The Ten Foot Square Hut and Tales of the Heike Page 8

  Mongaku, having made a vow to rebuild this temple, drew up a roll for donations and went round in all quarters to seek supporters, and in the course of his wanderings he came to the Hojuji-den where the Hō-ō was residing, and requested His Majesty to make a contribution. But it chanced that the Hō-ō was at the time engaged in some amusement and paid no attention, so Mongaku, who was naturally a bold and uncompromising character, knowing nothing of the Hō-ō's disinclination, but only thinking that the attendants had not told him, forced his way through into the Imperial Garden and shouted out loudly: "Oh most merciful Lord, how can it be that you pay no heed to such a matter as this?" And forthwith he spread out the roll and lifting it up high before him began to read:

  "Contribution roll of the novice Mongaku, who, desiring to obtain the great blessedness of happiness in this world and in the world to come respectfully begs the assistance of all, high and low, priest and layman, in building a temple on the holy site of Mount Takao. When we consider it, all-embracing is the Eternal Mind. Though we use the appelations of Buddha and Mankind, albeit there is no distinction between these things, yet, since the clouds of Illusion accompanying the Buddha-nature spread thick over the mountain of the Twelve Causes of Existence, the Moon of the Pure Lotos of the mind is obscured and does not appear in the Great Abyss of the Three Poisons and Four Prides.

  "Alas! how pitiable! The sun of Buddha quickly set, and dark and gloomy is the way of the revolving-wheel of births and deaths. So men give themselves up to passion and wine. Who will be grateful for the delusion of the raging elephant and the capering monkey? How can they who hate mankind and the Law hope to escape the torments of Emma and his jailers? I, Mongaku, though I have put away the dust of this world and donned the robe of the recluse, find evil Karma still mighty in my heart; day and night it arises, and the virtue that sprouts up within me becomes unpleasing to my ear and is cast away. Alas! how painful! Returning again to the fire-pits of the Three Ways, I must revolve through the grievous wheel of the Four Births, so that, through the ten thousand times ten thousand volumes of the Sakya Sage, revealing in every volume the affinity of the Buddha-seed, even the most true Law of Cause and Effect, it may not be impossible to attain to the Farther Shore of Perfect Enlightenment.

  "Thus I, Mongaku, weeping at the gate of this life of impermanence, to encourage priests and laymen, high and low, to make connexion with the Paradise of the highest Lotus Throne, am intending to build a holy place for the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas. Takao-zan is a mount of high peaks, thick wooded like the Vulture Peak of Ghridrakuta, and of quiet valleys and mossy retreats like those of Shosando in China. The mountain streams gurgle and fall in foamy cascades, the apes scream in the crags and sport in the branches. Remote from the haunts of men, free from the dust and noise of the world, there is nothing to disturb our devotions: it is a very excellent site, most suitable for worshipping Buddha. The contributions are small; who is there who will not assist? Whoever gathers a little sand for a pagoda acquires merit in his Karma relation, how much more he who contributes even a small amount of money or property?

  "So shall all both in city and country, far and near, rustics, priests, and laymen, sing of the Sovereign and this age and its contentment as the golden age of the rule of Yao and Shun in China, and smile as those who meet after a long parting. And if these sacred rites and mysteries are performed in their entirety, all shall attain to the Terrace of the True Gate of the One Buddha, and enjoy the immeasurable and innumerable blessings of the Three Buddha persons. The above composed by me Mongaku with the purpose of obtaining subscriptions as stated. The third month of the third year of Jisho."

  THE EXILE OF MONGAKU

  Now it happened that at this time the Prime Minister Myō-ōn-in was playing the lute and reciting, while Azechi-no-Dainagon Sukekata was playing the six-stringed Harp and his son Uma-no-kami Suketoki was singing and dancing the Saibara, Morisada, an attendant of the Fourth Rank, keeping time meanwhile and singing various Imayo measures, so that the Palace resounded with musical strains and they were all very merry.

  The Hō-ō himself had deigned to join in the singing also, when suddenly the loud and strident voice of Mongaku broke in on their melody, spoiling the harmony and entirely upsetting the rhythm. "What is this?" exclaimed the Hō-ō in great wrath, "who is this boor who dares to interrupt Our Imperial Pleasure? Strike him down, some one!" At this the young and impetuous among the samurai in attendance rushed forward, each trying to be foremost, headed by one, Sukeyuki Hangwan by name, who shouted out, "Down with this villain who dares to disturb His Majesty's Amusement."

  "I don't move from here until I receive the grant of a manor towards the cost of my temple on Mount Takao," replied Mongaku calmly, and then as he saw that they meant to attack him, shifting the roll to his other hand, he gave Sukeyuki Hangwan a blow on the head that knocked off his head-dress, and then doubling his fist struck him another in the chest that sent him flying backwards, so that he took to his heels and fled into the interior of the Palace.

  He then drew from his bosom a dirk with the hilt wound with the hair of a horse's tail, and baring the blade stood waiting, ready to strike down any who approached. As he sprang round in all directions with the Contribution Roll in his left hand and the blade gleaming like ice in his right, it looked as if he had a sword in each hand. Nobles and Courtiers, terrified at such an amazing scene, ran about in all directions, so that the party of the Hō-ō was quite broken up and the whole Palace was in an uproar.

  Then one of the Palace Guard, Ando Musha Migimune by name, drew his sword and rushed upon Mongaku, who also sprang forward to meet him. Ando Musha, not wishing to shed blood, turned the edge of his weapon and struck him a heavy blow with the back on his sword-arm, and then, as he staggered back a little, dropping his sword sprang on him with a shout to grapple with him. Mongaku, falling undermost, gripped his opponent's right arm as he did so and held on tight, but in spite of this Ando managed to seize him by the throat, and so, being about equal in strength, they rolled about in their struggles, now one being uppermost and now the other, until the others, who had held back so far, summoned up courage to rush in and overpower Mongaku and bind him, after which he was dragged out and handed over to the underlings of the constabulary. As they were taking him away, he drew himself up and glared at the Palace, crying out in a loud voice, the while he pranced up and down with anger: "So! not only do I get nothing, but I am treated in this outrageous manner. Know that the Three Worlds are to be consumed by fire, and how shall even the Palace of the Sovereign escape this fate? Even if one is an Emperor who boasts of the Ten Virtues, will he not descend to the Yellow Springs of Death and be tormented by the Ox-headed and Horse-headed Jailers of Hell?"

  Then the order was given to put this insolent priest into prison and he was led off to be confined. Sukeyuki Hangwan, covered with shame at the ignominy of having his head-dress knocked off, did not appear at Court for a long time. Ando Musha, however, was rewarded for boldly seizing Mongaku by being at once promoted to the position of Uma-no-jo over the heads of others senior to him.

  About this time it happened that the Empress Bifukumon-in died and there was a general amnesty so that Mongaku was set free, but as soon as he was let out he set forth again with his roll to collect contributions everywhere; and not only so, but wherever he went he proclaimed that the age was corrupt and that both the Emperor and his subjects would be destroyed, with the result that, as such disrespectful words could not be permitted, he was not allowed to remain in the Capital but banished to Izu.

  Now Izu-no-kami Nakatsuna, the eldest son of Gensammi Nyūdō, was at this time Governor of Izu, and when this sentence was pronounced he gave orders that Mongaku should be brought to Izu by ship from the Tokaido, or Eastern Coast, and sent two or three inferior officials of the Kebiishi to take charge of him. These officers then said to him: "It is the custom for minor officials like ourselves to profit somewhat on these occasions; no doubt your reverence has many friends in v
arious places, so when you are sent into exile to a far province, they will certainly wish to give you some presents, and food and necessaries for the journey; will you not then communicate with them?"

  "I have few friends of that sort," replied Mongaku with a laugh, "but there is some one who lives on Higashi-yama who might perhaps do something for me; I will write a letter." Then they produced some very cheap paper, whereat Mongaku became very angry, exclaiming: "How do you expect me to write on paper like this;" and he threw it back at them. Then they got some good thick paper and handed it to him, but Mongaku laughed and said: "Unfortunately I cannot write, so please write the letter for me."

  So one of them wrote at his dictation as follows: "I, Mongaku, having the intention of building a temple on Mount Takao, have been travelling about the country to raise money by subscription, but the age being such a one as it is, it has pleased the Emperor not only to refuse me any assistance, but even to banish me to the distant province of Izu. This being so I am much in need of supplies and comforts for the long journey, and beg that you will assist me in the matter." When he had written it, he asked to whom he should address it. "To the Goddess Kwannon at Kiyomizu," replied Mongaku. "Do you then make fools of minor officials like us?" they asked indignantly. "By no means," replied Mongaku, "I always rely on Kwannon of Kiyomizu in need, and indeed now I have no one else on whom to rely."

  Then they took ship from the port of Ano in Ise, and when they came to Tenryu-nada in the province of Tōtōmi a great tempest rose, and the ship seemed likely to be overturned by the mountainous waves. The helmsman and the sailors gave up all hope, and thinking their last hour had come, fell to praying, some calling on Kwannon and others repeating the Nembutsu of the dying.

  Mongaku, however, was all this time lying asleep in the bottom of the ship, snoring loudly, until aroused by the confusion he suddenly sprang up, went to the side of the ship, and glaring angrily at the waves, shouted; "Ho! Thou Dragon King of the Waters! What meanest thou by endangering the ship in which is so holy a sage bound to accomplish a great vow. Knowest thou not, O most worthless of Dragon-Gods, that such conduct will receive the punishment of Heaven?" Then the wind and the waves were suddenly stilled and they arrived safely at the shores of Izu.

  Now the trouble of the last few years, that is, the confinement of the Hō-ō in the Toba Palace the year before last, the execution of Prince Takakura the year after, and the troubled and critical state of the Empire generally, not to speak of the changing of the Capital, so wrought on the health of the Retired Emperor Takakura that he sickened and become very ill, and now, when he heard of the destruction of Tōdaiji and Kōfu-kuji, his condition grew serious, and at length on the fourteenth day of the same month he passed away at the Ikedono of Rokuhara, to the intense grief of the Hō-ō, after a reign of twelve years.

  AUTUMN LEAVES

  While Takakura Tenno was on the Throne everybody declared that his consideration for others surpassed even that of the Mikados of the periods Enki and Tenryaku, and though generally speaking it was after he had attained to years of discrimination that he obtained his reputation for wisdom and benevolence, yet his disposition was kind and gentle from his earliest childhood.

  During the period Shoan, when His Majesty was only about ten years old, being extremely fond of the tinted leaves of autumn, he had a little hill-garden made in the north enclosure of the Palace, and planted it with maple and "haze" trees that redden beautifully in that season, calling it "The Hill of Autumn Tints" and from morning till evening he never seemed to tire of looking at it. But one night a late autumn gale blew violently and scattered the leaves everywhere in confusion, so the next morning, when the Palace servants went round early as usual to clean the grounds, they swept up all the fallen leaves and the broken branches as well, and as it was a bleak and cheerless morning they made a fire with them in the court of the Nuidono, and heated some sake to warm themselves.

  Soon afterwards the Kurando in waiting, hastening to inspect the garden before the Emperor should see it, and finding nothing there, inquired the reason and the servants told him. "What?" he exclaimed, "how could you dare to treat the garden that the Emperor is so fond of in such a way? You deserve to be imprisoned or banished at least, and I too may very likely incur the Imperial displeasure." Just then the Emperor, coming out to see his favourite trees as soon as he had left his bed-chamber, was surprised to find they had all disappeared, and the Kurando told him what had happened. To his surprise His Majesty was not at all angry, but only laughed and quoted the Chinese poem by Po-chu-i about warming wine in the woods by burning maple-leaves. "I wonder" he said, "who can have taught it them. Really they are quite esthetes."

  Again in the period Angen, one night when the Emperor was sleeping in a strange part of the Palace according to the advice of the diviners, being naturally wakeful, he could not get to sleep. Perchance it may be that, as the poem says, the voice of the Palace watchman makes a Monarch wakeful, or as the night was very cold he may have been thinking of the occasion when Saga Tenno, on just such a frosty night, feeling compassion for the suffering of his people, stripped off his own bed-clothes and exposed himself to the cold, and regretting that he himself could not emulate the virtue of such an Emperor. Thus being more wakeful than usual, he heard late at night the sound of some one crying out some distance away, and immediately summoned an attendant and ordered him to go and find out what it was.

  When the Courtier on guard went out and searched, he discovered a poor girl in one of the lanes near carrying the lid of a clothes-chest and weeping bitterly. On his inquiring the cause, she told him that she was carrying home some clothes which her mistress, who was a lady-in-waiting at the Palace of the Hō-ō, could barely afford to have made, when two or three ruffians suddenly robbed her of them, and that her mistress could not continue to serve unless she had the proper clothes, and she did not know anyone who could help her, and so she was crying.

  On hearing this the Courtier brought the girl back with him and reported the whole affair to the Emperor, who was moved to tears at the story. "Alas! how cruel," he exclaimed, "who could do such a thing? In the days of the Emperor Yao in China the people reflected the goodness of their Ruler and were good too, but now in this age the people have only me to imitate and so they are very wicked. When wrong is done in the Empire, ought I not to be ashamed?"

  Then he asked what kind of garment it was, and on being told, he bade the Imperial Consort Kenrei-mon-in give her one of same kind, whereupon they brought a dress far more beautiful than the former one and gave it to the girl. Then the Emperor, fearful lest she might again be molested, as the hour was so late, ordered several of the Imperial Guards to escort her as far as the house of her mistress. It was not strange then that every one, even the poorest and meanest of his subjects, should pray for the long life of this virtuous Sovereign.

  AOI-NO-MAE

  Another story that has a certain pathetic interest is this. There was a certain little maiden who served one of the Empress's ladies-in-waiting, who was much beloved by the Emperor, and it was no ordinary passing fancy but a true and deep affection, so that her mistress no longer allowed her to wait on her, but rather treated her as her superior and paid her great deference and attention.

  An ancient poem says: "Do not rejoice when a son is born, and do not despair when you have a daughter, for a son does not always become a Prince, while a daughter may become Imperial Consort and Empress." What a happy future might be before this little maid. She might become Nyōgō and Imperial Consort, then Mother of the Emperor and at last Retired Empress. Her name was Aoi-no-mae, but the ladies of the Court already spoke of her confidentially among themselves as Aoi-no-Nyōgō.

  But when the Emperor heard of this he ceased to summon her to his presence: this was not because he had become tired of her, but because he feared the censure of the world, and being naturally of a brooding disposition he lost all taste for food, and falling sick became unable to leave the Imperial Bed-chamber. />
  Then the Regent Matsudono, hearing that His Majesty was thus depressed, hastened to the Palace to comfort him. "Why does Your Majesty thus fret about this affair?" he said, "for there is nothing to worry about. Let the maid be summoned again; her low rank need be no obstacle, for I will make her my adopted daughter and then she need fear no comparisons." "Ah no," replied the Emperor, "that cannot be; after I have retired from the Throne such a thing might be done, but the actions of a Reigning Emperor must be above the criticism of posterity."

  So, as his Master would not at all entertain the idea, the Regent could do no more, but with tears in his eyes retired from the Palace. Afterwards the Emperor wrote this verse on a sheet of paper tinted in light green:

  Plain my love must be

  Though it is my earnest wish

  That it be not seen,

  For my friends come asking me

  Why I look so serious.

  This was an old poem written by Taira Kanemori, but as it expressed his feelings the Emperor gave it to Reizei-no-Shonagon Takafusa to convey to Aoi-no-mae, who, when she had received it and read it, blushing deeply put it away in her bosom, and then, overcome by the violence of her feelings, immediately left the Court and returned to her home, where she took to her bed and died after about a week.

  KŌGŌ

  As the Emperor was so much grieved by this unhappy love episode the Empress sent one of her own ladies to him to console him. Her name was Kōgō and she was the daughter of Sakura-machi-no-Chun-agon Shigenori, and not only was she the greatest beauty in the Palace but she was also without equal for her skill in playing the Koto. She had been beloved by Reizei-no-Dainagon Takafusa, and while he was only Shosho he sent her many poems and letters, but for some time they only accumulated without producing any effect, until at last she was moved to take pity on him and yielded. But now she was summoned to the side of the Emperor they could not but part, and for long her sleeves were moistened with tears of regret. The Shosho too was always going to the Palace to try if by any means he could see her once again, and used to loiter about in the neighbourhood of her apartment, but as she was now in the Emperor's household she would not exchange a word with him, or show, however indirectly, that she still had any tender feelings for him. Then the Shosho wrote a stanza and threw it so that it fell within the curtain of the room where she was. The lines ran as follows: