21

The little pipers had been charming, most solemnly attentive to their responsibilities.

“You must be sleepy,” said Genji. “It seemed as if we had only begun and I wanted to hear more and more. It was silly of me to think of picking the best when everything was so good, and so the night went by. You must forgive me.”

He urged a sip of wine on the little _sho~_ piper and rewarded him with a singlet, one of his own favorites. A lady had something for the little flutist, a pair of trousers and a lady's robe cut from an unassuming fabric. The Third Princess offered a cup to Yu~giri and presented him with a set of her own robes.

“Now this seems very strange and unfair,” said Genji. “If there are to be such grand rewards, then surely the teacher should come first. You are all very rude and thoughtless.”

A flute, a very fine Korean one, was pushed towards him from beneath the Third Princess's curtains. He smiled as he played a few notes. The guests were beginning to leave, but Yu~giri took up his son's flute and played a strain marvelous in its clean strength. They were all his very own pupils, thought Genji, to whom he had taught his very own secrets, and they were all accomplished musicians. He knew of course that he had had superior material to work with.

The moon was high and bright as Yu~giri set off with his sons. The extraordinary sound of Murasaki's koto was still with him. Kumoinokari, his wife, had had lessons from their late grandmother, but had been taken away before she had learned a great deal. She quite refused to let him hear her play. She was a sober, reliable sort of lady whose family duties took all her time. To Yu~giri she seemed somewhat backward in the accomplishments. She was her most interesting when, as did sometimes happen, she allowed herself a fit of temper or jealousy.