The Haven replied through Koshōshō,42 who was entertaining him,
“He indeed is gone, the god who stood watchful guard over this oak tree,
but may such familiar boughs start a new intimacy?
I think that you speak rashly and that you may be shallow.”
The Commander took her point with a smile, and he straightened himself discreetly when he gathered that she had slipped out to receive him. “I have not been myself,” she began, “perhaps because sorrow has weighed upon me so long, and I have hardly been aware of life around me. However, deep gratitude for the kindness of your visits has moved me to rouse myself after all.” She really did seem unwell.
“It is only natural that you should mourn, but surely not so much,” he said soothingly. “Whatever happens seems to happen in its time. All things in this life have their proper term.”
He had sensed depth in the Princess herself ever since first hearing of her, but he also imagined anxiously how much unhappier, alas, it must indeed make her to have people laughing at her, and keen interest led him to try to find out what she was like. I suppose she is no great beauty, he said to himself, but assuming that she is not horribly deformed, why did he have to reject her just because of her looks and torment himself with feelings that he should never have entertained? What a thing to do! Character is all that really matters in the end.
“I hope that you will give me the same place in your thoughts that you gave him and not keep me at too great a distance.” He carefully avoided any hint of suggestiveness, but he certainly was strikingly attentive. In a dress cloak he looked very fine indeed, and his height gave him an imposing dignity.
“The late Intendant always had a sweeter grace and a nobler charm than anyone else,” the women whispered, “but this lord is a magnificent figure of a man, and you cannot help being struck by how handsome he is—there is no one like him!”
“Actually, it would be quite nice if he were to come calling this way regularly.”
“The grass grows green on the Right Commander's grave,”43 the Commander hummed. That death, too,44 was recent. High and low united in lamenting the departed, in this world where tragedy has always struck so often, for apart from the more obvious qualities that made him admirable, he was a man of such extraordinary warmth that even old officials or gentlewomen, people who hardly mattered, mourned him and regretted his passing. No wonder, then, that His Majesty thought of him each time there was music and dwelled on him in memory. “Ah, the poor Intendant!” people would say on every occasion. As the months and days slipped by, Genji, at Rokujō, recalled him more and more often with emotion. The little boy kept his memory alive for him, although that did not help, since no one else knew. By the time autumn came, the baby was crawling.
37
YOKOBUE
The Flute
The yokobue was the most common kind of transverse bamboo flute at the Heian court. It was originally Chinese, unlike the somewhat lighter komabue (Koma, or Korean, flute) and yamatobue (Japanese flute). In this chapter Ochiba no Miya's mother gives Yūgiri a flute that Kashiwagi often played, and Yūgiri uses the word in his poem of thanks:
“Nothing much has changed in the music of the flute, but that perfect tone
missing ever since he died will live on forevermore.”
RELATIONSHIP TO EARLIER CHAPTERS
“The Flute” begins about a year after the end of “The Oak Tree” and covers spring through autumn.
PERSONS
His Grace, the Honorary Retired Emperor, Genji, age 49
The little boy, son of Onna San no Miya and Kashiwagi, 2 (Kaoru)
His Retired Excellency (Tō no Chūjō)
The Commander, Genji's son, 28 (Yūgiri)
Her Highness, the Second Princess (Ochiba no Miya)
His Cloistered Eminence, the Retired Emperor, 52 (Suzaku In)
Her Cloistered Highness, the Third Princess, 23 or 24 (Onna San no Miya)
The Haven, mother of Ochiba no Miya (Ichijō no Miyasudokoro)
The Commander's wife, 30 (Kumoi no Kari)
The Consort, Genji's daughter, 21 (Akashi no Nyōgo)
His Highness, the Third Prince, 3 (Niou)
His Highness, the Second Prince (Ni no Miya)
Many people continued bitterly mourning the late Acting Grand Counselor's1 passing. His Grace of Rokujō, who regretted the death of anyone pleasant, even if he hardly knew him, was extremely sorry and often felt moved to dwell on his memory, for despite that one outraged recollection the gentleman had been a constant companion whom he had particularly liked. He made a point of having scriptures read for the anniversary. The little boy's utterly childlike innocence made a sight so touching that Genji felt for him keenly after all, and he privately decided to offer an extra hundred ounces of gold2 on his behalf. His Excellency, who did not know why, expressed his humble gratitude.
The Commander did a great deal, too, and he took it upon himself to sponsor many observances. At the same time he redoubled his attentions to the Princess at Ichijō.3 His Excellency and his wife, who had never expected to find him more devoted than their son's own brothers, were very pleased. Evidence of just how high the Intendant still stood in the world's esteem, even after his death, impressed them more painfully than ever with the magnitude of their loss.
His Cloistered Eminence on his mountain was saddened to gather that his Second Princess was causing amusement, and since Her Cloistered Highness had joined him in renouncing the world's commonplace concerns, he felt disappointment for both, although he bore it, having resolved that nothing profane should trouble him. He reflected during his devotions that Her Cloistered Highness must be occupied with following the same path, and now that she had taken it up, he took advantage of the least occasion to keep in touch with her.
The bamboo shoots growing in the forest beside the temple and the taro roots dug from the mountains nearby evoked life in the hills so movingly that he sent her some of each, and with them a long letter to which he added, at the end, “Though spring mists veil moor and mountain, I have had these dug for you with deep affection, only to let you know how much you mean to me.
You come after me in leaving the world behind to follow this path,
yet seek that same root of peace as I do with all my heart!”4
She read his words with tears in her eyes. Genji arrived just then and was surprised to see the tall lacquered stands5 before her. “How strange!” he said. “What are those?” There was His Eminence's letter. He read it and found it very moving. “To think that I cannot see you as I wish, even when I feel as though every day could be my last!” he had written, and a great deal else besides. The part about them both reaching “the same root of peace” was pious talk of little interest, but he still sympathized. I am very sorry indeed to have given him such anxiety over my treatment of her, he said to himself.
She wrote her reply shyly and presented the messenger with a set of blue-gray robes in silk twill. Genji saw a bit of paper she had discarded peeping out beside her standing curtain and picked it up. In a tenuous hand she had written,
“Longing for the peace of a place beyond this world and all its sorrows,
I dwell on the mountain where you have renounced it all.”
“He seems worried about you, you know,” he said. “This wish of yours to be elsewhere is very hurtful and unkind.”
Her Highness no longer received him directly, but the hair at her forehead was very sweet and pretty, and her face seemed to him just like a girl's; he could not look at her charming figure without wondering guiltily why all this had had to happen, and with only a standing curtain between them he was therefore careful not to be too distant.
The little boy had been asleep with his nurse, but he now came crawling in and tugged very fetchingly at Genji's sleeve. The skirts of his plum-pink robe, worn over white silk gauze, trailed long and loose behind him, leaving much of him bare, which is common enough for little children but still extremely appeali
ng; he looked as though he had been carved from supple white willow. His head might have been dyed with dayflower,6 and while his delightful mouth and his look of wide-eyed innocence certainly recalled someone else, he had not had anything like this beauty. Where does he get it from? Genji wondered as he watched. He does not resemble Her Highness. The extraordinary nobility and distinction of his face would not look out of place in my own mirror.
The child was just beginning to walk. He toddled up to the lacquered stands without knowing what was on them and began merrily gobbling bamboo shoots and throwing them about. “You naughty boy!” Genji laughed. “What a way to behave! Here, someone, take them away from him! Gossipy gentlewomen will be saying he cannot resist food!” He picked him up. “There is something special about his eyes, isn't there? I know that I have not seen that many children this young, but I thought that at this age they all just looked like babies, whereas he has a remarkable quality even now. That is a worry. Our First Princess7 is here already, and it could mean trouble for them both now that he is, too. But alas, will I even see them all grow up? ‘Though the blossoms flower in glory…’”8 He gazed at the boy.
“What a frightening thing to say, my lord!” the women protested.
Eager to test his new teeth, the boy clutched a bamboo shoot and mouthed it, drooling. “He certainly has an odd idea of gallantry!” Genji remarked.
“I do not forget that passage of bitterness, but this little shoot
is much too dear after all to reject only for that!”9
He got the bamboo shoot away from him and took him back to where he was sitting, but the boy only smiled and registered nothing; instead, he crawled off again at great speed.
As the months and days went by, the boy grew so alarmingly pretty that Genji might easily have forgotten all about “that bitter incident.” Perhaps the inadmissible occurred only because destiny required him be born, he mused, in which case little could have been done to avoid it. My own karma is disappointing, too, in many ways. Among all the women I have brought together, Her Highness is the one who should have been the most perfectly satisfactory and whose person should have left the least to be desired, and yet every time I reflect how extraordinary it is to see her as she is now, I find that lapse of hers impossible to forgive. His regrets were still fully alive.
The Commander continued to ponder what the Intendant's parting words might mean, and he wanted very much to question Genji about them and watch his face as he did so, but he could not actually bring himself to mention them, since he had an idea what the matter must be. Still, he kept hoping for a chance to find out what had really happened and to tell Genji what had preoccupied the Intendant so.
One melancholy autumn evening his thoughts went to the Princess at Ichijō and he set off there. She seemed just then to have been quietly playing a wagon, and without putting it fully away again, she had him brought straight into the southern aisle. He clearly glimpsed the women who had been near the aisle as they slipped off deeper into the room; their rustling silks and the sweet fragrance that hung in the air left him with an elegant impression. The Haven received him as usual, and they talked over the past. He found the house very quiet and sad, being used to one bustling and crowded day and night, as well as to a noisy throng of his own children. The place itself seemed neglected, but their mode of life there had great distinction. He looked out at the flowers in the near garden and at the twilight glow over the “wilderness filled with insect cries.”10
He drew the wagon to him. It was tuned to the richi mode and clearly much played, and the scent that clung to it aroused tender feelings. While playing it himself, he dreamed on about how in a place like this a man with a weakness for gallantry might forget himself and behave unworthily, to his public shame. The wagon was the one his friend had favored. He played a little of a pretty piece and said, “Alas, what a beautiful tone he used to draw from this instrument! Surely his touch is still present in Her Highness's. I would be so pleased if she were to permit me to hear it!”
“She has forgotten all about her old childish amusements since the thread of his life broke,”11 the Haven replied. “When His Eminence's Princesses practiced in his presence, he judged that she did very well at such things, but she is so abstracted now that she is hardly the same person. She seems to spend all her time in sorrow, and as far as I can tell, this instrument only awakens painful memories.”
“I do not wonder that it should. ‘If only there were an end in this world…’”12 he mused as he pushed it from him.
“Do play, then, so that I may listen for his touch in the music! It will do these ears of mine such good, when I have been sad so long!”
“It is the middle string that would convey his touch and yield a truly remarkable tone,”13 he answered. “That is what I myself was hoping to hear.” He pushed the wagon up to the blinds, but he did not insist when she gave no sign of consenting to play.
The moon shone in a cloudless sky while lines of geese passed aloft, wing to wing. With what envy the Princess must have heard them, from whose ranks none ever strayed: for with a chill breeze blowing and a heart full of care, she lightly touched the strings of a sō no koto, giving its voice such depth that the Commander's fascination with her grew. Wishing that she would give him more, he himself picked up a biwa, very softly to play “I Love Him So.” “I do not wish to seem to divine your thoughts, but I hope that this piece may draw a word from you.” He addressed her eagerly, there within her blinds, but his music had only deepened her reticence, and she remained lost in her sad thoughts.
“I see in you now depths of bashful reticence that only confirm
silence to be far more wise than a vain attempt at words,”
he said.
She played a little of the end and replied,
“I hear very well all the sadness of midnight in what you have played,
but I have no words myself, save a music of my own.”
It was lovely but all too short. Her touch had the graceful simplicity that the late Intendant had devotedly taught her, and the mode was the one he had favored, but she had played only a small part of a very moving piece, and he was disappointed. “My music has no doubt betrayed the gallant cast of my feelings,” he said nonetheless. “I should be going now, I think; the late Intendant might well reprove me for staying so long with you on an autumn night. I shall return and wait on you again. Will you be good enough to leave the tuning of these instruments unchanged? I shall worry otherwise, for there is so little one can count on in this world.” Without expressing himself plainly he managed after all to suggest his meaning before he left.
“He would surely have forgiven you the pleasures of this evening,” the Haven said. “You spent so much time in desultory talk about the past that I am sorry to say I feel no younger for it.” She gave him a flute as a parting gift. “This flute, you see, always seemed to me to convey the quality of its noble past, and I have been sorry to see it buried in this wormwood waste. I look forward to hearing its voice rise above the cries of your escort.”
The Commander examined it. “I am unworthy of such an attendant,” he replied. Yes, this instrument, too, was one that the Intendant had always had with him; he remembered him often saying that he did not get from it the very finest sound it could give and that he wanted it to go to someone able to appreciate it. He put it to his lips, feeling if anything sadder than ever. “I could be forgiven for playing the wagon as I did in his memory,” he said, stopping halfway through the banshiki modal prelude, “but this is beyond me.”
The Haven sent out to him as he was leaving,
“Here beside a home sadly overgrown with weeds a cricket now sings
in that voice I knew so well in those autumns long ago.”
He replied,
“Nothing much has changed in the music of the flute, but that perfect tone
missing ever since he died will live on forevermore.”
He could hardly bring himself to go, but it was ext
remely late.
When he got home, he found all the lattice shutters down and everyone asleep. Having heard that his heart was set on the Princess and that he was courting her, she14 must have objected to his being out late and pretended to be asleep as soon as she heard him come in.
“My love and I on Irusa Mountain,”15 he sang very prettily to himself, but then, “Why is everything all locked up like this? It is so gloomy! To think that some people are not even watching the moon!” He sighed, lifted the shutters, rolled up the blinds, and lay down near the veranda.
Playing the flute
“How could anyone just lie there dreaming, with the moon as it is tonight? Come over here a little. What a shame!” She was not pleased, though, and she ignored him. There were his children scattered about, making innocent little cries in their sleep, and gentle-women were lying among them; they all made a scene very different from the one he had just left.
He played the flute and imagined her still absorbed in her sorrow long after his departure. I know she will play without changing the tuning! And her mother is so good on the wagon, too! Things like this ran through his mind as he lay there. The late Intendant had given her all the consideration that was her due, but he seemed to have felt no deep attachment to her, which puzzled the Commander greatly. What a pity it would be if she turned out to have no looks! That could easily be the case with any woman reputed to be a beauty. He counted the years since he and his wife had given themselves to each other without any of these elaborate hints and mysteries. No wonder she had settled into being so proud and overbearing!
The Tale of Genji: (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition) (Junichiro Breakdown of Genji) Page 90
