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XI

Among swordmasters, on the basis of their own and their pupils' experience, it is taken as proved that the beginner, however strong and pugnacious he is, and however courageous and fearless he may be at the outset, loses not only his lack of self-consciousness, but his self-confidence, as soon as he starts taking lessons. He gets to know all the technical possibilities by which his life may be endangered in combat, and although he soon becomes capable of straining his attention to the utmost, of keeping a sharp watch on his opponent, of parrying his thrusts correctly and making effective lunges, he is really worse off than before, when, half in jest and half in earnest, he struck about him at random under the inspiration of the moment and as the joy of battle suggested. He is now forced to admit that he is at the mercy of everyone who is stronger, more nimble and more practised than he. He sees no other way open to him except ceaseless practise, and his instructor too has no other advice to give him for the present. So the beginner stakes everything on surpassing the others and even himself. He acquires a brilliant technique, which gives him back some of his lost self-confidence, and thinks he is drawing nearer and nearer to the desired goal. The instructor, however thinks differently— and rightly so, avers Takuan, since all the skill of the beginner only leads to his “heart being snatched away by the sword”.

Yet the initial instruction cannot be imparted in any other way; it is thoroughly suited to the beginner. All the same it does not lead to the goal, as the instructor knows only too well. That the pupil does not become a swordmaster, despite his zeal and even despite his inborn skill, is understandable enough. But why is it that he, who has long since learned not to let himself be swept away by the heat of battle, but to keep a cool head, to conserve his strength, and who now feels inured to long-drawn combats and can hardly find an opponent to match him in all his circle—why is it that, judged by the highest standards, he fails at the last moment and makes no headway?

The reason, according to Takuan, is that the pupil cannot stop watching his opponent and his swordplay; that he is always thinking how he can best come at him, waiting for the moment when he is off his guard. In short, he relies all the time on his art and knowledge. By so doing, Takuan says, he loses his “presence of heart”: the decisive thrust always comes too late and he is unable to “turn his opponent's sword against him”.

The more he tries to make the brilliance of his swordplay dependent on his own reflection, on the conscious utilization of his skill, on his fighting experience and tactics, the more he inhibits the free “working of the heart”. What is to be done? How does skill become “spiritual”, and how does sovereign control of technique turn into master swordplay? Only, so we are informed, by the pupil becoming purposeless and egoless. He must be taught to be detached not only from his opponent but from himself. He must pass through the stage he is still at and leave it behind him for good, even at the risk of irretrievable failure. Does not this sound as nonsensical as the demand that the archer should hit without taking aim, that he should completely lose sight of the goal and his intention to hit it? It is worth remembering, however, that the master swordsmanship whose essence Takuan describes has vindicated itself in a thousand contests.

The instructor's business is not to show the way itself, but to enable the pupil to get the feel of this way to the goal by adapting it to his individual peculiarities. He will therefore begin by training him to avoid thrusts instinctively, even when they take him completely by surprise. D. T. Suzuki describes in a delicious anecdote, the exceedingly original method employed by one instructor to submit himself to this far from easy task:

“The Japanese fencing master sometimes uses the Zen method of training.