Anthology of Japanese Literature

by Donald Keene

  And modern matrons have their other caprices too. They reserve three boxes for the latest play, but then, stopping at Chōraku Temple to hear ballads chanted when an image is on view, become so absorbed that they omit to go to the theatre. Yet their boredom is not easily dispelled by the suitable feminine pleasures of incense-guessing, poem cards, playing the koto or the samisen, painting, and flower-arranging. "There's wrestling at Makuzugahara, and Shichi-gorō takes on the Thunderbolt!" they cry. "We can't miss it!" Off they dash, in sedan chairs decorated by autumn landscapes or sprinkled gold.

  Did anyone hear of women at wrestling matches in former times? But since men now dote on their wives, and meet each request with a nod and a smile of fatuous tolerance, these ladies do not hesitate to display their morbid zest for outings—with picnic lunch—to watch the beheading of criminals at Awataguchi. It recalls how Chieh-chi, consort of King Chou of the Yin Dynasty, having exhausted her notable repertoire of diversions, found a superior pastime in seeing executions by the "wrapping and roasting" process; or how King Yu of Chou, infatuated with Pao-ssu, had the signal rockets fired to amuse her. Indeed, these are only classic examples of the familiar petticoat tyranny. The grocer need simply say, "Madam's orders," to be paid off in large coins for a watermelon costing 365 momtne; and no sooner has he gone than two stout bearers are dispatched to Yakichi's, on Fourth Avenue, to settle a 27,206-coppers account for vegetable jelly. You may imagine the other luxuries. Smoking, for instance, used to be unknown as a feminine practice, except among courtesans; yet today women who abstain are as few as monks who fast.

  Now there was a certain man who, though of merchant lineage, was highly esteemed, being known throughout the capital for his wealth. Generations ago his family had withdrawn from all but the infrequent business of handing down superb heirlooms. When snow fell he performed the tea ceremony; at blossom time he wrote poems in a traditional vein. He was careful to ignore whatever might be considered practical.

  As a husband, he behaved with impeccable lordliness, never glancing into the kitchen. His wife, a radiant beauty, was the irregular offspring of a person of rank. Not only was she adept in the poetics of the ancient school, she had a rare gift for music, and particularly for the reed pipes: frost gathered in midsummer when she blew winter melodies; with longevity tunes she made her husband utterly feeble. She was addicted to the pursuit of elegance, whether in arts or manners. For summer nights she had her room screened from mosquitoes by panels of silk gauze: inside were placed a five-foot-square tray-garden and a floating lamp, as well as fireflies specially procured from Uji and Seta. Thus she relieved the discomforts of hot weather. In winter she warmed herself at a covered brazier large enough for eight people, and had little girls with bobbed hair chafe the soles of her feet. Husband and wife slept in the perfume of precious incense, while its smoke, wreathing up in as many shapes as from Fuji, Asama, and Muro no yashima,1 curled through their clothing. Devotees of the cult of fragrance, they lived in a style of unfailing splendor. Where the father had strewn the seeds of riches the son now possessed mountains wooded in silver-bearing trees; but the clatter of interest money in his scales only annoyed him, just as the subtle rhythms of the hand drum irritate the vulgar. No one carrying an account book visited his mansion on the last day of the year: all bills were paid early in November, as if the New Year (not greeted by the customary gate-pines) had arrived too soon.

  Yet his wife was unhappy. Though she lived in luxurious fashion, and though her husband was handsome and sophisticated, a man who, far from counting among the Twenty-four Paragons of Filial Piety, was more devoted to wife than mother—despite all this good fortune, which would seem to have left no desire unfulfilled, she perversely disliked being a woman.

  One thought obsessed her: "Why was I cursed with this sex? Tied down to a skinny devil, and no chance to enjoy myself as I please!"

  Boldly she extracted her husband's consent to have her hair trimmed in masculine style, the rich pinned coiffure replaced by a boyish arrangement in two folds, with the back hair drawn up. In dress too she flouted convention: a short skirt (exposing the undergarment), a coat of "eight-roll" cloth, a gold-mounted sword, medium long, and a wide rush hat of the "Mist-on-Fuji" kind. Thus attired, and accompanied by her husband, she set out each day on another, more distant excursion. "Let's climb Mount Kōya," she would say, "Those monks are so terribly woman-shy they'll be fun to tease." Or: "Now let's go to the whale-spearing at Kumano Bay." Her demands were endless. Surely if men yielded to all such whims, these hussies would insist on crossing the ocean—"to see the castle of that fellow Coxinga2 one hears so much about."

  But since the poor husband had a genius for being hoodwinked, he delighted in her singular conduct ("How original to dress up like a man!"), and even took her along to Shimabara.3 When they were shown into a reception room at Hanabishiya, he said, "See what a dashing wife I have! You won't find such a curiosity-seeker in all China; and as for looks—well, I'm afraid your famous beauties are a little outclassed. Smart, isn't she?" And he engaged the most celebrated courtesans, for his wife as well as himself. They gave pleasure their undivided attention: doubtless the voluptuous joys of Paradise were exceeded.

  One day this couple went to a fashionable teahouse in Gion; and there, with the aid of professional jesters, they held a lavish and rather noisy party. The husband began to boast of his wife's accomplishments. "You girls should hear her play the reed pipe," he said. "I suppose you're on good terms with men of discrimination, and you've heard all kinds of music; but it may be that a really expert artist on this instrument has not yet performed in Gion."

  At this the proprietor and his wife bowed low, pressing their foreheads tightly to the matting. "Never," they assured him, "not once in all the years since the God of Gion descended from the heavens. But if Destiny now grants us the privilege of hearing your lady on the flute, clearly we were born at an auspicious hour."

  Elated by these words, he exclaimed, "Come, Madam! You must outdo yourself for this audience." And he settled comfortably against the pillar of the alcove, his nose tilted as triumphantly as if he were the Emperor Hsiian Tsung.4

  His wife, who was of course a virtuoso, chose the song that Chang Liang played on Chou-li Mountain during the battle between Han and Ch'u, the song beginning, "When the autumn wind drives the leaves, and the traveler thinks of his far-off home . . ." And she poured out all her skill.

  In the next room, strange to say, an uproarious party lapsed into melancholy. Hitherto lively guests reflected on the evil of squandering money that had been earned by the sweat of their parents; they felt inclined to go home without waiting for the supper already ordered. The charming boys called in to add to the gaiety remembered their native villages, and how their true fathers had toiled under cruel burdens, barely able to get along from one day to the next. Samisen in hand, they sat with tears shining in their eyes. No one asked the company of the house courtesans, who for that matter (though it was time to settle monthly accounts) were reviving nostalgic memories, and feeling they had landed in a somewhat thorny bed of roses. "The other girls5 have the knack of it," remarked their mistress obliquely, "but our kites are too tail-heavy to get off the ground." Even this seemed to pass unheard, and their sorrowful expression did not alter. Squirming with reluctance, they withdrew to a dark room ("Oil lamps are expensive . . .") ; they wanted tea, but shrank from troubling anyone; and as they talked of their holidays, now regretted, they wept freely.

  But the girls who were on their own had begun to choke and snifl a bit, too. Oblivious of the guests, they told each other their grievances. "No matter if we work so hard we have to strip down like wrestlers, meals and clothes cost a lot, and it's a struggle to make ends meet. But how else can we earn a living?"

  The jesters worried about the annual reckoning, which was not yet near, and thought, "Better to run away from all this, or hang yourself and be done with it." They dropped their game of capping humorous verses. "It's a miserable life," t
hey sighed. "We jesters have to drink when we'd rather not; we have to praise the tiresome little songs of our patrons, hear ourselves called fools by real blockheads, force a smile if we're offended, and tell a roomful of people what even a woman would keep secret. No, there's nothing so bitter as to entertain for a living. If you happen to please, you may be hired five times and get only one piece of silver, or two at most. In this wide world, is there no country where it rains hard cash?" Enlacing their fingers, they contemplated the vanity of things.

  Even the staunchly avaricious proprietor and his wife were somehow or other seized by an extraordinary fit of conscience. "If only we could do business without lying!" A single note had scattered their wits and they shed unexpected tears.

  Just then several guests appeared at a doorway leading from an inner room. "I've always found it gay here," one of them commented, "but today is very odd—you might as well be marooned on Demon Island." He exchanged a few inappropriate family inquiries with a courtesan (hired out of his own pocket), compassionately handed her an extra coin, wiped his eyes, and left the teahouse at once.

  TRANSLATED BY HOWARD HIBBETT

  Footnotes

  1 Famous active volcanoes

  2 Coxinga was the hero of Chikamatsu's play, "The Battles of Coxinga," which had scored a tremendous success in the preceding year. His castle would presumably be one in China.

  3 The licensed quarter of Kyoto; Hanabishiya was the name of one of the houses.

  4 Chinese emperor of the T'ang Dynasty, who had as his mistress the peerless beauty Yang Kuei-fei.

  5 That is, the ones brought in from outside the teahouse.

  HIZAKURIGE

  by Jippensha Ikku

  Hizakurige is a humorous Japanese word meaning "a journey on foot." It is an apt title for this book telling of the adventures of two happy-go-lucky travelers along the road between Edo and Osaka. The book, issued serially beginning in 1802, was an immense success in its day, and the author, Jippensha Ikku (1766-1831), wrote numerous sequels. The two heroes, Yajirobei, or Yaji, and Kitahachi, or Kita, have been taken into the hearts of the Japanese, and their irrepressible earthy humor is considered typical of the real Edotte. The following section occurs fairly early in their journey.

  They went down the hill till they reached Nissaka, the rain coming down harder and harder till it was impossible to go on, as everything was blotted out. Finally they took refuge under the eaves of an inn.

  "How annoying!" said Yaji. "Such terrible rain!"

  "Well, we're not willow trees, to be planted by the roadside," said Kita. "We can't stand under the eaves of people's houses forever. What do you think, Yaji? We've crossed the River Ōi. Don't you think we might stop here for the night?"

  "What?" said Yaji. "Don't talk nonsense! It can't be two o'clock yet. It would be absurd to stop now."

  Then the old landlady came out of the inn.

  "You can't go on in this rain," she said. "Please stop here."

  "I think we ought to," said Kita. "I say, Yaji, look! There are some women stopping in the back room there."

  "Eh?" said Yaji. "Where? That's interesting."

  "Won't your honors stop here?" repeated the old woman.

  "Well, suppose we do," said Yaji.

  They went in and washed their feet, and were soon conducted to a room at the back next to the one where they had seen the women. ...

  Then the supper trays were brought in and they set to work to eat, uttering all sorts of jokes.

  "By the way," said Yaji to the maid, "the guests in the back room are women, aren't they? Who are they?"

  "They're witches," said the maid.

  "What, witches?" said Kita. "That's interesting. Let's call up somebody."

  "It's too late, isn't it?" said Yaji. "They won't come after four o'clock."

  "It's only a little past two," said the maid.

  "Well, just ask them," said Yaji. "I'd like to have a talk with my dead wife."

  "Fancy wanting to do that!" said Kita.

  "I'll ask them afterward," said the maid.

  So when the meal was finished she went into the next room to ask the witches. They agreed, and Yaji and Kita were conducted into their room. There the witches produced the usual box and arranged it, while the maid, who knew what was wanted, drew some water and brought it.

  Yaji, with his mind fixed on his departed wife, poured some water over the anise leaves and the younger witch began to invoke the gods.

  "First of all," she chanted, "I reverently call upon Bonten and Taishaku and the four gods of Heaven, and in the underworld the great Emma and the five attendants who wait on him. Of our country's gods I invoke the seven gods of Heaven and the five gods of Earth, and of the gods of lse, Amaterasu Omikami, and the forty descendants of the Outer Shrine and the eight descendants of the Inner Shrine. I invoke the God of Rain, the God of Wind, the God of the Moon and the God of the Sun, the God of the North Shrine of the Benku Mirror, and the spirit of the great Sun Goddess of Ama no iwato, and Kokuzo, the God of Ten Thousand Good Fortunes of Asama ga dake, and the others in the sixty provinces of Japan, and also in the country of the gods, at the Great Shrine of Izumo. By the ninety-eight thousand gods of the country and the thirteen thousand Buddhas of the holy places, through the fearful road of the underworld I come. Ah, horror! The spirits of his ancestors crowd upon me, each couple as inseparable as the bow and the arrow. The skies may change and the waters may change, but the bow is unchangeable. One shot from it sends an echo through all the holy places of the temples. Ah! Ah! Oh, joyful sight! Well have you summoned me. I had for a bedfellow a warrior famous with the bow, but alas! averse to a pure diet, in life he devoured fish even to the bones, and now, in punishment, is changed into a devil in the shape of an ox, his duty being to keep the gates of Hell, from which he has no release. Thus have I come alone."

  "Who are you?" asked Yaji. "I don't understand what it's all about!"

  "I have come for the sake of him who offered me water, the mirror of my body, my child-treasure."

  "Mirror of the body?" said Kita. "I'll tell you what, Yaji, it's your mother."

  "My mother, eh?" said Yaji. "I don't have anything to say to her."

  "Has the mirror of my body nothing to say to me?" continued the witch. "To me, your bedfellow, whom you have thus without shame summoned from the depths? Ah, what agony I went through when I was married to you—time and again suffering the pangs of hunger and shivering with cold in the winter. Ah, hateful! Hateful!"

  "Forgive me," said Yaji. "At that time my fortunes were low. How pitiful your lot that you should have been brought to the grave with care and hardships."

  "Halloa, Yaji," said Kita. "Are you crying? Ha, ha, ha! Even devils have tears."

  "I shall never forget it," the witch went on. "When you were ill you gave your sickness to me. Our only child, who had to carry on our name, grew weak and thin because there was no rice to fill his empty stomach. Every day the bill collectors were knocking at the door and the rent remained unpaid. Yet I did not complain—not even when I slipped in the dogs' dirt in the lane."

  "Don't talk of it," said Yaji. "You'll break my heart."

  "And then, when through my labors I had saved enough money to buy a kimono, I had to pawn it for your sake and never saw it again. Never again did it come back to me from the pawnbroker's."

  "At the same time you must remember what a pleasant place you are in now," said Yaji, "while I have to worry along down here."

  "What? What is there pleasant about it? It is true that by the help of your friends you erected a stone over my grave, but you never go near it, and you never contribute to the temple to get the priests to say prayers for my soul. I am nothing to you. The stone over my grave has been taken away and put into the wall, where all the dogs come and make water against it. Not a drop of water is ever placed on my grave. Truly in death we suffer all sorts of troubles."

  "True, true," said Yaji.

  "But while you thus treat me with neglect,"
the witch went on, "lying in my grave I think of nobody but you and long for the time when you will join me in the underworld. Shall I come to meet you?"

  "No, no, don't do that," said Yaji. "It's really too far for you."

  "Well then, I have one request to make."

  "Yes, yes. What is it?"

  "Give this witch plenty of money."

  "Of course, of course."

  "How sad the parting!" cried the witch. "I have yet much to tell you, coundess questions to ask you, but the messenger of Hell recalls me!"

  Then, recovering from her trance, the witch twanged her bow.

  "Thank you very much," said Yaji. He took out some money and wrapped it in paper and gave it to her.

  "Ha, ha!" laughed Kita. "Now all your hidden shames are revealed to the world. Ha, ha, ha! But I say, Yaji, you look very downcast. What do you say to a drink?"

  Yaji agreed and clapping his hands ordered the maid to bring some saké.

  "How far have you come today?" asked the witch.

  "We came from Okabe," answered Yaji.

  "How quick you are," said the witch.

  "Oh, that's nothing," said Yaji. "We can walk as fast as Idaten.1 If we're put to it we can walk thirty-five miles a day."

  "But then we shouldn't be fit for anything for ten days after," put in Kita.

  While they were talking the sake was brought in.

  "Won't you have a little?" said Yaji to the young witch.

  "I never touch a drop," she answered.

  "Will your companion have any?" asked Yaji.

  "Mother, Mother! Come here," called the young witch.

  "Oh, it's your mother, is it?" said Kita. "I must take care what I say in front of her. But come, do have some."

  Soon they began to drink and enjoy themselves, the cup passing from hand to hand very quickly. Yet strangely enough, the witches, however much they drank, never seemed to be any the worse for it, while Yaji and Kita got so drunk they could not speak plainly. After making all sorts of jokes which .it would be too tedious to repeat, Kita at last in a drunken voice said, "I say, Mother, won't you lend me your daughter for the night?"