I pass on and climb more steps to a second gate with similar gargoyles
and swarming of dragons, and enter a court where graceful votive
lanterns of stone stand like monuments. On my right and left two great
grotesque stone lions are sitting--the lions of Buddha, male and female.
Beyond is a long low light building, with curved and gabled roof of blue
tiles, and three wooden steps before its entrance. Its sides are simple
wooden screens covered with thin white paper. This is the temple.
On the steps I take off my shoes; a young man slides aside the screens
closing the entrance, and bows me a gracious welcome. And I go in,
feeling under my feet a softness of matting thick as bedding. An immense
square apartment is before me, full of an unfamiliar sweet smell--the
scent of Japanese incense; but after the full blaze of the sun, the
paper-filtered light here is dim as moonshine; for a minute or two I
can see nothing but gleams of gilding in a soft gloom. Then, my eyes
becoming accustomed to the obscurity, I perceive against the paper-paned
screens surrounding the sanctuary on three sides shapes of enormous
flowers cutting like silhouettes against the vague white light. I
approach and find them to be paper flowers--symbolic lotus-blossoms
beautifully coloured, with curling leaves gilded on the upper surface
and bright green beneath, At the dark end of the apartment, facing the
entrance, is the altar of Buddha, a rich and lofty altar, covered with
bronzes and gilded utensils clustered to right and left of a shrine like
a tiny gold temple. But I see no statue; only a mystery of unfamiliar
shapes of burnished metal, relieved against darkness, a darkness
behind the shrine and altar--whether recess or inner sanctuary I cannot
distinguish.
The young attendant who ushered me into the temple now approaches,
and, to my great surprise, exclaims in excellent English, pointing to
a richly decorated gilded object between groups of candelabra on the
altar:
'That is the shrine of Buddha.' 'And I would like to make an offering to
Buddha,' I respond. 'It is not necessary,' he says, with a polite smile.
But I insist; and he places the little offering for me upon the altar.
Then he invites me to his own room, in a wing of the building--a large
luminous room, without furniture, beautifully matted. And we sit down
upon the floor and chat. He tells me he is a student in the temple. He
learned English in Tokyo and speaks it with a curious accent, but with
fine choice of words. Finally he asks me:
'Are you a Christian?' And I answer truthfully: 'No.' 'Are you a
Buddhist?' 'Not exactly.' 'Why do you make offerings if you do not
believe in Buddha?' 'I revere the beauty of his teaching, and the faith
of those who follow it.' 'Are there Buddhists in England and America?'
'There are, at least, a great many interested in Buddhist philosophy.'
And he takes from an alcove a little book, and gives it to me to
examine. It is an English copy of Olcott's Buddhist Catechism.
'Why is there no image of Buddha in your temple?' I ask. 'There is a
small one in the shrine upon the altar,' the student answers; 'but
the shrine is closed. And we have several large ones. But the image of
Buddha is not exposed here every day--only upon festal days. And some
images are exposed only once or twice a year.
From my place, I can see, between the open paper screens, men and
women ascending the steps, to kneel and pray before the entrance of
the temple. They kneel with such naive reverence, so gracefully and so
naturally, that the kneeling of our Occidental devotees seems a clumsy
stumbling by comparison. Some only join their hands; others clap them
three times loudly and slowly; then they bow their heads, pray silently
for a moment, and rise and depart. The shortness of the prayers
impresses me as something novel and interesting. From time to time I
hear the clink and rattle of brazen coin cast into the great wooden
money-box at the entrance.
I turn to the young student, and ask him: 'Why do they clap their hands
three times before they pray?'
He answers: 'Three times for the Sansai, the Three Powers: Heaven,
Earth, Man.'
'But do they clap their hands to call the Gods, as Japanese clap their
hands to summon their attendants?'
'Oh, no!' he replied. 'The clapping of hands represents only the
awakening from the Dream of the Long Night.' [1]
'What night? what dream?'
He hesitates some moments before making answer: 'The Buddha said: All
beings are only dreaming in this fleeting world of unhappiness.'
'Then the clapping of hands signifies that in prayer the soul awakens
from such dreaming?'
'Yes.'
'You understand what I mean by the word "soul"?'
'Oh, yes! Buddhists believe the soul always was--always will be.'
'Even in Nirvana?'
'Yes.'
While we are thus chatting the Chief Priest of the temple enters--a very
aged man-accompanied by two young priests, and I am presented to them;
and the three bow very low, showing me the glossy crowns of their
smoothly-shaven heads, before seating themselves in the fashion of
gods upon the floor. I observe they do not smile; these are the first
Japanese I have seen who do not smile: their faces are impassive as the
faces of images. But their long eyes observe me very closely, while the
student interprets their questions, and while I attempt to tell them
something about the translations of the Sutras in our Sacred Books of
the East, and about the labours of Beal and Burnouf and Feer and Davids
and Kern, and others. They listen without change of countenance, and
utter no word in response to the young student's translation of my
remarks. Tea, however, is brought in and set before me in a tiny cup,
placed in a little brazen saucer, shaped like a lotus-leaf; and I am
invited to partake of some little sugar-cakes (kwashi), stamped with a
figure which I recognise as the Swastika, the ancient Indian symbol of
the Wheel of the Law.
As I rise to go, all rise with me; and at the steps the student asks for
my name and address. 'For,' he adds, 'you will not see me here again, as
I am going to leave the temple. But I will visit you.'
'And your name?' I ask.
'Call me Akira,' he answers.
At the threshold I bow my good-bye; and they all bow very, very low, one
blue-black head, three glossy heads like balls of ivory. And as I go,
only Akira smiles.