第 二 章 · Of A Mirror And A Bell

Eight centuries ago, the priests of Mugenyama, in the province of

Tōtōmi (1), wanted a big bell for their temple; and they asked the

women of their parish to help them by contributing old bronze mirrors

for bell-metal.

[Even to-day, in the courts of certain Japanese temples, you may see

heaps of old bronze mirrors contributed for such a purpose. The largest

collection of this kind that I ever saw was in the court of a temple of

the Jōdo sect, at Hakata, in Kyūshū: the mirrors had been given for the

making of a bronze statue of Amida, thirty-three feet high.]

There was at that time a young woman, a farmer’s wife, living at

Mugenyama, who presented her mirror to the temple, to be used for

bell-metal. But afterwards she much regretted her mirror. She

remembered things that her mother had told her about it; and she

remembered that it had belonged, not only to her mother but to her

mother’s mother and grandmother; and she remembered some happy smiles

which it had reflected. Of course, if she could have offered the

priests a certain sum of money in place of the mirror, she could have

asked them to give back her heirloom. But she had not the money

necessary. Whenever she went to the temple, she saw her mirror lying in

the court-yard, behind a railing, among hundreds of other mirrors

heaped there together. She knew it by the _Shō-Chiku-Bai_ in relief on

the back of it,—those three fortunate emblems of Pine, Bamboo, and

Plumflower, which delighted her baby-eyes when her mother first showed

her the mirror. She longed for some chance to steal the mirror, and

hide it,—that she might thereafter treasure it always. But the chance

did not come; and she became very unhappy,—felt as if she had foolishly

given away a part of her life. She thought about the old saying that a

mirror is the Soul of a Woman—(a saying mystically expressed, by the

Chinese character for Soul, upon the backs of many bronze mirrors),—and

she feared that it was true in weirder ways than she had before

imagined. But she could not dare to speak of her pain to anybody.

Now, when all the mirrors contributed for the Mugenyama bell had been

sent to the foundry, the bell-founders discovered that there was one

mirror among them which would not melt. Again and again they tried to

melt it; but it resisted all their efforts. Evidently the woman who had

given that mirror to the temple must have regretted the giving. She had

not presented her offering with all her heart; and therefore her

selfish soul, remaining attached to the mirror, kept it hard and cold

in the midst of the furnace.

Of course everybody heard of the matter, and everybody soon knew whose

mirror it was that would not melt. And because of this public exposure

of her secret fault, the poor woman became very much ashamed and very

angry. And as she could not bear the shame, she drowned herself, after

having written a farewell letter containing these words:—

“When I am dead, it will not be difficult to melt the mirror and to

cast the bell. But, to the person who breaks that bell by ringing it,

great wealth will be given by the ghost of me.”

—You must know that the last wish or promise of anybody who dies in

anger, or performs suicide in anger, is generally supposed to possess a

supernatural force. After the dead woman’s mirror had been melted, and

the bell had been successfully cast, people remembered the words of

that letter. They felt sure that the spirit of the writer would give

wealth to the breaker of the bell; and, as soon as the bell had been

suspended in the court of the temple, they went in multitude to ring

it. With all their might and main they swung the ringing-beam; but the

bell proved to be a good bell, and it bravely withstood their assaults.

Nevertheless, the people were not easily discouraged. Day after day, at

all hours, they continued to ring the bell furiously,—caring nothing

whatever for the protests of the priests. So the ringing became an

affliction; and the priests could not endure it; and they got rid of

the bell by rolling it down the hill into a swamp. The swamp was deep,

and swallowed it up,—and that was the end of the bell. Only its legend

remains; and in that legend it is called the _Mugen-Kané_, or Bell of

Mugen.

Now there are queer old Japanese beliefs in the magical efficacy of a

certain mental operation implied, though not described, by the verb

_nazoraëru_. The word itself cannot be adequately rendered by any

English word; for it is used in relation to many kinds of mimetic

magic, as well as in relation to the performance of many religious acts

of faith. Common meanings of _nazoraëru_, according to dictionaries,

are “to imitate,” “to compare,” “to liken;” but the esoteric meaning is

_to substitute, in imagination, one object or action for another, so as

to bring about some magical or miraculous result_.

For example:—you cannot afford to build a Buddhist temple; but you can

easily lay a pebble before the image of the Buddha, with the same pious

feeling that would prompt you to build a temple if you were rich enough

to build one. The merit of so offering the pebble becomes equal, or

almost equal, to the merit of erecting a temple... You cannot read the

six thousand seven hundred and seventy-one volumes of the Buddhist

texts; but you can make a revolving library, containing them, turn

round, by pushing it like a windlass. And if you push with an earnest

wish that you could read the six thousand seven hundred and seventy-one

volumes, you will acquire the same merit as the reading of them would

enable you to gain... So much will perhaps suffice to explain the

religious meanings of _nazoraëru_.

The magical meanings could not all be explained without a great variety

of examples; but, for present purposes, the following will serve. If

you should make a little man of straw, for the same reason that Sister

Helen made a little man of wax,—and nail it, with nails not less than

five inches long, to some tree in a temple-grove at the Hour of the Ox

(2),—and if the person, imaginatively represented by that little straw

man, should die thereafter in atrocious agony,—that would illustrate

one signification of _nazoraëru_... Or, let us suppose that a robber

has entered your house during the night, and carried away your

valuables. If you can discover the footprints of that robber in your

garden, and then promptly burn a very large moxa on each of them, the

soles of the feet of the robber will become inflamed, and will allow

him no rest until he returns, of his own accord, to put himself at your

mercy. That is another kind of mimetic magic expressed by the term

_nazoraëru_. And a third kind is illustrated by various legends of the

Mugen-Kané.

After the bell had been rolled into the swamp, there was, of course, no

more chance of ringing it in such wise as to break it. But persons who

regretted this loss of opportunity would strike and break objects

imaginatively substituted for the bell,—thus hoping to please the

spirit of the owner of the mirror that had made so much trouble. One of

these persons was a woman called Umégaë,—famed in Japanese legend

because of her relation to Kajiwara Kagesue, a warrior of the Heiké

clan. While the pair were traveling together, Kajiwara one day found

himself in great straits for want of money; and Umégaë, remembering the

tradition of the Bell of Mugen, took a basin of bronze, and, mentally

representing it to be the bell, beat upon it until she broke it,—crying

out, at the same time, for three hundred pieces of gold. A guest of the

inn where the pair were stopping made inquiry as to the cause of the

banging and the crying, and, on learning the story of the trouble,

actually presented Umégaë with three hundred _ryō_ (3) in gold.

Afterwards a song was made about Umégaë’s basin of bronze; and that

song is sung by dancing girls even to this day:—

Umégaë no chōzubachi tataïté

O-kané ga déru naraba

Mina San mi-uké wo

Sōré tanomimasu

[“_If, by striking upon the wash-basin of Umégaë, I could make

honorable money come to me, then would I negotiate for the freedom of

all my girl-comrades._”]

After this happening, the fame of the Mugen-Kané became great; and many

people followed the example of Umégaë,—thereby hoping to emulate her

luck. Among these folk was a dissolute farmer who lived near Mugenyama,

on the bank of the Ōïgawa. Having wasted his substance in riotous

living, this farmer made for himself, out of the mud in his garden, a

clay-model of the Mugen-Kané; and he beat the clay-bell, and broke

it,—crying out the while for great wealth.

Then, out of the ground before him, rose up the figure of a white-robed

woman, with long loose-flowing hair, holding a covered jar. And the

woman said: “I have come to answer your fervent prayer as it deserves

to be answered. Take, therefore, this jar.” So saying, she put the jar

into his hands, and disappeared.

Into his house the happy man rushed, to tell his wife the good news. He

set down in front of her the covered jar,—which was heavy,—and they

opened it together. And they found that it was filled, up to the very

brim, with...

But no!—I really cannot tell you with what it was filled.

JIKININKI

Once, when Musō Kokushi, a priest of the Zen sect, was journeying alone

through the province of Mino (1), he lost his way in a

mountain-district where there was nobody to direct him. For a long time

he wandered about helplessly; and he was beginning to despair of

finding shelter for the night, when he perceived, on the top of a hill

lighted by the last rays of the sun, one of those little hermitages,

called _anjitsu_, which are built for solitary priests. It seemed to be

in ruinous condition; but he hastened to it eagerly, and found that it

was inhabited by an aged priest, from whom he begged the favor of a

night’s lodging. This the old man harshly refused; but he directed Musō

to a certain hamlet, in the valley adjoining where lodging and food

could be obtained.

Musō found his way to the hamlet, which consisted of less than a dozen

farm-cottages; and he was kindly received at the dwelling of the

headman. Forty or fifty persons were assembled in the principal

apartment, at the moment of Musō’s arrival; but he was shown into a

small separate room, where he was promptly supplied with food and

bedding. Being very tired, he lay down to rest at an early hour; but a

little before midnight he was roused from sleep by a sound of loud

weeping in the next apartment. Presently the sliding-screens were

gently pushed apart; and a young man, carrying a lighted lantern,

entered the room, respectfully saluted him, and said:—

“Reverend Sir, it is my painful duty to tell you that I am now the

responsible head of this house. Yesterday I was only the eldest son.

But when you came here, tired as you were, we did not wish that you

should feel embarrassed in any way: therefore we did not tell you that

father had died only a few hours before. The people whom you saw in the

next room are the inhabitants of this village: they all assembled here

to pay their last respects to the dead; and now they are going to

another village, about three miles off,—for by our custom, no one of us

may remain in this village during the night after a death has taken

place. We make the proper offerings and prayers;—then we go away,

leaving the corpse alone. Strange things always happen in the house

where a corpse has thus been left: so we think that it will be better

for you to come away with us. We can find you good lodging in the other

village. But perhaps, as you are a priest, you have no fear of demons

or evil spirits; and, if you are not afraid of being left alone with

the body, you will be very welcome to the use of this poor house.

However, I must tell you that nobody, except a priest, would dare to

remain here tonight.”

Musō made answer:—

“For your kind intention and your generous hospitality, I am deeply

grateful. But I am sorry that you did not tell me of your father’s

death when I came;—for, though I was a little tired, I certainly was

not so tired that I should have found difficulty in doing my duty as a

priest. Had you told me, I could have performed the service before your

departure. As it is, I shall perform the service after you have gone

away; and I shall stay by the body until morning. I do not know what

you mean by your words about the danger of staying here alone; but I am

not afraid of ghosts or demons: therefore please to feel no anxiety on

my account.”

The young man appeared to be rejoiced by these assurances, and

expressed his gratitude in fitting words. Then the other members of the

family, and the folk assembled in the adjoining room, having been told

of the priest’s kind promises, came to thank him,—after which the

master of the house said:—

“Now, reverend Sir, much as we regret to leave you alone, we must bid

you farewell. By the rule of our village, none of us can stay here

after midnight. We beg, kind Sir, that you will take every care of your

honorable body, while we are unable to attend upon you. And if you

happen to hear or see anything strange during our absence, please tell

us of the matter when we return in the morning.”

All then left the house, except the priest, who went to the room where

the dead body was lying. The usual offerings had been set before the

corpse; and a small Buddhist lamp—_tōmyō_—was burning. The priest

recited the service, and performed the funeral ceremonies,—after which

he entered into meditation. So meditating he remained through several

silent hours; and there was no sound in the deserted village. But, when

the hush of the night was at its deepest, there noiselessly entered a

Shape, vague and vast; and in the same moment Musō found himself

without power to move or speak. He saw that Shape lift the corpse, as

with hands, devour it, more quickly than a cat devours a rat,—beginning

at the head, and eating everything: the hair and the bones and even the

shroud. And the monstrous Thing, having thus consumed the body, turned

to the offerings, and ate them also. Then it went away, as mysteriously

as it had come.

When the villagers returned next morning, they found the priest

awaiting them at the door of the headman’s dwelling. All in turn

saluted him; and when they had entered, and looked about the room, no

one expressed any surprise at the disappearance of the dead body and

the offerings. But the master of the house said to Musō:—

“Reverent Sir, you have probably seen unpleasant things during the

night: all of us were anxious about you. But now we are very happy to

find you alive and unharmed. Gladly we would have stayed with you, if

it had been possible. But the law of our village, as I told you last

evening, obliges us to quit our houses after a death has taken place,

and to leave the corpse alone. Whenever this law has been broken,

heretofore, some great misfortune has followed. Whenever it is obeyed,

we find that the corpse and the offerings disappear during our absence.

Perhaps you have seen the cause.”

Then Musō told of the dim and awful Shape that had entered the

death-chamber to devour the body and the offerings. No person seemed to

be surprised by his narration; and the master of the house observed:—

“What you have told us, reverend Sir, agrees with what has been said

about this matter from ancient time.”

Musō then inquired:—

“Does not the priest on the hill sometimes perform the funeral service

for your dead?”

“What priest?” the young man asked.

“The priest who yesterday evening directed me to this village,”

answered Musō. “I called at his _anjitsu_ on the hill yonder. He

refused me lodging, but told me the way here.”

The listeners looked at each other, as in astonishment; and, after a

moment of silence, the master of the house said:—

“Reverend Sir, there is no priest and there is no _anjitsu_ on the

hill. For the time of many generations there has not been any

resident-priest in this neighborhood.”

Musō said nothing more on the subject; for it was evident that his kind

hosts supposed him to have been deluded by some goblin. But after

having bidden them farewell, and obtained all necessary information as

to his road, he determined to look again for the hermitage on the hill,

and so to ascertain whether he had really been deceived. He found the

_anjitsu_ without any difficulty; and, this time, its aged occupant

invited him to enter. When he had done so, the hermit humbly bowed down

before him, exclaiming:—“Ah! I am ashamed!—I am very much ashamed!—I am

exceedingly ashamed!”

“You need not be ashamed for having refused me shelter,” said Musō.

“You directed me to the village yonder, where I was very kindly

treated; and I thank you for that favor.”

“I can give no man shelter,” the recluse made answer;—“and it is not

for the refusal that I am ashamed. I am ashamed only that you should

have seen me in my real shape,—for it was I who devoured the corpse and

the offerings last night before your eyes... Know, reverend Sir, that I

am a _jikininki_,[1]—an eater of human flesh. Have pity upon me, and

suffer me to confess the secret fault by which I became reduced to this

condition.

“A long, long time ago, I was a priest in this desolate region. There

was no other priest for many leagues around. So, in that time, the

bodies of the mountain-folk who died used to be brought here,—sometimes

from great distances,—in order that I might repeat over them the holy

service. But I repeated the service and performed the rites only as a

matter of business;—I thought only of the food and the clothes that my

sacred profession enabled me to gain. And because of this selfish

impiety I was reborn, immediately after my death, into the state of a

_jikininki_. Since then I have been obliged to feed upon the corpses of

the people who die in this district: every one of them I must devour in

the way that you saw last night... Now, reverend Sir, let me beseech

you to perform a Ségaki-service[2] for me: help me by your prayers, I

entreat you, so that I may be soon able to escape from this horrible

state of existence”...

No sooner had the hermit uttered this petition than he disappeared; and

the hermitage also disappeared at the same instant. And Musō Kokushi

found himself kneeling alone in the high grass, beside an ancient and

moss-grown tomb of the form called _go-rin-ishi_,[3] which seemed to be

the tomb of a priest.

MUJINA

On the Akasaka Road, in Tōkyō, there is a slope called

Kii-no-kuni-zaka,—which means the Slope of the Province of Kii. I do

not know why it is called the Slope of the Province of Kii. On one side

of this slope you see an ancient moat, deep and very wide, with high

green banks rising up to some place of gardens;—and on the other side

of the road extend the long and lofty walls of an imperial palace.

Before the era of street-lamps and jinrikishas, this neighborhood was

very lonesome after dark; and belated pedestrians would go miles out of

their way rather than mount the Kii-no-kuni-zaka, alone, after sunset.

All because of a Mujina that used to walk there. (1)

The last man who saw the Mujina was an old merchant of the Kyōbashi

quarter, who died about thirty years ago. This is the story, as he told

it:—

One night, at a late hour, he was hurrying up the Kii-no-kuni-zaka,

when he perceived a woman crouching by the moat, all alone, and weeping

bitterly. Fearing that she intended to drown herself, he stopped to

offer her any assistance or consolation in his power. She appeared to

be a slight and graceful person, handsomely dressed; and her hair was

arranged like that of a young girl of good family. “O-jochū,”[1] he

exclaimed, approaching her,—“O-jochū, do not cry like that!... Tell me

what the trouble is; and if there be any way to help you, I shall be

glad to help you.” (He really meant what he said; for he was a very

kind man.) But she continued to weep,—hiding her face from him with one

of her long sleeves. “O-jochū,” he said again, as gently as he

could,—“please, please listen to me!... This is no place for a young

lady at night! Do not cry, I implore you!—only tell me how I may be of

some help to you!” Slowly she rose up, but turned her back to him, and

continued to moan and sob behind her sleeve. He laid his hand lightly

upon her shoulder, and pleaded:—“O-jochū!—O-jochū!—O-jochū!... Listen

to me, just for one little moment!... O-jochū!—O-jochū!”... Then that

O-jochū turned around, and dropped her sleeve, and stroked her face

with her hand;—and the man saw that she had no eyes or nose or

mouth,—and he screamed and ran away. (2)

Up Kii-no-kuni-zaka he ran and ran; and all was black and empty before

him. On and on he ran, never daring to look back; and at last he saw a

lantern, so far away that it looked like the gleam of a firefly; and he

made for it. It proved to be only the lantern of an itinerant

_soba_-seller,[2] who had set down his stand by the road-side; but any

light and any human companionship was good after that experience; and

he flung himself down at the feet of the _soba_-seller, crying out,

“Ah!—aa!!—_aa!!!_”...

“_Koré! koré!_” (3) roughly exclaimed the soba-man. “Here! what is the

matter with you? Anybody hurt you?”

“No—nobody hurt me,” panted the other,—“only... _Ah!—aa!_”

“—Only scared you?” queried the peddler, unsympathetically. “Robbers?”

“Not robbers,—not robbers,” gasped the terrified man... “I saw... I saw

a woman—by the moat;—and she showed me... _Ah!_ I cannot tell you what

she showed me!”...

“_Hé!_ (4) Was it anything like THIS that she showed you?” cried the

soba-man, stroking his own face—which therewith became like unto an

Egg... And, simultaneously, the light went out.