At dusk Koremitsu came. The story of Genji’s pollution had turned all visitors from the door, and Koremitsu found his palace utterly deserted. ‘What happened?’ said Genji, summoning him, ‘you are sure that she is dead?’ and holding his sleeve before his face he wept. ‘All is over; of that there is no doubt,’ said Koremitsu, also in tears; ‘and since it is not possible for them to keep the body long, I have arranged with a very respectable aged priest who is my friend that the ceremony shall take place to-morrow, since to-morrow chances to be a good calendar day.’ ‘And what of her gentlewoman?’ asked Genji. ‘I fear she will not live,’ said Koremitsu. ‘She cries out that she must follow her mistress and this morning, had I not held her, she would have cast herself from a high rock. She threatened to tell the servants at my lady’s house, but I prevailed upon her to think the matter over quietly before she did this.’ ‘Poor thing,’ said Genji, ‘small wonder that she should be thus distracted. I too am feeling strangely disordered and do not know what will become of me.’ ‘Torment yourself no more,’ said Koremitsu. ‘All things happen as they must. Here is one who will handle this matter very prudently for you, and none shall be the wiser.’ ‘Happen as they must. You are right’ said Genji ‘and so I try to persuade myself. But in the pursuit of one’s own wanton pleasures to have done harm and to have caused someone’s death—that is a hideous crime; a terrible load of sin to bear with me through the world. Do not tell even your sister; much less your mother the nun, for I am ashamed that she should even know I have ever done that kind of thing.’[15] ‘Do not fear’ answered Koremitsu. ‘Even to the priests, who must to a certain extent be let into the secret, I have told a long made-up tale’ and Genji felt a little easier in his mind.
The waiting-women of his palace were sorely puzzled; ‘First he says he has been defiled and cannot go to Court, and now he sits whispering and sighing.’ What could it all mean? ‘Again I beg you’ said Genji at last ‘to see that everything is done as it should be.’ He was thinking all the time of the elaborate Court funerals which he had witnessed (he had, indeed, seen no others) and imagined Koremitsu directing a complicated succession of rituals. ‘I will do what I can; it will be no such great matter,’ he answered and turned to go. Suddenly Genji could bear no longer the thought that he should never see her again. ‘You will think it very foolish of me,’ he said, ‘but I am coming with you. I shall ride on horseback.’ ‘If your heart is set upon it,’ said Koremitsu, ‘it is not for me to reason with you. Let us start soon, so that we may be back before the night is over.’ So putting on the hunting-dress and other garments in which he had disguised himself before, he left his room.
Already the most hideous anguish possessed him, and now, as he set out upon this strange journey, to the dark thoughts that filled his mind was added a dread lest his visit might rouse to some fresh fury the mysterious power which had destroyed her. Should he go? He hesitated; but though he knew that this way lay no cure for his sadness, yet if he did not see her now, never again perhaps in any life to come would he meet the face and form that he had loved so well. So with Koremitsu and the one same groom to bear him company he set out upon the road.
The way seemed endless. The moon of the seventeenth night had risen and lit up the whole space of the Kamo plain, and in the light of the outrunners’ torches the countryside towards Toribeno now came dimly into sight. But Genji in his sickness and despair saw none of this, and suddenly waking from the stupor into which he had fallen found that they had arrived.
The nun’s cell was in a chapel built against the wall of a wooden house. It was a desolate spot, but the chapel itself was very beautiful. The light of the visitors’ torches flickered through the open door. In the inner room there was no sound but that of a woman weeping by herself; in the outer room were several priests talking together (or was it praying?) in hushed voices. In the neighbouring temples vespers were over and there was absolute stillness; only towards the Kiyomizu were lights visible and many figures seemed to throng the hill-side.[16]
A senior priest, son of the aged nun, now began to recite the Scriptures in an impressive voice, and Genji as he listened felt the tears come into his eyes. He went in. Ukon was lying behind a screen; when she heard him enter, she turned the lamp to the wall. What terrible thing was she trying to hide from him? But when he came nearer he saw to his joy that the dead lady was not changed in any way whatsoever, but lay there very calm and beautiful; and feeling no horror or fear at all he took her hand and said, ‘Speak to me once again; tell me why for so short a while you came to me and filled my heart with gladness, and then so soon forsook me, who loved you so well?’ and he wept long and bitterly by her side.
The priests did not know who he was, but they were touched by his evident misery and themselves shed tears. He asked Ukon to come back with him, but she answered: ‘I have served this lady since she was a little child and never once for so much as an hour have I left her. How can I suddenly part from one who was so dear to me and serve in another’s house? And I must now go and tell her people what has become of her; for (such is the manner of her death) if I do not speak soon, there will be an outcry that it was I who was to blame, and that would be a terrible thing for me, Sir,’ and she burst into tears, wailing ‘I will lie with her upon the pyre; my smoke shall mingle with hers!’
‘Poor soul’ said Genji, ‘I do not wonder at your despair. But this is the way of the world. Late or soon we must all go where she has gone. Take comfort and trust in me.’ So he sought to console her, but in a moment he added: ‘Those, I know, are but hollow words. I too care no longer for life and would gladly follow her.’ So he spoke, giving her in the end but little comfort.
‘The night is far spent’ said Koremitsu; ‘we must now be on our way.’ And so with many backward looks and a heart full to bursting he left the house. A heavy dew had fallen and the mist was so thick that it was hard to see the road. On the way it occurred to him that she was still wearing his scarlet cloak, which he had lent her when they lay down together on the last evening. How closely their lives had been entwined!
Noting that he sat very unsteadily in his saddle, Koremitsu walked beside him and gave him a hand. But when they came to a dyke, he lost hold and his master fell to the ground. Here he lay in great pain and bewilderment. ‘I shall not live to finish the journey’ he said; ‘I have not strength to go so far.’ Koremitsu too was sorely troubled, for he felt that despite all Genji’s insistence, he ought never to have allowed him, fever-stricken as he was, to embark upon this disastrous journey. In great agitation he plunged his hands in the river and prayed to Our Lady Kwannon of Kiyomizu. Genji too roused himself at last and forced himself to pray inwardly to the Buddha. And so they managed to start upon their journey again and in the end with Koremitsu’s help he reached his palace.