He then, half sobbing, began to talk with Ukon, and invited her to come to his mansion, and help to console him. But Koremitz now admonished him to consider that time was passing quickly.
On this Genji threw a long sad farewell glance at the face of the dead, and rose to depart. He was so feeble and powerless that he could not mount his horse without the help of Koremitz. The countenance of the dead girl floated ever before his sight, with the look she wore when living, and it seemed as if he were being led on by some mysterious influence.
The banks of the river Kamo were reached, when Genji found himself too weak to support himself on horseback, and so dismounted.
“I am afraid,” he exclaimed, “I shall not be able to reach home.”
Koremitz was a litte alarmed. “If I had only been firm,” he thought, “and had prevented this journey, I should not have exposed him to such a trial.” He descended to the river, and bathing his hands,7 offered up a prayer to Kwannon of Kiyomidz, and again assisted Genji to mount, who struggled to recover his energy, and managed somehow to return to Nijiâ, praying in silence as he rode along.
The people of the mansion entertained grave apprehensions about him; and not unnaturally, seeing he had been unusually restless for some days, and had become suddenly ill since the day before, and they could never understand what urgency had called him out on that evening.
Genji now lay down on his couch, fatigued and exhausted, and continued in the same state for some days, when he became quite weak.
The Emperor was greatly concerned, as was also Sadaijin. Numerous prayers were offered, and exorcisms performed everywhere in his behalf, all with the most careful zeal. The public was afraid he was too beautiful to live long.
The only solace he had at this time was Ukon; he had sent for her, and made her stay in his mansion.
And whenever he felt better he had her near him, and conversed with her about her dead mistress.
In the meantime, it might have been the result of his own energetic efforts to realize the ardent hopes of the Emperor and his father-in-law, that his condition became better, after a heavy trial of some three weeks; and towards the end of September he became convalescent. He now felt as though he had been restored to the world to which he had formerly belonged. He was, however, still thin and weak, and, for consolation, still resorted to talk with Ukon.
“How strange,” he said to her, as they were conversing together one fine autumn evening. “Why did she not reveal to me all her past life? If she had but known how deeply I loved her, she might have been a little more frank with me.”
“Ah! no,” replied Ukon; “she would not intentionally have concealed anything from you; but it was, I imagine, more because she had no choice. You at first conducted yourself in such a mysterious manner; and she, on her part, regarded her acquaintance with you as something like a dream. That was the cause of her reticence.”
“What a useless reticence it was,” exclaimed Genji. “I was not so frank as, perhaps, I ought to have been; but you may be sure that made no difference in my affection towards her. Only, you must remember, there is my father, the Emperor, besides many others, whose vigilant admonitions I am bound to respect. That was the reason why I had to be careful. Nevertheless, my love to your mistress was singularly deep; too deep, perhaps, to last long. Do tell me now all you know about her; I do not see any reason why you should conceal it. I have carefully ordered the weekly requiem for the dead; but tell me in whose behalf it is, and what was her origin?”
“I have no intention of concealing anything from you. Why should I? I only thought it would be blamable if one should reveal after death what another had thought best to reserve,” replied Ukon. “Her parents died when she was a mere girl. Her father was called Sammi-Chiûjiâ, and loved her very dearly. He was always aspiring to better his position, and wore out his life in the struggle. After his death, she was left helpless and poor. She was however, by chance, introduced to Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ, when he was still Shiâshiâ, and not Chiûjiâ. During three years they kept on very good terms, and he was very kind to her. But some wind or other attacks every fair flower; and, in the autumn of last year, she received a fearful menace from the house of Udaijin, to whose daughter, as you know, Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ is married. Poor girl, she was terrified at this. She knew not what to do, and hid herself, with her nurse, in an obscure part of the capital. It was not a very agreeable place, and she was about removing to a certain mountain hamlet, but, as its ‘celestial direction' was closed this year, she was still hesitating, and while matters were in this state, you appeared on the scene. To do her justice, she had no thought of wandering from one to another; but circumstances often make things appear as if we did so. She was, by nature, extremely reserved, so that she did not like to speak out her feelings to others, but rather suffered in silence by herself. This, perhaps, you also have noticed.”
“Then it was so, after all. She was the Tokonatz of Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ,” thought Genji; and now it also transpired that all that Koremitz had stated about Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ's visiting her at the Yûgao house was a pure invention, suggested by a slight acquaintance with the girl's previous history.
“The Chiûjiâ told me once,” said Genji, “that she had a little one. Was there any such?”
“Yes, she had one in the spring of the year before last—a girl, a nice child,” replied Ukon.
“Where is she now?” asked Genji, “perhaps you will bring her to me some day. I should like to have her with me as a memento of her mother. I should not mind mentioning it to her father, but if I did so, I must reveal the whole sad story of her mother's fate, and this would not be advisable at present; however, I do not see any harm if I were to bring her up as my daughter. You might manage it somehow without my name being mentioned to any one concerned.”
“That would be a great happiness for the child,” exclaimed Ukon, delighted, “I do not much appreciate her being brought up where she is.”
“Well, I will do so, only let us wait for some better chance. For the present be discreet.”
“Yes, of course. I cannot yet take any steps towards that object; we must not unfurl our sails before the storm is completely over.”
The foliage of the ground, touched with autumnal tints, was beginning to fade, and the sounds of insects ( mushi ) were growing faint, and both Genji and Ukon were absorbed by the sad charm of the scene. As they meditated, they heard doves cooing among the bamboo woods.