for having gone against her father's wishes and left her mountain home.
Better to vanish quite away than to go back now and face the derision of
the rustics among whom she had lived. Her sister had seemed weak and
indecisive, but a formidable strength had lain beneath the vacillating sur-
face. Though Kaoru seemed to go on grieving, no doubt Oigimi, if she had
lived, would have had to face what she herself now faced. Determined that
nothing of the sort would happen to her, Oigimi had made use of every
possible device, even the threat of becoming a nun, to keep him at a
distance. And no doubt she would have carried out the threat. Had hers
not been, in retrospect, determination of the very highest order? And so
both of them, her father and her sister, thought Nakanokimi, would now
be looking down from the heavens and sighing over her stupidity and
heedlessness. She was sad and she was ashamed; but it would do no good
to show her thoughts. She managed to get through her days with no sign
that she had heard the news.
Niou was gentler and more affectionate than ever. At her side con-
<P 891>
stantly, he sought to comfort her. He made promises for this life and for
all the lives to come. He had noticed from about the Fifth Month that she
was in some physical distress. There were no violent or striking symptoms;
but she had little appetite and seemed to spend a great deal of time resting.
Not having been familiar with other women in a similar condition, he told
himself that the warm weather could be troublesome. Yet certain suspi-
cions did cross his mind.
"Might it just be possible? I believe I have heard descriptions of
something of the sort."
Nakanokimi blushed and insisted that nothing was amiss; and since
no one among her women was prepared to step forward with the informa-
tion he needed, he was left with his own speculations.
The Eighth Month came, and people told her that the day had been
set for the wedding. Niou himself had no particular wish to keep the
information from her, but each time an opportunity came to tell her he
found himself falling mute. His silence made things worse. The whole
world knew, and he had not had the courtesy even to inform her of the
date. Did she not have a right to be angry? It had been his practice not to
spend his nights in the palace unless the findings of the soothsayers or
other unusual circumstances made it necessary. Nor had he been busy, as
in earlier years, with nocturnal adventures. Now he began to spend an
occasional night at court, hoping to prepare her for the absences which the
new arrangements would make necessary. This foresight did not make him
seem kinder.
<N 7>
Kaoru felt very sorry for her indeed. Niou, given his bright, somewhat
showy nature, was certain to be drawn to the more modish and accom-
plished Rokunokimi, however fond he might be of Nakanokimi. And with
that formidable family of hers mounting guard over him, Nakanokimi
would be doomed to lonely nights such as she had not known before. An
utterly heartbreaking situation, everything considered. And how useless
he was himself! Why had he given her away? His spirit had been serene
in its renunciation of the world until he had been drawn to Oigimi, and
he had let it be stirred and muddied. He had managed to control himself
despite the intensity of his devotion, for it would have gone against his
original intentions to force himself upon her. He had continued to hope,
looking towards a day when he might arouse even a faint response in her
and see her heart open even a little. Though everything indicated that her
own wishes were very different, he had still found comfort in her apparent
inability to send him on his way. She had sought to interest him in her
sister, with whom, she had said, she shared a single being. He had sought
with unnecessary haste, by way of retaliation, to push Nakanokimi into
Niou's arms. In a strong fit of pique he had taken Niou off to Uji and made
all the arrangements for him. What an irremediable blunder it had been!
And as for Niou--if he remembered a small fraction of Kaoru's troubles
in those days, ought he not to be a little concerned about Kaoru's feelings
<P 892>
today? Triflers, woman-chasers were not for women to rely upon--not,
indeed, for anyone to have much faith in. A farsighted sort of protector
Kaoru himself had been! No doubt his way of riveting his attention on a
single object seemed strange and reprehensible to most people. Having lost
his first love, he was less than delighted at having a bride bestowed upon
him by the emperor himself, and every day and every month his longing
for Nakanokimi grew. This deplorable inability to accept his loss had to
do with the fact that Oigimi and Nakanokimi had been close as sisters
seldom are. With almost her last breath Oigimi had asked him to think of
her sister as he had thought of her. She left behind no regrets to tie her
to the world, she had said, save that he had gone against her wishes in this
one matter. And now, the crisis having come, she would be looking down
from the heavens in anger. All through the lonely nights, for which he had
no one to blame but himself, he would awaken at the rising of the gentlest
breeze, and over and over again he would run through a list of complica-
tions from the past and worries for the future that were not, strictly
speaking, his own. He had dallied with this or that lady from time to time,
and even now there were several in his household whom he had no reason
at all to dislike; but not one of them had held his attention for more than
a moment. There were others, ladies of royal lineage to whom the times
had not been kind and who now lived in poverty and neglect. Several such
ladies had been taken in by his mother, but they had not shaken his
determination to be without regrets when the time came to leave the
world.
One morning, after a more than usually sleepless night, he looked out
into the garden, and his eye was caught by morning glories, fragile and
uncertain, in among the profusion of dew-soaked flowers at the hedge.
"They bloom for the morning," he whispered to himself, the evanescence
of the flowers matching his own sense of futility. He lay hoping for a little
rest as the shutters were raised, and watched on, alone, as the morning
glories opened.
"Please have a carriage brought out, one that won't attract much
attention," he said to a servant. "I want to go to the Nijo~ house."
"But Prince Niou was at the palace all night, my lord. Some men
brought his carriage back later in the evening."
"I want to ask after the princess. I've heard that she is not well. I will
be at the palace myself later in the day. Be quick about it, please. I want
to get started not too long after sunrise."
His toilet finished, he stepped down into the garden and wandered
among the flowers for a time. There was nothing gaudy or obviously
contrived about his dress, but he had a calm dignity that was almost
intimidating. It was a manner profoundly his own, for he was not one to
strut and preen. Pulling a tendril toward him, he saw that it was still wet
with dew.
<P 893>
"It lasts, I know, but as long as the dew upon it.
Yet am I drawn to the hue that fades with the morning.
How very quickly it goes."
He broke it off to take with him, and left without a glance for the
saucy maiden flowers.
<N 8>
The sun was rising as he approached the Nijo~ mansion, and the skies
were hazy from the dew. He began to fear that he had come too early and
that the women would still be snoring away. Disliking the thought of
anything so unsubtle as coughing to attract attention or pounding on doors
or shutters, he sent one of his men to look in at the garden gate. The
shutters were up, it seemed, and there were women astir. At the sight of
a stately figure approaching through the mists, the women assumed that
their master was back from his nocturnal wanderings. But that remarkable
scent, made stronger by the dew, quickly informed them of the truth, and
soon the younger ones were commenting upon it. Yes, he was terribly nice
--but so cool and distant--in that respect not very nice at all, really. They
were women who knew what was expected of them, however, and the soft
rustle of silk as they pushed a cushion out to him was not unpleasing.
"You almost make me feel like a human being," he said to
Nakanokimi, "but here I am still on the outside. Try to make me feel a little
more at home, or I will not be coming often."
And what now? the women were asking.
"Might there be a quiet retreat somewhere, perhaps off far in the
north, where an old man might take his ease? If something of the sort is
what you have in mind, well, so be it." He was at the door to the inner
rooms.
The women persuaded her to go a bit nearer. He had never shown a
sign of the impetuousness one expects in young men, and his deportment
had of late seemed even calmer and more restrained than before. Her
shyness was leaving her. Indeed, they had become rather friendly.
He asked what might be ailing her. The answer came with great
hesitation, and a silence that seemed protracted even for her made it easy
to guess what the trouble was (and this new knowledge added to the
sadness). He set about advising and comforting her, as if he were a brother.
Choosing his words very carefully, he told her what marriage is. The voices
of the sisters had not seemed alike, but now he found the resemblance
astonishing, as if Oigimi had come back. Had it not been for these curious
attendants, he would have been tempted to lift the blind and go inside, to
be nearer a lady more appealing for the fact that she was unwell. Did no
man escape the pangs of love? It was a question that brought its own
answer.
"I had always said that a man may not get everything he wants in this
world, but he should try to make his way through it without fretting and
worrying, without whining about the many frustrations. Now I see that
<P 894>
there are defeats and losses that permit no peace, not a moment free of
stupid regrets. People who put a high value on rank and position and the
like, I can see now, have every right to complain when things are not going
well for them. I am sure that my own shortcomings are worse."
He gazed at the morning glory, which he had laid on his fan. It took
on a reddish tinge as it withered, and a strange new beauty. He thrust it
under the blind, and softly recited a poem:
"Should I have taken the proffered morning glory
With the silver dew, the blessing, still upon it?"
He had made no special effort to preserve the dew, but he was pleased
that it should still be there--that the flower should fade away fresh with
dew.
"Forlorn the flower that fades with the dew upon it.
Yet more forlorn the dew that is left behind.
Where would you have me turn?"
She was so like her sister as she offered this gentlest of reproofs! Her
voice trailed into silence.
<P 895>
"It is a sad season, the saddest of the year, I think. I went off to Uji
the other day, hoping to shake off a little of the gloom, but it made me even
sadder to see how'garden and fence' had gone to ruin. I was reminded
of how it was after my father died. People who had been fond of him
would go and look in on the places, the house in Saga and the house in
Rokujo~ and the others, where he was in retirement the last few years of
his life. I would go back to Sanjo~ myself after a look at those trees and
grasses, and the tears would be streaming from my eyes. He had been
careful to have only sensitive people near him, and the women who had
served him were scattered over the city, most of them in seclusion. A few
unfortunate ones from the lower classes went quite mad with grief, and
ran off into the mountains and forests, where you would not have been
able to tell them from mountain people. At Rokujo~ the'grasses of forget-
fulness' took over. And then my brother, the minister, moved in, and
there were princes and princesses there again, and soon it was as lively as
ever I told myself that time took care of everything, that a day would come
for the most impossible sorrows to go away; and it did seem to be true that
everything had its limits. So I said; but I was young then, and quick to
recover. I have now had two great lessons in impermanence, and the more
recent one has left a wound I am not likely to recover from. Indeed it makes
me rather apprehensive about the world to come. I feel sure I will take
along a considerable store of dissatisfaction and regret."
Tears emphasized his point, as if he had not made it well enough
Even a lady who had not been close to Oigimi would have found
them hard to resist; as for Nakanokimi, the grief and longing and uncer-
tainty she had been so unsuccessful at shaking off quite engulfed her again.
She finally succumbed to tears. Far from comforting each other, they only
seemed to reopen old wounds.
"'The mountain village is lonely' --you know the poem they are all
so fond of. I never quite saw what it meant. And here I am now, longing
for just such a quiet place, away from all this, and I cannot have it.
Bennokimi was right to stay behind. How I wish I had had her good sense.
The anniversary of Father's death will be coming at the end of the month.
It would be so good to hear those bells again. As a matter of fact, I had
been thinking I might ask you to take me there for a few days. We needn't
tell anyone."
<P 896>
"I know. You don't want the house going to ruin. But I'm afraid it
would be quite impossible. Even a man without baggage has a time getting
over those mountains. Weeks and months go by between my own visits,
and I am forever thinking I ought to go. The abbot has all the instructions
