Early Modern Japanese Literature: An Anthology, 1600–1900

by Shirane, Haruo, ed.

  “You know,” says Saru, “we’ve really been out of touch.”

  “Really,” says Tori. “You haven’t been sick, have you?”

  “You guessed it,” says Saru. “All these problems I have, it must be my age. My eyes are bad, and my legs and hips are stiff. It’s just ridiculous. The only one who’s happy is my daughter-in-law.”

  “What are you talking about?” says Tori. “You’re not old enough to be talking that way.”

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “Since you ask,” says Tori, “I guess you must be older than I am.”

  “Older?” says Saru. “I must be twelve years older. I’m at that age.”

  “Eighty?” asks Tori, grinning.

  “Now, now, Auntie,” says Saru. “What a heartless thing to say. I’m seventy.”

  “Well, actually,” says Tori. “until the end of last year I was fifty-nine. This year I turned sixty. And you know what? People are going around spreading rumors that next year I’m going to be celebrating my sixty-first!”

  “Auntie, you say the silliest things,” says Saru. “Really. You always look so young and spry.”

  “If only I were!” says Tori. “In children’s songs aunts can still get married up in the Shinano Mountains when they’re forty-nine. But at sixty, well, this aunt’s ready to kick the bucket. Ha-ha-ha-ha.”

  “Don’t you worry,” says Saru. “You’re always so cheerful about things. You’ve got white hair, but your mind’s still young.”

  “Well,” says Tori, “feeling down all the time doesn’t get a person anywhere, does it? I just don’t let the little things bother me. You know what? I’d really like to dye my hair and look nice again. Know any eligible men? You be my go-between, and I’ll get myself a new husband. They say even demons are good-looking when they’re in their prime. And sixty’s my prime. I’m in the prime of being an old woman. Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.”

  “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. You’re going to have a good life in the next world, I can tell.”

  “Please,” says Tori. “Who cares three cups of rice about the next world? While we’re alive, we ought to do what we want and not worry about what happens afterward. We never know what’s going to happen in this world, anyway. How can we know what happens after we’re dead? I’ll tell you what heaven is. It’s drinking a cup of saké before going to bed and getting a good sleep.”

  “That’s what I mean,” says Saru. “You can drink, so you can feel good. I just don’t have any way of getting myself in a good mood. From morning till night I’m always getting angry or depressed. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be cheerful. I’m really fed up. Tired. Tired of living in this world.”

  “Mercy, Auntie,” says Tori. “Don’t get tired of the world yet. You don’t know what you’ll get yourself into after you die. At least you know a few things about this world. Stick around to be a hundred.”

  “What a dreadful thought! Really, that would be awful. I’m just waiting for Amida Buddha to find time to come for my soul.”

  “Really, that’s such claptrap. All those people saying they want to die and not one of them really wanting to! When Amida Buddha comes for you, you’ll be begging him to wait just a little bit longer.”

  “No,” Saru answers. “I really won’t.”

  “Once you see what it’s like to be dead,” says Tori, “you’ll want to be alive again. But it’ll be too late then. Like praising your son’s first wife and complaining about his second after you’ve forced the first one to leave. In summer, people say they like winter. In winter, they say they like summer. Humans, why, all they ever say is what they feel like at the moment! That’s what I’m always telling my son and his wife. ‘Listen,’ I say to them, ‘you’d better feed me a lot of nice things while I’m still alive. If you don’t, you’re going to regret it when I’m gone. Who cares how many offerings of bean paste soup and potatoes you put in front of the altar to my soul? When people die and become buddhas, who knows if they eat or not? You talk about filial piety. Well, be real good to your mother right now. Give me in-season bonito and saké anytime. That’s a lot more virtuous than putting fried tofu on the altar on my memorial day when you’re supposed to offer it fresh. Or piling up rice cakes and crackers on the Feast of Souls Day.’ Isn’t that the way it is, Auntie?

  “That son of mine, he takes good care of me and works real hard at his job. Every day on his way back from his business he buys me food wrapped up in dried bamboo skin. ‘Eat this, Mama,’ he says. And he also gives me a little bottle of saké to drink before I sleep.” Tears of happiness appear in Tori’s eyes. “You know,” she says, “he used to be a bit of a playboy. But these days, he seems to have learned how hard it is to get along, and what do you know, he does just what he should now, and he’s a real hard worker. Losing his father early like that made him a lot more responsible. But I had to bring him up all by myself. That wasn’t easy, believe me. Even now I don’t know how I did it. Still, if that boy’d been born bad, he’d have spent all his time carousing and he’d still be a good-for-nothing. But he has a good head on his shoulders, and he learns fast. Things have been going well for him. And for me, too.

  “That wife of his, you know, she does everything. And she looks after me day and night. You don’t know what a comfort that is. That go-between Ashiemu who lives on Dragonshit Alley suddenly mentioned her one day, and after that things just seemed to happen by themselves. They’ve been married three years already. I’d really love to have a grandchild, but those two aren’t, well, they’re not making much progress yet. It’s something that just comes if it comes. If you don’t have the stuff, then you just don’t.”

  “You’re right,” says Saru. “There’s not a thing you can do. Over at my house, we’ve had two babies in two years. My body won’t move the way I want it to anymore, so I can’t baby-sit for one, much less two! I’d almost like to give one of them to you. I really would. My son’s first wife left us three children when she went, and his second wife’s already had two. And now, can you believe it, she’s going to have another one! It wouldn’t be so bad if my son would at least work hard, but he loves saké, you know. Sometimes he’ll lie around for four or five days on end and won’t even touch the little crafts that he sells. And his wife, well, the other people in the tenement, they call her a lazy tart, you know. She doesn’t care a thing for her babies and spends all her time doing up her hair. She gives her husband rags to wear, and she never washes a single diaper, though they’re all covered with piss and shit. And after meals, well, she just puts the trays on the kitchen door and then ties her latest baby onto her back and takes a nice stroll. There’s no one at all to clean up after meals, so I always end up doing it. That woman uses the fact she has to care for a lot of kids as an excuse to get out of doing any housework at all. Whoever asked her to have so many babies, anyway? They had them because they enjoyed making them, didn’t they? And they actually act proud of it!

  “I’m so amazed I can’t even get amazed any more. You should see the mess they’re in. That woman will show up at your place sooner or later. Take a look for yourself. She goes around in real fancy hairdos, and she wears her only fine robe every single day. It’s almost worn out. If she’d take care of her clothes properly, she could wear neat, clean things instead of that grubby robe. But it’s not just that she doesn’t wash her things. She doesn’t know the first thing about sewing. She used to be a geisha; so I thought, well, she probably can’t have children, and if I teach her little by little, she can learn how to sew. But can she sew? All she can do is make babies nobody asked her for! She can hardly even make a dust cloth! If you put a needle in her hand, well, she stabs away like she’s sewing the edges of a straw floor mat. But she’s a smooth talker, and she goes on and on. And she talks back, telling you ten things for every thing you tell her. She really knows how to get me upset.

  “And listen to this. That woman grates dried mackerel flakes onto the food right on the serving trays. And she knocks the ashes
out of her pipe onto the doorsill. She’s not even ashamed to lie down and sleep in broad daylight whenever she feels like it. She just puts her head down on whatever dirty thing she finds nearby. And she spits into the charcoal brazier, and then she rolls the gobs around in the ashes with the tongs. She makes all these little round things, you know, and I have to come over and dig them out and throw them away. So then she goes and spits into the oven just to annoy me. And at night she stays up until who knows when and then gets up late, and she has lots of people over in the middle of the night talking hour after hour about completely boring theater things. And at last she says she’s cold and wants some hot buckwheat noodle soup. She bolts down the noodles as if she were starving, drops onto the floor, and immediately starts snoring. My son talks in his sleep, and whenever he stops, she starts grinding her teeth. It’s so noisy I can’t go to sleep. And whenever there’s a lull, one of the kids wakes up and starts bawling, and pretty soon the rest are, too. But even with all those kids screaming, I still can’t get her up. She doesn’t wake up at all. So that’s the situation I’m in, Auntie. All night! It’s so noisy I just don’t know what to do.”

  “Where’s your problem?” says Tori. “It sounds all right to me. You have no way of knowing what’s going on between a husband and wife. Just let them be. You’re meddling too much.”

  “Well, actually I don’t really care,” says Saru. “If they were getting along well, though, they wouldn’t be fighting, would they? Every time they stop yelling at the children, you know, they start fighting with each other. Eventually my son tells his wife to get out of the house, but he doesn’t really mean it, and she knows it. That woman looks down on him, and she sulks, too. Later she’ll take out her anger on the poor standing lamp, saying it’s too dim. It’s perfectly bright with one wick, you know, but she yells at it for not giving her enough light and for everything else she can think of. Then she puts in extra wicks and burns them all just out of spite. Do you have any idea how expensive lamp oil is? She acts like it was free. And my son, being how he is, he gets furious and breaks any pots or bowls he can find. He does it every time. We must be the best customers the crockery mender and the lacquerware dealer have. And those two aren’t satisfied even with that. Really, I never have a moment’s peace.”

  “Well,” says Tori, “you’re not doing yourself any good worrying about things like that. You get too involved, and you keep yourself from having any peace. Stop praying for happiness in the next life and just think of this world as paradise. If you get all hot and angry like a Buddhist demon, your family’s going to get all upset, too, and before you know it, you’ll be suffering in hell. I try my best not to interfere, but even so, my daughter-in-law usually says I talk too much. Listen, fifty years ago you were twenty, too, weren’t you? Try to remember what it was like fifty years ago. Imagine you’re the new wife and she’s the mother-in-law, and listen to everything she says. Things will be a lot easier that way. If a mother-in-law really wants to have a peaceful family, she’ll find a nice bride for her son and then stay out of the way. Once a mother-in-law opens her mouth, there’s no end to it. You talk so much about how you want to die—just tell yourself you’re already dead and none of this will bother you.”

  “So,” says Saru. “Even you’re taking my daughter-in-law’s side.”

  “Gracious,” answers Tori, “who’s taking sides? You know, you’re complaining. I’m a woman, but I think like a man, and I don’t like griping and grumbling. If you have time to complain, you’re better off spending your time raising money for the temple. You feel bad because you stay at home all the time. Get outside and walk around, beat your gong, and raise some money. Call out, ‘Each day I chant Amida Buddha’s name!’ and then your partner will shout, ‘Yes, that’s what I do!’ You’ll feel so much better you’ll be amazed. We never know how much longer we’re going to live, after all. Forget all those complaints. They’re not doing you any good at all. Oh, it’s really getting cold in here! Are you finished? Please drop over during the Ten Nights ceremonies to the Amida,9 will you? Somebody from the temple’s going to stop by your house anyway for a donation.”

  “Yeah,” says Saru. “Of course I’m planning to go, no matter what.”

  “Planning to go? Hurry up and get out of that house of yours,” says Tori, going off into the bathing room.

  [Ukiyoburo, NKBT 63: 47–49, 111, 112–130, translated by Chris Drake]

  ________________________

  1. Said to be effective in warding off foxes.

  2. From the celebratory no play Takasago.

  3. Kabocha Gomajiru literally means “Pumpkin Sesame-Sauce.”

  4. Since Travels on the Eastern Seaboard was written over a number of years in several volumes, it certainly was possible that the real Ikku was doing research for the next installment.

  5. Suggests the Association of Bathhouses, membership in which was a requirement for bathhouse operation. The wording parodies an actual document.

  6. The Three Histories (Sanshi) are the three noted histories of ancient China: Record of History (Shiki), History of Early Han (Kanjo), and History of Later Han (Gokanjo). The Five Classics (Gokyō) are the five Confucian classics: Book of Changes, Book of History, Book of Songs, Book of Rites, and Spring and Autumn Annals. These two sets of texts represent orthodox learning.

  7. Onna daigaku (1716–1736) and Onna imagawa (1700) were two widely read textbooks in kana that gave instructions to women on conduct and etiquette.

  8. The old rebus, consisting of a hatchet, koto (zither), and chrysanthemum, was used by Onoe Kikugorō III, a famous actor of both women’s and men’s roles.

  9. Buddhist service held by the Pure Land (Jōdo) sect for ten nights, from the fifth to the fourteenth day of the Tenth Month.

  Chapter 19

  NINJŌBON: SENTIMENTAL FICTION

  Ninjōbon (literally, books of pathos or emotion) first appeared in the Bunsei era (1818–1830), reached their peak in the Tenpō era (1830–1844), but lasted into the Meiji period (1868–1911). By the 1820s, readers had grown tired of the satire, cynicism, and mannerisms of the sharebon (books of wit and fashion), which were gradually supplanted by popular novels called sewa-yomihon (literally, books about contemporary life), and shinnai ballads, specializing in sad tales and suicides, both which were highly sentimental in content. The sewa-yomihon were appropriately also termed nakibon (books to cry by), a genre that Tamenaga Shunsui (1790–1834), the first writer of ninjōbon, unsuccessfully experimented with before 1830. Then, in 1833 in Spring-Color Plum Calendar (Shunshoku umegoyomi), he found the right combination, successfully fitting earlier sharebon elements into a nakibon framework to create a narrative about contemporary life that emphasized ninjō, or emotion, sentiment, and romantic love, particularly from a woman’s perspective.

  Unlike the earlier sharebon, which confined their focus to the licensed quarters, the ninjōbon described various additional aspects of contemporary life in the city of Edo. Structurally, the sharebon are essentially short stories or sketches, with little plot. By contrast, the ninjōbon, which combines elements of the sentimental novel and the romance, depends on plot and dramatic conflict and developed an extended, serial structure. Typically, a man and a woman fall in love; are thwarted by various negative forces, particularly an unwanted rival, that result in a sorrowful situation; but in the end the man and the woman (or women) manage to overcome these obstacles. The principal narrative feature of both the sharebon and the ninjōbon is dialogue, but in Plum Calendar, Shunsui also adds his own commentary, which is set apart from the dialogue and is directly addressed to the reader.

  Sharebon such as The Playboy Dialect (Yūshi hōgen) described and made fun of the half-tsū and boor (yabo) in order to establish an implicit contrast with the true tsū, or sophisticate of the pleasure quarter. Ninjōbon, however, depict the love and suffering of the professional woman, who, though realizing that the man may be incompetent, falls in love and cannot leave him. The leading male charac
ters like Tanjirō in Plum Calendar are in fact fallen protagonists who have to be saved by a woman. If the sharebon focuses on the male sophisticate’s knowledge of and behavior in the licensed quarters and scoffs at displays of tender emotion, the ninjōbon celebrates the depths of human emotions—joy, suffering, and intense jealousy, particularly as a consequence of falling in love—and is unabashedly sentimental.

  In the sharebon, the attitude toward the characters tends to be critical and detached, with the humor coming from their ironic dissection, although later sharebon such as Santō Kyōden’s Forty-Eight Techniques for Success with Courtesans (Keiseikai shijū hatte) sometimes describe genuine emotions. In the ninjōbon, however, particularly those by Tamenaga Shunsui, the attitude toward the central characters is one of sympathy, understanding, and even indulgence. This applies especially to courtesans, geisha musicians, and their female colleagues, for the reader realizes that however glamorous their external or professional life may seem, they probably are suffering silently. (In fact, some critics have pointed to the close resemblance between Motoori Norinaga’s late-eigh-teenth-century notion of mono no aware, a kind of poetics of sympathy and pathos, and the presentation of ninjō found in Tamenga Shunsui’s ninjōbon.)

  Most important, in contrast to the sharebon, which were intended mainly for male readers, the ninjōbon were written primarily for female readers, both those who worked at various professions and young women living at home. The emergence of a genre aimed specifically at women was an epochal moment in the history of early modern fiction, which until the early nineteenth century had been written largely for men or a mixed audience. Generally living in a smaller social and physical space than men and having less formal education, women closely identified with the world of the theater and of romantic love. Women of means had always read fiction, but in the eighteenth century, women became avid readers of jōruri texts as well as kusa-zōshi picture books and kibyōshi. The gōkan genre, also popular at the time of the ninjōbon, was addressed to female readers as well and used a combination of pictures and printed text to draw its readers into a kabuki-like world. Unlike yomihon and gōkan, which looked to the past in the form of historical drama (jidaimono) and generally emphasized duty (giri), the ninjōbon focused on love affairs in the contemporary world.