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.’

Meanwhile things at Ono were not going well. Rather recklessly, as she felt, Ochiba’s mother had taken matters into her own hands and protested against Yūgiri’s light-minded and casual escapade. And now it was clear that she had offended him. Hour after hour went by; it grew quite dark and still no answer came. This so much upset her that her apparent convalescence was soon a thing of the past, and before the end of the day her condition was as serious as ever. Ochiba, on the other hand, so far from being perturbed by his failure to reappear, regretted nothing save that she had not been a little curter with him on that one occasion. Seeing her mother’s distress, she attributed it to horror at the things which were supposed to have taken place on that unfortunate night; and she began trying to explain how little had really happened. But the subject was not easy to talk about. Confusion overcame her, and she left off in the middle. Seeing the girl’s embarrassment, her mother was doubly distressed: ‘Poor creature!’ she thought. ‘Has any one of similar talents and position ever been so consistently unfortunate?’ At last she said rather bitterly: ‘I am going to be disagreeable—a thing which I thought I had long ago done for the last time. It may not have been your fault.... But really, from what I hear, it seems as though your behaviour had been incredibly childish. This particular matter is at an end; for it is clear that he does not mean to come near us again. But do, I beg you, be on your guard about this sort of thing in future. I am sure I have taken immense pains with your upbringing. And after all, with regard to affairs of that kind, you are not without experience.... Perhaps it was foolish of me, but I assure you this, of all ways, is not the one in which I thought you would get into trouble. A little firmness, good sense, decision—nothing more was required. I see that you are far indeed from being capable of looking after yourself, and it perturbs me beyond measure to think that I must leave you so soon. Even among commoners there is a feeling—at any rate among the better sort of people—that flippancy does not become a widow; still less should any one of your rank dream of allowing admirers to go in and out in that fashion. I am very sorry your married life brought you so little happiness. You know that the choice always seemed to me singularly inappropriate; but your father, the ex-Emperor, and Kashiwagi’s father pressed me so hard that in the end I came over to their side, convinced for the moment that this quite unnecessary match was pre-ordained by Fate. It turned out to be a terrible misfortune, the results of which you will feel all your life. But you had at any rate the satisfaction of knowing that you yourself were in no way to blame, and could reproach Heaven without fear of retort. Such feelings you can no longer entertain; but if you could manage to take no notice of all the unpleasant things that were being said around you, I suppose you might find considerable solace in relations with this young man—if he made a practice of coming here, which I am certain he has not the least intention of doing!’

To this cruelly faithful picture of her predicament she could find no reply. She now sat gently sobbing. Her mother, watching her intently, was moved this time by a sudden outburst of affectionate admiration. ‘How handsome you are!’ she said. ‘There is no one like you. What kink is it in your Fate that made such beauty the rallying point of every imaginable check and disappointment?’ Her agitation soon reduced her to a state in which she fell an easy prey to the next onslaught of the ‘possession’ that had for long past been assailing her. In a moment she had lost consciousness, and an icy coldness had settled upon her limbs. The chaplains hastily assembled and with frantic supplications sought to revive her. They were all holy men, drawn from inaccessible mountain temples, which they had vowed never to leave till death. The entreaties of Ochiba and her friends had induced them to break their vows; and if they should now pull down their altars and return to their cells defeated, surely (they protested to Buddha) the Faith would suffer a grave discredit.

It was at this moment that Yūgiri’s letter arrived. The sick woman was able, in a fleeting interval of consciousness, to comprehend that Yūgiri made no suggestion of repeating his visit. All, then, was as bad as she had feared. He had on this occasion merely been heartlessly amusing himself. ‘And,’ remembered Ochiba’s mother—it was her last conscious thought—‘whatever scandal is talked about this at Court will as likely as not be founded on my own letter.’[148]

Her people were slow to realize that the end had come. She had often before suffered from seizures during which life appeared to be extinct. But now the usual spells had no effect, and at last it was apparent that all was over.

The ninth month had come. Storms were raging in the hills. Not a leaf on any tree; the whole country wore its most desolate air; and Ochiba, sensitive to the changing aspects of nature, was in a more wretched state than ever before. So gloomy indeed were her thoughts that she longed continually for death to terminate the terrible monotony of her lonely existence. True, Yūgiri wrote almost every day. His enquiries and the presents he sent gave great satisfaction to the resident priests, whose long seclusion made such distractions exceedingly welcome. But Ochiba, though he sent the most solicitous messages, and sometimes long notes in which he enquired after every item of her health with the utmost concern, gave no sign of gratification. This was the man, she reasoned, whose heartlessness had preyed upon her mother’s mind so that she had died unquietly and carried with her to the grave a burden that would endanger her salvation.[149] It nowadays sufficed merely for his name to be mentioned, and Ochiba’s tears would break out afresh. Her people did their best to assist Yūgiri’s cause, and when he failed even to obtain a single line in reply he at first attributed this to the mental confusion caused by her mother’s death. But as time went by it was apparent that there must be some other cause for what he regarded as her crudely insulting conduct. Had he written letters in which her loss was ignored, letters devoted to the pageants and frivolities of the day, he could have understood her irritation. But he was conscious of having shown the tenderest sympathy, the most delicate appreciation of all she must be feeling. He remembered how when his grandmother had died he had been for a time very much dispirited; more so, he thought, than his uncle Tō no Chūjō, who had taken the death of his mother very much as a matter of course, and while anxious to do everything that the public would think proper, obviously regarded the whole business as a tiresome waste of time. Even Genji, who was only a son-in-law, had shown much more concern. Among Yūgiri’s own contemporaries, the one, strangely enough, who most entered into his feelings was the quiet, almost stolid Kashiwagi. How glad he had been to see him during those days, and how precious his sympathy had been! And it seemed to Yūgiri exceedingly odd that Ochiba showed no desire for similar consolation.

Kumoi still remained in the same uncertainty as to what was going on. The frequent letters to Ono were all supposed to be connected with Ochiba’s recent loss. But the death of this excellent lady was not in itself sufficient to account for Yūgiri’s listlessness and preoccupation. One evening when he lay on his couch, gazing at the evening sky, she sent one of the children to him with a scrap of paper on which was written: ‘Gladly would I console you did I but know whether for the dead you mourn, or for the living thus consume your heart.’ He smiled. Why (he asked himself) did it please her to give him this loophole? She knew well enough that, greatly though he had liked the old princess, her death could not conceivably weigh much in his mind after all these months. Swiftly and negligently he dashed off the reply: ‘Nor this, nor that. Who grieves that one particular dewdrop vanishes into the morning air?’ This was all very well; but putting aside general considerations as to the fate of dewdrops, it was evident that he had no intention of taking her into his confidence; and Kumoi was very unhappy.

Yūgiri had thought of waiting till the period of mourning was over before he attempted another visit to Ono. But he found himself unable to hold out so long, and reasoning that, so far as her reputation was concerned, no more harm could happen than had been done already, he was determined not to abandon the quest till his full purpose was achieved. Kumoi might think what she pleased. And however little encouragement he received from Ochiba herself, that phrase about ‘one night only’ in her mother’s letter gave his renewed attentions a sort of sanction, and would in the last resort make it difficult for her to dismiss him altogether.

It was about the middle of the ninth month. The grandeur of the scenes through which Yūgiri passed was such as could not have failed to awe the dullest, the most unimpressionable visitor. His way lay through forests in which not merely every leaf, but every bough had been caught by the tempest and hurried earthwards, to toss amid the whirling wreckage from the heights above. As he approached the house, the noise of distant chanting mingled with the clamour of the storm. Close under the fence a group of deer was sheltering from the blasts of the storm, their hoofs pressing upon the brown rice-stalks; nor did even the harsh tones of the bird-clapper[150] drive them from their refuge. They stood together, crying with a pitiful air. The noise of the torrent startled Yūgiri from his thoughts, bursting upon his ear with its thunderous clang. Only the crickets, their arbours laid low by the storm, were strangely quiet. But one flower, the blue Dragon’s Gall, was now rewarded for its long patience, and shining out all dewy amid the dead grass, triumphed at last in its desolate supremacy.

In all this there was nothing out of the ordinary; but given the nature and circumstances of his visit, these commonplaces of the autumn landscape moved him to an almost unendurable sadness.

Remembering Shōshō no Kimi’s gay laugh and handsome face, he felt that to be with her for a little might help to drive away this intolerable depression, and it was for her that he sent when he arrived at the usual western door.

‘Closer,’ he said. ‘If I am obliged to raise my voice we may be overheard, and I want to talk with you seriously. Surely you count it to my credit that I have made my way through the hills at such a season.’ He glanced towards the mountain. ‘And now the mist is rising,’ he said. ‘Look how thick....’ ‘Closer, closer,’ he whispered. She pressed forward the curtain behind which she sat, till it obtruded a little way beyond the edge of the reed-blind. She kept pulling her skirts to one side. This Shōshō no Kimi was a sister of the Governor of Yamato, and consequently a cousin of Ochiba, with whom she had been brought up on terms of complete equality. She was therefore wearing the deepest mourning.

‘I am sure it is natural enough that Lady Ochiba should be very much upset,’ said Yūgiri at last, ‘but I still do not understand why this should involve such persistent rudeness to _me_. I am exasperated to the verge of madness by her refusal to grant me a single word of reply. My mind is going to pieces altogether; every one notices it.’ So he went on, and presently mentioned the old princess’s last letter, breaking into tears as he did so. ‘Your slowness in replying,’ said Shōshō no Kimi, weeping even more bitterly than he, ‘seemed to have a disastrous effect upon her. She had been much stronger lately; but that one day’s suspense undid all the good work. The evil influences that had before possessed her saw their opportunity and were quick to use it. She was in a bad way on one or two occasions at the time of her son-in-law’s death, and we sometimes thought it was all over with her. But she had only to remember Lady Ochiba’s need, and she would at once make an effort to recover herself. I wish indeed we had some one like her to comfort my cousin Ochiba. She’s in such a state she hardly seems to know her own name, and so it goes on from one day’s end to another.’ So, amid her sobs, she somewhat inconsequently sought to explain Ochiba’s silence. ‘That’s all very well,’ he said, ‘but it leaves me as puzzled as ever by her mystifications. I am, I hope I may say without rudeness, the one person who can be of use to her at present. Her father[151] is buried away in the clouds on some distant mountain peak, and if he ever gives a thought to family affairs, he is too far off to be of any practical assistance. There is no reason why you yourself should not remonstrate with her when you get the chance. It is really turning into a kind of obstinacy. However, it will all come right in the end. She feels at present that she will never want to return into society; but people do not remain in that state of mind indefinitely. Nor do things happen as one plans....’ But Shōshō no Kimi gave him no help, and to his repeated messages Ochiba sent only the reply that upon some future occasion, when feeling less dazed by her loss, she would attempt to thank him for his repeated visits.

Back in his palace, he mooned about in so vague and distracted a manner, that the ladies of the household said to one another in shocked tones: ‘What a wretched sight the man is! And the last person too whom one would have expected to see in this state.’ As for Kumoi, he remembered how often he had praised in her hearing the pleasant relations that prevailed between the members of Genji’s household. If she showed any signs of resentment at his interest in Ochiba, he would at once think her a most disagreeable, ungenerous creature. She too, Kumoi felt, could have endured rivals well enough if she had been used to them and if those around her had learned to take them as a matter of course. But from the very beginning her father, her brothers—every one had quoted Yūgiri as an unparalleled example of single-minded devotion; and that even this prodigy of steadfastness should grow tired of her was a humiliation indeed.

So they lay till it was almost dawn, neither heeding the other or showing the least disposition to make friends; and long before the mists had cleared he irritated Kumoi by getting up and writing his usual letter to Ono. This time, however, she played no trick upon him. He wrote at considerable length, and then pushing the letter away from him, began humming a poem to himself. He did this very softly; but Kumoi heard the words: ‘No message will you send me save that no message you will send till an unending night its dreams shall end?’ “The Silent Waterfall[152] that from Mount Ono drops ...” she thought she heard him quote.

The answer came later in the morning. It was a solid-looking epistle, written on stout, brownish paper; and as usual the writer was Shōshō no Kimi. Kumoi watched his face while he read it. Had Princess Ochiba at last broken her silence? As a matter of fact the letter contained nothing but remonstrations from Shōshō upon the uselessness of his continuing to write. ‘To prove my point,’ she said, ‘I enclose your last letter to her, just as it was when I rescued it.’ And here was his letter indeed, torn in pieces and covered all over with random scribblings. His first feeling, however, was not so much of pique at the use to which it had been put, as of delight that she had seen and handled it. Piecing together the fragments, he thought he could make out a poem somewhat in this style: ‘Ceaseless as the waters of Mount Ono, day and night my silent tears flow.’ It was only the old Ono poem twisted a little to suit her own plight; but there were points of interest in the penmanship.

How often had Yūgiri watched other men falling into the helpless state in which he now found himself! There had always seemed to him something unreal in their languishings; and he had spoken of such people with considerable severity, feeling that with a little effort they might at any moment have escaped from their difficulties. But no, there was no escape; nothing to do but to endure.

It was not long before Genji heard what was going on. It had always been a comfort to him that Yūgiri possessed so much good sense and moderation. It was pleasant, for instance, to feel that whatever scandals had to be investigated, Yūgiri’s name would never be involved; and the more so because Genji himself had suffered from the effects of a quite opposite reputation. This attachment with Ochiba in any case could bring little happiness to either of them. But it would not have been quite so bad if she had been some one quite outside their circle. As it was, what must Tō no Chūjō and the rest be feeling about it? However, Yūgiri was quite capable of seeing all this for himself. There was nothing that Genji could usefully say. He did not indeed think so much about Yūgiri as about the two ladies. For them he could not help being extremely sorry. He mentioned the affair to Murasaki, one day when he was talking things over with her, and spoke of his own anxiety as to what would become of her when he, like Kashiwagi, should have passed away. She blushed and a look of pain crossed her face; for she knew well enough how unlikely it was that she would survive him. She pitied all women. How impossibly difficult was their position! If they shut themselves away, ignored the existence of beauty, tenderness—of all emotion—what was left, save to sit thinking of darkness and the grave? Nor was it, in the end, of the slightest satisfaction to the parents who bore one, that one should grow up into an inexperienced nonentity; on the contrary, they were extremely disappointed. Was there not a story about the Silent Prince?[153] That was the kind of life women were expected to lead. They must lock everything up in their hearts. But even the clergy regarded silence as one of the hardest penances; and it was only by consenting to speak at last that the Silent Prince, despite all his ‘knowledge of good and evil,’ managed to avoid being buried alive. And even if one could settle, to one’s own satisfaction, on a correct middle course, the difficulties of pursuing it were immense.... It was not of herself, of course, that she was thinking, but of her adopted child, the Akashi Princess.

Curious to see how he would take it, Genji began speaking of their friends at Ono next time Yūgiri came to his palace. ‘So the mourning for Ochiba’s mother will soon be over,’ he said. ‘It must be just thirty years since Suzaku first took her under his protection.... A lifetime, yes, that is what a whole lifetime looks like when one sees it stretched out! The night is soon over, the dewdrops vanish in the sun, and “what worth gaining, to hold so short a while?” But after she had taken her vows and turned her back on the world, I fancy she settled down into a not too uncomfortable existence. I am sorry she is gone. A great misfortune, a very great misfortune.’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Yūgiri, ‘when one sees what useless and unimportant people are spoken of at their decease as “losses to the country.”’ ‘The ceremonies on the forty-ninth day,’ he continued, ‘are left entirely in the hands of her nephew, the Governor of Yamato. It is a wretched business; and somehow her evident loss of all influence and proper support makes a more painful impression now that she is gone than ever during her lifetime.’

‘It has no doubt been a great shock to Suzaku,’ said Genji. ‘But I am chiefly sorry for the daughter. I hear, by the way, that she is pretty; after Nyosan, she was certainly her father’s favourite.’ ‘About the daughter,’ said Yūgiri, ‘I know very little. But I believe the mother was a very agreeable woman. I did not know her well; but on one or two occasions I was able to be of some slight service to her.’ If his son had lied less flatly, Genji would have felt it possible to continue the conversation. But such an attitude betokened a state of mind that was far removed from either inviting or accepting advice. He felt in any case the absurdity of such a person as himself taking a high line about these questions, and changed the subject.

In point of fact the arrangements for the service of the Forty-ninth Day were made almost entirely by Yūgiri, who took the utmost pains in planning every detail. The reason for all this zest on his part was naturally the subject of much speculation. Tō no Chūjō, when the matter was mentioned to him, was disinclined, from what he knew of Yūgiri’s character, to credit the existence of any scandal, and chiefly blamed Ochiba for allowing an outside person to play so prominent a part in the proceedings.

It reached Suzaku’s ears that she intended to stay at Ono and become a nun. ‘I hope you will do nothing of the kind,’ he wrote. ‘It is, I know, generally considered creditable for a widow to remain in retirement. But there are circumstances under which, for a girl like you, with no one to take her side, such a course might have an opposite effect, both in this life and the next, to that which you imagine. At this moment I do not think you can either withdraw from the Court without giving countenance to undesirable rumours, or embrace the religious life in a suitable state of mind. If you are really bent upon religion, pray do nothing irretrievable till you have given your feelings time to subside....’ He wrote several times to this effect. It was evident that he had heard her name coupled with Yūgiri’s, and was afraid it would be thought that she was leaving the world in a fit of pique at the affair not having gone as she wished.

The news that Ochiba was soon returning to Court put Yūgiri in a difficult position. If he acted as one already having claims upon her, it would give the impression that the late princess had not exercised her functions with proper strictness—an aspersion which, even though it were not taken very seriously, he did not care to inflict upon the dead woman’s reputation. But to convince the world that the attachment had just commenced, to re-enact all the familiar stages of incipient attraction, courtship and melancholy was more than could be expected of him.

As soon as the day of her arrival had been fixed, he sent for the Governor of Yamato and consulted with him as to what could be done to make the palace in the First Ward less uncomfortable. Even before the removal to Ono the place had for so long been inhabited by women only that everything had run very much to seed. He now gave orders for a general cleaning up of the rooms and a complete new set of hangings, screens, curtains-of-state and the like, seeing to every detail himself. It was arranged that these fittings should be made as quickly as possible in the Governor’s own house.

When the day came Yūgiri sent his carriage and outriders to fetch her, but did not go himself. To her protestations that she had no intention of leaving Ono, her cousin, the Governor of Yamato, replied: ‘Madam, in this matter you must bow to my judgment. I feel for you deeply, and have for some time past done everything in my power to assist you. But I have my province to think of; urgent affairs await me, and I must return at once. Fortunately things are not so bad as they might be. I am handing on the direction of your household to a most loyal and painstaking successor. I am not suggesting that you should accept him in any capacity other than mine has lately been. But should you choose to do so, you would have many precedents in your favour; nor would any one have a right to blame you, even though it were known that the attachment were solely on his side. For a lady’s intentions, however determined she may be, cannot be put into practice without the aid of some admirer who is ready to place his influence and resources at her disposal. Do not think that I mistrust your intelligence. Your decisions, I am sure, will always be excellent; I merely question your ability to carry them out.’ And then turning to Ochiba’s ladies: ‘I regard you all as very much to blame in this matter. You set the whole thing going, and now, I have reason to believe, you are refusing to carry messages or give the unfortunate gentleman any reasonable assistance.’ Thus reproached, her waiting-women gathered round her and began to attire her in the new clothes into which she was to change for the journey. She was prevailed upon at last to let them dress the hair—full six feet of it—that she longed so ardently to sacrifice.[154] It grew a little thinner than formerly, though not to an extent that any one else would have noticed. But Ochiba now surveyed it with dismay. How altered she was, in this and every way! Never again would she dare to show herself.... ‘Come now,’ her ladies cried, ‘we should have been on the road hours ago. It will soon be getting dark.’ One had slipped out with a toilet-case, another with a clothes-box. Hampers, sacks one by one had been laid upon the wagons. There was no one left in the house, and at last, since she could not stay there all alone, weeping bitterly she climbed into the carriage that Yūgiri had sent.

At last they arrived. What had happened to her mother’s house? Who were all these people that crowded the passages? Whence this strange air of festivity? And hardly able to believe that this was indeed her old home, Ochiba sat motionless in the carriage long after it had halted.

Yūgiri was waiting in the eastern wing of the palace. He had brought so many possessions with him that Kumoi’s people concluded he was about to make a long stay. ‘He might have given us a little warning,’ they said. ‘When, pray, did the ceremony[155] take place?’ It was assumed that a relationship had been going on in secret for years past. To no one did it occur that the attachment was not mutual; a state of affairs very unfortunate for Ochiba.

When supper was over and everything had quieted down, Yūgiri went to Shōshō no Kimi and commenced his usual appeal. ‘Surely you can make up your mind to let her alone for a day or two,’ the girl said. ‘We can all trust you to remain faithful for as long as that. Madam, so far from being any more cheerful to-day, has felt this homecoming very bitterly, and it is no use trying to approach her. I must ask you, on my own behalf, to show a little consideration; for if anything puts her out, all the burden falls on me. It really is not possible to do anything with her when she is in this state.’ ‘That is very odd,’ said Yūgiri. ‘I should never have supposed, from what I know of her, that she was so churlish and unmanageable ...’ and he began to advance every reason why it must inevitably be not only to his advantage but also to hers—why no one could possibly blame them, till Shōshō no Kimi interrupted impatiently: ‘You might as well ask me to bring messages to a corpse. I tell you she is half out of her wits, and were I to talk to her all night, she would not at the end of it have understood a word I said. I am sure, Sir, you would not wish to take advantage of her while she is in such a condition.’ And she wrung her hands. ‘This is unheard-of,’ he cried. ‘No one can ever have been insulted in so brutal a manner before. It would surprise her to learn how any outside person would be struck by such conduct.’ ‘You have very little experience of the world,’ she laughed, ‘if this is what you call “unheard-of.” And as for appealing to outsiders, I think the less said about that the better. I am not at all sure that they would be on your side.’ But though she stood up to him so well, she could not, as he was now in charge of the household, close doors against him, and presently the two of them together entered the princess’s room. How could one combat such impertinence, such callous lack of consideration? Ochiba did something which she knew would be thought childish and undignified. Picking up a mattress, she rushed into the store-room and locked the door from within. How long would she have to stay here? There was no knowing. All her people seemed now to be on Yūgiri’s side; and in utter wretchedness she settled down there for the night. He for his part, when he had got over his first indignation and surprise, felt calmer. This was decisive; there could be no question of any completer rebuff. Here they were for the night, for all the world like those unfortunate birds the _yamadori_,[156] one on each side of the door. At last the dawn broke, and as he was not anxious to publish too widely the fact that this was the way in which they had spent the night, he now left the house, after once more attempting in vain to induce her to open the door even so much as a crack.

He went to his father’s palace to rest, and there got into conversation with the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers. ‘What does Kumoi think of Ochiba’s return to the First Ward?’ she asked in her mild, tranquil voice. ‘So people are making a story out of that, are they?’ he said. ‘The truth is quite simple. At first Ochiba’s mother was adverse to my taking charge of her daughter. But in her last hours she felt very anxious as to what would become of Ochiba, were she left with no one to manage her affairs, and as I had been a great friend of Kashiwagi, she withdrew her objection and begged me to help Ochiba in every way. There was nothing scandalous or surprising in my having brought her back to the First Ward; all such ideas are the mere invention of gossips and busybodies. As for Ochiba’—and here he laughed slightly—‘she talks of nothing but becoming a nun, which shows that my devotion is not of much interest to her. Perhaps it would be the best thing, after all, if she did go into a nunnery; for at present my position both with her and with Kumoi is an impossible one. But till she does so, I must continue to help her as best I can—to do what her mother would have wished.

‘Next time my father comes to see you, please explain all this to him, if you get the chance. I have been frightened to mention it, lest he should think that, after all this time, I have suddenly become frivolous in my behaviour.... Though as a matter of fact in things of that kind there is no reason for me to fear reproach, either from others or from my own conscience.’ ‘I always thought,’ she answered, ‘that a quite wrong account had been given of the matter; and now I see that I was right. And really, there is no reason why you should not have two wives if you want to. I am only sorry for the poor little princess. She has had things all her own way for so long.’ ‘“Poor little princess,” indeed!’ exclaimed Yūgiri indignantly. ‘It is hard to recognize her in such a description. She is very well able to look after herself, I assure you. “Little demon” would describe her better, when she fancies her rights are being infringed. And why should you suppose I am going to ill-treat her? If you will forgive my saying so, I should have thought your own case showed how much was to be gained in the end by a little patience and self-restraint. A man may for the moment be hustled by tears and demonstrations; but promises exacted in that way are broken immediately, and at the same time leave behind them a disagreeable feeling on both sides. As you know, I have always admired my stepmother in many ways; but nothing about her has ever struck me as more admirable than her forbearance with regard to you.’ She was not deceived by this flattery. ‘That is only your way of making clear how little so insignificant a person as myself can know of such a situation,’ she said, smiling. ‘But I cannot believe that Genji, of all people, would dare to make any fuss about a matter of this kind, even to me in private. That would really be more than one could tolerate....’ ‘You are quite wrong,’ answered Yūgiri. ‘He has often held forth to me about such matters; and naturally, however bad his advice may be, I am bound to appear impressed. I know the situation is rather absurd.’

But to return to the palace in the First Ward. ‘Madam,’ said Ochiba’s maids, ‘you cannot continue to shut yourself up every time he calls. Would it not be better to receive him once in the usual way, and if you wish to break with him, tell him so properly, and have done with the business for good and all?’ But she did not feel that she owed any consideration to one who had shown none to her and had already inflicted upon her reputation injuries which it would take years to efface.

‘Our mistress says that if later on, when she is feeling more inclined for conversation, you are still kind enough to remember her, she will see whether she cannot arrange to talk with you. But at present, while the memory of her mother’s death is still so recent, she begs to be excused.’ So reported one of the maids. ‘But the fact of the matter is,’ she went on, ‘that every one already regards you as a married pair, and this naturally annoys her extremely.’ ‘But it is not as though on any previous occasion I had taken advantage of her, as many men would have done.... Tell her that if she will come out into her room, I will make no objection to there being a screen between us, so long as I am allowed to tell her of what I am suffering—which will certainly not break her heart to hear! Let her grant me this, and she shall hear no more from me for many a long month.’ So Yūgiri pleaded; and when all other arguments proved vain, he put it at last to Shōshō no Kimi that if he were now to absent himself altogether, it would be thought that he had tired of Ochiba—an assumption more wounding to her pride than any of the rumours that were already afoot.

This was undeniable, and Yūgiri (it was evident) would be so abjectly grateful for a mere glimpse of the princess, that Shōshō no Kimi weakened, and finally showed him how to enter the store-room by a secret door that led into the maids’ rooms on the north side. That one of the ordinary servants should be talked round into betraying her was natural enough, the world being as it is. But here was Shōshō no Kimi, her kinswoman, the one person whom she believed to be really on her side, handing her over to the enemy without a moment’s compunction. Yūgiri was now addressing to her every conceivable form of specious argument and entreaty. But though he spoke with what she recognized to be great eloquence and spirit, she remained entirely unmoved, sitting before him with her robe (for she was wearing no mantle) clutched tightly to her. Her determination to thwart him was evidently so intense, and her whole attitude expressed such profound horror at his proximity, that for the first time he began to think this was no mere shyness or widowly discretion. Almost any woman, he felt, would have shown some response to such a courtship as his had been. But she, through it all, had been unbending as an oak. He had heard of intense, unreasoning dislikes, for which no cause, save an adverse experience in some previous life, could be assigned. But so clear a case as this he never thought to have discovered. Was this all that he had got in return for so much that he had thrown away? And he remembered the time before any difficulties grew up between him and Kumoi—all the small secrets and confidences that had made those years so delightful. Suddenly he lapsed into silence; his pleading was at an end. They both sat waiting for the dawn.

Though called a store-room, the place where they sat was not much encumbered. There were a few chests, full of perfumes, and some tray-stands, all pushed well out of the way, so that the effect was that of a small and rather cosy room. It had hitherto been quite dark; but now a ray of daylight suddenly darted in at the open door. She had buried her head in the folds of her robe. He leant forward and pulled the dress. Her hair fell in a tangle about her face, and it was only when he had pushed it back that he could at last make out her features in the growing light. It was an interesting, lively face that met his gaze; aristocratic, yet soft and womanly. And what did she think of him? In truth, she liked him as she saw him now far better than when he was dressed up for company. But it was impossible that he should see anything in her. Had not Kashiwagi (who had far less right to be particular) found her utterly unattractive? And that was years ago, when she was very different indeed from what she was now.... Thus she reasoned with herself. And what would her father and Tō no Chūjō think? Then there was her mother’s death.... If only the period of mourning were over.... It took Yūgiri a long time to contend with all these arguments.

When breakfast was served (not in the store-room, I need hardly say!) it was thought that the dark furniture used during her mourning would strike a jarring note, and a space was divided off at one end of the room, her screen-of-state being of clove-grey, and the furniture in general of not too sumptuous a nature. The meal was served on a two-shelved sideboard of plain sandal-wood, all these things having been provided beforehand by the Governor of Yamato.

The attendants were dressed in inconspicuous shades of yellow, plum-colour, grey and brown, with a few in lighter and gayer colour mixed among them. As the union had taken place in a woman’s establishment, there were many details in the traditional rite which could not be observed; nor had there been any one except the Governor to arrange matters and instruct the under-servants in their duties. On hearing that so distinguished a guest was settled in the house, many family retainers who were not for the moment on duty hastened to the palace, and were received by Yūgiri in what I think is called the estate-office.

When Kumoi found that he showed no signs of returning from the palace in the First Ward, she felt that she had gone on long enough defending him. People were right. He was no longer the same steady, unchanging Yūgiri of former days. Of that Yūgiri not a scrap was left; and seeing no reason why she should put up with further humiliation at his hands, she called at Tō no Chūjō’s house, and alleging an unfavourable conjunction of the stars, established herself there apparently for the night. It so happened that Lady Chūjō was home on a visit. Kumoi found considerable comfort in her sister’s company, and prolonged her stay.

Tō no Chūjō had heard rumours of Yūgiri’s new attachment, and was not surprised that the affair should have come to a head. He thought Kumoi’s flight an unnecessarily violent form of protest; but then she had always been quick-tempered and headstrong.

However, if Kumoi was difficult to deal with, her father was ten times more so. No one had ever insisted so punctiliously upon his rights as head of the family. He seemed almost to take pleasure in parading his intractability. Yūgiri was convinced that if he presented himself at the Great Hall, his father-in-law would behave in the most unreasonable way. ‘Disgraceful. Not a word. Out of my sight!’ That was his style, and Yūgiri felt he could not face such a scene.

Kumoi had left some of the children behind; but the little girls, who were mere babies, she had taken with her to Tō no Chūjō’s palace. Upon Yūgiri’s first return to his home the little boys were wild with delight and clustered round him. One of them, however, began to cry, saying he was unhappy without his mother, which Yūgiri found very harassing. He wrote letter after letter begging Kumoi to return, and even sent a carriage to fetch her; but all to no effect. Her obstinacy was beginning to irritate him, and he felt very much inclined to leave things as they were. But this, he feared, might make a bad impression upon her father, and towards evening he called in person at the house. He went at once to the quarters she usually occupied when on a visit here. Kumoi was nowhere to be seen; but he eventually found some of her ladies, and the little girls with their nurse. From them he learned that Kumoi was living in the central building with her sister. ‘You establish yourself in your sister’s apartments, as though you were not yet of age, leaving some of your children at home and the rest in a distant wing of this palace. Pray tell me what all this means. I have realized for a long time past that your head was full of the most ridiculous notions; but I did not think that, after all the devotion I have shown you in past times, you would fly both from me and our large family of children upon what is after all so flimsy a pretext.’ This was the rather testy note he sent in to her. She replied: ‘What good can come of my returning to you? At present you are tired of me, and I see no reason to suppose that this feeling is not permanent. As for the children, I am delighted to find that you take such an interest in them.’

He made no further effort to bring her back with him, and spent the night alone. What kind of man can he have been (Yūgiri asked himself) who started the notion that love was an agreeable business? To distract himself he had the little boys put to sleep where he could see them. But he got little rest; for no sooner had he stopped thinking about the disastrous flight of Kumoi than he began worrying about Ochiba. How much would she be upset by his absence to-night? Would all his work in that quarter have to be begun over again?

Next morning he wrote to Kumoi: ‘I think your decision will be regarded by every one as very unreasonable; but such as it is I am willing to accept it. The children you have left behind with me are naturally much distressed at your absence. But I presume you had reasons of your own for deserting them as you did, and you must leave it to me to make such provision for them as I think best.’ There seemed in this to be hidden some form of threat. Did he mean to hand them over to a stepmother? Monstrous as such a demand would be, she thought him quite capable of it. Later on he even asked that the girls might be sent back to him. ‘It will henceforward be very difficult for me to have any dealings with your father,’ he wrote, ‘and I shall probably never see the little girls at all, unless they come here. Surely it would be better to bring up all the children together?’ The boys were pretty creatures, still quite small. ‘Do not listen to your mother,’ he said to them. ‘There are many things which she does not properly understand, and this has given her some harsh ideas, that are doing us all great harm.’

So far from being indignant with Yūgiri, Tō no Chūjō thought that his daughter was merely making herself ridiculous by this sudden decampment. ‘You might have waited a little,’ he said to Kumoi, ‘to see how things would go. Yūgiri is after all a man of considerable good sense. Such headstrong and precipitate behaviour does not sit at all well upon a woman. However, since you have adopted this line, you must stick to it for the present. We shall see later on what steps he will take to get you back.’

To Ochiba Tō no Chūjō sent the poem: ‘Because of the bond that was between us I will keep you a place in my heart. But for sympathy you must ask me no longer—you who now have more than your share!’ As messenger he chose his son Ben no Shōshō, who had known the house very well in Kashiwagi’s time, and walked straight in. He was given a seat on the verandah outside the women’s quarters; but none of the ladies seemed much inclined for conversation. In Ochiba his visit naturally awakened painful memories. He was the best-looking and most promising of Tō no Chūjō’s sons, and as she watched him from within, Ochiba was astonished by his resemblance to Kashiwagi. ‘Can it be,’ he wrote, ‘that you intend to treat me, who came so often to this house, as an utter stranger?’

She found Tō no Chūjō’s poem very hard to answer. Her maids insisted that it could not be dealt with by proxy If only her mother were there to help her with it. She perhaps would be vexed at the circumstances that had called forth Tō no Chūjō’s protest. But her mother had always been ready to help her out of a difficulty, even to screen her misdoings.

‘How can I, that am but one person, at the same time merit both sympathy and reproach?’ Such was the tenor of her reply, and merely folding it up she sent it out to Ben no Shōshō unsealed. ‘For a person who used to know the house,’ he was saying to her ladies, ‘it is rather dispiriting to be left on the verandah in this way. I see that if I am to be regarded as a privileged person I must come here often. Full admittance is no doubt only granted as the reward of long assiduity. So expect to see me here frequently,’ and with this attempt at levity he withdrew.

At the time when Ochiba was giving him no encouragement and Yūgiri’s distraction was most trying to those who lived with him, Kumoi suddenly received a letter from Koremitsu’s[157] daughter. Kumoi, this lady supposed, had always regarded her with complete indifference. Yet somehow the news of what was going on at Ono moved her to write a letter of sympathy, and it was followed by others. In her poem she said: ‘I that am nothing, not for my own sake but for yours with tear-wet sleeve lament that love grows cold.’ Kumoi thought this perhaps a trifle impertinent; but receiving it as she did at a time of profound discouragement, she was by no means displeased to discover sympathy even in so humble a quarter. ‘How often have I grieved for others in this same plight, and little dreamed how soon it would be mine.’ This was all that she sent in reply; but simple though the words were, Koremitsu’s daughter did not doubt their sincerity.

It should be explained that during the period when Tō no Chūjō kept Yūgiri away from Kumoi, he had carried on a secret affair with this daughter of Koremitsu. After his marriage he saw her only on very rare occasions. By Kumoi he had four boys and four girls; by Koremitsu’s daughter two boys and two girls. All twelve were handsome and well-grown children, particularly the four born to him in this secret union, who were also very intelligent. The younger girl and younger boy were left with Koremitsu’s daughter. But the older boy and girl were educated by the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers, who made a great fuss of them. Here they were often seen by Genji and became great favourites with him.

And so for the present we may leave Yūgiri and his affairs.

[141] See above, p. 229.

[142] The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers.

[143] With his father, Genji.

[144] ‘If ever before I had received unkindness at your hands, this sudden dereliction would be less hard to bear.’

[145] The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers. Yūgiri is pretending that it was from her the letter came.

[146] Ochiba’s house in the mountains.

[147] According to the astrologers.

[148] See above, p. 281.

[149] Those who die with anything on their minds cannot enter Paradise.

[150] A rattle used by peasants to scare away birds from the crops.

[151] Suzaku.

[152] Otonashi no Taki.

[153] A Buddhist story. The prince, being endowed with knowledge of good and evil, and memory of his past existences, remembered that in the last but one he had spoken an angry word, and consequently spent his next existence in Hell. Having now been born as a prince, he determined to be on the safe side, and did not speak at all. When he was thirteen, the King lost patience with him and gave orders that he was to be buried alive. Upon which the Silent Prince at last spoke. For a version of the story see Chavannes, _Cinq Cent Contes et Apologues_, i, 126.

[154] I.e. to become a nun.

[155] The formal betrothal.

[156] The copper pheasant; the male and female are supposed to sleep one on each side of the valley.

[157] Genji’s retainer. See vol. i, _passim_. Yūgiri had fallen in love with her when she was at the Palace as a Gosechi dancer. See vol. iii, p. 130.