And after a little reflection, he continued, “There is a nun whom I know living in a mountain convent in Higashi-Yama. Let us take the corpse there. She was my father's nurse; she is living there in strict seclusion. That is the best plan I can think of.”
This proposal was decided on, and the carriage was summoned.
Presuming that Genji would not like to carry the dead body in his arms, Koremitz covered it with a mantle, and lifted it into the carriage. Over the features of the dead maiden a charming calmness was still spread, unlike what usually happens, there being nothing repulsive. Her wavy hair fell outside the mantle, and her small mouth, still parted, wore a faint smile. The sight distressed both the eyes and heart of Genji. He fain would have followed the body; but this Koremitz would not permit.
“Do take my horse and ride back to Nijiâ at once,” he said, and ordered the horse for him. Then taking Ukon away in the same carriage with the dead, he, girding up his dress, followed it on foot. It was by no means a pleasant task for Koremitz, but he put up with it cheerfully.
Genji, sunk in apathy, now rode back to Nijiâ; he was greatly fatigued, and looked pale. The people of the mansion noticed his sad and haggard appearance.
Genji said nothing, but hurried straight away to his own private apartment.
“Why did I not go with her?” he still vainly exclaimed. “What would she think of me were she to return to life?” And these thoughts affected him so deeply that he became ill, his head ached, his pulse beat high, and his body burned with fever. The sun rose high, but he did not leave his couch. His domestics were all perplexed. Rice gruel was served up to him, but he would not touch it. The news of his indisposition soon found its way out of the mansion, and in no time a messenger arrived from the Imperial Palace to make inquiries. His brother-in-law also came but Genji only allowed Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ to enter his room, saying to him, “My aged nurse has been ill since last May, and has been tonsured, and received consecration; it was, perhaps, from this sacrifice that at one time she became better, but lately she has had a relapse, and is again very bad. I was advised to visit her, moreover, she was always most kind to me, and if she had died without seeing me it would have pained her, so I went to see her. At this time a servant of her house, who had been ill, died suddenly. Being rendered ‘unclean' by this event, I am passing the time privately. Besides, since the morning, I have become ill, evidently the effects of cold. By the bye, you must excuse me receiving you in this way.”
“Well, sir,” replied Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ, “I will represent these circumstances to his Majesty. Your absence last night has given much inquietude to the Emperor. He caused inquiries to be made for you everywhere, and his humor was not very good.” And thereupon Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ took his leave, thinking as he went, “What sort of ‘uncleanness' can this really be. I cannot put perfect faith in what he tells me.”
Litte did Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ imagine that the dead one was no other than his own long-lost Tokonatz (Pinks).
In the evening came Koremitz from the mountain, and was secretly introduced, though all general visitors were kept excluded on the pretext of the “uncleanness.”
“What has become of her?” cried Genji, passionately, when he saw him. “Is she really gone?”
“Her end has come,” replied Koremitz, in a tone of sadness; “and we must not keep the dead too long. To-morrow we will place her in the grave: to-morrow ‘is a good day.' I know a faithful old priest. I have consulted with him how to arrange all.”
“And what has become of Ukon?” asked Genji. “How does she bear it?”
“That is, indeed, a question. She was really deeply affected, and she foolishly said, ‘I will die with my mistress.' She was actually going to throw herself headlong from the cliff; but I warned, I advised I, consoled her, and she became more pacified.”
“The state of her feelings may be easily conceived. I am myself not less deeply wounded than she. I do not even know what might become of myself.”
“Why do you grieve so uselessly? Every uncertainty is the result of a certainty. There is nothing in this world really to be lamented. If you do not wish the public to know anything of this matter, I, Koremitz, will manage it.”
“I, also, am aware that everything is fated. Still, I am deeply sorry to have brought this misfortune on this poor girl by my own inconsiderate rashness. The only thing I have now to ask you, is to keep these events in the dark. Do not mention them to any one—nay, not even to your mother.”
“Even from the priests to whom it must necessarily be known, I will conceal the reality,” replied Koremitz.
“Do manage all this most skilfully!”
“Why, of course I shall manage it as secretly as possible,” cried Koremitz; and he was about to take his departure, but Genji stopped him.
“I must see her once more,” said Genji, sorrowfully. “I will go with you to behold her, before she is lost to my sight forever.” And he insisted on accompanying him.
Koremitz, however, did not at all approve of this project; but his resistance gave way to the earnest desire of Genji, and he said, “If you think so much about it, I cannot help it.”
“Let us hasten, then, and return before the night be far advanced.”
“You shall have my horse to ride.”
Genji rose, and dressed himself in the ordinary plain style he usually adopted for his private expeditions, and started away with one confidential servant, besides Koremitz.
They crossed the river Kamo, the torches carried before them burning dimly. They passed the gloomy cemetery of Toribeno, and at last reached the convent.
It was a rude wooden building, and adjoining was a small Buddha Hall, through whose walls votive tapers mysteriously twinkled. Within, nothing but the faint sound of a female's voice repeating prayers was to be heard. Outside, and around, the evening services in the surrounding temples were all finished, and all Nature was in silent repose. In the direction of Kiyomidz alone some scattered lights studding the dark scene betrayed human habitations.
They entered. Genji's heart was beating fast with emotion. He saw Ukon reclining beside a screen, with her back to the lamp. He did not speak to her, but proceeded straight to the body, and gently drew aside the mantle which covered its face. It still wore a look of tranquil calmness; no change had yet attacked the features. He took the cold hand in his own, crying out as he did so:—
“Do let me hear thy voice once more! Why have you left me thus bereaved?” But the silence of death was unbroken!