TEMPLE GARDENS
Of all the gardens in Japan, and surely in no other country are there
so many different forms of gardening, the temple garden, or often
the garden surrounding some mouldering Buddhist monastery, remains a
peaceful, secluded spot, recalling the Old Japan and days gone by.
Unluckily many of them are fast falling into decay, like the buildings
they surround; but perhaps it is better so, as they would surely
suffer at the hands of the restorer, just as many of the temples have
suffered; and though little may remain of the original gardens, the
stones, beautified possibly by time, are still the same; the trees
may have grown old and gnarled, but the form of the garden remains
unchanged.
It has been said that every good garden should be a “modulation from
pure nature to pure art,” and no one seems to have understood the
saying better
[Illustration: AT KITANO TENJIN]
than the makers of these old temple gardens: they are always a setting
for the building they surround, adding to its grandeur, never dwarfing
it; the placing of every stone, the curve of every walk, the shape of
the pond, all seem to have been duly weighed and considered, and the
result is an harmonious whole.
The grand Nikko temples, the shrines in Uyeno or Shiba, have been left
in their natural surroundings; the tall grey masts of the cryptomerias
stand like sentries to guard their precious treasure, the avenues
broken only by long vistas of enormous steps or the uprights of a
colossal granite _torii_. Nothing could be more imposing, and the
effect of the bronze green of the cryptomerias against the splendid
colour of the temple gives the crowning touch to a picture which in
itself alone is worth travelling many thousand miles to see.
At Uyeno the cherry-trees reign all supreme, they do their full
work; the mixing of other shrubs or trees would be unnecessary and
meaningless; this is the simplest and yet the grandest form of
gardening; a few large bronze lanterns and grey stones help to show off
the delicate pink of the blossoms when they are in their glory, and
yet seem to be part of the temple itself, as no temple or shrine is
complete without some of these beautiful votive offerings.
At Nara, again, the cryptomeria forms the principal setting; in spring,
many of the trees are wreathed with wistaria, the royal _fuji_, but
this only helps to enhance their colour, and is suggestive of a grey
misty vapour rather than a real flower, as often one sees no trace of
the stem of the wistaria, and one wonders how the mass of mauve flowers
has managed to appear suddenly at the very top of one of those giants
of the forest.
It is not around these large and world-renowned temples that one finds
a garden, in the sense that we Europeans regard a garden, but rather in
some peaceful spot which seems to have been overlooked by the hustle
and bustle of the large town in which it may be situated. I am thinking
now of one such garden in Kyoto; the evening bell seems to call you
to come within its sanctuary, and once there one would surely never
leave until the final closing of its great outer wooden door sends the
loiterer away. It has an irresistible charm this tiny garden, hardly
more than a toy compared to the scale of our English gardens, and
it was no surprise to me to learn that it was planned to suggest in
miniature the
[Illustration: THE DROOPING CHERRY]
fabulous Garden of Paradise. One enters its outer precincts through one
of those solid wooden gateways which seem so fitting to guard their
charge, wood guarding wood, for remember all temples are made of wood
in Japan; though many different kinds may be used, and the rarer and
more beautifully veined pieces are brought together and collected from
far and wide, still it is all wood, and for that reason the buildings
seem to be especially in keeping with a garden.
On either side of the gateway stand two old pine-trees, carefully
trained and thinned at the proper season; but the most beautiful
guardian is just within the gate, a grand old weeping cherry-tree, in
April its boughs bent down by the weight of its blossoms, while its
glory lasts for a week or two, casting a pinky light on all around.
Even now you are only being prepared for the beauty to come, as you
must knock on yet another little wooden door and ask permission of the
acolyte to enter; he will offer to tell you the history of the garden
in his peculiar sing-song note, suggesting a recitative, and utterly
incomprehensible, unless you have thoroughly mastered his language.
Seeing a foreigner he will probably reconcile himself to letting you
wander at your will, and enjoy the beauties of this little haven of
rest. We are told that the buildings were formerly magnificent, but
have suffered from fire at the hands of the _ronins_, and in later days
from accidental fires. What remains of the original building seems
complete in itself, and one feels one would not have it otherwise.
The garden was designed by the celebrated Kobori Enshu, and, like
all his work, is much regarded and valued by the Japanese. The plan,
roughly speaking, appears to be two ponds, a wooden bridge, and three
tiny islands; but to the understanding one, they are the Crane and
Tortoise ponds, the two small islands on the south being regarded as
a crane, while the northern one is a tortoise. The wooden bridge is
a Bridge of Heaven, and contains the _Kwangetsudai_, or Moon-gazing
Platform, brought from the Momoyama Palace at Fushimi, where Hideyoshi
is said to have used it for that purpose. All this is of deep interest
to the Japanese; but to our eyes the charm of the garden lies in the
fact that it is a little old-world garden full of repose, suggesting
the Old Japan, and spots where foreign feet have seldom trod. I have
known this garden at all seasons of the year. In February, when biting
snow-showers remind one that winter is not yet over, the moss-and
lichen-clad stones, the trim, clean-cut azalea and sweet box bushes,
and the carpet of velvety moss in broad patches where the turf has not
yet recovered from the winter frosts, are its only adornments. The pink
buds of the one plum-tree it contains are fast swelling, and show you
that spring’s fairy raiment is being prepared by Nature; the buds of
the large bush of flame-coloured _Azalea mollis_--possibly the pride of
the garden--also help to give promise of future glories.
Kodaiji was once famous for its cherry-trees, but now few remain, and
we must content ourselves with its other treasures, which seem to bloom
in one never-ending succession throughout the year. July is the only
month in which I have never seen this garden, but I feel certain that
even then there is no blank, something would spring up to be the pride
of the garden. In March her one plum-tree reigns supreme, in April the
cherry blossom; in May the Crane pond is fringed with purple irises,
and the gorgeous azalea casts its reflection also; in June the later
_Azalea indica_ ... flower as best they can, but how many of their buds
fall victims to the gardener’s shears. In July the lotus leaves in both
the ponds are already getting taller every hour, and in the early
hours of some morning late in July the first lotus bud will open with
a crack and gradually unfurl its beautiful pink or white blossom. All
through August fresh buds will appear, and indeed well into September,
when at last the leaves will begin to curl and shrivel, and one can
only wonder how they stood the scorching heat of the sun all through
those long weeks.
By the beginning of October the leaves of the maples will be turning,
gradually growing more and more fiery in colour as the month dies out,
till in November they are in all their gaudy splendour, and Kodaiji
is noted for its _momiji_. The priest, too, who evidently loves his
garden, has by now moved with tender care his chrysanthemum plants,
whose pots have been kept from the sun’s fiercest rays, and never
allowed to cry out for water, and placed them in one of those curiously
fragile little structures which seem to exist only for the protection
of chrysanthemums, with a roof more suggestive of a chess-board than
anything else, and arranged them in front of his dwelling-room, so that
he can sit and gaze at them, just as in old days Hideyoshi sat on the
neighbouring platform to gaze at the moon. Do not imagine
[Illustration: A SHRINE AT KYOMIDZU]
that when the last maple falls, or the last _kiku_ flower is cut,
the year is over in this favoured little spot, for in December the
_Camellia Sasanqua_ holds its own against frost and even snow; its
lovely rose-coloured flowers, which with their yellow stamens, are more
suggestive of the blooms of Penzance briar roses than of camellias, are
in sharp contrast with the deep glossy foliage, and seem more fitted
for a spring flower than one for the dying year.
It is not always easy for the foreigner to obtain permission to visit
some of these secluded and hallowed spots. I can recall a long rough
ricksha drive in the environs of Kyoto, through somewhat uninteresting
country, consisting of endless miles of rice-fields--Hiezan, it is
true, forming a beautiful background; but though I was armed with
credentials which I was assured would gain me admission to a veritable
holy of holies, a garden so old that no one knew its origin, my
enthusiasm was beginning to wane when we arrived within some large
rambling temple grounds. We asked to see the garden, and were bowed
into a not very interesting and rather uncared-for court, but I
felt this could not be the spot I had come so far to see; besides,
admission had been too readily granted; it would require patience and
perseverance to find this inner sanctuary. After many explanations and
many times being assured there was no other garden, we were eventually
directed to the priest’s private dwelling, and then I knew my chance
had come, as an especially holy man was the owner of the precious
little garden. I was greeted with a look of horror and incredulity:
“Was it possible that the foreigner had even penetrated within these
mouldering monastery grounds?” The permission was granted, and I
entered the spotlessly clean white-matted rooms, which all looked on
the garden. First a little forecourt, and beyond, the sacred spot. At
the first glance what did it consist of? A few stone lanterns, almost
diminutive in size, to be in keeping with the rest of the garden; some
so buried in velvety moss that their shape seemed almost altered by the
thickness of their green canopy; a few curiously shaped and fantastic
stones, also with their covering of grey lichen and moss; some old
gnarled and twisted shrubs, and two or three little toy stone bridges.
Not a single flower to break the severity of the outline. The garden
lay in a pine wood, and at first I thought, “How curious that a spot so
evidently well cared for should be carpeted thickly
[Illustration: WHITE CHERRY AT KITANO]
with pine needles!” Never had I seen stone bridges placed where there
was no water to cross; the only water in the garden appearing to be a
tiny little ceaseless trickle in the beautifully shaped water-basin,
which stands at the entrance to nearly all Japanese gardens, however
small; but presently I noticed that the pine needles only covered the
actual ground, not one was lying on the little rising mound or lodging
in any bush, and then I realised the cleverness, the ingenuity of the
idea--the pine needles represented the water; each spine seemed to
be in its place under the little bridge; they came perfectly smooth
and always following each the same way like flowing water. Presently
some projecting point or little island in this fancy lake would break
their regularity, and they would be turned and twisted to represent
the current of the water. It took one’s breath away. “Who ever had
the patience to arrange this carpet?” It seemed almost as if it might
be the work of some one undergoing a penance, being condemned to keep
these pine needles in perfect order; one puff of wind might mean
hours of work to their guardian. I felt that my perseverance had been
well repaid, as during all my wanderings in Japan I never came across
another example of that style of gardening, nor was I ever able to
obtain the real history of this garden.
The gardens round the smaller temples seem generally to be in the
special care of some old priest. Many of them unfortunately are fast
falling into decay, and are often neglected; but many are evidently
the pride and joy of their owner, who usually seems much gratified by
the admiration they evoke. Often only a very small piece is kept in
anything like trim and formal order, and then one wanders up the hill
and finds a different scene--nature running riot, helped by a minute
mountain stream, as an unceasing supply of moisture seems almost
more necessary to the vegetation of Japan than to that of any other
country; but still the path winds on, and the wanderer is impelled to
see where it will lead him to. The end is always the same, some silent
graveyard--perhaps only a score or so of memorials of the dead, or
perhaps hundreds, or even it would seem almost thousands, of these
ghostly moss-blackened monuments, jostling each other, so crowded are
they, hardly any two alike in size or shape, leaning all of them,
suggesting endless earthquakes, but mostly with a section of bamboo in
front of them to hold a branch of evergreen or flower, showing that
some one still remembers the departed one, and loving hands light the
humble incense bowl.
Perhaps one of the most elaborate gardens I ever saw was that of
Sampo-in, on the way to Otsu. Here one feels as if the work of man
had almost distorted nature, if such a thing were possible, and yet
the picture would be poor indeed were it not for its splendid setting
of forest trees. Again a giant weeping cherry stands like a guardian
within the gate, and then you pass on; and never have I seen trees so
fantastically twisted into the most impossible angles and shapes. The
keynote of the garden seems to be the lilliputian mountain torrent,
for does not that give a _raison d’être_ for the stone or turf
bridges which are flung across it to connect the mossy banks with the
diminutive islands, on one of which stands a celebrated pine, twisted,
and torn, and cut, so that it has lost all trace of what nature
intended it to be, but surely not lost all charm. In this garden also
there are no flowers, only little trespassers. I noticed numbers of
little wild flowers nestling in the shadow of the bridges or between
the mossy rocks, seeming to pray to be left undisturbed by the ruthless
weeder. The pride of this especial garden was its maples. When I saw
it, they had not yet lost the red glow in which their leaves unfurl
in spring; but in November they would doubtless be better still, and
the garden illuminated by a blaze of colour. On leaving, it seemed
impossible to avoid marring the patterns traced in the silver sand,
patterns of a thousand years ago.
Round some of the larger and more imposing temples and monasteries the
ground is less a garden than a pleasaunce, for the little miniature
gardens I have described would be no fitting framework, for instance,
for that noble building the Chion-in in Kyoto, whose grounds include
some sixty acres on the wooded slope of those hills which form an
unrivalled background to the fairest city of Japan. So large an extent
could not possibly be broken up and formed into a garden such as I have
already described; the effect would be grotesque and all sense of true
proportion lost. How imposing is the great gate standing in its setting
of pines, in spring softened by the cherry blossom which shows here and
there between them. A long dizzy flight of stone steps leads up to the
main building of the temple. Here the ground has been levelled, the
work of many thousand hands, it being no petty task to level a plateau
large enough for the main building of this mighty edifice, some
[Illustration: CHERRY BLOSSOM, CHION-IN TEMPLE]
146 feet long and 114 feet wide. Hardly less imposing is the assembly
hall or room of a thousand mats, surrounded by a wooden corridor so
constructed that in walking round it there is produced a sound which
is thought to resemble the singing of the _uguisu_, the Japanese
nightingale, and there is yet another grand hall, the Dai Hojo. How
grandly and simply the grounds of this temple are adorned. The large
square in front of the main building has for its chief adornment two
stone lanterns of colossal size, and the celebrated bronze water-basin
in the form of a lotus leaf, from whose lip runs a ceaseless stream
of clear water brought from the hill above. A few specially beautiful
cherry-trees and some grand old pines, leaning most of them, but all
the more beautiful for that reason, surround this square, and form
a fitting setting to that massive pile. Yet another flight of steps
leads to the bell-tower--also a fitting guardian, as more than once
the thundering of this mighty bell has summoned all who revered their
beloved Chion-in to come and protect it from an imminent danger of fire.
The Japanese are great respecters of legends, which may make a tree or
stone sacred for all time. The Melon Rock, _Kwasho Seki_, has been
so called from the story that a melon plant sprouted out from beneath
the rock and grew so rapidly that in a single night it had covered the
whole rock, blossomed, and borne fruit. Many hundred sight-seers trail
during their weary tramp to gaze with awe at this plain grey stone
inscribed with the characters of _Gozu Tenno_ or Bull-head Emperor, and
we in our turn cannot fail to gaze with respect at their simple faith.