The Flute

THE first anniversary of Kashiwagi’s death had come. Every day Genji felt his loss more keenly. The number of persons with whom he was on easy and informal terms was in any case none too great. But Kashiwagi had been something more than this. They had shared each other’s lives and thoughts—at least until the disastrous episode which Genji now did his best to forget. Besides the masses that on his own account he caused to be said in Kashiwagi’s memory, he set apart a sum of a hundred golden pieces which he spent on services that in his own heart he regarded as being performed in the name of Kaoru, the dead man’s child. But this must of course remain a secret; for he continued to bring up the boy as though he were his. Yūgiri not only celebrated the anniversary in the most solemn manner, but was upon this sad occasion so prodigal in his attentions to the ladies in the First Ward⁶⁵⁸ that Tō no Chūjō could not help remarking it. ‘Yūgiri,’ he said, ‘is taking a far larger share in managing my poor son’s affairs than I should ever have expected. Kōbai and the rest are not nearly so active. He must have been far more intimate with Kashiwagi than I supposed.’ Yūgiri’s zeal and all the other marks of the affection and esteem in which the deceased had been held, served but to make his parents feel more bitterly the pang of his untimely loss.

The first anniversary of Kashiwagi’s death had come. Every day, Genji felt his loss more deeply. He had never had many people with whom he could be relaxed and informal. But Kashiwagi had been more than a friend of that kind. They had shared their lives and thoughts, at least until the disastrous episode Genji now did his best to forget. Genji had many services said in Kashiwagi’s memory on his own behalf. He also set aside a hundred gold pieces to pay for services. In his heart, he regarded these as being performed in the name of Kaoru, the dead man’s child. But this had to remain a secret, of course. Genji continued to raise the boy as his own. Yūgiri observed the anniversary with great solemnity. On this sad occasion, he also paid such generous attention to the ladies in the First Ward⁶⁵⁸ that Tō no Chūjō could not help remarking on it. ‘Yūgiri is taking a far larger part in managing my poor son’s affairs than I would ever have expected,’ he said. ‘Kōbai and the rest are not nearly so active. He must have been much closer to Kashiwagi than I thought.’ Yūgiri’s devotion and all the other signs of affection and respect for Kashiwagi only made his parents feel their untimely loss more bitterly.

To Suzaku, had not the affairs of this world been by now of shadowy import to him, the tragic outcome of all his paternal solicitude would indeed have been a shattering blow. Here was Ochiba left stranded, after a short experience of a marriage that had from the first been mere mockery; and Nyosan, his beloved Nyosan, for whom he had hoped such splendid things, dead—at least to all the friendly and human part of life. As it was, however, it gave him considerable pleasure to think that his daily occupations—his own round of prayers, penances and offerings—had now become hers, and he constantly wrote to her upon small matters connected with the religious life. One day he sent her a bamboo sprout taken from a wood near his retreat and some tokoro⁶⁵⁹ dug up on the neighbouring hillside, and in the margin of his letter, which was a very long one, he wrote: ‘I send you these tokens of a hermit’s life, none too easy to come by, now that the spring mist lies so thick upon the hills. “Though far behind me you walk upon Salvation’s path, go boldly on and let my goal be yours.”’⁶⁶⁰ She was reading this poem with tears in her eyes, when Genji entered. What were those strange objects reposing in the lacquer bowls which she usually kept filled with fruit? Then he saw that she was reading a letter from Suzaku, which she handed to him. It was very long, contained many reflections upon his own approaching death, and lamenting the impossibility of their ever meeting again. The passage about the tokoro came oddly from Suzaku’s pen, belonging as it did to pietism rather than to poetry; but Genji read it with a feeling of deep remorse. No doubt Suzaku had suffered great anxiety and disappointment over Nyosan’s marriage; and though Genji could not regard this as his own fault, ‘I do indeed hope,’ he said, ‘that you have no intention of taking your father’s hint. That you should dream of scaling these mountain fastnesses is a terrible idea.’ Now that his relation to her could only be of the slenderest kind, he began to be more than ever struck by her rather childish beauty, the effect of which seemed only to be enhanced by the way her hair was cut at the sides, so that its ends lay flat against her cheeks. It had all been his fault. It was he who had allowed her to drift away from him; and as though in a futile effort to repair the remissness of past years he now came very close to her curtains and spoke to her almost caressingly.

If worldly affairs had not already become remote to Suzaku, the tragic outcome of all his care for his daughters would have devastated him. Ochiba had been left stranded after a short marriage that had been a mockery from the start. And Nyosan, his beloved Nyosan, for whom he had hoped such splendid things, was dead to all that was warm and human in life. As it was, he took considerable pleasure in knowing that she now shared his daily routine of prayers, penances, and offerings. He often wrote to her about small matters of religious life. One day he sent her a bamboo shoot from a wood near his retreat and some tokoro⁶⁵⁹ dug up on a nearby hillside. His letter was very long, and in its margin he wrote: ‘I send you these tokens of a hermit’s life. They are not easy to find now that spring mist lies so thick on the hills. “Though you walk far behind me on the path to Salvation, go boldly on and make my goal your own.”’⁶⁶⁰ She was reading the poem with tears in her eyes when Genji entered. What were those strange objects lying in the lacquer bowls she usually kept filled with fruit? Then he saw that she was reading a letter from Suzaku, and she handed it to him. It was very long and contained many reflections on Suzaku’s approaching death. It also lamented that they could never meet again. The passage about the tokoro seemed strange coming from Suzaku, for it belonged to religious devotion rather than poetry. But Genji read it with deep remorse. No doubt Suzaku had suffered great anxiety and disappointment over Nyosan’s marriage. Though Genji could not see that as his own fault, he said, ‘I do hope you have no intention of taking your father’s hint. The thought of your trying to climb into these remote mountains is terrible.’ Now that his relationship with her could only be the slightest, her rather childish beauty struck him more than ever. Its effect seemed only stronger because of the way her hair was cut at the sides, with the ends lying flat against her cheeks. It had all been his fault. He had allowed her to drift away from him. Now, as if trying in vain to make up for his neglect in past years, he came very close to her curtains and spoke to her almost tenderly.

The little boy was asleep in his nurse’s quarters; but presently he was waked, and crawling into the room made straight for Genji and grabbed at his sleeve. He was dressed in a little shirt of white floss, over which was a red coat with a Chinese pattern finely worked upon it. The skirts of this garment were remarkably long and trailed behind him in the quaintest way; but it was (as is usual with children of that age) quite open at the front, showing his little limbs, white and smooth as a fresh-stripped willow wand. There was certainly in his smile and the shape of his brow something that recalled Kashiwagi. But where had the child got his remarkably good looks? Not from his father, who was passable in appearance, but could not possibly have been called handsome. To Nyosan, curiously enough, he could see no resemblance. Indeed the expression that chiefly gave character to the boy’s face (or so Genji contrived to fancy) was not at all unlike his own.

The little boy was asleep in his nurse’s room, but soon he was awakened. He crawled into the room, went straight to Genji, and grabbed his sleeve. He wore a little shirt of white silk floss, with a red coat over it. The coat had a finely worked Chinese pattern. Its skirts were remarkably long and trailed behind him in a charming way. But, as was usual for children his age, the coat was open at the front. It showed his little limbs, white and smooth as a freshly stripped willow wand. His smile and the shape of his brow certainly brought Kashiwagi to mind. But where had the child gotten his remarkably good looks? Not from his father, who was decent-looking but could hardly have been called handsome. Strangely enough, Genji could see no resemblance to Nyosan. In fact, the expression that gave the boy’s face its distinctive character was rather like Genji’s own. Or so Genji managed to imagine.

The child was just beginning to walk. As soon as he entered the room he caught sight of Suzaku’s strange-looking roots lying in the fruit-dish, and toddled in that direction. Anxious to discover what sort of things they were, he was soon pulling at them, scattering them over the floor, breaking them in pieces, munching them, and in general making a terrible mess both of himself and the room. ‘Look what mischief he is up to,’ said Genji. ‘You had better put them somewhere out of sight. I expect one of the maids thought it a good joke to tell him they were meant to eat.’ So saying, he took up the child in his arms. ‘What an expressive face this boy has!’ he continued. ‘I have had very little to do with children of this age, and had got it into my head that they were all much alike and all equally uninteresting. I see now how wrong I was. What havoc he will live one day to work upon the hearts of the princesses that are growing up in these neighbouring apartments!⁶⁶¹ I am half sorry that I shall not be there to see. But “though Spring comes each year....”’⁶⁶² ‘How can you talk of such a thing?’ every one said with horror. Little Kaoru was cutting his teeth, and thinking that one of Suzaku’s bamboo-shoots would be just the thing to press against his swollen gums, he managed to grab at them, and dribbling monstrously, thrust one into his mouth. ‘Now he’s really enjoying himself,’ said Genji. ‘What depraved tastes children do have! “Though there be that in its stem which is bitter to recall, yet from this bamboo-shoot no more my heart can I withhold.”’ Reciting this acrostic poem, he took the child by the hand and tried to persuade him to put the thing down. But Kaoru, smiling broadly, took not the slightest notice, and with a great clatter crawled away with his prize as fast as his arms and legs could carry him.

The child was just beginning to walk. As soon as he entered the room, he spotted Suzaku’s strange-looking roots in the fruit dish and toddled toward them. Eager to find out what they were, he began pulling at them. He scattered them across the floor, broke them into pieces, and munched on them. Soon he had made a terrible mess of himself and the room. ‘Look at the mischief he’s making,’ said Genji. ‘You’d better put them somewhere out of sight. I expect one of the maids thought it would be funny to tell him they were meant to be eaten.’ With that, he picked up the child. ‘What an expressive face this boy has!’ he continued. ‘I haven’t spent much time with children this age. I had gotten it into my head that they were all much alike and equally uninteresting. Now I see how wrong I was. One day he’ll cause such havoc in the hearts of the princesses growing up in these neighboring apartments!⁶⁶¹ I’m almost sorry I won’t be there to see it. But “though Spring comes each year....”’⁶⁶² ‘How can you talk about such a thing?’ everyone said in horror. Little Kaoru was teething. He thought one of Suzaku’s bamboo shoots would be just the thing to press against his swollen gums. He managed to grab one and thrust it into his mouth, drooling terribly. ‘Now he’s really enjoying himself,’ said Genji. ‘What depraved tastes children have! “Though there is something in its stem that is bitter to remember, I still cannot keep my heart from this bamboo shoot.”’ As he recited this acrostic poem, he took the child by the hand and tried to persuade him to put the shoot down. But Kaoru smiled broadly and paid no attention. With a great clatter, he crawled away with his prize as fast as his arms and legs could carry him.

As the weeks went by, the child grew more and more attractive, and before long even the ‘touch of bitterness’ that its existence had been wont to lend to Genji’s thoughts utterly disappeared. He felt that the child, now a source of so much delight to him, was destined to be born in that way and no other. Kashiwagi had but been the instrument of Fate. Among the strange inconsistencies of his apparently enviable lot, none (thought Genji) was more curious than this, that the one lady in his household who was of faultless lineage, young, beautiful, in every way immaculate, should after a short spell of marriage with him declare her preference for the convent! At such moments some of the old bitterness against Kashiwagi would for a while return.

As the weeks passed, the child grew more and more attractive. Before long, even the ‘touch of bitterness’ that its existence had brought to Genji’s thoughts disappeared completely. The child now brought him so much joy that he felt it was destined to be born just as it had been. Kashiwagi had merely been an instrument of Fate. Genji thought of the strange contradictions in his seemingly enviable life. None seemed stranger than the choice made by the one woman in his household who was of flawless birth, young, beautiful, and perfect in every way. After only a short marriage to him, she had declared that she would rather enter a convent! At such moments, some of his old bitterness toward Kashiwagi would return for a while.

All this time Yūgiri had been turning over in his mind what Kashiwagi had said to him on his death-bed. Had he been entirely ignorant of what it referred to, he would probably have discussed the matter with Genji long ago. But as it was, he knew just enough to feel that the subject was a very embarrassing one, and he wondered whether he should ever have the courage to embark upon it.

All this time, Yūgiri had been thinking over what Kashiwagi had said to him on his deathbed. If he had known nothing about what Kashiwagi meant, he would probably have discussed it with Genji long ago. But he knew just enough to feel that the subject was deeply embarrassing. He wondered whether he would ever have the courage to bring it up.

One melancholy autumn evening when he went to pay his accustomed visit to the ladies in the First Ward, he found Ochiba busily engaged in playing upon her zithern. She did not wish to be disturbed, and he was shown into the southern or side-room. As he took his seat he heard the swish of retreating skirts and caught a pleasant whiff of scent, those things denoting (as he guessed) that a bevy of ladies had, at the news of his arrival, hastened to take cover in the inner room. The visit began by his usual conversation with Ochiba’s mother. While they were talking together of old times he could not help contrasting the utter stillness and desolation of this house with the lively stir and bustle that went on from dawn to dusk in his own palace, teeming as it did with unruly children and their innumerable attendants. There was a dignity, a severity about the place; and looking round him he felt that he who broke in upon this flat tranquillity with so much as a hint of common passions and desires, who fluttered this decorous stillness by any coarse vehemence or unwarranted familiarity, would be guilty of a breach of taste, for the condemnation of which no word could be strong enough. He was given a zithern, and recognized it to be Kashiwagi’s. After playing a few chords he said to Ochiba’s mother: ‘I know the tone of this instrument; it is the one that Kashiwagi used, is it not? How I wish that your daughter would play something on it. They say that a dead man’s touch lingers in the instruments that he played, and can be recognized even after his death.’ ‘I fear that cannot be so in this case,’ the mother replied, ‘for after his death the strings were removed, and those are new ones. Ochiba has played very little lately, and is, I am sorry to say, in danger of forgetting all that her father taught her. Suzaku, who, as you know, took a lot of trouble with his daughters’ music, often said Ochiba was the one that showed the greatest promise. But since all this trouble came, I fear her playing has gone utterly to pieces....’ She begged him to play again; but he refused, saying that if any hand could waken the echoes of Kashiwagi’s touch, it would be that of Ochiba; and he insisted upon the zithern being laid near her chair. But she seemed disinclined to comply with his wish, and he did not press her.

One melancholy autumn evening, he went to pay his usual visit to the ladies in the First Ward. He found Ochiba busy playing her zither. She did not wish to be disturbed, so he was shown into the southern side room. As he sat down, he heard the swish of skirts moving away and caught a pleasant scent. He guessed that a group of ladies had hurried into the inner room to hide when they heard he had arrived. As usual, his visit began with a conversation with Ochiba’s mother. As they talked about old times, he could not help comparing this house with his own palace. The house was utterly still and desolate. His palace was busy and lively from dawn to dusk, full of unruly children and their countless attendants. There was a dignity and austerity about this place. Looking around, he felt that anyone who disturbed its quiet with even a hint of ordinary passions and desires would be guilty of a terrible breach of taste. The same would be true of anyone who disturbed its proper stillness with any crude display of emotion or inappropriate familiarity. No words could condemn such behavior strongly enough. He was given a zither, which he recognized as Kashiwagi’s. After playing a few chords, he said to Ochiba’s mother: ‘I know the sound of this instrument. It is the one Kashiwagi used, isn’t it? How I wish your daughter would play something on it. They say that a dead man’s touch lingers in the instruments he played. They say it can be recognized even after his death.’ ‘I’m afraid that cannot be true in this case,’ her mother replied, ‘because the strings were removed after his death. These are new ones. Ochiba has played very little lately. I’m sorry to say she is in danger of forgetting all her father taught her. As you know, Suzaku took great care with his daughters’ musical education. He often said Ochiba showed the most promise. But since all this trouble came, I fear her playing has fallen completely apart....’ She begged him to play again, but he refused. He said that if anyone’s hands could awaken echoes of Kashiwagi’s touch, they would be Ochiba’s. He insisted that the zither be placed near her chair. But she seemed unwilling to play, and he did not press her.

The moon was shining out of a cloudless sky; a flight of wild geese passed over the house, wing to wing, in faultless line. How she, companionless, must envy that blissful troop!⁶⁶³ At last, moved by the beauty of the autumn evening, with its sudden stirrings of light wind, cool to the skin, she took up a large Chinese zithern and played a few chords, which by their passionate intensity stirred his feelings far more than mere words could have done. But she showed no inclination to play in concert with him, and as it was now very late, he made ready to depart. Just as he was leaving, the mother handed him a flute. ‘This had been in his family for years,’ she said; ‘but there is no use in its lying idle in this deserted house. He used to play it as he sat in his coach, and its music blended with the cries of his outriders. I long to hear it played so again, even in another’s hand....’ He saw at once that it was Kashiwagi’s familiar flute, and remembered having often heard him express the hope that it would fall into the hands of some one who could make good use of it, and not merely be treated as a keepsake when he was gone. Yūgiri played a few runs upon it and then suddenly stopped. ‘You let me play on his zithern,’ he said, ‘and encouraged by you I felt no compunction. But somehow when it comes to playing on this flute....’ He broke off, and Ochiba’s mother recited the poem: ‘To-night at last has the voice of the cicada sounded as of old in the dewy bushes round my house.’ ‘Though hole for hole, unaltered are the notes the flute gives forth, what should these fingers conjure from it now, save the choked sound of tears?’ So Yūgiri answered, and after many hesitations and delays, at last, far on into the night, went back to his own house.

The moon shone in a cloudless sky. A flock of wild geese flew over the house, wing to wing, in a perfect line. How she, alone, must have envied that happy flock!⁶⁶³ At last, she was moved by the beauty of the autumn evening. Sudden gusts of light wind felt cool against her skin. She took up a large Chinese zither and played a few chords. Their passion stirred his feelings far more than words could have done. But she showed no desire to play with him. Since it was now very late, he prepared to leave. Just as he was leaving, the mother handed him a flute. ‘This had been in his family for years,’ she said. ‘But there is no use leaving it idle in this deserted house. He used to play it as he sat in his carriage. Its music blended with the cries of his outriders. I long to hear it played that way again, even by someone else....’ He recognized it at once as Kashiwagi’s familiar flute. He remembered how often Kashiwagi had hoped it would pass to someone who could make good use of it. He had not wanted it to be treated merely as a keepsake after his death. Yūgiri played a few runs on the flute, then suddenly stopped. ‘You let me play his zither,’ he said, ‘and with your encouragement I felt no misgivings. But somehow, when it comes to playing this flute....’ He broke off, and Ochiba’s mother recited the poem: ‘Tonight, at last, the cicada’s voice has sounded as it once did in the dewy bushes around my house.’ Yūgiri answered: ‘Though the flute’s notes are unchanged, hole for hole, what can my fingers draw from it now but the choked sound of tears?’ After much hesitation and delay, he finally returned home, far into the night.

The shutters were closed and every one was asleep. Kumoi had heard the extraordinary trouble he was taking in arranging the affairs of the two ladies in the First Ward. It seemed to involve his coming home very late at night; and though Kumoi distinctly heard him arrive on this occasion, she felt in no mood for conversation, and pretended to be asleep. ‘Why have you locked yourselves in like this?’ he cried, when he was at last admitted. ‘I should have thought that with such a moon as this abroad in the heavens no one would have the heart to shut their windows.’ So saying he threw back the shutters, and rolled up the blinds of her divan, while he himself took a seat at a point from whence he could see the beauties of the night. ‘How any one can lie a-bed when there are such sights to be seen, I cannot imagine,’ said Yūgiri. ‘Do come here and look. I hate your not seeing it!’ But she was in a bad temper, and pretended not to hear. The apartments seemed to be littered with children, their little faces blank with the vacancy of infant slumber, and wherever he turned were bevies of dames-in-waiting, nurses and the like—a perfect tangle of sleeping forms. Again he contrasted this crowded scene with the death-like mansion that he had just left. Taking the flute out of his pocket he played a few notes. Were they already asleep in the First Ward, or was Ochiba at any rate thinking of him, wishing he were still in the house? Perhaps she was at this very instant playing upon the zithern that he had placed within her reach. Had she changed the tuning?⁶⁶⁴ And her mother too, she was a fine player on the Japanese zithern. So his thoughts rambled on as he lay in bed. Why was it, he asked himself, that Kashiwagi had seemed to take so little interest in Ochiba? Though no one could say he had actually ill-treated her. The idea that if one possessed Ochiba one could ever grow tired of her seemed to him preposterous. Yet he knew that such things did happen, and indeed it was rarely enough that any attachment subsisted unaltered through the years—his own relation to Kumoi was the one example that occurred to him. And the result was that by this exclusive fidelity he had spoilt her. She had grown a trifle touchy and exacting.... At this point he fell asleep. He dreamt that Kashiwagi appeared to him, and picking up the flute examined it curiously. It occurred to Yūgiri even in his dream that it had been unwise of him to play on it, for this had certainly drawn Kashiwagi’s ghost to his side. ‘Could I, like the wind among the reed-stems, blow where I would, then into the hands of a true heir should fall the music of this flute.’ So the dream-figure recited; and Yūgiri was about to question it concerning the meaning of this strange verse, when he woke with a start. One of his children was crying. The piercing noise went on and on. It would not take its milk, and the nurses were scurrying about, evidently in great concern. Presently Kumoi took the child in her own arms and sat with it near the lamp, her hair thrown back behind her ears and her dress open in front, showing the pretty curves and undulations of her breast. She did not attempt to feed the child, but let it put its lips to her breasts, and by one device and another had soon stopped its tears. Yūgiri was now standing by her side. ‘Is there anything amiss with the child?’ he asked, and to show his concern began scattering handfuls of rice and reciting spells of protection; an activity which, if it did not greatly help the child, served at least to dispel the impression of his own dream. ‘It is no use your doing that,’ she said. ‘The boy is ill. Probably he caught some infection when you insisted upon opening the window. You come back like this, after amusing yourself I don’t know how or where, and flood the house with unwholesome night air, merely that you may have the pleasure of staring at the moon.’ But he saw from her face that she was no longer cross, and was now only teasing him. ‘I am certainly very much to blame,’ he said, ‘if it is true that “infections” can only enter through doors and windows. Had any one else suggested this I should have thought it a rather infantile view. But coming from the mother of half a dozen children it must of course be treated with respect.’ After that he sat silently watching her in a manner that Kumoi found very disconcerting, and she said at last: ‘Had not you better go to bed? I am afraid I am not dressed for show.’ She was conscious that, sitting in the full glare of the lamp, she did not look her best. So far from being irritated by this coquetry, Yūgiri felt touched that she should still care so much what impression she made upon him. The child did indeed seem to be very much indisposed. It continued to cry at intervals all through the night, and no one in the house got much sleep.

The shutters were closed, and everyone was asleep. Kumoi had heard how much trouble Yūgiri was taking to arrange the affairs of the two ladies in the First Ward. It seemed to keep him out very late. Though she clearly heard him arrive that night, she was in no mood to talk and pretended to be asleep. ‘Why have you locked yourselves in like this?’ he cried when he was finally admitted. ‘With a moon like that in the sky, I would have thought no one could bear to close the windows.’ He threw open the shutters and rolled up the blinds around her divan. Then he sat where he could admire the beautiful night. ‘I can’t imagine how anyone can stay in bed when there are such sights to see,’ Yūgiri said. ‘Do come and look. I hate to think you’re missing it!’ But she was in a bad mood and pretended not to hear. The rooms seemed to be littered with children, their little faces blank in infant sleep. Everywhere he turned, ladies-in-waiting, nurses, and others lay in a tangle of sleeping bodies. Again, he contrasted this crowded scene with the deathly quiet of the mansion he had just left. He took the flute from his pocket and played a few notes. Were they already asleep in the First Ward? Or was Ochiba, at least, thinking of him and wishing he were still there? Perhaps she was playing the zither he had placed within her reach at that very moment. Had she changed its tuning?⁶⁶⁴ And her mother, too, was a fine player of the Japanese zither. His thoughts wandered on as he lay in bed. Why, he wondered, had Kashiwagi seemed so little interested in Ochiba? Though no one could say he had actually treated her badly. The idea that anyone who possessed Ochiba could ever grow tired of her seemed absurd to Yūgiri. Yet he knew such things did happen. Indeed, few attachments lasted unchanged over the years. His own relationship with Kumoi was the only example he could think of. And his exclusive faithfulness had spoiled her. She had become a little touchy and demanding.... At that point he fell asleep. He dreamed that Kashiwagi appeared, picked up the flute, and examined it with curiosity. Even in his dream, Yūgiri realized he had been unwise to play it. He had surely drawn Kashiwagi’s ghost to his side. ‘If I could blow where I wished, like the wind among the reeds, then the music of this flute would fall into the hands of a true heir.’ So the figure in his dream recited. Yūgiri was about to ask what the strange verse meant when he woke with a start. One of his children was crying. The piercing sound went on and on. The child would not take its milk, and the nurses hurried about, clearly very worried. Soon Kumoi took the child in her arms and sat with it near the lamp. Her hair was pushed back behind her ears, and her dress was open in front, showing the pretty curves of her breast. She did not try to feed the child, but let it put its lips to her breasts. With that and other little tricks, she soon stopped its tears. Yūgiri was now standing beside her. ‘Is something wrong with the child?’ he asked. To show his concern, he began scattering handfuls of rice and reciting spells of protection. If this did not help the child much, it at least helped put his dream out of his mind. ‘There’s no point in doing that,’ Kumoi said. ‘The boy is ill. He probably caught an infection when you insisted on opening the window. You come home like this, after amusing yourself I don’t know how or where. Then you fill the house with unhealthy night air, just so you can enjoy staring at the moon.’ But he could see from her face that she was no longer angry and was only teasing him. ‘I’m certainly very much to blame,’ he said, ‘if it’s true that “infections” can only enter through doors and windows. If anyone else had suggested that, I would have thought it a rather childish idea. But coming from the mother of half a dozen children, it must of course be treated with respect.’ After that, he sat watching her silently in a way Kumoi found very unsettling. At last she said, ‘Wouldn’t you be better off in bed? I’m afraid I’m not dressed to be looked at.’ Sitting in the full glare of the lamp, she knew she did not look her best. Far from being annoyed by her flirtation, Yūgiri was touched that she still cared so much about how she looked to him. The child did indeed seem very unwell. It continued to cry at intervals throughout the night, and no one in the house got much sleep.

Yūgiri was worried about this flute. The dream seemed clearly to indicate that it had not reached its right destination. Kashiwagi certainly could not have wanted it to go to a woman. What good could it be to her? And there was no man who seemed to come into question. Recollecting his last interview with Kashiwagi, Yūgiri became more than ever convinced that he had died with some desperate entanglement clinging about his soul, some secret or remorse such as might for ever hold him back from Release; and turning over in his mind what were generally considered the best ways of dealing with such a case, he arranged for all manner of services to be said on behalf of Kashiwagi’s soul at Otagi⁶⁶⁵ and at the various temples with which the dead man’s family had been connected. He thought of dealing with the flute by offering it as present to some Buddhist shrine; but on reflection he saw that this would be less than civil to the lady who had just given it to him, and he determined to consult his father upon the subject. Genji, he was told, was with the Akashi Princess. As he was passing through Murasaki’s apartments Yūgiri was greeted by little Niou, now three years old. He was Murasaki’s great favourite, and perhaps the prettiest of all the children in the palace. ‘Will you pick me up, please,’ he said, ‘and do yourself the honour to carry me back to my mummy?’ He still got his words mixed up, and applied to himself the terms of respect that he heard his nurses use when they spoke of him. ‘Come up then,’ said Yūgiri, laughing. ‘But we shall have to pass in front of Lady Murasaki’s screen. Won’t she think that very rude?’ ‘She can’t see you now,’ said Niou, covering Yūgiri’s face with his little sleeve; and thus, guided by the child, Yūgiri arrived blindfold at the Akashi Princess’s door. Here Kaoru was playing along with the other Akashi children. Seeing Niou being deposited upon the threshold, his elder brother, Ni no Miya, rushed up to Yūgiri crying: ‘Me too, a ride!’ But Niou tried to stop Yūgiri from taking the other child in his arms. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘he’s my uncle Yūgiri, not yours. I want him for my own.’ ‘Behave yourselves, children,’ cried Genji, who was standing near by. ‘Yūgiri does not belong to either of you. As a matter of fact, he is the Emperor’s gentleman, and if His Majesty were to hear that either of you had stolen the Colonel of his Bodyguard, he might be very angry. As for you, Niou, you’re a little rascal. You are always trying to get the better of your elder brother!’ ‘Ni no Miya,’ said Yūgiri, ‘is already beginning to forgo his rights with quite an elderly resignation. In a child of his age such unselfishness is alarming.’ Genji thought he had never seen three such charming children, and despite the hubbub they were creating, smiled indulgently upon them all. At last, however, he said: ‘But this is no place to receive a visitor; let us go somewhere where we can talk more comfortably.’ So saying he led the way to his own room. But they had hard work to escape, for the three little princes clung to them tightly and would not leave go. It was of course quite wrong that Kaoru, the child of a commoner, should be brought up with the Akashi Princess’s children. But, as Genji well knew, the slightest sign on his part that he was conscious of this impropriety would be taken by Nyosan as a reproach. He was indeed, as has before been noted, particularly good at guessing what effect his actions would have upon the feelings of others; and he therefore lost no opportunity of showing that the child ranked with him on exactly the same plane as his own grandchildren.

Yūgiri was worried about the flute. The dream seemed to show clearly that it had not reached its rightful owner. Kashiwagi surely could not have wanted it to go to a woman. What use could she have for it? And no man seemed a likely recipient. Remembering his last conversation with Kashiwagi, Yūgiri became more convinced than ever that some desperate entanglement had clung to his soul when he died. Some secret or remorse might keep him from Release forever. Yūgiri considered the usual best ways of dealing with such a case. He arranged for all kinds of services for Kashiwagi’s soul at Otagi⁶⁶⁵ and at the various temples connected with his family. He thought of offering the flute to a Buddhist shrine. But he realized this would be discourteous to the lady who had just given it to him. So he decided to consult his father. He was told that Genji was with the Akashi Princess. As Yūgiri passed through Murasaki’s rooms, little Niou greeted him. Niou was now three years old. He was Murasaki’s great favorite and perhaps the prettiest of all the children in the palace. ‘Will you pick me up, please,’ he said, ‘and do yourself the honor of carrying me back to my mummy?’ He still mixed up his words, using the respectful terms for himself that he heard his nurses use. ‘Come up, then,’ said Yūgiri, laughing. ‘But we’ll have to pass in front of Lady Murasaki’s screen. Won’t she think that very rude?’ ‘She can’t see you now,’ said Niou, covering Yūgiri’s face with his little sleeve. Guided by the child, Yūgiri arrived blindfolded at the Akashi Princess’s door. Kaoru was playing there with the other Akashi children. When Niou was set down at the door, his elder brother, Ni no Miya, rushed up to Yūgiri. ‘Me too, a ride!’ he cried. But Niou tried to stop Yūgiri from picking up the other child. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘he’s my uncle Yūgiri, not yours. I want him for myself.’ ‘Behave yourselves, children,’ cried Genji, who was standing nearby. ‘Yūgiri doesn’t belong to either of you. In fact, he is the Emperor’s gentleman. If His Majesty heard that either of you had stolen the Colonel of his Bodyguard, he might be very angry. And you, Niou, are a little rascal. You’re always trying to get the better of your elder brother!’ ‘Ni no Miya,’ said Yūgiri, ‘is already giving up his rights with the resignation of an old man. In a child his age, such unselfishness is alarming.’ Genji thought he had never seen three such charming children. Despite the noise they were making, he smiled fondly at them all. At last, however, he said, ‘But this is no place to receive a visitor. Let’s go somewhere we can talk more comfortably.’ He led the way to his own room. But they had trouble getting away, because the three little princes clung tightly to them and would not let go. Of course, it was quite wrong for Kaoru, the child of a commoner, to be raised with the Akashi Princess’s children. But Genji knew that Nyosan would take the slightest sign that he recognized this impropriety as a reproach. As noted before, he was particularly good at guessing how his actions would affect other people’s feelings. So he missed no opportunity to show that he regarded the child as exactly equal to his own grandchildren.

Yūgiri had often watched Kaoru from a distance, but had never made friends with him. Seeing the little boy now peeping at him through a chink in the screen, he picked up a spray of cherry-blossom that had fallen to the floor and, holding it out, called the child to him. Instantly he came toddling along, in his dark blue overall, that contrasted so strongly with the even pallor of his skin. He was, thought Yūgiri, a far handsomer child than the two Akashi boys. Was it only his fancy—the fruit of a suspicion that had long ago formed in his mind—or did Kaoru really bear a certain resemblance to poor Kashiwagi? In the expression of the eyes and the way they were set (though in the child this peculiarity was far more marked) there was something that he could not remember to have met elsewhere. And that smile too.... Was he imagining? No. Surely Genji could not see that smile without at once thinking of Kashiwagi. And if so, what did he make of it all? The Akashi princes were a pair of sturdy, quite ordinary good-looking boys. But Kaoru had about him something refined, distinguished, that would have marked him out among a hundred other well-born children. ‘What a terrible pity it is,’ thought Yūgiri, ‘that Tō no Chūjō, who is so heartbroken at Kashiwagi not even leaving a child behind to continue his name, should not know the truth about this little one—always supposing that it is the truth....’ And despite all Tō no Chūjō’s past hostility, Yūgiri felt a longing to give him this great pleasure; though when he came to think how he should do so, he saw that the idea was quite impracticable. Meanwhile, he was making friends with Kaoru, who was not in the least shy, and they were soon having wonderful games together.

Yūgiri had often watched Kaoru from a distance, but they had never become friends. Now he saw the little boy peeking at him through a gap in the screen. He picked up a spray of cherry blossom that had fallen to the floor. Holding it out, he called the child over. Kaoru came toddling up at once in his dark blue overall, which contrasted sharply with his pale skin. Yūgiri thought him a much handsomer child than the two Akashi boys. Was it just his imagination, prompted by a suspicion he had formed long ago? Or did Kaoru really look a little like poor Kashiwagi? There was something in the expression and the set of his eyes that Yūgiri could not remember seeing anywhere else. But this feature was much more pronounced in the child. And that smile too.... Was he imagining it? No. Surely Genji could not see that smile without immediately thinking of Kashiwagi. And if so, what did he make of it all? The Akashi princes were sturdy, good-looking boys, but quite ordinary. Kaoru, on the other hand, had a refinement and distinction that would have set him apart among a hundred other well-born children. ‘What a terrible pity,’ thought Yūgiri, ‘that Tō no Chūjō does not know the truth about this little one. He is so heartbroken that Kashiwagi left no child to carry on his name. That is, if it is the truth....’ Despite all Tō no Chūjō’s past hostility, Yūgiri longed to give him this great pleasure. But when he tried to think how he might do it, he saw that it was quite impossible. Meanwhile, he was making friends with Kaoru, who was not at all shy. Soon they were having wonderful games together.

Genji listened with a slightly ironical smile to Yūgiri’s description of his recent visit to the First Ward, and after a few enquiries about such parts of the story as concerned old friends and acquaintances, he said suddenly: ‘I hope you are not behaving in such a way as to give Princess Ochiba a false impression. I know by bitter experience that there is a grave risk of this. No doubt you are acting entirely out of regard for the memory of your friend; but any one who hears of these numerous visits is likely to draw a very different conclusion. For your own sake as well as hers you must be careful to make it clear that you have completely disinterested motives for frequenting the house.’ Advice on this sort of subject was, thought Yūgiri, his father’s speciality. How high-minded were Genji’s principles, and how unsuccessful he was in applying them! ‘So far from being censured for my attentions to those two ladies,’ he answered, ‘I should certainly be thought to have behaved very badly if I had not taken their affairs a little in hand. I daresay my description of these visits might easily give the impression that either she or I had not been very discreet. But everything depends upon the circumstances under which things are said or done. A remark that might be very impertinent at one moment may be perfectly harmless at another. Much again (as I am sure you will admit) depends upon the character and age of the people concerned. Ochiba is no longer very young, and I am by no means given to miscellaneous flirtations. If our relation sounds to you to be somewhat too informal, it is because I know that she takes life seriously, and she, that I am to be trusted.’ Hence he led on the conversation to a point at which it was quite natural that he should recount his dream. Genji listened without making any comment; but he perfectly well understood the meaning⁶⁶⁶ of the dream. ‘I know the flute of which you speak,’ he said at last. ‘As a matter of fact it ought, properly speaking, to be in this house, for it belonged to Murasaki’s father. He allowed Kashiwagi to take it away one day after the Lezpideza Concert, knowing that he was such a fine player. Of course, Ochiba’s mother would not know anything of this; it was quite natural that she should give it to you.’ This was a mere invention, and Genji was fairly certain that Yūgiri recognized it as such, and all the time knew quite well who was this mysterious ‘heir’ spoken of by Kashiwagi in the dream. But until Yūgiri made some more definite sign of being in the secret, Genji was not going to give himself away. Yūgiri, seeing that his father was not at all inclined to take him into his confidence, thought he had better postpone the attempt (long overdue) to deliver Kashiwagi’s cryptic death-bed message. But the temptation to get the thing over was too much for him, and he said at last, as though it were a casual recollection: ‘Soon before Kashiwagi died he gave me various instructions concerning the disposition of his affairs, and at the same time charged me with some mission that was connected with his devotion towards you; or so it seemed. But though he made several attempts to explain the matter I never succeeded in discovering what it was, nor on subsequent reflection have I ever been able to make out exactly what he meant.’ He rather overdid these protestations of bewilderment, with the result that Genji became more certain than ever of his having learnt the whole secret. But he was still determined not to commit himself. ‘I certainly know no reason why Kashiwagi should ever have thought that I was cross with him,’ he said. ‘As for the dream, I will think it over quietly and let you know how you should act. There is a saying among old women that dreams should only be discussed by daylight!’ It was evident that nothing was to be got out of him. But the story Yūgiri had just told must have made some impression upon his father. What precisely was going on in Genji’s mind, he respectfully wondered.

Genji listened with a slightly ironic smile as Yūgiri described his recent visit to the First Ward. He asked a few questions about the parts of the story concerning old friends and acquaintances. Then he said suddenly: ‘I hope you are not giving Princess Ochiba the wrong impression. I know from bitter experience that there is a serious risk of that. No doubt you are acting entirely out of respect for your friend’s memory. But anyone who hears about these many visits is likely to draw a very different conclusion. For your sake as well as hers, you must be careful to make your motives clear. People must see that you have no personal interest in visiting the house.’ Yūgiri thought this kind of advice was his father’s specialty. How noble Genji’s principles were, and how poorly he lived up to them! ‘I should hardly be criticized for paying attention to those two ladies,’ he replied. ‘In fact, people would certainly think I had behaved badly if I had not helped with their affairs. I suppose my account of these visits could easily suggest that one of us had been indiscreet. But everything depends on the circumstances in which things are said or done. A remark that would be very improper at one moment may be harmless at another. Much also depends on the character and age of the people involved, as I am sure you will admit. Ochiba is no longer very young, and I am certainly not in the habit of flirting with just anyone. If our relationship sounds a little too informal to you, that is because I know she takes life seriously. She, for her part, knows she can trust me.’ He then guided the conversation to a point where he could naturally tell Genji about his dream. Genji listened without commenting, but he understood perfectly well what the dream meant⁶⁶⁶. ‘I know the flute you mean,’ he said at last. ‘In fact, it really ought to be in this house, because it belonged to Murasaki’s father. After the Lezpideza Concert, he let Kashiwagi take it away one day, knowing what a fine player he was. Of course, Ochiba’s mother would not have known about this. It was quite natural for her to give you the flute.’ Genji had made this up. He was fairly sure Yūgiri knew that, and that he had known all along who the mysterious ‘heir’ in Kashiwagi’s dream was. But Genji would not give himself away until Yūgiri showed more clearly that he knew the secret. Yūgiri could see that his father had no intention of confiding in him. He thought he had better postpone his long overdue attempt to deliver Kashiwagi’s cryptic deathbed message. But the temptation to get it over with was too strong. At last he spoke, as if he had just remembered it: ‘Shortly before Kashiwagi died, he gave me various instructions about settling his affairs. At the same time, he entrusted me with a mission that seemed connected with his devotion to you. But although he tried several times to explain it, I never managed to discover what it was. Even after thinking about it later, I have never been able to make out exactly what he meant.’ He insisted a little too strongly that he was puzzled. As a result, Genji became more certain than ever that Yūgiri had learned the whole secret. But he was still determined not to reveal anything. ‘I certainly know no reason why Kashiwagi should ever have thought I was angry with him,’ he said. ‘As for the dream, I will think it over quietly and let you know what you should do. Old women say that dreams should only be discussed in daylight!’ Clearly, Yūgiri would get nothing out of him. But the story he had just told must have made some impression on his father. He wondered respectfully what, exactly, was going through Genji’s mind.