Pathway to Japanese Literature

"The Era of 'Katyusha'"

Would you kindly read a section from the preface to the poem “Peppermint Sake” in Mr. Kinoshita Mokutarō’s celebrated poetry collection *After-Dinner Songs*?

“What I attended back then was not the Shōseikai, but rather the Utazawa Onshūkai.
I still faintly remember old women with beautiful voices like Shiba Toshi and Shiba Mine.
At such gatherings, there were many beautiful audience members, and one felt somewhat ashamed of one’s own appearance in a kasuri-patterned haori and ogura hakama.
Among the somewhat older men, there were also those discussing *senryū* circulating magazines.”

“[Omitted] The ellipsis marks (ヽヽ) were of course added by me, but this essay by Mr. Kinoshita Mokutarō was written in January 1916. Moreover, upon reading through this text to its conclusion, it appears that his visit to the Utazawa Onshūkai and observation of ‘those discussing senryū circulating magazines’ occurred around 1912.”

In the several years since then, senryū had fully blossomed and borne fruit as a form of urban literature, while circulating magazines developed into coterie publications—indeed, some had advanced to the very brink of becoming general-interest magazines.

When one now leafs through these Taisho-era senryū anthologies, there indeed emerges—with all the era’s distinctive flair—a parade of motion picture serials, operas, cafés, bars, labor disputes, and other such novelties, each amusingly rising to prominence one after another.

The senryū of the Taisho era—particularly the works of Venerable Kuraki and Venerable Kenkabō—may well be said to have reached their zenith after entering the period, with Kuraki alone producing no small number of excellent verses brimming with authentic temporal flavor.

Two fireballs fly toward Momoyama—Kuraki

Needless to say, these were the Taisho accession, the imperial funeral that very night, and the joint suicide of General Nogi and his wife.
The fact that Venerable Kuraki, upon hearing news of the general and his wife’s joint suicide, immediately associated it with "two fireballs" demonstrated precisely the poetic sensibility unique to an Edo-born poet.
“Fireballs” are something one can never feel any true familiarity with unless one possesses deep familiarity with Edo ukiyo-e and kusazōshi storybook illustrations.

Kuraki walks through Kagurazaka with the chorus of “Katyusha”

In A Doll’s House, the matchmaker often falters—Same.

According to Mr. Satō Yoshimitsu’s *Shinchosha Forty Years*, it stated that Shimamura Hogetsu and Matsui Sumako founded the Geijutsu-za theater company and held their first performance at the Imperial Theater in Taisho 3 (1914). The thousand-yen expense for that occasion had been provided by Mr. Satō Yoshimitsu, and the play *Resurrection* was published by Shinchōsha.

“The Imperial Theater’s *Resurrection* was met with thunderous applause.” Mr. Hogetsu would have been delighted, but for me as well, it was the utmost joy. Before long, Geijutsu-za took *Resurrection* to perform at the Ueno International Exposition and held special performances in Asakusa, with Sumako’s rendition of “Katyusha’s Song”— “Katyusha’s loveliness and parting sorrows—” swept through an era, coming to mark a major epoch in the history of our nation’s popular songs.

Mr. Satō records in his memoir.

I believe it was around this same time that Nora from Ibsen’s *A Doll’s House* made her splendid debut in the spotlight of our nation’s stages.
(As I currently lack access to a proper history of New Theater, I cannot state the exact year,) but hundreds or perhaps thousands of young Japanese wives—newly awakened by Nora—attempted to abandon their “doll houses.”

With ukiyo-e and *Mita Bungaku*, he shook off the connoisseurs—Kuraki

According to the chronology in *Complete Works of Modern Japanese Literature: Nagai Kafū Collection*, Mr. Nagai Kafū founded *Mita Bungaku* in April 1910 (Meiji 43); by 1915 (Taisho 4), when this senryū was composed, he had published in the same journal his play *Mikashiwa Jutō Yaran*, which drew material from a clandestine love affair within the historic Kiyomoto society. In the January issue of *Mita Bungaku* from the previous year, Mr. Yoshii Isamu’s *Kyōgeinin* (Mad Performer), which depicted Yatatsu Heibagaku, had been published. It was a splendid era when literature of the New Aesthetic School—imbued with new metropolitan tastes—was being celebrated throughout the land.

Thus we could grasp the verse's meaning.

Madam Egi rode a horse at Karuizawa—Kuraki

Autumn rises from Madam Kawakami’s cheek—Same

Both were figures featured in *Biographies of Meiji-Taisho Beauties*.
Madam Kinko, wife of Dr. Egi, converted to Omoto-kyo in her later years and committed suicide, her twilight years marked by profound misfortune; yet Sadayakko, wife of shinpa theater leader Kawakami Otojirō, is said to have spent her twilight years in tranquil retirement along the Atami coast even during the war.
I was sixteen or seventeen at the time—around 1919 or 1920, I believe—when Venerable Kuraki took me to pay New Year’s respects at the Egi residence in Kanda Awajichō. The estate, encircled by an old-fashioned black fence reminiscent of a hatamoto samurai’s estate, served us chilled sake and cold meats. There, I recall performing a rakugo story I had learned at vaudeville theaters.
Today, as someone who writes novels primarily about vaudeville performers, I had already been an ardent rakugo enthusiast since those days; at elementary school alumni gatherings, I would invariably listen to Third-Generation Kosan’s *“Flower-Patterned Cotton,”* the late Koshō’s *“Twenty-Four Filial Piety”* and *“The Rice Merchant’s Seppuku,”* or the late Kosen’s *“High Collar”* and *“White Copper.”*

Now, I cannot recall what story I performed at the Egi residence that day, but Madam Kinko’s heavily powdered smile—clad in her Meiji-style purple haori—remains vividly etched in my mind’s eye.
To a boy like me, she appeared quite elderly (though excessively beautiful for an old woman), yet she must have been barely forty at most.
Or perhaps she was younger still.

Regarding Madam Kawakami—Sadayakko—it is written in Ito Chiyū’s *Chiyū’s Essays (One Thing After Another)*, in the section “Student Theater Recollections”:

“Kawakami’s toil to maintain public popularity was no simple matter—he went so far as to attempt things others couldn’t imitate, only to abandon them.”
“As for acts like his wife Sadayakko’s short-boat voyage—what necessity could there have been for such foolish endeavors? One can scarcely discern any rationale, but if viewed as one strategy to retain public favor—[omission]—”

and it is said that at venues like the Hongō-za Theater, she once mounted a real horse along the hanamichi runway and charged gallantly onto the stage.
Thus one could imagine the lively vigor of those bygone days.

An izakaya, with one brushstroke painted, becomes a bar—Kuraki

This was the senryū that San'yūtei Kinma performed in his "Izakaya" introductory monologue and which suddenly became a household name.

Imbued with the same zeitgeist were:

The flower tram without chrysanthemums looks cheap—Kuraki

On Flower Day, resenting paying even two sen for chrysanthemums—Same.

The verse about Flower Day was a work from Taisho 6.
During Taisho-era celebratory occasions, upper-class women would often sell artificial chrysanthemums—the kind that banquet organizers would pin to their lapels—on the streets, using the proceeds to fund relief efforts for the impoverished.
It was said that they would comply with His Majesty’s wishes regardless of quantity—two sen per piece—and thus this verse was born.
Now that you mention it—how many years has it been since those two-sen copper coins with their weighty feel in the palm were last seen?

"The riot will come any moment now"—Kuraki glaring.

In riots，heavenly weapons called stone blocks—Kuraki.
Rioters intent on skipping out on debts—let them come—Kuraki.
It’s not how things should be—dusting off rice bran—Kuraki.

Regarding the summer 1918 Rice Riots, Mr. Nagai Kafū’s essay *Fireworks* provides detailed coverage.

"Mid-August of Taisho 7 [1918]; the season had passed Risshū by four or five days."
"It was summer's most sweltering period."
"Having finished editing the magazine Kagetsu that Inoue Aa Aa was publishing at the time, I went to Kagurazaka to cool off while seeing him home."
"[...] When I returned to the main street and rested at Bier Hall, a student-like man was recounting how shops in Ginza and geisha houses near Shinbashi had been smashed."
"It was then I first learned of the uproar over soaring rice prices."
"However, the next day's newspaper reports were banned."
"When I later heard accounts, the riots always began after evening cooled."
"In those days, the moon shone beautifully every night."
"When I heard rioters would threaten wealthy homes after moonrise in the cool evenings, I couldn't help sensing a peculiar leisureliness in it."
"The disturbances lasted five or six days before subsiding [...]"

The Edo dialect term “meppariko” from the first verse—it would surely become incomprehensible before long.
No—it may already be on the verge of becoming incomprehensible even today.
First, Second, Third, Fourth—different voices but shared vision, meeting each other’s eyes in agreement.
In this lies a certain satirical humor, both in tone and content.
Moreover, in this case too, it was precisely by positioning such refined Edo dialect in the closing five syllables that the verse depicting these riotous streets first came to life.

Born from Takarazuka’s One Hundred Poets—Kuraki

In those days, every stage name in the Takarazuka Girls’ Opera—from “Kumoio Namiko” and “Shinohara Asaji” to “Takahama Kikuko,” “Akita Tsuyuko,” “Sasahara Inako,” “Takasago Matsuko,” “Takamine Taeko,” “Ariake Akiko,” and “Amatsu Otome”—was entirely derived from the *Hyakunin Isshu* anthology.
I hear it was founded in April 1913, but it was in early summer of Taisho 7 (1918)—if I recall correctly—that Mr. Yūki Reijirō and others from Genbunsha, who had been publishing *New Performing Arts* and *New Home* around that time, first brought [the troupe] to perform at the Imperial Theater through their sponsorship, igniting enthusiasm across the capital.
At Furukawa Roppa’s wedding reception long ago, Mr. Kobayashi Ichizō—serving as matchmaker that day—glanced at Roppa while we waited for guests in the Tokyo Kaikan lounge and remarked with a smile about me, “This one here was quite the Takarazuka fan in his literary youth days.” Yet truly, within the dreams of my distant boyhood, the white-plastered buildings of the Takarazuka Theater, the steam rising from Turkish baths, and the murmuring Mukogawa River remain etched, never to fade.
When I think of those days, I am reminded of “Like a Youth” from Satō Haruo’s *Poems of Martyrdom to Love*—
I cannot help but recall something redolent of youth.

I believe that even within Venerable Kuraki’s senryū essays describing Takarazuka from that time, my middle school self was portrayed in an embarrassing light.

A laugh forcibly grafted onto the operetta—Kuraki

The opera troupe reduced to chasing meals through popularization—Kuraki

The girl tentatively matching the soprano’s pitch—Kuraki

The dissolution of the Imperial Theater Opera Department, the performances at Akasaka Royal Hall, Rosi’s return to his home country—how much “time” separated these moments in opera’s history, I do not know.

But before long, they moved to Asakusa Nippon-kan, Kinryūkan, Komagata Theater—there, opera’s fragrant blossoms bloomed.

Shimizu Kintarō, Tagaya Rikizō, Takada Masao, Sawada Ryūkichi, Iba Takashi, Sugi Hiroshi, Tōyama Eijirō (Fujiwara Yoshie), Kuroda Tatsuhito (Kuroda Ken), Kimura Tokiko, Hara Nobuko, Kamiyama Senshi, Iwama Yuriko, Sawā Morino, Andō Fumiko, Ichijō Hisako, Sagara Aiko, Sakai Chiyoko, Kawai Sumiko—such actors and actresses began to have their popularity wryly celebrated.
Today, most of those male actors have passed from this world, and most actresses have become beloved grandmothers.
We *Peragoros* of yore, donning cowboy hats and belting out “Boccaccio” with its “Love is a tender flower of the field” and “Diabolo” with its “Terrifying man leaning against the rock,” drank Brazilian coffee at Central Café and burned with rootless passion.
(So we were called) have now come to recount such tales of old.

Looking back, thirty years ago. I was just barely fifteen years old at that time.

Even so, this first verse—"a laugh tacked on"—was truly exquisite in its craftsmanship.
The verse satirized that distinctive operetta chorus: “Ah-hah-hah-hah, ah-hah-hah-hah—now this is absurd!”
Around that time—Kuraki had sketched Hara Nobuko in his verses—

The ballad singer’s sunken cheeks—a flaw in the jewel—Kuraki

Protea took inspiration from the black cat—Kuraki

Far becomes near—a trick of the lens—Kuraki

In close-up, eyelashes as if drawn with a brush—Kuraki

Motion pictures dwell in a house without locks—Kuraki

Douglas shows even acrobatic feats—Kuraki

Douglas’s climax leaps over the fence—Kuraki

Even unrequited love for Pickford bears no sin—Kuraki

And this was the very era when motion pictures were reaching their fever pitch.
“Meikane” and “Master Key”
“Kenkotsu”
“Heart no 3,” “Mamoru Kage,” and other great detective serials competed on screen, while the music from that “Heaven and Hell” was invariably played during chase scenes.
Among the leading handsome men and beautiful women of detective films, the names Francis Ford and Grace Cunard remain most vividly etched in memory.
For it was assuredly these two who, serving as the terrifying epicenter of grand crimes, were tossed about by fate’s hands—with Miss Grace Cunard so often bound in perilous situations by villains—only for the lanky young Francis Ford, his demeanor tinged with bitterness, to appear dashingly and rescue his beloved Miss Cunard, thereby receiving thunderous applause from us all.
The fourth verse—“In a house without locks”—
This “and so on” constituted an Edoite’s wry sarcasm at a time when such earth-shattering crime films were being screened successively.
The screening of *Protea* must have been around then—a bright-eyed female detective (I suppose), wearing something like a black swimsuit, crawled from rooftop to rooftop.
Hence the reference to “crow-cat” and such.
The second verse—“Far becomes near”—likely refers to what we now call tracking shots.
I believe the screenings of Douglas and Pickford films came slightly later.
Youths nursing unrequited love for Pickford must have filled every corner of Japan at that time.
They would look up Pickford’s address in movie magazines (the term “eiga” had not yet come into use—I hear this two-character term was coined by Motoyama Shōshū), send her love letters in dubious English, then treasure whatever signed photographs or steel trinkets they received as family heirlooms.
The sixth verse’s “nori-chi” in Edo dialect means “climax.”

Truly, the moment Douglas appeared, he would strike a large bamboo two or three times with a mighty heave, ride it up, and then effortlessly leap to the third-floor window of the adjacent Western-style building.
Truly, that acrobatic feat was immensely satisfying precisely because it felt so devoid of any trace of artifice.
My wife, during her school days when Douglas’s *Don Q* was showing, would eat ramune and anpan instead of lunch and dinner, spending entire days in the movie theater watching the same film over and over again, or so she says.

How wildly Douglas Fairbanks was celebrated throughout Japan at that time—one can well imagine.

With a lover, become earth in the verdant morning—Kuraki

I hear that Matsui Sumako’s suicide occurred on January 5, 1919, and that the "Hogetsu and Sumako, Artistic Twin Birds Monument" was erected through the arrangements of Venerable Kuraki at Gyokuto-in Temple in Ushigome—Sumako’s family temple—on April 3 of the same year.
At that time, Madame Kuraki offered the verse: "Live for love, live for art, live for stone—Somei woman."
The true sentiments behind Kuraki’s construction of the Twin Birds Monument are fully expressed in the memorial address for the Artistic Twin Birds Monument found in *Senryū Kuraki Kandan*; let us now excerpt pertinent passages for examination.

“Alas, ours is an age of true power yet deficient in the profound influential force of good and beauty.”
“How ought one to eat?”
In this era of “How shall we satisfy our vanity?”, human feelings perish here, and the path of taste becomes desolate, losing its light day by day.
Therefore, those who adhere to good are said to be disruptors of public morals for investigating the actions of the two individuals.
“Those captivated by beauty expound art’s mighty power yet disregard society’s virtuous order—both parties err alike. This Artistic Twin Birds Monument now stands as but an illusory memorial tower, no different from a fleeting shadow of taste that becomes illusion when viewed as reality and reality when viewed as illusion. Yet within it lies ten thousand measures of tears—a living vessel brimming with warm blood of human sentiment.”

In essence, even if “Hogetsu and Sumako’s desire for a joint burial”—which destroyed their family—remained unfulfilled, “society’s regulations” must embody “the father’s solemnity,” while “arts, literature, and religion” must manifest “the mother’s compassion.”
“Therefore, matters of human sentiment must be resolved through sentiment.”
This principle of “resolving through sentiment” was the Venerable’s motive in erecting the monument.
"Midori no Asa" was the D'Annunzio play that Sumako performed at Meiji-za in the autumn of the previous year after Hogetsu’s death.

Similarly, among those composed on the theme song from Sumako’s hit play *The Living Corpse*,

In the wandering song lies a lullaby’s melody—Kuraki

A wanderer—one Oiwake song in the field—Kuraki

In the plaintive tones of "Shall I go back? Beneath the aurora," one sensed both a deceptive lullaby and the fleeting melody of an Oiwake song.

Glaring at Ōmura Hyōbu’s Ichiyatsuku—Kuraki

Amidst busyness, there is leisure—the tool shops of the fish market—Kuraki

When leaving the fish market, even trains seem rare—Kuraki

All of this was Tokyo of the Taisho era. The first verse depicted a convivial gathering scene beneath the statue of Ōmura Masujirō at Kudan. From this verse, those who could visualize the towering giant statue standing in the dark night where the lush young leaves of that area exuded their fragrance were fortunate indeed. The second and third verses were of the fish market from when it was still in Nihonbashi. The Kurikaramonmon brothers—dragging a great tuna like those seen in the fight scenes of Isshin Tasuke portrayed by Hattori Shin—must have been walking there as well. And in Maruhana’s cuisine, an unadulterated flavor had still lingered—at least to such a degree that leaving the fish market made encountering streetcars feel novel—for the riverbank district had preserved intact the scenery Hiroshige once depicted. Admittedly, this could be confirmed by looking at Ariake Kambara’s poem titled “Morning It Is.”

In Mr. Akutagawa Ryūnosuke’s exceedingly short story titled *Fish Market*, one finds a piercingly vivid depiction of the Nihonbashi-era fish market scenery: *“a street where briny moonlight blows.”* Yet even here, the author himself had initially thought, *“Modern-day Nihonbashi could never bustle as it does in Kyoka’s novels,”* only to be compelled by the story’s conclusion to lament: *“Kyoka’s novels are not dead. At the very least, in Tokyo’s fish markets, events like those still occur.”* So potent was the proof that Nihonbashi of that era—a Nihonbashi where Edo-tradition “life” persisted—continued to breathe.
When this Nihonbashi was deemed unsanitary and relocated to present-day Tsukiji, the late Kosho smirked while uttering the following sardonic remark.

“If Nihonbashi’s sanitation was bad for people, does that make Tsukiji’s any better for them? I’d like to ask just a bit sarcastically... and so on.”

Akusawa is the originator of the poverty lottery—Kuraki

I believe the Akusawa residence was located near Kudan Hitokuchizaka. The head of the household amassed his fortune in a single generation—rumors abounded at the time that he had once worked as a cook at a foreign residence, murdered its owner, and acquired it through such means. Akusawa came to be called “Evil Swamp”—so notorious was this mansion for its immorality throughout Tokyo. Given that even my childhood ears were imprinted with such impressions, it must be regarded as a legendary evil presence that cannot be omitted from Taisho Tokyo’s cultural history. Moreover, might not Mr. Nagai Kafū have drawn inspiration for Kurobuchi in his earlier work *Jigoku no Hana* (Hell’s Flower) from this Akusawa residence, given that he himself resided in this neighborhood during his youth?

Sabotage—no matter how you frame it—isn't the Edo way—Kuraki

Once again, I drew upon Mr. Nagai’s *Fireworks*.

"When passing outside Hibiya Park, I saw a group of laborers wearing pale blue work uniforms marching in orderly ranks with their union flag at the forefront."
"That day was the European Armistice Day holiday."
"Having long been removed from society due to illness, I suddenly beheld on this day a procession of laborers in pale blue work uniforms on Tokyo’s streets—the likes of which I had grown accustomed to seeing in France—and felt as though the world had transformed beyond recognition."
"I felt as though my eyes had opened."
"In the sight of this group of laborers in Western attire marching solemnly, there seemed to manifest both the unyielding force of the era and the sorrows of life."

It was likely around this time that major magazines were successively launched—publications discussing labor issues through banners like “Kaizō” and “Kaihō” in manifold ways.
That this verse cursing sabotage emerged from Venerable Kuraki—who for years had striven to actualize in the modern age the Edo people’s ethos of labor and capital uniting to revel in “life”—seemed only natural.
You who dismiss this “Edo denashi” as mere griping from four-and-a-half-mat dilettantes—fall and become kindling for hell’s flames!

When returning from Ayabe, their hair grew long—Kuraki
In Tanba, it’s the commotion after Yorimitsu—Kuraki

When the first Ōmoto sect reached its zenith of popularity—even Mr. Kaoru Osanai converting and public opinion reaching fever pitch—was this not around Taisho 10 (1921)? Those who made pilgrimage to the Ōmoto Sect Headquarters in Tanba Ayabe often grew their hair long like Umemoto-school naniwabushi chanters. This explains why such verses emerged.

Futurism was conceived from a cheap mirror—Kuraki

Oil paintings—a mad whirl of circles upon circles in red, blue, white, purple, brown, black, gold, silver, indigo, olive-green; compositions where straight lines clashed with curves, circles collided with ellipses, rectangles warred with triangles—flooded the Nikakai exhibitions of that era, astonishing our eyes. This was Futurism incarnate.
Constructivism emerged after the Great Earthquake; Surrealism would wait until Showa.
During Futurism’s Japanese dawn, Ogawa Jippei—that genius manga artist cut down in his prime—crafted an audacious Futurist satire for *Women’s World* magazine’s cover that made us erupt in applause.
Yet I deem this verse an equal—nay superior—satirical thrust.
How brilliantly devastating that “from a cheap mirror” strikes!

Elman’s hands—magnolias swaying in the wind—Kuraki

Schumann-Heink: Two Verses

Lü Sheng, World-Renowned: Over Thirty Kan—Kuraki

The accompaniment takes the form of a koshiketsu—Kuraki

Russian Ballet—thou wert ever Kakubei Lion Dancers—Kuraki

Around that time, Mischa Elman first came to Japan for a performance.
Eventually, Schumann-Heink arrived.
The Russian Ballet’s inaugural visit to Japan appears to have occurred around this period too.
All these performances were held at the Imperial Theater with admission fees of ten or twenty yen—colossal sums for that era.
Venerable Kuraki attended each event and meticulously etched the visages of world-class foreign performers into Taisho-era senryū history.
Effort must indeed be revered.

Peonies paired with Chinese lions; sycamores matched with policemen—Kuraki

When sycamores (Platanus) were first adopted as street trees.
It was like encountering Shinchosha’s translated novels—there we sensed the modern city’s “pulse.”

Intending to visit Hanatsukien—Ojichi lies drunk—Kuraki

Order one black and become family regulars—Kuraki

The cultural village resembling a foreign storage shed.

In Mr. Jun’ichirō Tanizaki’s *Thinking of Tokyo*, there was

“If my memory serves me correctly, it was indeed around Taisho 11 [1922] that a dancehall targeting Yokohama foreigners was approved at Hanatsukien in Tsurumi. Japanese women began trickling in dressed in outfits that could be mistaken for Western ladies’ attire—though most were likely Yokohama residents who socialized with Westerners.”

The first verse encapsulated this era’s social customs, while the second verse similarly revolved around the coffee shops emerging as fashionable hubs during those years.
I believe it was around the year preceding the earthquake that we first came to savor the rich flavor of black coffee—this too occurring after Café Paulista’s Brazilian coffee boom, as chronicled in Mr. Nakategawa Yoshiji’s *Apple Pie One*, had waned.
The construction of Mejiro Bunka Mura might have also commenced around that period.
Even more intensely than during the Rokumeikan era, Japan at this time threw itself into a frantic push to assimilate Western culture—a drive that persisted until just before this incident.

Once again invoking Koshō as an example—though he remained ever the deft essayist—the acerbic wit in his casual remarks contained truly remarkable elements; among these, his aphorisms about the Cultural Village now strike me as particularly delightful.
To wit:

“Past Mejiro lies something they call the Cultural Village, with houses that might accommodate Chinese striped hamsters.”
“Such houses all lack eaves, leaving no shelter from the rain.”
“What merciless structures they’ve built.”

The white napes of old are now a thing of the past.

The world had become one where hems clung from bosom to feet—Kuraki
Even *Muekiiki* failed to foresee bobbed hair—Kuraki

How delightful was the headnote to "The whiteness of napes belongs to the past"! It was truly from this era that discussions of modern women's leg aesthetics first gained momentum. The custom of bobbed hair too was introduced around this time by Mr. Ohashi Fusa (later known as Ms. Sasaki Fusa). *Muekiiki*—Koikawa Harumachi's kibyōshi *Kusunoki Muekiiki*—stood as a humorous futurist satire that gleefully catalogued customs diametrically opposed to contemporary trends, prophesying an age like our present. Yet even this strikingly novel *Kusunoki Muekiiki*, for all its visions of tomorrow, had failed to anticipate women's bobbed hair—a realization that drew wistful sighs.

Speaking of which, during the bobbed hair trend, I recalled that Painter Kimura Shōhaku—in some essay critiquing the fashion—had mockingly written, “Next will it be a shaved head?”

The Yasugi-bushi loach has finally ascended to heaven—Kuraki

Yasugi-bushi—Bro’s utterly delighted—Kuraki

The lively Yasugi-bushi folk songs, recently revived in the upper floors of Asakusa Mokubakan, were stirring up considerable popularity—but it had been just before the Great Kanto Earthquake that their fervor truly reached its peak.
Now then—Yasugi-bushi, Hakata-bushi, followed by Oryokkō-bushi, Suttonton-bushi, Hakutōzan-bushi—for a time during this period, the entertainment districts had been overwhelmed by local folk songs.
In other words, Venerable Kuraki’s indignation gushed forth as the following verse.

From Izumo—Hakata Yoneyama sake chills—Kuraki

Furthermore, toward what little remained of old Edo’s scenery in those days—scenes being mindlessly destroyed each passing day—he poured out heartfelt lamentation.

Particularly regarding the Hashiba area, where in Edo times the smoke from tile kilns had once lent ephemeral charm, Kuraki’s anguish found expression through this jocular style—a blend of sorrowful absurdity.

Fuyuki Benten Shrine—Kuraki

In Fukagawa, an Edo like a rainwater puddle lingers—Kuraki

Sumida River Bridge Construction Issue

A torii not repurposed as bridge piers—what a find—Kuraki

Water Deity

Lotus Pond—pitifully encircled by factories—Kuraki

Komagata and its moat become fertilizer buckets—Kuraki

With one bridge—Senju remains Edo—Kuraki

Morning smoke—that’s the Imado Gas Company—Kuraki

Let us now turn to Venerable Kenkabō.

In the silence where no cough dares sound—the emperor's flag—Kenkabō

Emperor Taisho's Grand Ceremony

The Shishinden Hall where none may point at Masakado—Kenkabō

Facing southern seas—the Takamikura enthroned—Kenkabō

The first verse stands particularly renowned.
Kōban denotes senryū taking imperial courts or mystical realms as their themes—among Kenkabō's kōban verses, these might well be deemed exemplary.

Like an old beast, Shiodome Station sleeps—Kenkabō

The Shinbashi Station from the song *“With a whistle’s blast, off to Shinbashi”* now calls itself Shiodome Station, diagonally across from today’s Shinbashi Station.
Established in Meiji 5 (1872), it was converted into a freight-only station with the opening of Tokyo Station (Central Station) in the early Taisho era.
This Shiodome Station of Shinbashi—once a symbol of civilization and enlightenment—must now truly continue its slumber “like an aged beast.”
Tokyo Station construction was in full swing.
Recalling the satirical ditty “Sāsa koto da yo”—lyrics by Masuda Tarō Kaja, composition by Sasa Kōka (or so I believe), sung by Asai Maruko of Nihonbashi (later known as Ichimaru Katsutarō—a precursor to Ichimaru, yet incomparably more Edo-style in her beauty and talent as a courtesan!)—I shall now transcribe it here.
Around that time, it was recorded by Tokyo Records with the Mount Fuji logo and had a somewhat pleasant tune, but few probably know it now.

Sāsa koto da yo, koto da yo—a splendid station was built in the center of Tokyo at a cost of hundreds of thousands of yen; its entrances and exits are far from the streetcars.
With luggage on their back, heave-ho heave-ho—yo-heave-ho!—they arrive just as the train departs…

A geisha who can read—dubbed *Girls’ World*—Kenkabō

The vaudeville theater across from Sakura Nabe features naniwabushi—Kenkabō

Seems to have profited in Tsingtao—skimping on oil—Kenkabō

When visiting Ms. Nani—met with a large belly—Kenkabō

All were part of the everyday atmosphere of the early Taisho era.

The magazine *Shōjo-kai* appears to have been widely read at that time.
I myself have no recollection of it whatsoever.
At the naniwabushi theater across from the horse meat shop, the performers had not yet adopted modern staging with chairs and tables. Instead, they sat before lecterns with their hips deftly tucked back, flanked by female accompanists, chanting: *“To all honored guests now entering…”*
They would project an unassuming mournful melody.
Yet the true essence of Kantō-bushi likely resided more in those days—a point I have often discussed in my work *After Kumoiemon*.
Tsingtao is Qingdao.
At the time of Qingdao’s fall during the First European War, I was still in second or third grade of elementary school.
It happened to be the day of the autumn sports meet—October 7th, if I recall correctly. After the event concluded, our principal—a former Shōgitai member—showed us a comfort bag made from a hand towel folded in half from atop the platform. He said he had intended to have us make such comfort bags, but they were no longer necessary now that an extra edition had arrived announcing Qingdao’s fall. I remember us all chanting “Banzai!” amidst the deepening dusk.
The final verse resembles the poetic realm of Kondo Ameppō’s Seitō-ha-themed verses, which I will discuss later.
Even so, terms like “Ms. So-and-so” likely only became common parlance in the early Taisho years.

Kenkabō found himself captivated by Tōgi Tameharu’s mood plays.

From afar, Utaemon resembled a maiden—Kenkabō

Tōgi Tameharu stood as the iron-fluted vanguard of the New Theater movement.
It was during this period that so-called “mood plays” first took root upon Japanese stages.
This was the era when Narikomaya—newly ascended from Shikan to Utaemon—still moved with fluid grace and could convincingly perform female roles despite such remarks.
All had now faded into distant dreams of the past.

On the eve of her murder—she bought chrysanthemums at the temple fair—Kenkabō

It was a work that strangely evoked—through the blood-soaked Meiji-era tableaus of this murder, the Ikeda Kametarō Incident, and the Sōma Incident; through student plays drenched in stage blood like *Ikkubi Shōtarō*, *Enma no Hiko*, and Yamada Jitsugen—a visceral sense of reality that captivated the heart.
The late individual once stated that this verse drew material from the infamous Shiba Nihon'enoki Five Murders, but according to the *Meiji Chronicle*, this massacre had occurred in November of Meiji 42 (1909).
Venerable Kenkabō resided in the same Nihon'enoki at that time, so it seemed that after entering the Taisho era, he recalled and composed this [verse].
I was barely six years old when this incident occurred, but even now—alongside later crimes like the Mitsubishigahara Otsuyu Murder, the early Taisho-era Koishikawa Seven Murders, the Yanagishima Four Murders, and the Suzugamori Oharu Murder—it could still summon within me the visceral shudder of that time, so profoundly must these cases have shaken the entire capital.

The Chronicle reported as follows.
The November 23rd edition of the *Tokyo Asahi Shimbun* reads:

“At the vacant residence of Kudō Kamesaburō—captain of NYK Line’s *Kamikawa Maru*—located at Shiba Nihon'enoki-chō 1-78, a horrific incident occurred early this morning around 3:00 a.m., in which five family members including his wife, two sons, one daughter, and an additional maid were brutally murdered by an unknown assailant.”
And so on.

This case dragged on unresolved until entering the Taisho era, when the true culprit was finally arrested.
I remember it was indeed merely a burglary.
According to the same newspaper, the victim—the wife Taka—was thirty-three years old at the time.
That is to say, it was this ill-fated wife who, unaware she would be killed, had purchased a potted chrysanthemum at the festival market.

Filial deeds done, yet unfilial ones too—Kenkabō
The word "Mother" grew obsolete—Kenkabō
A tarnished silver coin emerged from the kimono pocket—Kenkabō

Venerable Kenkabō experienced the death of his mother in Taisho 7 (1918).
These are the verses composed at that time.
It is said that Venerable Kenkabō once remarked, “Mr. Kuraki advocates for senryū’s beauty, while I proclaim senryū’s truth”—and indeed, among these truth-driven subjective verses of his, there are no few works that strike the heart with profound resonance.
As for his subsequent works—

In my youth, Mother and I lived in poverty—a four-and-a-half-mat room—Kenkabō

Reminiscence of Mother

Even scolded, even wept over—turned to unyielding stone—Kenkabō

Even so, they were much the same.
When compared to recent senryū—those haiku-aping, literarily affected, minor-subjective verses—his were indeed forged through the collision of the entire human being: heart, mind, and body.
I believed therein lay a profound difference.

On September 13, 1934, Venerable Kenkabō passed away within Kenchō-ji Temple in Kamakura. At that time, a passage from the eulogy delivered by Venerable Kuraki read:

"You vigorously championed the proletarians; I advocated for senryū that harmonize rich and poor."

As it says here, through his emphasis on senryū's "truth," many of Venerable Kenkabō's verses denouncing social evils reveal themselves as works worthy of being cherished.

The era of dwelling in mountains will never come—the caged tiger—Kenkabō

Profiting from the dying—Unu the tub maker dies too—Kenkabō

A great fool and a great man share the same face—Kenkabō

Saved by a philanthropist with sparrow feed and such—Kenkabō

Not admitting the distressed bird—the great gate shuts—Kenkabō

Even when the monkey handler dies, his monkeys won’t follow in death—Kenkabō

Leave Yasuda unkilled and he’ll live a hundred years—Kenkabō

Forcibly delivered to Yasuda the Yama—Kenkabō

Money worth killing for, worth dying for—Kenkabō

Not one face lowered—he comes wearing his son’s visage—Kenkabō

To my child—not a single balloon given—the balloon seller—Kenkabō

This world I deem my grand delusion—Kenkabō

The Hakaikai assembly in ancient Nara’s capital—Kenkabō

Good character yet bribes taken—Kenkabō

No hospital for the mad dog—beaten dead—Kenkabō

The poisonous snake dies, the black cat dies—Kenkabō

Gnaw at automobiles, chase automobiles—automobiles remain—Kenkabō

Upon seeing automobiles, they steadily redden—Kenkabō

Dubbing it a mudguard—splashing mud on people—Kenkabō

In every verse there was an irrepressible rebellion against the strong, tears for the weak, a full-throated roar hurled at hypocrisy’s torch—a primal bellow.

A native of Chōshū and the foremost advocate of senryū’s “truth,” Venerable Kenkabō possessed none of the cutting wit characteristic of Edoites—the kind Venerable Kuraki and classical senryū masters wielded solely against forces hindering beauty in their Edo-style elegance. Yet precisely for this lack, his rough-hewn voice of indignation resonated clearly and was embraced by people in every corner of the land.
In essence, Venerable Kenkabō’s senryū simmered and seethed at a point hundreds of miles removed from Yanagidaru—that Edo-authentic local literature.
It can also be clearly stated that therein lay both this writer’s strengths and weaknesses.

Among those that captured the emerging cityscapes of late Taisho-era Tokyo,

Houses sprout thickly in Kōenji—Kenkabō

In the direct line of Mount Fuji’s view—yet more buildings rise—Kenkabō

there were verses such as these, and in the immediate aftermath of that Great Kanto Earthquake,

A magazine shop where covers ablaze stand out—Kenkabō

Passing through Ginza’s burnt ruins—boiled red beans—Kenkabō

Leaving Tokyo’s inferno—Tabata Road—Kenkabō

Calmly carrying fire on their backs—Kenkabō

If you think of brown rice balls—it’s pork stew—Kenkabō

There were.

Risai・Hakuzan・Ayanosuke

Next came selections from café verses.

The basement bar Hōgetsu—where such rumors swirl—Kenkabō

Iroha waned as cafés flourished—Kenkabō

Printemps revived the Sumako debate—Naki

A raven-velvet garment borne by apron-clad Mao—Kenkabō

“Drank at Yoka-ro!” declares Mura Nisai—Kochō

Pre-celebration bars have their limits—Utsuki

In their midst, someone swiftly pickpockets the waitress Matchi—Kenkabō

Someone helps the waitress into her coat; Meitei offers his arm.

Someone borrows a pencil from the waitress’s bosom; Koami.

Shaking hands with both hands of the waitress; laughing—Misaku.

There existed a haiku by Venerable Masuda Ryūu prefaced with “Bar-Saru Basement”—“A certain count resides—fireflies”—though this naturally dated from late Taisho; basement bars had apparently already emerged by the mid-Taisho years (1915–1919).
The “Iroha” in the second verse referred to the beef shop chain that had swept through all of Tokyo at the time; examining the shorthand notes from En’yū’s later years revealed forty-eight Iroha branches had already materialized, with speculation that Tokyo might soon be overrun by them.
This made their prosperity evident.
The Iroha across from Asakusabashi Park—the birthplace of Painter Kimura Shōhachi—had endured until the Taisho Earthquake. In a passage from my clumsily wrought novel *Shadow Puppets Dance*, published on the 20th [of the month],

When one emerged onto Hirokoji, there stood a beef shop at the corner fitted with dark tinted glass—left behind like a relic of the past, forlorn in its place.

It read.
That is to say, this was the Iroha of those bygone days.
As for Hirokoji—needless to say, it refers to Ryōgoku’s Hirokoji.

As for Printansen—

“Café Printan was established around Meiji 43 or 44 (1910 or 1911), adjacent to Ginza’s Ura Hiyoshichō district and next to a billiards hall called Nisshōtei—or so I recall. At that time, there were no cafés whatsoever in this Ginza area; the only similar establishments were Taiwan Kissa and Paulista.”
“The owner was Matsuyama Shōzō, a Western-style painter, and since the name ‘Printan’ was bestowed by Osanai Kaoru, the clientele consisted almost entirely of literary figures, artists, actors, those connected to newspapers and magazines, or others with interests in such circles (omitted).”

This could be understood through "My Memoirs" in Mr. Yoshii Isamu’s recent work *Sōmonkyo Essays*.
The Sumako debate naturally concerned Matsui Sumako.
The "sky-black velvet garments"—likely first worn by pioneers like Mr. Akita Ujaku—stood as symbols of that era’s youthful artists, becoming objects of intense admiration for apron-clad waitresses.
What showed particular skill in this verse was the use of the Edo-period term *mao* when addressing two figures emblematic of the new century.
Yoka-ro was a Western restaurant near what is now Café Miyama (?) in Asakusa’s Kaminarimon district, but as described in Mr. Uno Koji’s *Literary Strolls*,

During several years in the early Taisho era, they placed small advertisements for "Yoka-ro" in nearly every daily newspaper, beneath which appeared photographs of waitresses no larger than the advertisements themselves. The waitresses appearing in the daily newspapers changed one by one each day. The waitress who had been given the nickname Banryū at Yoka-ro was particularly renowned. However, it was the waitress named Ume who was celebrated even in poems by Kitahara Hakushū and Takamura Kōtarō.

It states, and further regarding the waitress named Sono who was there, it is recorded that “she became the wife of the deceased veteran actor Sawamura Gennosuke.” One could see how its splendor rivaled even that of Ginza Tiger in early Shōwa. However, as Mr. Uno also wrote: “Though it was a two-story building, being a small house, there were at most five or six waitresses.” “The Waitress Lighting Matches”

The following examples date from the waning years of Taisho, by which time even the term "waitress" had become fully naturalized into Japanese.
In other words, you would perceive in the figures of waitresses that appear across these verses an excessive adherence to cultivated demeanor and comportment.

Regarding Taisho-era films and operas, Venerable Kuraki's senryū had already offered substantial commentary; I now sought to expand upon them.

Tsutao's pride—Fukuhōkan standing in our town

Ninjutsu deployed—nineteen barrels tumbled at Daishōkan

At the tragic climax, the benshi sprinkled flowery prose—Suzumerō

Male stars the eyeballs, actresses the pupils—Tsutao

During blackout intermissions, the benshi cracked jokes—Yorozaburō

New Year's Eve at Teketsu—Tetsujirō fastening her Shimada chignon

Fukuhōkan hadn't been in Asakusa proper, yet like the proliferating Iroha beef shops with their First and Second branches, it had dotted locations across the city.
How those cheap glimmers of modernity must have fallen upon every neighborhood.

The ninjutsu film at Daishōkan Theater was headlined by Teikine’s Sawamura Shirogorō and Ichikawa Enjūrō, with Hanaide Hideo wielding his eloquence in the pre-screening explanation.
The majority of others featured Onoe Matsunosuke and "Eyeball" Matsu-chan forming hand seals before rumbling off into plumes of white smoke.
Hence the phrase "Male actors are the eyeballs."

As for this phenomenon of Matsunosuke’s popularity—well, let us save that for another occasion. Though their stylistic flourishes—blending ornate “poetic prose” into tragic film scenes—have left no trace in today’s age of talkies, the benshi (film narrators) of that era stood as radiantly modern figures for all: residents of both working-class districts and affluent neighborhoods, commoners and intellectuals alike, young men and women across society. The concluding lines of Rin Tenfu’s *Southern Judge*—renowned as “prose within prose” in film narration—were meticulously recorded in Mr. Furukawa Roppa’s *Tales of Film Narration Past and Present*.

“Turn to ash, turn to ash!” cried the Dōsu boy as he burned the letter.
In such moments—when lovers embrace whispering *love alone is true*—the blossoms scatter without repose.
“Through twilight’s haze, spring swells across ten thousand hamlets—indigo skies strewn with stars, emerald earth swept by floral blizzards. Spring! Ah spring! *A southern romance in springtime*...”

He declaimed these flowing phrases.
When recited in that sonorous voice, how countless youths had their eyes shine, cheeks flush, and hearts race—this particular thrill proves impossible to find in our present day.
The final Teketsu verse sketches year’s-end at Katsudōkan’s ticket booth.
Usherettes still exist today—but do they still bind their hair in Shimada knots on New Year’s Eve?

A chain drama—Kochō’s marriage, smooth as an untwisted melody.

There were two types of chain dramas: the artful variety where during the film’s climax the projection screen would silently lift to reveal live actors holding identical poses, and the conventional type where nearly the entire story unfolded on film with only the final scene performed in person.
Inoue Masao performed, Nakano Nobuchika performed, Gomi Kunitarō performed—I seem to recall even Nossi’s current Denjirō era having witnessed chain dramas like *Hōkaibō* at Miyato-za.
All of it gave one the sense of being shown Taisho culture’s flimsier facets—candy chocolates, Taishōgoto zithers, Taisho-era geisha—its carefree superficiality laid bare.

Me Mitsutaro of the Opera That Would Never Turn Blue

Katsura Ame pursues biwa geisha Tagaya Rikizo

Hands on hips—the opera’s delight takes wing like a skylark

Tengaiko—opera pro bearing a vagrancy charge

I had already spoken at excessive length regarding opera.
When I encountered these verses, the Taisho scenes of days gone by came back vividly and nostalgically before my eyes.
With emotions that seeped and coiled within me, I could not help but long to tightly embrace the multitude of memories buried deep in my chest.

At the opulent "face" of Taisho culture stood the Imperial Theater.
How radiantly must that modern-styled theatrical temple—having abolished tea houses, installed chair seating, and implemented a dining system—have cast its light upon the urbanites of that time?
The Imperial Theater of those days hosted actress-led dramas by Mori Ritsuko, Murata Kakuko, and Hatsuse Namiko; vaudeville-esque comedies like Masuda Tarōkaja’s *Dotchadanne* and *The Mute’s Journey*; and celebrated young actresses such as Kohara Koharu and Hara Mitsuyo for their bright eyes—yet none met a favorable end.
Let me have you look at those scenes on the left.

Minegetsu’s face leaving half in the large bottle bell

This is a dining hall sketch from when the bell—still unaccustomed to announcing curtain rises—startled patrons' ears how it did.

With the bell raising the curtain, wearing Matsusuke shoes—Yorozaburō

Kōmori Yasushi, Takue, Kamiyui Shinzō's landlord—even Onoe Matsusuke, that late Edo-period virtuoso whose specialty lay elsewhere—when affiliated with the Imperial Theater found himself repeatedly cast in elderly roles for translated dramas.
In Tarōkaja's comedies too, Western suits were forced upon him.
Faced with this spectacle of excessive incongruity and irony, the author turned his lens with a faint wry smile.

At the Imperial Theater’s fourth floor—Gunkyoku-sha Yanaki lined up.

"Gunkyoku-sha" was a large inn in Shitaya specializing in country visitors.
Often seen holding oil-paper umbrellas boldly inscribed with "Gunkyoku-sha," red-blanket-clad lodgers from the inn would loiter around Ueno Station.
For these people, the Marunouchi sightseeing tour served as their souvenir-gathering for their hometowns.

Let us now speak briefly about the vaudeville theaters of that time.
The nostalgically remembered Sanyūryū theater school split into two factions in mid-Taisho: the company faction led by Kosan, En’u, Enzō, Tachinosuke, Kozen, Baō, and Sadayama; and the Mutsu faction led by Chiyūsa, Rakkasan, Seikaryū, and Imasuke—it was quite a splendid affair.
And so these vaudeville theaters suddenly declined after the fourteenth year of Taisho (1925), only to abruptly revive following this recent incident.

At Miyamatsu, you’ll hear clear to the camel’s tail—Ame-bō.

"A bridge built at Koyanagi where no naps linger—Tōgyo"

"Hakuzan ascends—the air quivers faintly—Yūgetsu"

"Gyōkō's comic-tragic scene draws laughter—Ise no Kami"

"Ayanosuke's gaunt frame revealed in second audition—Shakuichi"

"Risai laughs like a rehearsed marionette—Kochō"

"En’u's dullard pate—unchanging through seasons—Kochō"

"Kogachi's sweet-bean wit falls flat—ever uncaught—Kochō"

"Ginchō swept up in rhythm's tide—fear takes flight—Suzurō"

"Who knows Nekohachi from Kogatsu? Half-baked connoisseur—Seifū"

"Cricket's chromatic chirp leaves Edo dumbstruck—Kuraki"

"Vendor's 'profound' patter echoes deep—Kinbō"

Since being abandoned, the retiree has made vaudeville his constant haunt—Yūgetsu

The final geta-keeper retiree and his granddaughter—Yorozaburō

Preferring rakugo stages over lecture halls—Kochō carries his second son’s hobby.

As for verses like the first Miyamatsu one—since they will likely become utterly inscrutable to future generations—I shall provide an explanation now. Miyamatsu-tei hall in Yakushi Temple grounds at Nihonbashi Kabayachō—now reduced to a rental venue—had once been a regular stage for gidayū narration. However, in Meiji 38 (1905), at Tokiwagi Club, another rental hall in Nihonbashi, the First Rakugo Research Association was established under the leadership of Oka Kitarō, Imamura Jirō, and Mr. Ishitani Kadaishi, with members including the previous Kosan, En’u, Koen’chō, Ensa, the late Enchō from two generations prior, and Enkyō. The association later relocated its meetings to this Miyamatsu-tei, adopting as their motto the rigorous performance of consistently structured rakugo on every third Sunday of the month—a tradition they maintained without incident until the Great Kanto Earthquake.

“Rakuda” was the previous Kosan’s most celebrated piece brought from Osaka—a single performance that easily spanned nearly an hour. Consequently, this rakugo could only be heard in full—down to its very last drop—at Miyamatsu’s research meetings; hence they quipped it was a camel “from hump to tail.” Nowadays one struggles to find such phrases drained of their punch yet sharp enough to serve as cultural medicine.

The second verse’s Koyanagi had been a storytelling hall in Kanda preserving Edo traditions since the Shotoku era. After the Incident, it regrettably ceased operations. In its later years, Koyanagi stood next to the statue of Lieutenant Colonel Hirose, though until around the Great Kanto Earthquake it had operated under the Ministry Railway viaduct across from the tram street. When the Ministry Line—called precisely that at the time—was first constructed over Koyanagi, the regular patrons there steeped in wooden-pillowed dreams must have had those dreams shattered instantly—so goes this now-bygone Taisho-era vaudeville vignette. It remains one of my favorite verses.

Kanda Hakuzan—who rose to fame with his Jirochō Den performances—would walk along a narrow plank from the audience’s rear to Kinshatei’s elevated stage in Asakusa, applause never ceasing until he sat down perfectly—this I heard from the present-day Hakuryū. Such was his popularity that even patrons sprawled like tuna at Tsukiji Market would rise one by one upon recognizing Hakuzan until finally the hall’s atmosphere began to stir—this being the third verse’s essence.

The rise of Comic Genji-bushi likely followed immediately after the female gidayū Dōsuru Troupe’s era. Though soon expelled from metropolitan centers, Nagoya-based troupes like Okamoto Mine’s still left cultural detritus scattered about during my childhood years. Composed solely of young women, these troupes apparently staged rather risqué performances. The late Mr. Mori Gyōkō—then serially contributing accounts of such curiosities to Bungei Kurabu magazine with considerable renown—became the reason this fourth verse came into being.

Takehito Ayanosuke—the bright-eyed performer—died on January 31, 1942, but having once retired before, this verse appears to commemorate his return during his old-cherry-blossom era.

Mr. Hasegawa Shin wrote mournfully in his reminiscence essay:
“Within the world of entertainment, there are several instances where one encounters beauty of such high virtue and grace that it moves the soul.”
“Among them, the foremost example is Shodai-san.”
“She was a figure straight from ‘Modern Beauty Chronicles.’”

The next Li Cai refers to the late Qing Chinese performer of that name who perished in the wartime disaster of March 9, 1945. According to Mr. Kimura Kinka’s *Meiji-za Monogatari*, records show he first arrived in Japan on November 9, 1902, where “Acrobatics by Qing National Li Cai and Troupe” was staged for seven days.
Li Cai had thus become a long-enduring and deeply familiar presence in Japan’s cultural landscape.
“In recent vaudeville,” it was said, “there exists no performer like Li Cai.”
“In terms of craft—and also in terms of humanity.”
“—‘Craft’ and ‘humanity’ perfected simultaneously in both respects”—so Mr. Kubota Mantarō once lavishly praised him in his *Danshō*.

To discuss collectively the performers referenced in the subsequent verses: regarding the late En’u’s distinctive head, the poet Miyajima Sadataka had once extolled it in his poem *Summer Nights at Wakadatei*, writing of “the radiance suffusing his brow.”
Kogatsu, Ginchō, and the late Nekohachi were all eccentric figures from two generations prior—Kogatsu with his relentless barrage of garish puns; Ginchō leaning forward to pluck her shamisen with roguish flair while lamenting “If only these eyes could see clearly”; Nekohachi chilling audiences by spouting Edo-inflected nonsense as if bearing the entire weight of old Tokyo on his shoulders.
This was why Master Kuraki composed the verse declaring “Edo stands aghast.”
“Vendor”

What follows offers a richly evocative glimpse into the diverse facets of vaudeville theaters and their devoted enthusiasts. The sight of the retired man—abandoned by his young, beautiful concubine—finding his life’s final solace in vaudeville. While the author laughs wryly at this tragicomedy on the surface, deep down he nurtures it with tender care. Uno Nobuo’s play *Valley Shower*. The woman-crazed old man named Anzō cannot be forgotten.

Judging it eighty percent done, Katarō the Saint delivers his lengthy performance.

This refers to the previous Tamagawa Katarō. With an Edo-style mournful tone utterly devoid of affectation, it is said that the late Hakuzan would consistently praise him from the elevated stage: “For naniwa-bushi, it’s Katarō who…” Even so, among the senryū of this period, almost none other than this verse can be found that praises naniwa-bushi. To be fair, even I had held a prejudice against naniwa-bushi until first encountering the mournful tones of the late Kimura Shigematsu in the early Showa era, and in Mr. Tokugawa Musei’s *Rakugo Dan* as well,

"Merely saying you liked naniwa-bushi was enough—in those days—to forfeit any claim to being treated as a gentleman."
"You weren’t regarded as a proper master either."
"When women heard a man favored naniwa-bushi, even those who’d fancied him would abruptly cool and turn their backs."

Given these accounts, it stood to reason that naniwa-bushi—performed by troupes largely spouting nonsensical phrases like “sauntering about, hurriedly”—was deemed unworthy of listeners beyond a handful of enthusiasts and those no better than rickshaw pullers or stable hands in those days.

That is,

Bushidō too was finally instilled by them—Kenkabō

Even naniwa-bushi disgraces the young man—Kochō

Naniwa-bushi presents trivial things—Sōki

None of them sing of anything decent.

“Yonehisa’s Banquet”

Furthermore, in Tokyo’s scenery:

Dekansho, in his excitement, drops Echikatsu’s lamp—Tōgyo.

To Kōryō comes spring’s riot of song and dance—Tōgyo.

Echikatsu was a beef shop that stood in Hongo until the war disaster.
At that time, it counted many First Higher School students among its patrons.
March 1st marked the First Higher School’s anniversary, when Kōryō would erupt in joyous frenzy—the entire student body reveling wild through the day.
Terms like “dorm rain” and “storm”—that peculiar First Higher lexicon—likely still linger on lips today, even after the school’s relocation from Hongo to Setagaya.

Kamiekishi, renowned for raincoats and sedge hats—Yajirō.

In Funabashi, they erect a pole reaching all the way to China—[same].

Yobanchō clinking away as the two alight—[same]

The first verse is *Shikian Shōkei*.
The second verse depicts the newly built wireless telegraph office of that era.
And the third verse is a sketch depicting the vicinity of the Army Military Academy in Ushigome.

Stealthily clutching at the Zōshigaya phantom as they gaze.

Shufu no Tomo’s Amekichi modestly alights at Tabata.

The minor official returns to Aoba in Ōkubo—[same]

The minor official meets his wife who comes to Yotsuya Station’s public facility—[same].
How thoroughly it burns—the elevated railway’s window. Naki.
How utterly quiet the Yamate suburbs were in those days—so quiet it was almost too quiet.
Everywhere there, young leaves burned and grass sweltered, and through it all, the lingering waters of Musashino rushed noisily, reflecting the sunset sky.
Near Shubi no Matsu, bookstores multiply again—Suzumarō.
This is the retreating figure of a forty-year-old man in an old scarf who comes to sell picture books inside the one-sen steam ferry on the Okawa River.
At that time, behind what is now the Kado Kaikan, the Shubi no Matsu pine tree still lay in a withered state, barely clinging to existence.
And then, as the steamboat left cold Mizuo behind and surged onward, an evening shower must have begun to fall soundlessly upon its white-painted roof at this very moment.
In Kitahara Hakushū’s Kiri no Hana, such a tanka was included.

As the one-sen steamboat approaches Yokoami, even the swirling wake makes me think of you.

Fukagawa’s autumn—could it be hanging beds beneath spring rain?

After some time, the actress relocates to Kotohirachō—Yajirō.

The Demizu district mentioned in the previous verse needed no explanation.
The Kotohirachō in the latter verse was Shiba.
That area, commonly known as Ochimusha Alley due to its many kept individuals—hence the phrase “after some time”—
Wasn’t this verse satirizing the upheaval in the actress’s life after she gained a patron?
“Furthermore, given that Ms. Moriritsuko had resided in Kotohirachō at the time, this verse could also be interpreted as meaning that minor actresses relocated there—I humbly submit this analysis,” Mr. Sakashita Naki wrote in a private letter regarding this verse.

Pitifully, a monkey lives on at the game shop—Kochō.

The scene of Toyota-ya still stood at Higashi-Ryōgoku’s corner. Wild boars, bears, deer, foxes, and raccoon dogs had often hung there long ago—their forms memorialized in Saitō Mokichi’s mournful tanka from either *Akahata* or *Aratama*, though both volumes I once owned had scattered to time’s winds, leaving me unable now to recall precisely which—and I wondered whether that shop still kept its former appearance in this changed age. This year meant to visit Kokugikan after decades away for its chrysanthemum dolls; on returning, I resolved to pass before Toyota-ya without fail. Toyota-ya with its hanging game... Bōzu Shiyamo... Kado-ya in Midorichō serving miso-stewed chicken—all those eateries now lingered only as beloved memories.

Even so, this senryū—"pitifully" is so effectively alive.
Even among all senryū, one would rarely find “pitifully” used so fittingly.

This could only be Kochō at his best, I thought.

*At Mochiayama Tamachi, piled wholesale-high—empty cicada shells.*

The other day, when I read Mr. Okamoto Kidō’s *The Whitebait Story*,

"But in recent times, his river course too had been ravaged by patrol boats and river steamers, leaving carp absent from the Hundred-Post Piers and whitefish scarce even in the Sumida River."

it states.
I presume this was authored by Mr. Okamoto Kidō during the Meiji 40s, but reading it today, I could not help but be overwhelmed with immeasurable emotion.
That whitefish still swam in the Sumida River back then—even if “scarce”—makes me want to cry out, “A dream! A dream!” at Kumagai Renshōbō’s account.
Compared to that, even if ships piled high with daikon radishes—their white and blue hues so beautiful they could supply Tamachi’s vegetable market below Mochi Hill—are no longer seen, their absence hardly warrants particular lament over the dreariness it brings.
Rather, I find myself thinking of that late Edo folk song—*“Accepting the times, even pleasure boats carry daikon”*—which deemed the comings and goings of daikon-laden ships dreary, and I want to close my eyes alone to contemplate how excessively violent this era’s transformations have become.

In Asakusa’s seasonal features of that era,

From the twelfth-floor window, morning comes—a single slender shamisen.

From the twelfth floor of the Twelve-Story Tower—nineteen barrels gazed upon at rock bottom.

At Sunday’s Chin-ya, a married couple sits facing each other—Yajirō.

Crowds form lines at Yonekyu—Shūji safely unnoticed.

If one could but feel the resplendent beauty of the morning sunlight striking each glass window of the Twelve-Story Tower, that alone would suffice.
The construction of the Twelve-Story Tower dated to “November 1890” (Meiji 23).
The *Meiji Jibutsu Kigen* recorded that it was “based on the design and construction by the British national Burton (omitted) with a height of over 36 ken (approximately 65.5 meters).”
Chin-ya and Yonekyu—both still thriving popular beef restaurants today—one at Kaminarimon, the other in Senzoku-chō.
I had been told by Itō Seiu the painter that the name “Chin-ya” originated from their practice of breeding Chin dogs and other small animals to present to the Edo Ōoku.
Yonekyu had a poem titled “Yonekyu’s Dinner” by Mr. Takamura Kōtarō.

Since the unique interior scene was sufficiently evocative, we would present a passage to savor alongside this senryū.

“Oh Father, it’s been so long! You can’t stay there—come sit here…”

Okin-san, the check under the clock…

“So then, Uncle—my platoon was at that iron bridge when…”

“Hey! Where’s the sake? Sake! Sake…”

“Coming to Yonekyu and putting on airs like that won’t get you anywhere…”

“Still… still wet behind the ears…”

“Look—that socialist woman over there’s being awfully quiet…”

“By the way, Foreman—about that Atsushi bastard…”

“I know, I know—but hold on...”

“What time do you close…”

“Eleven-thirty. Now, do take your time—Yonekyu isn’t in any hurry…”

“This heat pierces sharp—drenched in sweat…”

“You there—the total: one serving of [food] and beer comes to 1 yen 35 sen…”

“Oh! That’s quite wrong—one bottle was hidden here, see? That’ll be 1 yen and 80 sen…”

“Oh, I'm sorry… Hai! Where’s the order for…”

The August night now roils and boils at Yonekyu.
(Omitted)

At the time when one could return by train, nineteen barrels grew restless at Yatsuko.

The eel restaurant “Yatsuko” at the corner of Asakusa Tawaramachi.
This one still exists today.
The eel from restaurants that required one or two hours of waiting after ordering were all authentic and delicious.
When department store cafeterias began serving eel promptly, even many specialized eel restaurants declined in quality.

I cannot forget both the view of Maekawa before the Miyatogawa and its flavor at Asakusa’s eel restaurants.

I took my seat at Tōgyo’s table facing the bronze-backed statue of the deified war hero.

In the mid-Taisho era, Mikado—a restaurant and social club on the upper floor of Manseibashi Station.
As I took my seat at a table near the glass window where the evening sun battered, the bronze-hued figure of Commander Hirose loomed sternly before me.

When reading Mr. Akutagawa Ryūnosuke’s diary, it appeared literary gatherings had frequently been held there.
I also believe it was there that I, as a boy, was first made to eat not à la carte dishes but what they called a set meal.
On the white wall of the room housing the billiard table hung a vividly colored Japanese painting: a young geisha pressing her hands together in prayer beneath a large ginkgo tree by a disreputable shrine where cherry blossoms fell in profusion.
That painting must have burned down in the Great Kanto Earthquake.

In the realm of performing arts,

"Kitamura and Kawai fell in love; Ii agonizes—Manryū."

The stage tableaux of Shinpa’s three leaders from that time came vividly flooding before the mind’s eye.
The charm of this senryū lay in its technique: deliberately refraining from naming their portrayed roles, instead listing the male names Kitamura and Kawai—thereby making Ii, another male character, agonize—through its mode of expression.

"The desired shape of Daisatsuma’s glasses—Yajirō"

The Daisatsuma singer would read by holding the book at arm’s length.
This was what "needs glasses" referred to.

As Kinshin’s disciple, [he] goes to the exchange bureau—Yajirō

The grand-disciple of Kinshin goes up to the second floor on duty—Kochō.

A Satsuma biwa isn’t a lone house—the same school—

In my youth, every time I listened to Nagata Kinshin’s records of those heartrending scenes—the plaintive cries of the mountain bird in *Ishidōmaru*’s “Horohoro…” passage, or Kiyomasa’s “By your command…” in *Dokumanjū* with their grievous melodic phrasing—my eyelids would burn with a searing heat.
How Kinshin’s name was satirized—I never could have dreamed that so many would remain even in senryū.
Here’s another one—though I’ve forgotten the author’s name—: “closing his eyes as he clatters away on the Satsuma biwa.”

Takashimada Kochō affects airs during her solo performance.

"I wonder if actresses have already made it onto art paper," I mused—another verse from Kochō.

Ah, that art paper—its texture, that sheen, and printed upon it the actress’s form—how quintessentially modern its allure proved! This we must recognize as the long-cherished cry of those young actresses of the age.

Ganjiro Goyo, who preferred the swords of townsmen.

With a look of triumph, Tensho blows a kiss—Tōgyo.

Jihe, Hanshichi, Hanbei, Kyūbei—let us quietly recall the stages of Kamigata’s domestic dramas once portrayed by Ganjiro of days past. Let us recall the radiant stage presence of the bewitching first Tensho, who did nothing but overflow with charm in those days.

If one calls for shinnai, Tsutao wears a mourning band.

September 1912—a street snapshot from the days nearing the Imperial Funeral holds invaluable significance.

In a passage titled "A Fool’s Diary from Ten Years Ago" within Artist Mizushima Nihobu’s *Gudan*, the Tokyo cityscape of that time is vividly depicted; let us quote it here.

“At the eaves of a certain teahouse, a man wearing an eboshi and white suikan, with a large mourning band on his chest, was stoking a bonfire with long metal fire chopsticks.”
People in crested work coats and Western suits—one after another—kept coming to light their cigarettes at that bonfire.
At every crossroads stood tall poles hung with large mourning flags—black curtains draped and trimmed with black tassels.
“Beneath them swarmed a buoyant, agitated crowd that seemed to half-swim as they followed heel to heel.” (Omitted)

Let us now turn to verses concerning the pleasure quarters.
Now, when I contemplatively reread these senryū that take such worlds as their subject matter, I find the culture of Tokyo from those bygone days etched with a poignant beauty—a precious "poetic" realm that is hard to come by.

The beauty of Kochō twirling an iron rod and plucking a shamisen.

Having listened to the headliner too, she ground tea—same as before.
‘I’ve yet to see a pig,’ said the young geisha—same as before.

In the first verse—the tekomai pose with a black-bone peony fan held aloft—and in the third verse’s young geisha who “has yet to see a pig,” I sensed the essence of Taisho. Setting aside beef, pork had clearly begun to become common fare during that Taisho-era decade.

From hands trying not to be singed in the Ash Kagura—Tsutao

Executives came and went; debts accrued at the teahouse—same as before.

Hachi and Kuma met a robust student on the embankment—same as before.

The last verse had become widely celebrated, though it also excelled as a work. This “embankment” naturally referred to Nihonzutsumi and Dote Hacchō; an old senryū went: “Meeting on the embankment—‘Where to?’ spreading hands.” “Meeting on the embankment—what should be concealed now?” This was the “meeting on the embankment.” It was precisely because such classical tones were deliberately placed within the contemporary landscape of that time—with its “robust students” and the like—that this verse’s rhythm became all the more intriguing.

Meeting the boisterous Jirōzaemon on the embankment—Suzurō.

The customer at the sweet stall was asked to act as scribe—same as before.

Pickles too had become part of the stall displays with artfully arranged presentations—same as before.

This too was a "meeting on the embankment."
"Noisy" Sano Jirōzaemon’s “Ain’t that courtesan heartless!” was likely performed by the late Sadanzō or predecessor Nōshi.
The timbres of these two voices were imitated by everyone indiscriminately, much like how Takase Jitsujō’s “Washi ya kanahanyo” had been parodied recently in our circles.
The remaining two were “Hakudō” and “Tonchiki” by the blind Kosen.
"The mention of rakugo diversions like ‘Ochakumi’ paints such vivid scenery that it grows amusing."
"Ama-dai” meant stalls piled high with tile-shaped rice crackers, while others cunningly stacked assorted pickles to resemble banquet spreads.
None of these required lavish spending.
There was another by the same author: “Sushi arrives from the stall as if a tiger might spring forth.”
That meant sushi abundantly garnished with bamboo leaves.

The orphanage’s ZEM quietly bought by the master—Minegetsu.

The number of orphanage children coming to sell things without any proper merchandise had dwindled; the ZEM oral deodorant tablets had abruptly vanished—even though Jintan remains prosperous to this day.

At that time across Tokyo’s rooftops, ZEM advertisements—framed in diamonds with Western-style beauties’ portraits—reigned alongside Jintan’s “Bearded General” ads, compelling the aforementioned Kosen to compose these verses:

“Mr. ZEM declares.”

“The cold beside Jintan—ah.”

In her parlor kimono, she slides into the kotatsu—Uki.

The courtesan rises slender—regretted by Santarō.

Beautiful yet sorrowful debut—same as before.

“Let’s have another round,” Koami brokers companionship—same as before.

The sister sold in fancy clothes arrives—Mitsuki.

Morning pilgrimage—as if Kiyokata’s painting had been removed—Tōgyo
Next, I jotted down and examined verses that captured the social climate as they caught my eye.
I recorded the waki ○○.
I want you to take note of and savor the Taisho generation therein.

Comb in one hand, like a hairdresser-coachman—Kochō

The height of foolishness—the wife shoots a bird—Kochō.

Successfully glimpsing the tips of geta after a flying mount—Kochō.

Anticipating—could it be a motorcycle?—[they] turn around—same as before.

A client soon to be suspended in Akasaka—same as before.

The actress’s chignon—beauties do not overly style it—same as before.

Western music troubles the night—school graduates, same as before.

Katori-ya’s such-and-such—buys geta straps—same as before.

Preparations—the tomeba attendant takes orders with a shrimp-curved bow—same as before.

At the practice hall, Atomi’s clothing appears cheap—same as before.

The eighth verse’s “Katori-ya” referred to an upscale geta shop located near Asakusabashi, particularly cherished by connoisseurs of traditional craftsmanship. The “Atomi” in the final verse denoted Atomi Women’s School. The preceding verse’s *tomeba* evoked a theater scene from an era when audiences still dined in wooden box seats during performances. Before usherettes existed, *tomeba* attendants wore crisply starched *hakama* trousers, traversed narrow partitions between boxes with shrimp-like bows at their waists, and took food orders as they moved. When the first middle curtain prepared to rise after its closing act, early winter electric lights already flooded the venue with brightness. Behind the scenes, hammers from stagehands echoed relentlessly—a time when intermissions stretched languidly long.

Pretending to be connoisseurs, they endure eating ham salad—Minegetsu.

Plum blossom viewing is no place for the *haikara* to go—Asamine.

The arc lamp shines without any flavor or sincerity—Minegetsu.

Floral ice—the wind teases the sukiya’s sleeves—Naki.

With considerable resolve, she became a shopgirl—fluorite.

Remember the era when ham salad was something people “endured eating,” and becoming a shopgirl required “considerable resolve.”
The term *haikara* (“high-collar”) and the word *hakurai* (“imported goods”) were both used incessantly during that time.

Styled in a marumage chignon, she submits her resignation to *Seitō*—Ameppō.

Bending just enough to bend, they go hawking at the station—Tsutao.

The middle is sheer—it stretches upward—Rokkitsu.

The timid shumai shop calls “Hey!” and thrusts out glass noodles from its window—Harusame.

The funeral procession stops the streetcar—a clear-day affair—same as before.

The maid stammers and strikes a single piano—same as before.

Gas proves convenient—the unexpected guest realizes—same as before.

The military expedition shakes stocks—even the Chin grows thin—same as before.

An idle fellow stops at Nipponophone—Suzumarō.

Oh Seitō-sha (Bluestocking Society)—the society of so-called “new women” who drank five-colored wine! Oh Tokyo before the Great Kanto Earthquake, where nothing but murderously packed trams with clanging bells raced endlessly! Oh streets where funeral processions still stretched on foot, bringing streetcars to a standstill! And was this military expedition they speak of the Japan-Germany War, or was it the Siberian Intervention?
Nipponophone was the predecessor of today’s Columbia Records, its label bearing a red eagle emblem. The company also had another trademark depicting the Great Buddha inclining his ear to music, and these two symbols—the eagle and the Great Buddha—dominated phonograph and clock shops across towns.
Boasting Kosan, Ryoshō, Kinshin, Yoshihara Shimeji, Koen, Naramaru, and others, it was truly a formidable force.
Now, to discuss the origins of the Seitō-sha mentioned at the outset: its name derives from an incident in 1850 when a certain female writer wore blue stockings to attend a gathering of artists in London. According to Mr. Uno Kōji’s *Thirty Years of Literature*, its members included Hiratsuka Raichō, Okamoto Kanoko, Mikashima Yoshiko, Hara Asao, Itō Noe, Araki Ikuko, Odake Benkichi (now Tomimoto Kazue), Nagamura Chieko—later the wife of Takamura Kōtarō—and several others;

“The Seitō-sha not only failed to fulfill its first article’s aim of ‘producing female geniuses’ but even fell short of achieving ‘the advancement of women’s literature’ (...). In the end, those who had clamored for women’s liberation merely clamored—did they regress into educated women of no consequence? To put it harshly: women who had originally been of no consequence received higher education; some dabbled in philosophy but merely grew slightly cleverer; others caught a feverish obsession with theories of women’s liberation; still worse cases became enchanted by nothing more than the phrase ‘new women.’”

Mr. Uno had sharply concluded that this was likely a failure for their sake.
Ameppō's verse—didn't this very thing vividly capture Seitō-sha's entire visage?

They strangely distort Japanese at Ferris—Demoki.

Rather than dramas, Mother preferred going to plays—same as before.

The neighborhood stays up through the Hokke all-night vigil—same as before.

Porters carry loads so heavy they might tumble from a burning building—Higashiuo.

The station is a through-stop without ceremony—the assistant stationmaster stands—Higashiuo.

In Busan’s morning afterglow comes a ship’s whistle blast—Higashiou.
After Jingorō comes *I Am a Cat*’s parodied pomp—Higashiou.

If you lend to the supervisor, moisten the fountain pen—same as before.—Higashiuo

The Headmaster refrains from criticizing Miyako—same as before.—Higashiuo

The sweaty one boards with a thud at Gotemba—same as before.—Higashiuo

A tennis court arose in what resembled a chicken farm—same as before.—Higashiuo
Disowned and shaken—Hibiya’s tearful joy—same as before.

The Ferris mentioned at the beginning was Ferris Women’s School in Yokohama.

The new theater movement finally began ushering winds of a new era into Japan’s theatrical world from this period onward (Second Verse), yet in one downtown corner, lively Hokke all-night vigils with uchiwa drums were still being performed to second-act musical accompaniments (Third Verse).

“After Jingorō” parodied the nationwide renown of Sōseki’s *I Am a Cat*—widely celebrated from late Meiji through Taisho—contrasting Hidari Jingorō’s “Sleeping Cat” at Nikkō (Seventh Verse).

Even the Miyako Shimbun—that flower-and-willow entertainment newspaper scorned by the militaristic-minded headmaster—alas, became another casualty of militaristic factions itself, merging with the Kokumin Shimbun at September 1942’s end to be rebranded as the Tokyo Shimbun. And what could one make of these times when even Hibiya Daijingu (Twelfth Verse), renowned for shrine weddings, had relocated near Iidabashi Station?

Failing thrice at Ichikō, he settles on bookkeeping—Yajirō.

The absurdity of a sixteen-year-old midwife—same as before.

In the servants’ room, if they speak of character study—the engineer same as before.

Wiping his hands, [he] takes the small paper currency—same as before.

“Caught an imported cold”—the landlady says—same as before.

According to the members, there’s an older brother in the outfield—same as before.

Due to a cold constitution, they give up being a female conductor—same as before.

The bean cake shop builds its nest beneath the girder—same as before.

Mr. Tokugawa Musei, having failed the entrance exam for First Higher School twice, first aspired to become a rakugo storyteller and then aimed to be a film narrator.
The charm of First Higher School in its heyday was truly something beyond words.
The existence of drivers also possessed a Taisho-era allure akin to film narrators (writing this immediately after the preceding passage feels somewhat odd, but Mr. Tokugawa, please forgive me).
Mrs. Yoshikawa Kamiko’s attempted double suicide with a driver—the so-called Chiba Shinju—I believe was a tragedy of this era.

The wartime small paper currency was dominated by the green-printed 50-sen note created around Showa 13 (1938), but that of the prosperous early Taisho era had peach-colored 50-sen notes, green 20-sen notes, and orange 10-sen notes.

The phrase "imported cold" in the following verse refers to influenza. In Mr. Okamoto Kido’s essay *Osome-fu*, we find: “The first time this illness began to spread in Japan was in the winter of Meiji 23 [1890] (...). We first learned the term ‘influenza’ at that time (...), though it was commonly called *Osome-fu*.” From this, it became evident that the popularization of the term “influenza” indeed occurred during the Taisho era.

Regarding the final bean cake shops, one need only look at a passage from Mr. Ōba Kakō’s *From Edo to Tokyo*—written in Meiji 43 (1910)—to understand that those bean cake shops living beneath the railway girder in those days were already but the last gasps of the Meiji era—no, rather, even of the preceding Edo period itself.
The full text by Mr. Ōba Kakō is as follows.

“At Zōhei-mae, there had been a street stall selling grilled bread for years; today, several years after traveling abroad, it exists no more.”
“The tram lines crisscrossing at Suidobashi Bridge kept pedestrians so busy that they had no leisure to pause for a piece of grilled bread.”
“(Omitted) Moreover, the convenience of discounted fares for electric railway workers left even 300,000 laborers with no leisure to seek their old companions at roadside stalls.”

Rupashika Culture

Okamochi on his shoulder, reading a ninjutsu manual—Toshikata.

Tanzaburō stacks tsuboyaki in Egyptian style.

To the electrocuted crow, the evening crowd gathers—Koami.

Even after returning home, a maid is already forgotten—Rōrō.

Suicide assistance—here decays into depravity; Kaunko walks.

Days without laughter—Rupashika’s warped Japanese iris.

The bean-sized books marketed by Osaka's red-cover publishers under imprints like Tachikawa Bunko, Bushidō Bunko, and Such-and-Such Bunko featured Kōga-ryū and Iga-ryū ninjutsu practitioners—Sarutobi Sasuke, Kirigakure Saizō, and the like—as their subject matter in nine cases out of ten.
This trend could be said to have sold Matsunosuke as its star.
Matsunosuke's popularity could be said to have doubled this book's sales.
After all, it must have been a case of riding the wave of journalism through mutual reinforcement.
The first verse must be a townscape of that time.

The tragedy of a maid forgotten after returning home was effortlessly contained within such a small frame—such deftness could indeed only be found in the art called senryū.

Rupashika’s verses can be considered as dating from just before the Great Kanto Earthquake in the Taisho era.
With the rise of proletarian literature, youths of the literary proletariat—derisively called “scarlet radishes”—flooded the scene; competing with one another, they strutted through the avenues dressed as Rupashika, as if narrowing the very streets with their swagger.
But when, immediately after the Great Kanto Earthquake, Ōsugi Sakae and Itō Noe were murdered by that Captain Amakasu, the upstart Rupashika youths swiftly vanished into obscurity.

The airship seems reachable with a laundry pole—Kōtarō.

In Yokone where they once surfaced—clinking gold heaps same as before.

Funanari’s creed—dubbed militarism—and Aiji.

Regarding the second verse, I once wrote something along these lines for a certain publication.
Let me present an excerpt.

"As for Kōtarō's 'Yokone' verse—it carries a rather vulgar air, but I believe it embodies the very essence of Tokyo from the days when predecessors like Rakuyū, Ensha, Sansō, Shigematsu, and Aizō shouldered their burdens through collective human effort."

The final *Funanari* refers to ship nouveau riche (wartime profiteers).
The visage of prosperous Japan during the First World War became dazzlingly visible.

Though products of the Taisho era, there exist not a few works that—devoid of any particular Taisho sensibility—stand out purely as exemplary senryū poems.
What follows is a selection of these.

The junior wrestler walks drenched without an umbrella—Tsutao.

Lets them play like male festival standard-bearers—same as before.

At the Kagura hall, drops a fishing line onto the candy shop’s umbrella—same as before.

The third verse—can you grasp its meaning?
What manner of Kagura performance was this? A sketch where a Kagura performer—wearing a hiyottoko mask and dangling a fishing line—had the tip of that thread reach the large persimmon-colored parasol of a candy shop spreading its wares beneath the hall.
To that thread, to that parasol—O gently radiant spring day! O chipped hard candies beneath the parasol! O candies painted with Ota-san and Kinta-san! And O flute and drum, resounding so serenely! Every time I recite this verse, I cannot help but feel within me the happiness of festival days from my boyhood reawakened.

The Fujima tatami room awaits its turn—Naki’s commotion clamors.

With Goku-like energy harnessed, the roofer climbs in spring rain.

Thirty years younger than the master—same splendor same as before.

When the drawer slides out, smoke rises at the bean shop—Tōgyo.

On the platter bends a tail with lively vigor same as before.

The elephant’s ears flap-flap to swat flies same as before.

With drifting aimlessness builds fire—abalone gatherer same as before.

Each milk crate turns night pale—Yajirō.

When swordsmith doffs his eboshi—familiar face same as before.

Lithography fans flames like grilled eel same as before.

Stumbling headlong—duck descends to pond same as before.

Canned goods opened and sniffed same as before.

Exiting the tavern—the woman hunches her shoulders same as before.

Grilled eel at Manna Ao—miso-topped skewers same as before.

To Kogōshi—in truth, a great bandit descends from above same as before.

On Tomobiki—the will to deposit money even as a woman same as before.

Brandishing what seems a great sword yet comes with wild potato husks—same as before.

The cold—the police officer coughs like Zhang Fei same as before.

Teachers upon teachers being nuisances in the dressing room—same as before.

From the circular family crest—adopting a son for the first time same as before.

The actor’s bereaved family laments the world of people—same as before.

Hazily speaks of Kiryū—the teahouse woman same as before.

At the caretaker’s window—a desolate street brawl same as before.

The barbershop master’s regrettable pinch of salt—same as before.

Saving up a small fortune only to keep changing adopted sons—same as before.

To the nurse—at least a token measure of clasped hands same as before.

The wake priest removes his kesa and receives the sake cup—same as before.

The maiden’s ceremonial barrel adorned with dishes—they remove the heavenly king—Naki.

The hangover yubeshi—bitter tea drips from the sweets vendor.

The long-lived bell cricket leaves him scrambling for its food—Kōtarō.

Through the construction site, the night watchman strikes once—Suigetsu.

Rinbō today dons a white workman's robe and passes through—a favorable wind.

Soon ox labor sets in, churning up the earth—Santarō.

On the uphill slope, grinding as if cringing—Kochō.

At the horse market—now the battle gong seems to clang—same as before.

"It's the thought that counts"—the Ox Day loach stew same as before.

To the child on the verge of tears, the grilled eel shop paid no heed—same as before.

Due to outrageous rumors, the siblings changed lodgings—same as before.

A colorful letter: “That’s just how it is”—same as before.
Same as before.

The dine-and-dasher’s youthful liveliness—same as before.

The painted candle’s inch-long glow—like a femme fatale’s arm—same as before.

Funeral workers draw some sort of lot—Seifū.

It seemed I had once again ended up introducing Kiooto-ke Kochō’s works foremost.

In Mr. Nagai Kafū’s magazine *Bunmei*, I should also note that Mr. Momiyama Niwaato (later Azukizuki) published a tribute article titled “Mr. Kiooto-ke Kochō.”
He may have been an author who did nothing but sing of a fragile world, but such passion to keep delving solely into that world was no ordinary feat.
I thought it appropriate to pay him more than due respect.
Be that as it may, I heard that Kochō and his entire family went missing during the Great Kanto Earthquake.
The fact that it ended in such a manner had, strangely enough, made it impossible for me to erase the writer Kochō from my mind.

The Great Kanto Earthquake that took Kochō and his family from this world scorched away even the scant surviving vestiges of Edo culture in the downtown districts—those remnants that had persisted since the Meiji era—with hellfire, uprooting them entirely.
The fact that Japanese cultural elements remained largely intact until the recent Pacific War, allowing hollow modernism to run rampant unchecked in every aspect, must be attributed in no small part to the Great Kanto Earthquake's influence.

In the earthquake's aftermath, Kuraki-sha published a small booklet titled *Kara Ikari* the following spring.
Through authentic senryū, scenes of the disaster were presented.
Works like those of Takehisa Ishii—a mysterious writer whose works from around this period (where no pieces worth collecting could be found)—stood out as truly eye-opening.

With this introduction, I brought this essay to a close.

After the earthquake began realizing water’s deliciousness—Kuraki

From scorched earth’s depths sprouts Edo’s spring—same as before.

In splayed-toe geta comes a Shinbashi geisha—same as before.

Carrying buckets to rations in Kohandō—same as before.

By festival eaves-lanterns preparing rice—same as before.

Live in barracks and moonlight moves in too—same as before.

Foolishly patrolling my home as part of the neighborhood watch—same as before.

Kannon remains—all the believers were burned—Yajirō.

Not a ghost—evacuating from Tokyo—Suzumaro.

Now then—if you eat, you find you can eat—evacuees same as before.

At the Hifukushō—a whirlwind strikes such a place—same as before.

American Hayashi rice—days grow long—same as before.

Ogurusu’s Chōbee—a self-defense group member—same as before.

Grown accustomed to aftershocks—the usual set meal routine—same as before.

In some places they’ve slashed fifty percent—cooling their tea same as before.

Having plastered [their face] and come, refused at the rice distribution center—same as before.

To the geisha house comes a customer in wrapped gaiters—Meitei.

The chest we couldn’t save still holds its key—Mizumi.

One of the reconstructions—a sake cup appears at dinner—same as before.

Saigō’s statue at Kurama is plastered with a thousand pilgrimage stickers—same as before.

A geisha's self-awareness is selling oden—same as before.

The first to flee—a man born in Mino, Takeshiba.

Around the time brown rice turns unpalatable, they begin plastering—same as before.

In the barrack, days of marital harmony continue—same as before.

They mentioned having eaten the surviving goldfish—same as before.

Listeners to the tornado story also look upward—Kakitsubata.

Laboriously wrapping puttees when the patron comes—same as before.

That the term “rationing” had already been used during the Great Kanto Earthquake was something you should recognize from this senryū. And you would do well to recall that unprecedented sight of Saigō Takamori’s statue—plastered with thousands of senjafuda stickers by pitiful souls searching for husbands, wives, parents and children—through those very pilgrimage notices.

Like Sawamasa of the self-defense group, seeing it through—Takehisa.

To the mistress’s house flees a married couple at last—same as before.

To barracks where they write shizoku—survivors same as before.

Not yielding a thing—it glitters on the little finger—same as before.

Pulled from a broadsheet—five-color fry—same as before.

At the employment agency, they make Otsugi haul ashes too—same as before.

In the barracks, a bearded diviner—same as before.

The crack where moonlight pierces trembles—same as before.

As the candlewick neared its end, again it trembled—same as before.

The festive rakes circling Yoshiwara sober up—same as before.
In Yoshiwara’s pond, rumors about regulars arise—same as before.
A leaky barrack—might as well become sake—same as before.
If you stand in the burnt ruins, even the company president is pitiable—same as before.

The president in gaiters plans to cut forty percent—same as before.

In matching meisen silks, the geisha takes her seat—same as before.

They dress Yanagihara the carpenter in a suit and parade him—same as before.

In front of the women’s bath—military police with swords—same as before.

The apprentice geisha chanted her melody inside the mask—same as before.

The mother-in-law glared at the daughter-in-law who wouldn’t produce the ancestral tablet—same as before.

To the mountain of bleached bones—they chanted *Namu Amida Butsu*—same as before.

Takasago-sha—a woman carrying a bone casket appeared—same as before.

Now a survivor—the carpenter’s wife—same as before.

In the petitioning crowd, geisha mingled—same lively bustle as before.

Over the burnt ruins rose a moon like stage scenery—same as before.

When they recognized the self-defense corps masseur, no suspicion arose—same as before.

A parent and child in plain clothes were summoned—longevity candy—same as before.

Burdened by bandages, they hung longevity candy—same as before.

So skillfully wrought that one scarcely wished to annotate each line.
This was precisely what they meant by effortless mastery—a true poetic gem.
Mourn the sight of that refined young miss—she who once treasured breezes through paper screens—now vending five-colored fry.
Confront the desolate existence at Takasago-sha's gate where the bone-box woman emerges.

Was it parent or child who hung the longevity candy with bandaged hands? At the Shichi-Go-San celebration, the autumn sky over post-disaster Tokyo viewed from Kanda Myojin’s precincts must have been all the more intensely blue. The great ginkgo that once towered skyward had burned to a bare trunk, and every last one of the clamoring shrikes’ nests had undoubtedly been lost.

(Showa 17 [October] draft; revised and supplemented in Showa 21 [March])