Chương Chương 5 · THE NUN OF THE TEMPLE OF AMIDA

. THE NUN OF THE TEMPLE OF AMIDA

When O-Toyo's husband--a distant cousin, adopted into her family

for love's sake--had been summoned by his lord to the capital,

she did not feel anxious about the future. She felt sad only. It

was the first time since their bridal that they had ever been

separated. But she had her father and mother to keep her company,

and, dearer than either,--though she would never have confessed

it even to herself,--her little son. Besides, she always had

plenty to do. There were many household duties to perform, and

there was much clothing to be woven--both silk and cotton.

Once daily at a fixed hour, she would set for the absent husband,

in his favorite room, little repasts faultlessly served on dainty

lacquered trays,--miniature meals such as are offered to the

ghosts of the ancestors, and to the gods(1). These repasts were

served at the east side of the room, and his kneeling-cushion

placed before them. The reason they were served at the east side,

was because he had gone east. Before removing the food, she

always lifted the cover of the little soup-bowl to see if there

was vapor upon its lacquered inside surface. For it is said that

if there be vapor on the inside of the lid covering food so

offered, the absent beloved is well. But if there be none, he is

dead,--because that is a sign that his soul has returned by

itself to seek nourishment. O-Toyo found the lacquer thickly

beaded with vapor day by day.

The child was her constant delight. He was three years old, and

fond of asking questions to which none but the gods know the real

answers. When he wanted to play, she laid aside her work to play

with him. When he wanted to rest, she told him wonderful stories,

or gave pretty pious answers to his questions about those things

which no man can ever understand. At evening, when the little

lamps had been lighted before the holy tablets and the images,

she taught his lips to shape the words of filial prayer. When he

had been laid to sleep, she brought her work near him, and

watched the still sweetness of his face. Sometimes he would smile

in his dreams; and she knew that Kwannon the divine was playing

shadowy play with him, and she would murmur the Buddhist

invocation to that Maid "who looketh forever down above the sound

of prayer."

Sometimes, in the season of very clear days, she would climb the

mountain of Dakeyama, carrying her little boy on her back. Such a

trip delighted him much, not only because of what his mother

taught him to see, but also of what she taught him to hear. The

sloping way was through groves and woods, and over grassed

slopes, and around queer rocks; and there were flowers with

stories in their hearts, and trees holding tree-spirits. Pigeons

cried korup-korup; and doves sobbed owao, owao and cicada wheezed

and fluted and tinkled.

All those who wait for absent dear ones make, if they can, a

pilgrimage to the peak called Dakeyama. It is visible from any

part of the city; and from its summit several provinces can be

seen. At the very top is a stone of almost human height and

shape, perpendicularly set up; and little pebbles are heaped

before it and upon it. And near by there is a small Shinto shrine

erected to the spirit of a princess of other days. For she

mourned the absence of one she loved, and used to watch from this

mountain for his coming until she pined away and was changed into

a stone. The people therefore built the shrine; and lovers of the

absent still pray there for the return of those dear to them; and

each, after so praying, takes home one of the little pebbles

heaped there. And when the beloved one returns, the pebble must

be taken back to the pebble-pile upon the mountain-top, and other

pebbles with it, for a thank-offering and commemoration.

Always ere O-Toyo and her son could reach their home after such a

day, the dusk would fall softly about them; for the way was long,

and they had to both go and return by boat through the wilderness

of rice-fields round the town,--which is a slow manner of

journeying. Sometimes stars and fireflies lighted them; sometimes

also the moon,--and O-Toyo would softly sing to her boy the Izumo

child-song to the moon:--

Nono-San,

Little Lady Moon,

How old are you?

"Thirteen days,--

Thirteen and nine."

That is still young,

And the reason must be

For that bright red obi,

So nicely tied(2),

And that nice white girdle

About your hips.

Will you give it to the horse?

"Oh, no, no!"

Will you give it to the cow?

"Oh, no, no!(3)"

And up to the blue night would rise from all those wet leagues of

labored field that great soft bubbling chorus which seems the

very voice of the soil itself,--the chant of the frogs. And

O-Toyo would interpret its syllables to the child: Me kayui! me

kayui! "Mine eyes tickle; I want to sleep."

All those were happy hours.

(1) Such a repast, offered to the spirit of the absent one loved,

is called a Kage-zen; lit., "Shadow-tray." The word zen is also

use to signify the meal served on the lacquered tray,--which has

feet, like miniature table. So that time term "Shadow-feast"

would be a better translation of Kage-zen.

(2) Because an obi or girdle of very bright color can be worn

only by children.

(3) Nono-San,

or

O-Tsuki-san

Ikutsu?

"Jiu-san,--

Kokonotsu."

Sore wa mada

Wakai yo,

Wakai ye mo

Dori

Akai iro no

Obi to,

Shire iro no

Obi to

Koshi ni shanto

Musun de.

Uma ni yaru?

"Iyaiya!"

Ushi ni yaru?

"Iyaiya!"

II

Then twice, within the time of three days, those masters of life

and death whose ways belong to the eternal mysteries struck at

her heart. First she was taught that the gentle husband for whom

she had so often prayed never could return to her,--having been

returned unto that dust out of which all forms are borrowed. And

in another little while she knew her boy slept so deep a sleep

that the Chinese physician could not waken him. These things she

learned only as shapes are learned in lightning flashes. Between

and beyond the flashes was that absolute darkness which is the

pity of the gods.

It passed; and she rose to meet a foe whose name is Memory.

Before all others she could keep her face, as in other days,

sweet and smiling. But when alone with this visitant, she found

herself less strong. She would arrange little toys and spread

out little dresses on the matting, and look at them, and talk to

them in whispers, and smile silently. But the smile would ever

end in a burst of wild, loud weeping; and she would beat her head

upon the floor, and ask foolish questions of the gods.

One day she thought of a weird consolation,--that rite the

people name Toritsu-banashi,--the evocation of the dead. Could

she not call back her boy for one brief minute only? It would

trouble the little soul; but would he not gladly bear a moment's

pain for her dear sake? Surely!

[To have the dead called back one must go to some priest--Buddhist

or Shinto--who knows the rite of incantation. And the

mortuary tablet, or ihai, of the dead must be brought to that

priest.

Then ceremonies of purification are performed; candles are

lighted and incense is kindled before the ihai; and prayers or

parts of sutras are recited; and offerings of flowers and of rice

are made. But, in this case, the rice must not be cooked.

And when everything has been made ready, the priest, taking in

his left hand an instrument shaped like a bow, and striking it

rapidly with his right, calls upon the name of the dead, and

cries out the words, Kitazo yo! kitazo yo! kitazo yo! meaning, "I

have come(1)." And, as he cries, the tone of his voice gradually

changes until it becomes the very voice of the dead person,--for

the ghost enters into him.

Then the dead will answer questions quickly asked, but will cry

continually: "Hasten, hasten! for this my coming back is painful,

and I have but a little time to stay!" And having answered, the

ghost passes; and the priest falls senseless upon his face.

Now to call back the dead is not good. For by calling them back

their condition is made worse. Returning to the underworld, they

must take a place lower than that which they held before.

To-day these rites are not allowed by law. They once consoled;

but the law is a good law, and just,--since there exist men

willing to mock the divine which is in human hearts.]

So it came to pass that O-Toyo found herself one night in a

lonely little temple at the verge of the city,--kneeling before

the ihai of her boy, and hearing the rite of incantation. And

presently, out of the lips of the officiant there came a voice

she thought she knew,--a voice loved above all others,--but faint

and very thin, like a sobbing of wind.

And the thin voice cried to her:--

"Ask quickly, quickly, mother! Dark is the way and long; and I

may not linger."

Then tremblingly she questioned:--

"Why must I sorrow for my child? What is the justice of the

gods?"

And there was answer given:--

"O mother, do not mourn me thus! That I died was only that you

might not die. For the year was a year of sickness and of

sorrow,--and it was given me to know that you were to die; and I

obtained by prayer that I should take your place(2).

"O mother, never weep for me! it is not kindness to mourn for the

dead. Over the River of Tears(3) their silent road is; and when

mothers weep, the flood of that river rises, and the soul cannot

pass, but must wander to and fro.

"Therefore, I pray you, do not grieve, O mother mine! Only give

me a little water sometimes."

(1) Whence the Izumo saying about one who too often announces his

coming: "Thy talk is like the talk of

necromancy!"--Toritsubanashi no yona.

(2) Migawari, "substitute," is the religious term.

(3) "Namida-no-Kawa."

III

From that hour she was not seen to weep. She performed, lightly

and silently, as in former days, the gentle duties of a daughter.

Seasons passed; and her father thought to find another husband

for her. To the mother, he said:--

"If our daughter again have a son, it will be great joy for her,

and for all of us."

But the wiser mother made answer:--

"Unhappy she is not. It is impossible that she marry again. She

has become as a little child, knowing nothing of trouble or sin."

It was true that she had ceased to know real pain. She had begun

to show a strange fondness for very small things. At first she

had found her bed too large--perhaps through the sense of

emptiness left by the loss of her child; then, day by day, other

things seemed to grow too large,--the dwelling itself, the

familiar rooms, the alcove and its great flower-vases,--even the

household utensils. She wished to eat her rice with miniature

chop-sticks out of a very small bowl such as children use.

In these things she was lovingly humored; and in other matters

she was not fantastic. The old people consulted together about

her constantly. At last the father said:--

"For our daughter to live with strangers might be painful. But as

we are aged, we may soon have to leave her. Perhaps we could

provide for her by making her a nun. We might build a little

temple for her."

Next day the mother asked O-Toyo:--

"Would you not like to become a holy nun, and to live in a very,

very small temple, with a very small altar, and little images of

the Buddhas? We should be always near you. If you wish this, we

shall get a priest to teach you the sutras."

O-Toyo wished it, and asked that an extremely small nun's dress

be got for her. But the mother said:--

"Everything except the dress a good nun may have made small. But

she must wear a large dress--that is the law of Buddha."

So she was persuaded to wear the same dress as other nuns.

IV

They built for her a small An-dera, or Nun's-Temple, in an empty

court where another and larger temple, called Amida-ji, had once

stood. The An-dera was also called Amida-ji, and was dedicated to

Amida-Nyorai and to other Buddhas. It was fitted up with a very

small altar and with miniature altar furniture. There was a tiny

copy of the sutras on a tiny reading-desk, and tiny screens and

bells and kakemono. And she dwelt there long after her parents

had passed away. People called her the Amida-ji no Bikuni,--which

means The Nun of the Temple of Amida.

A little outside the gate there was a statue of Jizo. This Jizo

was a special Jizo--the friend of sick children. There were

nearly always offerings of small rice-cakes to be seen before

him. These signified that some sick child was being prayed for;

and the number of the rice-cakes signified the number of the

years of the child. Most often there were but two or three cakes;

rarely there were seven or ten. The Amida-ji no Bikuni took care

of the statue, and supplied it with incense-offerings, and

flowers from the temple garden; for there was a small garden

behind the An-dera.

After making her morning round with her alms-bowl, she would

usually seat herself before a very small loom, to weave cloth

much too narrow for serious use. But her webs were bought always

by certain shopkeepers who knew her story; and they made her

presents of very small cups, tiny flower-vases, and queer

dwarf-trees for her garden.

Her greatest pleasure was the companionship of children; and this

she never lacked. Japanese child-life, is mostly passed in temple

courts; and many happy childhoods were spent in the court of the

Amida-ji. All the mothers in that street liked to have their

little ones play there, but cautioned them never to laugh at the

Bikuni-San. "Sometimes her ways are strange," they would say;

"but that is because she once had a little son, who died, and the

pain became too great for her mother's heart. So you must be very

good and respectful to her."

Good they were, but not quite respectful in the reverential

sense. They knew better than to be that. They called her

"Bikuni-San" always, and saluted her nicely; but otherwise they

treated her like one of themselves. They played games with her;

and she gave them tea in extremely small cups, and made for them

heaps of rice-cakes not much bigger than peas, and wove upon her

loom cloth of cotton and cloth of silk for the robes of their

dolls. So she became to them as a blood-sister.

They played with her daily till they grew too big to play, and

left the court of the temple of Amida to begin the bitter work of

life, and to become the fathers and mothers of children whom they

sent to play in their stead. These learned to love the Bikuni-San

like their parents had done. And the Bikuni-San lived to play

with the children of the children of the children of those who

remembered when her temple was built.

The people took good heed that she should not know want. There

was always given to her more than she needed for herself. So she

was able to be nearly as kind to the children as she wished, and

to feed extravagantly certain small animals. Birds nested in her

temple, and ate from her hand, and learned not to perch upon the

heads of the Buddhas.

Some days after her funeral, a crowd of children visited my

house. A little girl of nine years spoke for them all:--

"Sir, we are asking for the sake of the Bikuni-San who is dead. A

very large haka(1) has been set up for her. It is a nice haka.

But we want to give her also a very, very small haka because in

the time she was with us she often said that she would like a

very little haka. And the stone-cutter has promised to cut it for

us, and to make it very pretty, if we can bring the money.

Therefore perhaps you will honorably give something."

"Assuredly," I said. "But now you will have nowhere to play."

She answered, smiling:--"We shall still play in the court of the

temple of Amida. She is buried there. She will hear our playing,

and be glad."

(1) Tombstone.

VI