Anthology of Japanese Literature/A Wayward Wife

Layout 2

A Wayward Wife

 

[Seken Musume Kataki, I, 2] by Ejima Kiseki

 

Ejima Kiseki (1667–1736) as a novelist was clearly in the tradition of Saikaku, and numerous echoes if not actual imitations of the earlier writer may be found in Kiseki’s works. However, his “character-books” (katakimono) have a charm and humor of their own, and have enjoyed deserved popularity. The following tale is from his “Characters of Worldly Young Women” (1716), one of Kiseki’s most famous works.

•

“Obviously morning-glories are best at morning,” declares the mistress, “not to say how much cooler it is.” And so that night she leaves orders to fill tiers of lacquer boxes with savory rice and a variety of tidbits, prepared exactly to her taste, to arrange several chairs at a back hedge as far as possible from the house, and to lay a floral carpet. “Cedar picks for the food, a gold lacquer tray … be sure to use that exquisite tea from Toganoo! Have the bath ready before six. As to my hair, you may do it in three folds, and please take out a sheer gown with wide sleeves and a pink lining—the sash ought to be dark gray satin, the undersash pale but speckled with huge dots. It must all seem quite perfect: you know how the neighbors stare. So put the maids in fresh summer kimonos, won’t you? And do send a sedan chair to Kama no za for my sister, at the usual time.” After issuing a bewildering set of instructions to her housekeeper, who has long had charge of kitchen affairs, she retires to lie at ease in the shelter of an ample mosquito net; and tiny bells tinkle at its corners as the servants fan her, by turns, till she drops off to sleep.

Such are her airs merely to look at flowers in her own garden.

And modern matrons have their other caprices too. They reserve three boxes for the latest play, but then, stopping at Chōraku Temple to hear ballads chanted when an image is on view, become so absorbed that they omit to go to the theatre. Yet their boredom is not easily dispelled by the suitable feminine pleasures of incense-guessing, poem cards, playing the koto or the samisen, painting, and flower-arranging. “There’s wrestling at Makuzugahara, and Shichigorō takes on the Thunderbolt!” they cry. “We can’t miss it!” Off they dash, in sedan chairs decorated by autumn landscapes or sprinkled gold.

Did anyone hear of women at wrestling matches in former times? But since men now dote on their wives, and meet each request with a nod and a smile of fatuous tolerance, these ladies do not hesitate to display their morbid zest for outings—with picnic lunch—to watch the beheading of criminals at Awataguchi. It recalls how Chieh-chi, consort of King Chou of the Yin Dynasty, having exhausted her notable repertoire of diversions, found a superior pastime in seeing executions by the “wrapping and roasting” process; or how King Yu of Chou, infatuated with Pao-ssu, had the signal rockets fired to amuse her. Indeed, these are only classic examples of the familiar petticoat tyranny. The grocer need simply say, “Madam’s orders,” to be paid off in large coins for a watermelon costing 365 momme; and no sooner has he gone than two stout bearers are dispatched to Yakichi’s, on Fourth Avenue, to settle a 27,206-coppers account for vegetable jelly. You may imagine the other luxuries. Smoking, for instance, used to be unknown as a feminine practice, except among courtesans; yet today women who abstain are as few as monks who fast.

 

Now there was a certain man who, though of merchant lineage, was highly esteemed, being known throughout the capital for his wealth. Generations ago his family had withdrawn from all but the infrequent business of handing down superb heirlooms. When snow fell he performed the tea ceremony; at blossom time he wrote poems in a traditional vein. He was careful to ignore whatever might be considered practical.

As a husband, he behaved with impeccable lordliness, never glancing into the kitchen. His wife, a radiant beauty, was the irregular offspring of a person of rank. Not only was she adept in the poetics of the ancient school, she had a rare gift for music, and particularly for the reed pipes: frost gathered in midsummer when she blew winter melodies; with longevity tunes she made her husband utterly feeble. She was addicted to the pursuit of elegance, whether in arts or manners. For summer nights she had her room screened from mosquitoes by panels of silk gauze: inside were placed a five-foot-square tray-garden and a floating lamp, as well as fireflies specially procured from Uji and Seta. Thus she relieved the discomforts of hot weather. In winter she warmed herself at a covered brazier large enough for eight people, and had little girls with bobbed hair chafe the soles of her feet. Husband and wife slept in the perfume of precious incense, while its smoke, wreathing up in as many shapes as from Fuji, Asama, and Muro no yashima,^[1] curled through their clothing. Devotees of the cult of fragrance, they lived in a style of unfailing splendor. Where the father had strewn the seeds of riches the son now possessed mountains wooded in silver-bearing trees; but the clatter of interest money in his scales only annoyed him, just as the subtle rhythms of the hand drum irritate the vulgar. No one carrying an account book visited his mansion on the last day of the year: all bills were paid early in November, as if the New Year (not greeted by the customary gate-pines) had arrived too soon.

Yet his wife was unhappy. Though she lived in luxurious fashion, and though her husband was handsome and sophisticated, a man who, far from counting among the Twenty-four Paragons of Filial Piety, was more devoted to wife than mother—despite all this good fortune, which would seem to have left no desire unfulfilled, she perversely disliked being a woman.

One thought obsessed her: “Why was I cursed with this sex? Tied down to a skinny devil, and no chance to enjoy myself as I please!”

Boldly she extracted her husband’s consent to have her hair trimmed in masculine style, the rich pinned coiffure replaced by a boyish arrangement in two folds, with the back hair drawn up. In dress too she flouted convention: a short skirt (exposing the undergarment), a coat of “eight-roll” cloth, a gold-mounted sword, medium long, and a wide rush hat of the “Mist-on-Fuji” kind. Thus attired, and accompanied by her husband, she set out each day on another, more distant excursion. “Let’s climb Mount Kōya,” she would say, “Those monks are so terribly woman-shy they’ll be fun to tease.” Or: “Now let’s go to the whale-spearing at Kumano Bay.” Her demands were endless. Surely if men yielded to all such whims, these hussies would insist on crossing the ocean—“to see the castle of that fellow Coxinga^[2] one hears so much about.”

But since the poor husband had a genius for being hoodwinked, he delighted in her singular conduct (“How original to dress up like a man!”), and even took her along to Shimabara.^[3] When they were shown into a reception room at Hanabishiya, he said, “See what a dashing wife I have! You won’t find such a curiosity-seeker in all China; and as for looks—well, I’m afraid your famous beauties are a little outclassed. Smart, isn’t she?” And he engaged the most celebrated courtesans, for his wife as well as himself. They gave pleasure their undivided attention: doubtless the voluptuous joys of Paradise were exceeded.

 

One day this couple went to a fashionable teahouse in Gion; and there, with the aid of professional jesters, they held a lavish and rather noisy party. The husband began to boast of his wife’s accomplishments. “You girls should hear her play the reed pipe,” he said. “I suppose you’re on good terms with men of discrimination, and you’ve heard all kinds of music; but it may be that a really expert artist on this instrument has not yet performed in Gion.”

At this the proprietor and his wife bowed low, pressing their foreheads tightly to the matting. “Never,” they assured him, “not once in all the years since the God of Gion descended from the heavens. But if Destiny now grants us the privilege of hearing your lady on the flute, clearly we were born at an auspicious hour.”

Elated by these words, he exclaimed, “Come, Madam! You must outdo yourself for this audience.” And he settled comfortably against the pillar of the alcove, his nose tilted as triumphantly as if he were the Emperor Hsüan Tsung.^[4]

His wife, who was of course a virtuoso, chose the song that Chang Liang played on Chou-li Mountain during the battle between Han and Ch’u, the song beginning, “When the autumn wind drives the leaves, and the traveler thinks of his far-off home …” And she poured out all her skill.

In the next room, strange to say, an uproarious party lapsed into melancholy. Hitherto lively guests reflected on the evil of squandering money that had been earned by the sweat of their parents; they felt inclined to go home without waiting for the supper already ordered. The charming boys called in to add to the gaiety remembered their native villages, and how their true fathers had toiled under cruel burdens, barely able to get along from one day to the next. Samisen in hand, they sat with tears shining in their eyes. No one asked the company of the house courtesans, who for that matter (though it was time to settle monthly accounts) were reviving nostalgic memories, and feeling they had landed in a somewhat thorny bed of roses. “The other girls^[5] have the knack of it,” remarked their mistress obliquely, “but our kites are too tail-heavy to get off the ground.” Even this seemed to pass unheard, and their sorrowful expression did not alter. Squirming with reluctance, they withdrew to a dark room (“Oil lamps are expensive …”); they wanted tea, but shrank from troubling anyone; and as they talked of their holidays, now regretted, they wept freely.

But the girls who were on their own had begun to choke and sniff a bit, too. Oblivious of the guests, they told each other their grievances. “No matter if we work so hard we have to strip down like wrestlers, meals and clothes cost a lot, and it’s a struggle to make ends meet. But how else can we earn a living?”

The jesters worried about the annual reckoning, which was not yet near, and thought, “Better to run away from all this, or hang yourself and be done with it.” They dropped their game of capping humorous verses. “It’s a miserable life,” they sighed. “We jesters have to drink when we’d rather not; we have to praise the tiresome little songs of our patrons, hear ourselves called fools by real blockheads, force a smile if we’re offended, and tell a roomful of people what even a woman would keep secret. No, there’s nothing so bitter as to entertain for a living. If you happen to please, you may be hired five times and get only one piece of silver, or two at most. In this wide world, is there no country where it rains hard cash?” Enlacing their fingers, they contemplated the vanity of things.

Even the staunchly avaricious proprietor and his wife were somehow or other seized by an extraordinary fit of conscience. “If only we could do business without lying!” A single note had scattered their wits and they shed unexpected tears.

Just then several guests appeared at a doorway leading from an inner room. “I’ve always found it gay here,” one of them commented, “but today is very odd—you might as well be marooned on Demon Island.” He exchanged a few inappropriate family inquiries with a courtesan (hired out of his own pocket), compassionately handed her an extra coin, wiped his eyes, and left the teahouse at once.

Translated by Howard Hibbett

1. Famous active volcanoes.
2. Coxinga was the hero of Chikamatsu’s play, “The Battles of Coxinga,” which had scored a tremendous success in the preceding year. His castle would presumably be one in China.
3. The licensed quarter of Kyoto; Hanabishiya was the name of one of the houses.
4. Chinese emperor of the T’ang Dynasty, who had as his mistress the peerless beauty Yang Kuei-fei.
5. That is, the ones brought in from outside the teahouse.