11

He went next to To~ no Chu~jo~'s mansion, where numerous sons were gathered. After putting himself in order To~ no Chu~jo~ received him in the main drawing room. Sorrow had not destroyed his good looks, though his face was thin and he wore a bushy beard, which had been allowed to grow all during his son's illness. He seemed to have been more affected by his son's death than even by his mother's. The sight of him came near reducing Yu~giri to tears, but he thought weeping the last thing the occasion called for. To~ no Chu~jo~ was less successful at controlling his tears, for Yu~giri and the dead youth had been such very close friends. The talk was of the stubborn, lingering sadness, and as it moved on to other matters Yu~giri told of his interview with the Second Princess's mother. This time the minister's tears were like a sudden spring shower. Yu~giri took out a piece of notepaper on which he had jotted down the old lady's poem.

“I'm afraid I can't make it out,” said To~ no Chu~jo~, trying to see through his tears. The face once so virile and proud had been softened by grief. Though the poem was not a particularly distinguished one the image about the dew on the willow shoots seemed very apt and brought on a new flood of tears.

“The autumn your mother died I thought that sorrow could not be crueler. But she was a woman, and one does not see very much of women. They tend to have few friends and to stay out of sight. My sorrow was an entirely private matter. My son was not a remarkably successful man, but he did attract the emperor's gracious notice and as he grew older he rose in rank and influence, and more and more people looked to him for support. After their various circumstances they were all upset by his death. Not of course that my grief has to do with prestige and influence. It is rather that I remember him before all this happened, and see what a dreadful loss it is. I wonder if I will ever be the same again.”

Looking up into an evening sky which had misted over a dull gray, he seemed to notice for the first time that the tips of the cherry branches were bare. He jotted down a poem on the same piece of notepaper, beside that of the princess's mother.

“Drenched by the fall from these trees, I mourn for a child

Who should in the natural order have mourned for me.”

Yu~giri answered:

“I doubt that he who left us wished it so,

That you should wear the misty robes of evening.”

And Kashiwagi's brother Ko~bai:

“Bitter, bitter—whom can he have meant

To wear the misty robes ere the advent of spring?”

The memorial services were very grand. Kumoinokari, Yu~giri's wife, helped with them, of course, and Yu~giri made them his own special con-cern.