Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

When I returned from visiting Nara and Yoshino, I found Kyoto had grown strikingly desolate in barely five or six days. In Nara, fair weather had lingered. Thus the parched white soil peculiar to that region and rapeseed flowers carpeting the plains combined with terrain crowned by a blue sky to form a scene both bright and pleasant. Kyoto’s outskirts too were dyed with rapeseed blossoms. Yet whether from the pressing proximity of surrounding greenery, a gloomy air felt suffocatingly near. I considered returning straight to my homeland. But curiosity detained me two or three days more. This because I meant to witness what they call the courtesan procession as a traveler’s tale to bring home.

During those two or three days, I wandered here and there through the suburbs. Everywhere was desolate. The white hand towel of the old woman calling to customers at Ninnaji’s wayside tea house added to the desolation.

It was the evening before the day of the procession. I returned to the inn after buying tung oil and hemp rope in the city. And then alone beneath the shoji screen, I packed my belongings. It was to bundle my coat and other now-unnecessary items into a parcel to send back to my hometown. When I had finished tying the yellow parcel, my spirits lifted slightly. With hands clasped around knees I had kept raised for some time, I idly surveyed the cramped room. My room was a single space on the second floor partitioned by soiled karakami paper on both sides. There was nothing resembling decoration. Both neighboring rooms housed merchants. Though I occasionally heard them tallying accounts, they often went out on errands leaving quietness behind. Quietness reigned still. The brazier's medicine tin began emitting faint sounds as if succumbing to evening's solitude. The lamp was lit. Dinner arrived with bamboo shoots and fish cake. They explained that given their low rates, they ordered set meals from restaurants - this inn's fare being strictly fixed thus. Soon bedding too was delivered. As usual I moved seat and lamp to beneath window shoji alongside brazier. The bedding had come to dominate the room. Upon sparse bedclothes lay one Yuzen-patterned quilt. This single quilt embodied the inn's special consideration toward me.

I leaned against the shoji screen and, while feeling profoundly desolate, stared at its gaudy pattern. The maid hurriedly came up the staircase. "She said Mr. Kawai from Nishijin telephoned that he would be coming presently," she reported. This maid appeared to have been hired from nearby countryside—a woman who spoke with a rustic accent that was hard to catch. She would complain that my way of speaking had an irritatingly unclear quality about it, then burst into laughter herself while uttering things even she didn’t understand. She wasn’t guilty of anything, but she wasn’t a pleasant woman. I immediately had the bedding put away. After a while, the maid brought a glass plate of unimpressive sweets. "And there’s no decent confectionery to be found anywhere around here," she added with another derisive chuckle.

Mr.Kawai came. Mr.Kawai said he would take me to his house and told me to leave this place immediately. I was startled by its abruptness. However, to the repeated invitations, I resolved to accept his kindness. And then I asked for the bill. Mr.Kawai was someone who had become an acquaintance through a recent chance encounter.

The one who quietly ascended the staircase was unexpectedly a woman called Miss Haru. Upon hearing that I would be leaving immediately, Miss Haru left with a look of surprise. After a short while, she brought the bill. Miss Haru could sometimes be seen sitting at the front desk. I had heard from the maid that she was a relative of the inn. She was a lovely girl of about eighteen. The room I had stayed in before going to the Nara region was the lower one, which had been neat and tidy. And it had been Miss Haru who served meals. Before bringing in the meal tray, she always came to ask about my convenience. At those times, she would softly open the shoji screen, tilt her head slightly, and speak. Miss Haru wore a cotton kimono with somewhat frayed sleeve cuffs. She had fastened a dark reddish-brown obi with sparse tie-dye patterns and wore a yellowish-green merino apron. Her hair was always neatly arranged. When Miss Haru came to tend the morning brazier by my bedside, I would always awaken from sleep. At those times, she wore an indigo-splashed straight-sleeved overgarment like those commonly seen on townswomen. With drowsy eyes, I would always gaze up at that glossy hair of hers. There was a blind boy at the inn whom I often saw shouting by the telephone. One evening when I went to the front desk on business, I found him persistently pleading with the proprietress while clinging to Miss Haru’s hand. He kept saying he wanted to bathe with Miss Haru. Even when told they were too busy, he continued pleading without listening.

Miss Haru appeared perplexed, saying her serving duties had not yet been completed. It was at this moment that I learned Miss Haru’s name. When I returned from Nara to look, some merchant had taken up residence in my room. And so I was shown to this grimy second-floor room. I was filled with a strange, unpleasant sensation. Miss Haru had been working in her former manner. However, she no longer came to my room again. I found this inn all the more desolate. Miss Haru now presented the bill with that graceful tilt of her head. When Miss Haru was leaving, Mr. Kawai asked to have a shared rickshaw summoned. Again came footsteps on the staircase. I thought it was Miss Haru, but it was not—the inn’s mistress had come with the remaining change. Mr. Kawai and I exchanged no particular conversation, and matters settled somewhat. The carriage arrived. I rose after Mr. Kawai. And then I took one last look back at the desolate room. The two of us passed through the kitchen and emerged at the shopfront. The innkeeper who had been at the front desk descended to the earthen-floored entrance to offer his greetings. The maid also came out. Miss Haru too removed her sash and, entwining her fingertips, performed a formal bow.

Mr. Kawai’s stout body left no space in the carriage. Miss Haru brought out my furoshiki bundle and bat umbrella for me. Mr. Kawai briefly said, “Shimabara.” The rickshaw puller nodded in acknowledgment and raised the shafts. When the carriage creaked into motion, from behind came the voices of three or four people offering farewells. Thus I left the desolate merchant inn at Karasuma Gojō. However, even to myself, it had been too abrupt, so I felt somehow reluctant and unsettled.

Outside was a dark night.

The carriage emerged vigorously before Higashi Honganji Temple and seemed to run down the wide avenue toward the station.

II

The carriage seemed to circle round and round even more. After some time, it seemed we had emerged into an area where the surroundings had changed. And so there too lay silent. When Mr. Kawai briefly called out to the rickshaw puller, the carriage gained a bit of vigor. And as soon as the wheels clattered over the cobblestones with a rattling noise, the shafts were lowered. We ascended to the entrance. I remained standing with the furoshiki bundle and Western-style umbrella that the rickshaw puller had handed over still in my hands. An old woman came out and said something to Mr. Kawai. Mr. Kawai immediately entered the large room to the left. I too entered after him. I placed my luggage at the entrance and sat in a half-crouch. It was a large, hollow room. The entire area was soot-covered. It was a large, soot-covered room that remained dim despite the lights glittering brightly. In the far corner stood rows of straw-covered sake barrels. In the center, and near one wall, there was an extremely thick pillar. I immediately saw an alluring woman in showy clothes sitting alone in the shadow of that pillar. Mr. Kawai asked if I had ever seen a courtesan. When I said I had not, Mr. Kawai abruptly stood and took the woman’s hand. With her hand still in his grasp, she bowed gracefully forward as if performing a ceremonial greeting.

No matter how much he pulled her hand, she would not stand. Each time the hair that was in the pillar's shadow bent forward, it touched the lamplight. And then it shimmered white. Her hair was filled with flower hairpins. The hairpins fluttered while sparkling brilliantly. Upon closer inspection, the woman's garments showed bold red and blue tie-dyed patterns in large gradations. And the ends of the obi wrapped from her hips hung with tasseled excess. When Mr. Kawai stood and returned to our side, the woman placed her obi and sleeves upon her knees and composed herself back in the pillar's shadow as before. I realized that the woman was a courtesan. At the same time, I was unexpectedly struck by the feminine grace inherent to courtesans.

After a short while, I was shown upstairs. The old woman from earlier came staggering along, carrying my luggage and Western-style umbrella.

It was a grand hall. Near the front window’s shoji screens stood two candlesticks with lit candles. A hand warmer sat beside them. Both candlesticks and hand warmer were old vermilion-lacquered pieces. The old woman placed my luggage on the large staggered shelf befitting the room. She propped the Western-style umbrella against the shelf. The grimy furoshiki-wrapped bundle clashed discordantly with its surroundings. The interior bore a faint patina of soot. Seeing the thin smoke rising from the candles, I understood this sootiness surely came from their fumes. Still, I marveled at how many candles must have burned here over time. Mr. Kawai said, “This is the damask room.” Every fitting was draped in damask. These too carried a subtle air of antiquity. A woman in modest attire emerged and bowed. Mr. Kawai presented her as Oen-san, calling her an elegant maid. The woman offered a faint beguiling smile while lightly raising her hand in demurral. She was a sharp-featured woman with a straight nose and crisp elegance. Sake arrived. A small handheld casket accompanied it. The woman produced dishes from this vessel.

Mr. Kawai introduced me, saying, “This gentleman will be coming to observe the procession tomorrow, so please take good care of him.” Without pausing her hands that had taken out the small plates—murmuring something like “There we go”—the woman deftly scooped about ten pieces of kaki mochi from the bowl and placed them before Mr. Kawai and me. If this was meant to be an appetizer, its simplicity was startling. Mr. Kawai drank no more than one or two cups. I too could not manage more than a single cup. Mr. Kawai proved unexpectedly taciturn. The grand hall lay oppressively still. Not even the faintest sound—not so much as a fingernail’s tap—could be heard anywhere around us. As I lingered in this anticlimactic lull, a clattering arose directly beneath the window—like palms slapping against wooden planks. I pricked up my ears. “The courtesan is coming to this house now,” Mr. Kawai said. He added that they made that clattering sound when carrying in her long chest of belongings. I could not fully grasp why such a sound would occur. I slid open the rear shoji and looked outside. Across the thoroughfare stood a tall arc lamp. Its round glass shade cast intense light in all directions, setting the surroundings aglow. Beside the arc lamp rose a single large willow, branches trailing low. The tree swelled thickly with young leaves. The branch nearest the glass shade gleamed faintly white under the harsh light. The shadowed portions instead showed deep blue.

And everything was bathed in a light like embroidery. The dark sky, viewed through shaded eyes beneath the arc lamp’s glare, appeared smooth as velvet. I stood transfixed by that indescribable celestial hue. Mr. Kawai declared this sky’s color to be grape-purple. Frog voices tangled chaotically in the air—now distant echoes, now intimate murmurs—floating upward to reach my ears.

After Oen-san was called away from the staircase, another maid took her place. Though younger than Oen-san, she was a woman with pockmarks and a vulgar air. She was called Osei-san. Osei-san was of the lively sort. When I suddenly listened, from the hushed thoroughfare came the light clatter of what sounded like geta sandals being dragged. It was a pleasant sound. Mr. Kawai said that the courtesan had arrived. I looked down at the front. The lattice obstructed my view, making it impossible to see clearly below. What glittered so brilliantly was a floral hairpin. The floral hairpin, fully reflecting the arc lamp’s light from below, appeared more splendid than the courtesan who had been in the pillar’s shadow. With a light clatter, the floral hairpin moved along and then immediately hid beneath the eaves. At that moment, I caught a fleeting glimpse of patterned clothing. Mr. Kawai shaped his hands to show how large the courtesan’s geta sandals were. Osei-san also shaped her hands to demonstrate their size, saying they were about that big. Mr. Kawai remarked that there was a refined elegance when the courtesan sat before a guest and smoothly removed her outer robe. Then he added that what she had worn earlier had been informal attire.

The spring night had not yet grown late. Yet that night I returned all the same. Osei-san carried my luggage for me. There were two carriages. The geta sandals lay aligned at their toe tips. When I kicked the luggage into the carriage, I felt for the first time as though my belongings had been returned to me. The carriage raced once more through the dark night. As I was borne through that darkness, my mind dwelled on how tonight’s establishment had been an ageya brothel; on how uncharacteristically silent the place had remained despite the early hour and its local reputation; on those two courtesans I had glimpsed; and on all these unforeseen developments. The white walls I took to be Nijo Castle came into view, and soon the carriage arrived at a house in a town where every dwelling looked identical.

III

The next day, Mr. Kawai arranged a carriage for me. He said that as he had an appointment to meet a merchant coming from Kawachi Province, he regrettably could not go, and told me to go ask for a place called Sumiya. I left Nishijin around noon. Circling around Nijo Castle and passing by a dirty ditch in the shabby outskirts, the journey to Shimabara was a long one. In front of the main gate, abandoned rickshaws were already cluttered in disarray. The main gate was an old tile-roofed structure and not particularly large. Because the open space in front of it was also narrow, carriages from behind crowded in one after another. A policeman harshly scolded a rickshaw puller.

Upon passing through the main gate, seating stands were constructed in front of the houses on both sides, narrowing the road. The stands were so low they reached only about waist height on me. To eyes accustomed to viewing proper seating stands as those elevated platforms built with two-ken ladders for palace sumo matches in the Eastern Provinces, these low platforms felt peculiar. Some people already sat in spaces adorned with red blankets, while others tried to claim seats. Behind the stands, shops busily managed trays and bowls. Yet I heard no clamor anywhere. Before the stands, peony cherry trees—their blossoms past peak—lined the further narrowed road. People streamed in steadily. I turned left at the main gate’s end. At Sumiya’s entrance, two men in crested happi coats tended to footwear as guests filed upward. I asked for Oen-san, the maid. Through the commotion, last night’s old woman called “Oen-don, Oen-don” in a hushed voice while hurrying past. After a brief wait, she led me to a room. When we reached its threshold, Oen-san emerged briskly—her deep-crimson lips gripping an obi-dome clasp, hands behind her back adjusting her sash. With a practiced motion, she tightened the obi and snapped the clasp shut.

Oen-san was dressed in plain dark brown garments. Upon closer inspection, two faint white crests were visible on her chest. Oen-san’s white powder was applied with exceptional skill. That skillful makeup made Oen-san even more beautiful. Oen-san had only just stepped away for a moment when she returned carrying a small tray of tea. About ten rice crackers had been arranged alongside. When I sipped a cup of tea and asked if there wasn’t a good place somewhere for viewing, Oen-san led me to the front great hall as if struck by an idea. There were already quite a number of people packed inside. Oen-san was told to stay anywhere around here and was just flustered. And with that, she exclaimed, “Truly what a nuisance—please wait!” before hurrying off. The spectators were seated in about four rows in front of me. While I was taking my time, others had taken my seat. From behind, the seats steadily filled in. The golden screen that had been erected behind the great hall was also removed. At the front, there was a threshold at just the right height to rest one’s elbows, and a railing had been constructed there. The two men beside me were saying something to the effect that it was regrettable how one couldn’t see the courtesans’ feet from here. They seemed to be shop clerks from some store. I propped myself up on one knee and peered out, but indeed, the road’s surface was not visible. The opposite side of the road was a plank fence, and a bamboo railing had been constructed there. There were also spectators standing there.

The round globe of the arc lamp rising straight up from the fence appeared white and cold. I had seen it last night. Beside it, the willow, receiving the south wind, had its branches swaying softly in disarray. The south wind gradually grew fiercer as it blew through the willow branches. Dust began to rise. Within the railing, people had begun to gather. The guests in the seating area had also nearly filled to capacity. As I was being pressed from behind with considerable force, I turned to look and saw that everyone was standing. The room was growing increasingly noisy. In front of me was a woman holding an infant. The infant, apparently frightened by the clamor of the crowd, burst into tears as though set ablaze. The woman, wearing a terribly worried expression, managed to make her way to the back. I proceeded to that vacant seat. At last, the road’s surface came into view. As the pressure from behind grew stronger, the guests in front also had to stand. They would stand, then sit again. Each time, I gradually edged forward. When those in front stood, complaining voices cursing from behind would rise slightly. When I stood up, I felt something brush against my head. When I looked, a man in a crested work coat far behind had joined two short bamboo poles and attached a white hand towel to the end, brushing people’s heads this way and that.

For a time, things settled down despite that. And then they stood up again. Something went tap-tap against my head. When I looked in surprise, the man next to me jerked his head back and likewise peered behind us with a puzzled expression. Was it perhaps some kind of bath-scrubbing brush? The man in the crested work coat from before was using a bamboo pole with palm fibers bundled at its tip to tap the heads of the standing people from one end to the other. The sound of wooden clappers resounded from the street, first distant, then drawing near. The room fell silent. Something gently touched my shoulder, and when I looked, Oen-san, the maid, was trying to hand me a folded piece of paper. Oen-san, putting on a charming smile and offering polite excuses, made her way through the crowd and left. When I opened it wondering what it was, there lay a woodblock-printed list in pale gray ink bearing the names of the courtesans. It was arranged in two rows, upper and lower. A clerk-like man beside me peered in and said that only the upper row would be in the procession. The wooden clappers resounded once more, drawing near from afar. The guests grew even more silent. The sky clouded over, and the south wind grew fiercer. The willow branches, tangled in disarray, reached out like long hands, occasionally attempting to embrace the cold white globe of the arc lamp. The guests all grew bored. Even so, the spectators within the railing on the opposite side stood extremely quietly. Among them was one who appeared to be a middle-aged housewife. She had been standing with utmost reserve from the very beginning.

Even as she witnessed the commotion unfolding right before her eyes, she maintained her composure without so much as a smile. Though, from this housewife’s perspective, standing within the railing until the end might have felt like being exposed before a crowd. I kept my eyes on both the reserved housewife and the willow branches tangled above her head. When I sat down and looked at the clock, three hours had already passed. The third set of wooden clappers resounded nearby. A clerk-like man whispered that it would be soon. At the left end of the front railing, a figure glided into view. Seven or eight courtesans from this brothel quarter came pulling a cart of flower baskets heaped like a mountain of artificial flowers with red and white ropes. They moved forward with extreme slowness. The flower baskets passed over the front railing, quivering slightly as they went. This was the vanguard. There was a brief lull.

At the edge of the railing, two young apprentice courtesans appeared side by side. Their exaggerated makeup, hands tucked into sleeves with left elbows thrust out, and their precarious yet dignified steps made for a sight both comical and pitiable. When the apprentice courtesans came before the seating area, the figure of the courtesan appeared at the edge of the railing. The large brocade sash tied in front and stretched out to both sides, along with the embroidered vestment, struck the eye. An old man wearing a sprout-yellow happi coat was hanging a long-handled umbrella from behind. The courtesan’s crest was emblazoned prominently on the umbrella. Beneath the umbrella, the courtesan’s extravagantly adorned head appeared as though fixed in place, gazing rigidly straight ahead. Her boldly coiffed hair bore seventeen large tortoiseshell hairpins thrust downward, upward, and sideways. If one were to say it resembled a rake exactly, that might indeed be the most fitting description. The thick makeup resembled built-up layers. Her eyes did not waver in the slightest, as if striving to maintain their dignity. It appeared that her left hand, tucked into her sleeve, was thrusting out its elbow, causing the left sleeve to pull taut. The right hand was hidden beneath the tied obi. The hem was neatly hitched up. From beneath the hem, a red under-robe covered her heels and hung down. I sat up on one knee and looked at the courtesan’s feet. The courtesan thrust out large ink-blackened geta from beneath the hem of her under-robe. With a clatter, she scraped the ground broadly from the outside and set her raised foot’s toes at a slant. After a moment, she reoriented them straight. After another brief interval, she thrust out her other foot.

This must be what they call stepping in the figure-eight pattern, I realized. The geta sandals had been notched diagonally in two places, creating exactly three teeth. With a red cord like those used for hair ornaments, small white feet were placed there. Each time she thrust them forward, three or four inches of white foot-tips became visible beneath the red hem. Her feet wore no split-toe socks. From my seated position, only the courtesan’s upper body—from obi upward—protruded above the railing. Each figure-eight step made her rigidly postured body sway slightly. I thought viewing them from the railing resembled festival float dolls creaking forward on cart wheels. On passing apprentice courtesans’ backs hung numerous koban-shaped aprons with red fields and black bamboo borders. The courtesan’s name shimmered there in gold-threaded double embroidery. When apprentices showed retreating backs, the courtesan would materialize with measured grace. After bidding one farewell and waiting through intervals unchanged apprentices emerged anew—courtesans gliding past my eyes like mechanized dolls. At fixed intervals doll-courtesans passed and repassed. Their postures stayed identical. Only their coiffures differed—some glittering thick with floral pins. All wore makeup like layered white paste. I had admired Miss Oen’s cosmetic skill yet beside these courtesans hers paled inevitably. Beside me two clerkish men whispered—“That frame’s too slight for such regalia” “That face drowns in that coiffure—lacks boldness”—their murmurs precise. Hearing this I thought Is that so? The spectators stood transfixed by courtesan figures.

The housewife standing within the enclosure opposite looked especially reserved. The sky gradually lowered as the south wind grew ever fiercer. While willow branches ceaselessly thrashed about in their vain attempt to clasp the white glass lanterns, thirteen courtesans passed by in succession. After the thirteen came the final courtesan. The handbills had it written as Kotayu. This time eight apprentice courtesans accompanied her, each bearing small koban-shaped emblems dangling down their backs with Kotayu’s crest. Kotayu’s hair alone hung long down her back in distinction. Indigo cloth strips bound its center, secured in two places by thick red paper folded into ceremonial noshi shapes. Perched there sat a single tortoiseshell comb of astonishing size. This coiffure alone sufficed to overwhelm all other courtesans. Both her obi and vestment blazed with nothing but dazzling brocade. The hems of five layered robes had been hitched up in graduated tiers to reveal their linings. Five colored linings they were—each a different hue. Upon these five-colored linings lay further layers from the vestment’s own hem. She dominated the thirteen others in both countenance and bearing. The spectators’ gazes shifted as one to follow Kotayu’s progress. When Kotayu passed, spectators flooded the road behind her like waves chasing a ship’s wake.

The people in the parlor finally exhaled. Some rose hesitantly while others remained firmly seated. Still somewhat dazed, I too stood up. With the others, I walked through each room of the house. Through the crowd, I suddenly glimpsed Ms. Oen holding a tea tray in the distance. Noticing me, Ms. Oen parted the throng and came to offer me tea. Her makeup remained as skillfully applied and beautiful as ever. At last, people began making their departure. I sought out Ms. Oen and met her once more. I asked her the way to Mibu Temple. Ms. Oen kindly advised that there might still be time to catch the kyogen performance, instructing me to exit through the back gate here and follow Senbon Street straight ahead. Following Ms. Oen’s directions, I trudged along the rural path called Senbon Street. Beyond the brothel district lay open fields.

When I went out to the rural fields and viewed it from outside, Shimabara was merely a modest quarter imbued with antiquity. Rapeseed flowers stretched near the fields, violently shaken by the fierce south wind. A sky sagging with unshed tears pressed against the western mountains like diluted ink brushed across them, blurring their contours further. Between the mountains ran a narrow strip of flat land. Across that expanse, rapeseed flowers appeared dimly in scattered patches. The parched white soil of the fields was whipped upward by gusts, coating every rapeseed leaf in pale dust. Even in the ditch at my feet, dust floated atop the water's surface. People straggled back in scattered groups ahead and behind. Far beyond the fields, roof tiles rose towering above the rapeseed blossoms. Thinking this must be Mibu Temple, I hastened my steps. As I walked, I recalled the courtesans. In the damask room, Mr. Kawai had said placing one here would suffice. Seeing their procession attire made me realize how needlessly a single courtesan would fill that spacious parlor. Their entire bodies were artificial adornments. Yet only three or four inches at their toes revealed bare skin—the sole place where they could display their flesh. Those feet, perched on ink-black geta sandals and thrust forward from crimson hems, had to appear starkly white and diminutive. And walking thus, I wondered whether those courtesans suffered torments at their toenails beyond ordinary comprehension. A pair walked ahead conversing. Looking closely, I recognized them as that clerk from before.

“The previous Kotayu was better,” someone’s remark briefly reached my ears. I conjured up the resplendent figure of Kotayu, who had appeared last in the procession, and tried to imagine what her predecessor must have been like.

The rooftiles I took to be those of Mibu Temple gradually loomed larger as I approached.

I abruptly left behind the rapeseed flowers swaying poignantly and saw a lone beggar sitting by the roadside. An elderly male beggar. His hair was matted and disheveled. He, upon seeing people approach, rubbed his forehead into the dust. On his sticking-up forelock, dust clung white. The people walking ahead paid this beggar no heed. I found myself inexplicably pitying him, opened my coin purse, and tossed him a copper coin. He once again rubbed his grimy forehead into the dust. I walked a little and looked back. Immediately from behind, five or six women approached. He saw this and bent forward again and again, begging for alms. When they came before the beggar, the women each opened their coin purses. He, keeping the coins that had been thrown clutched in his right hand even as the women passed by, rubbed his forehead into the dust again and again. As I watched this, I felt simply happy for no reason at all. In that moment, I felt as though I had accomplished some great deed, though I could not say why. I have truly never before recalled from memory having experienced delight to this extent.

(Published in *Hototogisu*, Volume 12, Issue 11, August 1, Meiji 42 [1909])