Early Modern Japanese Literature: An Anthology, 1600–1900

by Shirane, Haruo, ed.

  Somehow they managed to get rid of the dogs and then went on. Very soon they unexpectedly came to the end of the town.

  [Tōkaidōchū hizakurige, NKBZ 49: 75–76, 221–226, 285–292, adapted from Shank’s Mare, a translation by Thomas Satchell]

  SHIKITEI SANBA

  Shikitei Sanba (1776–1822) was born and raised in Edo, the third son of a woodblock cutter in Asakasa. He worked in a bookstore as a youth and was adopted as the son-in-law of the owner but eventually ran his own business in Nihonbashi. Sanba became familiar with popular literature at an early age and published his first kibyōshi at the age of eighteen, in 1794. Sanba also wrote sharebon, and in the aftermath of the Kansei Reforms (1787–1793), when the sharebon genre fell into disfavor, he turned to gōkan (extended illustrated books) and kokkeibon (books of humor).

  Sanba’s kokkeibon were inspired by Jippensha Ikku’s best-selling Travels on the Eastern Seaboard and by the realistic, detailed description and dialogue of Santō Kyōden’s sharebon. In 1809, Sanba published Floating-World Bathhouse (Ukiyoburo), his first major kokkeibon, which consisted of two volumes, “Women’s Bath” and “Men’s Bath.” In the same year, for financial security, Sanba established a pharmacy, which became quite profitable. Then, in 1810, in response to popular demand, he wrote a sequel, which became the second half of Floating-World Bathhouse. In 1813, he published the first volume of Floating-World Barber (Ukiyodoko), another kokkeibon in the same socially oriented vein as his earlier work. Even though Sanba used the realistic dialogue and format of the sharebon (supplying furigana, or kana, for all the Chinese graphs and compounds), he deliberately parted from the sharebon in not describing the licensed quarters in either Floating-World Bathhouse or Floating-World Barber. Although he continued to write in other genres, he is best remembered for these two kokkeibon. Together with Jippensha Ikku, Sanba, who died at the age of forty-six, became one of the two leading writers of the kokkeibon genre, thus achieving success as both a merchant and a writer.

  FLOATING-WORLD BATHHOUSE (UKIYOBURO, 1809)

  In the preface to Floating-World Bathhouse, Sanba notes that he got the idea for his book from listening to Sanshōtei Karaku (1777–1833), a noted performer of rakugo (the art of comic storytelling), describe a public bathhouse scene. In the Tenmei era (1781–1789), urban commoners began to meet in small halls to hear professional storytellers relate humorous stories that were drawn from their own everyday lives and that were not intended for moralistic or educational purposes. This kind of oral storytelling, which included military, religious, and other genres, achieved its greatest popularity in the Bunka-Bunsei era (1804–1829). In 1815, Edo alone had seventy-five storytelling halls. The humorous stories performed there—a tradition that can be traced back as far as the kana-zōshi collections of such humorous tales as Today’s Tales of Yesterday (Kinō wa kyō no monogatari, ca. 1620)—were recorded and published as books (hanashibon, literally, talk books), which became the foundation for the kokkeibon. In many respects, Floating-World Bathhouse can be considered a kind of written rakugo, in which the storyteller evokes in slightly exaggerated form the gestures and speech of different social types. The reader of Floating-World Bathhouse is transported to another world mainly through the dialogue, which creates a sense of intimacy, as if the reader were overhearing a conversation.

  One of the features of Floating-World Bathhouse and Floating-World Barbershop was that they focused on places where people commonly gathered, such as the public bath (sentō) and the barbershop. These places differed from the theater in that people from every walk of life came together there to engage in everyday conversation. Sanba subtly exaggerated this dialogue to allow the reader to realize the humor it often contained. He also created a sense of intimacy, which allowed the audience to become the butt of the humor itself. In contrast to Travels on the Eastern Seaboard, which moves from one place to another, the setting of Floating-World Bathhouse and Floating-World Barbershop does not change, although it moves in time, from morning through evening or through the different seasons. There is no narrative or plot. Instead, Sanba presents a constantly rotating array of characters from different sexes, social classes, age groups, occupations, and birthplaces and goes to great lengths to depict minute differences in speech, behavior, and thought. In the first volume, “Men’s Bath,” Sanba describes an apoplectic man, a father with children, a doctor, a blind man, a Gidayū chanter, and others, with the humor deriving primarily from small incidents and the characters’ actions (such as the blind man being teased and having his bucket stolen), similar to the situational comedy found in Travels on the Eastern Seaboard. But in the second volume, “Women’s Bath,” the approach changes significantly. Instead of concentrating on physical behavior, Sanba engages in a social critique, humorously revealing the weaknesses and contradictions of contemporary social types. His humor is also evident in the tongue-in-cheek manner in which he stresses the didactic function of baths in Floating-World Bathhouse.

  In the Edo period, except for those of the upper-rank samurai or extremely wealthy merchant families, houses did not have baths; almost all people used public bathhouses. Even in those mansions with baths, the maids and servants usually had to go to a public bathhouse after work. In the Bunka era (1804–1818), Edo alone had more than six hundred public bathhouses. When they first appeared in the middle of the sixteenth century, the same baths were used by both men and women, but gradually more and more urban bathhouses constructed separate facilities for men and women, as is the case in Floating-World Bathhouse.

  The Larger Meaning

  Public baths are the shortest route there is to moral and spiritual enlightenment. Careful reflection shows this. It is a truth of Heaven, Earth, and all nature that everyone, wise or foolish, righteous or evil, rich or poor, high or low, goes naked into the bath. Shakyamuni Buddha and Confucius, Osan the maid and Gonsuke the hired man, all return to the shapes with which they were born. They take off the things they’ve desired and cherished and leave them as far behind as the mythical Western Sea to which beggars send impure spirits in their chants. Bathers enter the water freely, without a trace of desire. Both master and servant stand naked after they’ve washed away the grime of greed and worldly wants and rinsed themselves with fresh water—and you can’t tell which is which! From the time people are washed at birth until their corpses are rinsed a final time, in the bath they’re all equal and reveal their true forms. And just as the red-faced drunk of the night before sobers up fast in steaming bathwater the next morning, public baths show each of us that our death is separated from our life by no more than the thickness of the paper on the bathhouse sliding door.

  Once they begin to soak, even old people who dislike Buddhism forget themselves and intone Amida Buddha’s holy name. Naked, the lustiest young bathers feel bashful and hold towels over their private parts. Fierce warriors, washing themselves off before bathing, endure the hot water splashed by others onto their heads and resign themselves to the ways of crowded places. Even irritable toughs with spirits and gods tattooed on their arms say “Pardon please” as they stoop and go through the low door leading from the washing room to the bathing room. Where else but in a public bath can such virtues be found?

  People have individual minds and private feelings, but in a public bath there are no individual minds, and nothing is private. If a bather secretly farts, the water makes sounds, and a moment later bubbles rise to the surface. When we were young, we all heard about how little Yajirō farted off in the bushes and then lied about it, but a member of the public bath community who thinks about acting secretly also has to consider what the impartial water is thinking and will feel ashamed.

  All five Confucian paths of virtuous conduct are continually followed at public baths. Hot water warms the body, loosens dirt, cures diseases, relieves fatigue, and otherwise shows the path of benevolence. When the people washing off before entering the bath ask, “Is there a pail no one’s using?” or when they refrain from using pails placed on
reserve by others, or when they finish quickly and give their pails and places to others who are waiting, then they are following the path of righteousness. The path of courtesy is evident whenever a new bather entering the tub says “Pardon me, I’m a rough country person,” or, in winter, says “Forgive my cold body,” or simply “Excuse me,” or when people say “Leaving already?” to someone getting out, or when those leaving say “Pardon me for going first” or “Please take your time” to those who remain. The path of wisdom is followed whenever bathers use small bags of rice bran, powder, soft pumice stone, or vegetable sponges to scrub off dirt or when they use a pair of sharp stones to trim their pubic hairs. And the path of mutual trust can be seen whenever someone says “It’s too hot” and someone else pours in cold water, or when another person says, “It’s cooling down” and someone else pours in hot water, or when people pour water on each other’s backs.

  Celebrated by all, the public bath is an imposing place. Inside, bathers come to see that water follows the contours of different containers—from the square cups at the cold-water basin to the round buckets for pouring clean hot water after the bath—and they come to understand that the mind flows into different shapes with different human relationships. Thus they realize they must constantly scrub their minds and keep them as clean as the floorboards in the bathhouse washing room.

  In the men’s bath, customers first took off their clogs and sandals near the entrance (lower-right corner), placed them in the cubbyholes, and then changed their clothes near the entrance. They cleaned themselves in the large washing area (left) before entering the bath. The low entrance to the bathing room is visible at the upper left. Refreshments were served in the upstairs parlor. The paper notices near the ceiling stated the rules of the bathhouse. From the 1809 edition.

  The sign at the bathhouse entrance tells bathers “Full payment each time, even twice a day” and helps them realize that life is short and comes only once. On the walls are advertisements for products you can buy. Cure-All Skin Cream reminds people that learning techniques are less important than sincerity and devotion. There’s no cure for a fool, but Thousand-League Ointment will give spring to your legs, and Peerless Chapped-Skin Cream stings and urges you on like your best friend. Toothache Powder, pronounced while you hold it with your tongue against a bad tooth, sounds like Loyalty-and-Filial-Piety Powder, and Spirit-Calming Pills for dizziness will put bathers’ elderly parents at ease.

  “Look Out for Fire!” The sign reminds bathers of the Buddhist caution against flames of desire, while “Early Closings in Case of Strong Winds” warns that bursts of wild spending will destroy a household in no time at all. The human body is a precious combination of five elements borrowed from the universe, and if you ignore the sign that says “Keep Your Valuables with You” and lose yourself in drinking or sensuality, well, then “We Disclaim Any Responsibility.” You bring such harm on yourself alone: “Absolutely No Articles Kept at Front Desk.” As the bathhouse clearly states, there must be “No Fights or Arguments,” for pride or for profit. And “Never Raise Your Voice” from joy, anger, sadness, or pleasure. If you ignore these rules, you’ll make the mistake of your life and miss the bath altogether. When you finally get to the tub late at night, they’ll tell you, “Sorry, we’ve just pulled the plug.” By then you’re old, and regret is as helpful as biting your washcloth.

  People’s minds jump between good and bad the way lice travel between clothes in the bathhouse dressing room, leaping from Gonbei’s work pants to Hachibei’s soft silk robe, from a country-born maid’s underskirt to the fine clothes of a wealthy young merchant wife. Just as yesterday’s underwear was taken off and tossed on the bathhouse floor and today’s set of nice clothes is arranged on a rented shelf, wealth and position depend on the will of heaven. But good or bad, straight or crooked—these are a matter of choice. If you truly comprehend what this means, you’ll listen to others’ opinions and let even smarting words seep into you like hot morning bath water.

  Finally, and above all, be especially vigilant your whole life about the following points: Just as you place your clothes inside your rented private wardrobe and close the latch, be careful to act only in ways proper to your social class, and always keep your mind safely locked. As for your six emotions, keep them separate and clearly marked, never putting on the wrong one at the wrong time. This will be strictly adhered to by all parties, declares the General Manager of the Association of Shinto, Confucian, and Buddhist Baths as he presses down on the agreement with his big official seal.5

  Women’s Bath

  AFTERWORD TO THE PREFACE

  Both bitter pills and sweet syrup are useful in raising children. Likewise, the Three Histories and Five Classics6 are bitter medicine, while fictions and popular histories are sweet syrup. There are numerous books, such as the Greater Learning for Women or the Women’s Imagawa,7 that preach to women about how they should act, but they taste bitter, and women rarely savor them in their minds.

  The present fiction about the women’s bath is a frivolous, humorous work. If readers use their minds while they read it, however, they will easily taste its sweetness and, without even trying, realize the difference between good and bad or between straight and crooked conduct. As the saying goes, if watching others is a remedy for mending your own ways, then this book will no doubt provide a shortcut to true moral learning. Even young people who ignore criticism are willing to consider teachings if they’re humorously presented, and they remember them naturally. If you pay close attention and savor this trifling, playful book, you will discover small-seeming gains that are actually very large.

  EARLY MORNING AND MORNING

  The streets are filled with the chants of beggars, each one pretending to have phrases more effective than the next. “This all-purpose purification really works,” cries one beggar dressed as a Shintō priest. “Filth won’t gather, and you’ll never get dirty. The gleaming shrine fences are really clean and pure!” Nearby a Buddhist beggar sings, “Heaven and all the seas return to the marvelous dharma. Praise Saint Nichiren, great founder, great bodhisattva. Praise the miraculous Lotus Sutra.” And then the voice of another Buddhist beggar from the rival Pure Land sect: “May Amida’s great benevolence spread virtue to all living creatures. Praise Amida Buddha, praise Amida Buddha.” But inside the public bathhouse, women of every religion and sect gather together without distinction.

  “Ho, it’s really cold this morning!” says a shivering woman as she slides open the paper-covered door at the bathhouse entrance and comes inside. Eighteen or nineteen, obviously unmarried, she looks like a singer and shamisen player with an impressive professional title. The design on her robe has pictures of three objects that, pronounced together, mean “I’ve heard good news.” The crest of her favorite kabuki actor over one arm, she carries a bathrobe dyed with a fashionable new picture-pun design.8

  “Otai! Why, good morning,” the woman says. “You’re really up early. Last night the party I was performing at must have made quite a racket.”

  “Yeah. No kidding,” says Otai, a young woman who looks like she works at a restaurant. She’s finished her bath and is about to leave. “How did you keep from falling asleep, Osami? That lush never gives up until the middle of the night, does he?”

  “Yeah, well,” says Osami. “Still, he’s gentle and well behaved. And he buys lots of drinks and knows how to hold his liquor. He doesn’t lose control the way that Kasubei does. Later, he said he wanted to see me home. He slipped while we were turning into the alleyway, and he had a hard time walking for a while, but he did finally see me to my front gate.”

  “How sweet of him,” Otai says. “He sounds like a well-meaning old guy. Not like that clumsy Donsuke who tries to do hand games, or Inroku, with all his gibes and nasty jokes. I can’t stand either of them.”

  Outside the women’s bath (top), a sign reads “Women’s Bath.” In the entrance to the bath (right), where customers paid the attendant, was the changing area with the c
ubbyholes for clothes. The rinsing area appears to the left. From the 1810 edition.

  “Really,” says Osami. “Or that Shukō. His noisy country songs are a bit much, aren’t they?”

  “And then he always ends up snoring. Hey, it looks like you’ve had your hair done!”

  “Yeah,” says Osami. “Okushi came over to my place and did my hair before she went anywhere else. Who does your hair?”

  “Osuji.”

  “It’s nice. Very nice.”

  “Really?” says Otai. “This morning a new person did it. It’s not the same. It feels funny.”

  “When someone you’re not used to does your hair, it never feels right. No matter how good she is. Turn your head. Let me have a look at it. Well, well. It looks perfect to me.”

  “Isn’t the back part tied up a little too high?”

  “Not at all. It’s perfect.”

  “Well,” says Otai, “Enjoy yourself.” She gets out her wooden clogs, puts them on, and walks toward the door.

  “Drop by sometime,” Osami urges, going inside. “My manager’s staying at my place right now, and she loves visitors. Bye!”

  (Later that morning, in the washing room, outside the bathing room) Near one end of the cold-water rinsing basin, two old women talk through the gaps in their teeth as they scrub themselves with small, porous bags of rice bran.

  “Are you finished, too, Auntie?” asks Saru.

  “Why Auntie,” says Tori, “you’re certainly here early! When did you come in?”

  They both look about the same age, and they’re not related, but each politely calls the other “Auntie.” You can’t tell who’s actually older.