THE FLARES
It was now the turn of Lady Ōmi’s eccentricities to become the sole
topic of conversation at Court. ‘All this is very puzzling,’ said
Genji. ‘Her father gave orders that she was to be kept in close
confinement; how comes it, then, that every one seems to know so much
about her? One hears nothing but stories of her ridiculous behaviour.
So far from keeping the poor half-witted creature out of harm’s way he
seems to be positively making an exhibition of her. Here again I think
I see the consequences of his obstinate belief in the impeccability of
his own family. He sent for her without making the slightest enquiry,
convinced that since his blood ran in her veins she must necessarily be
beyond reproach. Finding her an exception to this rule he has taken his
revenge by deliberately exposing her to derision. However, I can hardly
believe that after all the trouble he has taken, it can really give him
much satisfaction that the mere mention of her name should evoke peals
of laughter....’
The fate of Ōmi seemed, incidently, to afford some justification for
Genji’s reluctance to part with Tamakatsura, a fact which she herself
recognized. It was by no means safe to assume that Tō no Chūjō would
treat a second long-lost daughter any better than the first. The old
nurse Ukon, who daily collected for her mistress’s benefit some fresh
anecdote of Ōmi’s discomfiture, vigorously supported the view that Tō
no Chūjō was not a father to be lightly adopted. ‘True,’ thought
Tamakatsura, ‘Genji’s attitude towards me is not quite such as I could
wish. But I am bound to confess that hitherto he has never tried to go
further than I intend he should, and in practical ways no one could
possibly be more kind and considerate.’ Thus gratitude was slowly
replaced by friendship and even by a certain semblance of intimacy.
Autumn had now come, and with it a bitterly cold wind—the ‘first wind’
whose chill breath ‘only a lover’s cloak can nullify.’ He made great
efforts to keep away from the Western Wing, but all to no purpose; and
soon, on the pretext of music-lessons or what not, he was spending the
greater part of every day at Tamakatsura’s side.
One evening when the moon was some five or six days old he came
suddenly to her room. The weather was chilly and overcast, and the wind
rustled with a melancholy note through the reeds outside the window.
She sat with her head resting against her zithern. To-night too, as on
so many previous occasions, he would make his timorous advances, and
at the end of it all be just where he started. So Genji grumbled to
himself, and continued to behave in a somewhat plaintive and peevish
manner during his whole visit. It was however already very late when
the fear of giving offence in other quarters drove him from the room.
Just as he was leaving he noticed that the flares outside her window
were burning very low, and sending for one of his men, he had them
kindled anew; but this time at a little distance from the house, under
a strangely leaning spindle-tree which spread its branches in the form
of a broad canopy, near to the banks of a deep, chilly stream. The thin
flares of split pine-wood were placed at wide intervals, casting pale
shadows that flickered remotely upon the walls of the unlighted room
where she and Genji sat. He caught a glimpse of her hand, showing frail
and ghostly against the dark background of her hair. Her face,
suddenly illumined by the cold glare of the distant torches, wore an
uneasy and distrustful air. He had risen to go, but still lingered.
‘You should tell your people never to let the flares go out,’ he said.
‘Even in summer, except when there is a moon, it is not wise to leave
the garden unlighted. And in Autumn.... I shall feel very uneasy if you
do not promise to remember about this. “Did but the torches flickering
at your door burn brightly as the fire within my breast, you should
not want for light!”’ And he reminded her of the old song in which the
lover asks: ‘How long, like the smouldering watch-fire at the gate,
must my desire burn only with an inward flame?’
‘Would that, like the smoke of the watch-fires that mounts and vanishes
at random in the empty sky, the smouldering flame of passion could burn
itself away!’ So she recited, adding: ‘I do not know what has come
over you. Please leave me at once or people will think....’ ‘As you
wish,’ he answered, and was stepping into the courtyard, when he heard
a sound of music in the wing occupied by the Lady from the Village
of Falling Flowers. Some one seemed to be playing the flute to the
accompaniment of a Chinese zithern. No doubt Yūgiri was giving a small
party. The flute-player could be none other than Tō no Chūjō’s eldest
son Kashiwagi; for who else at Court performed with such marvellous
delicacy and finish? How pleasant would be the effect, thought Genji,
if they would consent to come and give a serenade by the streamside,
in the subdued light of those flickering torches! ‘I long to join
you,’ he wrote, ‘but, could you see the pale, watery shadows that the
watch-flares are casting here in the garden of the western wing, you
would know why I am slow to come....’ He sent this note to Yūgiri, and
presently three figures appeared out of the darkness. ‘I should
not have sent for you,’ he called to them, ‘had you not played “The
Wind’s voice tells me....” It is a tune that I can never resist.’ So
saying he brought out his own zithern. When he had played for a while,
Yūgiri began to improvise on his flute in the Banshiki mode.[189]
Kashiwagi attempted to join in, but his thoughts were evidently
employed elsewhere,[190] for again and again he entered at the wrong
beat. ‘Too late,’ cried Genji, and at last Kōbai was obliged to keep
his brother in measure by humming the air in a low monotone like the
chirping of a meditative grasshopper. Genji made them go through the
piece twice, and then handed his zithern to Kashiwagi. It was some
while since he had heard the boy play and he now observed with delight
that his talent was not by any means confined to wind-instruments. ‘You
could have given me no greater pleasure,’ he said, when the piece was
over. ‘Your father is reckoned a fine performer on the zithern; but
you have certainly more than overtaken him.... By the way, I should
have cautioned you that there is some one seated just within who can
probably hear all that is going on out in this portico. So to-night
there had better not be too much drinking. Do not be offended, for I
was really thinking more of myself than of you. Now that I am getting
on in years I find wine far more dangerous than I used to. I am apt to
say the most indiscreet things....’
Tamakatsura did, as a matter of fact, overhear every word of this, as
indeed she was intended to, and was thankful that he at any rate saw
the necessity of keeping himself in hand. The near presence of the two
visitors could not fail to interest her extremely, if for no other
reason than merely because they were, after all, though themselves
entirely unaware of the fact, so very closely related to her;
and for long past she had surreptitiously collected all possible
information concerning their characters and pursuits. Kashiwagi was,
as to her distress she had frequently ascertained, very deeply in
love with her. Again and again during the course of the evening, he
was on the verge of collapsing altogether; but never was the state of
agitation through which he was passing for a moment reflected in his
playing.
[189] Corresponding roughly with the white notes from D to D.
[190] He was in love with Tamakatsura.