29

It was growing dark and the humming of insects was loud. The hillock in the garden was falling back into night. He sat quietly on, leaning against an armrest. She wished very much that he would leave.

“An end to sorrow,” * he whispered. “No, it is too much. Let me have a Silencetown+ somewhere, a place for quiet tears. Somewhere near that monastery of yours. No, I don't need a whole monastery. If I could just have a statue or a picture of her, and set out offerings before it.”

“A very kind thought. But just a moment—you speak of having an image made, and that somehow suggests the river Mitarashi.* And so perhaps you are not being so kind to my sister after all. Or a picture: much depends, you know, on what you are willing to pay. An artist can do very badly by a person.”+

“That is true, of course. And in any case, no sculptor or painter could really give me what I want. Short of a miracle, which I would not reject. I know of a sculptor who one day not long ago brought flowers raining down from the skies.” #

She at length took pity on him, convinced that he had indeed been unable to forget, and came a little nearer.

“This image you speak of reminds me of something. Something very strange.”

“Yes?” Delighted at this new amiability, he reached under the curtain for her hand.

So here they were again! But her indignation did not keep her from wanting to quiet him somehow and make reasonable discussion possible; and there was the problem of Sho~sho~, sitting right beside her.

She managed to go on. “I heard recently of a lady whose existence I had not dreamed of. Someone whom I could not keep at a distance, and at the same time whom I had no great wish to be friendly with. The other day she came calling, and the resemblance to my sister astonished me and moved me deeply. You insist on seeing my sister in me, on thinking of me as a sort of legacy, and yet these women tell me that no two people could have been more unlike. Strange that in both cases it should be the opposite of what one would expect—that a lady with no cause to look like her should be her very image.”

Might he be dreaming? “Some very strong bond has brought you together, of that we can be sure. But why had you told me nothing of this before?”

“Bond? I have no notion what that might be. Father's great fear was that we would become drifters and beggars, and now that I am alone I have reason to think I am finally beginning to understand what he meant. And now this unfortunate affair comes along, and I shudder to think of the harm it will do to his memory if we let the world get wind of it.”

Her manner suggested that she was referring to “this keepsake, this child,” ** left by some lady with whom her father had kept secret com-pany. He wanted to hear more about the resemblance to Oigimi.

“Having said this much, you ought to go on, I think. Surely you do not mean to leave me dangling.”

But she was reluctant to give him the details. “You might want to visit her. There is much that I do not know myself, but I can tell you in a general way of her whereabouts. And revealing too much sometimes takes away from the interest.”

He pressed her for more.” If it were in pursuit of your sister, I would give myself up to wandering the wide, gloomy world, I would search to the depths of the sea.* I would of course be less single-minded in pursuit of this new lady. But since I had thought that even an image of your sister would be some slight comfort, why should we not enshrine the other in that mountain village? Please tell me everything, and as clearly as you can.”

“No. He did not recognize her as one of his children, and I should not have told you as much as I have. It was just that I felt sorry for you and doubtful about this request for a miraculous sculptor.

“She grew up in the far provinces. Her mother thought it a pity that she should be hidden from the world and mustered up courage to write to me. I could not bring myself to ignore the letter, and so the girl herself came to see me. It may be of course that there was not time for a really good look at her, but she seemed less countrified in every way than I would have expected. It would be great good fortune for her poor mother—she really seemed quite desperate—if you were to enshrine the girl. But I hardly think that matters will go so far.”

He was resentful, sensing behind the apparent innocence with which she told him of this new discovery a wish to turn away unwelcome atten-tions. Still he was interested. She evidently found his presence next to intolerable; and yet his heart beat faster at the thought that she was not able to send him on his way, evidence, surely, that she understood and sympathized. It was very late. She wondered what her women would be thinking. Taking advantage of his bemusement, she slipped away to the rear of the house. She was right to do so, of course, but he was unable to keep back tears of chagrin and resentment. His agitation was increased by the presence of her women. But rash action would make her unhappy and do him no good. He fought to maintain at least a semblance of composure. Sighing deeper sighs than usual, he made his way out.

A helpless captive of yearning, he could hope for no lessening of the pain. How, without calling down upon himself the reproaches of the whole world, was he to find solace? Not having known a great deal of love, he let it lure him into fantasies that could be of no use to either of them; and so he passed the night. She had said that this new girl resembled her dead sister. How might he learn whether or not she was right? The girl was of a low enough station in life that he could doubtless approach her with no difficulty; but he was less than enthusiastic. Having approached her, he might be embarrassed to find her not entirely to his taste.