My Visit to the Abbot

ERNESTA BARLOW

No SOONER had I signed the hotel register in Nara than I was handed a message translated from the Japanese. “Kojo Sakamoto, Abbot of Koyoshikojin Temple, Takarazuka,” it read, “will send a car for you at three o’clock P.M. and heartily expects you to visit him in his monastery.” No would I or wouldn’t I, this was a royal command.

A year ago last winter the eighty-three-yearold Buddhist priest flew to New York, invited by the Metropolitan Museum. The object of his first visit outside Japan was to exhibit a portion of his private collection of Tomioka Tessai’s paintings. We were so fortunate as to have him for tea at our house on Gramercy Park, and it was then he asked me to visit him should I ever come to Japan.

Prompt to the minute, the Abbot’s car drove up to the hotel. Most thoughtfully he had sent a Japanese lady who spoke English, while formality also required a shaven-haired young priest dressed in black-and-white silk. This young man, the lady explained, immediately would succeed Abbot Sakamoto should the old man retire or die.

After a two-hour drive through orchard country, we reached the temple compound. I saw the Abbot standing at his front door smiling and waiting for me. His hands were folded in the sleeves of a brown robe, and his ancient shaved head emerged from a pair of hunched shoulders like a turtle from its shell. Behind him a young priest held a red ceremonial band of brocade, which he dropped around the Abbot’s neck at the moment we shook hands.

He led me first into a large room opening on one side to the temple garden. In Japan they describe the size of a room as a twelve tatami room or a twenty-four tatami room according to the number of tatami it takes to cover the floor. These are the conventional straw mats six by three feet universally used instead of carpeting. The Abbot has his tatami bordered in brown silk woven with his own crest in white.

Two priests dressed in white silk kimonos with full black gauze overskirts brought tea, and my host indicated I was to sit opposite him on a handsome red damask green-tasseled cushion. A priest knelt at either side of the Master, toes bent backward, the body resting on his heels.

Conversation was limited through stilted translation to polite inquiries about my trip, the Abbot’s trip to America, and his hope of returning soon. He had enjoyed air travel, although he had never before been in an airplane. I told him I was always terrified. “Why?" he asked. “You are in the hands of God. It is best to go to sleep.”

Tea over, I was shown about. The house is perfection, a marvel of housekeeping and good taste. Every corner, every object betrays minute attention to detail. Since there was no sign of a woman about, who was responsible? The immaculate monks in their spotless robes, their fresh while socks? I was told that the Abbot’s wife died four years ago after fifty years of married life. Sliding panels are of translucent rice paper with slender natural wood divisions, interior wall panels done in gold leaf, the frames black lacquer, and each fingerhold of silver with the Abbot’s crest. The only pieces of furniture in any room are low tables made of either lacquer or polished wood with a center plank over three feet wide; handsome brocade cushions the only seats. There is not a curved line; every angle is a right angle. Bishop, or Abbot, Sakamoto — the titles seem interchangeable — owns a great art collection, chiefly paintings by Tomioka Tessai. In each room hang several examples of the artist’s dramatic black-and-white kakemonos or one done in colored wash. These are changed every three days. Since the Abbot owns more than a thousand Tessais, his private show goes on for months.

In shallow wall niches, raised a few inches from the floor, are a rare bronze, a piece of pottery, a careful flower arrangement, an incense burner. I asked about everything and was answered in meticulous translation by the Japanese lady and by the Abbot with smiles and quick bows.

Would I care to see his vestments? The old gentleman believed they might be of interest to me.

“Please say I would be delighted,” I replied.

His young priests, always in close attendance, brought out robe after robe of stiff brocade, scarlet, royal purple, white. Each dress was folded in tissue paper in a fine wooden box. Should he put one on for me? I said I would be most happy. The old man rose from the floor with the ease of an acrobat and stood while three monks dressed him. Over a fire-red robe with side pleats and sleeves to the floor was hung a piece of brocade five feet by four. It had taken three years to weave. Since temple services are conducted by a sealed priest, I was shown how the cape is adjusted for this posture. Over red felt laid on the floor, one splendid vestment after another was spread out, each of a different weave and immensely costly. Given such care as this, they would last, I imagine, until judgment day. One weave was a mountain pattern done in many colors. Small panels were divided by brocade strips, the mountains made by tiny gathers pulled tight. This cape is worn once a year, on April 28, Japan’s greatest festival day. Could I not return for it? Japan would be most beautiful then with fruit and almond trees in bloom.

When the vestments were folded and back in their wooden boxes, a movie of the festival was put on. Twelve purple-robed priests marched chanting through the gardens behind their Master. he being more gorgeously arrayed than a Byzantine emperor. Standing on round straw mats they threw flowers, while crowds of Japanese in their best kimonos brought gifts of fruit and flowers to heap before the altar. The road leading to the temple was gay with booths where sweetmeats and temple gifts of all kinds were sold to crowding pilgrims. Koyoshikojin Seichoji is particularly popular because it may bring wealth to the devout. Presents arc commensurate with the expectations of a visitor, so it is one of Japan’s richest shrines.

“But do not think,”the interpreter said, “that the money is all incoming. The Bishop’s generosity is legendary in our country.”

Should our sightseeing tour continue? Was I tired?

“Doza, doza,”I said, “please, please.” They all looked as delighted as if I had uttered a memorable aphorism.

In the Abbot’s own room were long rows of wall cupboards containing his vestments. I was shown prayer beads of amber, crystal, rare Indian woods, each in its case with a little bag of lavender to scent the tissue paper. Ceremonial bands by the dozen were displayed, bands such as had been hung around the old man’s neck when I arrived.

I saw his study, his writing table covered with pots of black and red ink and fat brushes of finest badger hair; the Abbot is an artist in calligraphy, his autographed fans given away by the gross to faithful followers of the Shingon-Sambo sect. On a stand, exhibited like some treasure, was a vulgar Western doll dressed in cheap pink silk, and next to her two exquisite geisha, their elaborate costumes of finest brocades.

WHILE I was dressing for dinner, a barefoot priest came to my room, silent as a snowflake, entered without knocking, bowed low, and indicated I was to follow him.

In the big room Abbot Sakamoto was smiling more broadly than ever.

“Doza, doza,” he said, indicating the cushion opposite him. A gold-toothed Japanese gentleman stood at one side carrying a large silken bundle. He came forward, laid the bundle at my feet, undid the square knot, and spread before me glittering gold obis, the kind made with a fingernail filed like a saw, one inch a day, and heavy crepe kimonos. I examined them with interest and said, “How beautiful, most lovely!” in a tone that could be understood in any language. Four more monks came in; they too sank to the floor and watched me. But something was wrong; the Abbot gave a sharp command to one of the priests, who swung to his feet, hurried from the room to return at once with the interpreter.

“The Abbot says, will you choose please,” she said, “the things you like most.”

My host’s fine hand made a graceful gesture toward the silken pile. “He wishes to give you a present,” the lady said.

This time it was I who bowed my head to the floor, whereupon everyone followed suit. “Please tell His Holiness,” I said, “that I do not know how to thank him for his generosity.”

“Try on, please,” the merchant said.

I had to dress up in everything. Each kimono and obi was so lovely that the choice was hard to make, but I decided it should be a kimono. I really couldn’t accept both.

“Which does the Abbot like best for me?" I asked. This decision took some time, everyone was consulted, it was important. Finally a heavy white crepe, elaborately hand-printed in a small red, gray, and black flower design, was agreed by all to be the most suitable. We both bowed to the floor, and my Japanese bow seemed to please the whole company immensely.

Dinner was announced. It was served by two priests. We had raw fish, cooked chestnuts, tiny whole fried eggplant, fish roe done in sugar, deviled crab, mushroom broth in a teapot, sake and beer, sliced raw abalone, lotus root, and small lily bulbs. At this point the Abbot gave two resounding Bronx cheers, and I thought of Dr. Johnson. “There is nothing so comforting to the soul,” he remarked, “as a good belch well lifted off the stomach.” The courses went on, finishing with cold rice, hot tea, pickles, and iced melon.

I got the Abbot to talk about Tessai. He spoke eloquently of their friendship, of the artist’s recent death, of his great learning. “He read through 36,000 volumes of different books. You will see that his lofty character is represented by all his paintings exhibited here. He did one picture a day on rice paper.”

“Did he paint on the floor?” I asked, having noticed other artists on hands and knees repairing screens in some of Kyoto’s temples. All their work was spread out flat.

“Yes, Tessai always painted on the floor. Can you not distinguish in some of his pictures the mark of the tatami, which comes out like a faint rubbing?”

And now, before bedtime, perhaps I would like to watch a movie in the office wing? Of course. I said. The whole staff gathered, maidservants hitherto invisible and all the priests, to watch a most brutal picture of Japanese wrestlers. I couldn’t look at it any more than I could watch an auto-da-fé. Two gorillalike giants set about breaking each other’s limbs, gouging eyes out, and all manner of torture. I did, however, watch the gentle, kindly Abbot and the others. Not a face showed emotion of any kind.

After this I felt it must be bedtime. Probably everyone rose at daybreak for matins and such. Where please would I care to sleep? The room where we had dined perhaps? Yes, the Abbot thought that would be best; my bed should be made there and a bath prepared. The old gentleman superintended everything. Two brown damask mattresses were placed in the center of the big room after tables had been pushed to one side, and over them was laid a purple brocade mat tied with sea-green tassels. Next came a fine wool blanket, a heavy scarlet quilt of silk, and one of the little birdseed pillows of blue and white striped silk. Though these pillows are hard, they are not rigid. One monk brought a pretty floor lantern, another an electric torch, a third came with what looked like a glass of custard but turned out to be mashed banana, pineapple, and apple. With a thermos of ice water and a fresh pot of tea lined up on lacquer trays beside my magnificent bed of purple and scarlet damask, I felt like the princess in the legend and wondered if I could feel a pea through all the mattresses.

Was there nothing more I desired? The Abbot was still concerned for my comfort. Many, many thanks no, I said, but there was one thing, I too wished to offer a present. Would the Abbot accept a bedquilt—one of fine wool wadding, covered in China silk, all hand quilted? It would be very warm and weigh almost nothing. My idea seemed to delight the old gentleman. We bid each other a most formal good night.

They showed me the bathroom. It was divided into three sections: a dressing room, where I unearthed a mirror from behind closed doors, a second room with a wooden sink, polished brass dippers, basins, and a new cake of the finest scented French soap, then the bathroom proper. In each, vases of fresh flowers stood on the floor.

How I enjoyed my silken bed, with the sound of rain and a swollen brook sweet in my ears. Next morning at seven I pushed aside the sliding outer screens, looked onto a green garden with its well-trained bushes and trees, and walked back to the bath to find everything in perfect order, fresh flowers on the floor, new towels over red lacquer racks. I pulled back a long dark-blue curtain that ran the length of an outside passage. The material also bore the Abbot’s white quatrefoil crest as a large medallion.

At eight o’clock a gong struck calling the monks to early service, which I as a woman was not allowed to attend. I was dressed and preparing myself for a Japanese breakfast when one of the monks came for me. The meal was served to me alone, and I was given scrambled eggs with crisp bacon, fruit juice and buttered toast, and a fork. If not the Abbot himself, someone here thought of everything.

This morning the priests led me to the big kitchen in order that I might watch the making of rice dough and cakes. Pounds of boiled rice were put into a stone mortar; one man stood by with a heavy wooden mallet, another began kneading the rice. He lifted his hands, and whack! the mallet struck the soft heap. Quickly the rice was turned; down came the mallet again. The team worked faster and faster. Between each stroke the kneader dipped his hands in cold water so that the rice would not stick to his fingers; a third man now replaced the panting mallet swinger. I watched the rice turn to heavy, solid dough. When the men decided it was done, the white mass was placed on a floured board and a cook squeezed off round cakes. “Each must be precisely the same size,”I was told, “then full trays are carried to be placed for some hours in the temple. Later, after being roasted over charcoal, the cakes will all be eaten.”

I smiled at the anachronism of an electric washing machine, a refrigerator, and a new little red fire engine near the kitchen door.

A bright sun shone, so I could walk over the grounds, admire bronze gods, climb steep paths, see the smaller temples, and ask endless questions. We passed a bronze cow with colored cloths tied like bibs under her chin, gifts from children to ensure health and good fortune. Hundreds of paper prayers had been twisted to the branches along each garden path. Would I care to ring the great gong? Naturally I would. Grasping a heavy horizontal beam. I gave it a mighty swing.

We went into a small temple where books of accordion-pleated paper and boxes filled with prayers and scriptures for each priest were kept. Outside each shrine hung a multicolored gongcord. Those who come to pray clap three times before sounding the gong. Buddha might not give them his full attention otherwise. Under a shed was a pile of pink plaster gods like fat Kewpie dolls, representing the smiling God of Happiness. This image stands in every Japanese kitchen and is renewed yearly. Next to the little gods was a second shed heaped with rusty tongs of every size.

“The age of forty,”my interpreter said, “is a dangerous age. At this time a man places a pair of charcoal tongs before the God of Happiness. He leaves them there for three years. After this he brings the tongs to the temple, God having helped him to avoid bad things.”

Just then a monk hurried up to say my kimono had come. Three women had worked the night through to finish and line it, every fine stitch made by hand. Seventeen men and women from the kitchen gathered to see me try it on. Then my picture was taken with the Abbot, who wore purple brocade. A moment later he disappeared, to return at the sound of gongs, resplendent in scarlet robes.

“It is the moment for your temple service, madame,” I was told. “Bishop Sakamoto is givingone just for you.”

This was the final touch! Had ever a guest been shown such hospitality? I asked permission to take notes during the service. Here from my journal are the words I wrote:

The Abbot sits cross-legged on a low red lacquer taboret facing the altar. Scarlet silk cushions have been placed at a right angle to him for the Japanese lady and me. I watch his aged face become remote, his eyes are closed, he appears to have gone into another world. Two priests chant; they throw flowers toward the altar, then remove a fan each wears in the neck of his robe. There is a gold pagoda before the Abbot and dozens of polished brass cups; cymbals are struck and a high-noted gong, rosaries rubbed between each priest’s tapered fingers. Tall candles are multiplied in countless brass ornaments. The Abbot is making curious gestures with his hands like the language of the dumb. Now in his left hand he takes up a musical bell, which he rings in even rhythm, then replaces it silently. Not an unintentional sound is made. He strikes once on a cupshaped gong, raises the two forefingers of his right hand, as in a Catholic blessing; he even seems to make the sign of the cross, and his thin lips move in silent prayer. I remember that he came to this temple at the age of eleven and has been its Abbot for forty years.

Outside, the crowd pray on their knees, and they throw coins into an open box. While assisting monks chant prayers in Tibetan, the Abbot’s dark-skinned shaved head is bowed, almost sunk inside his high white neckcloth. Now he reads a prayer aloud.

“He prays for you,”my friend whispers, “for your health and safe return from a happy voyage. He has given you his blessing.”

I feel sure it will protect me well.