Among the emperor’s consorts was a daughter of a Minister of the Left who was known as the wisteria lady. She was the earliest of the royal consorts to be presented at court. The emperor, then the crown prince, was very fond of her, even though the more obvious signs of his affection were somehow wanting. Through the years when his numerous children by the empress were one after another reaching adulthood, she gave birth to only one child, a daughter, who was of course the center of her life. It had been fated that she lose out to a rival, she told herself, and she found consolation in the thought of seeing her daughter succeed where she had failed. The emperor too was fond of the child, a very pretty girl; but the First Princess had a stronger hold on his affection, and this Second Princess was far from as conspicuous a public figure. Still she had no reason to feel neglected. The legacy from the minister’s great days still largely intact, her mother was by no means a pauper. She maintained an elegant and fashionable household, and her women, after their several ranks, dressed for the passing seasons in the most unexceptionable taste.

It was decided that the princess’s initiation ceremonies would be held in the early months of her fourteenth year. Plans for them occupied the whole of the mother’s attention. She was determined that every detail be correct and yet somehow different. Ancient heirlooms from the late minister’s family were brought out and the bustle and stir were such as the house had not seen before. And then in the summer she fell victim to an evil possession, and was gone almost before anyone knew that she was ill. The emperor was desolate, though of course he could do nothing. The grand courtiers agreed that it was a sad loss, for she had been a gentle, sensitive lady; and maids of such low rank that they scarcely had a right to mourn joined the emperor in his grief.

The Second Princess was now alone. The emperor quietly summoned her to the palace when the memorial rites were over, and every day he visited her rooms. The dark robes of mourning and a certain wanness from grief only added to her beauty. Mature for her years, she had a quiet dignity that made her perhaps even a little superior to her mother. And so her position might on the surface have seemed secure. The facts were rather different. She had no maternal uncles to whom she could turn for support. One could find among her mother’s half brothers a treasury secretary and a superintendent of palace repairs, but they were very inconspicuous. They would not be much help to the princess in the difficulties that lay ahead, and very considerable difficulties they promised to be. The emperor was almost as apprehensive as the princess herself.

He came calling one day when the chrysanthemums, tinged by the frost, were at their best and sad autumn showers were falling. They talked of the wisteria lady. The giri’s answers, calm and at the same time very youthful, quite delighted him. Was there no one who was capable of appreciating her many virtues and might be persuaded to look after her? He remembered the deliberations and the final decision when the Suzaku emperor had entrusted his daughter to Genji. There had been those who argued that it was improper for a princess of the blood to marry a commoner and that she would do better to remain single. And now she had an unusually talented son who was the strongest support a mother could hope for, and no one could have said that she had slipped in the smallest degree from her high position. Had it not been for her marriage to Genji, she might have come upon sad days, no one could guess of what description, and she had her marriage to thank that the world still respected her. Worrying the problem over, the emperor concluded that he must see to the Second Princess’s future while he still occupied the throne. And where could he find a more appropriate candidate for her hand than Kaoru, a better solution than to follow in the second generation the precedent of the first? Ranged beside other royal consorts, he would not seem in the least out of place. There did appear, it was true, to be someone of whom he was fond, but he was not a man likely to let any breath of scandal damage his relations with the Second Princess. And of course it was unthinkable that he would remain forever single. He must give some hint of his feelings, the emperor told himself over and over again, before the young man forestalled him by taking a wife.

In the evening, as he and the Second Princess were at a game of Go, a shower passed and the chrysanthemums caught the light of the autumn sunset.

The emperor summoned a page.

“Who is in attendance upon us tonight?”

“His Highness the minister of central affairs, His Highness Prince Kanzuke, and Lord Minamoto, the councillor, are with us, Your Majesty.”

“Call the last, if you will.”

Kaoru came as ordered. The emperor’s choice was not surprising. Everything about the young man was remarkable, even the fragrance that announced his approach.

“Such gentle showers as we are having tonight. They cry out for music; but of course our mourning would not permit it. I can think of no better a pursuit ‘for whiling away the days’ than a game of Go.”

He pulled up a Go board. Used to these companionable services, Kaoru settled down for a game.

“There is something I might wager,” said the emperor, “but I am not quite sure that I have the courage. Let me see, now — what else might there be?”

Immediately guessing what he meant, Kaoru played very soberly. The emperor lost the third game.

“How very disappointing. Well, I will let you break off a blossom. Go choose one, if you will.”

Kaoru went down into the garden and broke off one of the finer chrysanthemums. Returning, he offered a cautious verse:

“If I had found it at a common hedge,

I might have plucked it quite to suit my fancy.”

The emperor replied:

“A single chrysanthemum, left in a withered garden,

Withstands the frost, its color yet unfaded.”

There were such hints from time to time, some through intermediaries. Kaoru was not one to rush in headlong pursuit. He had no compelling desire to many, and through the years he had turned aside hopeful talk of more than one deprived though attractive young lady. It would not do for the hermit to talk now (an odd way, perhaps, to put the matter) of going back into business; and surely there would be any number of young men willing to brush aside all other commitments in their eagerness to do what they could for a royal princess. He suspected that, in his own case, the conclusions might be somewhat different were the princess one of the empress’s daughters; but he quickly put the thought away as unworthy.

Yūgiri had vague reports of what was taking place, and was much annoyed. He had had ideas of his own: Kaoru might not be as consumed with ardor as one might hope, but he could not in the end refuse if Yūgiri were to press his case. And now this strange development. Yūgiri’s thoughts turned once again to Niou. It would have been sheer self-deception to credit Niou with great steadfastness, but he had continued all the while to send amusing and interesting little notes to Yūgiri’s daughter Rokunokimi. Though people were no doubt right to call him a trifler, fate had dictated stranger things than that he fix his affections upon Rokunokimi. Impassioned vows, impermeable, watertight vows, so to speak, often enough led to disappointment and humiliation when the man was not of grand enough rank.

“What sad days we have come upon,” said Yūgiri. “Even monarchs must go out begging for sons-in-law. Think how we commoners must worry as we see our daughters passing their prime.”

Though circumspect in his criticism of the emperor, he was otherwise so outspoken with his sister, the empress, that she felt constrained to pass at least a part of his complaints on to Niou:

“I do feel sorry for him, you know. He has been after you for a year and more, knowing quite well what sort of cooperation he can expect from you. You have spent the whole year dashing madly in the other direction, not very good evidence, I must say, of warmth and kindness. And you must remember that a good marriage is very important for someone like you. Your father begins to talk of leaving the throne, and — ordinary people are expected to be satisfied with only one wife, I suppose, but even with them — look at my brother himself, such a model of propriety, and still able to manage two wives without offending anyone. Just let things work themselves out as we hope they will, and you can have any number you like. No one will have the smallest objection.”

She was not a loquacious woman, and it had been a remarkable speech; and it did have a reasonable sound to it. Never having disliked Rokunokimi, Niou did not want to answer in a way that seemed to slam all the doors; but the prospect of being imprisoned in that excessively decorous household, of forgoing the freedom that was now his, made the proposed match seem unbearably drab. He could not, all the same, deny that his mother’s remarks were very sensible, most particularly those about the folly of alienating important people who wished to become one’s inlaws. He was caught in a dilemma. And then too there was his tendency to spread his affections generously, and the fact that he still had not found it possible to forget Kōbai’s stepdaughter. As the seasons presented occasions, the flowers of spring and the autumn leaves, he still sent her letters, and he would have had to include both of them, Rokunokimi and Kōbai’s daughter, on the list of those whom he found not uninteresting.

And so the New Year came. The Second Princess having put away her robes of mourning, there was no longer a need for reticence in the matter of her marriage.

“The indications are,” someone said to Kaoru,” that the emperor would not be unfriendly to a proposal.”

Kaoru could have feigned ignorance, but he was quite well enough known already for eccentricity and brusqueness. Summoning up his resolve, he found occasion from time to time to hint that he was interested. The emperor of course had no reason to reject these overtures, and presently Kaoru was informed, again through intermediaries, that a date had been set. Though he was altogether in sympathy with the troubled emperor, his life was still haunted by a sense of emptiness, and he still found it impossible to accept the fact that so apparently strong a bond should in the end have snapped like a thread. He knew that he would be drawn to a girl, even a girl of humble birth, who resembled Oigimi. If only he could, like that Chinese emperor, have a glimpse through magic incense of his lost love! He was in no great rush to wed this royal lady.

Yūgiri was in a rush. He suggested to Niou that the Eighth Month might be appropriate for his marriage to Rokunokimi.

So it had happened, thought Nakanokimi, learning of these events. What was she to do? She had passed her days in anticipation of just such gloomy news, which would make her the laughingstock of the whole world. She had had little confidence in Niou from the start, having heard of his promiscuous ways, and yet when she had come to know him somewhat better she had found him altogether gentle and considerate, and given to the most ardent protestations of eternal love. And now this sudden change — could she be expected to receive it with equanimity? Their union would not. be dissolved, obliterated, as she might have had cause to fear had she been of meaner birth, but the future seemed to offer only worries and more worries. No doubt she was fated to go back to the mountains one day. Her thoughts ran on, chasing one another in circles. She was certain that she was at length facing the punishment she deserved 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 surface. 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 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 suspicions 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 information 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.

Kaoru felt very sorry for her indeed. Niou, given his bright, somewhat showy nature, was certain to be drawn to the more modish and accomplished 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 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 complications 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 Nijō 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.

“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.

The sun was rising as he approached the Nijō 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 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.

“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 Rokujō and the others, where he was in retirement the last few years of his life. I would go back to Sanjō 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 Rokujō 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 uncertainty 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.”

“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 he needs for the services. But now that you mention it, I had been worrying about the house myself. Would you consider turning it over to the monastery? The sight of it upsets me terribly, and you know how unfortunate attachments of that sort are. Might we get it off our minds? It is for you to decide, of course — your wishes are my own, and my only real wish is for you to be frank with me. Do let me know, please, what you would like to have done.”

Suddenly he had become practical. She had thought, apparently, to offer images and scrolls of her own, and to make the memorial services her excuse for a few quiet days at Uji.

“Impossible, quite impossible. Do, I beg of you, try to keep yourself from worrying about these things.”

The sun was higher, the women were assembling, and if he were to stay longer he would arouse suspicions.

“I am not used to being kept at quite such a distance, and I am not at all comfortable. But I shall come again.”

It would be out of character for Niou not to ask questions. To forestall them, Kaoru looked in upon Niou’s chamberlain, who was also one of the city magistrates.

“I had been told that the prince came back from the palace last night, and was disappointed to find him still away. I am going to the palace myself.”

“He left word that he would be back today.”

“I see. I will try to stop by this evening.”

Each interview with Nakanokimi, such a paragon of elegance and sensibility, left him regretting more than ever that he had so freely renounced his claims. Why had he felt constrained to go against Oigimi’s wishes? Why had he been so assiduous in seeking out unhappiness, making doubly sure that he had no one to reprove but himself? He turned more than ever to fasting and meditation. His mother, though still girlish and not much given to worry, was upset.

“I do not mean to live forever, as they say, and it would be a great comfort to see you behaving like other boys. I am a nun and in no position to stop you if you are absolutely set on running away from the world; but I rather imagine that I will have certain regrets when my time comes.”

Not wanting to upset her further, he tried to make it seem that he had not a care in the world.

Yūgiri meanwhile had refurbished the northeast quarter at Rokujō, exhausting his very considerable resources to make it acceptable to the most demanding of bridegrooms. The moon of the sixteenth night had long since risen and still Yūgiri and his family waited. All very embarrassing, thought Yūgiri as he sent off a messenger. The evidence was too clear that the match had failed to delight Niou.

“He left the palace earlier in the evening,” reported the man, “and it is said that he went back to Nijō.”

Yūgiri was not at all pleased. Ordinary decency asked that this night of all nights the prince put other women from his thoughts. But the world would be all too ready to laugh if they passed the night in waiting, and so he sent off a message to Nijō with one of his sons, a guards captain:

“Even the moon deigns to come to this dwelling of mine.

The night draws on, we await a sign of you.”

Niou had not wished to upset Nakanokimi further by having her see him depart for Rokujō. He therefore sent a message from the palace; but her reply, whatever it might have been, seems to have given him pause. He did, after all, slip off to Nijō. Once there, he felt no need for other company. The captain arrived as the two of them were looking out at the moon and Niou, seeking desperately to comfort her, was pouring forth a stream of vows. Determined not to let her unhappiness show, she managed an appearance of composure and serenity. Her refusal to chide him was far more moving than clear evidence of injured feelings could possibly have been. The arrival of the captain reminded him that the girl at Rokujō might be unhappy too.

“I shall be back in no time. You are not to sit here looking at the moon. And you must remember how empty the hours will be until I am with you again.” A most uncomfortable situation, he said to himself as he made his way to the main hall by an inconspicuous route.

Meanwhile, her eyes on the retreating figure, Nakanokimi was telling herself that a lady did not surrender to unworthy emotions. Her pillow might threaten to float away, but her heart must be kept under tight control.

Fate had been unkind to them, to her sister and her, from the outset. They had had only their father, a man intent upon cutting his ties with the world. Life in the mountains had been lonely and monotonous, but she had not known as she now knew the deep cruelty of the world. There had been the one death and then the other. Not wanting to linger for even a moment after her father and sister, she had deceived herself into thinking that such grief and longing must be unique. But she had lived on, and had come to be treated rather more like a human being than, in the circum- stances, one might have expected. Though she had tried to tell herself that this happiness could not last, there Niou had been beside her, the most endearing of men, and the worry and sorrow had gradually subsided. How very ironical that the healing powers of time should have left her all the less prepared for this new shock. It was the end.

Would she not see him from time to time? — for he had not, after all, departed the world. Yet his behavior tonight threw everything, past and future, into a meaningless jumble, and her efforts to find a light through the gloom were unavailing. There would be a change of some sort if she but lived long enough, she told herself over and over again, knowing that to give up would indeed be the end. Her anguish, as the night drew on, had for company the rising moon, the clear moon, “of the Mount of Women Forsaken.”

To one who knew the wild winds from the mountains of Uji, the pine breeze here was gentleness itself; bu............