by Kafū Nagai
"Your place must be just about the oldest in Shimbashi now, isn't it? Which year of Meiji was it when you started?"
"Let me see. The first time I came to this district to enjoy myself... I'll never forget it. It was at the height of the Satsuma Rebellion. At that time, my Jukichi's mother was still healthy and strong, and the two of them were earning their living together as geisha. But the world has changed completely since then. In those days, when people spoke of Shimbashi it was as if they were to speak of Yamanote today. As for geisha, nothing could match the Yanagibashi quarter. After that came Sanyabori, Yoshicho, Sukiyamachi in Shitaya, and such places— pretty much in that order. In places like Akasaka, until quite recently, there were guest rooms on the second floors of the noodle shops where you could have a girl for a twenty-sen tip, people said, and everybody went there out of curiosity."
"Really? So that's how it was." Kurayama listened with deep interest. Cautiously he took out a pocket notebook and prepared to write down these odds and ends of the old man's recollections. Kurayama considered it a writer's duty to listen to eyewitness reports of an age now past, no matter what old person recited them, to write them down, and to preserve them for the future. For this reason, whenever he came to Shimbashi, he never failed to visit the Obanaya. The master of the Obanaya was exactly the right old man for Kurayama's purposes. And for the old man, Kurayama was an unsurpassed companion in these conversations. No matter where one went in the busy world of today, there was not likely to be another person who would listen as respectfully and as untiringly to an old man's grumbling and bragging as Kurayama-sensei did. And when more time than usual passed between his visits, the old man would say anxiously: "I wonder what could have happened to the sensei."
The old man, whose name was Kitani Chojiro, had been born in 1848, in the first year of the Kaei era, as the heir of a minor hatamoto, a retainer of the shogun. His father's house was in the Kinshibori area of Honjo. The boy was handsome, and it was said of him that he closely resembled the actor Sansho VIII. If the world had gone on as before, his life would have been exactly like that of a character in a novel, but just as he was turning twenty the shogun's government collapsed, and he lost his hereditary income. Some time after that, having failed in several amateurish business ventures of the sort that impoverished samurai undertook, he turned to entertainment as a way out of his misfortune. As a boy he had enjoyed learning the art of story telling, and he now decided to use this talent to earn his living. At the time there was a famous narrator of historical romances named Ichizan who had been an acquaintance of his father. It was Chojiro's good fortune to become this man's apprentice. He took the professional name of Gozan, and before long he was able to take his own place on the storyteller's platform.
His natural eloquence and his manly handsomeness won him a reputation almost instantly. It was during this time that Jukichi, the daughter of the Obanaya house in Shimbashi, was captivated by him at one of the teahouses where he had been called to perform. She patronized him extravagantly and finally made him her husband.
Two sons were born of this marriage between Chojiro and Jukichi. The old man had hoped to give the older boy, Shohachi, a superior education and to make a worthy man of him so that he might retrieve the shattered fortunes of the ancestral house. But Shohachi, who had been born on the straw mats of a geisha house, began to show a taste for the art of entertainment even as early as his primary school days. His father, after scolding him severely, even went so far as to punish him physically a number of times. Finally at his wit's end, he decided that if this was the way things were, there was nothing to do but let the boy make a name for himself in the entertainment world. So, when he was twelve, Shohachi became an apprentice of the actor Ichikawa Danshu. He was given the name of Ichikawa Raishichi, and after Danshu's death, when Shohachi was twenty, he became so popular as an actor that he aroused jealousy among his fellow performers. Then, quite suddenly, a cold that he had caught developed into acute pneumonia, and very shortly he was dead.
Just at this time Shohachi's younger brother Takijiro, who was about to graduate from middle school, was for some reason or other called in during a periodic police roundup of juvenile delinquents and given a warning. When word of this reached the school, he was expelled. And now, just when all these troubles had brought the old man to a state of intense disgust with the world and everything in it, a dispute arose between the storytellers and the owners of the storytelling halls. In fit of anger, he found fault with everybody and ended up by returning his storyteller's license.
The old man had never been a true entertainment artist at heart, and because of this he displayed a stubbornness that brought on the dislike of his fellow artists. Although he was resolved, for his own part, to accept things as they were and to hold both himself and the world cheap, unconsciously he was exhibiting his old pride and his predilection for the old days. While his master Ichizan was living, he had often been invited to banquets and teahouse parties. Once at a house-warming party given by a certain nouveau riche gentleman, he had let himself be carried away by his own eloquence and had made remarks that were interpreted as offensive, so that his performance ended in a fiasco. From then on, he absolutely declined all invitations to perform privately, explaining that such occasions hampered his style. And he limited his engagements to the storytelling hall.
If a storyteller couldn't perform exactly as he pleased, where was the interest? And if noblemen and gentlemen wanted to hear Gozan's stories, let them come to the storytellers' hall. No matter who was in the audience— everyday workmen or fine gentlemen—Gozan wouldn't change his style to suit one or the other. In this, he was like the old-time storyteller Furyu Shidoken. As he grew older, he grew more and more vigorous in his performances, frequently scolding his audiences and at the same time making them laugh. This increased his popularity all the more, so that even during the months of February and August, the seasons when customers were usually scarce, Gozan was able to attract a considerable house. In a word, Kurayama Nanso's acquaintance with the old man grew out of his having been for quite some time a regular patron whenever Gozan appeared.
"Haven't you ever thought of going back to it?" Kurayama asked. "After you gave it up, I too stopped going to the storytellers' hall."
"No. Anyhow, with the world as it is today, there wouldn't be any sense in it. It's not the sort of world where people want to sit at ease and listen to storytellers."
"Nowadays if it isn't a movie, people aren't interested, are they?"
"Gidayu ballad-dramas, comical stories—everything the storytellers' hall has to offer has gone out of date."
"Not only the storytellers' halls. It's the same way with the theater nowadays. When one stops to think about it, you are quite right. Audiences today don't care about seeing or hearing real art. Everybody says so. What people want is cheap, fast-moving entertainment with a lot of variety for the price of one admission. They can only get that at the movies."
"That's true. It's exactly as you say. When it's a matter of taking the time to appreciate the art of an actor or the style of a storyteller, today's patrons find it a bother. They're not interested. And isn't that why books of stories sell very well even when the storytelling halls are almost deserted? As for me, I don't like art by way of phonograph records or storytellers' tales printed in books at all. Don't you agree, sensei? Really, no matter what one's art may be, art itself is an instinctive enthusiasm that develops in an artist as he performs. And this enthusiasm naturally communicates itself to the audience. When this happens, the audience too, without realizing it, develops the same feeling and becomes more and more interested. That's the marvelous thing about art. If the listener and the performer don't become one in feeling, it isn't art at all. Isn't that true?"
As the childish old man and the outdated novelist sat there wetting their throats with the bitter tea that had become cold and treating each other to impressive speeches, the reed door slid open, and a voice said: "Why, hello. What
a pleasure to see you!" It was Jukichi, the mistress of the Obanaya.
She was a short, stout old woman of considerable breadth, but there was no trace in her of those detestably corpulent restaurant and machiai mistresses that one often runs across: the kind that drip lavishly with flattery to a person's face but spitefully stick out their tongues at him as soon as his back is turned. Anyone could see, from her happy face with its round eyes and chubby cheeks, that she was a frank and good-hearted woman. She had evidently just returned from a teahouse engagement. Over her kimono of silk gauze, with its pattern of small dots, she wore an obi of figured satin. Both in her style of dress and in her figure itself there was an indefinable composure, a suggestion of something that was not of today. One would have said that she looked more like a teacher of geisha music than a Shimbashi geisha.
Jukichi was altogether the quiet-mannered kind of woman she appeared to be. Neither the geisha of her own age nor the most impertinent of the young geisha nor anyone else ever spoke ill of her. All of the old geisha who were around Jukichi's age were persons of influence in this district, and everyone granted them the right to be called "big neisan" to the last. But no matter what these influential geisha might do, Jukichi never meddled in the right or wrong of their actions but left everything up to the managers of the geisha association. Because of this, these people spoke of her as an amiable and sensible woman. On the other hand, even the members of that discontented group who wanted to gain influence with the association—that is, the halfway independent geisha who were neither young nor old—admired Jukichi-neisan as an openhearted and unselfish woman. But there were many who thought it a pity that Jukichi-neisan didn't occasionally express something in the way of an opinion. At her age, however, Jukichi had no inclination to burden herself intentionally with the chore of being an association manager or to exert influence by directing geisha entertainments or supervising dance rehearsals. She felt no need of forcibly gaining a reputation for the girls of her house by such means as these.
If her elder son, Shohachi, were alive and well and had become a splendid actor, and if her younger son, Taki-jiro, had successfully graduated from school—if there had been any kind of future to look forward to, she would have worked like a slave to earn and save money. But since one of them had died, and the other had turned into a scapegrace who had as well as been disowned by his father and was not allowed to meet him publicly, it seemed to her good enough, in a word, that she and her man Gozan should be able to live out the small remainder of their lives in peace. Besides, ever since the Shimbashi quarter was established, her house had enjoyed good patronage—so much so that there were even geisha from other houses who asked to be taken in. And when she herself, who enjoyed the long-standing patronage of highly reliable customers, accepted engagements, the day's business went well indeed. But no matter how much she tried to avoid thinking about them, it was always her sons that were in her mind.
Now Jukichi knelt before the Buddha altar to chant a prayer. Having done this, she put out the sacred candle and closed the doors of the shrine. Then, going to the large room at the front of the house, she changed into a lightweight kimono dyed in shibori style. While she was discussing something or other with the old woman who helped her with the affairs of the house, Kurayama-sensei prepared to leave. The old man Gozan accompanied him to the door.
"What's this? Are you leaving already?" Jukichi asked. "Won't you stay a little longer, sensei?"
"Thank you, but I'll be back again before long."
"And just when I had been waiting for such a long time to have you go over the 'Amigasa' song with me."
The sensei laughed. "If that's the case, it's all the more reason why I can't stay longer. Lately I've been neglecting my practice altogether. If you happen to meet the teacher, please give him my regards."
"Well, then, we'll see you again before long."
Jukichi returned with the old man to the room at the back of the house. After she had smoked for a moment or two, she said meaningfully: "My dear, is Komayo upstairs?"
"No. She went out a little while ago."
"I didn't know a thing about it, but... Well, the reason she's been going to the Hamazaki house lately is that she's called there by Rikiji's gentleman."
"I don't believe it. Really?" With a piece of cloth, the old man began to polish a tobacco box that had been made from a dried grapefruit skin.
"In fact, Rikiji-san and I were together two or three days ago, and she made some remarks that sounded rather strange to me, but I didn't think too much about it. But tonight I heard the whole story from a guest, and then I thought: 'Aha!' "
"Well! She seems to have a lot more nerve than you'd think from just looking at her."
"But wouldn't it be annoying to have people think that I played the go-between for them and at the same time pretended not to know anything about it?"
"What do you mean? You'd better not say anything at all. Leave things the way they are. If she had talked with you about it before it happened... But now that it's happened behind your back, there's nothing you can do about it. Even so, girls nowadays do all sorts of things, don't they? Not only that one. None of them care one bit about duty or obligation. That's why they're so bold, no matter where they go."
"It's true. Tonight I heard all kinds of rumors—even that the danna has proposed to redeem her. It seems that he says he'll take care of her after she's free, but Komayo still hasn't given him a definite answer."
"She seems to be going out a great deal lately. Maybe she's dreamed up some sort of wild scheme or other."
"Well, nothing could be better for our house than to have her work so hard for us, but nobody stays young forever, and if someone offers to take care of her, it'll be better for her if she listens to what he says, won't it?"
"This danna—what kind of man is he? A nobleman?"
"I told you he's Rikiji's gentleman."
"I know that, but what kind of fellow is this gentleman?"
"My dear, don't you know? He's with some sort of insurance company or other. He's about thirty-seven or thirty-eight. Anyway, he's still under forty. A fine, handsome man with a mustache."
"So she's found something valuable. No wonder she finds her business so interesting that she can't give it up. If she has an attractive danna and can amuse herself by taking a Kabuki actor like Kikugoro or Kichiemon as a lover, she can have her cake and eat it too." The old man laughed.
"I doubt that there's anyone in the world as unconcerned as you are." Jukichi gave him a scandalized look in which there was no real anger. She beat her pipe noisily against the ash tray. Just then the telephone at the front of the house began to ring insistently. "Nobody's there to answer, I suppose," Jukichi said. She seemed tired as she got up.
A DAYTING DREAM
ONE EVENING at the end of August, when an alarming drought had caused the water supply to be suspended for a time, there came a sudden torrential downpour, and the rain continued all night and half of the following day. Then, when it just as suddenly cleared, the season had changed completely. Autumn, which had arrived in an instant, made itself clearly felt in the refreshing color of the sky and the leaves of the willows, in the echoing clatter of geta in the midnight streets, in the tinkling bells of the jinrikisha, and in the chirping voices of the crickets that began to sound busily from the rubbish boxes in the alleys.
Komayo had been about to leave with Yoshioka for one of the resort areas like Hakone or Shuzenji, but the heavy rains had caused breakdowns not only on the Tokaido but also on the Tohoku railroad line, and she persuaded him that they should go and stay at the Sanshun'en in Morigasaki. The Sanshun'en was a villa of the Taigetsu machiai in Kobikicho, which enjoyed a supreme position in Shimbashi. It was not an inn open to the public. Originally, the mistress of the Taigetsu, finding herself almost too prosperous, had built it for her own relaxation. But because she belonged to that tribe whose avarice is inborn, she found it a pity that such a fine villa should stand empty most of t
he time. So she turned over the management of the machiai in Kobikicho to her adopted daughter and several experienced servants, while she made the villa into a kind of branch enterprise, arranging with her most reliable patrons and the geisha who frequented her establishment that they bring here the guests with whom they wanted to spend the night. Since it was not like an inn, where one is always running into other patrons, her guests had the feeling of living in a privately owned villa, and naturally their pleasure expressed itself in excessive tips. The geisha, in their relations with the Taigetsu machiai, which lorded it over all Shimbashi, had the feeling that they could somehow increase their prestige if they managed to attract even one extra guest to the villa. Because of this, there were even some of them who bought souvenir gifts out of their own pockets from time to time and, upon returning to Tokyo, made it a point to go to the office in Kobikicho and announce with pride: "I am much obliged for the kindness that was shown to me out there last night." It was probably with some such scheme as this in mind that Komayo had induced Yoshioka to go to the Sanshun'en with her.
By the time the maid had cleared away the breakfast things, it was past ten o'clock. The early autumn sky was lightly clouded, and from time to time a gentle wind shook the dewdrops from the bush clover at the edge of the veranda without, however, frightening the insects beneath, which went on singing quietly as before.
Komayo, with a Shikishima cigarette dangling from her lips, was lying on her stomach looking at the Miyako newspaper that the maid had brought in. After a slight yawn, she raised her head and said suddenly in an artificial way: "It's nice here, isn't it? It's so quiet."
Yoshioka, his head resting on his elbow and a cigar between his teeth, had for some time been gazing with intent admiration at the woman's body. Now he quietly sat halfway up and said: "That's what I mean. Isn't it about time you gave up being a geisha?"