visit his former

patron. ‘There are various points about which I should like to consult

him,’ said Yūgiri. ‘Such an opportunity may never occur again,

and I shall be able at the same time to find out how Ochiba’s mother

is really getting on.’ He made the journey with only a few outriders

and half a dozen personal servants, all clad in hunting-dress. The

place lay only a little way into the hills; but the colours of Oyama,

near Matsugasaki, though doubtless not to be compared with the wild

and rocky country farther on, excited him far more than the cunningly

contrived autumn effects of the great palace gardens at home. The

house was surrounded merely by a low brushwood fence, but looked

very trim and neat. Inside, though all the arrangements were of a

temporary nature, there was everything that the most exacting taste

could require. The altar of intercession had been put up in a side-wing

opening out of the main hall. The sick woman herself was at the back of

the house, and her daughter occupied the western side. It was thought

that the malady might be catching, and Ochiba had been advised to stay

in the City. But nothing would induce her to do so, and the utmost

precaution she would take was to remain at the other end of the house.

There were no guest-rooms, and Yūgiri was brought straight to Ochiba’s

quarters. From here he conducted the usual interchange of messages with

the old princess. Ochiba was certainly at the far end of the room, for

from behind the curtains of her dais (which having been put up hastily

on her arrival was a very flimsy affair) he heard the soft rustling

of a skirt, and caught the outline of a form that could only be hers.

His heart beat wildly; but the business of communicating with the sick

woman was a very slow one, as she was at the far end of the house,

and in the intervals, while the messengers were going to and fro, he

fell into conversation with one of the old princess’s gentlewomen.

‘Considering it is now more than a year since I took your mistress’s

affairs in hand,’ he said, ‘it is extraordinary that Ochiba should

still affect to treat me as a complete stranger. She must have heard me

arrive; yet she does not send a word of greeting. I have never known

such a thing before. It is the height of absurdity in my case; and

people who know the sort of man I am must really find it hard not to

laugh in her face. Just think of it, a steady-going married man of my

age, who even when he was younger certainly displayed little of the

wildness of youth! How do you explain her attitude?’ The lady was in

any case at no loss to explain Yūgiri’s present indignation. She went

and urged Ochiba to show a little more hospitality; but the princess

replied: ‘I was obliged to write to him occasionally on my mother’s

behalf. But he must not take this as a sign on my part that I desire

to correspond with him. At the present moment I am far too much taken

up with my mother’s illness to want to see anybody.’ ‘This is all very

senseless,’ he replied, when these words were reported to him. ‘She is

obviously fretting so much over her mother’s illness that she will soon

destroy her own health. If you don’t mind my saying so, I think your

mistress’s illness has been largely caused by the distressing spectacle

of Ochiba’s persistent brooding. I believe that if she could rouse

herself a little, it would have an extraordinary effect on her mother,

and be the best thing for Lady Ochiba herself. This pretence that my

relations are solely with her mother is very tiresome.’ To this every

one agreed.

Towards sunset a heavy mist began to rise and the hill at the foot of

which the house stood now hung above it in dark, featureless bulk;

from among the child-flowers growing along the hedge (their colour

subdued to a strange greyness by the mist) came unabated the ceaseless

murmuring of insects; while from among the wild and tangled plantations

sounded, cold and clear, the noise of running water. From time to time

a melancholy gust of dank wind swept the hills above, shaking

the deep woods; and at intervals there sounded the booming of the

gong which marked the close of one service and at the same time the

beginning of the next—the new voices striking in almost before the

closing notes had died away. Though these sounds and the whole aspect

of the place were of a nature to subdue the rovings of an idle fancy,

they served but to heighten the passion that was mounting in Yūgiri’s

breast. The noise of spells and chanting rose more and more insistent

from the sick woman’s apartments. A rumour spread that she was sinking,

and every one trooped off in that direction. A better opportunity to

declare his feelings could not, thought Yūgiri, possibly have arisen.

The house was now completely shut in by mist. ‘It is no use my starting

at present,’ he said, ‘I should never be able to find my way back.’ And

he sent her the poem: ‘Lovelier in their coat of mist, the hills shut

out for me the pathway of escape.’ ‘To hide our country hedge this mist

arose; not to detain the idle-hearted guest.’ So she answered. That she

should reply at all was unusual, and the mere fact that she had done

so put out of his head any notion of returning to the City that night.

‘But in sober truth,’ he said, ‘I cannot possibly find my way back. And

you will not let me stay here. What do you expect me to do?’ Hitherto

his indiscreet speeches had always been of such a nature that it was

possible to ignore them. But she considered this plea impertinent, and

was so much vexed that she refused to continue the discussion. He was

all the more disappointed because he realized that such an opportunity

might never occur again. He hated her to feel that he was taking

advantage of her loneliness; but it could do her no harm to hear once

and for all from his lips exactly what were his emotions towards her.

He sent for one of his gentlemen who served under him in the Guard

and in whom he had complete confidence. ‘I cannot go away until

I have seen the chaplain,’ he said. ‘Hitherto he has not for a moment

left the princess’s side; but I imagine that he will soon be taking a

rest. I shall stay here and try to get a word with him when the night

service is over. I wish you and the other officers to stay where you

are. But send some of the men to my farm at Kurusuno, which is not far

from here, I think. They will be able to get together some fodder for

the horses. And there must be no talking among those of you who remain

here. If your voices are heard, people will know I have stayed here for

the night, and spread a false impression of my object in coming.’ ‘It

is useless for me to think of returning,’ he then said to Ochiba in an

off-hand manner, ‘and I may as well wait here as anywhere else. I hope

this will not disturb you. When the chaplain leaves your mother’s room,

I shall join him.’ Never before had he behaved in this impertinent

manner. The only effective answer to his insolence would have been to

seek shelter in her mother’s rooms. But such a course seemed under

the circumstances too extreme, and she sat motionless in her chair,

wondering what would come next. Nor had she long to wait. For a few

minutes afterwards a gentlewoman came with a message, and Yūgiri, upon

some excuse or other, accompanied her behind the curtains. The fog

was now so thick, even inside the house, that despite the lamp it was

almost dark. In sudden terror she made for a sliding door at the back

of the room. Dark though it was, he darted unerringly upon her tracks,

and was just in time to seize the train of her dress before she closed

the door. She shook herself free; but there was no bolt or catch on her

side, and holding the door to, she stood trembling like water. ‘Is it

really so very shocking that I should venture behind your curtains?’

he asked. ‘I may not be of much importance in your eyes, but I have

known you for some while, and rendered you, perhaps, a few small

services.’ He now spoke calmly and reasonably of his feelings towards

her; but she could only think of his impertinent behaviour in securing

this interview, and in her indignation at his intrusion she was

scarcely conscious of what were the sentiments that he was patiently

labouring to express. ‘If to feel as I do,’ he continued, ‘is an

offence, then I have indeed merited your displeasure. But do not for a

moment fear that I could possibly be guilty of any other misdemeanour.

I am here to speak, and only to speak. Surely I have the right to tell

you of thoughts that, unexpressed, would by their violence soon shatter

my heart to dust. I have tried again and again to let you know in other

ways of the torment I was enduring, but you would not listen to me. Is

it so surprising that I should have seized this kindly opportunity? Do

not, however, think me worse than I am. Provoke me as you may, I swear

to you that I will do no more than frame in words the turmoil that I

can no longer lock up unuttered in my breast.’ She was still holding

the door, but it was clear that he could easily open it if he chose;

and he made no attempt to do so. ‘Might you not save yourself this

trouble?’ he asked at last, with a laugh that somehow convinced her

he meant no further harm. Her hand fell; he pushed back the door and

entered. ‘I do not think you know what I am enduring for your sake,’ he

said presently. ‘I am beginning to think that, though you were a wife,

you do not understand even the rudiments of love.’

To this and many other remarks that he had made she could think of

no reply. He had indeed charged her before with not ‘understanding’

love; but so far as it meant anything at all the phrase seemed to

imply merely a readiness to yield oneself at demand, irrespective

of one’s own principles or inclinations. ‘You are quite wrong,’

she said between her tears. ‘I know a good deal more than you

suppose—enough to be sure that such cruelty as you have displayed

to-night has little indeed to do with love.’

He tried to lead her into the moonlight, for a great wind was now

blowing, and the mist had cleared away. But she still held aloof.

‘Surely I have proved to you by now that I mean no harm,’ he said

earnestly. ‘Trust me, and you will find that I do nothing without your

leave. Come ...’ and he drew her to him. It was now nearing dawn. The

moon was shining out of a cloudless sky, its light penetrating even

the last hovering remnants of the mist. They were sitting on an open

verandah, so shallow that the moon seemed to thrust its face into

theirs. He began to talk about Kashiwagi, and she now joined in the

conversation quite calmly and happily.

He could not, however, forbear from reproaching her for showing

more tenderness to the memory of Kashiwagi, who neglected her, than

kindness to himself, who offered her an unbounded admiration. She

did not reply, but silently reflected that though there was not much

to recommend Kashiwagi either in rank or birth, he was at least a

legitimate husband, approved both by her father and his, and able to

give her the place that was her due. If even an alliance that seemed so

certain of success had failed thus disastrously, what could she expect

from an intrigue that would be carried on in the teeth of endless

opposition and obstruction? It was not as if Kumoi were a stranger;

she was Kashiwagi’s sister, and Ochiba had made great friends with

her. And Tō no Chūjō, too! What would he think of it all? Wherever her

thoughts turned, they fell upon some person near and dear to her whom

the news of this liaison would profoundly shock and offend. And if she

herself, who alone knew that, despite appearances, her conduct had been

irreproachable—if she herself were already so much horrified what

would be the view of those whose ignorance left them free to make the

blackest conjectures? Nor was it any consolation that, for the moment,

her mother knew nothing of what was going on. For she would certainly

find out in the end, and the fact that it had been kept from her would

give the affair in her eyes an even more guilty turn.

Ochiba’s mother, though she showed no real signs of recovery, was on

certain days perfectly conscious and rational. On one such occasion,

when the Daily Intercession was over, the chaplain remained behind and

sat by the bed reading incantations. He felt extremely gratified at the

patient’s improvement. ‘The vows of the Great Sun Buddha[141] were not

made in vain,’ he said. ‘I knew well enough that the spells we have

worked at so hard could not fail to have their effect. The evil spirit

that possesses you has fought well; but it is, after all, a frail

wretched thing, shackled with such a load of sin as will never let it

prevail against weapons of holiness.’ In mentioning the evil spirit he

spoke in a stem and angry voice. Then, with a curtness that is often

assumed by men of uncompromising piety, he suddenly asked: ‘How long

has your daughter been going with Yūgiri?’ ‘I don’t know what you are

talking about,’ said the old lady indignantly. ‘He was a great friend

of Kashiwagi’s, and in memory of their friendship has helped us in one

way or another from time to time. I hear he has been here constantly to

enquire after me during my illness, and I am sure it is very kind of

him....’ ‘This is all quite unnecessary,’ broke in the priest. ‘There

is no question of concealing the matter from me. This morning as I was

going to early service I distinctly saw an extremely handsome young man

go out at the door of the Western Wing. There was a good deal of mist

about, and I should not myself have recognized him. But I heard my

servitors saying to one another: “There goes Prince Yūgiri. The same

business as before. When his carriage came he sent it away, and settled

in for the night!” As a matter of fact I should have guessed for myself

who it was by the smell he left behind him. It made my head ache. But

that young man has always used too much scent.

‘This will never do. You must not think I am prejudiced against him. On

the contrary, I have been under obligations to his family for a long

while. His grandmother always made use of me when she required prayers

to be said on his behalf, and since she died he has frequently sent

for me himself. But I am not going to countenance an intrigue of this

kind. His wife, Lady Kumoi, is not a person with whom it is safe to

trifle. What important office of state is there now which one or the

other of her relatives does not hold? Moreover, she has borne him eight

(or is it nine?) children. You surely do not imagine that your daughter

is going to oust her from her place? There will be endless jealousies

and bickerings, leading at last to just such shameless and frenzied

passions as all too commonly prove to be a woman’s undoing, when it is

her fate at last to enter into the Long Darkness. And even though your

daughter herself may give way to no violent feelings, the jealousy that

her situation arouses in this young man’s wife will in the end prey

equally on Lady Ochiba’s soul, and gravely endanger her salvation. In a

word, this must stop at once. I insist upon it.’

He became more and more excited and violent in his denunciation of the

supposed intrigue, and it was only with difficulty that the old lady at

last obtained his attention. ‘I was absolutely unaware that anything

of the kind was taking place,’ she said. ‘There was one occasion when

my people told me he had been unwell and was resting here so that

he might visit me next day. Perhaps that is what has given rise to

these rumours. He has always been so serious-minded, so reliable, that

I really cannot think....’ But she had as a matter of fact noticed

one or two queer things, and though Yūgiri was so punctilious, so

scrupulously careful to avoid anything that might give rise to gossip,

so deferential and courtly in his treatment of women, she yet could

imagine from various small indications that, left to himself, with no

strange eye upon him to criticize or make note, he might quite well

have taken the most unwarranted liberties. And for the last few weeks

Ochiba’s part of the house had been almost deserted. However, there

was one person who must certainly know the truth about the matter: she

sent for the maid Koshōshō, who was reluctantly obliged to tell all she

knew. ‘I was given to understand, Madam,’ she said, ‘that Prince Yūgiri

merely desired to unburden his heart upon some question that has been

occupying him since the end of last year. He left before dawn, and I

can answer for it that nothing of any consequence took place. I don’t

know what can have put this idea into people’s heads.’ She was racking

her brain to think who had been the tale-bearer. It never occurred to

her that the chaplain might have played this part.

The old lady was extremely upset by these revelations, and began to

weep so bitterly that Koshōshō wished a thousand times that she had

not been so simple as to tell the truth. She now tried to repair her

error by putting the matter in as good a light as possible. ‘But,

Madam, there was a screen between them....’ ‘But, Madam, they were

not together more than a moment,’ and so on. ‘What difference does

that make?’ groaned Ochiba’s mother. ‘No girl with any common sense or

decency would have received him at all. Maybe they did no harm together

at all. But that’s not the way the story will be told among the

priests here, nor in the kitchens and sculleries either. If only

there were some way of explaining to people what really happened! But

unfortunately no one in this house can be trusted to do anything....’

So she gasped, being now seized upon by a fresh paroxysm of pain.

Very reluctantly Yūgiri decided to spend the next night at home. An

immediate repetition of his visit would only serve to strengthen

any suspicion that might have been aroused on this last disastrous

occasion. Irritable as he had been for months past, he was now a

thousand times more restless and gloomy. Kumoi knew, or at any rate

could very well conjecture, where he had spent the night. But she did

not allude to the matter, and disguised her chagrin by taking part

in the games of her children. Late in the evening came a note from

Ochiba’s mother. It was written in so shaky a hand that he found it

hard to read, and was obliged to hold it close to the great lamp.

Though Kumoi was behind her curtains-of-state, she instantly became

aware of what he was doing, and slipping up behind him, took the letter

out of his hand. ‘What are you doing?’ he cried, starting violently.

‘That is not the way to behave. As a matter of fact, this letter is

of no interest. It is from her ladyship in the Eastern Wing.[142] She

was not very well this morning, and after my audience[143] I ought

to have called upon her. But being pressed for time I sent a note to

enquire how she was. You can see for yourself that it does not look

much like a love-letter! You really must not grab at things in that

fashion. You are allowing your rudeness to go further and further

every day. You might at least behave properly when there are people

in the room.’ ‘If any one is going “further and further every day” at

the present moment, it is surely you,’ was all she answered. But

she forced herself to speak lightly, hoping at all costs to dispel his

present grimness. He laughed. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said. ‘But

have you really anything to complain of? Every one must be allowed an

occasional distraction; and surely there is not another man in the

world who has used this right so sparingly as I. The fidelity of a

husband who seemed incapable of venturing one step further afield would

in the long run become a very slight satisfaction to you. Indeed, you

lose by my particularity. For surely the position of a woman who stands

first among many rivals is far more distinguished than that of one

who stands alone? Moreover, the affection of the husband is far more

likely to be permanent if he is allowed a certain amount of variety and

diversion. You would not set much store by my admiration, if it merely

meant I were too dull to see the beauty of other women.’ He hoped thus

to divert her attention and quietly regain possession of the letter.

But she laughed at him outright, and presently said: ‘You have made

these kind provisions for my happiness at a time when I am too old to

profit by them. Perhaps if I had more experience in that direction,

your present preoccupation would not depress me so much as it does.

If ever before I had received unkindness at your hands....’[144] The

allusion was apt; but he would not accept it. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘to hint

at “dereliction” is absurd. You must have been hearing stories that

are utterly untrue. It is strange; but some of your people have never

lost the spite they felt against me at the beginning—you remember—when

I was in the Sixth Rank, and they thought I was not good enough for

you. I am sure that now they have been trying to turn you against me by

some lie or other. It is too bad. I feel it on Ochiba’s account as

much as my own.’ But though Kumoi had probably heard things which were,

at the moment, still untrue, the hope he felt that they would soon be

true prevented him from protesting very effectively. He discovered that

Kumoi’s old nurse had indeed been speaking to her very bitterly about

him; but he let the matter pass and did not attempt to justify himself.

As regards the letter, it would have been very unwise to show too much

interest in it, and he went to bed without attempting to get it back.

But it was very worrying not to know what it contained. He managed

unobtrusively, under some pretext or other, to get up and look for it

under the couch where she had been lying; but nothing was there. Having

passed a troubled night, he lay in bed late into the morning, and it

was only when Kumoi was called away to look after the children that,

under cover of dressing and so on, he set to work upon a fresh search.

Kumoi, on her side, seeing that he did not press her for the return

of the letter, concluded that it was indeed of the dull nature he had

described, and even forgot that she had taken it. All the morning she

was busily occupied in making dolls, giving first writing-lessons, and

romping with high-spirited babies, so that it was small wonder if the

matter never entered her head. But Yūgiri was still thinking of nothing

else. It had now become imperative that he should send an answer. But

if it was apparent by his reply that he had not got the letter with him

(and he had really only managed to make out a few words here and there)

the old lady would at once suspect that he had left it lying about.

Breakfast was followed by a quiet morning. Suddenly Yūgiri said:

‘What happened to that letter you took from me yesterday? You saw I

had scarcely read it; I wonder you did not give it back to me. I feel

rather tired to-day and though I ought really to visit her,[145]

I do not think I shall even call upon my father. The least I can do is

to write her a note. What did she say?’ He managed to pass this off

so well that she felt she had behaved ridiculously over the letter,

and said (keeping up her end as best she could): ‘You have a very

good excuse. You can say you caught cold when exposing yourself to

the mountain air the other night.’ ‘I did think we had heard the last

of that business,’ he answered. ‘I wonder you are not ashamed to talk

of me as though I were a vulgar pleasure-seeker. Your waiting-women,

among whom my rigid domesticity has long been a standing joke, would

be excessively amused if they could hear the line you are now taking.’

Then, breaking off he suddenly exclaimed: ‘Well, any way, where is that

letter?’ She promised to find it, but did not immediately do so; and

after a little further talk, he went to take a rest, for it was already

growing dark. He was soon disturbed by the din of the crickets in the

garden outside. This set him thinking of how noisily they had cried on

that mist-bound evening at Ono.[146] He must not let another day go by

without answering. He got up quickly and began grinding his ink. Surely

there must be some way of framing a reply so that she would not realize

he had not kept her letter? As he sat pondering, he felt a slight

unevenness in the cushion under him, and pulling it up to see what was

amiss, to his delight and also, as it proved, to his embarrassment, he

discovered the missing letter. For it was no less committal than in his

most gloomy forebodings he had imagined it. ‘Your last letter,’ she

wrote, ‘came at a time when my daughter was visiting my bedside, and

was brought to her here. As she seemed at a loss how to reply, I

am now writing in her stead: “Full clearly have you shown that in your

eyes a place for one night’s dallying is the moorside where droops the

Lady-flower.”’

‘One night.’ It was quite clear what the writer meant to imply. And

what must be the conclusion that she had drawn from his protracted

silence! It was obvious to him on a second inspection of the letter

that it had been written in great distress of mind. He could not help

feeling somewhat bitterly against Kumoi, whose foolish trick had

inflicted such suspense. But after all, a year or two ago she would

never have dreamt of doing such a thing. It was his own changed conduct

that had altered hers. He thought for a moment of going straight to

Ono. But he felt certain Ochiba would not receive him, even though her

mother countenanced his visit. As a matter of fact, it was hopeless

in any case; for to-day was his Black Day.[147] Perhaps it was a

good thing that circumstances thus conspired against him, he thought

virtuously, and hastened to answer the letter. ‘The sight of your

letter delighted me in more ways than one,’ he wrote. ‘But the hint of

reproof which it contains is rather mysterious. What is it that people

have been telling you? “In truth, I lay amid the thickets of the autumn

heath; yet by no dalliance of pillowing leaves was my rest comforted.”

I do not in general think there is much sense in replying to such

reproofs; but on this occasion I must protest that you have jumped to

conclusions somewhat too rapidly....’

There was a separate letter for Ochiba, and both were given to Tayū,

the principal retainer who had been with him on his last visit to Ono,

the man being instructed to use the swiftest horse in the stable, with

a light Chinese relay-saddle. ‘Say that I have been detained at my

father’s palace,’ he whispered, ‘and have only just returned.’