“So please, we beseech you, cease this folly!” Thus they admonished him at length.
Having listened to their long harangue, Hyōtaro answered as follows:
“Truly, I am most grateful for your kind advice. Henceforth, I will not go there anymore.” Having thus made his solemn pledge, he sent the elders home and, without a pause, hurried out on his way to the Shimabara and, before long, using up all he had, ended up as yet another of those thread-bare bums, to the tune of the samisen’s “te-tsuru-ten”!
[Kana-zōshi shū, NKBT 90: 244, 253–255, translated by Jack Stoneman and Richard Lane, respectively]
HAND PUPPETS (OTOGI BŌKO, 1666)
Asai Ryōi wrote Hand Puppets, a collection of sixty-eight supernatural tales, in 1666, after his writing career had been well established. The title refers to the dolls traditionally placed by children’s pillows to ward off harmful spirits. Eighteen of the stories in Asai’s collection, including “The Peony Lantern,” were drawn from the noted Ming collection of ghost tales, Jiandeng Xinhua (J. Sentō shinwa; New Stories After Putting out the Lamp, 1378) by Qu You. Ryōi was the first Japanese writer to use this Chinese collection extensively, and it became a source for narrative fiction into the late Tokugawa and Meiji periods. The three main types of ghost stories—the Buddhist tales of karmic causality beginning with An Account of Rewards and Retribution for Good and Evil in Japan (Nihon ryōiki, 810–824), ghost stories from various provinces, and adaptations from Chinese ghost stories—were represented in the seventeenth century by Tales of Karmic Causality (Inga monogatari, 1661–1673), Hundred Tales (Hyaku monogatari, 1659), and Ryōi’s Hand Puppets, the last being the most sophisticated and innovative in literary terms. Whereas the earlier medieval ghost stories had been heavily influenced by the Buddhist doctrine of karmic causality—which rewards religious piety and punishes evil—Asai’s ghost stories focused on human psychology, using the supernatural to reflect intense emotional states, particularly resentment and jealousy, and thus established a new style of ghost story, which had a profound impact on later writers such as Ueda Akinari.
Asai Ryōi did not directly translate his Chinese sources. Instead, he gave them Japanese characters and settings and employed an elegant Japanese style (gabun) that distanced his narratives from their Chinese origins. “The Peony Lantern,” one of Ryōi’s best-known stories, was an adaptation of the Chinese tale “Botan tōki” (Account of a Peony Lantern), with the setting shifted to Kyoto during the turmoil of the Ōnin War (1467–1477), which devastated the capital. Employing waka poetry and a classical style, Ryōi created the atmosphere of a courtly Heian romance. The noted rakugo (comic oral storyteller) performer Sanyūtei Enchō rewrote the story in the late nineteenth century, altering and expanding it considerably.
The Peony Lantern
Every year from the fifteenth through the twenty-fourth of Seventh Month, the people of Kyoto set up altars in their homes and perform memorial services for the spirits of their deceased ancestors. Paper lanterns are made as festival decorations. People place the lighted lanterns on their altars or hang them from the eaves of their homes, and when they visit the graves of their departed, they set one in front of the tombstone. These lanterns are elegantly painted with designs of flowers and birds or trees and plants. Throughout the festival season they are left burning all night long. Sightseers drift through the city streets incessantly, and now and then a troupe of festival dancers comes dancing gracefully along, their charming voices raised in hymns of praise to the buddhas and saints. The entire capital from one end to another is thus transformed during the Festival of the Dead.6
It was the Seventh Month of the seventeenth year of Tenbun [1548].7 At this time there lived on Fifth Avenue in the Kyōgoku district a man named Ogihara Shinnosuke. He had recently lost his wife; his breast smoldered with longing for her; and his sleeves were always soaked with tears. He lingered forlornly by his window, pining for the days they had passed so happily together. This year the seasonal festivities moved him more deeply than ever before. To think that his own wife was now among the souls of the departed! He spent his time offering sutras for her repose and had no desire to set foot outside his home. His friends tried to entice him out, but he did not have the heart. He just lingered at his gate, lost in thought. Once he composed a verse: “The apparition of my precious wife remains ever before me; Why, then, am I heartbroken, though she still clings to me so?” Murmuring these lines, he wiped away his tears.
It was very late at night on the fifteenth of the Seventh Month. The number of passersby had dwindled and the streets were nearly silent. Just then Ogihara noticed a lovely woman around twenty years old gracefully strolling along. She was accompanied by a girl of fourteen or fifteen who was carrying an exquisite paper lantern inscribed with a peony design. The woman’s eyes were bright as lotus blossoms, her figure lithe as a willow, her eyebrows lovely as a laurel tree, her jet black tresses indescribably alluring. As he gazed at her beneath the moonlight, Ogihara wondered whether she was a goddess who had descended from heaven to amuse herself among humans, or the Princess of the Dragon Palace who had risen from the ocean depths to divert herself on earth. Truly, she seemed a creature not of this world! Ogihara lost his senses; he was so entranced by the woman that he could not resist following her.
He began subtly flirting with her, now overtaking her, now falling behind. After they had walked westward a short distance the woman turned around, and with a faint smile, she spoke to him: “It’s not that I am waiting anxiously for a man who promised to meet me. I was lured out by the moon tonight and lost track of time. I dread walking home so late at night. Won’t you keep me company?” Ogihara slowly approached her. “Your home must be far from here, and it’s dangerous to return at this late hour. I live in a dusty, ramshackle place, but if you don’t mind, please spend the night there,” he offered. The woman smiled and replied, “One who leads a dreary life, gazing alone at the moonlight seeping through her window, is delighted to receive such an invitation. The human heart is moved by kindness.” She drew a little closer to him.
Ogihara was elated. He took the woman’s hand and led her to his home. He brought out some liquor, asked the young maid to serve them, and he and the woman drank a bit together. The moon hung low in the sky, and as Ogihara listened to the woman’s charming conversation, he thought, “Would that this day together were the last day of my life!”8 Little did he realize that his wish would prove prophetic. Then Ogihara tried composing a verse: “Must we wait until the hour of our next meeting to share a pillow? No, this very night may be our one opportunity.” The woman responded: “If only you pledge you will wait night after night, I’ll come without fail; Why should parting make you fret and cast such rueful glances?”
Ogihara was more and more enchanted. He and the woman bared their innermost feelings to each other, then they disrobed and shared a pillow for the first time. Before they could exchange all the words of love in their hearts, dawn had come.
“Where do you live?” asked Ogihara. “My house is no ‘rough-hewn wooden palace,’ but do tell me your name!”9 The woman replied, “I am a descendant of Nikaidō Masayuki, whose ancestors were Fujiwaras. In Masayuki’s day our family was influential and prosperous. Times changed, and now I dwell very humbly, barely managing to stay alive. My father, Masanobu, was slain in battle during the uprisings in Kyoto.10 After all my brothers died, our house was ruined. Now only I am left. I live with my maid near the Manju Temple.11 Even introducing myself makes me feel sad and ashamed.”
Her speech was refined and her manner frank and endearing. Already the moon, veiled in trailing clouds, was about to slip behind the mountain crest, and the lamplight in the room had grown faint. The woman arose, reluctantly bid farewell, and left. After that, the woman came to Ogihara at dusk and departed at dawn; every night she kept her vow to visit. Ogihara’s heart was in turmoil, his reason had flown. He was thrilled that the woman cared for him so deeply and never failed to come. He lost i
nterest in seeing anyone else, even during the day. For more than twenty days he remained in this state.
Next door to Ogihara lived a wise old man. He thought it strange that lately, night after night, he could hear the voice of a young woman, laughing and singing, coming from Ogihara’s house. He became so suspicious that finally he went and peeked through a crack in his fence. Lo and behold, there in the lamplight sat Ogihara, face to face with a skeleton! When Ogihara spoke, the skeleton would move its arms and legs, nod its skull, and reply in a voice that seemed to come from its mouth. The old man was aghast. As soon as it was daybreak he sent for Ogihara.
“These days you seem to have a guest every evening. Who on earth is it?” he asked. But Ogihara stayed silent, wishing to keep his affair a secret. So the old man spoke his mind: “You are headed for disaster. It’s no use trying to hide anything. Last night I peeked through the fence and saw everything. You know, human beings are energetic and pure while they’re alive, but after they die and become ghosts they turn gloomy and vicious. That’s why corpses are taboo. Now you’re dallying with a gloomy ghost and you don’t realize it. You’re sleeping with a filthy evil enchantress, but you’re blind to it. Soon your energy will be gone, your vigor depleted, and misfortunes will beset you. You’ll fall ill, and no amount of medicine or moxa or acupuncture will do you any good. Consumption will set in, and in the bloom of your youth, robbed of a long life, you’ll find yourself in the netherworld, your bones buried beneath the moss. Oh, what a pity!”
Ogihara, wearing a black lozenge-pattern robe, sits relaxed with one knee folded and his sword placed by his side (non-samurai were allowed to carry only one sword), engrossed in conversation with the skeleton by the light of a lamp. Ogihara’s neighbor is standing in the next room, peeking through a crack in the wall, rather than through a fence, as noted in the text. From the 1666 edition.
A votive paper lantern, with peony flowers on the top, hangs from the eaves of a small shrine. The lattice doors are open, revealing flowers and other offerings in front of the mortuary tablet, which Ogihara is reading.
Ogihara was stunned, then fear gripped his heart, and he revealed his recent experiences. After hearing the story the old man said, “If she said she lives near the Manju Temple, you ought to go there and look for her.” So Ogihara headed westward on Fifth Avenue and scoured the entire area around Madé Avenue. He trudged over riverbanks and through willow groves and made many inquiries, but no one could tell him a thing. When dusk fell he entered the Manju Temple precincts to rest for a while. As he wandered northward, beyond the bathhouse, he came upon an old burial shrine. He went up to it and read the inscription on the coffin: “Here lies Iyako, daughter of Imperial Palace Guard Nikaidō Masanobu; Buddhist name, Ginshōin Reigetsu.”12 Beside the coffin was an old doll, a child’s amulet; on its back was written the name “Asaji.” An old paper lantern, inscribed with a pattern of peonies, hung on the front of the shrine. Here were the woman and her little maid; there was no doubt about it. Ogihara was so horrified that his hair stood on end. Without looking back, he fled from the temple grounds and raced home.
The passion that had consumed him for weeks was utterly quenched. Ogihara was now petrified to be at home. Gone was the lover who had longed for dusk and lamented the dawn; Ogihara could only tremble at the thought of the woman appearing that evening. He went next door to the old man’s house and asked to spend the night there. “What on earth shall I do?” he moaned. The old man gave him this advice: “Kyō no kimi, a monk at the Tō Temple,13 is both a holy man and a scholar. What’s more, he’s known for his healing powers. Hurry and ask for his help.”
Ogihara lost no time in going to meet the man. Kyō no kimi declared, “A fiendish spirit is sucking your blood and confusing your mind. You have only ten days to live.” Then Ogihara related the whole story to him. Kyō no kimi wrote a talisman to ward off evil and told Ogihara to attach it to his gate. After that the woman did not visit him again.
Around fifty days later Ogihara called on Kyō no kimi at the Tō Temple to express his gratitude. The monk treated him to some liquor, and Ogihara left rather intoxicated. Naturally enough, he found himself yearning for a glimpse of the woman’s face. He staggered to the Manju Temple and peered through the gate. At once the woman appeared before him and reproached him severely:
“Your recent vows of love have soon become empty words, and you’ve shown your heartlessness. At first, since your feelings were deep, I yielded myself to you. I came to you faithfully at twilight and departed at dawn. Although you promised you would cling to me forever, someone called Kyō no kimi cruelly drove us apart and turned your heart against me. But how happy I am that you have come to see me tonight! Please come in.” The woman took Ogihara by the hand and led him through the gate and into the darkness.
Ogihara’s manservant took to his heels in fright. He raced home and told everyone what he had witnessed. They all were appalled and rushed to the scene. But by the time they arrived, Ogihara had already been lured into the woman’s grave and had died embracing her bones. The monks at the temple were highly perplexed by the incident, and they had the grave moved to Toribeyama.
After that, on dark, rainy nights Ogihara and the woman were seen walking hand in hand, accompanied by a girl carrying a lantern with a peony design. People who encountered them fell gravely ill, and their neighbors were terror stricken. Ogihara’s family was greatly dismayed by these occurrences. They recited the Lotus Sutra a thousand times, and they visited Ogihara’s grave to offer sutras copied for the repose of his soul.14 From that time on, it is said, the spirits ceased to appear.
[Kana-zōshi shūsei 7: 196–203, translated by Maryellen Toman Mori]
MILITARY STORIES
At the beginning of the Edo period, various types of military stories were written and widely read. Particularly prominent were regional and individual records of those who had directly participated in the battles leading to the unification of the country in 1600. In contrast to the medieval military tales, which celebrated the bravery and accomplishments of war heroes, these accounts—such as Mikawa Narrative (Mikawa monogatari), Daté Diary (Date nikki), and O-An’s Stories (Oan monogatari)—were attempts at faithful reportage and provide a rare glimpse of everyday life during battle.
O-AN’S STORIES (OAN MONOGATARI, 1737)
O-An’s Stories, which was frequently printed and widely read in the Edo period, includes an account of the battle of Sekigahara written from the perspective of an elderly woman looking back on her experience as a teenage girl. In the autumn of 1600, Tokugawa Ieyasu, the leader of the forces in the East, defeated Ishida Mitsunari (1560–1600), the leader of the forces in the West, in a decisive battle at Sekigahara in Mino Province (Gifu). Following his overwhelming victory, Ieyasu united the country and became shōgun three years later. O-An, the daughter of a samurai in the service of Ishida Mitsunari, survived the siege and fall of Ōgaki Castle in Mino, which was being defended by Ishida Mitsunari’s forces. In the following passage, which recounts the events on the eve of the battle of Sekigahara, O-An describes the firing of cannons (recently imported from the West), the making of bullets for rifles, and the dressing of the severed heads of enemy warriors. Tanaka Yoshimasa, whom O-An identifies, was one of the commanders of Ieyasu’s Eastern army, which was attacking ō gaki Castle.
After escaping from the castle with her parents, O-An went to Tosa (Kōchi), where she was married. (O-An is the title of respect accorded her after she was widowed and became a nun.) She died during the Kanbun era (1661–1673) when she was in her eighties. The name of the scribe, who recorded the memoir as a colloquial narration, is not known. The text presented here is based on a 1737 woodblock edition.
The children would gather round her and plead, “Miss O-An, tell us a story of the olden days.” And so she would begin.
“My father, Yamada Kyoreki, was in the service of Lord Ishida. At first we were in the castle at Hikone, in Ōmi, on the shores of Lake Biwa; but later, wh
en Lord Ishida rose in rebellion, he gathered his forces in Ōgaki Castle, in the province of Mino.
“We all were there in the castle together when a strange thing happened. Night after night, in the midnight hour, the voices of perhaps thirty people—both men and women, although who they were we could not tell—would wail, ‘Lord Tanaka, ka-a-a-a! Lord Tanaka, ka-a-a-a!’ And then, ‘Waaaa!’ they would shriek. It happened night after night. It was eerie, oh it was eerie, and so frightening. After that, a vast force sent by Lord Ieyasu approached and beset the castle, and the fighting continued night and day. The commander of that force, it turned out, was called Lord Tanaka.
“Whenever our men were going to fire the cannon, they would make the rounds and warn us. Do you know why? Because when they fired those cannon, it was horrendous; the turrets would shiver and sway, and the very earth seemed as if it would split open. For the frailer-spirited sorts of ladies, that was enough to make them faint on the spot. So they would warn us in advance. Once we’d been warned, we felt as if we were waiting for lightning to flash and thunder to crash. At first I was utterly terrified, so frightened I hardly felt I was alive. But after a while, it didn’t bother me at all.
“All of us, my mother and the wives and daughters of the other vassals, were in the Great Keep, molding bullets for the musketeers. The severed heads taken by our side also were collected in the Keep. We attached name tags to all of them, to keep track of whose they were. Then we would carefully blacken the teeth of each head. Do you know why? In the old days, a head with black teeth was prized as the head of a man of rank, so they asked us to blacken the teeth of any head that had white teeth. We weren’t frightened of the heads. We would lie down and sleep with blood-stinking heads all around us.
Early Modern Japanese Literature: An Anthology, 1600–1900 Page 7
