Chapter 10
Section 10 of 1891 Collection. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Matt Perard.
1891 Collection. By various. Section 10. Two Journal Entries. By Lough Cardio Hearn.
From The Diary of an English Teacher. Found in Glemses of an Unfamiliar Japan. May 1st, 1891. My favorite students often visit me of afternoons. They first send me their cards to announce their presence.
On being told to come in, they leave their foot gear on the doorstep, enter my little prostrate themselves, and we all squat down together on the floor, which is in all Japanese houses like a soft mattress. The servant brings zappitan, or small cushions, to kneel upon, and cakes, and tea. To sit as the Japanese do requires practice, and some Europeans can never acquire the habit.
To acquire it, indeed, one must become accustomed to wearing Japanese costume. But once the habit of thus sitting has been formed, one finds it is the most natural and easy of positions, and assumes it by preference for eating, reading, smoking, or chatting. It is not to be recommended, perhaps, for writing with a European pen, as the motion in our Occidental style of writing is from the supported wrist.
But it is the best posture for writing with the Japanese fute, in using which the whole arm is unsupported, and the motion from the oboe. After having become habituated to Japanese habits for more than a year, I must confess that I find it now somewhat irksome to use a chair, when we have all greeted each other and taken our places upon the kneeling cushions, a little polite silence ensues, which I am
the first to break. Some of the lads speak a good deal of English. They understand me well when I pronounce every word slowly and distinctly, using simple phrases and avoiding idioms. When a word with which they are not familiar must be used, we refer to a good English-Japanese
dictionary, which gives each vernacular meaning, both in the kana and in the Chinese characters. Usually my young visitors stay a long time, and their stay is rarely tiresome. Their conversation and their thoughts are of the simplest and frankest. They do not come to learn. They know that to ask their teacher to teach out of school would be unjust.
They speak chiefly of things which they think have some particular interest for me. Sometimes, they scarcely speak at all, but appear to sink into a sort of happy reverie. What they come really for is the quiet pleasure of sympathy. Not an intellectual sympathy, but the sympathy of pure goodwill, the simple pleasure of being quite comfortable with a friend.
They pivot my books and pictures, and sometimes they bring books and pictures to show me delightfully queer things, family heirlooms, which I regret much that I cannot buy. They also like to look at my garden and enjoy all that is in it even more than I. Often they bring me gifts of flowers. However, by any possible chance are they troublesome, impolite, curious, or even talkative.
Courtesy in its utmost possible exquisiteness, an exquisiteness of which even the French have no conception, seems natural to the Izumo boy, as the colour of his hair or the tint of his skin. Nor is he less kind than courteous. To contrive pleasurable surprises for me is one of the particular delights of my boys,
and they either bring or cause to be brought to the house all sorts of strange things. Of all the strange or beautiful things which I am thus privileged to examine, none gives me so much pleasure as a certain wonderful cackemono of Amida Niore. It is a rather large picture, and has been borrowed from a priest that I may see it. The Buddha stands in the attitude of exhortation, with one hand uplifted.
Behind his head a huge moon makes an aureole, and across the face of that moon stream winding lines of thinnest cloud. Beneath his feet, like a rolling of smoke, curl heavier and darker clouds. Merely as a work of colour and design, the thing is a marvel, but the real wonder of it is not in colour or design at all.
Minute examination reveals the astonishing fact that every shadow and clouding is formed by a fairy text of Chinese characters so minute that only a keen eye can discern them. And this text is the entire text of two famed sutras, the Kuomu Rijo Kyo and the Amida Kyo, text no larger than the limbs of fleas. And all the strong dark lines of the figure, such as the seams of the Buddha's robe, are
formed by the characters of the holy invocation of the Shinshu sect, repeated thousands of times, Namu Amida Batsu, infinite patience, tireless silent labour of loving faith in some dim temple long ago. Another day one of my boys persuades his father to let him bring to my house a wonderful statue of Koshi, Confucius, made, I am told, in China, toward the close of the period of the Ming
dynasty. I am also assured it is the first time the statue has ever been removed from the family residence to be shown to anyone. Previously whoever desired to pay it reverence had to visit the house. It is truly a beautiful bronze, the figure of a smiling bearded old man with fingers uplifted and lips apart as if discoursing. He wears quaint Chinese shoes and his flowing robes are adorned with a figure of the mystic phoenix. The microscopic finish
of detail seems, indeed, to reveal the wonderful cunning of a Chinese hand. Each tooth, each hair looks as though it had been made the subject of a special study. Another student conducts me to the home of one of his relatives that I may see a cat made of wood said to have been chiseled by the famed Hidari Jinguro, a cat crouching and watching and so life-like that real cats have been known to put up their backs and
spit at it. Nevertheless, I have a private conviction that some old artists, even now living in Matsu, could make a still more wonderful cat. Among these is the venerable Arakawa Junosuke who wrote many rare things for the Daimyo of Izumo in the Tempo era and whose acquaintance I have been enabled to make through my school friends. One evening he brings to my house something very odd to show me concealed in his sleeve.
It is a doll, just a small carbon and painted head without a body, the body being represented by a tiny robe only attached to the neck. Yet as Arakawa Junosuke manipulates it, it seems to become alive. The back of its head is like the back of a very old man's head, but its face is the face of an amused child, and there is scarcely any forehead nor any evidence of a thinking disposition. And whatever way the head is turned, it looks so familiar
so funny that one cannot help laughing at it. It represents a kerakupo, what we might call in English a jolly old boy, one who is naturally too hearty and too innocent to feel trouble of any sort. It is not an original, but a model of a very famous original whose history is recorded in a faded scroll which Arakawa takes out of his other sleeve and which a friend translates for me. This little history throws a curious light upon the simple-hearted
ways of Japanese life and thought in other centuries. Two hundred and sixty years ago this doll was made by a famous maker of no masks in the city of Kyoto for the Emperor Go-Mitsu no-o. The Emperor used to have it placed beside his pillow each night before he slept and was very fond of it, and he composed the following poem concerning it.
Yō no naka wo kiriku ni kerase nanikoto mo omo wa niwa koso. On the death of the Emperor, this doll becomes the property of Prince Kanoi, in whose family it is said to be still preserved. About one hundred and seven years ago, the then ex-empress, whose posthumous name is Seikwa Manin, borrowed the doll from Prince Kanoi and ordered a copy of it to be made. This copy she kept always beside her and was very fond of it.
After the death of the good Empress, this doll was given to a lady at the court, whose family name is not recorded. Afterwards, this lady, for reasons which are not known, cut off her hair and became a Buddhist nun, taking the name of Shingyo-in, and one who knew the nun, Shingyo-in, a man whose name was Kando-ju-aku in Hokyo, had the honor of receiving the doll as a gift.
Now I, who write this document, at one time fell sick, and my sickness was caused by despondency, and my friend Kando-ju-aku in Hokyo, coming to see me, said, I have in my house something which will make you well. And he went home, and presently returning, brought to me this doll and lent it to me, putting it by my pillow that I might see it and laugh at it. Afterward, I myself, having called upon the nun Shingyo-in, whom I now
also have the honor to know, wrote down the history of the doll and make a poem thereupon, dated about ninety years ago, no signature. June 1st, 1891. I found among the students a healthy tone of skepticism in regard to certain forms of popular belief. Science education is rapidly destroying credulity in old superstitions yet current among the unlettered, and especially among the peasantry,
as, for instance, faith in Mamori and Ofuda. The outward forms of Buddhism, its images, its relics, its commoner practices, affect the average student very little. He is not as a foreigner, maybe, interested in iconography or religious folklore or the comparative study of religions, and in nine cases out of ten he is rather ashamed of the signs and tokens of popular faith all around him. But the deeper religious sense, which underlies all symbolism,
remains with him, and the monistic idea in Buddhism is being strengthened and expanded rather than weakened by the new education. What is true of the effect of the public schools upon the lower Buddhism is equally true of its effect upon the lower Shinto. The students all sincerely are, or very nearly all, yet not as fervent worshippers of certain kami, but as rigid observers of what the higher Shinto signifies, loyalty, filial piety,
obedience to parents, teachers and superiors, and respect to ancestors, for Shinto means more than faith. When, for the first time, I stood before the shrine of the great deity of Kitsuki as the first Occidental to whom that privilege had been accorded, not without a sense of awe there came to me the, this is the shrine of the father of a race, this is the symbolic center of a nation's reverence for its past, and I, too, paid reverence
to the memory of the progenitor of this people. As I then felt, so feels the intelligent student of the Meiji era, whom education has lifted above the common plain of popular creeds, and Shinto also means for him, whether he reasons upon the question or not, all the ethics of the family and all that spirit of loyalty which has become so innate that, at the call of duty, life itself ceases to have value save as an instrument for duty's accomplishment.
As yet, this orient, little needs to reason about the origin of its loftier ethics. Imagine the musical sense in our own race so developed that a child could play a complicated instrument so soon as the little fingers gained sufficient force and flexibility to strike the notes. By some such comparison, only can one obtain a just idea of what inherent religion and instinctive duty signify in Izumo, of the rude and aggressive form of skepticism so
common in the Occident, which is the natural reaction after sudden emancipation from superstitious belief. I find no trace among my students, but such sentiment may be found elsewhere, especially in Tokyo, among the university students, one of whom, upon hearing the tones of a magnificent temple bell, exclaimed to a friend of mine, is it not a shame that in this nineteenth century we must still hear such a sound? For the benefit of curious travelers,
however, I may here take occasion to observe that to talk Buddhism to Japanese gentlemen of the new school is in just as bad taste as to talk Christianity at home to men of that class, whom knowledge has placed above creeds and forums. There are, of course, Japanese scholars willing to aid researches of foreign scholars in religion or in folklore, but these specialists do not undertake to gratify idle curiosity of the globetrotting description.
I may also say that the foreigner, desirous to learn the religious ideas or superstitions of the common people, must obtain them from the people themselves, not from the educated classes. Among all my favorite students, two or three from each class, I cannot decide whom I like the best. Each has a particular merit of his own, but I think the names and faces of those of whom I am about to speak will longest remain vivid in my remembrance.
Ishihara Otani Masanobu, Azukizawa Yokoji Ishida. Ishihara is a samurai, a very influential lad in his class because of his uncommon force of character. Compared with others, he has a somewhat brusque, independent manner, pleasing, however, by its honest manliness. He says everything he thinks, and precisely in the tone that he thinks it, even to the degree of being a little embarrassing sometimes.
He does not hesitate, for example, to find fault with a teacher's method of explanation and to insist upon a more lucid one. He has criticized me more than once, but I never found that he was wrong. We like each other very much. He often brings me flowers. One day, that he had brought two beautiful sprays of plum blossoms, he said to me, I saw you bow before our Emperor's picture at the ceremony on the birthday of His Majesty.
You are not like a former English teacher we had. How? He said we were savages. Why? He said there is nothing respectable except God, His God, and that only vulgar and ignorant
people respect anything else. Where did he come from? He was a Christian clergyman and said he was an English subject. But if he was an English subject, he was bound to respect Her Majesty the Queen. He could not even enter the office of a British council without removing his hat.
I don't know what he did in the country he came from, but that was what he said. Now we think we should love and honour our Emperor. We think it is a duty. We think it is a joy. We think it is happiness to be able to give our lives for our Emperor. But he said we were only savages, ignorant savages. What do you think of that? I think, my dear lad, that he himself was a savage, a vulgar, ignorant, savage bigot.
I think it is your highest social duty to honour your Emperor, to obey his laws, and to be ready to give your blood whenever he may require it of you for the sake of Japan. I think it is your duty to respect the gods of your fathers, the religion of your country, even if you yourself cannot believe all that others believe. And I think also that it is your duty, for your Emperor's sake and for your country's sake,
to resent any such wicked and vulgar language as that you have told me of, no matter by whom uttered. Masanobu visits me solemnly, and always comes alone, a slender, handsome lad, with rather feminine features, reserved and perfectly self-possessed in manner, refined. He is somewhat serious, does not often smile, and I never heard him laugh. He has risen to the head of his class, and appears to remain there without any extraordinary effort.
Much of his leisure time he devotes to botany, collecting and classifying plants. He is a musician, like all the male members of his family. He plays a variety of instruments never seen or heard of in the West, including flutes of marble, flutes of ivory, flutes of bamboo, of wonderful shapes and tones, and that shrill Chinese instrument called shou, a sort of mouth-ordered, consisting of 17 tubes of different lengths, fixed in a silver frame.
He first explained to me the uses in temple music of the taiku and shoko, which are drums, of the flutes called fe, or teki, of the flageolet, termed ichiriki, and of the kakko, which is a little drum shaped like a spool with very narrow waist. On great Buddhist festivals, Masanobu and his father and his brothers are the musicians in the temple services, and they play the strange music called ojo and batto, music which at first no Western ear can fill pleasure in.
But which, when often heard, becomes comprehensible, and is found to possess a weird charm of its own. When Masanobu comes to the house, it is usually in order to invite me to attend some Buddhist or Shinto festival, matsuri, which he knows will interest me. Atsu Kizawa bears so little resemblance to Masanobu that one might suppose the two belong to totally different races. Atsu Kizawa is a large, raw-boned, heavy-looking, with a face singularly like that of a North American Indian.
His people are not rich. He can afford few pleasures, which cost money, except one, buying books. Even to be able to do this, he works in his leisure hours to earn money. He is a perfect bookworm, a natural born researcher, a collector of curious documents, a haunter of all the queer secondhand stores in Teramachi and other streets where old manuscripts or prints are on sale as waste paper. He is an omnivorous reader and a perpetual borrower of volumes, which he always returns in perfect condition,
after having copied what he deemed of most value to him. But his special delight is philosophy and the history of philosophers in all countries. He has read various epitomes of the history of philosophy in the Occident, and everything of modern philosophy, which has been translated into Japanese, including Spencer's first principles. I have been able to introduce him to Lewis and John Fisk, both of which he appreciates,
although the strain of studying philosophy in English is no small one. Happily, he is so strong that no amount of study is likely to enter his health, and his nerves are tough as wire. He is quite an ascetic withal. As it is the Japanese custom to set cakes and tea before visitors, I always have both in readiness and an especially fine quality of kwa-shi made at kitsuki, of which the students are very fond. Azukizawa alone refuses to taste cakes or confectionery of any kind, saying,
As I am the youngest brother, I must begin to earn my own living soon. I shall have to endure much hardship, and if I allow myself to like deities now, I shall only suffer more later on. Azukizawa has seen much of human life and character. He is naturally observant, and he has managed, in some extraordinary way, to learn the history of everybody in Matsu. He has brought me old tattered prints to prove that the opinions now held by our director are diametrically opposed
to the opinions he advocated fourteen years ago in a public address. I asked the director about it. He laughed and said, Of course, that is Azukizawa. But he is right. I was very young then, and I wonder if Azukizawa was ever young. Yokochi, Azukizawa's dearest friend, is a very rare visitor, for he is always studying at home. He is always first in his class, the third year class, while Azukizawa is fourth.
Azukizawa's account of the beginning of their acquaintance is this. I watched him when he came and saw that he spoke very little, walked very quickly, and looked straight into everybody's eyes. So I knew he had a particular character. I like to know people with a particular character. Azukizawa was perfectly right under a very gentle exterior. Yokochi has an extremely strong character. He is the son of a carpenter, and his parents could not afford to send him to the middle school.
But he has shown such exceptional qualities while in the elementary school that a wealthy man became interested in him and offered to pay for his education. He is now the pride of the school. He has a remarkably placid face, with peculiarly long eyes and a delicious smile. In class, he is always asking intelligent questions, questions so original that I am sometimes extremely puzzled how to answer them. And he never ceases to ask until the explanation is quite satisfactory to himself. He never cares about the opinion of his comrades if he thinks he is right.
On one occasion, when the whole class refused to attend the lectures of a new teacher of physics, Yokochi alone refused to act with them, arguing that although the teacher was not all that could be desired, there was no immediate possibility of his removal, and no just reason for making unhappy a man who, though unskilled, was sincerely doing his best. Atsu Kizawa finally stood by him. These two alone attended the lectures until the remainder of the students. Two weeks later, found that Yokochi's views were rational.
On another occasion, when some vulgar proselytism was attempted by a Christian missionary, Yokochi went boldly to the proselytizer's house, argued with him on the morality of his effort, and reduced him to silence. Some of his comrades praised his cleverness in the argument. I am not clever, he made answer. It does not require cleverness to argue against what is morally wrong. It requires only the knowledge that one is morally right, at least such as about the translation of what he said, as told me by Atsu Kizawa.
Shida, another visitor, is a very delicate, sensitive boy. His soul is full of art. He is very skillful at drawing and painting, and he has a wonderful set of picture books by the old Japanese masters. The last time he came, he brought some prints to show me, rare ones, fairy maidens and ghosts. As I looked at his beautiful pale face and weirdly frail fingers, I could not help fearing for him, fearing that he might soon become a little ghost. I have not seen him now for more than two months. He has been very, very ill, and his lungs are so weak that the doctor has forbidden him to converse.
But Atsu Kizawa has been to visit him, and brings me this translation of a Japanese letter which the sick boy wrote and pasted upon the wall above his bed. This is the 9th day of the 11th month of the 24th year of Meiji. From the sick body of Shida to his soul. End of section 10.
