40. Tsubaki mochi are rice cakes filled with bean paste jam and wrapped in two camellia leaves. They seem to have been a specialty of Edo and appear regularly in poems and anecdotes written around this time.
41. In other words, “Might you not have been tricked by foxes?”
Chapter 14
EARLY YOMIHON: HISTORY, ROMANCE, AND THE SUPERNATURAL
With the advent of the Kyōhō era (1716–1736), the popularity of the ukiyo-zōshi (books of the floating world), a fictional genre developed by Ihara Saikaku, gradually began to decline, partly because of the increasing difficulties of urban commoner life and partly because of the scarcity of good writers. In addition, the Hachimonjiya, the central publishing house for ukiyo-zōshi, was publishing more and more historical fiction that borrowed heavily from drama and lacked the freshness of Saikaku’s work. By the middle of the eighteenth century, the ukiyo-zōshi had been displaced by a new prose fiction genre, the yomihon (literally, reading books), which first appeared in the Kyoto-Osaka region. The term yomihon originally referred to books “to be read,” as opposed to books “to be viewed” for their pictures, or katarimono (narrated or chanted texts), such as jōruri. Eventually, however, the word came to refer to a specific fictional genre that reached its first major peak with the work of Ueda Akinari, the author of Tales of Moonlight and Rain (Ugetsu monogatari). Written by bunjin writers in a unique Japanese-Chinese (wakan-konkō) style that merged classical and vernacular diction, these works were noted for their elegant, intellectual, rhythmic style and their allusions to Chinese and Japanese texts.
In contrast to the ukiyo-zōshi, which drew its material from contemporary society and current events, the yomihon looked to another world, that of either China or Japan’s past, using history and classical scholarship, devising complex plots and characters, and laying the foundation for a new kind of extended narrative. Early yomihon writers such as Tsuga Teishō (active 1748–1772), Takebe Ayatari (1719–1774), and Ueda Akinari (1734–1809) were particularly interested in Chinese vernacular literature. The Confucian scholars belonging to Ogyū Sorai’s school in Edo were especially enthusiastic about this newly popular study of the Chinese spoken language, as were the students of Itō Tōgai’s Kogidō school in Kyoto. Indeed, from the Kyōhō era onward, the Kyoto-Osaka region became the center for the study of Chinese vernacular novels. Tsuga Teishō, a doctor and Confucian scholar in Osaka, is generally regarded as the grandfather of the yomihon. In A Garland of Heroes (Hanabusa sōshi, 1749), he adapted the plots of Chinese vernacular stories to Japanese history or legends. But he used a mixed Japanese-Chinese style that retained the style of the Chinese original, thus making for some awkward reading in Japanese. In 1757, the first volume of a Japanese translation of the great Chinese vernacular novel Water Margin (Suikoden) appeared; the entire novel was completed in 1790. Scholars translated other works of Ming- and Qing-period vernacular fiction, and Japanese readers also became interested in Chinese tales of the miraculous from the Tang period. Ghost stories such as “The Peony Lantern” from Asai Ryōi’s Hand Puppets (Otogi bōko), which had been a minor genre within kana-zōshi, suddenly became popular again, together with stories of the strange and miraculous.
Before long, yomihon began to be written by scholars of kokugaku, or nativist learning, rather than by scholars of Chinese studies. The result was a twofold change: a rethinking of philosophical, religious, and ethical issues in these narratives, and a new neoclassical, elegant style (gabuntai), which differed significantly from the mixed Chinese-Japanese translation style that Tsuga Teishō used. Examples of this new kind of yomihon are Tales of Nishiyama (Nishiyama monogatari, 1768) and Japanese Water Margin (Honchō suikoden, 1773) by Takebe Ayatari, who studied kokugaku with Kamo no Mabuchi. Both are written in an elegant, neoclassical style. Japanese Water Margin led to a new kind of extended narrative and inspired many imitations, including Women’s Water Margin (Onna suikoden, 1783), in which the hero is transformed into a female hero in the late medieval period. These Water Margin variations, which were written in the Kyoto-Osaka region, had a profound influence on later Edo-based, early-nineteenth-century yomihon authors such as Takizawa Bakin and Santō Kyōden.
UEDA AKINARI
Ueda Akinari (1734–1809), a waka and haikai poet, kokugaku scholar, novelist, and man of tea, was born in Osaka. An illegitimate child, he was abandoned by his mother when he was four and adopted by Ueda Mosuke, an Osaka merchant. Even though his hands were crippled from the polio he had contracted at an early age, he began his literary career as a haikai poet. He gradually began to write fiction in the Hachimonjiya format, depicting the lives of contemporary urban commoners in Characters of Worldly Mistresses (Seken tekake katagi, 1767) and other ukiyo-zōshi. At about this time, he met two literary figures who changed the course of his career. The first was Katō Umaki (1721–1777), a kokugaku scholar and a disciple of Kamo no Mabuchi, who introduced Akinari to classical Japanese scholarship and the complex beauty of classical Japanese literature. The other was Tsuga Teishō, who taught him the excitement of the Chinese vernacular novel.
As a consequence of his association with Umaki and Teishō, Akinari moved into a world of fantasy and history that resulted in Tales of Moonlight and Rain (Ugetsu monogatari, 1768 preface, published 1776), which transformed Chinese vernacular fiction into Japanese short fiction that had deep roots in both Japanese history and Japanese literary classics such as the Man’yōshū, The Tale of Genji, and nō drama. Writing in the kind of elegant, neoclassical (gabun) style developed by Ayatari, Akinari created an interior, psychological dimension that elevated the novel of the strange and mysterious to a new artistic height, creating a new kind of yomihon.
The heavy allusive use of both Chinese and Japanese classical sources in the fiction of Akinari and other early yomihon writers was aimed at highly educated readers. These writers also considered themselves to be literati (bunjin) and wrote for pleasure rather than for money, as the earlier ukiyo-zōshi writers had done. Akinari, who was also a waka and haikai poet, shared many characteristics with Yosa Buson, whom he knew. Both sought elegance (ga) in distant, imaginary worlds—especially China and the classical and medieval Japanese past—as opposed to the vulgar (zoku) world that they saw around them. This bunjin consciousness largely disappeared in the Bunka-Bunsei era (1804–1830) with the late yomihon writers Takizawa Bakin and Santō Kyōden, professional authors who wrote to attract a mass audience and sell to publishers.
In 1771, Akinari lost his property and home in a fire and decided to become a doctor. Five years later, at the age of forty-two, he returned to Osaka, established a medical practice, and published Tales of Moonlight and Rain. In the following years he published studies of The Tale of Genji and other Japanese classical literature and began a fierce debate with Motoori Norinaga (1730–1801), a leading kokugaku scholar from Ise. At the age of fifty-four, because of illness, Akinari retired from his medical practice and moved to Kyoto, where he often met with Ozawa Roan (1723–1801), a noted waka poet, and others. Akinari’s last years were marked by a stream of publications on the study of Japanese language, Japanese literary texts, and historical issues. Today, however, he is better known for his fiction, especially Tales of Moonlight and Rain and Tales of Spring Rain (Harusame monogatari, 1808?), the latter written at the end of his career. Both have had a profound influence on modern writers such as Satō Haruo and Mishima Yukio. Akinari died in Kyoto in 1809.
TALES OF MOONLIGHT AND RAIN (UGETSU MONOGATARI, 1776)
Tales of Moonlight and Rain, which was published under the name Senshi Kijin, consists of nine stories, each of which draws from Chinese and Japanese sources, particularly New Tales of Lamplight (Jiandeng xinhua, J. Sentō shinwa, ca. 1378), a Ming collection of classical short stories of the supernatural, and San yan (J. Sangen), three late-Ming (early seventeenth century) anthologies of Chinese vernacular short stories. “The Chrysanthemum Vow” (Kikuka no chigiri), the first story included here, is partly adapted from “Fan J
uqing’s Eternal Friendship,” a vernacular tale in Old and New Stories (Gujin xiaoshuo, J. Kokin shōsetsu, 1620–1621), one of the San yan.1 “The Reed-Choked House” (Asaji ga yado), which follows, is based on a tale in New Tales for Lamplight.2 The model for “A Serpent’s Lust” (Jasei no in), the third story, is “Madame White Forever Buried at Thunder Peak Pagoda,” a vernacular tale in Warning Words to Penetrate the Age (Jingshi tongyan, J. Keisei tsūgon, 1625), one of the San yan anthologies.3 To some modern readers, these three short stories may appear to be no more than Chinese adaptations with minor alterations in name and setting. Edo readers, however, did not regard imitation to be a lesser art. In fact, stories had more value if they were old or came from China, so imitation was encouraged and accepted as a form of creativity. Accordingly, these stories are thought to be particularly interesting for the subtle manner in which Akinari weaves Japanese images, texts, and history into the original Chinese narrative. In “The Chrysanthemum Vow,” for example, Akinari transforms a Chinese tale of the supernatural into a samurai tale of loyalty, love, and revenge.
Akinari sets each tale in the historical past. “The Chrysanthemum Vow” takes place in the late fifteenth century, after the Ōnin Wars (1467–1477), when strong local leaders challenged the authority of distant lords. The setting of “The Reed-Choked House” is the mid-fifteenth century, when Uesugi Noritada drove Ashikaga Shigeuji (1438–1497) from Kamakura and created chaos in the east. Finally, “A Serpent’s Lust” is a story about the aristocratic Heian period. But instead of simply placing the Chinese story in a historically accurate Japanese setting, as Tsuga Teishō had done, Akinari took great care to use locales with rich historical and literary associations, such as Kumano and Yoshino in “A Serpent’s Lust.” “The Reed-Choked House,” for example, ends with a reference to the Man‘yōshū, to the story of Tenkona of Mama, where the story takes place. In this manner, Akinari was able to generate a highly romantic mood for the unexpected encounter with the supernatural, which in turn allowed him to express his own deeper desires, fears, and sense of defeat and victimization.
Akinari also used the structure of medieval nō drama to create similar effects. The structure of “The Chrysanthemum Vow,” for example, is like that of a warrior play (shuramono) in which the dead warrior returns as a ghost to tell of his past. “The Reed-Choked House,” which focuses on the poetic motif of the waiting woman, is similar to a woman play like Wind in the Pines (Matsukaze) or Well Curb (Izutsu), in which a woman waits in vain for a man who has promised to return, or like Fulling Block (Kinuta), in which a woman dies from illness and longing and her husband hurries home, only to encounter the spirit of his dead wife. “A Serpent’s Lust” resembles a demon play such as Lady Aoi (Aoi no ue) or Dōjōji Temple (Dōjōji) in which a traveler-priest meets a person of the village who later appears in her true form as a serpent or an evil spirit, which must be pacified by the traveler-priest. The modern film director Mizoguchi Kenji (1898–1956) borrowed from “The Reed-Choked House” and “A Serpent’s Lust” as well as this nō framework to create a film masterpiece entitled Ugetsu monogatari (1953).
The Chrysanthemum Vow
Lush and green is the willow in spring; do not plant it in your garden. In friendship, do not bond with a shallow man. Although the willow comes into leaf early, will it withstand the first winds of autumn? The shallow man is quick to make friends and as quick to part. Year after year the willow brightens in the spring, but a shallow man will not visit again.
In the province of Harima, in the post town of Kako,4 lived a Confucian scholar named Hasebe Samon. Content with an upright life of poverty, he abhorred the encumbrance of possessions, except for the books that he made his companions. With him was his elderly mother, as virtuous as the mother of Mencius. She worked steadily, twisting and spinning thread to support Samon’s desire for learning. He had a younger sister, too, who was provided for by the Sayo clan, of the same town. The Sayos had great wealth. Admiring the sagacity of the Hasebe mother and son, they took the sister as a bride, thus becoming family, and often would send goods to Samon and his mother. Insisting that they could not trouble others for their own sustenance, Samon and his mother never accepted the gifts.
One day Samon was visiting a man of the same town, talking with him of matters ancient and contemporary, when just as the conversation was gaining momentum, he heard a sad moaning from the other side of the wall. He questioned his host, who replied, “The man seems to be from someplace west of here. He asked for a night’s lodging, saying that he had fallen behind his traveling companions. He appeared to me to be a man of quality, a fine samurai, and so I allowed him to stay. That night he was seized by a violent fever that made it difficult for him even to rise by himself, and so taking pity on him, I have let him stay these three or four days. I am not sure where he is from, however, and think I might have made a terrible mistake. I do not know what to do.” Samon said, “A sad story indeed. Your misgivings are understandable, of course, but a fever must be especially distressing to a man who takes ill on a journey, far from everyone he knows. I should like to have a look at him.” His host restrained him: “I have heard that such diseases can spread and afflict others, and so I have forbidden everyone in my household to go in there. You must not put yourself in danger by going to him.” With a smile, Samon replied, “Life and death are a matter of Destiny.5 What disease will spread to another person? It is the ignorant who say such things; I do not believe them.” With this he opened the door and went in. Looking at the man, he saw that his host had not been mistaken—this was no ordinary person, and the illness appeared to be grave: his face was yellow; his skin was dark and gaunt; and he lay in agony on an old quilt. Looking affably at Samon he said, “Give me a cup of hot water, if you would.” Samon went to his side. “Have no fear, sir, I shall help you,” he said. Consulting his host, he selected some medicines and, by himself, determined the dosage and prepared a decoction, which he gave to the man to drink. He also had him eat some rice porridge. In short, he cared for the man with extraordinary kindness, as though he were nursing his own brother.
The samurai was moved to tears by Samon’s warm compassion. “That you should be so kind to me, a complete stranger. . . . Even if I die, I will show my gratitude,” he said. Samon comforted him: “You must not use fainthearted words. Generally this disease has a certain term; once it has run its course, your life will no longer be in danger. I shall come every day to look after you,” he vowed with all sincerity. Samon cared for the man devotedly, and the illness gradually abated. Feeling quite refreshed, the man thanked his host warmly and, esteeming Samon for his unobtrusive kindness, inquired into his vocation and then related his own circumstances: “I am from the village of Matsue, in the province of Izumo, and my name is Akana Sōemon. Since I have some slight understanding of military texts, the master of Tomita Castle, En’ya Kamonnosuke, employed me as his tutor.6 During that time, I was sent as a secret envoy to Sasaki Ujitsuna, in Ōmi. While I was staying there, the former master of Tomita Castle, Amako Tsunehisa, enlisting the support of the Nakayamas, launched a surprise New Year’s Eve attack and captured the castle. Lord Kamonnosuke was among those killed.7 Since Izumo was, properly speaking, a Sasaki domain, and En’ya the administrator, I urged Ujitsuna to join the Mizawa and Mitoya clans and overthrow Tsunehisa. Despite his formidable appearance, Ujitsuna was in fact a coward and a fool—far from carrying out my proposal, he ordered me to stay in his domain. Seeing no point in remaining there, I slipped away by myself and started for home, only to be stricken by this disease and forced against my will to impose on you, sir. Your kindness is more than I deserve. I shall devote the rest of my life to repaying you.” Samon responded, “It is only human nature to help someone in distress.8 I have done nothing to earn your very gracious thanks. Please stay longer and recuperate.” Taking strength from the sincerity of Samon’s words, Akana stayed for some days, and his health returned almost to normal.
The surprise attack on Tomita Ca
stle. From the 1776 edition. (From NKBZ 48, Hanabusa sōshi, Nishiyama monogatari, Ugetsu monogatari, Harusame monogatari, by permission of Shōgakukan)
During this time, thinking what a good friend he had found, Samon spent his days and nights with Akana. As they talked together, Akana began to speak hesitantly of various Chinese thinkers, regarding whom his questions and understanding were exceptional, and on military theory he spoke with authority. Finding that their thoughts and feelings were in harmony on every subject, the two were filled with mutual admiration and joy, and finally they pledged their brotherhood. Being the elder by five years, Akana, in the role of older brother, accepted Samon’s expressions of respect and said to him, “Many years have passed since I lost my father and mother. Your aged mother is now my mother, and I should like to pay my respects to her anew. I wonder if she will take pity on me and agree to my childish wish.” Samon was overjoyed. “My mother has always lamented that I was alone. Your heartfelt words will give her a new lease on life when I convey them to her.” With this he took Akana to his house, where his mother greeted them joyfully: “My son lacks talent, his studies are out of step with the times, and so he has missed his chance to advance in the world. I pray that you do not abandon him but guide him as his elder brother.” Akana bowed deeply and said, “A man of character values what is right. Fame and fortune are not worthy of mention. Blessed with my honored mother’s love, and receiving the respect of my wise younger brother—what more could I desire?” Rejoicing, he stayed for some time.
Although they had flowered, it seemed, only yesterday or today, the cherry blossoms at Onoe had scattered, and waves rising with a refreshing breeze proclaimed that early summer had arrived.9 Akana said to Samon and his mother, “Since it was to see how things stand in Izumo that I escaped from Ōmi, I should like to go down there briefly and then come back to repay your kindness humbly as a servant living on bean gruel and water.10 Please allow me to take my leave for a time.” Samon said, “If it must be so, my brother, when will you return?” Akana said, “The months and days will pass quickly. At the latest, I shall return before the end of this autumn.” Samon said, “On what day of autumn shall I expect you? I beg you to appoint the time.” Akana said, “Let us decide, then, that the Chrysanthemum Festival, the ninth day of the Ninth Month, shall be the day of my return.” Samon said, “Please be certain not to mistake the day. I shall await you with a sprig of blossoming chrysanthemum and poor wine.”11 Mutually they pledged their reunion and lamented their separation, and Akana returned to the west.
Early Modern Japanese Literature: An Anthology, 1600–1900 Page 81