_September 2nd_.
Chance has favored us with a friendship as singular as it is rare:
that of the head bonzes of the temple of the _Jumping Tortoise_, where
we had witnessed last month such a surprising pilgrimage.
The approach to this place is as solitary now as it was thronged and
bustling on the evenings of the festival; and in broad daylight one is
surprised at the deathlike decay of the religious surroundings which
at night had seemed so full of life. Not a creature to be seen on the
time-worn granite steps; not a creature beneath the vast sumptuous
porticoes; the colors, the gold-work are dim with dust. To reach the
temple one must cross several deserted courtyards terraced on the
mountain side, pass through several solemn gateways, and up and up
endless stairs, rising far above the town and the noises of humanity
into a sacred region filled with innumerable tombs. On all the
pavements, in all the walls, lichen and stonecrop; and over all the
gray tint of extreme age spreads everywhere like a fall of ashes.
In a side temple near the entrance is enthroned a colossal Buddha
seated in his lotus--a gilded idol some forty-five or sixty feet high,
mounted on an enormous pedestal of bronze.
At length appears the last doorway with the two traditional giants,
guardians of the sacred court, which stand the one on the right hand,
the other on the left, shut up like wild beasts each one in a cage of
iron. They are in attitudes of fury, with fists upraised as if to
strike, and features atrociously fierce and distorted. Their bodies
are covered all over with bullets of crumbled paper which have been
aimed at them through the bars, and which have stuck to their
monstrous limbs like a white leprosy: this is the manner in which the
faithful strive to appease them, by conveying to them their prayers
written upon delicate leaflets by the pious bonzes.
Passing between these alarming scarecrows one reaches the innermost
court. The residence of our friends is on the right, the great hall of
the pagoda is before us.
In this paved court are bronze torch-holders as high as turrets. Here
too stand, and have stood for centuries, cyca palms with fresh green
plumes, their numerous stalks curving with a heavy symmetry, like the
branches of massive candelabra. The temple, which is open along its
entire length, is dark and mysterious, with touches of gilding in
distant corners melting away into the gloom. In the very remotest part
are seated idols, and from outside one can vaguely see their clasped
hands and air of rapt mysticism; in front are the altars, loaded with
marvelous vases in metal-work, whence spring graceful clusters of gold
and silver lotus. From the very entrance one is greeted by the sweet
odor of the incense-sticks unceasingly burnt by the priests before the
gods.
To penetrate into the dwelling of our friends the bonzes, which is
situated on the right hand side as you enter, is by no means an easy
matter.
A monster of the fish tribe, but having claws and horns, is hung over
their door by iron chains; at the least breath of wind he swings
creakingly. We pass beneath him and enter the first immense and lofty
hall, dimly lighted, in the corners of which gleam gilded idols, bells
and incomprehensible objects of religious use.
Quaint little creatures, choir boys or pupils, come forward with a
doubtful welcome to ask what is wanted.
"_Matsou-San!! Donata-San!!_" they repeat, much astonished, when they
understand to whom we wish to be conducted. Oh! no, impossible, they
cannot be seen; they are resting or are in contemplation. "_Orimas!
Orimas!_" say they, clasping their hands and sketching a genuflection
or two to make us understand better. (They are at prayer! the most
profound prayer!)
We insist, speak more imperatively; even slip off our shoes like
people determined to take no refusal.
At last Matsou-San and Donata-San make their appearance from the
tranquil depths of their bonze-house. They are dressed in black crape
and their heads are shaved. Smiling, amiable, full of excuses, they
offer us their hands, and we follow with our feet bare like theirs to
the interior of their mysterious dwelling, through a series of empty
rooms spread with mats of the most unimpeachable whiteness. The
successive halls are separated one from the other only by bamboo
curtains of exquisite delicacy, caught back by tassels and cords of
red silk.
The whole wainscoting of the interior is of the same wood, of a pale
yellow color joinered with extreme nicety, without the least ornament,
the least carving; everything seems new and unused, as though it had
never been touched by human hand. At distant intervals in this studied
bareness, costly little stools, marvelously inlaid, uphold some
antique bronze monster or a vase of flowers; on the walls hang a few
masterly sketches, vaguely tinted in Indian ink, drawn upon strips of
gray paper most accurately cut but without the slightest attempt at a
frame; this is all: not a seat, not a cushion, not a scrap of
furniture. It is the very acme of studied simplicity, of elegance made
out of nothing, of the most immaculate and incredible cleanliness. And
while following the bonzes through this long suite of empty halls, we
are struck by their contrast with the overflow of knick-knacks
scattered about our rooms in France, and we take a sudden dislike to
the profusion and crowding delighted in at home.
The spot where this silent march of barefooted folk comes to an end,
the spot where we are to seat ourselves in the delightful coolness of
a semi-darkness, is an interior verandah opening upon an artificial
site; we might suppose it were the bottom of a well; it is a miniature
garden no bigger than the opening of an _oubliette_, overhung on all
sides by the crushing height of the mountain and receiving from on
high but the dim light of dream-land. Nevertheless here is simulated a
great natural ravine in all its wild grandeur: here are caverns,
abrupt rocks, a torrent, a cascade, islands. The trees, dwarfed by a
Japanese process of which we have not the secret, have tiny little
leaves on their decrepit and knotty branches. A pervading hue of the
mossy green of antiquity harmonizes all this medley, which is
undoubtedly centuries old.
Families of gold-fish swim round and round in the clear water, and
tiny tortoises (_jumpers_ probably) sleep upon the granite islands
which are of the same color as their own gray shell.
There are even blue dragon-flies which have ventured to descend,
heaven knows from whence, and alight with quivering wings upon the
miniature water-lilies.
Our friends the bonzes, notwithstanding an unctuousness of manner
thoroughly ecclesiastical, are very ready to laugh,--a simple,
pleased, childish laughter; plump, chubby, shaven and shorn, they
dearly love our French liqueurs and know how to take a joke.
We talk first of one thing and then another. To the tranquil music of
their little cascade, I launch out before them with phrases of the
most erudite Japanese, I try the effect of a few tenses of verbs:
_desideratives, concessives, hypothetics in ba_. Whilst they chat they
dispatch the affairs of the church, the order of services sealed with
complicated seals for inferior pagodas situated in the neighborhood;
or trace little prayers with a cunning paint-brush as medical remedies
to be swallowed as pills by invalids at a distance. With their white
and dimpled hands they play with a fan as cleverly as any woman, and
when we have tasted different native drinks flavored with essences of
flowers, they bring up as a finish a battle of _Bénédictine_ or
_Chartreuse_, for they appreciate the liqueurs composed by their
Western colleagues.
When they come on board to return our visits, they by no means disdain
to fasten their great round spectacles on their flat noses in order to
inspect the profane drawings in our illustrated papers, the _Vie
Parisienne_ for instance. And it is even with a certain complacency
that they let their fingers linger upon the pictures which represent
the ladies.
The religious ceremonies in their great temple are magnificent, and to
one of these we are now invited. At the sound of the gong they make
their entrance before the idols with a stately ritual; twenty or
thirty priests officiate in gala costumes, with genuflections,
clapping of hands and movements to and fro, which look like the
figures of some mystic quadrille.
But for all that, let the sanctuary be ever so immense and imposing in
its somber gloom, the idols ever so superb, all seems in Japan but a
mere semblance of grandeur. A hopeless pettiness, an irresistible
feeling of the ludicrous, lies at the bottom of all things.
And then the congregation is not conducive to thoughtful
contemplation, for among it we generally discover some acquaintance:
my mother-in-law, or a cousin, or the woman from the china-shop who
sold us a vase only yesterday. Charming little mousmés,
monkeyish-looking old ladies enter with their smoking-boxes, their
gayly-daubed parasols, their curtsies, their little cries and
exclamations; prattling, complimenting each other, full of restless
movement, and having the greatest difficulty in maintaining a serious
demeanor.