TOMONOJŌ: Although you were in Master Iori’s service for only five or six years, you weren’t one of his favorites. And you attended his noble wife from a distance and set out to avenge her husband’s death. It will naturally be said of you that you were a good and faithful servant, no doubt a paragon for posterity. Hence, if I excelled at martial skills, I would happily follow your example. All the more, with a female companion the likes of the beautiful Okuni. I mean, what a great thing for a guy like you on this continuing journey with her and when you encounter the adversary unexpectedly, you personally cut him down and leave him there—a gutless samurai, a rank coward. Isn’t that right, Gohei? And when you go home, having effectively taken vengeance on the enemy, you’ll meet with approval in the highest echelons and you will be promoted. If things go really well, you will inherit Master Iori’s family name and could become Lady Okuni’s husband. That’s the stuff of loyalty. Of all people, the wise and resourceful ought to be loyal.
GOHEI: What you’re saying is utterly unthinkable! Are you suggesting that’s what I had in mind in becoming the attendant of a nobleman’s wife?
TOMONOJŌ: You may have thought at first that you only would try to help avenge the master’s death because of your obligation to him. I don’t doubt that at all. I just mean that loyalty is not very difficult to find under such circumstances. In your eyes, wandering about as you are with no fixed destination, a pitiable person like me may appear to be happy, even though he has been labeled as an enemy by his beloved and shunned by the world at large.
GOHEI: You may show most people a gentle side, but how dare you say such things! No way a person with your twisted disposition can understand our suffering.
TOMONOJŌ: But Gohei, of course you’ve suffered, yet didn’t you have a means of overcoming it? When Okuni was sick in Utsunomiya, you took care of her with all your heart. You served her gallantly, attentive to her every need.
GOHEI: What the hell are you saying now?
TOMONOJŌ: You both seemed so close as mistress and retainer that from my vantage point I was secretly envious of you.
OKUNI: What is it, Tomonojō? What do you mean by all this? Do you want to inflict shame on me again?
TOMONOJŌ: Though you set out to avenge your husband, it was exceedingly unfortunate that you fell ill on the way. At any rate, that’s what I was thinking over that span of two months while I was playing the shakuhachi under your window. I say, exceedingly unfortunate, though at that moment deep down, you both surely were happy, despite your misfortune. I thought you might possibly have forgotten about taking revenge. But not for long, I knew, once you had recovered. After all, this world offers only temporary shelter, and as long as it’s an enjoyable moment, one could be happy. Now, you two, it’s nothing other than that, is it? In no way do I wish to inflict shame on you. On the contrary, I’m envious of you.
Okuni’s face turns pale, and her eyes meet Gohei’s.
GOHEI: What is it you are trying to prove with all this?
TOMONOJŌ: Aren’t you two trying to kill me? What good would it be to keep secrets from someone about to die? As one who had traced the steps of the person I love for four years, how could I not know such things? Of course, when you left home, you were the perfect mistress and retainer, that’s clear, but at some point the two of you became intimate. I spent the night in the room right next to yours at that hotel in Kumagaya.
OKUNI: What? That night, you were . . . ?
TOMONOJŌ: That’s right. In the next room, and I heard everything you said. Madame Okuni, no need to get all worried about it. If you kill me here, only the two of you in the whole wide world will know. If you kill the enemy and return home, you surely can become husband and wife for all to see. That leaves only one character—me, Tomonojō—who would make a fool of himself.
GOHEI: The fact that you have known this now for such a long time makes me feel a real loss of honor. When we started out, I had no such intention. It was by accident that it happened, fully knowing that it was adultery. Master Ikeda, please forgive me.
TOMONOJŌ: It’s not up to me to forgive or not to forgive. It’s just, it’s a bitter place, this world. I fall in love with another man’s wife and ruin my life. You’re doing the same thing, and people call it loyalty. So even while you’re committing adultery, you have a way to get through it all, but I don’t. One who, like you, understands the way of the samurai and who has the proper approach to living his life is a good man. One like me whose disposition is distorted and who has no self-respect is bad. That’s what people generally say. When you think about it, being a bad person is a huge handicap. Indeed, for the very fact that I’m a bad person, I killed a man. Then as payback for that, you are about to kill me, thus leading to your success in the eyes of the world.
GOHEI: Ikeda-sama, forgive me, please. I’ve been evil. I also, like you, have been an evil man.
TOMONOJŌ: If so, then will you spare my life?
GOHEI: Uh, well, that . . .
TOMONOJŌ: Neither you nor Madame Okuni have the right to turn your sword on me. If I were lucky, Madame Okuni would be mine, and you would be called the enemy of Master Iori.
OKUNI: Oh, Tomonojō, what you are saying sounds reasonable. If you really are that much in love with me, then please, for my sake, die.
TOMONOJŌ: No, I don’t want to. Even though I’m an outcast, living an empty life and completely miserable, life is precious. If you kill me against my will, then I will die. But I don’t want to die.
OKUNI: But what good will it do to keep on living like that? It was in the distant past when we were engaged. My love for you has died. Even if you were to kill Gohei, things would never go back to the way they were before. If Gohei dies, I will die with him.
TOMONOJŌ (laughing sadly): Ha, ha, ha! Why would I kill the two of you? Even if I wanted to, I don’t have the ability to do so. Don’t you agree?
OKUNI: If that’s the case, why not go ahead and die bravely? For me.
GOHEI: Ikeda-sama, I’m sorry to ask, but could you please forgive us? If I were you, I’d surely hate both of us.
TOMONOJŌ: Look, what good will it do to kill me? I won’t stand in the way of your love.
OKUNI: But if we don’t kill you, we couldn’t go back home nor could we get married openly. Though we really want to.
TOMONOJŌ: Madame Okuni, if you feel any pity for me at all, won’t you think about this for just a minute? Why don’t we stop arguing over such complex matters as killing and seeking vengeance and forget all about what has happened in the past? I’ll finish out my days as a wandering mendicant priest and will just go with the flow wherever, my flute at the ready. And the two of you, as well, you shouldn’t ever go home again. Whether you keep moving for the rest of your lives or settle down in some unknown place in your own house, whatever you do, it’s better that you live your lives in some other place. I don’t know the way of the warrior, but that’s exactly the reason why I’ve come to understand the love you have for each other.
OKUNI: No, no, I want to return home. I want to go back and make Gohei into a splendid samurai. And also, you see, my precious child is there.
TOMONOJŌ: Then you can understand how much I don’t want to die. I have but one favor to ask of you—please spare my life. Please, Madame Okuni, find it in yourself to have pity on me!
Okuni looks at Gohei, gathers herself, and grasps the hilt of her dagger.
GOHEI: I’m truly sorry but we have to go through with this. Ikeda-sama, prepare yourself . . . !
Gohei thrusts his sword at Tomonojō, who parries with his shakuhachi and jumps to the side—all the while railing at them in a sad voice.
TOMONOJŌ: What? You cowards! Cowards! You are adulterers! Immoral noble lady and retainer. (Hit in the shoulder, he falls.) You, how dare you try to kill me! Gohei, wait, I have one thing to say to you . . . that woman over there, Madame Okuni . . .
GOHEI: What? What’s that you’re saying?
TOMONOJŌ: Madame Okuni . . .
once gave herself to me . . . made love with . . . me . . . Tomonojō.
GOHEI: Well, that’s exactly as I’ve suspected for some time now. . . .
He casts a searching look at Okuni’s face. She hangs her head in shame.
TOMONOJŌ: Madame Okuni . . . grant me my last wish . . . render the coup de grâce, please, by your own hand!
GOHEI: Never! I’m the one to finish you off, you, the enemy of my master and my rival in love!
Gohei stabs him. Okuni immediately falls by the roadside, weeping, her sleeve covering her face. A long pause. The stage gradually darkens.
GOHEI: Okuni-sama, no need to cry like that. It had to be done and it’s done.
OKUNI: You surely won’t forget about Tomonojō and me. . . .
GOHEI: You and I now, with his death—both of us have realized our deepest desire. And Ikeda-sama’s death also means that we have nothing to fear from anybody else in the whole wide world. Let’s no longer speak of what is in the past.
OKUNI: All right, then, Gohei, will you love me forever?
GOHEI: How could I do other than love you? You are my wife, even though I am unworthy of you.
OKUNI: If you do love me, I’d like to go home right away and let’s take the head of our enemy with us.
GOHEI: I’m sure everybody there is anxiously awaiting you. I, too, would like to see the happy faces of your old father and your son.
OKUNI: Oh, look, it’s gradually gotten dark. Hurry, hurry, let’s cut his head off.
Gohei, his dagger drawn, and Okuni together approach the dead body.
GOHEI: Ikeda-sama, I have really acted like a coward and shown you no mercy, but for the sake of Okuni’s family and our love, there was no other way. Please resign yourself to this misfortune.
OKUNI: I’ve been so selfish, Tomonojō, please forgive me.
GOHEI: Namu Amida Butsu.2
OKUNI: Namu Amida Butsu.
Kneeling, hands pressed together, they faintly recite the words of the prayer.
ESSAYS
The notion of “literature” in Japan during the interwar years was practiced more in the continental European than the British or American mode. Literary essays were considered to be an important genre and were as widely read, discussed, and appreciated as were works of fiction, poetry, or drama.
KOBAYASHI HIDEO
Some writers were known primarily for their work as essayists and literary critics, most prominent of whom was Kobayashi Hideo (1902–1983). A man of vast learning, his essays covered everything from medieval Japanese art and literature to Rimbaud, Dostoevsky, and Mozart. Kobayashi’s “Literature of the Lost Home” (Kokyō o ushinatta bungaku, 1933) is one of his best-known early essays.
LITERATURE OF THE LOST HOME (KOKYŌ O USHINATTA BUNGAKU)
Translated by Paul Anderer
It might be said that in Japan today a literature read by adults or by old people scarcely exists.1 Our politicians are taken to task for their lack of literary sophistication or for being oblivious to what is happening in the literary world, but does the blame not lie with the literati themselves? People are not necessarily cool or indifferent to literary matters. . . . Still, it is true that adult taste runs mostly toward the Chinese classics or else toward certain Japanese classics, though certainly not toward modern writing. Modern Japanese literature, especially what is known as “pure literature,” is read by young people, that is, by a certain “literary youth” between the ages of eighteen and thirty or, to stretch the point, by writers only or else aspiring writers. . . . Our so-called bundan is in fact a special world populated almost entirely by like-minded youth, and this situation has not changed since the days of Naturalism. Although a proletarian writer might be expected to have an interest in political institutions or in social conditions, once he becomes a member of the literary world and is absorbed in writing monthly review columns, his readership narrows to that limited sphere which is the focus of pure literature itself. Few can claim to have avid readers scattered widely throughout the population, among farmers and workers, for example. Of all our arts, literature alone is trapped inside this narrow and cramped universe. Of course, it is well known that Japanese music and painting, not to mention the theater, have always maintained a broad-based and devoted patronage. Popular literature, too, as if in compensation for having been exiled from the monthly reviews of the literati, seems to attract a circle of readers drawn from every sector of the society. Yet even here, the overwhelming majority of its fans are doubtless men and women under thirty. I am approaching fifty and can feel only sadness knowing that the likely readers of my work will be youth. And putting myself in the position of the adult reader, who claims there is nothing he can bear to read beyond the classics, I must acknowledge that our modern literature is somehow defective. For only that writing which one has leisurely perused by the hearth, which has offered consolation and a lifetime of untiring companionship—only such writing can be called true literature.
As I was reading Tanizaki Jun’ichirō’s essay “On Art” (in the April issue of Kaizō), I encountered the above passage and fell to brooding about it. I did not brood with any thought to refute Tanizaki or with any sense that I could resolve his dilemma. Mine was the useless brooding of a man, in Tanizaki’s words, “trapped inside a narrow and cramped universe,” and my feelings turned heavy and gloomy.
Reading over both parts of the “On Art” series, it occurred to me that although Tanizaki’s style was measured, his conviction was intense. If in formal terms the writing seemed obscure, what the author wanted to say was nevertheless unmistakably clear. Such intense conviction and unequivocal opinion, were we to look for a counterpart, might be found in an address given at Kudan Nōgaku Hall by George Bernard Shaw, whom Tanizaki himself has dubbed the “boyish grandpa”: “Ladies and gentlemen, humanity is hopeless! Many of those who are artists, however bad, declare that they cultivate art for the sake of humanity. This is not so. Let us leave to the Philistines of the outside world the pretense that everything they do for us is for the good of humanity.”
Shaw’s words in themselves are of no special interest. In our day it is not at all strange that a writer’s passion would assume a certain peevish, perverse expression. Yet in the power and integrity of the sentiments Tanizaki himself expresses, which are founded on that author’s lifelong experience, something else is at work, something hard to fathom, which provokes in us readers a heavy, gloomy feeling. Tanizaki concludes his essay by remarking that “young people who laugh at my perversity will perhaps come around to my way of thinking when they reach my age.” Although at my present age I have yet to “come around,” I wonder: has Tanizaki said anything to invite my ridicule?
Whenever someone refers to me as an Edokko, I grimace. This is because a rather considerable distance separates what others mean by this expression and what I take it to mean. Most people of my generation who were born in Tokyo know very well how bizarre it is to claim this city as a birthplace. Recourse to an expression like Edokko is wholly unsuitable. People like myself feel their situation will not be understood by outsiders. Even among those born in Tokyo, there is a sense of difficulty in expressing one’s feelings to anyone even slightly older.
I have neither thought of myself as an Edokko, nor do I possess what are known as “Edo tastes,” although perhaps unconsciously I harbor traces of an Edokko temperament. This is fine with me. I have never lamented the situation. Still, I have never lived without even stranger feelings of incomprehension. “Born in Tokyo”: I cannot fathom what that really means. Mine is an unsettled feeling that I have no home. It should be recognized that this is not in the least a romantic feeling, although it may be harder to see that there is nothing realistic about it.
Once I was traveling from Kyoto with Takii Kōsaku. As our train emerged from one tunnel, the mountain roads suddenly flashing into sight, he gazed up and heaved a deep sigh. I was struck by this. Listening to him then describe the fullness of his heart, how gazing upon such mountain
roads a stream of childhood memories came welling up within him, I keenly felt that the “country” exists beyond my comprehension. It is not so much that I do not know the country as I do not understand the notion of a “birthplace,” or a “first home,” or a “second home”—indeed, what home of any kind in fact is. Where there is no memory, there is no home. If a person does not possess powerful memories, created from an accumulation of hard and fast images that a hard and fast environment provides, he will not know that sense of well-being which brims over in the word kokyō. No matter where I search within myself for such a feeling, I do not find it. Looking back, I see that from an early age my feelings were distorted by an endless series of changes occurring too fast. Never was there sufficient time to nurture the sources of a powerful and enduring memory, attached to the concrete and the particular. I had memories, but they possessed no actuality, no substance. I even felt they were somehow unreal.
Putting aside this rather exaggerated example, we all on occasion recall something our mother might have told us about her own childhood. Just a simple story, nothing special or inspiring, and yet for that very reason a strong and unwavering sentiment courses through it. A story of such commonplace memories contains the precondition for fiction. And so I am envious, because no matter how I try, this is something I cannot replicate. Without embellishment, or if that sounds too crass, without a device allowing a subjective response—a point of view or a critical perspective—I feel my memories would have no unifying structure, even as I realize that however necessary, the use of such devices is somehow unnatural.
Once it occurred to me that mine was a spirit without a home, I found evidence for it everywhere. It is especially instructive to record certain extreme experiences. I enjoy walking and often go off to the mountains, being someone who takes pleasure in remote, even dangerous, places. Of late I have come to realize how odd such behavior is. To go off for inspiration to the beauty of Nature may seem to be a perfectly natural activity, but on reflection we must admit that it is just another manifestation of our quotidian intellectual unease. It is not at all a matter as straightforward and reasonable and innocent as “loving nature.” I have grown increasingly skeptical about the existence of anything concrete and actual behind my being moved by the beauty of Nature. Looking closer, I see much in common between intoxication by the beauty of a mountain and intoxication by the beauty of an abstract idea. I feel as though I am looking upon two aspects of a spirit that has lost its home. Consequently, I am not heartened by the recent craze for mountain climbing. And I feel all the more uneasy as the number of afflicted climbers rises each year.
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 96