by Donald Keene
“But I am not jealous,” he suddenly recalled, and tried to rationalize his mood to himself. But he still felt a tickling sensation of uneasiness.
He didn’t want to go, he didn’t want to stay at home either, and this dilemma put him in a bad humor. He was angry, although at no one in particular. He could not sit still, but kept jumping up as though he had remembered some urgent business, only to decide that he hadn’t. He could not seem to quiet down, no matter what he did.
Bunzō thought he might be able to distract himself with a little reading, and took the first book from his shelf that came to hand. He tried reading, but it brought no distraction whatsoever. He glowered at the volume with a peevish expression as if he were trying to outstare the page. The book was not a bad one, but no matter how many times he read and reread the opening lines of the first chapter he could not make any sense out of it. With maddening clarity, on the other hand, he could hear Osei’s laughter in the downstairs parlor, and once this sound had taken possession of his ears, it would not go away for quite some time. With an angry click of his tongue Bunzō threw away the book, angrily leaned against his desk, angrily propped his head on his hand, angrily glared at nothing in particular. ... Struck by a sudden thought he stood up, a look of resuscitation on his face.
“Maybe they’ll call the whole thing off ...” he murmured. But he came to himself at once and clamped his mouth shut in consternation. He felt surprised, bewildered, and finally desperate. “Damn you!” he said, shaking his fists in self-intimidation. But the mischievous worm within him again began to stir in his heart ... perhaps, after all. ...
Alas, no accident seemed to have occurred to Noboru, who appeared at about one o’clock. In honor of the occasion, he wore Japanese costume today—a brown silk kimono with a black twilled-silk coat. His sash was also of something chic: he was attired as usual in the height of fashion. He thundered up the staircase to Bunzō’s room, and without a preliminary word of greeting plopped himself down. He gave Bunzō an extraordinarily supercilious look, as if he were examining his own nose, and at length enquired, “What’s the matter? You look as if you’ve been drowned.”
“I have a little headache.”
“Is that so? The old lady hasn’t by any chance been giving you a rough time, has she?”
This trivial conversation upset Bunzō. He felt somehow offended, but he was too diffident to say anything.
“How about it? Sure you won’t go?”
“I don’t think I will.”
“Obstinate, aren’t you? It’s because you’re so obstinate that you’d like me to plead with you to come, isn’t it?” He laughed. “There’s nothing I can do except laugh to myself. Nothing I say will have any effect on you.” He barked a laugh.
After Noboru had spent a few minutes with Bunzō in this vague chatter which could be termed neither jest nor slander, Osei suddenly called up from downstairs. “Mr. Honda!”
“What is it?”
“The rickshaws have come, so if you’re ready ...”
“Let’s go.”
“Hurry then.”
“Osei?”
“Yes?”
“I told them that it would be all right if the two of us rode together, and it’s arranged that way. You don’t mind, do you?”
There was no answer, only the sound of feet scampering away.
“It’s charming how she runs off without answering, isn’t it?” These words served as Noboru’s final salutation to Bunzō, and with them he went downstairs. Bunzō, following him with his eyes, muttered bitterly, “The damned fool!” But even while his voice still wandered in a limbo of its own, he recalled how Osei looked in the spring when they had gone to see the cherry blossoms, and he sprang to his feet for no reason. After glaring in all directions, he finally directed his gaze at the fire pan. He collected his thoughts again and returned to where he had been sitting. Again he said bitterly, “The damned fool!” This time he referred to himself.
In the afternoon a light breeze sprang up, but the weather grew only the better. What with the fine weather and the fact that it was Sunday, the area around Dangosaka was so jammed with people out to see the chrysanthemums that it was scarcely possible to move on the roads. What a crowd! What a crowd! There were women with their hair done in foreign-style and in the shimada,1 some in the double-loop coiffure and others in chignons, girls in the butterfly bun and in bangs. There came Madame X, secretary to a certain learned society, but said to be really the spook of some old cat, and Miss Y, whose charmingly minute store of wisdom (of the size of a mustard seed) was concentrated in her feet, and whose very dreams were filled with jumping and prancing. There came wet nurses and scullery maids, fashionable ladies in semiforeign style, and women who looked like living proofs that polygamy was still being practiced. What a crowd! What a crowd! Shaven-headed priests had come and long-haired men, men with half-shaven heads and men with topknots. And they too had come, those beloved of the gods, the darlings of destiny, the men among men and objects of universal esteem, those cynosures of envy—I mean they who in days of yore were called liegemen, but who now are our so-called officials, and who may in future generations be styled “public servants.” Businessmen came, and the meek and the humble. There came also exposed politicians, whose principle is not to look anyone in the face, and who, having forgotten themselves and their families, seem likely candidates for a prison cell. The whole world had come. All kinds of faces, hair-dos arranged to suit all kinds of fancies, costumes and scents of every conceivable description—but I have not the leisure to describe them all. Besides, the road is so narrow here that the congestion is quite unbelievable. And in the midst of all this there are some heartless individuals who ride through the crowd in their rickshaws two abreast!
The residents of the neighborhood who, in this glorious age, eke out a living from day to day by pasting together matchboxes, look up from their work only long enough to see the flower-viewers, and never do get to see any real chrysanthemums. When you stop to think of it, it really does take all sorts to make a world.
Dangosaka was in a state of the wildest confusion. Flower-sellers stood by the usual signboards waving the flags of their respective establishments in the attempt to lure in customers, and the cries of the barkers at every shop entrance got mingled quite unintelligibly in the autumn wind. In the midst of the turmoil all one could see were the feverishly shouting faces of the barkers, who were in the same frantic state no matter how often one looked at them. Not surprisingly, when one went inside the shops the confusion was exactly the same as outdoors.
If we may be permitted a generalization, the chrysanthemum is a flower which singly gives an impression of loneliness, but when in the thousands creates a very cheerful effect. Some claim that only when chrysanthemums are growing in their natural profusion are they worth seeing, and that to see them displayed on such a lavish scale as at Dangosaka is enough to dampen one’s enthusiasm for chrysanthemums permanently. Here were massed, with no semblance of discrimination, yellow and white chrysanthemums, those flowers which faithfully bloom after all the rest of the fragrant species have departed. One or two visitors in a thousand might complain of the rather stiff appearance of the flowers, which looked like overstarched doll’s clothes and rustled when you touched them, but there was not a single visitor who did not in fact seem more interested in food than in flowers—alas and alack.
To the Reader: The above is to be taken as the foolish reflections of a retired gentleman on viewing the chrysanthemums.
The Reader: What a bore!
To return to our story.
The two rickshaws raced up to Dangosaka and came smartly to a stop. From the rickshaws then emerged our old friend Noboru, Osei, and her mother.
Noboru’s costume was as previously described.
Omasa wore a sash of black Chinese silk over her gray crepe kimono, underneath which was visible the border of her underrobe, of black crepe with a design of some sort sewn in glittering gold thread—a
very sensible outfit.
Osei wore a yellow kimono with a sash of gray-blue damask filigreed with gold thread. Underneath, of course, was the customary full-length underrobe of scarlet crepe, and this was graced with a neckband of pale blue with a design sewn in gold. The cord of the sash was of pink crepe. In short, she was elegantly attired.
However, what caused people to stop and take notice was less Osei’s clothing than her whole appearance. Although her hair was done up as usual in a European-style bun, it was so cunningly tied as to suggest that it might be some rare Japanese style of coiffure, and it was ornamented with a large hairpin in the shape of a rose. She wore only light make-up, preferring its simple neatness to the conventional cosmetics which, she said, went against Nature. Evidently she was all refinement, in character no less than appearance.
The envious sightseers who surrounded their party from time to time made quite audible comments: “They’re sweethearts!” “No, husband and wife!” These speculations were accompanied by much gaping and pointing, and with each phrase that came his way Noboru looked the more pleased. Ostentatiously he paraded the two women through the various exhibits of chrysanthemums, never letting up his chatter for even an instant. That people nearby could overhear every word he spoke did not inhibit his usual flow of gossip.
Osei also seemed in unusually fine fettle today. There was something indefinably vivacious in her walk and her carriage and, of course, her conversation, which rather suggested a little bird who had escaped from its cage, and her ready wit was in evidence. She laughed ceaselessly, amused by Noboru’s nonsense, but it was not necessarily because what he said was so funny. It seemed likely that she would have laughed just the same even had he remained silent, out of natural high spirits.
Omasa was exceedingly cool about the chrysanthemums, confining herself to an occasional “How pretty!” and a vague sweeping glance which made no attempt to focus on anything. On the other hand she studied with meticulous attention the appearance of every girl they passed who happened to be about the same age as Osei. First she would examine the face, then the clothes, the sash, the feet, and after the girl had gone by, Omasa would turn back for a final look at her appearance from behind—the sash again, and the hair. This accomplished, Omasa would dart a glance at Osei from the corner of her eyes and assume an air of serene composure.
Noboru’s party visited last the florists’ booths at the foot of the hill. After examining one after another of the displays, they stopped in front of one booth. Noboru declared that the face of the doll exhibited there looked extraordinarily like Bunzō yawning. Osei was highly amused, and delicately putting one sleeve to her face, leaned over the guardrail, convulsed with laughter. At this a student standing nearby wheeled around in her direction and stared through his glasses at Osei in amazement. Even her mother felt obliged to reprimand Osei for her unbecoming behavior.
At length Osei controlled her laughter. She lifted her face, still coquettishly graced with smiles, and looked beside her. Noboru was not there. Startled, she cast wild glances around her, her expression at once becoming quite serious.
Another glance sufficed to reveal to her Noboru, in front of a booth to the rear, busily engaged in bending his body quite horizontal in repeated obeisances directed at the back of a gentleman in Western clothes. The gentleman appeared utterly indifferent to Noboru, and continued for some time to face the opposite direction. At length, after having been the recipient of numerous unacknowledged bows, he deigned to turn his bushily bewhiskered, grumpy face and look at Noboru. Without a trace of a smile, without even removing his hat, he gave a perfunctory nod, to which Noboru responded by prostrating himself and making a series of deep reverences, continuing all the while to pour forth a stream of the usual tedious compliments.
Of the two ladies who appeared to be accompanying the gentleman, one sported a towering coiffure, and the other wore her hair in an elegant, maidenly bun. They were both exceptionally beautiful and stylish women, and so well matched that one could not but take them for sisters. Noboru bowed first to the lady in the lofty chignon. He addressed himself next to the young lady in the bun, who was so embarrassed that she averted her gaze when she returned his bow, and blushed.
It was not possible for Osei to catch the conversation which ensued, for the other party was at some distance from her and the people about her were noisy. Whatever it was, a smile never deserted Noboru’s lips as he stood there chattering, occasionally punctuating his discourse with gestures. Presently he seemed to have uttered something amusing, for the gentleman suddenly opened his enormous mouth and began to laugh uproariously, with much shaking of the shoulders. The lady in the chignon wrinkled the corners of her mouth as she laughed. The young lady also started to titter, but quickly hid her mouth with her sleeve. Only her eyes continued to smile as she gazed demurely at Noboru’s face. Noboru, conscious of an honor too great for his station, permitted a smile of triumph and contentment to suffuse his entire face. After waiting for the gentleman’s laughter to subside, he again began to chatter. Noboru had apparently quite forgotten that Osei and her mother were waiting.
Osei paid no attention either to the gentleman or to the distinguished lady, but she observed the girl in the bun with the minutest, most unwavering, breathless attention, as if intent on drilling a hole in her with her gaze. She did not respond even when her mother addressed her.
Before long the gentleman’s party gave indications of moving towards where the women stood. Omasa noticed this and frantically tugged at Osei’s sleeve to rouse her from her trance. They quickly stepped forward to the path to meet Noboru, who came up a few minutes later with the gentleman. At the wicket he again bowed slightly and, politely, affably, loquaciously, recited suitable farewells to each of them. After they had departed he took two or three tentative steps by himself. An expression, as of sudden recollection, crossed his face, and he gazed around him in consternation.
“Mr. Honda, we’re here.”
Noboru, hearing Omasa’s voice, hurried to the two ladies. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“Who was that?”
“That was the chief of my department,” he answered smiling broadly, for whatever reason. “I didn’t expect them to come today.”
“Is the lady in the chignon his wife?”
“Yes, she is.”
“And the one in the bun?”
“Oh, she? She’s ...” he began, turned back for another look, and added, “the younger sister of the department head’s wife. She looks much prettier than when I saw her at their house.”
“Yes, I suppose you might call her pretty, but it’s all in the clothes, isn’t it?”
“Today she’s dressed up like a little lady, but when she’s at home she wears the most nondescript clothes, and they treat her like a servant.”
“Has she had an education?” Osei suddenly asked.
Noboru was perplexed. “I’ve never heard anything about that ... but she may very well be educated, for all I know. She’s only just come to live at my department head’s house, and I really don’t know very much about her yet.”
At these words Osei turned around abruptly and, with a derisive expression in her eyes, stared at the young lady, who was about to enter a florist’s booth halfway down the hill. Osei patted her sash in a moment of nervousness, but quickly regained her composure.
After they had got into rickshaws which were to take them next to Ueno Park, Omasa remarked to Osei, who rode with her, “You should have worn make-up like that girl.”
“I hate it, all that heavy paint.”
“But why?”
“It’s so unpleasant.”
“But you’re still in your teens. It isn’t the least unpleasant if you wear it. I can’t tell you how much better it looks. It’s so much more striking.”
“If you like it so much, Mama, you should wear it yourself. It’s funny the way you keep on saying how good it is when I tell you I hate it.”
“All I meant to sa
y is that I think it’s nice, and I’m surprised you don’t. You really are a funny girl to answer me back like that.”
Osei appeared to have recognized that verbal attacks had already ceased to be necessary, and did not utter another word. Without being exactly dispirited or downcast, she had somehow become pensive. Her mother tried to patch together the fragments of the conversation, but Osei would not be her partner in this attempt. This odd situation lasted almost until they had reached Ueno Park, where Osei began to talk again and was more of her old self.
TRANSLATED BY DONALD KEENE
GROWING UP
[Takekurabe, 1895-1896] by Higuchi lchiyō (1872-1896)
The prose of Higuchi lchiyō, principal woman novelist of the Meiji period, contains strong echoes of Saikaku, and in a sense represents the last flowering of Tokugawa literature. Growing Up tells of a group of precocious children who live just outside the Yoshiwara, the Tokyo licensed quarter, and in particular of Midori, whose sister is a prostitute in the quarter; of Nobu, the son of a priest; and of Shota, heir to a pawnshop. The translation is virtually complete.
•
It is a long way around to the main gate of the Yoshiwara, the licensed quarter, to the willows with their trailing branches; but the Yoshiwara moat, dark like the smiles of the black-toothed beauties,1 reflects the lights and the sport in the three-storied houses near enough to touch. Day and night the rickshaws come and go—who can guess what riches they tell of? The section is named for the Daionji Temple, but for all that its name reeks of Buddhism, it is a lively enough spot, people who live there say. And yet you know at once, when you turn in by the Mishima Shrine, that the profits are small. Nowhere a decent house, only rows of low tenements, ten and twenty to the row, their roof lines sagging, their front shutters carelessly left half open. One hears no rumors of rich men in these parts.
