by Spence, Alan
They rode out of town, toward the hills, stopped at the entrance to a temple, tethered their horses. Matsuo led the way in, past a few outbuildings, through an arch, stopped and bowed his head. There in front of them, in an open courtyard, stood a massive statue of the Buddha, forty feet high, cast in bronze.
‘Daibutsu,’ said Matsuo. ‘Amida Buddha.’
For the second time that day, Glover felt a sense of awe. As with the mountain, it was the sheer scale of the thing, but again there was something more, a presence.
They moved closer and once more Matsuo threw himself prostrate on the ground, then he stood up and bowed, clapped his hands three times. Next to the statue was an ornate incense burner, also in bronze, shaped like the leaves and petals of a lotus. Matsuo wafted the fragrant smoke towards himself, a purification, then he clapped his hands again, walked clockwise round the statue, chanting his devotions.
Namu Amida Butsu.
Glover looked up at the huge bulk of the statue looming above him, tried to take it in. In part his appreciation was detached, analytical; the technical expertise necessary to build such a thing was massively impressive. Like Matsuo he walked round it, but his was the stroll of the observer, not the tread of the devotee. He saw where the bronze had been cast in huge sections, fused or bolted together.
‘Quite a feat of engineering,’ he said to Matsuo, realising he wouldn’t understand, but hoping he would at least hear the respect in his tone.
But even as he heard himself say the words, they sounded small and empty, as if spoken by someone else. He knew his admiration was for more than the technicalities of its construction, that this was art rather than artefact. More than that, it had been imbued with a power that was quite overwhelming. No matter how much he resisted, he was affected by it, in spite of himself. Everything conspired together – his tiredness from the journey, the peacefulness of the setting with its backdrop of tree-covered hills, the scent of the incense wafting in the air, the low drone of Matsuo’s chanting – to create an atmosphere rarefied but suffused with a kind of intensity. Objects stood clear, sharply outlined, resolutely themselves, none more so than this gigantic figure. The sculptor had caught something entirely other, imbued it with life. The surface had weathered to a patchy patina, a pale green that almost glowed.
Thou shalt not worship any graven image.
And yet.
The face that looked down at him was at once austere and benign. The eyes were half open, the mouth turned up in a faint half-smile. He felt boundaries, distinctions, dissolve, as if he were losing himself, falling up into it.
Matsuo clapped his hands once more. An iron bell clanged. Glover was definably himself again, incongruously here, alien, in this far-off place. He shook his head, rubbed his face with his hands.
Matsuo walked back round behind the statue, nodded to Glover to follow.
‘What now?’ asked Glover, suddenly impatient, anxious to be moving on, to get to Edo.
‘In,’ said Matsuo, indicating a little door in the statue’s base. ‘Up.’
A few steps and they were inside the statue, a dimly lit cavern in the shape of the Buddha’s body. Matsuo set off climbing a flight of rickety wooden steps, right to the top, and again Glover followed, stood on a flimsy platform, inside the Buddha’s head, looking out through the Buddha’s eyes at the temple grounds, the town beyond.
Matsuo laughed, his voice echoing, and led the way back down again. Glover felt strangely unsettled as they remounted their horses, continued their journey.
*
It was evening when they arrived in Edo, rode into the compound housing the British Legation. The Consulate was set in the grounds of a secluded temple – Tozenji – a pleasant sprawl of outbuildings and courtyards, linked by winding pathways, wooden bridges over sleepy lotus ponds, a placid lake. The perimeter was heavily guarded by Japanese militia, but Glover noticed a certain lazy indolence in their manner as he and Matsuo rode unchallenged through a moss-covered gateway, along a shady avenue of pine and bamboo.
The building itself was low, wood-framed, the rooms divided by sliding pine-and-paper doors. It seemed too flimsy for the heavy western furniture that had been dragged in, filled up the space – the solid oak tables and dining-room chairs, the leather armchairs, the bookcases and desks. Beyond those would be wardrobes and cupboards and kitchen stoves, dressing tables and iron-framed beds. The effect was claustrophobic, cluttered, especially in this late summer heat.
In the entranceway, hung precariously on one of the thin walls, was a gilt-framed portrait of Queen Victoria, and beneath it, lolling in an armchair, was a familiar figure, the Englishman Richardson whose acquaintance Glover had made on his very arrival in Nagasaki. It seemed a lifetime ago.
‘Glover!’ said Richardson, standing up, offering his hand. ‘Charles Richardson. We met in Dejima.’
Glover shook the dry, bony hand, said, ‘Aye, I mind you fine. This is Matsuo-san.’
‘Hai.’ Matsuo bowed.
Richardson nodded, addressed Glover again. ‘Your bodyguard, I presume. A wise precaution these days. We can’t be too careful. News just came in this afternoon from Yokohama. Apparently some itinerant English preacher was casually disembowelled in the street.’
‘We were just there,’ said Glover, remembering the clergyman they’d encountered, choleric, spitting hellfire and damnation. The wages of sin.
‘Well, there we are,’ said Richardson. ‘There but for the grace of God.’
‘Aye.’
‘But what business brings you to Edo?’ asked Richardson. ‘Are you moving here from Nagasaki?’
‘Nagasaki suits me fine,’ said Glover. ‘I’m here to speak to the Consul.’
‘I’m sure Sir Rutherford will be delighted to see you,’ said Richardson. ‘We’ve been hearing all about your … activities!’
At that a stocky, greyhaired Englishman came along the corridor, stopped and fixed Glover with his gaze. The eyes held a weariness, long-suffering, but still intense, quizzical.
‘Thomas Glover,’ said Richardson, making the introduction. ‘Sir Rutherford Alcock.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you at last,’ said Alcock. ‘We’ve heard a great deal about you.’
‘So I’ve just been told.’
‘Not all of it bad!’ said the Consul. ‘In any case, I’m sure you’ll add spice to the mix at dinner. What with Richardson here, and yourself, and young Mister Oliphant also among us, I shall be experiencing surfeit after famine. In this wilderness the foreigner is entirely a stranger and absolutely repudiated by the natives. I look forward to your company, sir. We dine at eight.’
*
Matsuo fed and watered the horses, stabled them at the edge of the compound, was himself billeted with the Japanese guards. Glover’s accommodation was cramped but adequate, a small guest room off the main corridor. He washed and shaved, did his best to brush the dust of travel from his clothes, and presented himself at dinner.
They were four round the table, Glover and Richardson, Alcock and the young man he’d mentioned, Laurence Oliphant. Glover had heard of Oliphant. He had come out to Japan as secretary to Lord Elgin, been part of the first British delegation to Japanese shores. Oliphant was in full flow, responding to Glover’s simple enquiry as to how he had come to apply for the posting.
‘I find myself fired by the constant need,’ said Oliphant, ‘to go to some out-of-the-way place, do something nobody else has done.’
Glover nodded, eagerly. ‘I can understand that.’
‘I have already been to Kathmandu, across Crimea in a farm cart, to Ubooch in the Western Caucasus, and from Lake Superior to the headwaters of the Mississippi in a bark canoe. I was in Calcutta during the Indian mutiny and observed the bombardment of Canton from the deck of HMS Furious.’
The litany was clearly well rehearsed, had no doubt been delivered at many a dinner table. But Glover found the young man engaging, his enthusiasm a breath of air.
‘There cannot be m
uch of the world left for you explore,’ said Richardson.
‘Japan was a logical next step,’ agreed Oliphant.
‘And what a foetid backwater it is,’ said Alcock.
‘Ah,’ said Richardson. ‘Sir Rutherford is mounting his hobby horse!’
‘Oh, I am comfortable enough here,’ said Alcock. ‘I have my library, my work …’
Again Richardson interjected. ‘Sir Rutherford is preparing an English–Japanese grammar.’
‘And a thankless task it is,’ said Alcock, ‘Herculean in scale. The language has no genders for nouns, no definite articles, a multiplicity of forms for addressing people, depending on rank, and a perplexing plethora of verbs. I almost despair of seeing the undertaking to any useful end, much in the same way as I despair of our bringing about any real friendship or conciliation with the Japanese. In short, I cannot escape the feeling of exile and banishment from all that is familiar and civilised.’
‘There is much still to be explored here,’ said Oliphant. ‘It is a beautiful country. Mister Glover, did you observe Fujiyama on your way here?’
‘The mountain,’ said Glover. ‘It is indeed spectacular.’
Oliphant nodded agreement. ‘The very embodiment of grandeur and mystery.’
‘From a distance,’ said Alcock.
‘Sir Rutherford had the gumption to climb the wretched mountain not long after his arrival,’ said Richardson.
‘It was no picturesque stroll,’ said Alcock. ‘The ascent was a grinding slog of a climb, an ever steeper clamber over rough harsh terrain, trees and vegetation ever more sparse, till we were scrambling over sliding scree, stumbling on boulders, gasping in the thin rarefied air.’ He was warming to his tale, no doubt much refined by many a telling. ‘At last we reached the crude shelters where we could rest through the night, flimsy wooden huts where we huddled in the freezing cold, niggled and bitten by fleas. At first light, aching and stiff, we hauled ourselves on and up, over bare rock, three more hours to the very rim of the crater.’
‘Now that is impressive,’ said Glover.
‘And what did I see for my trouble?’ asked Alcock. ‘A glorious panoramic view of this wonderful land? A suddenly altered perspective? No. I peered over the rim of the crater into its grim depths as into the abyss. I looked outward and saw no distance at all, the whole place obscured once more in mist and cloud, hidden from our gaze.’
‘Typical,’ said Richardson. ‘It’s as if the damn country wants to remain hidden!’
‘It’s not an easy place to understand,’ said Oliphant, ‘but the effort is worthwhile.’
‘Tell Glover about your own efforts,’ said Richardson, and he laughed. ‘Your collection of bugs!’
‘I am,’ said Oliphant patiently, ‘preparing an entomological collection for the British Museum, and have already found a number of rare beetles.’
‘My excitement knows no bounds!’ said Richardson.
‘What is your opinion, Mister Glover?’ asked Alcock.
‘About collecting insects?’ Glover smiled, but was on guard, alerted by something steely in the tone of the question.
‘About the possibility of understanding this place. Or indeed the wisdom of trying to co-operate with the Japanese.’
‘I believe Mister Glover has already been co-operating with them quite extensively,’ said Richardson, drawing on his cigar.
‘And what do you mean by that, sir?’ asked Glover.
‘We heard you had gone native, had a Japanese wife and child.’
‘As of last week,’ said Glover, ‘I have neither. My son died. My wife left.’
‘Bad luck,’ said Oliphant into the awkward silence.
‘Perhaps less messy in the long term,’ said Richardson.
Glover could not believe what the man had just said, and for the second time in as many days found himself clenching his fists in the face of an arrogant ignorance, forcibly restraining himself from striking a blow.
‘Mister Richardson’s pragmatism is extreme,’ said Oliphant, ‘and carries with it a certain callousness.’
Richardson said nothing, simply narrowed his eyes in the curl of cigar smoke as Glover held his gaze.
‘The co-operation to which I refer is a different matter entirely,’ said Alcock.
‘This may be the very matter I have come here to discuss with you.’
‘It is my understanding that you have been working hand-in-glove with Mister Ito Hirobumi of the Choshu clan.’
‘Ito is a business associate, and a friend.’
Richardson laughed out loud. ‘Ah, the naïveté of it!’
‘Such men are dangerous,’ said Alcock.
‘I fear Sir Rutherford may be right,’ said Oliphant, quietly.
‘Your business dealings are your own affair,’ said Alcock. ‘Unless they become illegal, or politically reprehensible. And I fear, Mister Glover, you are sailing close to the wind.’
‘Don’t you want to be rid of the Shogun?’ asked Glover.
‘I am entirely indifferent to his fate,’ said Alcock. ‘What matters is that Her Majesty’s Government does not want rid of him. The Shogun is the officially recognised de facto ruler of the country, and we have to recognise his authority.’
‘Ito and the others have their own authority,’ said Glover. ‘It’s our duty to recognise that, and convince our Government to do the same.’
‘We can’t take sides,’ said Alcock.
‘By backing the Shogun, we’re doing just that!’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Alcock, ‘by doing anything else, you are breaking the laws of this country …’
‘The Shogun’s laws!’
‘The laws of this country! You are also defying the stated policy of your own Government. Now let that be an end of it!’
The silence round the table was ponderous, then Oliphant broke it, addressing Glover. ‘Of course, Sir Rutherford carries no torch for the Shogun, or, for that matter, for the Emperor. Nor does he make any distinction between the two, though I feel the distinction may yet prove important.’
‘A pox on both their houses!’ said Alcock.
‘His favoured policy,’ continued Oliphant, ‘would be to bring back Commodore Perry’s black ships, reinforced by a few of our own gunboats, and simply bombard the Japanese into submission.’
‘Mister Oliphant knows I deplore violence,’ said Alcock, ‘but I confess there are times when I yearn for the simplicity of such a solution!’
*
It was a clear warm night and it had been predicted that a comet would be clearly visible, flashing across the sky around midnight. Oliphant was keen to view it from the lawn, and had persuaded Glover to accompany him. Richardson and Sir Rutherford showed no interest in the spectacle and retired early to their rooms.
The air was heavy with the scent of pine. Oliphant breathed it in, turned to Glover. ‘When the Consul said he deplored violence, he was understating the case. In fact his fear of violence is pathological, almost hysterical, and he lives in constant terror of the samurai blade at his throat.’
‘It’s understandable,’ said Glover, ‘in the present climate.’
Oliphant pointed out a glow in the distance, rising from the outskirts of the city.
‘Fire,’ he said. ‘They call it the Flower of Edo that blooms all year round. These wooden buildings catch like tinder, and it spreads rapidly. I fully expect one day to see the whole city ablaze.’
There was a movement in the bushes and both men tensed, then the form of a small dog scuttled across the grass towards them and wrapped itself around Oliphant’s ankles.
‘Useless mutt!’ he said, laughing and ruffling the dog’s fur. ‘This is Mister Thomas Glover,’ he said to the animal with exaggerated formality. ‘Mister Glover, this is Inu-san. A rather unimaginative name, I’m afraid. It simply means Mister Dog!’
‘Delighted,’ said Glover.
‘On my first visit here,’ said Oliphant, ‘it seemed that every member of the delegation
bought one of these creatures. I resolutely resisted, mindful of the fact that they tore their paper kennels to shreds, whined and howled dismally the whole night through, and invariably fell sick and died. However, this shabby cur appeared one day, begged a few scraps from my lunch and made himself quite at home. He has an official post now, guarding my collection of beetles from his station outside my door!’
Glover chuckled, but then something else moved in the shadows, this time unmistakeably a human figure. Oliphant tensed, the dog growled, raised its hackles, but the man who stepped forward was Matsuo, and he silenced the dog with a gruff word of command.
At that, Oliphant looked up, pointed. A sudden flare of light, the comet, flashed briefly in the night sky.
*
Glover couldn’t sleep, swiped at the mosquito zinging in his ear. It bit him again, again. Raging, he got up, lit the lamp in the room, sat sentinel, waited for the insect to come to rest. At length it did, sat twitching on the shoji screen above his bed. He moved closer, swatted it with his rolled-up necker chief, splattered it against the screen. He peered at it, realised what he was looking at was a smudge of his own blood.
He lay down again and slept, woke in the small hours, a sense of threat grabbing at his throat, quickening his breath. He took his bearings. Edo. The Legation. Here. Matsuo was guarding outside the door, would stretch out in the corridor between spells of wakefulness, alert to any danger. That should be enough to allay any fears, but something had intruded into Glover’s sleep, some irritant had awakened him.
He heard a scratching, a high sharp whine, smiled as he realised it was Oliphant’s dog. So the creature was going to be as fretful and troublesome as the rest. He only hoped it wouldn’t start tearing at the paper screens with its claws and teeth.
