Mister Timeless Blyth, page 24
The Buddha spoke of expedient means.
Whatever it took.
I was sitting one evening at the US staff club with Henderson. I was giving him a report on Gakushuin and how it was faring in its move towards democratisation, egalitarianism. We were both eager to move on to discussing haiku, and in particular our differences of approach to these little jewels of verse. (For what it’s worth, I see haiku as direct experience, a way of living – not a substitute for Christianity or Buddhism, but their fulfilment. Henderson’s approach, I suppose, has always been more literary, less existential, and he stresses the importance of imagination in composing the verse).
I shall return to this later, leaving it for the moment as Henderson and I were forced to do when we were joined by a journalist by the name of Roberts, recently arrived from the US. He was an acquaintance of Henderson’s and said he had heard my name and was happy to meet me. However he then proceeded to tell us about his own experience of observing the Emperor at first hand on one of his majesty’s walkabout tours, meeting-the-people, the very process of ‘humanisation.’
He said he and his companions referred to the Emperor as Charlie (after Chaplin) and it seemed they were determined to see him as a figure of fun. He mentioned the Emperor’s ill-fitting Western-style suit, the awkward way he walked.
And you wouldn’t believe how uncomfortable the guy is, said Roberts. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. And he doesn’t know how to talk to people. It was like he asked everybody the same question – Where are you from? And whatever the answer, he would say, Ah so. As if it was truly amazing that somebody came from Gifu, or Kanagawa, or wherever. And that was it. That was all he had to say. Ah so. Getting more and more high-pitched. It got so our guys were waiting for it, and when they heard it they nudged each other and copied the sound and tried not to crack up!
I was finding this Roberts irritating in the extreme. His manner was straining my patience to the limit. When he started mimicking the Emperor again I could take no more and I interrupted him.
Mr Roberts, I said. Where are you from?
He looked confused. Pittsburgh, he said.
Ah, so, I said, then I stood up and bowed, nodded to Henderson and took my leave.
Later I apologised to Henderson for my rudeness, but I said I couldn’t help myself.
On the basis of being in Japan for all of five minutes, I said, this fellow shows nothing but scorn for all the efforts being made here.
I know, said Henderson. The man’s a boor. But for what it’s worth, I don’t think he took offence. In fact he was quite amused and rather admired your gumption. He thought your exit was ‘very Zen.’
Again, I said, based on his vast knowledge of the subject. But in spite of myself I laughed. Buraisu-san the Zen Master!
Ah so, said Henderson.
Henderson and I did eventually get back to our discussion of haiku.
The here and now is all, I said (rather pretentiously). The poem has to catch that lived moment of insight, that seeing-into-the-life-of-things.
Henderson argued that imagination was all important. Surely, he said, the poet is primarily a maker of imagined scenes.
The danger there, I said, is that it leads the poet further into a world of illusion and make-believe instead of rooting him…
Or her!
Or her, I continued …in the real world, this world, the here-and-now.
So, he said, narrowing his eyes. Are you saying subjectivity has no place in writing haiku?
Consider Basho, I said. Surely he is at his greatest when his subject matter seems most insignificant – the neck of a firefly, the sound of hailstones, the chirping of a cricket, a dead leaf.
Not to mention a frog jumping into an old pond.
Indeed, I said. So I won’t mention it. Except to say it has absolutely nothing to do with symbolism or metaphor or embodying-the-infinite. The meaning is the thing itself, clear, direct, unmistakable. It’s like plunging the hand suddenly into boiling water, or for that matter freezing water. It’s the shock of what’s real.
I rather liked that. The shock of what’s real.
I enjoyed these exchanges with Henderson, which is why they are vivid in the memory and I can recreate them at will. On occasion we were joined by the flamboyant Faubion Bowers, still assigned to MacArthur’s office, still in love with Kabuki and Noh. He had tried his own hand at translating haiku and spoke of compiling an anthology, but he deferred to both Henderson and me, bowing (with a theatrical flourish) to our wisdom and experience. He did, however, enjoy setting us against each other as we agreed to differ.
Issa or Buson? he asked.
Gritty existentialism or artistic refinement.
Neither, I said. Both. Neither and both. Neither one is better. Both are absolutely the best.
But Buson wrote poems that were purely imaginary, said Bowers. The one about stepping on his dead wife’s comb.
I knew the poem he meant. I had made my own translation of it.
In the bedroom, I trod
On my dead wife’s comb:
The cold penetrated my heart.
The very one, said Bowers. And I understand he wrote it many years before his wife actually died.
Exactly, I said. It’s like something by Poe. And I mean that disparagingly. It seems to me everything a haiku should not be. Haiku has nothing to do with bedrooms or dead wives or treading on this or that imaginary object conjured up for its emotional associations. This particular poem is artificial and sentimental and manipulative.
And other than that, said Bowers, I guess it’s not too bad.
Why did you translate it? asked Henderson.
Sheer contrariness, I said, and they both laughed.
Once, when on my couch I lay, in vacant and didactic mood, I drew up a list of what I considered the characteristics of Zen in relation to the writing of haiku.
Selflessness. Loneliness. Grateful acceptance. Wordlessness. Non-intellectuality. Contradictoriness. Humour. Freedom. Non-morality. Simplicity. Materiality. Love. Courage.
It’s a mighty impressive set of attributes, and if I felt I had achieved any of them (in the sense of realising them, integrating them into my very being) I might feel entitled to be rather pleased with myself. But that’s the difficult part, that integration. It’s what Hakuin grappled with for the greater part of his life.
I can truly say I love haiku. Haiku show us what we knew all the time but did not know we knew. So much in so little. Multum in parvo. Infinite riches in a little room. A good haiku catches an inherent humour, a sudden realization that life is fundamentally contradictory. This is not the too-obvious humour, the punning and witticism from which haiku grew. Instead it is a momentary leap out of the relative into the absolute and back again, an intense perception of the true nature of things.
The first haiku I wrote (God help me!) was in Japanese.
Hagakure ni aoi yume miru katatsumuri.
I made my own translation.
Behind a leaf,
Dreaming its blue dream –
The snail
A small thing, but mine own.
The thing about haiku, the thing about Zen, is an essential simplicity. The sun shines, snow falls, mountains rise and valleys sink, night deepens and pales into day, but it is only very seldom we attend to such things:
This is by Kito.
In the shop,
The paper-weights on the picture books;
The spring wind!
Yes.
Just so.
10
THE MUSIC OF WHAT HAPPENS
I had often thought of my old friend and colleague Dr. Shinki. I had not heard from him since our parting outside Keijo station when the boys sang Hotaru no Hikari. Light of the Fireflies.
I had kept Shinki’s painting of Autumn on the Han River – it had survived the bombing of Kobe and hung on the wall in our living room, a reminder. On one particular day I found myself thinking of him most powerfully, remembering his face, seeing it, vivid and clear. As if I had invoked him, I received that very day a letter from my publishers, Hokuseido. I tore open the envelope, and inside was another with a Fukuoka postmark, Shinki’s name and home address in the top corner in his characteristic neat, spare calligraphy.
The letter explained that he had only recently returned from Korea to Fukuoka, his home town. He had come across a copy of my Zen in English Literature and written to me care of the publishers who had passed it on.
With some measure of excitement, I wrote back to him immediately, gave him my own address and said if he could manage a visit to Tokyo he must come and see us. In fact, I added, the sooner the better.
Four days later, in the early evening, I was sitting at home reading when there was a quiet knock at the door. Tomiko was busy in the kitchen, little Harumi in her own world, playing, so I opened the door myself, saw a middle-aged Japanese man standing there in an old brown suit, a small knapsack at his feet, a soft fedora hat in his hands.
I did not at first recognise him, was about to say, Yes, can I help you? Then he smiled and spoke.
Blyth-san.
The unmistakeable articulation, almost pronouncing it just-right.
His face came into focus. I recognised the younger man he had been.
Shinki-san! I said. My friend!
Neither of us was inclined to give the other a hug – we settled for a firm handshake, a manly pat on the shoulder. But our joy at seeing each other was profound.
Wordsworth and Coleridge, he said, and I laughed, picked up his knapsack and brought him inside.
Shinki stayed with us for a week – I insisted upon it and Tomiko made him welcome, set another place at mealtimes. He slept on a spare futon we laid out in the living room, rolled up and put away every morning. He kept saying it was too much, he did not want to impose, but we were having none of it.
At first Harumi was a little shy of him, hid behind her mother, peeking out. Then he saw one of her drawings – a bear or a cat – pinned to the wall, and he told her how good it was. He asked if he could have a piece of paper and borrow a pencil, and in no time at all, with just a few strokes, he made a sketch of her, handed it to her with a show of formality, saw her eyes grow wide with delight.
It had not been easy for Shinki to come home after the war. But he had felt less and less comfortable in Korea, where anti-Japanese feeling was strong. Eventually he had packed up and made his way on a cargo ship to Fukuoka where he was trying to find work. He told me a sad story – in those days they were many – about the fate of Hanayama Roshi, the Abbot at Myoshin-ji in Seoul. After the war he was to be appointed to the prestigious Nanzen-Ji temple in Kyoto. He had been travelling to Japan when his ship hit a mine and sank. Everyone on board, including the Roshi, had been drowned.
We sat in silence, offering a prayer.
I took Shinki to meet Admiral Yamanashi who was in his shirtsleeves, tending a vegetable patch in the little garden behind his house. I introduced Shinki and the Admiral greeted him with great warmth and kindness, said it must have been a real upheaval to repatriate. I said Shinki-san was looking for work and Yamanashi said he hoped he would be successful.
I also took Shinki to Kamakura to visit Suzuki. We sat on cushions on the verandah looking out over Engaku-ji, Suzuki chatting, sharing his wisdom in that relaxed way of his, Shinki in awe at being in the presence of the great man. He told me afterwards that being with Suzuki was like sitting in front of a vast serene ocean.
Within a week or two, after he had returned to Fukuoka, Shinki received the offer of a job at the Fourth Kanazawa High School. He had been hoping for something closer to Tokyo, and miraculously, another post became available at Seijo High School, not so far away in Kanagawa Prefecture. When he had been teaching there for a few months, Yamanashi told me they thought it might be a good idea to appoint a Japanese teacher of English Literature to work alongside me at Gakushuin. I told Shinki who applied and got the job. Once again we were colleagues.
By way of thanks, Shinki gave me another of his paintings, Snowy Mountains, which I hung beside his Autumn on the Han River. I further returned good for good by gifting him a bag of rice from a supply I had received from Henderson courtesy of the GHQ canteen. Such commodities were scarce and would cost a great deal on the black market.
Worth its weight in gold, I said.
Words cannot express, he said, and he bowed, quite overcome with gratitude.
It was Henderson who alerted me. There had been a suggestion that the Crown Prince might benefit from the appointment of an American tutor.
Of course, he said, that would be in addition to your good self, not instead.
Of course, I said.
Enrich his experience even more.
Yes, I said.
Widen his understanding of democracy.
The American Way of Life.
Not to put too fine a point on it.
We wouldn’t want to do that now, would we?
We were in Henderson’s office at SCAP headquarters.
It’s another…delicate…business, he said. It seems the Emperor is quite keen and has in fact given his approval.
I see.
But it’s rather like the situation with the Declaration of Humanity.
We wouldn’t want anyone to think SCAP was interfering or applying undue pressure.
Exactly.
I said I was surprised I had heard nothing about this from Admiral Yamanashi.
Henderson said it was all still hush hush, on a need-to-know basis.
Still, I said. I’d have thought…
Quite.
We both fell silent, then he continued.
There have been some proposed guidelines. The candidate should not be an old Japan hand but someone fresh to the country and with no knowledge of the language or culture.
No preconceptions.
Precisely. Middle-aged. Christian but not fanatically so.
No indoctrination.
Right.
Might I make one suggestion?
Please do.
Perhaps this new American tutor should be a woman.
It seemed this need-to-know restriction had even excluded Yamanashi. He was taken aback, resolved to find out what he could.
Yes, he said, getting back to me after a week. It is so. Plans are being made. And your idea to appoint a woman has been welcomed.
Good, I said. Then might I make another recommendation?
Please.
If this tutor is to be Christian, that may cause difficulty. Catholic and Protestant can be equally evengelical, hell-bent, as it were, on saving mankind. The urge to convert may be strong.
Heaven forbid!
Indeed, I said. So it may be advisable to seek someone from, say, a Quaker background.
The appropriate wheels were set in motion, advice was sought, a shortlist drawn up. At my behest (and on the basis of my immense wisdom) a choice was made. The lady in question was invited and she accepted, crossed the ocean on a former troopship, the Marine Falcon.
Mrs Vining.
Mrs Elizabeth Gray Vining.
Mrs Vining was a very impressive young woman, tall and imposing, dignified in her bearing but with a lightness about her, an easy grace. More than that, I sensed in her a true inwardness, a stillness and strength. As a Quaker she would not be unaccustomed to silence. But there was nothing severe or rigid about her. On the contrary, her eyes sparkled with what I recognised as that rarest of qualities, a sense of humour.
The day before she was due to meet the Imperial family for the first time, I prepared her for her introductory exchange with the young Crown Prince.
I explained that the Prince would say to her, Thank you for coming so far to teach me.
She looked slightly quizzical.
And how do you know he will say this? she asked.
I replied, It is what I have instructed him to say. And you should respond, Thank you for welcoming me so kindly.
I see, she said, and there was that twinkle in the eye. It is more artificial and formal than I had intended. But I promise I shall try to remember my line in this little dialogue.
By chance, if there be such a thing, I bumped into her a few hours after her formal introduction to the Royal household, and I asked her how she had fared.
Very well, she said, although I had to abandon the prepared script.
Indeed?
I’d had the foresight, or presumption, to send in advance a small gift for the Crown Prince – a few chocolate bars I had brought with me from Philadelphia.
He has a sweet tooth, I said.
Like most twelve-year olds! And before I could say one word, he beamed at me and said, Thank you for the candy!
I laughed. A good beginning then!
Yamanashi – now very much in the know – told me that Mrs Vining was a widow and that her husband had been killed in an automobile accident.
Very strong character, said the Admiral. Strong faith. And I sensed that some of his initial misgivings had been laid to rest.
I also discovered that Mrs Vining had written a number of books, including novels for children, and she was kind enough to give me a copy of her most recent volume, Adam of the Road, a historical yarn about a young minstrel boy.
In return I gave her my Zen in English Literature and told her she was under no obligation to read it. But she persisted, persevered, said it was wonderful that I had written on English literature for the Japanese and Japanese poetry for the Westerner.
