Kashiwagi

The New Year brought with it no change in Kashiwagi’s condition. A fatal issue seemed certain, and on his own account he had not the slightest wish to avoid it. If indeed from time to time he seemed to be struggling against his fate, it was because he dared not reveal to his parents how little he dreaded a separation, the prospect of which manifestly caused them so bitter an affliction.

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 smoldering 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 Kojiju 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 Kojiju began quietly preparing the Princess’s writing things, and presently, with many hesitations, she produced an answer, which Kojiju under cover of night managed to convey secretly to To no Chujo’s house.

The quiet of Kashiwagi’s apartments now began to be rudely disturbed; for To no Chujo, 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, Kobai* and the rest brought back from the hills, were some Yamabushi^† 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 someone who could dislodge this mysterious influence that To no Chujo 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 Kojiju, but to To no Chujo it was given out that Kashiwagi was asleep. Chujo 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 Kojiju. “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 glamor, 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. Kojiju, 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. Kojiju 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 anyone 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 Kojiju 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 naught 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* 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 splendor, and the usual trays, magic boxes,^† 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. To no Chujo 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* 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 honor 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,* 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 incarnations. 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 someone 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 rumors that had been reaching him for years past. Well, if Genji’s treatment of her was such that she preferred the rigors 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 To no Chujo, 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 honor! 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 Kobai, 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 Counselor 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 honor was Yugiri, 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 Yugiri 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 Yugiri might enjoy this final visit undisturbed. “I hoped to find you a little stronger today. I thought that perhaps this promotion...” Yugiri said, pulling aside the bed-curtains. The white bedclothes 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 Yugiri’s entertainment, not to let the visit remain in his memory as a disagreeable experience. Yugiri 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 Yugiri. “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 someone, 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, Yugiri 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 farther. 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 Chujo and Yugiri’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 favorite 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.* Had she after all judged his transgression too harshly?

Yugiri 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 reti-cent, 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 anyone, 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 favorite 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.* 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 Kobai 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 Yugiri. 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 To no Chujo’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 To no Chujo 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 To no Chujo’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 Yugiri’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 today 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 everyone else in the house, wore garments that by their drab color 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 Yugiri bent over the curtains. “What elegance! What grace!” A maid called Shosho 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 Yugiri 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 someone 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 Yugiri’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.

Footnotes

* Younger brother of Kashiwagi.

† Mountain ascetics.

* His relations with his father’s mistress, Fujitsubo.

† Sets of boxes fitting one into the other.

* Those who die in childbirth are much handicapped in spiritual progress beyond the grave.

* Suggest that he was meditating a coup d’état.

* Karma.

* In sign of mourning.