Chapter X: Yūgiri (2)

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.