Spring Snow by Yukio Mishima

uniform coat with metal buttons that he wore at school. As always, the butler was waiting at the door with the usual present wrapped in purple crepe; then he followed his master at the customary distance of ten paces.
    The moon was bright, and the wind moaned through the branches of the trees. Although his father did not trouble to glance back at the wraithlike figure of Yamada the steward, Kiyoaki was concerned enough to look over his shoulder more than once. Without so much as a cape over his hakama , Yamada came along behind, swaying slightly on his unsteady legs, his hands, white-gloved as always, cradling the package in its purple wrapper. His glasses had a frosty sparkle in the moonlight. Kiyoaki wondered at this man, loyal beyond a doubt, allowing almost nothing to pass his lips. How many passions lay spent within his body like a tangle of rusted springs? Far more than the jovial, extrovert Marquis, his reserved and seemingly indifferent son was capable of detecting depth of feeling in others.
    The hooting of the owls and the wind in the trees reminded Kiyoaki, still wine-flushed, of the branches blowing in the photograph of the memorial service. As they walked through the bleak, wintry night, his father was anticipating the moist warmth and intimacy of the rosy flesh that awaited him, while his son’s thoughts turned toward death.
    As the Marquis went along elated by the wine and scattering pebbles with the tip of his walking stick, he suddenly turned to Kiyoaki: “You’re not much of one for having a good time, are you? I couldn’t tell you how many women I’d had at your age. Look here, suppose I take you with me next time? I’ll see that there are plenty of geishas there and for once you can kick up your heels. And bring along some friends of yours from school if you want.”
    “No, thank you.”
    Kiyoaki shuddered as he blurted this out. He felt his feet suddenly glued to the ground. At this one remark of his father’s, his elation shattered, like a vase striking the floor.
    “What’s the matter?”
    “Please will you excuse me? Good night.”
    Kiyoaki turned on his heel and walked rapidly back past the dimly lit entrance of the Western house in the direction of the main residence whose distant lights, burning at the front door, gleamed faintly through the trees.
    Kiyoaki was unable to sleep that night. But it was no thought of his mother or his father that troubled him. On the contrary, he was absorbed in revenging himself on Satoko. “She has been cruel enough to lure me into a petty trap. For ten days she let me suffer. She had just one thing in mind: to keep me in agony. I can’t let her get away with it. But then I’m no match for her when it comes to inventing ways of torturing people. What can I do? What would be best would be to convince her that I have no more respect for female dignity than my father has. If only I could say or write something absolutely outrageous to her that would strike home. But my trouble is that I’m always at a disadvantage since I’m not bold enough to let people know bluntly how I really feel. It wouldn’t be enough to tell her that she doesn’t interest me in the least. That would still leave her plenty of room to scheme. I have to insult her. I have to humiliate her so completely that she’ll never come back for more. That’s what I have to do. For the first time in her life, I’m going to make her sorry for what she’s done.”
    Despite all this, Kiyoaki’s resolutions were feeble. No specific plan had yet occurred to him.
    A pair of threefold screens stood on either side of his bed, each decorated with poems of Han Shan. At the foot of the bed, a carved jade parrot looked down from its perch on a sandalwood display shelf. Kiyoaki had little interest in anything as currently fashionable as a Rodin or a Cézanne. His tastes were rather conservative. Sleepless, he stared at the parrot. Every detail of its clouded green jade, even down to the fine carving