by Ueda Akinari
Mugura oite When the weeds grow tall,
Aretaru yado no And a tumble-down house
Uretaki wa Stands awesomely,
Kari ni mo oni no You should beware that demons
Sudaku nari keri Are swarming there inside.38
Wherever shadows were deep, spirits and phantoms were sure to lurk, as indicated in a variety of early and medieval works. Some beliefs and stories were of native origin, and others came from China or even India.
As mentioned earlier, three centuries before Akinari's time new collections of Chinese short stories were brought to Japan, giving fresh impetus to the development of the supernatural tale. After the art of landscape painting was perfected, storytellers tried all the harder to cloak the natural world in a garb of mystery, inviting the reader to exercise his imagination and depicting a universe full of mysterious beings and forces. Consequently, in Akinari's day the Chinese influence in painting and the popularity of the ghostly tale went hand in hand. Japanese collections of supernatural tales were directly inspired by Chinese examples and appeared in several forms of narrative prose, notably the kana books, the tales of the floating world, and of course the reading books.
Especially after the appearance of Otogi bōko (The Bedside Storyteller) in 1666, a number of similar works were issued, leading eventually to Akinari's tales. Ugetsu monogatari, however, differs from earlier collections in a number of ways. One finds an emphasis on the human reaction rather than on the sensational appearance of the phantom or apparition, a tendency already found in Saikaku shokoku-banashi (Saikaku's Tales from Various Provinces). Compared to Akinari's, the earlier works are more anecdotal in nature-like the Buddhist narratives and stories of the middle ages. They typically resemble a sutra turned topsy-turvy: the supernatural event comes first and the moral follows, but the instructional feature of the scriptures nevertheless remains. True enough, in Akinari's tales the moral function has by no means disappeared, but the story stands as an independent work of literary art, similar to a well-wrought ghostly tale by Henry James, or other Western masters. Moreover, Akinari strove to add features that appealed to the scholarly interests of readers who had hitherto scorned popular fiction as unworthy of their attention. Still, at the same time that he paid careful attention to literary craft and scholastic respectability, Akinari (like the Christian mystics and the neo-Platonists) believed in the occult, the supernatural, and the transcendental. To appreciate his viewpoint one must put aside rational criticism and transport himself backward in time to a dimly lit world, where moonlight as the main source of nocturnal illumination was intense and pure. Here, as Saikaku said, ‘Everyone is a ghost. Anything in the world is possible.’39 Or, in Akinari's own words, in the darkness, when the flickering oil lamp dies, ‘Demons might appear and consort with men, and humans fear not to mingle with spirits.’ Then when the light is restored, ‘The gods and devils disappear and hide somewhere, leaving no trace. . . .’40 Until the end of his life Akinari insisted that the power of the supernatural was real, and he based his argument on personal experience as well as on evidence from earlier literature. As with a Japanese garden, which represents not only nature itself but its idealization, the tales embody not only a view of reality but a vision of its essence. Akinari's reader finds himself ineluctably on the edge of a magic circle, ready to be drawn up by unseen powers in a vortex of light and song.
9 Literary Style
By the early middle ages a literary style that mixed both Chinese characters and Japanese phonetic symbols known as kana had become the standard form in narrative prose. Akinari's tales were in this style, which until the modern period was used primarily in novels, short stories, and popular histories. Many of the principal words were written with Chinese characters used according to their meaning, while particles, suffixes, and some semantic elements were expressed phonetically. Known descriptively as the Wakan konkōbun, or the ‘Chinese Japanese mixed style,’ it differed from the form of court poetry and Heian romance in three ways. First of all, being more straightforward, it lacked some of the elegant, poetic, and suggestive qualities of classical poetry and romance. Secondly, it permitted additional Chinese constructions, which allowed for more rigour and precision but which also demanded greater learning for its mastery. Lastly, it admitted as much colloquial grammar and vocabulary as the author fancied. In spite of influence from the spoken language, however, the mixed style remained a literary tool, largely divorced from ordinary speech.
For several reasons this style had begun to change by Akinari's time. First of all, popular drama and the rhetoric of the recital hall had a strong influence on narrative prose. Secondly, the revival in learning led by such scholars as Mabuchi and Motoori, who deliberately reverted to the classical mode of literary composition, led to fresh ideas about appropriateness in style. Yet further impetus came with the study of Chinese language and literature. Consequently, Akinari pursued a dualistic ideal. While aiming at a pure and lucid classical style, he wished to convey a sense of plain speech with a Chinese flavour. The result was a variation of the mixed style, known as gazoku-bun, ‘elegant and plain style,’ or giko-bun, ‘neoclassical style.’
Akinari realised that overly refined expression often fails to convey human sentiment, whereas simple and plain language might communicate such feelings with directness. He tried to combine the good qualities of elegance and simplicity while resisting the weight of blind tradition and refusing to be a prisoner of archaic forms. In the tales everything is expressed as one might wish to talk, but yet more dignified, attractive, and interesting. The result is a powerful and flexible tool able to impart the subtle message of the human heart and reflect the profound wisdom of the ancient sages. Better than anyone of his generation, Akinari mixed the stateliness of the old with the freshness of the new in a uniquely successful style.
By convention in Akinari's day the beginning of a tale or play was usually noble in taste, musical in tone, and composed with an ear for poetry. Ideally, the introductory section gave the reader a telescoped view of the whole. For instance, the opening passage of ‘White Peak’ adumbrates not only the theme of the first story but also that of the entire collection-a quest for enlightenment. Likewise, ‘Chrysanthemum Tryst’ begins with an imitative and sonorous passage that hints at what was to follow. Then in the body of the tale a plainer tone is employed, and at the end a short summary sentence resumes the earlier style. The rhetorical manner of classical Chinese alternates with the simpler rhythms of Japanese poetry and romance, much as the skylark soaring and diving. Akinari often strove for special effects at the beginning in order to enhance the quality of elegance and attain the desired balance.
Nevertheless, elegance in excess leads to frigidity. By capturing the word or phrase that gives the precise effect he wanted, and by adding an occasional light touch or a deft bit of irony, Akinari avoided this fault. In ‘Chrysanthemum Tryst,’ an old warrior grumbles ironically to his youthful companion about how young people are too timid. Throughout ‘The Carp That Came to My Dream’ Kōgi is treated with great whimsy. In ‘Wealth and Poverty’ Sanai's droll tone creates an atmosphere of lightness, despite the heavy nature of the subject. Akinari tried to convey a full measure of the absurdity and vulnerability of human nature.
For the most part, however, the style remains severe, formal, and erudite, largely owing to the way Akinari used his various literary sources and employed his personal feelings and experiences. Beneath the plain surface of the prose an elaborate beauty lies hidden, reminiscent of that in the no drama or the tea ceremony. The more unwieldy the subject, the more delicately he refined it, as in ‘Bird of Paradise.’ Here the material is controlled so strictly that the uninformed reader can scarcely imagine the deeds and events that Hidetsugu's apparition represents. The story overshadows real life, as the moon may eclipse the sun.
Certain mechanical aspects of style also add to the total effect. Most of all, one recalls the cursive, calligraphic script of the original edition, whi
ch was carved on wooden blocks and printed on double leaves of soft, hand-made paper. Many abbreviations are used, along with a number of extra kana symbols that were not officially considered as part of the syllabary. When the text was printed in movable type, all of this became lost. Punctuation in the original consists simply of a small oval sign that serves as a full stop, comma, semi-colon, and question mark. A waka verse of five, or a haiku of three lines in English takes only a single, slightly indented column in the woodblock text. Because quotation marks are not used, the reader is often free to decide whether a given passage should be dialogue or narrative. To the uninitiated person it is hard to tell where one syllable ends and the next begins or whether a certain symbol is Japanese or Chinese. The hand-printed text represents a work of art, in some ways plain and simple and yet complicated and demanding. The Western reader deserves to see the calligraphic form, even though he may never learn how the script is deciphered.
Usually Akinari's style was clear and lucid, at least as traditional Japanese literary texts go, but some points remain puzzling. Was the opening tale a first-or a third-person narrative? Was Akinari really telling about Saigyō, or for artistic purposes was he assuming the personage of Saigyō? The tale begins with words attributed to the twelfth-century poet, but later the name is used in a manner that might indicate either a personal narrative or an omniscient narrator. After the ghosts of Hidetsugu and his followers appear in ‘Bird of Paradise,’ a similar change in tone occurs. But some degree of vagueness and lack of explicitness is common in traditional Japanese texts. This adds to the appeal of the work and invites the reader's active participation in recreating it in his own mind.
Concerning how Akinari combined Chinese and Japanese stylistic elements, one recalls how the playwright Chikamatsu Monzaemon (1653-1725) wrote that with Chinese hair styles people used Japanese combs, and with the native coiffure they did the reverse, so closely were the two cultures mixed. The same is true of Akinari's diction. Far beyond normal needs, he dotted his text with curious and difficult Chinese characters. These are explained in a Japanese gloss written by the right side of each line. Oftentimes, the diction seems fanciful or even outlandish, with archaic expressions from the Man'yōshū and colloquialisms found only in Chinese vernacular novels and tales. But Akinari's mastery of syntax pleased and surprised the reader of his day, though demanding of him the patience and concentration needed to read poetry.
The preface, however, being written entirely in one double leaf of literary Chinese, without any gloss at all, presents stylistic problems of its own. Although it may have been common knowledge in Akinari's day, how many people know nowadays who Lo Kuan-chung is or why his children are supposed to have been deaf? Unless one is familiar with Chinese classics, how could he guess that the phrase ‘crying pheasants and quarrelling dragons’ is derived from such works as The Book of Changes ? Few Western readers are familiar with the legend that Lady Murasaki was sent to hell. The Chinese style of the preface and the information it contains was intended to give comfort to scholars and gentlemen who might be tempted to read the tales. The technique of using such a preface that embodies allusions to previous works enhances Akinari's style and marks it as part of the mainstream of early modern Japanese literature. The only recourse for the Western reader is to have copious textual notes and steadfast patience.
Of the two contrasting elements of style-the elegant and stately neoclassicism and plain speech tempered with a Chinese flavour-the first prevails over the second. A curious mosaic is the result, rich in rhetorical devices from earlier prose and poetry. The formal cadence of Chinese classics, pillow-words from early Japanese poetry, and expressions that echo The Tale of Genji all helped Akinari to achieve the desired combination of lyric and narrative qualities. Frequently, decorative elements form images and metaphors. Many of these are quite natural, as when heavy dew is compared to a steady drizzle of rain (a figure found in The Tale of Genji). But others are more difficult and arcane. When Sutoku's life in retirement, for instance, is likened to dwelling ‘in the Grove of Jewels, or on faraway Ku-she Mountain,’ knowledge of Chinese classics is needed to understand that the emperor had abdicated and continued to live in dignified circumstances. Ordinary images and obscure literary allusions both serve to intensify the mood, the former by adding intimacy and familiarity, the latter by suggesting depth and profundity. In addition, such devices as the rhythmic progression of numbers near the beginning of ‘Bird of Paradise’ and elsewhere are intended as a decorative technique to afford extra pleasure for the attentive reader. Acrostics, logograms, puzzles, riddles, and all manner of play on words have long been popular in Japan.
At times the cadence breaks into song, in a union of poetry and music. To savour the full effect, the tales must be read aloud. Like a no play or a Gregorian chant, the flow of sound rises and falls in a solemn yet lyrical melody, because the texture of the language more nearly resembles that of traditional drama or poetry than that of modern prose fiction. Indeed, musical elements, such as rhythm, harmony, and symmetry, contribute greatly to the stylistic excellence of the tales. But image, metaphor, and music lead one back to myth and allegory. Akinari's style was ideal for spinning parables around an event and for emphasising the frailties of man. To find the ultimate meaning of the tales one must return to the content.
10 Chinese Influence
Just as during the past century the Western influence has been pervasive, so in Akinari's time little remained untouched by the civilisation of China. The Four Books and the Five Classics of the Confucian tradition comprised the basic course of study in the private schools. Such texts were learned by rote and held in respect, much as the family Bible in the West. The wisdom of these classical works went unquestioned, and advanced education was built on its foundation. Quite naturally, Akinari was indebted not only to the basic Confucian texts but also to various other Chinese sources-dynastic histories, T'ang poetry and prose, Ming fiction and essays.
His indebtedness to the Confucian classics shows up in many distinctive expressions scattered throughout the tales. Some of these may have come from his direct knowledge of Chinese sources; yet others were derived indirectly. For instance, ‘the crying pheasants and quarrelling dragons’ of the preface appear not only in The Book of Changes and the Shu ching, two pre-Confucian classics, but also in the preface to the Ming collection, New Tales for Lamplight, which Akinari admired. Such phrases reflect his broad learning and his taste for classical scholarship, which he shared with other fine minds of the eighteenth century. As one would expect, he was familiar with the Analects and The Book of Mencius, a pair of texts that until the twentieth century guided men on a path of upright behaviour and taught that human beings are part of a natural order that pervades the entire universe. The laconic words and provocative ideas of Confucius and Mencius helped Akinari to convey a tone of moral urgency, a flavour of folk wisdom, and a touch of popular appeal, aiding him to achieve ready communication with his readers.
After mastering the basic books of the Confucian tradition, students in Akinari's day moved on to refined literature and instructive history. One is therefore hardly surprised to discover in his tales a number of passages indebted to Ssu-ma Ch'ien’s Shih chi (Records of the Grand Historian of China), as well as other titles of the period of the warring states and the early imperial age. In particular, the scepticism and mysticism of the classical Taoist philosophers met with new popularity around Akinari's time, as previously mentioned. Bashō and other haiku poets emulated the unrestrained fancy of the Taoist masters, and the scholars of the national learning also accepted such influence in the formulation of their ideas and the development of their style. Wherever Akinari extolls the beauty of nature or describes mystery and surprise, the Tao-te-ching, Chuang-tzu, and Lieh-tzu are never far removed. A measure of Akinari's wry sense of humour comes from Taoist sources.
The influence of T'ang prose and poetry and that of Ming and Ch'ing painting are also obvious, though they come part
ly through intermedate sources. In Akinari's day the most widely read anthology of T'ang poets was periodically reprinted and extravagantly admired. The Japanese painters who called themselves bunjin, or ‘literary men,’ some of whom were Akinari's close friends and associates, exemplified the ideals and objectives of Li Po and Tu Fu. Like the artists of his day, Akinari practiced calligraphy, poetry, and antiquarian studies. The same transcendental philosophy that these artists conveyed in purely visual terms may be found in the tales. Love of the simple life away from the noise and tension of the city, pleasant conversation with congenial friends, and a sense of the futility of worldly ambitions characterised Po Chii-i's poetry, Buson's painting, and of course Akinari's tales. Ultimately, the account of Saigyō’s ascent of Mt Chigogadake owes as much to poems and paintings of the Yangtze gorges or the mountains of Shensi and Szechuan as to actual descriptions in contemporary guidebooks or earlier literature. The same may be said of Muzen and his son's climb to Mt Kōya and of Kaian's visit to the Daichūji Temple. Largely, the inspiration of T'ang poetry and prose was transmitted through the amateur painters and authors of the Ming dynasty, who worked not to fulfill a patron's wishes but rather to cultivate human character and find personal pleasure.
No doubt the most powerful and direct literary influence, however, remains that of Ming fiction and essays. Every tale shows traces of the language, style, or plots of New Tales for Lamplight and the three anthologies of colloquial short stories known as the San yen. The long picaresque romance, Water Margin, served Akinari not only in his preface but also in his description of the dilapidated temple in ‘The Blue Hood.’ One particularly unusual Ming source is an early sixteenth-century encyclopedic compilation entitled Wu tsa tsu (Five Assorted Offerings), by Hsieh Chao-che, a poet, scholar, official, traveller, and collector of old books and objects of art. Banned in eighteenth-century China, Wu tsa tsu was preserved in Japan, where owing to its breadth and scope and highly personal tone, it found special favour among artists and men of letters. Akinari consulted the work frequently in later years, as well as when he was writing the tales.
