5

On a sad autumn evening he visited the Second Princess. She had apparently been having a quiet evening with her music. He was shown to a south room where instruments and music still lay scattered about. The rustling of silk and the rich perfume as a lady who had been out near the south veranda withdrew to the inner rooms had a sort of mysterious elegance that he found very exciting. It was the princess's mother who as usual came out to receive him. For a time they exchanged reminiscences. Yu~giri's own house was noisy and crowded and he was used to troops of unruly children. The Ichijo~ house was by contrast quiet and even lonely. Though the garden had been neglected, an air of courtly refinement still hung over house and garden alike. The flower beds caught the evening light in a profusion of bloom and the humming of autumn insects was as he had imagined it in an earlier season.* He reached for a Japanese koto. Tuned now to a minor key, it seemed to have been much favored and still held the scent of the most recent player. This was no place, he thought, for the impetuous sort of young man. Unworthy impulses could too easily have their way, and the gossips something to amuse themselves with. Very competently, he played a strain on the koto he had so often heard Kashiwagi play.

“What a delight it was to hear him,” he said to the princess's mother. “Dare I imagine that an echo of his playing might still be in the instrument, and that Her Highness might be persuaded to bring it out for us?”

“But the strings are broken,* and she seems to have forgotten all that she ever knew. I am told that when His Majesty had his daughters at their instruments he did not think her the least talented of them. But so much time has gone by since she last had much heart for music, and I am afraid that it would only be cause to remember.” +

“Yes, one quite understands. 'Were it a world which puts an end to sorrow.'“# Looking out over the garden, he pushed the koto towards the old lady.

“No, please. Let me hear more, so that I may decide whether an echo of his playing does indeed still remain in the instrument. Let it take away the unhappy sounds of more recent days.”

“But it is the sound of the middle string* * that is important. I cannot hope to have it from my own hand.”

He pushed the koto under the princess's blinds, but she did not seem inclined to take it. He did not press her.

The moon had come out in a cloudless sky. And what sad, envious thoughts would the calls of the wild geese, each wing to wing with its mate, be summoning up? The breeze was chilly. In the autumn sadness she played a few notes, very faintly and tentatively, on a Chinese koto. He was deeply moved, but wished that he had heard more or nothing at all. Taking up a lute, he softly played the Chinese lotus song with all its intimate overtones.++

“I would certainly not wish to seem forward, but I had hoped that you might have something to say in the matter.”

But it was a melody that brought inhibitions, and she kept her sad thoughts to herself.

“There is a shyness which is more affecting

Than any sound of word or sound of koto.” ##

Her response was to play the last few measures of the Chinese song. She added a poem:

“I feel the sadness, in the autumn night.

How can I speak of it if not through the koto?”

He was resentful that he had heard so little. The solemn tone of the Japanese koto, the melody which the one now gone had so earnestly taught her, were as they had always been, and yet there was something chilling, almost menacing in them.

“Well, I have plucked away on this instrument and that and kept my feelings no secret. My old friend is perhaps reproving me for having enjoyed so much of the autumn night with you. I shall come again, though you may be sure that I shall do nothing to upset you. Will you leave our koto as it is until then? People do have a way of thinking thoughts about a koto and about a lady.” And so he left hints, not too extremely broad, behind him.

“I doubt,” said the old lady, “that anyone could reprove us for enjoying ourselves this evening. You have made the evening seem short with honest talk of the old days. I am sure that if you were to let me hear more of your playing it would add years to my life.”

She gave him a flute as he left.

“It is said to have a rich past. I would hate to have it lost among these tangles of wormwood. You must play on it as you leave and drown out the calls of your runners. That would give me great pleasure.”

“Far too valuable an addition to my retinue.”

It did indeed have a rich past. It had been Kashiwagi's favorite. Yu~giri had heard him say more than once that it had possibilities he had never done justice to, and that he wanted it to have an owner more worthy of it. Near tears once more, he blew a few notes in the _banjiki_ mode,* but did not finish the melody he had begun.

“My inept pluckings on the koto may perhaps be excused as a kind of memorial, but this flute leaves me feeling quite helpless, wholly inadequate.”

The old lady sent out a poem:

“The voices of insects are unchanged this autumn,

Rank though the grasses be round my dewy lodging.”

He sent back:

“The melody is as it always was.

The voices that mourn are inexhaustible.”

Though it was very late, he left with great reluctance.