The New Year came and Kashiwagi’s condition had not improved. He knew how troubled his parents were and he knew that suicide was no solution, for he would be guilty of the grievous sin of having left them behind. He had no wish to live on. Since his very early years he had had high standards and ambitions and had striven in private matters and public to outdo his rivals by even a little. His wishes had once or twice been thwarted2, however, and he had so lost confidence in himself that the world had come to seem unrelieved gloom. A longing3 to prepare for the next world had succeeded his ambitions, but the opposition4 of his pare kept him from following the mendicant5 way through the mountains an over the moors7. He had delayed, and time had gone by. Then had come events, and for them he had only himself to blame, which had made it impossible for him to show his face in public. He did not blame the gods. His own deeds were working themselves out. A man does not have the thousand years of the pine, and he wanted to go now, while there were still those who might mourn for him a little, and perhaps even a sigh from her would be the reward for his burning passion. To die now and perhaps win the forgiveness of the man who must feel so aggrieved8 would be far preferable to living on and bringing sorrow and dishonor upon the lady and upon himself. In his last moments everything must disappear. Perhaps, because he had no other sins to atone9 for, a part of the affection with which Genji had once honored him might return.
The same thoughts, over and over, ran uselessly through his mind. And why, he asked himself in growing despair, had he so deprived himself of alternatives? His pillow threatened to float away on the river of his woes10.
He took advantage of a slight turn for the better, when his parents and the others had withdrawn11 from his bedside, to get off a letter to the Third Princess.
“You may have heard that I am near death. It is natural that you should not care very much, and yet I am sad.” His hand was so uncertain that he gave up any thought of saying all that he would have wished to say.
“My thoughts of you: will they stay when I am gone
Like smoke that lingers over the funeral pyre?
“One word of pity will quiet the turmoil12 and light the dark road I am taking by my own choice.”
Unchastened, he wrote to Kojijū of his sufferings, at considerable length. He longed, he said, to see her lady one last time. She had from childhood been close to his house, in which she had near relatives. Although she had strongly disapproved13 of his designs upon a royal princess who should have been far beyond his reach, she was extremely sorry for him in what might be his last illness.
“Do answer him, please, my lady,” she said, in tears. “You must, just this once. It may be your last chance.”
“I am sorry for him, in a general sort of way. I am sorry for myself too. Any one of us could be dead tomorrow. But what happened was too awful. I cannot bear to think of it. I could not possibly write to him.”
She was not by nature a very careful sort of lady, but the great man to whom she was married had terrorized her with hints, always guarded, that he was displeased14 with her.
Kojijū insisted and pushed an inkstone towards her, and finally, very hesitantly, she set down an answer which Kojijū delivered under cover of evening.
Tō no Chūjō had sent to Mount Katsuragi for an ascetic15 famous as a worker of cures, and the spells and incantations in which he immersed himself might almost have seemed overdone16. Other holy men were recommended and Tō no Chūjō‘s sons would go off to seek in mountain recesses17 men scarcely known in the city. Mendicants quite devoid18 of grace came crowding into the house. The symptoms did not point to any specific illness, but Kashiwagi would sometimes weep in great, racking sobs19. The soothsayers were agreed that a jealous woman had taken possession of him. They might possibly be right, thought Tō no Chūjō. But whoever she was she refused to withdraw, and so it was that the search for healers reached into these obscure corners. The ascetic from Katsuragi, an impos- ing man with cold, forbidding eyes, intoned mystic spells in a somewhat threatening voice.
“I cannot stand a moment more of it,” said Kashiwagi. “I must have sinned grievously. These voices terrify me and seem to bring death even nearer.”
Slipping from bed, he instructed the women to tell his father that he was asleep and went to talk with Kojijū. Tō no Chūjō and the ascetic were conferring in subdued20 tones. Tō no Chūjō was robust21 and youthful for his years and in ordinary times much given to laughter. He told the holy man how it had all begun and how a respite22 always seemed to be followed by a relapse.
“Do please make her go away, whoever she might be,” he said entreatingly23.
A hollow shell of his old self, Kashiwagi was meanwhile addressing Kojijū in a faltering24 voice sometimes interrupted by a suggestion of a laugh.
“Listen to them. They seem to have no notion that I might be ill because I misbehaved. If, as these wise men say, some angry lady has taken possession of me, then I would expect her presence to make me hate myself a little less. I can say that others have done much the same thing, made mistakes in their longing for ladies beyond their reach, and ruined their prospects25. I can tell myself all this, but the torment26 goes on. I cannot face the world knowing that he knows. His radiance dazzles and blinds me. I would not have thought the misdeed so appalling27, but since the evening when he set upon me I have so lost control of myself that it has been as if my soul were wandering loose. If it is still around the house somewhere, please lay a trap for it.”
She told him of the Third Princess, lost in sad thoughts and afraid of prying29 eyes. He could almost see the forlorn little figure. Did unhappy spirits indeed go wandering forth30 disembodied?
“I shall say no more of your lady. It has all passed as if it had never happened at all. Yet I would be very sorry indeed if it were to stand in the way of her salvation31. I have only one wish left, to know that the consequences of the sad affair have been disposed of safely. I have my own interpretation32 of the dream I had that night and have had very great trouble keeping it to myself.”
Kojijū was frightened at the inhuman33 tenacity34 which these thoughts suggested. Yet she had to feel sorry for him. She was weeping bitterly.
He sent for a lamp and read the princess’s note. Though fragile and uncertain, the hand was interesting. “Your letter made me very sad, but I cannot see you. I can only think of you. You speak of the smoke that lingers on, and yet
“I wish to go with you, that we may see
Whose smoldering35 thoughts last longer, yours or mine.”
That was all, but he was grateful for it.
“The smoke — it will follow me from this world. What a useless, insubstantial affair it was!”
Weeping uncontrollably, he set about a reply. There were many pauses and the words were fragmentary and disconnected and the hand like the tracks of a strange bird.
“As smoke I shall rise uncertainly to the heavens,
And yet remain where my thoughts will yet remain.
“Look well, I pray you, into the evening sky. Be happy, let no one reprove you; and, though it will do no good, have an occasional thought for me.”
Suddenly worse again, he made his way tearfully back to his room. “Enough. Go while it is still early, please, and tell her of my last moments. I would not want anyone who already thinks it odd to think it even odder. What have I brought from other lives, I wonder, to make me so unhappy?”
Usually he kept her long after their business was finished, but today he dismissed her briefly37. She was very sorry for him and did not want to go.
His nurse, who was her aunt, told Kojijū of his illness, weeping all the while.
Tō no Chūjō was in great alarm. “He had seemed better these last few days. Why the sudden change?”
“I cannot see why you are surprised,” replied his son. “I am dying. That is all.”
That evening the Third Princess was taken with severe pains.
Guessing that they were birth pangs38, her women sent for Genji in great excitement. He came immediately. How vast and unconditional40 his joy would be, he thought, were it not for his doubts about the child. But no one must be allowed to suspect their existence. He summoned ascetics41 and put them to continuous spells and incantations, and he summoned all the monks42 who had made names for themselves as healers. The Rokujō mansion43 echoed with mystic rites44. The princess was in great pain through the night and at sunrise was delivered of a child. It was a boy. Most unfortunate, thought Genji. It would not be easy to guard the secret if the resemblance to the father was strong. There were devices for keeping girls in disguise and of course girls did not have to appear in public as did boys. But there was the other side of the matter: given these nagging45 doubts from the outset, a boy did not require the attention which must go into rearing a girl.
But how very strange it all was! Retribution had no doubt come for the deed which had terrified him then and which he was sure would go on terrifying him to the end. Since it had come, all unexpectedly, in this world, perhaps the punishment would be lighter46 in the next.
Unaware47 of these thoughts, the women quite lost themselves in ministering to the child. Because it was born of such a mother in Genji’s late years, it must surely have the whole of his affection.
The ceremonies on the third night were of the utmost dignity and the gifts ranged out on trays and stands showed that everyone thought it an occasion demanding the best. On the fifth night the arrangements were Akikonomu’s. There were robes for the princess and, after their several ranks, gifts for her women too, all of which would have done honor to a state occasion. Ceremonial repast was laid out for fifty persons and there was feasting all through the house. The staff of the Reizei Palace, including Akikonomu’s personal chamberlain, was in attendance. On the seventh day the gifts and provisions came from the emperor himself and the ceremony was no less imposing48 than if it had taken place at court. Tō no Chūjō should have been among the guests of honor, but his other worries made it impossible for him to go beyond general congratulations. All the princes of the blood and court grandees49 were present. Genji was determined50 that there be no flaw in the observances, but he was not happy. He did not go out of his way to make his noble guests feel welcome, and there was no music.
The princess was tiny and delicate and still very frightened. She quite refused the medicines that were pressed upon her. In the worst of the crisis she had hoped that she might quietly die and so make her escape. Genji behaved with the strictest correctness and was determined to give no grounds for suspicion. Yet he somehow thought the babe repellent and was held by certain of the women to be rather chilly51.
“He doesn’t seem to like it at all.” One of the old women interrupted her cooings. “And such a pretty little thing too. You’re almost afraid for it. And so late in his life, when he has had so few.”
The princess caught snatches of their conversation and seemed to see a future of growing coldness and aloofness52. She knew that she too was to blame and she began to think of becoming a nun53. Although Genji paid an occasional daytime visit, he never stayed the night.
“I feel the uncertainty54 of it all more than ever,” he said, pulling her curtains back. “I sometimes wonder how much time I have left. I have been occupied with my prayers and I have thought that you would not want to see people and so I have stayed away. And how are you? A little more yourself again? You have been through a great deal.”
“I almost feel that I might not live” She raised her head from her pillow. “But I know that it would be a very grave sin to die now. I rather think I might like to become a nun. I might begin to feel better, and even if I were to die I might be forgiven.” She seemed graver and more serious than before, and more mature.
“Quite out of the question — it would only invite trouble. What can have put the idea into your head? I could understand if you really were going to die, but of course you are not.”
But he was thinking that if she felt constrained55 to say such things, then the generous and humane56 course might be to let her become a nun. To require that she go on living as his wife would be cruel, and for him too things could not be the same again. He might hurt her and word of what he had done might get abroad and presently reach her royal father. Perhaps she was right: the present crisis could be her excuse. But then he thought of the long life ahead of her, as long as the hair which she was asking to have cut — and he thought that he could not bear to see her in a nun’s drab robes.
“No, you must be brave,” he said, urging medicine upon her. “There is nothing wrong with you. The lady in the east wing has recovered from a far worse illness. We really did think she was dead. The world is neither as cruel nor as uncertain as we sometimes think it.”
There was a rather wonderful calm in the figure before him, pale and thin and quite drained of strength. Her offense57 had been a grave one, but he thought that he had to forgive her.
Her father, the Suzaku emperor, heard that it had been an easy birth and longed to see her. His meditations58 were disturbed by reports that she was not making a good recovery.
She ate nothing and was weaker and more despondent59. She wept as she thought of her father, whom she longed to see more intensely than at any time since she had left his house. She feared that she might not see him again. She spoke60 of her fears to Genji, who had an appropriate emissary pass them on to the Suzaku emperor. In an agony of sorrow and apprehension61 and fully36 aware of the impropriety, he stole from his mountain retreat under cover of darkness and came to her side.
Genji was surprised and awed62 by the visit.
“I had been determined not to have another glance at the vulgar world,” said the emperor, “but we all know how difficult it is for a father to throw off thoughts of his child. So I have let my mind wander from my prayers. If the natural order of things is to be reversed and she is to leave me, I have said to myself, then I must see her again. Otherwise the regret would be always with me. I have come in spite of what I know they all will say.”
There was quiet elegance63 in his clerical dress. Not wanting to attract attention, he had avoided the livelier colors permitted a priest. A model of clean simplicity64, thought Genji, who had long wanted to don the same garb65. Tears came easily, and he was weeping again.
“I do not think it is anything serious,” he said, “but for the last month and more she has been weak and has eaten very little.” He had a place set out for the emperor before the princess’s curtains. “I only wish we were better prepared for such an august visit.”
Her women dressed her and helped her to sit up.
“I feel like one of the priests you have on night duty,” said the emperor, pulling her curtains slightly aside. “I am embarrassed that my prayers seem to be having so little effect. I thought you might want to see me, and so here I am, plain and undecorated.”
She was weeping. “I do not think I shall live. May I ask you, while you are here, to administer vows66?”
“A most admirable request, if you really mean it. But the fact that you are ill does not mean that you will die. Sometimes when a lady with years ahead of her takes vows she invites trouble, and the blame that is certain to go with it. We must not be hasty.” He turned to Genji. “But she really does seem to mean it. If this is indeed her last hour, we would certainly not want to deny her the support and comfort of religion, however briefly.”
“She has been saying the same thing for some days now, but I have suspected that an outside force has made her say it. And so I have refused to listen.”
“I would agree if the force seemed to be pulling in the wrong direction. But the pain and regret of refusing a last wish — I wonder.”
He had had unlimited67 confidence in Genji, thought the emperor, and indications that Genji had no deep love for the princess had been a con1 stant worry. Even now things did not seem to be going ideally well. He had been unable to discuss the matter with Genji. But now — might not a quiet separation be arranged, since there were no signs of a bitterness likely to become a scandal? Genji had no thought of withdrawing his support, it seemed clear, and so, taking his apparent willingness as the mark of his fidelity68 and himself showing no sign of resentment69, might the emperor not even now make plans for disposing of his property, and appoint for her residence the fine Sanjō mansion which he had inherited from his father? He would know before he died that she had settled comfortably into the new life. However cold Genji might be he surely would not abandon her.
These thoughts must be tested.
“Suppose, then, while I am here, I administer the preliminary injunctions and give her the beginnings of a bond with the Blessed One.”
Regret and sorrow drove away the last of Genji’s resentment. He went inside the princess’s curtains. “Must you think of leaving me when I have so little time before me? Do please try to bear with me a little longer. You must take your medicine and have something to eat. What you propose is very admirable, no doubt, but do you think you are up to the rigors70 it demands? Wait until you are well again and we will give it a little thought.”
But she shook her head. He was making things worse.
Though she said nothing, he could imagine that he had hurt her deeply, and he was very sorry. He remonstrated71 with her all through the night and presently it was dawn.
“I do not want to be seen by daylight,” said the Suzaku emperor. He summoned the most eminent72 of her priests and had them cut her hair. And so they were ravaged73, the thick, smooth tresses now at their very best. Genji was weeping bitterly. She was the emperor’s favorite, and she had been brought to this. His sleeves were wet with tears.
“It is done,” he said. “Be happy and work hard at your prayers.”
The sun would be coming up. The princess still seemed very weak and was not up to proper farewells.
“It is like a dream,” said Genji. “The memory of an earlier visit comes back and I am extremely sorry not to have received you properly. I shall call soon and offer apologies.”
He provided the emperor with an escort for the return journey.
“Fearing that I might go at any time,” said the emperor, “and that awful things might happen to her, I felt that I had to make provision for her. Though I knew that I was going against your deeper wishes in asking you to take responsibility, I have been at peace since you so generously agreed to do so. If she lives, it will not become her new vocation74 to remain in such a lively establishment. Yet I suspect that she would be lonely in a mountain retreat like my own. Do please go on seeing to her needs as seems appropriate.”
“It shames me that you should find it necessary at this late date to speak of the matter. I fear that I am too shaken to reply.” And indeed he did seem to be controlling himself only with difficulty.
In the course of the morning services the malignant75 spirit emerged, laughing raucously76. “Well, here I am. You see what I have done. I was not at all happy, let me tell you, to see how happy you were with the lady you thought you had taken from me. So I stayed around the house for a while to see what I could do. I have done it and I will go.”
So she still had not left them! Genji was horrified77, and regretted that they had let the princess take her vows. Though she now seemed a little more her old self she was very weak and not yet out of danger. Her women sighed and braced78 themselves for further efforts. Genji ordered that there be no slackening of the holy endeavors, and in general saw that nothing was left undone79.
News of the birth seemed to push Kashiwagi nearer death. He was very sad for his wife, the Second Princess. It would be in bad taste for her to come visiting, however, and he feared that, whatever precautions were taken, she might suffer the embarrassment80 of being seen by his parents, who were always with him. He said that he would like to visit her, but they would not hear of it. He asked them, and others, to be good to her.
His mother-in-law had from the start been unenthusiastic about the match. Tō no Chūjō had pressed the suit most energetically, however, and, sensing ardor81 and sincerity82, she had at length given her consent. After careful consideration the Suzaku emperor had agreed. Back in the days when he had been so worried about the Third Princess he had said that the Second Princess seemed nicely taken care of. Kashiwagi feared that he had sadly betrayed the trust.
“I hate to think of leaving her,” he said to his mother. “But life does not go as we wish it. Her resentment at the promises I have failed to keep must be very strong. Do please be good to her.”
“You say such frightening things. How long do you think I would survive if you were to leave me?”
She was weeping so piteously that he could say no more, and so he tried discussing the matter of the Second Princess with his brother Kōbai. Kashiwagi was a quiet, well-mannered youth, more father than brother to his youngest brothers, who were plunged83 into the deepest sorrow by these despairing remarks. The house rang with lamentations, which were echoed all through the court. The emperor ordered an immediate39 promotion84 to councillor of the first order.
“Perhaps,” he said, “he will now find strength to visit us.”
The promotion did not have that happy effect, however. He could only offer thanks from his sickbed. This evidence of the royal esteem85 only added to Tō no Chūjō‘s sorrow and regret.
A worried Yūgiri came calling, the first of them all to offer congratulations. The gate to Kashiwagi’s wing of the house was jammed with car- riages and there were crowds of well-wishers in his antechambers. Having scarcely left his bed since New Year, he feared that he would look sadly rumpled86 in the presence of such finery. Yet he hated to think that he might not see them again.
Yūgiri at least he must see. “Do come in,” he said, sending the priests away. “I know you will excuse my appearance.”
The two of them had always been the closest of friends, and Yūgiri’s sorrow was as if he were a brother. What a happy day this would have been in other years! But of course these wishful thoughts accomplished87 nothing.
“Why should it have happened?” he said, lifting a curtain. “I had hoped that this happy news might make you feel a little better.”
“I am very sorry indeed that I do not. I do not seem to be the man for such an honor.” Kashiwagi had put on a formal cap. He tried to raise his head but the effort was too much for him. He was wearing several pleasantly soft robes and lay with a quilt pulled over him. The room was in simple good taste and incenses88 and other details gave it a deep, quiet elegance. Kashiwagi was in fact rather carefully dressed, and great attention had obviously gone into all the appointments. One expects an invalid89 to look unkempt and even repulsive90, but somehow in his case emaciation91 seemed to give a new fineness and delicacy92. Yūgiri suffered with him as he struggled to sit up.
“But what a pleasant surprise,” said Yūgiri (though brushing away a tear). “I would have expected to find you much thinner after such an illness. I actually think you are better-looking than ever. I had assumed, somehow, that we would always be together and that we would go together, and now this awful thing has happened. And I do not even know why. We have been so close, you and I— it upsets me more than I can say to know nothing about the most important matter.”
“I could not tell you if I wanted to. There are no marked symptoms. I have wasted away in this short time and scarcely know what is happening. I fear that I may no longer be in complete control of myself. I have lingered on, perhaps because of all the prayers of which I am so unworthy, and in my heart I have only wanted to be done with it all.
“Yet for many reasons I find it hard to go. I have only begun to do something for my mother and father, and now I must cause them pain. I am also being remiss93 in my duties to His Majesty94. And as I look back over my life I feel sadder than I can tell you to think how little I have accomplished, what a short distance I have come. But there is something besides all this that has disturbed me very much. I have kept it to myself and doubt that I should say anything now that the end is in sight. But I must. I cannot keep it to myself, and how am I to speak of it if not to you? I do have all these brothers, but for many reasons it would do no good even to hint of what is on my mind.
“There was a matter which put me at cross purposes with your esteemed95 father and for which I have long been making secret apology. I did not myself approve of what I had done and I fell into a depression that made me avoid people, and finally into the illness in which you now see me. It was all too clear on the night of the rehearsal96 at Rokujō that he had not forgiven me. I did not see how it would be possible to go on living with his anger. I rather lost control of myself and began having nervous disturbances97, and so I have become what you see.
“I am sure that I never meant very much to him, but I for my part have been very dependent on him since I was very young. Now a fear of the slanders98 he may have heard is my strongest bond with this world and may be the greatest obstacle on my journey into the next. Please remember what I have said and if you find an opportunity pass on my apologies to him. If after I am gone he is able to forgive whatever I have done, the credit must be yours.”
He was speaking with greater difficulty. Yūgiri could think of details that seemed to fit into the story, but could not be sure exactly what the story had been.
“You are morbidly99 sensitive. I can think of no indication of displeasure on his part, and indeed he has been very worried about you and has said how he grieves for you. But why have you kept these things to yourself? I should surely have been the one to convey apologies in both directions, and now I suppose it is too late.” How he wished that they could go back a few years or months!
“I had long thought that when I was feeling a little better I must speak to you and ask your opinion. But of course it is senseless to go on thinking complacently100 about a life that could end today or tomorrow. Please tell no one of what I have said. I have spoken to you because I have hoped that you might find an opportunity to speak to him, very discreetly101, of course. And if you would occasionally look in on the Second Princess. Do what you can, please, to keep her father from worrying about her.”
He wanted to say more, it would seem, but he was in ever greater pain. At last he motioned that he wanted Yūgiri to leave him. The priests and his parents and numerous others returned to his bedside. Weeping, Yūgiri made his way out through the confusion.
Kashiwagi’s sisters, one of them married to Yūgiri and another to the emperor, were of course deeply concerned. He had a sort of fraternal expansiveness that reached out to embrace everyone. For Tamakazura he was the only one in the family who really seemed like a brother. She too commissioned services.
They were not the medicine he needed. He went away like the foam102 upon the waters.
The Second Princess did not after all see him again. He had not been deeply in love with her, not, indeed, even greatly attached to her. Yet his behavior had been correct in every detail. He had been a gentle, considerate husband, making no demands upon her and giving no immediate cause for anger. Thinking sadly over their years together, she thought it strange that a man doomed103 to such a short life should have shown so little inclination104 to enjoy it. For her mother, the very worst had happened, though she had in a way expected it. Her daughter had married a commoner, and now everyone would find her plight105 very amusing.
Kashiwagi’s parents were shattered. The cruelest thing is to have the natural order upset. But of course it had happened, and complaining did no good. The Third Princess, now a nun, had thought him impossibly presumptuous106 and had not joined in the prayers, but even she was sorry. Kashiwagi had predicted the birth of the child. Perhaps their strange, sad union had been joined in another life. It was a depressing chain of thoughts, and she was soon in tears.
The Third Month came, the skies were pleasant and mild, and the little boy reached his fiftieth day. He had a fair, delicate skin and was already showing signs of precociousness107. He was even trying to talk.
Genji came visiting. “And have you quite recovered? Whatever you say, it is a sad thing you have done. The occasion would be so much happier if you had not done it.” He seemed near tears. “It was not kind of you.”
He now came to see her every day and could not do enough for her.
“What are you so worried about?” he said, seeing that her women did not seem to know how fiftieth-day ceremonies should be managed in a nun’s household. “If it were a girl the fact that the mother is a nun might seem to invite bad luck and throw a pall28 over things. But with a boy it makes no difference.”
He had a little place set out towards the south veranda108 of the main hall and there offered the ceremonial rice cakes. The nurse and various other attendants were in festive109 dress and the array of baskets and boxes inside the blinds and out covered the whole range of colors — for the managers of the affair were uninhibited by a knowledge of the sad truth. They were delighted with everything, and Genji smarted and squirmed.
Newly risen from her sickbed, the princess found her heavy hair very troublesome and was having it brushed. Genji pulled her curtains aside and sat down. She turned shyly away, more fragile than ever. Because there had been such regrets for her lovely hair only a very little had been cut away, and only from the front could one see that it had been cut at all. Over several grayish singlets she wore a robe of russet. The profile which she showed him was charming, in a tiny, childlike way, and not at all that of a nun.
“Very sad, really,” said Genji. “A nun’s habit is depressing, there is no denying the fact. I had thought I might find some comfort in looking after you as always, and it will be a very long time before my tears have dried. I had thought that it might help to tax myself with whatever unwitting reasons I may have given you for dismissing me. Yes, it is very sad. How I wish it were possible to go back.
“If you move away I shall have to conclude that you really do reject me, with all your heart, and I do not see how I shall be able to face you again. Do please have a thought for me.”
“They tell me that nuns110 tend to be rather withdrawn from ordinary feelings, and I seem to have been short on them from the start. What am I to say?”
“You are not fair to yourself. We have had ample evidence of your feelings.” He turned to the little boy.
The nurse and the other attendants were all handsome, wellborn women whom Genji himself had chosen. He now summoned them for a conference.
“What a pity that I should have so few years left for him.”
He played with the child, fair-skinned and round as a ball, and bubbling with good spirits. He had only very dim memories of Yūgiri as a boy, but thought he could detect no resemblance. His royal grandchildren of course had their father’s blood in their veins111 and even now carried themselves with regal dignity, but no one would have described them as outstandingly handsome. This boy was beautiful, there was no other word for it. He was always laughing, and a very special light would come into his eyes which fascinated Genji. Was it Genji’s imagination that he looked like his father? Already there was a sort of tranquil112 poise113 that quite put one to shame, and the glow of the skin was unique.
The princess did not seem very much alive to these remarkable114 good looks, and of course almost no one else knew the truth. Genji was left alone to shed a tear for Kashiwagi, who had not lived to see his own son. How very unpredictable life is! But he brushed the tear away, for he did not want it to cloud a happy occasion.
“I think upon it in quiet,” he said softly, “and there is ample cause for lamentin.”
His own years fell short by ten of the poet’s fifty-eight, but he feared that he did not have many ahead of him. “Do not be like your father”: this, perhaps, was the admonition in his heart. He wondered which of the women might be in the princess’s confidence. He could not be sure, but they were no doubt laughing at him, whoever they were. Well, he could bear the ridicule115, and a discussion of his responsibilities and hers in the sad affair would be more distressing116 for her than for him. He would say nothing and reveal nothing.
The little boy was charming, especially the smiling, happy eyes and mouth. Would not everyone notice the resemblance to the father? Genji thought of Kashiwagi, unable to show this secret little keepsake to his grieving parents, who had longed for at least a grandchild to remember him by. He thought how strange it was that a young man so composed and proud and ambitious should have destroyed himself. His resentment quite left him, and he was in tears.
“And how does he look to you?” Genji had taken advantage of a moment when there were no women with the princess. “It is very sad to think that in rejecting me you have rejected him too.”
She flushed.
“Yes, very sad,” he continued softly.
“Should someone come asking when the seed was dropped,
What shall it answer, the pine among the rocks?”
She lay with her head buried in a pillow. He saw that he was hurting her, and fell silent. But he would have liked to know what she thought of her own child. He did not expect mature discernment of her, but he would have liked to think that she was not completely indifferent. It was very sad indeed.
Yūgiri was sadder than the dead man’s brothers. He could not forget that last interview and the mysterious matters which Kashiwagi had been unable to keep to himself. What had he been trying to say? Yūgiri had not sought to press for more. The end had been in sight, and it would have been too unfeeling. Though not seriously ill, it would seem, the princess had simply and effortlessly taken her vows. Why, and why had Genji permitted them? On the very point of death Murasaki had pleaded that he let her become a nun, and he had quite refused to listen. So Yūgiri went on sifting117 through such details as he had. More than once he had seen Kashiwagi’s feelings go out of control. Kashiwagi had been calmer and more careful and deliberate than most young men, so quietly in possession of himself, indeed, that his reserve had made people uncomfortable. But he had had his weak side too. Might an excess of gentleness have been at the root of the trouble? Yūgiri found it hard to understand any excess that could make a man destroy himself. Kashiwagi had not done well by the princess, but for Yūgiri the wrong was of a more general nature. Perhaps there were conditions which Kashiwagi had brought with him from former lives — but Yūgiri found such a loss of control difficult to accept even so. He kept his thoughts to himself, saying nothing even to his wife, Kashiwagi’s sister. He wanted very much to see what effect those oblique118 hints might have on Genji, but found no occasion.
Tō no Chūjō and his wife seemed barely conscious of the passing days. All the details of the weekly memorial services, clerical robes and the like, were left to their sons. Kōbai, the oldest, gave particular attention to images and scriptures119. When they sought to arouse their father for the services, his reply was as if he too might be dying.
“Do not come to me. I am as you see me, lost to this world. I would be an obstacle on his way through the next.”
For the Second Princess there was the added sorrow of not having been able to say goodbye. Sadly, day after day, she sat looking over the wide grounds of her mother’s Ichijō house, now almost deserted120. The men of whom Kashiwagi had been fondest did continue to stop by from time to time. His favorite grooms121 and falconers seemed lost without him. Even now they were wandering disconsolately122 over the grounds. The sight of them, and indeed every small occurrence, summoned back the unextinguishable sadness. Kashiwagi’s belongings123 gathered dust. The lute124 and the japanese koto upon which he had so often played were silent and their strings125 were broken. The very air of the place spoke of sorrow and neglect. The princess gazed sadly out at the garden, where the trees wore the green haze126 of spring. The blossoms had none of them forgotten their proper season.
Late one morning, as dull as all the others, there was a vigorous shouting of outrunners and a procession came up to the gate.
“We had forgotten,” said one of the women. “It almost seemed for a moment that His Lordship had come back.”
The princess’s mother had thought that it would be one or more of Kashiwagi’s brothers, who were frequent callers, but the caller was in fact more stately and dignified127 than they. It was Yūgiri. He was offered a seat near the south veranda of the main hall. The princess’s mother herself came forward to receive him — it would have been impolite to send one of the women.
“I may assure you,” said Yūgiri, “that I have been sadder than if he were my brother. But there are restraints upon an outsider and I was able to offer only the most perfunctory condolences. He said certain things at the end that have kept your daughter very much on my mind. It is not a world in which any of us can feel secure, but until the day when it becomes clear which of us is to go first, I mean to exert myself in your behalf and hers in every way I can think of. Too much has been going on at court to let me follow my own inclinations128 and simply withdraw from things, and it would not have been very satisfying to look in on you and be on my way again. And so the days have gone by. I have heard that Tō no Chūjō is quite insane with grief. My own grief has only been less than his, and it has been deepened by the thought of the regret with which my friend must have left your daughter behind.”
His words were punctuated129 from time to time by a suggestion of tears. The old lady thought him very courtly and dignified and at the same time very approachable.
There were tears in her voice too, and when she had finished speaking she was weeping openly. “Yes, the sad thing is that it should all be so uncertain and fleeting130. I am old and I have tried to tell myself that worse things have happened. But when I see her lost in grief, almost out of her mind, I cannot think what to do. It almost comes to seem that I am the really unlucky one, destined131 to see the end of two brief lives.
“You were close to him and you may have heard how little inclined I was to accept his proposal. But I did not want to go against his father’s wishes, and the emperor too seemed to have decided132 that he would make her a good husband. So I told myself that I must be the one who did not understand. And now comes this nightmare, and I must reprove myself for not having been truer to my very vague feelings. They did not of course lead me to expect anything so awful.
“I had thought, in my old-fashioned way, that unless there were really compelling reasons it was better that a princess not marry. And for her, poor girl, a marriage that should never have been has come to nothing. It would be better, I sometimes think, and people would not judge her harshly, if she were to let the smoke from her funeral follow his. Yet the possibility is not easy to accept, and I go on looking after her. It has been a source of very great comfort in all the gloom to have reports of your concern and sympathy. I do most sincerely thank you. I would not have called him an ideal husband, but it moves me deeply to learn that because you were so close to him you were chosen to hear his dying words, and that there were a few for her mixed in among them.”
She was weeping so piteously that Yūgiri too was in tears. “It may have been because he was strangely old for his years that he came at the end to seem so extremely despondent. I had been foolish enough to fear that too much enlightenment might destroy his humanity and to caution him against letting it take the joy out of him. I fear that I must have given him cause to think me superficial. But it is your daughter I am saddest for, though you may think it impertinent of me to say so.” His manner was warm and open. “Her grief and the waste seem worse than anything.”
This first visit was a short one.
He was five or six years younger than Kashiwagi, but a youthful receptivity had made Kashiwagi a good companion. Yūgiri had almost seemed the maturer of the two and certainly he was the more masculine, though his extraordinary good looks were also very youthful. He gave the young women who saw him off something happy to think about after all the sorrow.
There were cherry blossoms in the forward parts of the garden. “This year alone” — but the allusion133 did not seem a very apt one. “If we wish to see them,” he said softly, and added a poem of his own, not, however, as if he had a specific audience in mind.
“Although a branch of this cherry tree has withered134,
It bursts into new bloom as its season comes.”
The old lady was prompt with her answer, which was sent out to him as he was about to leave:
“The willow135 shoots this spring, not knowing where
The petals136 may have fallen, are wet with dew.”
She had not perhaps been the deepest and subtlest of the Suzaku emperor’s ladies, but her talents had been much admired, and quite properly so, he thought.
He went next to Tō no Chūjō‘s mansion, where numerous sons were gathered. After putting himself in order Tō no Chūjō 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 affected137 by his son’s death than even by his mother’s. The sight of him came near reducing Yūgiri to tears, but he thought weeping the last thing the occasion called for. Tō no Chūjō was less successful at controlling his tears, for Yūgiri 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 Yūgiri told of his interview with the Second Princess’s mother. This time the minister’s tears were like a sudden spring shower. Yūgiri took out a piece of notepaper on which he had jotted138 down the old lady’s poem.
“I’m afraid I can’t make it out,” said Tō no Chūjō, trying to see through his tears. The face once so virile139 and proud had been softened140 by grief. Though the poem was not a particularly distinguished141 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 entirely142 private matter. My son was not a remarkably143 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.”
Yūgiri answered:
“I doubt that he who left us wished it so,
That you should wear the misty144 robes of evening.”
And Kashiwagi’s brother Kōbai:
“Bitter, bitter — whom can he have meant
To wear the misty robes ere the advent145 of spring?”
The memorial services were very grand. Kumoinokari, Yūgiri’s wife, helped with them, of course, and Yūgiri made them his own special concern.
He frequently visited the Ichijō mansion of the Second Princess. There was something indefinably pleasant about the Fourth Month sky and the trees were a lovely expanse of new green; but the house of sorrows was quiet and lonely, and for the ladies who lived there each new day was a new trial.
It was in upon this sadness that he came visiting. Young grasses had sprung up all through the garden, and in the shade of a rock or a tree, where the sand covering was thin, wormwood and other weeds had taken over as if asserting an old claim. The flowers that had been tended with such care were now rank and overgrown. He thought how clumps146 of grass now tidy and proper in the spring would in the autumn be a dense147 moor6 humming with insects, and he was in tears as he parted the dewy tangles148 and came up to the veranda. Rough blinds of mourning were hung all along the front of the house. Through them he could see gray curtains newly changed for the season. He had glimpses too of skirts that told of the presence of little page girls, very pretty and at the same time incongruously drab. A place was set out for him on the veranda, but the women protested that he should be treated with more ceremony. Vaguely149 unwell, the princess’s mother had been resting. He looked out into the garden as he talked with her women, and the indifference150 of the trees brought new pangs of sorrow. Their branches intertwined, an oak and a maple151 seemed younger than the rest. “How reassuring152. What bonds from other lives do you suppose have brought them together?” Quietly, he came nearer the blinds.
“By grace of the tree god let the branch so close
To the branch that withered be close to the branch that lives.
“I think it very unkind of you to keep me outdoors.” He leaned forward and put a hand on the sill.
The women were in whispered conversation about the gentler Yūgiri they were being introduced to. Among them was one Shōshō, through whom came the princess’s answer.
“There may not be a god protecting the oak.
Think not, even so, its branches of easy access.
“There is a kind of informality that can suggest a certain shallowness.
He smiled. It was a point well taken. Sensing that her mother had come forward, he brought himself to attention.
“My days have been uninterrupted gloom, and that may be why I have not been feeling well.” She did indeed seem to be unwell. “I have been unable to think what to do next. You are very kind to come calling so often.”
“Your grief is quite understandable, but you should not let it get the better of you. Everything is determined in other lives, everything has its time and goes.”
The princess seemed to be a more considerable person than he had been led to expect. She had had wretched luck, belittled153 in the first instance for having married beneath her and now for having been left a widow. He thought he might find her interesting, and questioned the mother with some eagerness. He did not expect great beauty, but one could be fond of any lady who was not repulsively154 ugly. Beauty could sometimes make a man forget himself, and the more important thing was an equable disposition155.
“You must learn to tell yourself that I am as near as he once was.” His manner fell short of the insinuating156, perhaps, but his earnestness did carry overtones all the same.
He was very imposing and dignified in casual court dress.
“His Lordship had a gentle sort of charm,” one of the women would seem to have whispered to another. “There was no one quite like him, really, for quiet charm and elegance. But just see this gentleman, so vigorous and manly157, all aglow158 with good looks. You want to squeal159 with delight the minute you set eyes on him. There was no one like the other gentleman and there can’t be many like this one either. If we need someone to look after us, well, we couldn’t do much better.”
“The grass first greens on the general’s grave,” he said to himself, very softly.
There was no one, in a world of sad happenings near and remote, who did not regret Kashiwagi’s passing. Besides the more obvious virtues160, he had been possessed161 of a most extraordinary gentleness and sensitivity, and even rather improbable courtiers and women, even very old women, remembered him with affection and sorrow. The emperor felt the loss very keenly, especially when there were concerts. “If only Kashiwagi were here.” The remark became standard on such occasions. Genji felt sadder as time went by. For him the little boy was a memento162 he could share with no one else. In the autumn the boy began crawling about on hands and knees.
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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entreatingly
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| 哀求地，乞求地 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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26
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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27
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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29
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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30
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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34
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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35
smoldering
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| v.用文火焖烧，熏烧，慢燃( smolder的现在分词 ) | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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unconditional
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| adj.无条件的，无限制的，绝对的 | |
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41
ascetics
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| n.苦行者，禁欲者，禁欲主义者( ascetic的名词复数 ) | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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45
nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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46
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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47
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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48
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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grandees
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| n.贵族，大公，显贵者( grandee的名词复数 ) | |
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50
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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51
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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52
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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54
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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57
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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68
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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69
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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70
rigors
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| 严格( rigor的名词复数 )； 严酷； 严密； （由惊吓或中毒等导致的身体）僵直 | |
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71
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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72
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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73
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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74
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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75
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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76
raucously
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| adv.粗声地；沙哑地 | |
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77
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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78
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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79
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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80
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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81
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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82
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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83
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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84
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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85
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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86
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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88
incenses
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| 香( incense的名词复数 ) | |
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89
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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90
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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91
emaciation
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| n.消瘦，憔悴，衰弱 | |
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92
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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93
remiss
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| adj.不小心的，马虎 | |
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94
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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95
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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96
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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97
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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98
slanders
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| 诽谤，诋毁( slander的名词复数 ) | |
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99
morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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100
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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101
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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102
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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103
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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104
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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105
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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106
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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107
precociousness
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| n.早熟，早成 | |
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108
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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109
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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110
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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111
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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112
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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113
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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114
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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115
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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116
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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117
sifting
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| n.筛，过滤v.筛( sift的现在分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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118
oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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119
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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120
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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121
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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122
disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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123
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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124
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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125
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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126
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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127
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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128
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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129
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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130
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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131
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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132
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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133
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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134
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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135
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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136
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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137
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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138
jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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139
virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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140
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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141
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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142
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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143
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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144
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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145
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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146
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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147
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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148
tangles
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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149
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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150
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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151
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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152
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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153
belittled
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| 使显得微小，轻视，贬低( belittle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
repulsively
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| adv.冷淡地 | |
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155
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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156
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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157
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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158
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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159
squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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160
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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161
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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162
memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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