Kōchiyama Sōshun sourly watched the other attendants vying with one
another each to get a silver pipe from Narihiro. Especially when he saw
Ryōtetsu overjoyed at getting one when Narihiro went to the castle on
the first of the eighth month, he went so far as to abuse him roundly
and call him a fool in his usual sharp and peevish voice. It was by
no means that he was not covetous of a silver pipe, but he felt his
dignity too much to run after one with the other attendants. Troubled
by the conflict between his pride and his avarice, he kept his eye on
Narihiro’s pipe constantly, pretending indifference, the while he was
saying to himself, “Wait and see. I’ll soon put their noses out of
joint.”
Then one day he noticed that Narihiro was calmly puffing away at a pure
gold pipe again. But it seemed that not an attendant was going to ask
for it. So he stopped Ryōtetsu, who was just then passing, and slyly
pointing in Narihiro’s direction with his chin, whispered,
“He’s got a pure gold one again, hasn’t he?”
When Ryōtetsu heard this, he looked at Sōshun with an amazed expression
on his face.
“You’d better show some moderation in your greed. When, even with
silver pipes, he’s importuned so much, why would he want to carry a
pure gold pipe again?”
“Then what is it?”
“Brass, I should say.”
Sōshun shrugged his shoulders. He looked all about him carefully and
did not raise his voice in laughter.
“All right, if it’s brass, let it be brass. I’m going to get it.”
“Why do you think it’s gold again?” asked Ryōtetsu, his assurance
seeming to weaken.
“He knows your minds. Pretending that it’s brass, he’s brought a pure
gold one. To begin with, a lord with a million _koku_ of rice
wouldn’t meekly carry a brass pipe.”
Sōshun said this rapidly and went in alone to Narihiro, leaving the
astonished Ryōtetsu outside that golden sliding door on which was the
picture of Seiōbo.
An hour later, Ryōtetsu met Kōchiyama in the matted corridor and asked,
“What happened, Sōshun, in that matter?”
“What do you mean, that matter?”
Ryōtetsu, sticking out his lower lip, stared into his face and said,
“Don’t sham. The matter of the pipe, of course.”
“Oh, the pipe? If it’s the pipe you mean, I’ll give it to you.”
Kōchiyama took a shiny yellow pipe out of the bosom of his kimono and,
throwing it into Ryōtetsu’s face before he had more than caught a
glimpse of it, walked hastily away.
Ryōtetsu, rubbing the place where the pipe had hit him,
grumblingly picked it up from where it had fallen and, looking
at it, found it to be an elegant piece of workmanship with the
plum-blossom-and-spear-point crest scattered over it and made
of--brass! With a gesture of detestation, he threw it down on the mats
again and, lifting a foot inclosed in a one-toed shoe of white cloth,
went with exaggeration through the motion of stamping on it.