49.—Korokoro to
Naku wa yamada no
Hototogisu,
Chichi nitéya aran,
Haha nitéya aran.
The bird that cries korokoro in the mountain rice-field I know to be a hototogisu;—yet it may have been my father; it may have been my mother.[41]
50.—Ko wa Sangai no kubikase.
A child is a neck-shackle for the Three States of Existence.[42]
51.—Kuchi wa wazawai no kado.
The mouth is the front-gate of all misfortune.[43]
52.—Kwahō wa, nété maté.
If you wish for good luck, sleep and wait.[44]
53.—Makanu tané wa haënu.
Nothing will grow, if the seed be not sown.[45]
54.—Matéba, kanrō no hiyori.
If you wait, ambrosial weather will come.[46]
55.—Meidō no michi ni Ō wa nashi.
There is no King on the Road of Death. [47]
56.—Mekura hebi ni ojizu.
The blind man does not fear the snake.[48]
57.—Mitsuréba, hakuru.
Having waxed, wanes.[49]
58.—Mon zen no kozō narawanu kyō wo yomu.
The shop-boy in front of the temple-gate repeats the sutra which he never learned.[50]
59.—Mujō no kazé wa, toki erabazu.
The Wind of Impermanency does not choose a time.[51]
60.—Neko mo Busshō ari.
In even a cat the Buddha-nature exists.[52]
61.—Néta ma ga Gokuraku.
The interval of sleep is Paradise.[53]
62.—Nijiu-go Bosatsu mo soré-soré no yaku.
Even each of the Twenty-five Bodhisattvas has his own particular duty to perform.
63.—Nin mité, hō toké.
[First] see the person, [then] preach the doctrine.[54]
64.—Ninshin ukégataku Buppoō aigatashi.
It is not easy to be born among men, and to meet with [the good fortune of hearing the doctrine of] Buddhism.[55]
65.—Oni mo jiu-hachi.
Even a devil [is pretty] at eighteen.[56]
66.—Oni mo mi, narétaru ga yoshi.
Even a devil, when you become accustomed to the sight of him, may prove a pleasant acquaintance.
67.—Oni ni kanabō.
An iron club for a demon.[57]
68.—Oni no nyōbo ni kijin.
A devil takes a goblin to wife.[58]
69.—Onna no ké ni wa dai-zō mo tsunagaru.
With one hair of a woman you can tether even a great elephant.
70.—Onna wa Sangai ni iyé nashi.
Women have no homes of their own in the Three States of Existence.
71.—Oya no ingwa ga ko ni mukuü.
The karma of the parents is visited upon the child.[59]
72.—Rakkwa éda ni kaerazu.
The fallen blossom never returns to the branch.[60]
73.—Raku wa ku no tané; ku wa raku no tané.
Pleasure is the seed of pain; pain is the seed of pleasure.
74.—Rokudō wa, mé no maë.
The Six Roads are right before your eyes.[61]
75.—Sangai mu-an.
There is no rest within the Three States of Existence.
76.—Sangai ni kaki nashi;—Rokudō ni hotori nashi.
There is no fence to the Three States of Existence;—there is no neighborhood to the Six Roads.[62]
77.—Sangé ni wa sannen no tsumi mo hōrobu.
One confession effaces the sins of even three years.
78.—San nin yoréba, kugai.
Where even three persons come together, there is a world of pain.[63]
79.—San nin yoréba, Monjū no chié.
Where three persons come together, there is the wisdom of Monjū.[64]
80.—Shaka ni sekkyō.
Preaching to Sâkyamuni.
81.—Shami kara chōrō.
To become an abbot one must begin as a novice.
82.—Shindaréba, koso ikitaré.
Only by reason of having died does one enter into life.[65]
83.—Shiranu ga, hotoké; minu ga, Gokuraku.
Not to know is to be a Buddha; not to see is Paradise.
84.—Shōbo ni kidoku nashi.
There is no miracle in true doctrine.[66]
85.—Shō-chié wa Bodai no samatagé.
A little wisdom is a stumbling-block on the way to Buddhahood.[67]
86.—Shōshi no kukai hetori nashi.
There is no shore to the bitter Sea of Birth and Death.[68]
87.—Sodé no furi-awasé mo tashō no en.
Even the touching of sleeves in passing is caused by some relation in a former life.
88.—Sun zen; shaku ma.
An inch of virtue; a foot of demon.[69]
89.—Tanoshimi wa hanasimi no motoi.
All joy is the source of sorrow.
90.—Tondé hi ni iru natsu no mushi.
So the insects of summer fly to the flame.[70]
91.—Tsuchi-botoké no midzu-asobi.
Clay-Buddha’s water-playing.[71]
92.—Tsuki ni murakumo, hana ni kazé.
Cloud-wrack to the moon; wind to flowers.[72]
93.—Tsuyu no inochi.
Human life is like the dew of morning.
94.—U-ki wa, kokoro ni ari.
Joy and sorrow exist only in the mind.
95.—Uri no tsuru ni nasubi wa naranu.
Egg-plants do not grow upon melon-vines.
96.—Uso mo hōben.
Even an untruth may serve as a device.[73]
97.—Waga ya no hotoké tattoshi.
My family ancestors were all excellent Buddhas.[74]
98.—Yuki no haté wa, Nehan.
The end of snow is Nirvâna.[75]
99.—Zen ni wa zen no mukui; aku ni wa aku no mukui.
Goodness [or, virtue] is the return for goodness; evil is the return for evil.[76]
100.—Zensé no yakusoku-goto.
Promised [or, destined] from a former birth.[77]
[41] This verse-proverb is cited in the Buddhist work Wōjō Yōshū, with the following comment:—“Who knows whether the animal in the field, or the bird in the mountain-wood, has not been either his father or his mother in some former state of existence?”—The hototogisu is a kind of cuckoo.
[42] That is to say, The love of parents for their child may impede their spiritual progress—not only in this world, but through all their future states of being,—just as a kubikasé, or Japanese cangue, impedes the movements of the person upon whom it is placed. Parental affection, being the strongest of earthly attachments, is particularly apt to cause those whom it enslaves to commit wrongful acts in the hope of benefiting their offspring.—The term Sangai here signifies the three worlds of Desire, Form, and Formlessness,—all the states of existence below Nirvâna. But the word is sometimes used to signify the Past, the Present, and the Future.
[43] That is to say, The chief cause of trouble is unguarded speech. The word Kado means always the main entrance to a residence.
[44] Kwahō, a purely Buddhist term, signifying good fortune as the result of good actions in a previous life, has come to mean in common parlance good fortune of any kind. The proverb is often used in a sense similar to that of the English saying: “Watched pot never boils.” In a strictly Buddhist sense it would mean, “Do not be too eager for the reward of good deeds.”
[45] Do not expect harvest, unless you sow the seed. Without earnest effort no merit can be gained.
[46] Kanrō, the sweet dew of Heaven, or amrita. All good things come to him who waits.
[47] Literally, “on the Road of Meidō.” The Meidō is the Japanese Hades,—the dark under-world to which all the dead must journey.
[48] The ignorant and the vicious, not understanding the law of cause-and-effect, do not fear the certain results of their folly.
[49] No sooner has the moon waxed full than it begins to wane. So the height of prosperity is also the beginning of fortunes decline.
[50] Kozō means “acolyte” as well as “shop-boy,”“errand-boy,” or “apprentice;” but in this case it refers to a boy employed in a shop situated near or before the gate of a Buddhist temple. By constantly hearing the sutra chanted in the temple, the boy learns to repeat the words. A proverb of kindred meaning is, Kangaku-In no suzumé wa, Mōgyū wo sayézuru: “The sparrows of Kangaku-In [an ancient seat of learning] chirp the Mōgyū,”—a Chinese text formerly taught to young students. The teaching of either proverb is excellently expressed by a third:—Narau yori wa naréro: “Rather than study [an art], get accustomed to it,”—that is to say, “keep constantly in contact with it.” Observation and practice are even better than study.
[51] Death and Change do not conform their ways to human expectation.
[52] Notwithstanding the legend that only the cat and the mamushi (a poisonous viper) failed to weep for the death of the Buddha.
[53] Only during sleep can we sometimes cease to know the sorrow and pain of this world. (Compare with No. 83.)
[54] The teaching of Buddhist doctrine should always be adapted to the intelligence of the person to be instructed. There is another proverb of the same kind,—Ki ni yorité, hō wo toké: “According to the understanding [of the person to be taught], preach the Law.”
[55] Popular Buddhism teaches that to be born in the world of mankind, and especially among a people professing Buddhism, is a very great privilege. However miserable human existence, it is at least a state in which some knowledge of divine truth may be obtained; whereas the beings in other and lower conditions of life are relatively incapable of spiritual progress.
[56] There are many curious sayings and proverbs about the oni, or Buddhist devil,—such as Oni no mé ni mo namida, “tears in even a devil’s eyes;”—Oni no kakuran, “devil’s cholera” (said of the unexpected sickness of some very strong and healthy person), etc., etc.—The class of demons called Oni, properly belong to the Buddhist hells, where they act as torturers and jailers. They are not to be confounded with the Ma, Yasha, Kijin, and other classes of evil spirits. In Buddhist art they are represented as beings of enormous strength, with the heads of bulls and of horses. The bull-headed demons are called Go-zu; the horse-headed Mé-zu.
[57] Meaning that great power should be given only to the strong.
[58] Meaning that a wicked man usually marries a wicked woman.
[59] Said of the parents of crippled or deformed children. But the popular idea here expressed is not altogether in accord with the teachings of the higher Buddhism.
[60] That which has been done never can be undone: the past cannot be recalled.—This proverb is an abbreviation of the longer Buddhist text: Rakkwa éda ni kaerazu; ha-kyō futatabi terasazu: “The fallen blossom never returns to the branch; the shattered mirror never again reflects.”
[61] That is to say, Your future life depends upon your conduct in this life; and you are thus free to choose for yourself the place of your next birth.
[62] Within the Three States (Sangai), or universes, of Desire, Form, and Formlessness; and within the Six Worlds, or conditions of being,—Jigokudō (Hell), Gakidō (Pretas), Chikushōdō (Animal Life), Shuradō (World of Fighting and Slaughter), Ningendō (Mankind), Tenjōdō (Heavenly Spirits)—all existence is included. Beyond there is only Nirvâna. “There is no fence,” “no neighborhood,”—that is to say, no limit beyond which to escape,—no middle-path between any two of these states. We shall be reborn into some one of them according to our karma.—Compare with No. 74.
[63] Kugai (lit.: “bitter world”) is a term often used to describe the life of a prostitute.
[64] Monjū Bosatsu [Mañdjus’ri Bodhisattva] figures in Japanese Buddhism as a special divinity of wisdom.—The proverb signifies that three heads are better than one. A saying of like meaning is, Hiza to mo dankō: “Consult even with your own knee;” that is to say, Despise no advice, no matter how humble the source of it.
[65] I never hear this singular proverb without being re-minded of a sentence in Huxley’s famous essay, On the Physical Basis of Life:—“The living protoplasm not only ultimately dies and is resolved into its mineral and lifeless constituents, but is always dying, and, strange as the paradox may sound, could not live unless it died.”
[66] Nothing can happen except as a result of eternal and irrevocable law.
[67] Bodai is the same word as the Sanscrit Bodhi, signifying the supreme enlightenment,—the knowledge that leads to Buddhahood; but it is often used by Japanese Buddhists in the sense of divine bliss, or the Buddha-state itself.
[68] Or, “the Pain-Sea of Life and Death.”
[69] Ma (Sanscrit, Mârakâyikas) is the name given to a particular class of spirits who tempt men to evil. But in Japanese folklore the Ma have a part much resembling that occupied in Western popular superstition by goblins and fairies.
[70] Said especially in reference to the result of sensual indulgence.
[71] That is to say, “As dangerous as for a clay Buddha to play with water.” Children often amuse themselves by making little Buddhist images of mud, which melt into shapelessness, of course, if placed in water.
[72] The beauty of the moon is obscured by masses of clouds; the trees no sooner blossom than their flowers are scattered by the wind. All beauty is evanescent.
[73] That is, a pious device for effecting conversion. Such a device is justified especially by the famous parable of the third chapter of the Saddharma Pundarîka.
[74] Meaning that one most reveres the hotoké—the spirits of the dead regarded as Buddhas—in one’s own household-shrine. There is an ironical play upon the word hotoké, which may mean either a dead person simply, or a Buddha. Perhaps the spirit of this proverb may be better explained by the help of another: Nigéta sakana ni chisai wa nai; shinda kodomo ni warui ko wa nai—“Fish that escaped was never small; child that died was never bad.”
[75] This curious saying is the only one in my collection containing the word Nehan (Nirvâna), and is here inserted chiefly for that reason. The common people seldom speak of Nehan, and have little knowledge of those profound doctrines to which the term is related. The above phrase, as might be inferred, is not a popular expression: it is rather an artistic and poetical reference to the aspect of a landscape covered with snow to the horizon-line,—so that beyond the snow-circle there is only the great void of the sky.
[76] Not so commonplace a proverb as might appear at first sight; for it refers especially to the Buddhist belief that every kindness shown to us in this life is a return of kindness done to others in a former life, and that every wrong inflicted upon us is the reflex of some injustice which we committed in a previous birth.
[77] A very common saying,—often uttered as a comment upon the unhappiness of separation, upon sudden misfortune, upon sudden death, etc. It is used especially in relation to shinjū, or lovers’ suicide. Such suicide is popularly thought to be a result of cruelty in some previous state of being, or the consequence of having broken, in a former life, the mutual promise to become husband and wife.
Suggestion
I had the privilege of meeting him in Tōkyō, where he was making a brief stay on his way to India;—and we took a long walk together, and talked of Eastern religions, about which he knew incomparably more than I. Whatever I could tell him concerning local beliefs, he would comment upon in the most startling manner,—citing weird correspondences in some living cult of India, Burmah, or Ceylon. Then, all of a sudden, he turned the conversation into a totally unexpected direction.
“I have been thinking,” he said, “about the constancy of the relative proportion of the sexes, and wondering whether Buddhist doctrine furnishes an explanation. For it seems to me that, under ordinary conditions of karma, human rebirth would necessarily proceed by a regular alternation.”
“Do you mean,” I asked, “that a man would be reborn as a woman, and a woman as a man?”
“Yes,” he replied, “because desire is creative, and the desire of either sex is towards the other.”
“And how many men,” I said, “would want to be reborn as women?”
“Probably very few,” he answered. “But the doctrine that desire is creative does not imply that the individual longing creates its own satisfaction,—quite the contrary. The true teaching is that the result of every selfish wish is in the nature of a penalty, and that what the wish creates must prove—to higher knowledge at least—the folly of wishing.”
“There you are right,” I said; “but I do not yet understand your theory.”
“Well,” he continued, “if the physical conditions of human rebirth are all determined by the karma of the will relating to physical conditions, then sex would be determined by the will in relation to sex. Now the will of either sex is towards the other. Above all things else, excepting life, man desires woman, and woman man. Each individual, moreover, independently of any personal relation, feels perpetually, you say, the influence of some inborn feminine or masculine ideal, which you call ‘a ghostly reflex of countless attachments in countless past lives.’ And the insatiable desire represented by this ideal would of itself suffice to create the masculine or the feminine body of the next existence.”
“But most women,” I observed, “would like to be reborn as men; and the accomplishment of that wish would scarcely be in the nature of a penalty.”
“Why not?” he returned. “The happiness or unhappiness of the new existence would not be decided by sex alone: it would of necessity depend upon many conditions in combination.”
“Your theory is interesting,” I said;—“but I do not know how far it could be made to accord with accepted doctrine…. And what of the person able, through knowledge and practice of the higher law, to remain superior to all weaknesses of sex?”
“Such a one,” he replied, “would be reborn neither as man nor as woman,—providing there were no pre-existent karma powerful enough to check or to weaken the results of the self-conquest.”
“Reborn in some one of the heavens?” I queried,—“by the Apparitional Birth?”
“Not necessarily,” he said. “Such a one might be reborn in a world of desire,—like this,—but neither as man only, nor as woman only.”
“Reborn, then, in what form?” I asked.
“In that of a perfect being,” he responded. “A man or a woman is scarcely more than half-a-being,—because in our present imperfect state either sex can be evolved only at the cost of the other. In the mental and the physical composition of every man, there is undeveloped woman; and in the composition of every woman there is undeveloped man. But a being complete would be both perfect man and perfect woman, possessing the highest faculties of both sexes, with the weaknesses of neither. Some humanity higher than our own,—in other worlds,—might be thus evolved.”
“But you know,” I observed, “that there are Buddhist texts,—in the Saddharma Pundarîka, for example, and in the Vinayas,—which forbid….”
“Those texts,” he interrupted, “refer to imperfect beings—less than man and less than woman: they could not refer to the condition that I have been supposing…. But, remember, I am not preaching a doctrine;—I am only hazarding a theory.”
“May I put your theory some day into print?” I asked.
“Why, yes,” he made answer,—“if you believe it worth thinking about.”
And long afterwards I wrote it down thus, as fairly as I was able, from memory.
Ingwa-banashi[1]
The daimyō’s wife was dying, and knew that she was dying. She had not been able to leave her bed since the early autumn of the tenth Bunsei. It was now the fourth month of the twelfth Bunsei,—the year 1829 by Western counting; and the cherry-trees were blossoming. She thought of the cherry-trees in her garden, and of the gladness of spring. She thought of her children. She thought of her husband’s various concubines,—especially the Lady Yukiko, nineteen years old.
“My dear wife,” said the daimyō, “you have suffered very much for three long years. We have done all that we could to get you well,—watching beside you night and day, praying for you, and often fasting for your sake, But in spite of our loving care, and in spite of the skill of our best physicians, it would now seen that the end of your life is not far off. Probably we shall sorrow more than you will sorrow because of your having to leave what the Buddha so truly termed ‘this burning-house of the world. I shall order to be performed—no matter what the cost—every religious rite that can serve you in regard to your next rebirth; and all of us will pray without ceasing for you, that you may not have to wander in the Black Space, but may quickly enter Paradise, and attain to Buddha-hood.”
He spoke with the utmost tenderness, pressing her the while. Then, with eyelids closed, she answered him in a voice thin as the voice of in insect:—
“I am grateful—most grateful—for your kind words…. Yes, it is true, as you say, that I have been sick for three long years, and that I have been treated with all possible care and affection…. Why, indeed, should I turn away from the one true Path at the very moment of my death?… Perhaps to think of worldly matters at such a time is not right;—but I have one last request to make,—only one…. Call here to me the Lady Yukiko;—you know that I love her like a sister. I want to speak to her about the affairs of this household.”
Yukiko came at the summons of the lord, and, in obedience to a sign from him, knelt down beside the couch. The daimyō’s wife opened her eyes, and looked at Yukiko, and spoke:—“Ah, here is Yukiko!… I am so pleased to see you, Yukiko!… Come a little closer,—so that you can hear me well: I am not able to speak loud…. Yukiko, I am going to die. I hope that you will be faithful in all things to our dear lord;—for I want you to take my place when I am gone…. I hope that you will always be loved by him,—yes, even a hundred times more than I have been,—and that you will very soon be promoted to a higher rank, and become his honored wife…. And I beg of you always to cherish our dear lord: never allow another woman to rob you of his affection…. This is what I wanted to say to you, dear Yukiko…. Have you been able to understand?”
“Oh, my dear Lady,” protested Yukiko, “do not, I entreat you, say such strange things to me! You well know that I am of poor and mean condition:—how could I ever dare to aspire to become the wife of our lord!”
“Nay, nay!” returned the wife, huskily,—“this is not a time for words of ceremony: let us speak only the truth to each other. After my death, you will certainly be promoted to a higher place; and I now assure you again that I wish you to become the wife of our lord—yes, I wish this, Yukiko, even more than I wish to become a Buddha!… Ah, I had almost forgotten!—I want you to do something for me, Yukiko. You know that in the garden there is a yaë-zakura,[2] which was brought here, the year before last, from Mount Yoshino in Yamato. I have been told that it is now in full bloom;—and I wanted so much to see it in flower! In a little while I shall be dead;—I must see that tree before I die. Now I wish you to carry me into the garden—at once, Yukiko,—so that I can see it…. Yes, upon your back, Yukiko;—take me upon your back….”
While thus asking, her voice had gradually become clear and strong,—as if the intensity of the wish had given her new force: then she suddenly burst into tears. Yukiko knelt motionless, not knowing what to do; but the lord nodded assent.
“It is her last wish in this world,” he said. “She always loved cherry-flowers; and I know that she wanted very much to see that Yamato-tree in blossom. Come, my dear Yukiko, let her have her will.”
As a nurse turns her back to a child, that the child may cling to it, Yukiko offered her shoulders to the wife, and said:—
“Lady, I am ready: please tell me how I best can help you.”
“Why, this way!”—responded the dying woman, lifting herself with an almost superhuman effort by clinging to Yukiko’s shoulders. But as she stood erect, she quickly slipped her thin hands down over the shoulders, under the robe, and clutched the breasts of the girl,, and burst into a wicked laugh.
“I have my wish!” she cried—“I have my wish for the cherry-bloom,[3]—but not the cherry-bloom of the garden!… I could not die before I got my wish. Now I have it!—oh, what a delight!”
And with these words she fell forward upon the crouching girl, and died.
The attendants at once attempted to lift the body from Yukiko’s shoulders, and to lay it upon the bed. But—strange to say!—this seemingly easy thing could not be done. The cold hands had attached themselves in some unaccountable way to the breasts of the girl,—appeared to have grown into the quick flesh. Yukiko became senseless with fear and pain.
Physicians were called. They could not understand what had taken place. By no ordinary methods could the hands of the dead woman be unfastened from the body of her victim;—they so clung that any effort to remove them brought blood. This was not because the fingers held: it was because the flesh of the palms had united itself in some inexplicable manner to the flesh of the breasts!
At that time the most skilful physician in Yedo was a foreigner,—a Dutch surgeon. It was decided to summon him. After a careful examination he said that he could not understand the case, and that for the immediate relief of Yukiko there was nothing to be done except to cut the hands from the corpse. He declared that it would be dangerous to attempt to detach them from the breasts. His advice was accepted; and the hands’ were amputated at the wrists. But they remained clinging to the breasts; and there they soon darkened and dried up,—like the hands of a person long dead.
Yet this was only the beginning of the horror.
Withered and bloodless though they seemed, those hands were not dead. At intervals they would stir—stealthily, like great grey spiders. And nightly thereafter,—beginning always at the Hour of the Ox, [4]—they would clutch and compress and torture. Only at the Hour of the Tiger the pain would cease.
Yukiko cut off her hair, and became a mendicant-nun,—taking the religious name of Dassetsu. She had an ihai (mortuary tablet) made, bearing the kaimyō of her dead mistress,—“Myō-Kō-In-Den Chizan-Ryō-Fu Daishi”;—and this she carried about with her in all her wanderings; and every day before it she humbly besought the dead for pardon, and performed a Buddhist service in order that the jealous spirit might find rest. But the evil karma that had rendered such an affliction possible could not soon be exhausted. Every night at the Hour of the Ox, the hands never failed to torture her, during more than seventeen years,—according to the testimony of those persons to whom she last told her story, when she stopped for one evening at the house of Noguchi Dengozayémon, in the village of Tanaka in the district of Kawachi in the province of Shimotsuké. This was in the third year of Kōkwa (1846). Thereafter nothing more was ever heard of her.
[1] Lit., “a tale of ingwa.” Ingwa is a Japanese Buddhist term for evil karma, or the evil consequence of faults committed in a former state of existence. Perhaps the curious title of the narrative is best explained by the Buddhist teaching that the dead have power to injure the living only in consequence of evil actions committed by their victims in some former life. Both title and narrative may be found in the collection of weird stories entitled Hyaku-Monogatari.
[2] Yaë-zakura, yaë-no-sakura, a variety of Japanese cherry-tree that bears double-blossoms.
[3] In Japanese poetry and proverbial phraseology, the physical beauty of a woman is compared to the cherry-flower; while feminine moral beauty is compared to the plum-flower.
[4] In ancient Japanese time, the Hour of the Ox was the special hour of ghosts. It began at 2 A.M., and lasted until 4 A.M.—for the old Japanese hour was double the length of the modern hour. The Hour of the Tiger began at 4 A.M.
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