spring lists had been no more satisfying for his people than for hers. He remained in seclusion at Nijō.
And it was a difficult time for the Minister of the Left. Everything was changed, private and public. He handed in his resignation, but the emperor, remembering how his father had looked to the minister as one of the men on whom the stability of the reign depended and how just before his death he had asked especially that the minister’s services be retained, said that he could not dispense with such estimable services. He declined to accept the resignation, though it was tendered more than once. Finally the minister withdrew to the seclusion of his Sanjō mansion, and the Minister of the Right was more powerful and prosperous every day. With the retirement of a man who should have been a source of strength, the emperor was helpless. People of feeling all through the court joined him in his laments.
Genji’s brothers-in-law, the sons of the Minister of the Left, were all personable and popular young men, and life had been pleasant for them. Now they too were in eclipse. On Tō no Chūjō‘s rare visits to his wife, the fourth daughter of the Minister of the Right, he was made to feel all too clearly that she was less than delighted with him and that he was not the minister’s favorite son-in-law. As if to emphasize the point, he too was omitted from the spring lists. But he was not one to fret over the injustice. Genji’s setbacks seemed to him evidence enough that public life was insecure, and he was philosophic about his own career. He and Genji were constant companions in their studies and in such diversions as music. Now and then something of their madcap boyhood rivalry seemed almost to come back.
Genji paid more attention than in other years to the semiannual readings of holy scriptures and commissioned several unscheduled readings as well. He would summon learned professors who did not have much else to do and beguile the tedium of his days composing Chinese poetry and joining in contests of rhyme guessing and the like. He seldom went to court. This indolent life seems to have aroused a certain amount of criticism.
On an evening of quiet summer rain when the boredom was very great, Tō no Chūjō came calling and brought with him several of the better collections of Chinese poetry. Going into his library, Genji opened cases he had not looked into before and chose several unusual and venerable collections. Quietly he sent out invitations to connoisseurs of Chinese poetry at court and in the university. Dividing them into teams of the right and of the left, he set them to a rhyme-guessing contest. The prizes were lavish. As the rhymes became more difficult even the erudite professors were sometimes at a loss, and Genji would dazzle the assembly by coming up with a solution which had eluded them. The meeting of so many talents in one person — it was the wonder of the day, and it told of great merits accumulated in previous lives.
Two days later Tō no Chūjō gave a banquet for the victors. Though it was a quiet, unostentatious affair, the food was beautifully arranged in cypress boxes. There were numerous gifts and there were the usual diversions, Chinese poetry and the like. Here and there below the veranda a solitary rose was coming into bloom, more effective, in a quiet way, than the full bloom of spring or autumn. Several of the guests presently took up instruments and began an impromptu concert. One of Tō no Chūjō‘s little sons, a boy of eight or nine who had just this year been admitted to the royal presence, sang for them in fine voice and played on the shō pipes. A favorite of Genji, who often joined him in a duet, the boy was Tō no Chūjō‘s second son and a grandson of the Minister of the Right. He was gifted and intelligent and very handsome as well, and great care had gone into his education. As the proceedings grew noisier he sang “Takasago” in a high, clear voice. Delighted, Genji took off a singlet and presented it to him. A slight flush from drink made Genji even handsomer than usual. His skin glowed through his light summer robes. The learned guests looked up at him from the lower tables with eyes that had misted over. “I might have met the first lily of spring” — the boy had come to the end of his song. Tō no Chūjō offered Genji a cup of wine and with it a verse:
“I might have met the first lily of spring, he says.
I look upon a flower no less pleasing.”
Smiling, Genji took the cup:
“The plant of which you speak bloomed very briefly.
It opened at dawn to wilt in the summer rains,
and is not what it used to be.”
Though Tō no Chūjō did not entirely approve of this garrulity, he continued to press wine upon his guest.
There seem to have been numerous other poems; but Tsurayuki has warned that it is in bad taste to compose under the influence of alcohol and that the results are not likely to have much merit, and so I did not trouble myself to write them down. All the poems, Chinese and Japanese alike, were in praise of Genji. In fine form, he said as if to himself: “I am the son of King Wen, the brother of King Wu.” It was magnificent. And what might he have meant to add about King Ch’eng? At that point, it seems, he thought it better to hold his tongue. Prince Sochi, who could always be counted upon to enliven these gatherings, was an accomplished musician and a witty and good-humored adversary for Genji.
Oborozukiyo was spending some time with her family. She had had several attacks of malaria and hoped that rest and the services of priests might be beneficial. Everyone was pleased that this treatment did indeed prove effective. It was a rare opportunity. She made certain arrangements with Genji and, though they were complicated, saw him almost every night. She was a bright, cheerful girl, at her youthful best, and a small loss of weight had made her very beautiful indeed. Because her sister, Kokiden, also happened to be at home, Genji was in great apprehension lest his presence be detected. It was his nature to be quickened by danger, how- ever, and with elaborate stealth he continued his visits. Although it would seem that, as the number increased, several women of the house began to suspect what was happening, they were reluctant to play informer to the august lady. The minister had no suspicions.
Then one night toward dawn there came a furious thunderstorm. The minister’s sons and Kokiden’s women were rushing about in confusion. Several women gathered trembling near Oborozukiyo’s bed curtains. Genji was almost as frightened, for other reasons, and unable to escape. Daylight came. He was in a fever, for a crowd of women had by now gathered outside the curtains. The two women who were privy to the secret could think of nothing to do.
The thunder stopped, the rain quieted to showers. The minister went first to Kokiden’s wing and then, his approach undetected because of the rain on the roof, to Oborozukiyo’s. He marched jauntily up the gallery and lifted a blind.
“How did you come through it all? I was worried about you and meant to look in on you. Have the lieutenant and Her Majesty’s vice-chamberlain been here?”
A cascade of words poured forth. Despite the precariousness of his situation, Genji could not help smiling at the difference between the two ministers. The man could at least have come inside before he commenced his speech.
Flushed and trembling, Oborozukiyo slipped through the bed curtains. The minister feared that she had had a relapse.
“My, but you do look strange. It’s not just malaria, it’s some sort of evil spirit, I’m sure of it, a very stubborn one. We should have kept those priests at it.”
He caught sight of a pale magenta sash entwined in her skirts. And something beside the curtain too, a wadded bit of paper on which he could see traces of writing.
“What might this be?” he asked in very great surprise. “Not at all something that I would have expected to find here. Let me have it. Give it to me, now. Let me see what it is.”
The lady glanced over her shoulder and saw the incriminating objects. And now what was she to do? One might have expected a little more tact and
