Where I return, he shall return—and who is that other but you?
There were more poems, by others, but apparently none of them was particularly well constructed. After exchanging a few more words the former governor and the present governor descended together into the garden. Present and former masters of the house grasped hands, wished each other good fortune—in accents unsteadied by wine—and went their respective ways.
Twenty-seventh day: Our boats left Ōtsu, rowing a course for Urado. As they cast off, I thought sadly of my master’s young daughter—born in Kyoto, and suddenly taken from us in this remote province. While recording, in these last days, the busy preparations for our departure, I have said nothing on this matter; but now that we are at last under way on the return voyage to Kyoto, my only sensations are of grief and longing for a young girl who is not coming with us. There are others, too, who could not bear the sadness of it. Some one wrote this poem:
Kyoto bound, our thoughts are heavy yet
With grief for one who never shall return.
Later another poem was composed:
Forgetful, “Wherever is that child?” I cry
—And, oh, the sadness of the truth!
Meanwhile we reached a place called Kako Point, where we were overtaken by the brothers of the new governor and other friends, who brought us presents of saké and food. The whole company disembarked onto the beach, and we talked to each other of the sorrows of parting. Of all the people at the governor’s residence, these who have now come are said to have shown themselves the most kind and considerate on that occasion. … While we were exchanging poems the chief pilot—a man of no sensibility—having taken his fill of saké and thinking it high time to be off, announced: “The tide is full. There should be a wind soon”; and we made ready to re-embark. … This evening we anchored at Urado, where we
