III
I told the substance of my revery to Niimi. He used to be a great reader of Buddhist books.
“Well,” he said, “I was reminded of a queer Buddhist story by the proverb that you asked me to explain,—The silkworm-moth eyebrow of a woman is the axe that cuts down the wisdom of man. According to our doctrine, the saying would be as true of life in heaven as of life upon earth…. This is the story:—
“When Shaka[[2]] dwelt in this world, one of his disciples, called Nanda, was bewitched by the beauty of a woman; and Shaka desired to save him from the results of this illusion. So he took Nanda to a wild place in the mountains where there were apes, and showed him a very ugly female ape, and asked him: ‘Which is the more beautiful, Nanda, —the woman that you love, or this female ape?’ ‘Oh, Master!’ exclaimed Nanda, ‘how can a lovely woman be compared with an ugly ape?’ ‘Perhaps you will presently find reason to make the comparison yourself,’ answered the Buddha;—and instantly by supernatural power he ascended with Nanda to the San-Jūsan-Ten, which is the Second of the Six Heavens of Desire. There, within a palace of jewels, Nanda saw a multitude of heavenly maidens celebrating some festival with music and dance; and the beauty of the least among them incomparably exceeded that of the fairest woman of earth. ‘O Master,’ cried Nanda, ‘what wonderful festival is this?’ ‘Ask some of those people,’ responded Shaka. So Nanda questioned one of the celestial maidens; and she said to him:—‘This festival is to celebrate the good tidings that have been brought to us. There is now in the human world, among the disciples of Shaka, a most excellent youth called Nanda, who is soon to be reborn into this heaven, and to become our bridegroom, because of his holy life. We wait for him with rejoicing.’ This reply filled the heart of Nanda with delight. Then the Buddha asked him: ‘Is there any one among these maidens, Nanda, equal in beauty to the woman with whom you have been in love?’ ‘Nay, Master!’ answered Nanda; ‘even as that woman surpassed in beauty the female ape that we saw on the mountain, so is she herself surpassed by even the least among these.’
[2] Sâkyamuni.
“Then the Buddha immediately descended with Nanda to the depths of the hells, and took him into a torture-chamber where myriads of men and women were being boiled alive in great caldrons, and otherwise horribly tormented by devils. Then Nanda found himself standing before a huge vessel which was filled with molten metal;—and he feared and wondered because this vessel had as yet no occupant. An idle devil sat beside it, yawning. ‘Master,’ Nanda inquired of the Buddha, ‘for whom has this vessel been prepared?’ ‘Ask the devil,’ answered Shaka. Nanda did so; and the devil said to him: ‘There is a man called Nanda,—now one of Shaka’s disciples,—about to be reborn into one of the heavens, on account of his former good actions. But after having there indulged himself, he is to be reborn in this hell; and his place will be in that pot. I am waiting for him.’”[[3]]
[3] I give the story substantially as it was told to me; but I have not been able to compare it with any published text. My friend says that he has seen two Chinese versions,—one in the Hongyō-kyō (?), the other in the Zōichi-agon-kyō (Ekôttarâgamas). In Mr. Henry Clarke Warren’s Buddhism in Translations (the most interesting and valuable single volume of its kind that I have ever seen), there is a Pali version of the legend, which differs considerably from the above.—This Nanda, according to Mr. Warren’s work, was a prince, and the younger half-brother of Sâkyamuni.
A Passional Karma
One of the never-failing attractions of the Tōkyō stage is the performance, by the famous Kikugorō and his company, of the Botan-Dōrō, or “Peony-Lantern.” This weird play, of which the scenes are laid in the middle of the last century, is the dramatization of a romance by the novelist Encho, written in colloquial Japanese, and purely Japanese in local color, though inspired by a Chinese tale. I went to see the play; and Kikugorō made me familiar with a new variety of the pleasure of fear. “Why not give English readers the ghostly part of the story?”—asked a friend who guides me betimes through the mazes of Eastern philosophy. “It would serve to explain some popular ideas of the supernatural which Western people know very little about. And I could help you with the translation.”
I gladly accepted the suggestion; and we composed the following summary of the more extraordinary portion of Enchō’s romance. Here and there we found it necessary to condense the original narrative; and we tried to keep close to the text only in the conversational passages,—some of which happen to possess a particular quality of psychological interest.
—This is the story of the Ghosts in the Romance of the Peony-Lantern:—