It was late spring; men felt gay and the wisteria hung like a cloud of purple over Yasui, robbing the pines of their color. People thronged up Higashi-yama and turned it into a living mountain of human figures. There was in the capital a band of four inseparable young men who were known for their handsome appearance and riotous living. Thanks to large inheritances, they could spend every day in the year seeking their own pleasure. One night, till dawn, they might amuse themselves in Shimabara with Chinagirl, Fragrance, Florapoint, and Highbridge. Next day they might make love to Takenaka Kichisaburo, Karamatsu Kasen, Fujita Kichisaburo, and Mitsuse Sakon2 in the Shijo-gawara section. Night or day, girls or boys, it made no difference in their pleasure.
After the theatre one evening they were lounging around a teahouse called the Matsu-ya and one of them remarked: “I have never seen so many good-looking local girls as I did today. Do you suppose we could find others who would seem just as beautiful now?
They thought they might and decided to watch for pretty girls among the people who had gone to see the wisteria blossoms and were now returning to their homes. After a worldly actor in the group had been chosen as chief judge, a “beauty contest” was conducted until the twilight hours, providing a new source of amusement for the jaded gentlemen.
At first they were disappointed to see some maids riding in a carriage which hid them from sight. Then a group of girls strolled by in a rollicking mood—“not bad, not bad at all”—but none of the girls quite satisfied their exacting standards. Paper and ink had been brought to record the entries, and it was agreed that only the best should be put on their list.
Next they spied a lady of thirty-three or thirty-four with a long, graceful neck and intelligent-looking eyes, above which could be seen a natural hairline of rare beauty. Her nose, it was true, stood a little high, but that could be easily tolerated. Underneath she wore white satin; over that, light-blue satin; and outside, reddish-yellow satin. Each of these garments was luxuriously lined with the same material. On her left sleeve was a hand-painted likeness of the Yoshida monk, along with this passage: “To sit alone under a lamp, and read old books . . .”3 Assuredly, this was a woman of exquisite taste.
They . . . decided to watch for pretty girls among the people who had gone to see the wisteria blossoms and were now returning to their homes . . . providing a new source of amusement for the jaded gentlemen. . . .
Her sash was of folded taffeta bearing a tile design. Around her head she had draped a veil like that worn by court ladies; she wore stockings of pale silk and sandals with triple-braided straps. She walked noiselessly and gracefully, moving her hips with a natural rhythm.
“What a prize for some lucky fellow!” one of the young bucks exclaimed. But these words were hardly uttered when the lady, speaking to an attendant, opened her mouth and disclosed that one of her lower teeth was missing, to the complete disillusionment of her admirers.
A little behind her followed a maiden not more than fifteen or sixteen years old. On the girl’s left was a woman who appeared to be her mother; on the right she was accompanied by a black-robed nun. There were also several servant women and a footman as escorts, all taking the greatest care of their charge. It seemed at first as if the girl were engaged to be married, but at second glance she proved to be married already, for her teeth were blackened and her eyebrows removed. She was quite pretty, with her round face, intelligent eyes, ears delicately draped at the side of her head, and fingers, plump, thin-skinned, and white. She wore clothes with matchless elegance; underneath were purple-spotted fawns on a field of pure yellow; outside, the design of a hundred sparrows upon gray satin. Over her rainbow-colored sash she wore a breast-belt which enhanced the charm of her carriage. The tie-strings of her richly lined rainhat were made from a thousand braids of twisted paper. They could easily see under the hat—a delight for the eyes, or so they thought until someone noticed a wide scar, three inches or more, on the side of her face. She could hardly have been born with such a deformity, and they all laughed when one of the playboys remarked: “She must really hate the nurse who is responsible for that!”
Then another girl, perhaps twenty or twenty-one, came along wearing a garment of cotton homespun, even the lining of which was so tattered and patched that the wind, blowing it out, exposed her poverty to all. The material for her sash came from an old coat and was pitifully thin. She wore socks of purple leather, apparently the only kind she could afford, and tough, rough Nara sandals. An old cloth headpiece was stuck on the top of her head. It was anybody’s guess how long ago the teeth of a comb had run through her hair, which fell in sloppy disarray, relieved hardly at all by her haphazard attempts to tuck it up.
But while she made no pretensions to style or fashion, the girl, walking alone, seemed to be enjoying herself. As far as her facial features were concerned, she certainly left nothing to be desired; indeed, the men were captivated by the sight of her.
“Have you ever seen anyone with so much natural beauty?”
“If she had some fine clothes to wear, that girl would steal men’s hearts away. Too bad that she should have to be born poor.”
They pitied her deeply and one fellow, seeing that she was on her way home, followed hopefully to learn who she was. “She is the wife of a tobacco-cutter down at the end of Seiganji-dori,” someone told him. It was disappointing—another straw of hope gone up in smoke!
Later a woman of twenty-six or twenty-seven passed that way. Her arms were covered by three layers of sleeves, all of black silk and lined in red. Her family crest was done in gold, but discreetly, on the inner lining, so as to be faintly visible through the sleeves. She had on a broad sash which tied in front and was made from dark-striped cloth woven in China. Her hair was rolled up in a bun, set further back on the head than was the case with unmarried ladies, and done up with a thick hair-ribbon and two combs. Covering it was a hand-painted scarf and a rainhat in the style of Kichiya,4 also set jauntily back on her head so as not to hide the good looks in which she obviously took pride. Her figure twisted sinuously as she stepped lightly along.
“That’s the one, that’s the one!”
“Quiet down! Let’s get a better look at her.”
Sure enough, on closer inspection they found that the lady was accompanied by three servants, each carrying a baby.
“Must have had three kids in three years.”
Behind her the babies kept calling out “Mama, mama,” while the lady walked on, pretending not to hear them.
“They may be her children, but she would just as soon not be seen with them. ‘Charm fades with child-birth!’ people say.” Thus the men shouted and laughed and ridiculed her, until she almost died of chagrin.
Next, with a litter borne luxuriously beside her, came a twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl whose hair was combed out smooth, curled a bit at the ends, and tied down with a red ribbon. In front her hair was parted like a young boy’s and held in place by five immaculate combs and a gold hair-ribbon. Her face was perfectly beautiful, and I shall not tire you with needless details. A black, ink-slab pattern adorned her white-satin chemise; a peacock design could be perceived in the iridescent satin of her outer garment. Over this hung lace made from Chinese thread and sleeves which were beautifully designed. A folded sash of twelve colors completed her ensemble. Her bare feet nestled in paper-strap clogs, and one of the litter-bearers carried a stylish rainhat for her.
The girl was holding a bunch of wisteria blossoms over her head, as if to attract the attention of someone who could not find her. Observed in this pose, she was clearly the most beautiful girl of all they had seen that day.
“What is the name of this fine lady?” they asked politely of an attendant.
“A girl from Muro-machi,” was the reply. “She is called Modern Komachi.”5
Yes, she had all the beauty of a flower. Only later did they learn how much devilry was hid beneath that beauty.
2. The sleeper who slipped up
The life of a b
achelor has its attractions, but nights get rather lonely for a man without a wife. So it seemed to a certain maker of almanacs6 who had lived alone for many years. There were many elegant ladies in the capital, but his heart was set on finding a woman of exceptional beauty and distinction, and such a desire was not easily satisfied. Finally, in despair because of his solitary existence, he asked some relatives to find him a suitable mate, and it was arranged for him to meet the girl known as Modern Komachi, that delicate beauty holding wisteria blossoms over her head whom our playboys had seen during their beauty contest in the theatre section last spring.
The almanac maker was completely charmed with her. “She’s the one,” he told himself, and without more ado he rushed out, ludicrously enough, to arrange an immediate marriage. At the corner of Shimotachi-uri and Karasumaru he found an old woman, a professional go-between who was widely known as a very fast talker. Thanks to her, the negotiations were conducted successfully. A keg of saké was sent to confirm the contract and on the appointed day Osan was welcomed into her new home.
Deeply attached to his wife and absorbed in the intimacies of their life together, the almanac maker was blind to everything else—to the flower-fragrant nights of spring and to the rising of the autumn moon. Night and day for three years his wife diligently performed the many tasks which married life required of her, carefully spinning raw-silk thread by hand, supervising the weaving of cloth by her servant women, looking after her husband’s personal appearance, burning as little fuel as possible for economy’s saké, and keeping her expense accounts accurate and up-to-date. In fact, she was just the sort of woman any townsman would want in his home.
Their house was prospering and their companionship seemed to hold a store of endless bliss, when it became necessary for the almanac maker to travel to Edo for business reasons. The parting was sad, but there was nothing to be gained by grieving over it. When he was ready to leave, he paid a visit to Osan’s father in Muro-machi to tell him about the trip, and the old man was quite concerned about his daughter’s welfare during the period of her husband’s absence, when she would be left to manage all of his affairs. He wondered if there were not some capable person who could take over the master’s business and also assist Osan in running the household. Deciding on a young man named Moemon, who had served him faithfully for many years, he sent the fellow to his son-in-law’s place.
This Moemon was honest and extremely frugal, so much so that he completely neglected his personal appearance, even economizing on his coat sleeves, which measured only two and one-half inches at the wrist. His forehead was narrow, and when upon his reaching manhood his hair was allowed to grow, Moemon never bothered to buy a hat to cover it. Moreover, he went about without the protection of a short sword and slept with his abacus under his head, the better perhaps to reckon how great a fortune he could amass in a night spent dreaming of money-making.
It was fall, and a bitter storm one night set Moemon to thinking how he might fortify himself against the rigors of winter. He decided on a treatment of moxa cauterizing.7 A maidservant named Rin, who was adept at administering the burning pills, was asked to do the job for him. She twisted several wads of the cottony herb and spread a striped bedcover over her dressing table for Moemon to lie on.
The first couple of applications were almost more than he could bear. The pain-wracked expression on his face gave great amusement to the governess, the house-mistress, and all the lowly maids around him. When further doses had been applied, he could hardly wait for the final salting down which would finish the treatment. Then, accidentally, some of the burning fibers broke off and dropped down along his spine, causing his flesh to tighten and shrink a little. But out of consideration for the girl who attended him, Moemon closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, and mustered up all his patience to endure the pain.
Rin, full of sympathy for him, extinguished the vagrant embers and began to massage his skin. How could she have known that this intimate contact with his body would arouse in her a passionate desire for Moemon, which at first she managed to conceal from others but eventually was to be whispered about and even reach her mistress’ ears?
Rin, full of sympathy for him, extinguished the vagrant embers and began to massage his skin. How could she have known that this intimate contact with his body would arouse in her a passionate desire? . . .
Unable to suppress her desire for Moemon, Rin hoped that somehow she might communicate with him, but as her education had only been of the most humble sort, she could not write anything, not even the crude-looking characters which Kyushichi, a fellow servant, used to scribble out as personal reminders. She asked Kyushichi if he would write a letter for her, but the knave only took advantage of her confidence by trying to make this love his own.
So, slowly, the days passed without relief, and fall came, with its long twilight of drizzling rains, the spawning season for intrigue and deception. One day, having just finished a letter to her husband in Edo, Osan playfully offered to write a love letter for Rin. With her brush she dashed off a few sweet lines of love, and then, addressing the wrapper “To Mr. Mo——, from someone who loves him,” Osan gaily turned the note over to Rin.
Overjoyed, the girl kept looking for a suitable opportunity to deliver it, when all at once Moemon was heard calling from the shop for some fire with which to light his tobacco. Fortunately there was no one else in the courtyard at that time, so Rin seized the occasion to deliver her letter in person.
Considering the nature of the thing, Moemon failed to notice his mistress’ handwriting and simply took Rin for a very forward girl, certainly an easy conquest. Roguishly he wrote out a reply and handed it to Rin, who was of course unable to read it and had to catch Osan in a good mood before she could learn its contents:
“In response to the unexpected note which your feelings toward me prompted you to write, I confess that, young as I am, your advances are not wholly distasteful to me. I must remind you that such trysts as you propose may produce complications involving a midwife, but if you are ready to meet all of the expenses incidental to the affair—clothes, coats, bath money, and personal toiletries—I shall be glad to oblige to the best of my ability.”
“Such impudence!” Osan exclaimed when she finished reading the blunt message to Rin. “There is no dearth of men in this world, and Rin is hardly the worst-looking of all women. She can have a man like Moemon anytime she wants.”
Thus aroused, Osan decided to write further importunate messages for Rin and make Moemon her loving slave. So she sent several heartbreaking appeals to him, moving Moemon to pity and then to passion. At last, to make up for his earlier impertinence, he wrote Rin an earnest note in reply. It contained a promise that on the night of May fourteenth, when it was customary to stay up and watch the full moon, he would definitely come to see her.
Mistress Osan laughed aloud when she saw this and told the assembled maids: “We shall turn his big night into a night of fun for all!”
Her plan was to take the place of Rin that night, disguise herself in cotton summer-clothes, and lie in Rin’s bed. It was also arranged for the various women-servants to come running with sticks and staves and lanterns when Osan called out.
Thus all were ready and in their places when the time came, but before she knew it, Osan herself fell blissfully asleep, and the women-servants too, exhausted by all the excitement that evening, dozed off and started to snore.
Later, during the early-morning hours, Moemon stole through the darkness with his underclothes hanging half-loose around him. Impatiently he slipped naked between the bedcovers; his heart throbbed, but his lips were silent. And when his pleasure was had, Moemon sensed the faint, appealing fragrance which arose from the lady’s garments. He lifted up the covers and started to tiptoe away.
“Indeed, she must know more of life than I suspected. I thought she was innocent, that she had loved no man before, that now—but someone has been here ahead of me,” he concluded apprehensively. “I must pursue
this no further.”
When he had gone Osan awoke of her own accord. To her surprise the pillows were out of place and everything was in disorder. Her sash, missing from her waist, was nowhere at hand, her bed-tissues were a mess.
Overcome with shame at the realization of her undoing, Osan considered: “There is no way to keep this from others. From now on I may as well abandon myself to this affair, risk my life, ruin my reputation, and take Moemon as my companion on a journey to death.”
She confided this resolution to Moemon, and though it was contrary to his previous decision, nevertheless, being halfway in and feeling the call to love, Moemon gave himself over to visiting her each night without a care for the reproofs of others, and spent himself in this new service as thoroughly as he had in his work. Thus, together the lovers played with life and death, the most dangerous game of all.
3. The lake which took people in
It is written in The Tale of Genji: “There is no logic to love.”
When the image of Kannon was put on display at the Ishiyama Temple the people of Kyoto left the cherry blossoms of Higashi-yama and flocked to see it. Travelers, on their way to and from the capital, stopped for a visit when they crossed Osaka Pass. Many among them were fashionably dressed ladies, not one of whom seemed to be making the pilgrimage with any thought of the hereafter. Each showed off her clothes and took such pride in her appearance that even Kannon must have been amused at the sight.
It happened that Osan and Moemon also made the pilgrimage together. They and the flowers they saw seemed to share a common fate: no one could tell when they might fall. Nor could anyone tell whether the lovers again might see this bay and the hills around Lake Biwa, so Moemon and Osan wanted to make it a day to remember. They rented a small boat in Seta and wished that their love would last as long as the Long Bridge of that town,8 though their pleasure might still be short lived. Floating along, the lovers made waves serve them as pillow and bed, and the disorder of Osan’s hairdress testified to the nature of their delight. But there were moments, too, when the beclouded Mirror Mountain seemed to reflect a more somber mood in Osan. Love for these two was as dangerous a passage as Crocodile Strait, and their hearts sank when at Katada someone called the boat from shore; for a minute they feared that a courier had come after them from Kyoto.
Five Women Who Loved Love Page 7
