when, feeling that she was being watched, Lady Kumoi shyly turned away, showing for a moment as she did so a profile of particular beauty. The poise of her left hand, as with small fingers she depressed the heavy strings, was such as one sees in Buddhist carvings. Even her grandmother, who had watched her at her lessons day by day, could not hold back a murmur of admiration.
When they had played several duets the big zithern was removed, and Tō no Chūjō played a few pieces on his six-stringed Japanese zithern, using the harsh ‘major’[1] tuning which was appropriate to the season. Played not too solemnly and by so skilful a hand as Chūjō’s, this somewhat strident mode was very agreeable. On the boughs outside the window only a few ragged leaves were left; while within several groups of aged gentlewomen clustering with their heads together behind this or that curtain-of-state, moved by Chūjō’s playing were shedding the tears that people at that time of life are only too ready to let fall upon any provocation. ‘It needs but a light wind to strip the autumn boughs,’ quoted Chūjō, and continuing the quotation, he added: ‘ “It cannot be the music of my zithern that has moved them. Though they know it not, it is the sad beauty of this autumn evening that has provoked their sudden tears.” But come, let us have more music before we part.’ Upon this Princess Ōmiya and her daughter played The Autumn Wind and Tō no Chūjō sang the words with so delightful an effect that every one present was just thinking how much his presence added to the amenity of any gathering, when yet another visitor arrived. Yūgiri thinking that such an evening was wasted if not spent in agreeable company, had come over from Genji’s palace to the Great
- ↑ Using ‘major’ and ‘minor’ as translations of Yō and In. The six strings were tuned to the 1st, 5th, 9th, and 3rd, 7th, 11th, semitones of the diatonic scale.
