by Donald Keene
The novels of the twenties, thirties, and forties were dominated largely by men who had made a name for themselves during the previous decade. A few important new writers did emerge, notably Yokomitsu Riichi and Kawabata Yasunari. Both men were associated with a school called the “neo-Sensationalist.” This ambiguous term meant in practice that its adherents were opposed alike to the rising “proletarian” school and to the unrelieved use of realism practiced by certain writers. Yokomitsu and Kawabata proved themselves to be superlative craftsmen and masters of the art of psychological fiction.
The proletarian literature movement of the twenties occupied the attention of many young authors, and has since been rediscovered and extravagantly admired. Viewed by any normal standards of literature, however, its productions were remarkably poor. The great virtue of proletarian writings was that they dealt with aspects of Japan largely ignored by more famous writers. Apart from the novel Earth (1910) by Nagatsuka Takashi, a ponderous if accurate portrayal of the lives of hard-pressed farmers, there had been a marked reluctance on the part of most Japanese writers to treat the farmers, fishermen, and laboring classes, who make up the bulk of the Japanese population. The proletarian writers filled this gap but, we may feel, in an excessively crude manner. Occasionally, as in Kobayashi Takiji’s Cannery Boat (1929), there is so vivid a description of the conditions under which the proletariat lives that the work still commands our attention. But painfully detailed accounts of the misery of the oppressed classes, interspersed with scenes of joyous workers marching hand in hand to overthrow the capitalists, do not rate very high literarily. We can only marvel today that so many earnest writers produced so little of lasting value.
The military disasters of the thirties and forties into which the Japanese people was plunged by the ruling cliques produced almost no literature of consequence. Most writers did what they could to prevent becoming embroiled in the propaganda efforts of the militarists. A few showed open sympathy with Japan’s “mission,” but apart from the diaries of Hino Ashihei, the China Incidents and the Pacific War did not engender much literature which can be read with pleasure today.
It has only been since the end of the war in 1945 that important new writers have begun to appear again in numbers. It is still too soon to be able to predict with confidence which of their works will last, but the writings of Dazai Osamu capture so perfectly the postwar scene that it is hard to imagine that they will be forgotten. The present volume concludes with an extract from a novel by Mishima Yukio, a remarkably gifted young writer whose varied production augurs well for the future of Japanese literature. As European traditions are finally absorbed, not only by the novels but by the drama and poetry as well, we can expect that the amazing renaissance of literature in Japan during the past half-century or so will continue to be one of the wonders of the modern literary world.
MODERN
JAPANESE LITERATURE
160;
© 169;
É 201;
â 226;
ä 228;
ç 231;
è 232;
é 233;
ê 234;
ù 249;
ü 252;
Ō 332;
ō 333;
Ū 362;
ū 363;
& 38;
— 8212;
‘ 8216;
’ 8217;
“ 8220;
” 8221;
• 8226;
THE BEEFEATER
[from Aguranabe, 1871] by Kanagaki Robun (1829-1894)
It would be hard to defend on purely literary grounds the writings of the years immediately following the Meiji Restoration of 1868, but in the books of anecdotes and curiosities which were the bestsellers of the day, we find many fascinating glimpses into the life of the Japan which was just emerging. The beefeater described in this selection was a typical man of his age. For many centuries the Japanese had been forbidden by Buddhist law to eat beef. With the coming of the foreigners, however, a demand for beef was created, and by the early years of the Meiji period restaurants which sold beef had sprung up in the cities. Details of the costume and the manners of the beefeater reveal to us the comic aspects of the “enlightenment” which was taking place. The intent of this piece would seem largely to have been to parody the advocacy of the superiority of Western civilization by such men as the great educator Fukuzawa Yukichi (1834-1901).
•
A man about thirty-five, rather swarthy it is true, but of clear complexion, thanks apparently to the daily use of soap, which purges all impurities. His hair, not having been cut for some hundred days, is long and flowing, and looks as if it is in the process of being let out altogether, in the foreign style. Naturally enough, he uses that scent called Eau de Cologne to give a sheen to his hair. He wears a padded silken kimono beneath which a calico undergarment is visible. By his side is his Western-style umbrella, covered in gingham. From time to time he removes from his sleeve with a painfully contrived gesture a cheap watch, and consults the time. As a matter of fact this is merely so much display to impress others, and the chain is only gold-plate. He turns to his neighbor, who is also eating beef, and speaks:
Excuse me, but beef is certainly a most delicious thing, isn’t it? Once you get accustomed to its taste, you can never go back to deer or wild boar again. I wonder why we in Japan haven’t eaten such a clean thing before? For over 1620—or is it 1630—years people in the West have been eating huge quantities of beef. Before then, I understand, beef and mutton were considered the king’s exclusive property, and none ever entered the mouth of a commoner, unless he happened to be something on the order of a daimyo’s chief retainer. We really should be grateful that even people like ourselves can now eat beef, thanks to the fact that Japan is steadily becoming a truly civilized country. Of course, there are some unenlightened boors who cling to their barbaric superstitions and say that eating meat defiles you so much that you can’t pray any more before Buddha and the gods. Such nonsense shows they simply don’t understand natural philosophy. Savages like that should be made to read Fukuzawa’s article on eating beef. In the West they’re free of superstitions. There it’s the custom to do everything scientifically, and that’s why they’ve invented amazing things like the steamship and the steam engine. Did you know that they engrave the plates for printing newspapers with telegraphic needles? And that they bring down wind from the sky with balloons? Aren’t they wonderful inventions! Of course, there are good reasons behind these inventions. If you look at a map of the world you’ll see some countries marked “tropical,” which means that’s where the sun shines closest. The people in those countries are all burnt black by the sun. The king of that part of the world tried all kinds of schemes before he hit on what is called a balloon. That’s a big round bag they fill with air high up in the sky. They bring the bag down and open it, causing the cooling air inside the bag to spread out all over the country. That’s a great invention. On the other hand, in Russia, which is a cold country where the snow falls even in summer and the ice is so thick that people can’t move, they invented the steam engine. You’ve got to admire them for it. I understand that they modeled the steam engine after the flaming chariot of hell, but anyway, what they do is to load a crowd of people on a wagon and light a fire in a pipe underneath. They keep feeding the fire inside the pipe with coal, so that the people riding on top can travel a great distance completely oblivious to the cold. Those people in the West can think up inventions like that, one after the other. ... You say you must be going? Well, good-bye. Waitress! Another small bottle of sake. And some pickled onions to go with it!
TRANSLATED BY DONALD KEENE
THE WESTERN PEEP SHOW
[from Tōkyō Shin-hanjō-ki, 1874] by Hattori Bushō (1842-1908)
This selection describes one way in which the early curiosity of the Japanese about the West was satisfied. The style is a mock version of the heavy antithesis of Chinese balanced-prose, and there are even allusions to the ancient philosophers.
•
No less than the soaring eagle, the dung fly beats its wings; the naked savage parades himself with the airs of the elegantly clad. Hence it comes about that the peep show has won such popularity and, together with the photograph, proudly flaunts its banners today. It all began when someone opened a place in Asakusa. Within a few months there were peep-show establishments in a number of localities, particularly in the section formerly dominated by mansions of the daimyo. The peep show must have been an invention of those who eat without tilling the fields and who wear clothes which are not of their own weaving. As yet no respected businessmen seem to be promoting this entertainment.
The viewing parlors are for the most part small painted shacks, the fronts of which have been given a hasty coat of whitewash. The rear, however, is neglected, suggesting nothing so much as a slattern who powders her face but leaves her back dirty. Some of these parlors are several stories tall, and the wooden boards with which they are built are painted to resemble stone, exactly like the entrance to some quack doctor’s residence. Inside the building, at intervals several feet apart, are arranged a number of machines, and one goes from one machine to another peeping at its display. The front of the machine has eyes like a giant snake, each of which neatly fits the two human eyes. The viewer peeps at the world as through the eye of a needle, and the cost is a mere one sen. Some machines contain pictures of the scenery of countries all over the world; others are of completely imaginary subjects:
The steel bridge of London is longer than a rainbow; the palace of Paris is taller than the clouds. An enraged Russian general pulls out a soldier’s whiskers; a recumbent Italian lady kisses her dog. They have bought an American conflagration to sell us; they have wrapped up a German war to open here. Warships push through the waves in droves; merchant ships enter port in a forest of masts. A steam engine climbs a mountain; a balloon flies in the sky. Seated one may contemplate the Cape of Good Hope; lying down one may gaze at the Mediterranean. The lion which devours the human being invariably kills from the trunk; the black men who paddle boats remain stuck for all eternity to the bottom.1 You look at a picture of a museum and despise the pawnshop next door; you peep at a great hospital and lament the headaches of others. As the spectator approaches the last peep show he becomes increasingly aware how cheap the admission price has been. In the last show, the Goddess of Beauty lies naked in bed. Her skin is pure white, except for a small black mole under her navel. It is unfortunate that she has one leg lifted, and we cannot admire what lies within. In another scene we regret that only half the body is exposed and we cannot see the behind; in still another we lament that though face to face we cannot kiss the lips. This marvel among marvels, novelty among novelties, is quite capable of startling the eyes of rustics and untutored individuals.
The above are only a few examples of what one can see. Although the peep show is popular entertainment, when compared to other familiar types it is not without its educational benefits. Unlike the “tigers” of Asakusa, which are actually dyed cats, or the “dragons” of Yorozuyo Bridge, which are snakes with painted scales—displays whose falseness becomes apparent in a couple of days, when the paint wears off—the peep shows offer the latest curiosities of the world and the customs of every nation. It is like touring the world at a glance, and should broaden men’s knowledge while delighting their eyes. It may be true, as some say, that we cannot be sure whether these pictures are true or false without going to the countries they represent, but they are by no means in the same category with a cat painted like a tiger. But, of course, they are no more than second-hand articles from some old ragpicker’s shop.
TRANSLATED BY DONALD KEENE
THE THIEVES
[Shima Chidori Tsuki no Shiranami, 1881]
by Kawatake Mokuami (1816-1893)
Mokuami was one of Japan’s greatest dramatic geniuses. His works number over three hundred, many of which are still performed in Kabuki theatres. He is known particularly for portrayals of thieves and other characters of the underworld. Mokuami was fortunate in that his plays were performed by Kabuki actors of extraordinary brilliance. In The Thieves, for example, the ninth Danjūrō created the part of Mochizuki, the fifth Kikugorō that of Shimazō, and the first Sadanji that of Senta. However, the very fact that Mokuami was so consummately skilled in meeting the requirements of the Kabuki theatre and its actors sometimes lessened the purely literary value of his works.
The Thieves is considered by many to be Mokuami’s masterpiece. It was written when he was sixty-five years old as his farewell to the theatre, although he actually continued writing for some years afterward. This was the first of his works composed without any collaborators, as was the common practice. The reform of the thieves at the end and the prevalence of the sentiment of “encouraging virtue and chastising vice” has been attributed to Mokuami’s desire to end on a virtuous note his career as a chronicler of the underworld. Mentions of the telegraph, the legal reforms after the Meiji Restoration, etc., lend a contemporary tone to this play.
Only the last act of The Thieves is given here, but it is complete in itself.
Characters
SHIMAZO
SENTA
MOCHIZUKI AKIRA
A NOODLE SELLER
PILGRIMS
SCENE: Before the Yasukuni Shrine in Tokyo. At left1 is a large stone torii, with low stone fences on either side. Above are towering pines. At rear are a pair of copper lanterns and numerous stone lanterns. The shrine is dimly visible to the far rear. It is night.
As the curtain is drawn aside the noodle seller is setting down his wares. Two men in pilgrim’s costume are eating near him. A clock is striking somewhere.
FIRST PILGRIM: Another bowl of noodles!
NOODLE SELLER: Yes, sir.
SECOND PILGRIM: While you’re at it, I’ll have another too.
NOODLE SELLER: Yes, sir. (He prepares the noodles.)
FIRST PILGRIM: There seem to be fewer people out selling noodles at night nowadays.
NOODLE SELLER: That’s right. They’re all in the suburbs, and nobody’s left downtown.
SECOND PILGRIM: But every year you see more and more people selling fried dumplings.
NOODLE SELLER: Yes, there has been a change. (He serves the two customers, who continue talking and eating.)
FIRST PILGRIM: Unusually good, isn’t it?
SECOND PILGRIM: Yes, it is. It’s extremely well seasoned.
NOODLE SELLER: There aren’t many noodle shops in this neighborhood. It’s a little out of the way. I’m very careful with the ingredients and the preparation, and most people are kind enough to wait for me to come. I usually am about sold out by the time I make my first round.
FIRST PILGRIM: That doesn’t surprise me. The noodles are prepared just as well as in a regular shop.
SECOND PILGRIM: I don’t wonder that people wait for something as good as this.
NOODLE SELLER: It’s kind of you to say so. Where are you gentlemen going dressed that way?
FIRST PILGRIM: We set out this afternoon to worship at the big temple in Horinouchi. We hadn’t much time to lose, what with the shortening of the days, but we stopped anyway at a restaurant.
SECOND PILGRIM: We spent a little time drinking there to refresh ourselves, but it was already dark before we left, and now it’s become very late.
NOODLE SELLER: You must be very tired.
FIRST PILGRIM: Who is honored at this shrine?
NOODLE SELLER: The men who died in the wars.2 It was for the Emperor’s sake that they died, even the soldiers of humble birth, and that’s why it has been made so impressive.
SECOND PILGRIM: I’ve always gone by without ever looking inside, but it really looks pretty when you see it this way.
NOODLE SELLER: You should have a look at it by day. There are fountains in the ponds, and the trees in the garden are something to see. Flowers bloom all year round. It’s well worth a special trip to see it, even if you come a long way.
; FIRST PILGRIM: Here’s your money.
NOODLE SELLER: Thank you. (He takes the money.)
SECOND PILGRIM: We’ve got to hurry now.
FIRST PILGRIM: What time is it?
NOODLE SELLER: It has just struck ten.
SECOND PILGRIM: That’s like a line out of a Kabuki play, isn’t it-asking the noodle seller the time.
NOODLE SELLER: It is a familiar phrase.
FIRST PILGRIM: Now that we know the time, we really must be hurrying.
NOODLE SELLER: I must also be starting on my round.
SECOND PILGRIM: Well then, good-bye.
NOODLE SELLER: Good-bye, sir.
VOICE: Noodles, over here!
(At a cry from the left the noodle seller goes off in that direction. The two pilgrims move off the stage onto the hanamichi.3 The music begins.)
NARRATOR: As is the wont of autumn nights,
A wind is in the sky.
The clouds move quickly, to disclose
Patches of stars here and there.
And now a man comes quickly by:
Senta pauses beneath a tree.
(Senta enters from left to the tolling of a bell and the howl of the wind. The lower part of his face is concealed. He strikes an attitude.)
SENTA: Ten o’clock has struck, but Shimazo hasn’t appeared yet. He must have decided to shut his shop for the night before he left. I can’t believe that he won’t come, since he promised me. Brrrr—the wind up here is strong! It’s not just cool, it’s downright cold. The effects of the sake I drank this evening seem to have worn off. I hope he comes before eleven.
NARRATOR: He looks around—a pile of stones
Is close at hand and there he sits.
Before he has waited long, he sees