Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan: First Series — Ch 4: A Pilgrimage to Enoshima, Part 2

Sec.

10 Now this weird old temple has its legend.

Seven hundred years ago, 'tis said, there died the great image-maker, the great busshi; Unke-Sosei.

And Unke-Sosei signifies 'Unke who returned from the dead.'

For when he came before Emma, the Judge of Souls, Emma said to him: 'Living, thou madest no image of me.

Go back unto earth and make one, now that thou hast looked upon me.'

And Unke found himself suddenly restored to the world of men; and they that had known him before, astonished to see him alive again, called him Unke-Sosei.

And Unke-Sosei, bearing with him always the memory of the countenance of Emma, wrought this image of him, which still inspires fear in all who behold it; and he made also the images of the grim Jiu-O, the Ten Kings obeying Emma, which sit throned about the temple.

I want to buy a picture of Emma, and make my wish known to the temple guardian.

Oh, yes, I may buy a picture of Emma, but I must first see the Oni.

I follow the guardian out of the temple, down the mossy steps, and across the village highway into a little Japanese cottage, where I take my seat upon the floor.

The guardian disappears behind a screen, and presently returns dragging with him the Oni--the image of a demon, naked, blood-red, indescribably ugly.

The Oni is about three feet high.

He stands in an attitude of menace, brandishing a club.

He has a head shaped something like the head of a bulldog, with brazen eyes; and his feet are like the feet of a lion.

Very gravely the guardian turns the grotesquery round and round, that I may admire its every aspect; while a naive crowd collects before the open door to look at the stranger and the demon.

Then the guardian finds me a rude woodcut of Emma, with a sacred inscription printed upon it; and as soon as I have paid for it, he proceeds to stamp the paper, with the seal of the temple.

The seal he keeps in a wonderful lacquered box, covered with many wrappings of soft leather.

These having been removed, I inspect the seal--an oblong, vermilion-red polished stone, with the design cut in intaglio upon it.

He moistens the surface with red ink, presses it upon the corner of the paper bearing the grim picture, and the authenticity of my strange purchase is established for ever.

Sec.

11 You do not see the Dai-Butsu as you enter the grounds of his long-vanished temple, and proceed along a paved path across stretches of lawn; great trees hide him.

But very suddenly, at a turn, he comes into full view and you start!

No matter how many photographs of the colossus you may have already seen, this first vision of the reality is an astonishment.

Then you imagine that you are already too near, though the image is at least a hundred yards away.

As for me, I retire at once thirty or forty yards back, to get a better view.

And the jinricksha man runs after me, laughing and gesticulating, thinking that I imagine the image alive and am afraid of it.

But, even were that shape alive, none could be afraid of it.

The gentleness, the dreamy passionlessness of those features,--the immense repose of the whole figure--are full of beauty and charm.

And, contrary to all expectation, the nearer you approach the giant Buddha, the greater this charm becomes.

You look up into the solemnly beautiful face--into the half-closed eyes that seem to watch you through their eyelids of bronze as gently as those of a child; and you feel that the image typifies all that is tender and calm in the Soul of the East.

Yet you feel also that only Japanese thought could have created it.

Its beauty, its dignity, its perfect repose, reflect the higher life of the race that imagined it; and, though doubtless inspired by some Indian model, as the treatment of the hair and various symbolic marks reveal, the art is Japanese.

So mighty and beautiful the work is, that you will not for some time notice the magnificent lotus-plants of bronze, fully fifteen feet high, planted before the figure, on either side of the great tripod in which incense-rods are burning.

Through an orifice in the right side of the enormous lotus-blossom on which the Buddha is seated, you can enter into the statue.

The interior contains a little shrine of Kwannon, and a statue of the priest Yuten, and a stone tablet bearing in Chinese characters the sacred formula, Namu Amida Butsu.

A ladder enables the pilgrim to ascend into the interior of the colossus as high as the shoulders, in which are two little windows commanding a wide prospect of the grounds; while a priest, who acts as guide, states the age of the statue to be six hundred and thirty years, and asks for some small contribution to aid in the erection of a new temple to shelter it from the weather.

For this Buddha once had a temple.

A tidal wave following an earthquake swept walls and roof away, but left the mighty Amida unmoved, still meditating upon his lotus.

Sec.

12 And we arrive before the far-famed Kamakura temple of Kwannon--Kwannon, who yielded up her right to the Eternal Peace that she might save the souls of men, and renounced Nirvana to suffer with humanity for other myriad million ages--Kwannon, the Goddess of Pity and of Mercy.

I climb three flights of steps leading to the temple, and a young girl, seated at the threshold, rises to greet us.

Then she disappears within the temple to summon the guardian priest, a venerable man, white-robed, who makes me a sign to enter.

The temple is large as any that I have yet seen, and, like the others, grey with the wearing of six hundred years.

From the roof there hang down votive offerings, inscriptions, and lanterns in multitude, painted with various pleasing colours.

Almost opposite to the entrance is a singular statue, a seated figure, of human dimensions and most human aspect, looking upon us with small weird eyes set in a wondrously wrinkled face.

This face was originally painted flesh-tint, and the robes of the image pale blue; but now the whole is uniformly grey with age and dust, and its colourlessness harmonises so well with the senility of the figure that one is almost ready to believe one's self gazing at a living mendicant pilgrim.

It is Benzuru, the same personage whose famous image at Asakusa has been made featureless by the wearing touch of countless pilgrim-fingers.

To left and right of the entrance are the Ni-O, enormously muscled, furious of aspect; their crimson bodies are speckled with a white scum of paper pellets spat at them by worshippers.

Above the altar is a small but very pleasing image of Kwannon, with her entire figure relieved against an oblong halo of gold, imitating the flickering of flame.

But this is not the image for which the temple is famed; there is another to be seen upon certain conditions.

The old priest presents me with a petition, written in excellent and eloquent English, praying visitors to contribute something to the maintenance of the temple and its pontiff, and appealing to those of another faith to remember that 'any belief which can make men kindly and good is worthy of respect.'

I

contribute my mite, and I ask to see the great Kwannon.

Then the old priest lights a lantern, and leads the way, through a low doorway on the left of the altar, into the interior of the temple, into some very lofty darkness.

I follow him cautiously awhile, discerning nothing whatever but the flicker of the lantern; then we halt before something which gleams.

A moment, and my eyes, becoming more accustomed to the darkness, begin to distinguish outlines; the gleaming object defines itself gradually as a Foot, an immense golden Foot, and I perceive the hem of a golden robe undulating over the instep.

Now the other foot appears; the figure is certainly standing.

I can perceive that we are in a narrow but also very lofty chamber, and that out of some mysterious blackness overhead ropes are dangling down into the circle of lantern-light illuminating the golden feet.

The priest lights two more lanterns, and suspends them upon hooks attached to a pair of pendent ropes about a yard apart; then he pulls up both together slowly.

More of the golden robe is revealed as the lanterns ascend, swinging on their way; then the outlines of two mighty knees; then the curving of columnar thighs under chiselled drapery, and, as with the still waving ascent of the lanterns the golden Vision towers ever higher through the gloom, expectation intensifies.

There is no sound but the sound of the invisible pulleys overhead, which squeak like bats.

Now above the golden girdle, the suggestion of a bosom.

Then the glowing of a golden hand uplifted in benediction.

Then another golden hand holding a lotus.

And at last a Face, golden, smiling with eternal youth and infinite tenderness, the face of Kwannon.

So revealed out of the consecrated darkness, this ideal of divine feminity--creation of a forgotten art and time--is more than impressive.

I can scarcely call the emotion which it produces admiration; it is rather reverence.

But the lanterns, which paused awhile at the level of the beautiful face, now ascend still higher, with a fresh squeaking of pulleys.

And lo!

the tiara of the divinity appears with strangest symbolism.

It is a pyramid of heads, of faces-charming faces of maidens, miniature faces of Kwannon herself.

For this is the Kwannon of the Eleven Faces--Jiu-ichimen-Kwannon.

Sec.

13 Most sacred this statue is held; and this is its legend.

In the reign of Emperor Gensei, there lived in the province of Yamato a Buddhist priest, Tokudo Shonin, who had been in a previous birth Hold Bosatsu, but had been reborn among common men to save their souls.

Now at that time, in a valley in Yamato, Tokudo Shonin, walking by night, saw a wonderful radiance; and going toward it found that it came from the trunk of a great fallen tree, a kusunoki, or camphor-tree.

A

delicious perfume came from the tree, and the shining of it was like the shining of the moon.

And by these signs Tokudo Shonin knew that the wood was holy; and he bethought him that he should have the statue of Kwannon carved from it.

And he recited a sutra, and repeated the Nenbutsu, praying for inspiration; and even while he prayed there came and stood before him an aged man and an aged woman; and these said to him, 'We know that your desire is to have the image of Kwannon-Sama carved from this tree with the help of Heaven; continue therefore, to pray, and we shall carve the statue.'

And Tokudo Shonin did as they bade him; and he saw them easily split the vast trunk into two equal parts, and begin to carve each of the parts into an image.

And he saw them so labour for three days; and on the third day the work was done--and he saw the two marvellous statues of Kwannon made perfect before him.

And he said to the strangers: 'Tell me, I pray you, by what names you are known.'

Then the old man answered: 'I am Kasuga Myojin.'

And the woman answered: 'I am called Ten-sho-ko-dai-jin; I am the Goddess of the Sun.'

And as they spoke both became transfigured and ascended to heaven and vanished from the sight of Tokudo Shonin.

[6] And the Emperor, hearing of these happenings, sent his representative to Yamato to make offerings, and to have a temple built.

Also the great priest, Gyogi-Bosatsu, came and consecrated the images, and dedicated the temple which by order of the Emperor was built.

And one of the statues he placed in the temple, enshrining it, and commanding it: 'Stay thou here always to save all living creatures!'

But the other statue he cast into the sea, saying to it: 'Go thou whithersoever it is best, to save all the living.'

Now the statue floated to Kamakura.

And there arriving by night it shed a great radiance all about it as if there were sunshine upon the sea;

and the fishermen of Kamakura were awakened by the great light; and they went out in boats, and found the statue floating and brought it to shore.

And the Emperor ordered that a temple should be built for it, the temple called Shin-haseidera, on the mountain called Kaiko-San, at Kamakura.

Sec.

14 As we leave the temple of Kwannon behind us, there are no more dwellings visible along the road; the green slopes to left and right become steeper, and the shadows of the great trees deepen over us.

But still, at intervals, some flight of venerable mossy steps, a carven Buddhist gateway, or a lofty torii, signals the presence of sanctuaries we have no time to visit: countless crumbling shrines are all around us, dumb witnesses to the antique splendour and vastness of the dead capital; and everywhere, mingled with perfume of blossoms, hovers the sweet, resinous smell of Japanese incense.

Be-times we pass a scattered multitude of sculptured stones, like segments of four-sided pillars--old haka, the forgotten tombs of a long-abandoned cemetery; or the solitary image of some Buddhist deity--a dreaming Amida or faintly smiling Kwannon.

All are ancient, time-discoloured, mutilated; a few have been weather-worn into unrecognisability.

I halt a moment to contemplate something pathetic, a group of six images of the charming divinity who cares for the ghosts of little children--the Roku-Jizo.

Oh, how chipped and scurfed and mossed they are!

Five stand buried almost up to their shoulders in a heaping of little stones, testifying to the prayers of generations; and votive yodarekake, infant bibs of divers colours, have been put about the necks of these for the love of children lost.

But one of the gentle god's images lies shattered and overthrown in its own scattered pebble-pile-broken perhaps by some passing wagon.

Sec.

15 The road slopes before us as we go, sinks down between cliffs steep as the walls of a canyon, and curves.

Suddenly we emerge from the cliffs, and reach the sea.

It is blue like the unclouded sky--a soft dreamy blue.

And our path turns sharply to the right, and winds along cliff-summits overlooking a broad beach of dun-coloured sand; and the sea wind blows deliciously with a sweet saline scent, urging the lungs to fill themselves to the very utmost; and far away before me, I perceive a beautiful high green mass, an island foliage-covered, rising out of the water about a quarter of a mile from the mainland--Enoshima, the holy island, sacred to the goddess of the sea, the goddess of beauty.

I

can already distinguish a tiny town, grey-sprinkling its steep slope.

Evidently it can be reached to-day on foot, for the tide is out, and has left bare a long broad reach of sand, extending to it, from the opposite village which we are approaching, like a causeway.

At Katase, the little settlement facing the island, we must leave our jinricksha and walk; the dunes between the village and the beach are too deep to pull the vehicle over.

Scores of other jinricksha are waiting here in the little narrow street for pilgrims who have preceded me.

But to-day, I am told, I am the only European who visits the shrine of Benten.

Our two men lead the way over the dunes, and we soon descend upon damp firm sand.

As we near the island the architectural details of the little town define delightfully through the faint sea-haze--curved bluish sweeps of fantastic roofs, angles of airy balconies, high-peaked curious gables, all above a fluttering of queerly shaped banners covered with mysterious lettering.

We pass the sand-flats; and the ever-open Portal of the Sea-city, the City of the Dragon-goddess, is before us, a beautiful torii.

All of bronze it is, with shimenawa of bronze above it, and a brazen tablet inscribed with characters declaring: 'This is the Palace of the Goddess of Enoshima.'

About the bases of the ponderous pillars are strange designs in relievo, eddyings of waves with tortoises struggling in the flow.

This is really the gate of the city, facing the shrine of Benten by the land approach; but it is only the third torii of the imposing series through Katase: we did not see the others, having come by way of the coast.

And lo!

we are in Enoshima.

High before us slopes the single street, a street of broad steps, a street shadowy, full of multi-coloured flags and dank blue drapery dashed with white fantasticalities, which are words, fluttered by the sea wind.

It is lined with taverns and miniature shops.

At every one I must pause to look; and to dare to look at anything in Japan is to want to buy it.

So I buy, and buy, and buy!

For verily 'tis the City of Mother-of-Pearl, this Enoshima.

In every shop, behind the lettered draperies there are miracles of shell-work for sale at absurdly small prices.

The glazed cases laid flat upon the matted platforms, the shelved cabinets set against the walls, are all opalescent with nacreous things--extraordinary surprises, incredible ingenuities; strings of mother-of-pearl fish, strings of mother-of-pearl birds, all shimmering with rainbow colours.

There are little kittens of mother-of-pearl, and little foxes of mother-of-pearl, and little puppies of mother-of-pearl, and girls' hair-combs, and cigarette-holders, and pipes too beautiful to use.

There are little tortoises, not larger than a shilling, made of shells, that, when you touch them, however lightly, begin to move head, legs, and tail, all at the same time, alternately withdrawing or protruding their limbs so much like real tortoises as to give one a shock of surprise.

There are storks and birds, and beetles and butterflies, and crabs and lobsters, made so cunningly of shells, that only touch convinces you they are not alive.

There are bees of shell, poised on flowers of the same material--poised on wire in such a way that they seem to buzz if moved only with the tip of a feather.

There is shell-work jewellery indescribable, things that Japanese girls love, enchantments in mother-of-pearl, hair-pins carven in a hundred forms, brooches, necklaces.

And there are photographs of Enoshima.

Sec.

16 This curious street ends at another torii, a wooden torii, with a steeper flight of stone steps ascending to it.

At the foot of the steps are votive stone lamps and a little well, and a stone tank at which all pilgrims wash their hands and rinse their mouths before approaching the temples of the gods.

And hanging beside the tank are bright blue towels, with large white Chinese characters upon them.

I ask Akira what these characters signify: 'Ho-Keng is the sound of the characters in the Chinese; but in Japanese the same characters are pronounced Kenjitatetmatsuru, and signify that those towels are mostly humbly offered to Benten.

They are what you call votive offerings.

And there are many kinds of votive offerings made to famous shrines.

Some people give towels, some give pictures, some give vases; some offer lanterns of paper, or bronze, or stone.

It is common to promise such offerings when making petitions to the gods; and it is usual to promise a torii.

The torii may be small or great according to the wealth of him who gives it; the very rich pilgrim may offer to the gods a torii of metal, such as that below, which is the Gate of Enoshima.'

'Akira, do the Japanese always keep their vows to the gods?'