Five Women Who Loved Love

by Ihara Saikaku

  Even though they survived this, it seemed as if their end might be told by the snows of Mt. Hiei, for they were twenty years old and it is said that the snow on this Fuji-of-the-Capital always melts before twenty days have passed. So they wept and wet their sleeves and at the ancient capital of Shiga, which is now just a memory of past glory, they felt sadder still, thinking of their own inevitable end. When the dragon lanterns were lit, they went to Shirahige Shrine and prayed to the gods, now even more aware of the precariousness of their fate.

  “After all, we may find that longer life only brings greater grief,” Osan told him. “Let us throw ourselves into the lake and consecrate our lives to Buddha in the Eternal Land.”

  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. . . .

  But Moemon, though he valued his life hardly at all, was not so certain as to what would follow after death. “I think I have hit upon a way out,” he said. “Let us each send letters to the capital, saying that we shall drown ourselves in the lake. We can then steal away from here, go anywhere you please, and pass the rest of our years together.”

  Osan was delighted. “When I left home, it was with that idea in mind. So I brought along five hundred pieces of gold in my suitcase.”

  That, indeed, was something with which to start life anew. “We must be careful how we do this,” Moemon cautioned, as they set about writing notes to various people saying: “Driven by evil desires, we have joined in a sinful love which cannot escape Heaven’s decree. Life has no place for us now; therefore today we depart forever from the Fleeting World.”

  Osan then removed the small image of the Buddha which she had worn as a charm for bodily protection, and trimmed the edges of her black hair. Moemon took off the great sword, which he wore at his side, made by Seki Izumi-no-Kami, with an iron guard embellished by twisting copper dragons. These things would be left behind so that people could identify them as belonging to Moemon and Osan. Then, as a final precaution, they even left their coats and sandals at the foot of a willow by the shore. And since there lived at the lakeside men with a long tradition as experts in fishing, who could leap from the rocks into the water, Moemon secretly hired two of them and explained his plan. They readily agreed to keep a rendezvous with the couple that evening.

  When Moemon and Osan had prepared themselves properly, they opened the bamboo door of the inn and roused everyone by shouting: “For reasons known only to ourselves we are about to end our lives!” They then rushed away, and shortly, from the height of a craggy rock, faint voices were heard saying the Nembutsu,9 followed by the sound of two bodies striking the water. Everyone wept and raised a great commotion over it.

  But Moemon put Osan on his back and carried her around the foot of the mountain, deep into the forest to a desolate village, while the divers swam underwater and emerged on the beach undetected.

  Meantime, all around beat their hands and lamented the tragedy. With help from people living along the shore they made a search, but found nothing. Then, as dawn broke, more tears fell upon the discovery of the lovers’ personal effects. These were wrapped up quickly and sent back to Kyoto.

  Out of concern for what people would think, the families involved privately agreed to keep the matter to themselves. But in a world full of busy ears the news was bound to leak out, and all spring long it gave people something to gossip about. There was indeed no end to the mischief these two souls created.

  4. The teahouse which had not heard of gold pieces

  Hand in hand, Moemon and Osan trekked across the wilderness of Tamba. They had to make their own road through the stubborn underbrush. At last they climbed a high peak and, looking back whence they had come, reflected on the terrors of their journey. It was, to be sure, the lot they had chosen; still, there was little pleasure in living on in the role of the dead. They were lost souls, miserably lost, on a route that was not even marked by a woodsman’s footprints. Osan stumbled feebly along, so wretched that she seemed to be gasping for what might be her last breath, and her face lost all its color. Moemon tried every means to revive and sustain his beloved, even catching spring water in a leaf as it dripped from the rocks. But Osan had little strength left to draw on. Her pulse beat more and more faintly; any minute might be her last.

  Moemon could offer nothing at all in the way of medicine. He stood by helplessly to wait for Osan’s end, then suddenly bent near and whispered in her ear: “Just a little further on we shall come to the village of some people I know. There we can forget all our misery, indulge our hearts’ desire with pillows side by side, and talk again of love!”

  When she heard this, Osan felt better right away. “How good that sounds! Oh, you are worth paying for with one’s life!”

  A pitiful women indeed, whom lust alone could arouse, Osan was carried by Moemon pickaback into the fenced enclosure of a tiny village. Here was the highway to the capital, and a road running along the mountainside wide enough for two horses to pass each other. Here too was a teahouse thatched with straw and built up of cryptomeria branches woven together A sign said “Finest Home-brew Here,” but the rice paste was many days old and dust had deprived it of its whiteness. On a side counter were tea brushes, clay dolls, and dancing-drummer dolls—and reminiscent of Kyoto and therefore a tonic to the weary travelers, who rested there awhile.

  “Just a little further on we shall come to the village There we can forget all our misery, indulge our hearts’ desire with pillows side by side, and talk again of love!”. . . Osan felt better right away. . . .

  Moemon and Osan enjoyed it so that, upon leaving, they offered the old innkeeper one piece of gold. But he scowled unappreciatively, like a cat that is shown an umbrella.10

  “Please pay me for the tea,” he demanded, and they were amused to think that less than fifteen miles from the capital there should be a village which had not yet heard of gold pieces.

  Thence the lovers went to a place called Kayabara, where lived an aunt of Moemon’s whom he had not heard from for many years—who might be dead for all he knew. Calling on her, Moemon spoke of their family past, and she welcomed him as one of her own. The rest of the evening, with chin in hand and tears in her eyes, the old woman talked of nothing but his father Mosuke; but when day broke she became suddenly aware of Osan, whose beauty and refinement aroused her suspicions.

  “What sort of person is she?” his aunt asked.

  Moemon had not prepared himself for all the questions she might ask and found himself in an awkward spot. “My younger sister,” he replied. “For many years she has served in the home of a court official, but it was a strict family and she disliked the fretful life of the capital. She thought there might be an opportunity to join a quiet, leisurely household—something like this—in the mountains. So she terminated her service and came along with me in hopes of finding housework and gardening to do in the village. Her expenses need be no concern; she has about two hundred gold pieces in savings.”

  Thus he blithely concocted a story to satisfy the old woman. But it is a greedy world wherever one goes, and Moemon’s aunt thought there might be something in this for her.

  “Now,” she exclaimed, “that is really most fortunate. My son has no wife yet and your sister is a relative, so why not have her marry him?”11

  It was a distressing proposal. Osan sobbed quietly, cursing the fate which had led her to such a dismal prospect.

  Then as evening fell the son came home. He was frightful to behold, taller than anyone she had ever seen, and his head sat like a Chinese-lion gargoyle on his squat neck. A fierce light gleamed in his big, blood-shot eyes. His beard was like a bear’s, his arms and legs were as thick as pine trees, and a wisteria vine held together the rag-woven clothes he wore. In one hand he carried an old matchlock, in the other a tinder-rope. His hunting basket was full of rabbits and badgers, as much as to say: “This is how I make
a living.” He was called Zetaro the Rock-jumper.

  In the village it was no secret that he was a mean man. But when his mother explained to him her proposal for a marriage with the lady from Kyoto, Zetaro was pleased.

  “Good, let’s waste no time. Tonight will do.” And he reached for a hand mirror to look at his face. “Nice looking fellow,” he said.

  His mother prepared the wedding cup, offered them salted fish, and passed around a wine bottle which had had its neck broken off. She used floor mats as screens to enclose the room which would serve as the nuptial chamber. Two wooden pillows were also provided, two thin sleeping mats, and one striped bedcover. Split pine logs burned in the brazier. It would be a gay evening.

  But Osan was as sad as could be, and Moemon was terribly depressed.

  “This is the price I must pay for having spoken so impulsively. We are living on when we should have died in the waters of Omi. Heaven will not spare us now!” He drew his sword and would have killed himself had not Osan stopped and quieted him.

  “Why, you are much too short-tempered. There are still ways to get out of this. At dawn we shall depart from here—leave everything to me.”

  That night while she was drinking the wedding cup with good grace and affability, Osan remarked to Zetaro: “Most people shun me. I was born in the year of the Fiery Horse.”12

  “I wouldn’t care if you were a Fiery Cat or a Fiery Wolf. I even like blue lizards—eat ’em in fact. And you see I’m not dead yet. Twenty-seven years old, and I haven’t had one case of worms. Mister Moemon should take after me! As for you—a soft creature brought up in the capital isn’t what I’d like for a wife, but I’ll tolerate you since you’re my relative.” In this generous mood he lay down and snuggled his head comfortably in her lap.

  Amidst all their unhappiness Osan and Moemon found the brute somewhat amusing. Nevertheless, they could hardly wait until he went to bed, at last giving them a chance to slip away. Again they hid themselves in the depths of Tamba. Then after many days had passed they came out upon the road to Tango.

  One night they slept in a chapel of the god Monju, who appeared to Osan in a dream midway through the night.

  “You have committed the worst of sins. Wherever you go, you cannot escape its consequences. But that is all part of the unredeemable past; henceforth you must forsake your vain ways, shave off the hair you take such delight in, and become a nun. Once separated, the two of you can abandon your evil passion and enter upon the Way of Enlightenment. Then perhaps your lives may be saved!”

  It was a worthy vision, but Osan heard herself answering: “Please don’t worry about what becomes of us. We are more than glad to pay with our lives for this illicit affair. Monju may understand the love of men for men,13 but he knows nothing about the love of women.”

  That instant she awoke from her dream, just as the morning breeze blew in through Hashidate’s seaside pines, bearing with it the dust of the world.

  “Everything is dust and defilement,” Osan told herself, and all hope was lost of ever saving her.

  5. The eavesdropper whose ears were burned

  Men take their misfortunes to heart and keep them there. A gambler does not talk about his losses; the frequenter of brothels, who finds his favorite engaged by another, pretends to be just as well off without her; the professional street-brawler is quiet about the fights he has lost; and a merchant who speculates in goods will conceal the losses he may suffer. They are all like the “man who steps on dog dung in the dark.”

  But of them all the one who has a wanton, mischievous wife will feel his misfortune most, convinced that there is no more heartless creature in the world than she. To the outer world Osan’s husband treated her as a closed issue: she was dead, and nothing could be said or done about her. There were times when he was reminded of their years together and would feel the greatest bitterness toward Osan, yet he would still call in a priest to hold services in her memory. Ironically enough, he offered one of her choice silk garments as an altarcloth for the local temple, where, fluttering in the fickle wind of Life and Death, it became a further source of lamentation.

  Even so, there is no one bolder than a man deeply attached to the things of this world, and Moemon, who before was so prudent that he never went outdoors at night, soon lost himself in a nostalgic desire to see the capital again. Dressing in the most humble attire and pulling his hat down over his eyes, he left Osan in the care of some villagers and made a senseless trip to Kyoto, all the while fearing more for his own safety than would a man who is about to deliver himself into the hands of an enemy.

  It began to get dark when he reached the neighborhood of Hirozawa, and the sight of the moon, reflected as two in the pond, made him think again of Osan, so that his sleeve became soaked with idle tears. Presently he put behind him the rapids of Narutaki, with myriad bubbles dancing over the rocks, and hurried on toward Omuro and Kitano, for he knew that way well. When he entered the city his fears were multiplied. “What’s that!” he would ask himself, when he saw his own silhouette under the waning moon, and his heart would freeze with terror.

  In the quarter with which he was so familiar, because his former master lived there, he took up eavesdropping to learn the state of things. He heard about the inquiry which was to be made into the overdue payment from Edo, and about the latest styles in hair-dress, as discussed by a gathering of young men, who were also commenting on the style and fit of each others’ clothes—the sort of silly chatter that love and lust inspire in men. When these topics of conversation were exhausted, sure enough they fell to talking about Moemon.

  “That rascal Moemon, stealing a woman more beautiful than all the others! Even though he paid with his worthless life for it, he certainly got the best of the bargain—a memory worth dying with!”

  But a man of more discernment upheld morality against Moemon. “He’s nobody to raise up in public. He’d stink in the breeze. I can’t imagine anyone worse than a man who’d cheat both his master and a husband at once.”

  Overhearing this, Moemon swore to himself: “That’s the voice of the scoundrel Kisuke, of the Daimonji-ya. What a heartless, faithless fellow to be so outspoken against me. Why, I lent him eighty momme of silver on an IOU! But I’ll get even for what he just said: I’ll get that money back if I have to wring his neck.”

  Moemon gnashed his teeth and stood up in a rage. Still, there was nothing a man hiding from the world could do about the insults offered him, and while he suppressed his outraged feelings another man started to speak.

  “Moemon’s not dead. He’s living with Mistress Osan somewhere around Ise, they say, having a wonderful time.”

  This shook Moemon and sent chills through his body. He left in all haste, took a room in a lodging-house along Third Avenue, and went to bed without even taking a bath. Since it was the night of the seventeenth,14 he wrapped up twelve mon in a piece of paper and handed it to a beggar who would buy some candles and keep the vigil for him that night. Then he prayed that people would not discover who he was. But could he expect that even Atago-sama, the patron of lovers, would help him in his wickedness?

  In the morning, as a last memory of the capital before leaving it, he stole down Higashi-yama to the theatre section at Shijo-gawara. Someone told him that it was the opening day of a three-act Kabuki drama featuring Fujita.

  “I must see what it is like and tell Osan when I return.”

  He rented a cushion and sat far back to watch from a distance, uneasy at heart lest someone recognize him. The play was about a man whose daughter was stolen away. It made Moemon’s conscience hurt. Then he looked down to the front rows. There was Osan’s husband. At the sight Moemon’s spirit almost left him. He felt like a man with one foot dangling over hell, and the sweat stood like pearls on his forehead. Out he rushed through an exit to return to the village of Tango, which he did not think of leaving again for Kyoto.

  At that time, when the Chrysanthemum Festival was almost at hand, a chestnut peddler made
his annual trip to the capital. While speaking of one thing and another at the house of the almanac maker, he asked where the mistress was, but as this was an awkward subject in the household none of the servants ventured to answer.

  Frowning, Osan’s husband told him: “She’s dead.”

  “That’s strange,” the peddler went on. “I’ve seen someone who looks very much like her, in fact, someone who doesn’t differ from her one particle. And with her is the living image of your young man. They are near Kirito in Tango.”

  When the peddler had departed, Osan’s husband sent someone to check up on what he had heard. Learning that Osan and Moemon were indeed alive, he gathered together a good number of his own people, who went and arrested them.

  There was no room for mercy in view of their crime. When the judicial inquiry was duly concluded, the lovers, together with a maidservant named Tama who had been their go-between earlier, were paraded as an example before the crowds along the way to Awadaguchi, where they died like dewdrops falling from a blade of grass.

  Thus they met their end on the morning of September twenty-second, with, it should be remarked, a touching acquiescence in their fate. Their story spread everywhere, and today the name of Osan still brings to mind her beautiful figure, clothed in the pale-blue slip which she wore to her execution.