Pathway to Japanese Literature

Essay: Yosebayashi

Yosebayashi

The Essence of Contemporary Shinshō

Among contemporary rakugo artists, I unhesitatingly place Bunraku and Shinshō in the highest position. Bunraku is Kikugorō; Shinshō is Kichiemon—I truly believe this can be said. However, in terms of unrestrained flexibility in artistic quality, Shinshō resembles Kikugorō more, while if we were to liken both artists’ styles to colors, Bunraku’s would be vivid and bright hues reminiscent of the Sixth Generation. Yet Bunraku's meticulous care and precision—never neglecting a single brushstroke—evoke Kichiemon, while Shinshō's bold nonchalance bears striking resemblance to the Sixth Generation; this interplay makes for fascinating contrast.

Recently, Artist Kōshita Kōko also published a critique titled *Rakugo Three Men* expressing nearly identical views to my own regarding Bunraku, Shinshō, and Karaku; let me quote here only the passage concerning Shinshō.

He writes:

In Shinshō’s carefree storytelling—where grammatical particles seem mismatched yet somehow coalesce—there lies an inexhaustible stream of fantastical aphorisms and delightful jests that imperceptibly draw listeners into the uncanny world of Hachigoro Kumasan; amidst this boundless flow, he never loses the rigor of formal training, his uniquely inventive *makura* preambles brimming with eccentric charm—all of which makes his current esteemed position in rakugo thoroughly deserved.

Truly, although Shinshō had thrown himself into this society from an early age, he fell into decline due to having spent his youth too carelessly and haphazardly, and as a result endured a period of truly wretched poverty.
In the slums of Honjo Narihira, in a thatched hut teeming with slugs, those large, enormous slugs would—when you sprinkled salt on them—not dissolve at all, but instead flick their heads and shake off the salt.
Shinshō (who went by names like Jingo-rō, Sumidagawa Baseki, and Kōkintei Shinba at the time)—even his wife had her heels bitten by these slugs.

“There’s nothing more infuriating than those things—slash ’em with a knife and they don’t even bleed!”

Back in those days, Shinshō often said such things—but isn’t “they don’t even bleed” brilliant? Today, I believe the humor of his gags already displayed splendid budding potential even at that time. However, that rock-bottom poverty—so profound it seeped into the very marrow of his bones—ultimately forged within him an unyielding resilience. To his inherent humor, it added even more genuine, deep-rooted polish. Without this “life,” today’s Kōkintei Shinshō would likely never have been realized. But how could he himself, let alone we, have known back then that this very life would become the greatest source of happiness later? All is known only to the gods.

Above all, I cannot help but see my own reflection in his eventful half-life. I too entered a literary career in my youth and, lacking the fortitude to withstand the currents of the times, lived recklessly until I tumbled headlong into dropping out altogether. Only after experiencing every wretched extreme of poverty have I finally reached a point where I can write—even if only a little—what I truly wish to write and present it to the world.
Though Shinshō had entered society three or four years earlier than I, during his rise from Shinba to Basei, I truly watched his success with heartfelt joy, as though it were my own.
And might he not recently have come to harbor similar sentiments toward me?
In other words, might he not be finding something familiar in me?
When I consider how this man who detests new works has recently freely adapted and structured two of my full-length novels—"Yose" and "Enchō"—for the stage, achieving internal resonance as well—

*Yose* was presented in two installments in November and December 1942 (Kanda Kagetsu, matinee performances), but in that story, Shinshō beautifully captured Oyan-chan’s faintly pale face in a fleeting moment. In Atami, when Imamatsu plunged into the hot spring with a splash and spoke of the hardships of artistic training, his monologue stirred a profound warmth that reached deep into my chest. When it came to the part where he visited the plague play in Yokohama and was left disheartened, an absurdity that matched down to the last detail what the author had secretly anticipated filled every corner of the scene—and I was thoroughly satisfied.

“...I might be a bit like Imamatsu.”

At that moment in the story, Shinshō made everyone laugh with this remark—and rightly so. For just as I had found my own reflection in the course of his past half-life, he too must undoubtedly have discovered his younger self in that protagonist of mine—a transformed version named Imamatsu.
In this adaptation, there was also an excellent episode—absent from the original work—where the previous Shinshō wore air sandals, prompting Mōkosen to declare him “a disgrace to Edokko” and sever ties, which led him to enlist Mr. Okamura Kakikō’s help and make a solemn apology.
Similarly, long ago, when Tachibana of Shiniishimachi favored only Sadayama, the young warrior Kogatsu of that time—

“Is Sadayama (gourd) the only selling point (buoyant object)? Kogatsu (I) too have finally started selling (floating) these days!”

The anecdote featuring that wordplay was also amusing.
Furthermore, when master Harusakutei Ryuō made an impromptu appearance from the audience onto the dilapidated stage—its floorboards riddled with holes—and delivered an exquisitely polished human drama storytelling performance, an apprentice listening backstage became so profoundly moved that he abruptly grew disgusted with lecture-style narration. With a sharp *crack*, he snapped his percussion fan and hastened to become Ryuō’s disciple.
Yet when recounting how this man never achieved fame, the anecdote grew even more amusing (Shinshō later informed me this man was Senchō from Kubota Mantarō’s *Suegare*—the predecessor of Mr. Harusakutei Umezō).
In essence, by using my novel *Yose* as the core and weaving in these delightful episodes from the Meiji and Taishō rakugo world, Shinshō’s art transformed—now kōdan oratory, now rakugo comedy, now human drama storytelling—while simultaneously carving out an entirely new realm beyond all existing categories.
This was work that richly rewarded the effort expended.

“The passage where they endured hardships and sought patronage in Atami had such genuine realism that it felt like hearing Shinshō’s autobiography.”

Mr. Andō Tsurukimi wrote in his critique that day, and it was truly exactly as he described.

“I take my hat off to him—now a first-rate artist—for presenting such ambitious works and achieving considerable effect.”

I myself also wrote the following in a certain context around the same time.

Regarding "Enchō" that he published this summer, I intend to write about it separately in due course, so I will not mention it here.
However, good stories not present in the original work were occasionally prepared, and those stories were each sufficiently compelling to make me want to write—this I think worth special mention.

The fantastical flavor that Artist Kōshita described as “outlandish” resided in “The Young Men of the Neighborhood,” in “The Bed,” in “Stubborn Moxa,” in “The Camel,” in “Flaming Drum”—even “Saheiji” and “Nickel Silver” were inexplicably amusing.
Regarding his unique gags and approaches in *The Bed* and *The Camel*, I had already written elsewhere, but when it came to the vivid portrayal of the slum landlady from *The Young Men of the Neighborhood* and her torrent of aphorisms, there was truly nothing else like it.
The achievement of transforming such trivial stories into something so amusing and delightful deserved to be recorded in this art for ages to come.

In *Stubborn Moxa*, the man expounding on the heat of moxibustion,

“Hot doesn’t even begin to describe it! Just the other day, there was this man who got so overwhelmed by the heat that he burst up, kicked through the ceiling, and just vanished somewhere!”

These instances, too, must surely rank among the greatest examples of his brilliant gags.
“Just think about it—it’s not like you’re some monster cat, so you kicking through the ceiling…”

When it came to that “Onaoshi” section—where near the end, the couple’s love in their singularly peculiar life reached its crescendo—not a trace of inferiority complex arose; it felt precisely like reading one of Maupassant’s celebrated novels. This may well be called an immortal masterpiece. I even felt the urge to treasure and preserve it, carefully wrapped in cotton. In *Imado no Kitsune*, Shinshō vividly depicted both the lives of obscure rakugo performers and the faded forms of Senju courtesans against the bleak scenery around Imado Hachiman.

Having studied under the previous generation's Koencho and become enamored with Enkyo, then knocking on the door of the previous Shinshō's school, he had already completed his training in Edo-style storytelling early on and had thoroughly mastered the Enchō lineage's human drama narratives.
The fact that there had been a time when he had rushed to study under the previous generation’s Roshu and wielded a percussion fan could not be said to be of no use to him today, now capable of performing serialized narratives.

However, though he had indeed been gloomy and warped in the old days (I distinctly remember his stage performances from the Bakin period), it was only three or four years before the Incident, when he first transplanted the sunflower-like plant called Sangorō into his artistic garden, that his innate talent began to blossom remarkably.
Furthermore, as the previous Enu’s deft lightness flowed in and seamlessly melded with his style, Shinshō’s artistry—having already blossomed—now surged forward to bear fruit.

That he could read *Yose* and *Enchō* for one or even two hours—making audiences laugh at times and bringing them to tears at others, wielding his skills with such mastery—was, when you considered it, all due to this long artistic journey marked by years of granular hardships. It may well be said to be a natural progression.

At the outset I had stated that Bunraku and Shinshō stood as our era's twin pinnacles, yet through fortunate happenstance I alone within all rakugo circles shared this singular intimacy with both men.
My heart could not but swell with joy.

Shinshō’s distinctive views on storytelling were incisively sharp-edged, possessing an unyielding severity that conceded not half a step to others. That resolve—to never bow to authority and live solely for the refined artistry befitting a true storyteller among commoners—shone brilliantly alongside Bunraku.

In this regard, he was quite a studious person and would often rummage through my bookcase to take various books. Despite this, the knowledge he gained from those books did not become oddly pseudo-intellectual and ruin the nuances of his stories; rather, it seemed to serve as excellent fertilizer in his case. Upon this man’s resolve—he who always declared that he should immediately quit being a storyteller if the time came when he could only perform derivative rakugo—I could not help but sense the presence of “Sōma no Kin-san” as depicted by Master Okamoto Kidō. Similarly, I could not help but think of Fujisaki, the Edo samurai from *Gonjūrō’s Play*—such a devoted theater lover that even when dying in battle, he would not release the theater program from his breast pocket. The latter had long since read about this himself and knew of it; during a certain drinking occasion, he told me that we absolutely wished to maintain that very resolve.

This man’s coming year would bring pioneering into unique realms of storytelling—advancing further still—and surely yield a bountiful harvest for the performing arts world.
In fact, come September there was to be a presentation of Kojō’s *Wagōjin* at the Yose Cultural Improvement Society that I co-hosted with Shinshō and Bunraku.
I prayed earnestly they might take good care of their health.

Tachibananosuke Remembered

“Now, at this time, I find myself deeply recalling Tachibananosuke.”
She likely held no popularity in Tokyo anymore, but there were no artists of her caliber.
—particularly the elusive verses of Oranda-jinku; Terigarafu, the foreign settlement in Tsukiji, river steamers—all those Ōtsu-e-like vignettes of that era.

Then there was the sight of a child reluctantly practicing with a shamisen in hand—that was, by any measure, supreme.—That Meiji-era female artist who seemed to have emerged from the faint glow of gaslight.
But by the time one truly came to feel it a pity, she was already no longer a Tokyoite.

Once I had this short piece, which last autumn I included in my published work Essays on Yose Customs.

But looking at this record, I wondered if by that time Tachibananosuke had already joined her predecessor En and left for Nagoya. No—according to my recollection, that did not seem to be the case. At this juncture, Tachibananosuke still had not united with En; I found myself convinced she had instead ventured alone to some provincial region, combining practice with her journey. Yet now she exists not merely beyond Tokyo's bounds—she has departed this mortal realm entirely.

Tachibanake Tachibananosuke—does she still, nearing sixty, let the ring on her ring finger glimmer forlornly through that exquisite ukiyobushi shamisen playing?! Around that time (roughly two years before the earthquake), she had rented a second-floor room in Yotsuya Samonchō with a tidily dressed maid in her employ.

In that autumn twilight of Yotsuya where crows cawed, I once received from Tachibananosuke herself the privilege of hearing a mysterious episode concerning Itō Hirobumi and her.

Tachibananosuke seems to have been a close acquaintance of Count Itō’s from quite some time before.
And when Count Itō was departing for Harbin, at that farewell gathering,

“When I return this time, I’ll build you a vaudeville theater like the Yūrakuza, so keep yourself in check and make sure to perform there about twice a year.”

he said to Tachibananosuke.

“Your Excellency, is that truly so?”

Rejoicing as if in a dream, Tachibananosuke sent the Count off to Harbin; then, several months later, one night at Suehiro in Ningyōchō, when she took the stage, the shamisen would not sound.
Not a twang nor a pluck—it made no sound at all.
Finally, she stepped down from the stage just like that, but chills ran through her, yet her body was clammy with sweat.
Tachibananosuke had been playing the shamisen for decades, yet such an instance had never occurred before.
She even recalled the tale of how a certain shamisen master from long ago—Haratake Dayū, perhaps? (Hadn't she mentioned some shamisen master at the time?)—while entertaining in Shinagawa, had foretold a great tidal wave through the sound of his strings. Her heart trembled at the thought that this too might portend some imminent calamity.

And so, though reluctantly intending to merely show her face, she completely skipped the other seats and entered Tori no Eijū as the finale performer—whereupon, this time, her chest cleared instantly. Even so, she played and sang more warmly and refreshingly than usual, exuberant with five times her usual energy. Then, the next day, as she soaked in the midday bath at her Yushima home, "Extra!" came the clamorous voices. "Hmm—" Without even time to tilt her head in puzzlement, the extra edition,

“Count Itō Assassinated in Harbin”

It was indeed because of last night’s silent shamisen that Tachibananosuke first painfully acknowledged in her heart—as they say—but…….

“The moment I finished hearing this, Tachibananosuke’s face—resembling a great tanuki—suddenly loomed with terrifying vividness in my mind. A chill ran through me as if doused in cold water. When I rushed out into Yotsuya’s streets, the faintly cold lights of the autumn evening appeared strangely uncertain to my eyes—a sight I still remember.”

Furthermore, three or four years after that, I again wrote about Tachibananosuke in this manner for a certain publication.

And beyond this, I have been told numerous other episodes from Tachibananosuke’s own eventful autobiography in various ways.
Stories such as those about the Battle of the Shōgitai, being forced to drink mercury aboard a steamship bound for Kobe, or how her childhood cross-dressing led to a foreign girl’s ardent infatuation with her on that same vessel—all these I was permitted to write, under Tachibanake Tachibananosuke’s own name, in one or two serialized installments for the magazine *Suzu no Ne*, which Mr. Fujiuura Tomitarō, head of the Sanyū school, contributed to—driving my clumsy pen in my younger days.
Naturally, I myself have no means of possessing that magazine anymore—.

Even so, Tachibananosuke—despite being such a singular heroine—never spoke so much as a hair’s breadth about anything resembling romantic confessions.
Though this may partly owe to my having been a complete child at the time, whenever I recall how she had spoken with utmost seriousness—about how even the aforementioned story involving Count Itō, when once told to Mr. Ishitanii Kadei, was treated as some romantic tale with the Count to her genuine dismay—I cannot help but feel I had glimpsed another facet of Tachibananosuke there.
By the way, before Tachibananosuke moved to this Samonchō, she had been living on the second floor of a female Kiyomoto instructor’s residence in Yagenbori’s back alleys.
And I transposed the view from that second floor on a certain day, wholly unchanged, into my immature full-length novel *Shadow Puppets Dance*, which I presented to the world in the spring following the earthquake disaster.

Upon considering it this way, the threads of connection between Tachibanake Tachibananosuke and myself run remarkably deep—indeed, the heroine of *Shadow Puppets Dance* was a certain disciple of Tachibananosuke’s; San’yūtei Enma (renowned for her allure alongside Tachibananosuke, given the circumstances of that time) served as my artistic mentor; furthermore, the new talent whom I had long associated with, and who consequently took the name Seventh-Generation Tachibanake Entarō last spring, happened to be a disciple of the previous En—Tachibananosuke’s final husband.
That is precisely why even now I continue to recite Buddhist invocations every morning for the Tachibananosuke couple.

Now, perhaps it was precisely due to these connections that around this time, I received three picture postcards of Tachibananosuke from Saru-tokoro. It appeared to be her own personal archive: the envelope bore a stamp in purple ink reading “Master of Ukiyobushi Ballads, Ishida Miyo, First Generation Tachibananosuke,” while the contents showed three phases—her youthful stage appearance with short hair (praised by Enchō, painted by Entachi), a somewhat aged period, and finally that visage nearing her twilight years. As a nostalgic memento of Tokyo, I want to keep it treasured forever.

A single record—my treasured one—was Tochirinton’s *Ahiru no Tamago* (Duck’s Egg). Above all, the *pachin* of an eggshell cracking through that shamisen technique was its supreme treasure.

The same Tochirinton’s morning-glory koto tones had been rendered with such vivid realism; the bell sounds for Sanbasō, within their lifelike intensity, showed us a spring day bathed in brilliant sunlight—and within that day, the gleaming hues of golden bells as if one could grasp them in hand.

The Ōtsu-e *Water Series* piece—“Lord Mito’s Circle and Water…”—had been classic yet supremely elegant, while her signature *Tanuki* performance contained the dreamlike quality of Yoshifuji’s Edo-era playful illustrations.

Though she herself proclaimed the title of Ukiyobushi Ballads Master, one might argue that ukiyobushi—by its very essence—could only rightfully claim that name when it wove nagauta kiyomoto, tokiwazu, shinnai, and at times even sermon ballads or Genji ballads into its fabric of urban seasonal songs, all while harmonizing them flawlessly into the narrative’s progression. Moreover, though deemed an eccentric performer, in Tachibananosuke’s case, it must be said that her artistry—far from merely wielding the shamisen as a novelty-stricken plaything—resided magnificently and uniquely in how she made postures and scenes shimmer forth through her playing.

Speaking of *Tanuki*, the last time I heard this person perform it was at the first Toho Meijinkai performance in autumn of Showa 9—on the opening day, no less—where alongside the late Shinnai Harutayu and others, she delivered a deeply heartfelt and powerful rendition of *Tanuki*.

In the summer of the following year, Tachibananosuke died alongside her husband En in Kyoto’s great flood.

The Generations of Entarō

I have

"Pumpkin flowers bloom—Entarō still lies ill."

This verse exists.
It was composed with thoughts of that middle-aged rakugo artist whom we had take the name Seventh-Generation Tachibanake Entarō last spring of Showa 17—and who still lay ill after having blown his trumpet in just two stage performances.
Now as this early spring marks nearly a year since then, we received a letter from Entarō himself suggesting significant recovery—how overjoyed I was, of course, and the wife too, who had always watched over him with particular care. Yet seeing he still had not come from Hachiōji, it seemed he had not truly recovered. I dearly wanted him to regain his health soon.
Even as I heard stories of him gripping a nickel silver trumpet tightly in one hand despite his illness (during this proofreading, he has fully recovered and come home in good health).

Since I had at hand the lineage of Tachibanake Entarō that I had investigated during the name succession, I decided to set aside detailed critiques of each individual for another occasion and instead jot this down here as a mere memorandum for now.

First Generation Entarō—resided in Edo Yushima.
Second-Generation Entarō—disciple of Enshō; excelled in musical accompaniment.
Enchō’s father.

Second-Generation Entarō—disciple of Enchō, Third-Generation Enshō.

Third-Generation Entarō—a disciple of Bunraku known for his booming voice: Kinraku.
Later entering Enchō’s school, he changed his name from Enju to Entarō.

Fourth-Generation Entarō—disciple of Enchō; initially Manchō.
He mimicked the calls of shared horse-drawn carriages while sounding a trumpet, colloquially known as Trumpet Entarō.
A master of comic musical storytelling.

Fifth-Generation Entarō—a disciple of Fourth-Generation Enshō and Accompaniment Musician; resided in Kamigata from an early period and spent his entire career in Kyoto-Osaka.
Initially Second-Generation Enzō, later joining the previous Enma’s school; passing through Kosuzume, Hakuba, and Koenta before assuming the name in March 1901.

Sixth-Generation Entarō—a disciple of Yoka-choro’s Yūsan school: Koyūsan, who assumed the sixth generation from Kōen; once a renowned accompaniment musician.

Seventh-Generation Entarō—disciple of the previous Tachibana’s En school. From Hyakuen, he became Seventh-Generation Entarō.

In short, while I remain unaware of the Second and Third Generations' circumstances, all others were without exception accompaniment musicians.

Continued: Yosebayashi

En’yū of the Nose / Kisarazu

Among performers of old, there were those with a most delightful spirit.
Among them was En’yū of the Nose—he who popularized the suteteko gag—

“I’ve still never once run off with a lover,”
“Before I die, I want to know what it’s like—just once—to taste that thrill.”

Having declared this, he apparently finally persuaded a certain woman of the night in his later years to flee with him all the way to Kisarazu.

To have someone flee at his behest made him no different than Uwakiya Enjirō—the philandering protagonist of *The Alluring Grilled Eel* from Kyōden’s kibyōshi—

~Such fleeting bonds as karakami paper’s hue

In the paired joy of mandarin ducks,

At traveler’s inns night after night,

~A traveler’s fleeting pillow

"What a blissful pair we make, don't we?"

Though one might imagine his performance—utterly devoid of the refined atmosphere found in tales of fugitive nobles like *Ochūto* and persisting as pure Enjirō through and through, a journey as thrilling as shark-skin scraping—the man himself returned home briskly and in high spirits, declaring, "With this, my lifelong wish is finally fulfilled," leaving no room for further concern.

Doesn't it feel as though we're being shown—vividly—the very essence of performers from those better days?

It was this En’yū who, on the night of his wake, requested they perform the Twenty-Five Acts of *Baka Hayashi* instead of Buddhist sutras as he lay dying.—I hear his final wish was promptly carried out; En’yū at that time surely resided in Asakusa’s Mitsujichō district.

In an era when rakugo artists did not maintain estates resembling feudal lords’ villas as they do now, En’yū’s residence—though he once dazzled his generation—must have been a modest yet spirited household steeped in old-Tokyo humanity, quintessentially working-class in its unassuming dignity.

From such a house—amid voices laughing boisterously through the night (I must clarify: there is nothing as absurdly hilarious as a rakugo artist’s wake)—the sounds of *Baka Hayashi* must have streamed forth. This much remains unchanged even today; when considering the *tek-ten ten-don* rhythms of that *Baka Hayashi* music, one cannot help but feel nostalgic for that characteristically serene "respiration of Tokyo" reminiscent of the late Meiji years.

Now, while it is said En’yū fled to Kisarazu in Kazusa Province, one need not wait for Yosaburō the Cut to recognize that Kisarazu—from late Edo through Meiji—must have been as bustling, civilized, and joyous a port as Yokohama in its heyday.

Already in the rakugo *Hatsu Tenjin*—a story of an artisan couple—there appears the line: “If you think back to when we fled to Kisarazu…”. Then in *Hadehiko*, a piece mastered by the Enzō of two generations prior, the white rat clerk becomes so obsessed with a certain dance instructor named Bandō So-and-so that he falls ill, and they eventually marry. This beautiful dance instructor’s destination when invited to the festival was likewise that very Kisarazu. I recall that Kurahashi Densuke of *The Loyal Retainers’ Chronicle*—back when he was still called Hasegawa Kinjirō and indulged in the three vices of drinking, gambling, and womanizing—after being driven from Edo, found his destination, true to form, in Kisarazu.

I—over twenty years ago now, which would mean I was twelve or thirteen at the time—visited only once, yet even now I can recall how the crimson and white blossoms unfurling in the lotus ponds at the town’s edge each summer seemed to suffuse my very being with a coolness that refreshes.

In the popular song “Kisarazu Jinku” from the mid-Meiji period,

♪ Though Kisarazu clouds over, may Edo stay clear

The lonesome one burns under the sun

There was one that went like this.

Tachibananosuke, who had drowned, often sang this song; even in such verses one could sense the unfeigned camaraderie that existed between Edo natives and Kisarazu locals.

Ah, no—I had strayed from where En’yū’s story had leapt.

There were still many more amusing anecdotes about En’yū, but had I written them all down, they would have interfered with material for my novels—so I selfishly refrained from exhausting his artistic legacy there.

When one examined En'yū’s stenographic records, the multifarious facets of Meiji modernization—foreign residences, Hinhett, horse racing (keiba), Nara’s floods, bicycle races, second-degree relatives of influential wives, sweet springs, liqueurs, Fran blankets, Western cuisine—superficial yet scattered like Nanking beads across the pages, spilled forth without restraint at every turn, much like viewing the prefabricated dialogue of Mokuami’s zangiri mono plays—

Now En’yū could be considered a collage-pasted folding screen of Kiyochika’s depictions.

The Previous Ichiba

Gathering fig leaves from the garden morning and night, boiling them down, and drinking the decoction.

For chronic hemorrhoids, fig leaves were said to be most effective—this I had heard from storytellers, who recounted how the previous Ryūtei Ichiba had long gathered and used them.

Perhaps because of this—each time I savored the faint bitterness of this pale yellow decoction, its eeriness undeniable—I inevitably thought of Ichiba, that master of *Nozarashi*.

Jutting out his chin, always grumbling under his breath on stage in that complaining tone—I would think of Ichiba like that.

I would think of Ichiba—without grand audiences, embittered with the world—who often sang “Ara Suiryō!” in a hoarse voice.
I had heard that the previous-previous generation—known as Botamochi Ichiba—belonged to the Sanyūtei school.
It was by chance that when it came to the generation of this aging favorite actor of mine, Ichiba’s name had transferred to the Yanagi school.

“Zangiri Jizō,” “Hettsui Yūrei,” “Nozarashi,” “Ishikaeshi,” and even “Neko no Sainan”—Ichiba was a man of bizarrely perverse yet masterful artistry.

“If you punch the bucket’s bottom and it caves all the way in, just flip it over and use the other side—ain’t that right?” said Ichiba with infuriating nonchalance.

Ichiba was highly praised even by Painter Kobayashi Shōhachi, but in the second performance of *Ishikaeshi*, when Yotarō carelessly forgot to switch the soba shop’s lantern and wailed “Oshiruko-uu,” only to get scolded by his uncle with “It ain’t shiruko!”—well, that too had its own flavor.

Ichiba.
The late Ichiba.

When I brew fig leaves into a decoction and drink it, I find myself thinking of Ichiba alone.

Ryūō's Preamble

At year’s end, from the southern window of my Odawara home, Ashigara and Futago were visible in the distance. In the garden, gentians remained lush green even in winter, thousand-day chrysanthemums stood, and on those chrysanthemums, perfectly round white blooms were blooming…….

Now, an excerpt from the diary of that time recorded the following.

"The kumquat fruits, which were still deep green when I moved in, have now ripened to a pale yellow after some time."

"In this garden of mine here, however, the lack of a moso bamboo among all these ordinary bamboo plants is a regret; I wish to plant one soon."

"As for nandina, I want not only the short ones we currently have but also ones laden with berries."

"Sasanqua and camellias are also among my favorites."

"According to the stenographic records of Master Harusakutei Ryūō, in *Sen no Rikyū’s Teachings* it states:"

“Oak grove; young mulberry saplings amid birdlime trees; snow-hide camellia; yuzu tree at the gate.”

Also,

“Gathered stones behind the guest-host’s waiting area; stepping stones of rounded river rocks; Kurama; stone water basin.”

It is said to be thus, but as for the stones—well, someone of my age could never comprehend them, and in truth, I have no desire to understand them now. Yet I do feel that planting something like a "yuzu tree at the gate" might indeed be just right.

Until just recently, I had loved only vibrant late-spring orchards with all my heart—but lately, I find myself wholeheartedly admiring trees beautiful under night snow.

Is it because I, having experienced even a fraction of ordinary hardships to that extent, am now such a person?

“Be that as it may, the days awaiting spring in Odawara are tranquil.”

Baraku Jizō

“Itō Chiyū-sama’s editing of *Kōdan Rakugokai* must have been around Taishō 4 or 5.”

When Himeno Satobito invited Chōkarō Baraku of two generations prior to write an account of visiting the Baraku Jizō at Yanaka’s Jōmyōin Temple, I—then still a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy—made my first pilgrimage to Jōmyōin.

The willow phrase from Satobito’s jesting essay—“A crow defecates on the honorable Jizō’s face”—had indeed been inscribed in pencil upon the statue’s sacred form at that time.

Recently, something having occurred to me, I began making monthly visits without fail to the Jizō statue,

“Taishō 3, January 16: Shaku Jōshō Shinshi”

It read “Taishō 3, January 16: Shaku Jōshō Shinshi,” with names engraved on incense holders and flower vases—Sagara (current), Enshi, Shinshō, Yanagishi, Tsubame, Basei, Kokatsu, Imasuke, Kosen, and Bunraku (all from past generations)—alongside a separate notation for the third-generation Kosan, Tateyuki, and others.

But whose playful pseudonym was Himeno Satobito?
“Twenty springs and autumns have passed; though it lingers in my memory, I remain none the wiser.”

Eight years had already passed since I wrote this short piece.
Was it this spring? In an old exposé magazine—the April 1914 issue of *Ukiyo*—which I chanced upon around the time of Baraku’s death, there appeared an article by one Yoshimizu Shikō on the matter. Let me quote it here.

"If you die, you'll gain kind-hearted people—so said Ryokuu. Baraku, who had many such souls around him while still alive, was truly a fortunate man. One could say he attained the Pure Land."

Though brief as this account was, did it not reveal how many admirers Baraku had during his lifetime? It was said that Mr. Okamoto Kitarō had been an early admirer of Baraku's talents, but by this time, Mr. Yoshii Isamu, Kubota Mantarō, and Okamura Kikō had each published tanka poems and essays praising Baraku, making it evident that Chōkarō Baraku's reputation had become a considerable social phenomenon.

Ah yes, ah yes—Kyōbaraku’s end may not necessarily be said to have been entirely unfortunate.

Kobunshi’s *Thirty Koku*

Now deceased Katsura Kobunshi, who excelled solely in “Hyakashi” and *Thirty Koku*, had been a central figure in Kansai rakugo; his performance style remained understated and steady, his stage presence devoid of gimmicks.

Now, several years after Kobunshi’s passing, should one listen to his signature record of *Thirty Koku*, the opening section would reveal a boatman’s grumbling and ranting:

“Lately it’s all about them Ōka steam trains—everyone’s scramblin’ to ride ’em, so just seein’ bathhouse chimneys gets me riled up.”
“When I spot somethin’ belchin’ smoke, it boils an’ boils an’ boils my blood—can’t stand it!”
“...”.

――Was this Kobunshi’s own invention, or a creation of past masters? Though I cannot know for certain, the scenery of *Thirty Koku* from the early Meiji era materializes before me with such vividness—does its fragrance of history not stir delight?

Such are the causes that compel me to recall the late Kobunshi with such piercing clarity at every occasion these days.

*The Camel*

Once, regarding *The Camel*, I wrote the passage to the left.

“The third-generation Kosan’s *The Camel* reached the pinnacle of imitating Kyoto master Katsura Bungo, but what makes that scrap dealer’s gradual descent into drunkenness—cup perpetually refilled—a supreme treasure lies precisely in its recollection.”

“When I get home there’s four brats waitin’... Every mornin’ at mealtime, I’m eatin’ my rice in a damn blizzard of grains.”

In that lament before his drunken stupor, the scrap dealer’s account permeated with vivid hardships of destitute city life; while in the later passage transporting the camel’s corpse to Ochiai’s crematorium,

“A road that’s a rice paddy when you think it’s a field and a field when you think it’s a rice paddy—what an annoying path.”
“Then, there’s an earthen bridge……”

In the story, the scenery of late Edo-period Takada and Ochiai spreads out before us; truly, this description is still praised today as being no ordinary hand’s work.
Incidentally, Hanabagusa had a nearly identical passage in his description of this very area.

Asanebō Murakumo, who went deaf and met a deranged death, had drunkard’s tales that possessed a uniquely indescribable humor—particularly in those moments when he would let out a sudden “Hwaaah!”—a bizarre cry both strange and wondrous—which also added a singular flair to the yose theater culture of the late Taishō era. This Murakumo’s rendition of *The Camel* stood as his signature piece, with the man’s version containing numerous amusing passages concentrated rather in its latter half.

First came the scene where the scrap dealer carrying the camel's corpse roused a pawnshop in Takada and coerced them into pawning this carcass—or else demanded they produce so-and-so.

Moreover, regarding the act of shaking off the camel's corpse into the street, third-generation Kosan's technique—for those two great fools' sake—had them inadvertently drop it without particular mishap occurring.

Having successfully borrowed coins at the pawnshop, the two men celebrated by downing another pie and resolved to liven things up by barging straight into Yoshiwara—their clinking and clattering, their rowdy three-beat mouth-shamisen adding absurdity—until they whooped with such abandon that they careered wildly until slamming into the crematorium's plank door; there—as inevitable consequence—they shook off the camel's corpse.

the monk who had picked it up believing it to be a camel eventually overheard the rear-pole carrier—the camel’s comrade—muttering something as they bore the load, and the front-pole scrap dealer turned around and

“Don’t start a fight!”

This act of admonishment—absent from the third-generation Kosan’s repertoire—whether born of Murakumo’s innovation or adherence to predecessors, nevertheless achieved such natural illusion that it blossomed into peerless comedy.

In the lead-up to *“Even a furnace room’s fine—just one more cup!”*’s punchline, the sight of the monk writhing in the blazing flames—with the fireman snatching up a stick to beat him, crying “A specter’s possessed this wretch!”—was a thing of utmost ghastliness; while one might fault its excessive theatrics, even now I perceive it as a scene uniquely Murakumo’s own.

As for the previous Katsura Shundō’s *The Camel*—I heard it only once on a summer night when Kōbai-tei’s audience was sparse—that man’s unique delivery, amusing yet awkwardly ineffective, stood as a national treasure,

“H-heh, h-hey, hmm, h-hold on... L-let me... j-just let me do it... please...”

At the scrap dealer’s flustered demeanor—scrambling out in panic—we found ourselves erupting in repeated fits of uproarious laughter.

――In Kamigata, Katsura Enshi has made this story his signature piece.
As the scrap dealer grew progressively drunker and finally turned on those rascals, that “performance” which rendered his face ghastly pale remains unforgettable to this day.
Though I’ve yet to hear the current Shōkaku’s rendition, I imagine his gravitas would render them superb.

In the Eastern Capital, Sanzōtei Karaku and Sanyūtei Enshō were primarily the ones performing this piece; however, Karaku’s *The Camel*, due to his refusal to exaggerate the tempo in portraying those troublemaker comrades of his, regrettably ended up rendering the entire story with a fragile, flat impression.

"As for Enshō’s rendition, the timing was always inopportune, and I never had a chance to hear it."

It’s astonishing how quickly time had passed—eight years had already gone by since I wrote those words.
Both society and I had changed, but the world of rakugo storytellers had also transformed.
Fat Enshō, for one, ended up dying before I could ever hear his *The Camel* even once.
As for why I never heard this performer’s *The Camel*—a favorite of mine—it was because this rendition of *The Camel* was a story he took up in his later years.
And this was because, at that time, I had been almost exclusively frequenting Shakujō and had neglected the rakugo storytellers for some time.
The Incident had dragged on for three or four years and escalated into the war we know today; the rakugo world suddenly came alive with activity, and I myself became deeply involved with rakugo organizations like Bunraku’s association, Shinshō’s association, and the Yose Cultural Improvement Society that had formed there. By the time an even more inextricable bond than in former days had taken root between the rakugo world and me, Enshō had already died suddenly, leaving no chance to ever encounter that massive frame of his again.
I now find myself regretting this deeply (Postscript: Karaku, too, passed away suddenly just the other day).

Now, in today’s Tokyo rakugo world, the current performer of *The Camel* would likely be Shinshō.

Just the other day—on August’s first—I attended Kanda Kagetsu’s midday solo performance. Sweltering though it was, the hall overflowed with bodies; there I sat cramped in the crowd, mopping sweat as I listened (Umejima Noboru—that ardent patron of Shinshō and Bunraku—had taken a spot just behind me. And not long after, Umejima died).

Shinshō’s *The Camel* rooted itself in the scrap dealer’s drunken progression—the measured pacing of his intoxication, the rhythm of his breathing, each temporal transition—all striking every comedic mark without flaw. Yet what resonated most was how starkly it laid bare the camel’s habitual conduct through the sheer multitude of neighbors rejoicing at his demise wherever one turned.

Moreover, in how this death-joy differed across stations—the monthly overseer, landlord, greengrocer—I perceived true “art” to reside precisely here, leaving me wholly satisfied. Even so, enveloped in that crisp fulfillment one feels after communing with rare blossoms and ancient trees, I emerged from Kagetsu’s packed halls in highest spirits.

Yesterday, Shinshō—who had come to the neighborhood optician and then casually appeared in my study—happened to touch upon *The Camel* in our conversation, explaining how the late Murakumo had the drunken scrap dealer pluck out the camel’s hair by hand during its ritual washing when the razor failed to cut it, right before gulping sake from a bowl.

“Ah, there’s hair in here!”

he said, describing how Murakumo would pin those few long strands in the bowl with one hand and gulp them down in one go—it was only through this act that the camel’s comrade became utterly overwhelmed by the scrap dealer.
Unfortunately, I have no memory of this moment in Murakumo’s *The Camel* that I heard, but it’s precisely the sort of gruesome expression one would expect from that Murakumo.
Speaking of which, beyond just having characters haul makeshift coffins to pawnshops, show monks rising from flames, or make corpses dance kan-kan’ō dances, I realized Murakumo had been revealing—in fleeting glimpses—fragments of such recklessly abandoned human lives (Postscript: Later, the current Kobayashi performed this staging at my Yose Cultural Improvement Society [Ōtsuka Suzumoto] with astonishing brilliance).
The hair episode was also masterfully done—the appearance of a mortician resembling a black demon made one’s hair stand on end, prompting visions of this man’s future prosperity).

Mr. Okamoto Tarō’s dramatization of *The Camel* titled *The Tale of the Sleeping Camel* for Yoshijiemon’s troupe has a murder occurring nearby at the end—the dose is too strong, leaving an unpleasant aftertaste.
Mr. Oka’s unpleasant harshness seems to inadvertently reveal itself here.
The grim scenes should develop entirely like Murakumo’s—throughout, within the comedic interplay between the camel’s comrade and the scrap dealer’s words and deeds.
For even without such considerations, when one reflects that this tale’s world—plunged into grim depths surpassing even *Kozaru Shichinosuke*—is redeemed solely through the comedy of their drunken reversal of positions...
This point, I believe, can also be substantiated by the existence of Shimada Seijirō, who took this tale wholesale from Osei, cobbled together an amateurish leftist ideology into it, and around that time adapted it into a play titled something-or-other for the magazine *Kaihō*.

Even so, there are not a few skilled rakugo storytellers who do not perform *The Camel*.
However, I believe that among those capable of performing *The Camel*, there have never existed any utterly inept rakugo storytellers since ancient times.

“Dōkan” and “Saheiji” and “Kaji Musuko”

――Notes from When I Heard the Late Karaku――

Last night’s three performances were delightful.
Last night, I keenly realized that Sanyūtei was a performer of truly singular artistry—one whose unique flavor failed to emerge even in standard storytelling halls; whose lively tales at research meetings (current ones) could not reach the rear due to venue limitations; and who, ultimately, rarely manifested his full “essence” outside this “society.”
I hear that in the past, there were beloved storytelling halls in back alleys with capacities of just fifty, but he must have been the sole person born by chance possessing the unique qualities of those bygone storytellers—such thoughts, too, poignantly made me reflect.
At the same time, one could say he was the type of writer for whom ten or twenty pages would never suffice—who had to write seventy or eighty pages before the flavor emerged.

"In 'Dōkan,' I could see the pristine white of shoji screens awaiting winter, delighting in how they evoked Otsuna's hermitage. I heard Nomura's Murasame comic touches that Mr. Kubota Mantarō describes in *Santei Yawa*, all carrying an old-fashioned nostalgia. Though there were fine presentations of proper historical tales like Kongming's, since they kept using the 'Dōkan' preamble exclusively, a certain late individual's memory—that a pun emerged: 'Is only Dōkan (gourd) your specialty (floating object)?'—made for an excellent touch. I newly realized that the eyes when reprimanding the comic relief were slightly too fearsome, and that this performer sometimes squandered perfectly good comic gags through their delivery. In truth, what I had vaguely sensed during this spring's *Nagaya no Hanami* had now crystallized more concretely. Yet until I could formulate specific requests like 'adjust this part here,' that flaw hadn't taken precise shape in my mind. I resolved to make this a task to address after attending one or two more of Karaku's gatherings."

It was precisely during stories rich in laughter like *Dōkan* and *Nagaya no Hanami* that I found myself noticing (or rather, becoming conscious of) particular aspects.

The “Iinokori” not only evoked in me an indescribable nostalgia for the era of Kyōmabaku, Mōkosen, and the late Shōzō but also showed how this person had skillfully depicted “Shinagawa” even in recent years.
This time there were various staging differences from that occasion, and I found it particularly excellent how Saheiji’s perverse personality—expressed through lines like “I want to die doing something bizarre”—was portrayed.
Being perverse yet funny.
In other words, I think Saheiji was a strange fellow who had developed the resolve of someone like the current Kohandayu.
The comic bit involving the Sengakuji Temple souvenir sake cups surrounding the audience was well-executed, and the way the young performers always ended up overwhelmed was truly delightful; I thought this not only showed the story itself to be outstanding but also that Karaku had provided excellent direction.
Last time he opened the door the next morning, let out a deep breath, and evoked a briny scent; this time he invoked Odaiba to establish the atmosphere.
Both were good.
Next time if they take a deep breath before proceeding to Odaiba and such, I think it would be even better.
It would certainly not become tedious even if both were done.
First intimidating the young apprentices with theatrical tactics then employing the same approach when clashing with the master—what’s one to make of this?
As for the theatrical tone I still wish it had been reserved solely for later instances using Sen-style “Chūshin Rihei.”
Even so I think the part where the master abruptly revealed his face was exquisitely done.
In his exchange with the young apprentices—when he once steps out to the front and then comes back—is this a pattern found in Kyōmabaku’s style?
Of course I think there’s no problem with doing it this way but whether it’s his original idea or not—you should ask Sanshōtei.
Then as usual an array of Shinagawa-style foods—sashimi clam hot pot eel (the scene of the midday brothel wafting with eel aroma was also skillfully done)—was laid out which was splendid but the ara-ni stew I mentioned last time was missing.
I must have that added—for the Shinagawa-style staging.
The scene where friends visit Saheiji after he has concluded [his performance] was just as before utterly lifelike.
Through Saheiji’s long-winded speech (repeating several times) of “The god of fortune has come to our house...”
He repeated “and so on” many times but “At sunset four carts come pulling ropes down from the hilltop” (the late Shōzō used an automobile) was said only once.
In terms of both scenic depiction and comedic flavor I believe that should absolutely have been repeated again and again.

However, I must state that this "Saheiji" is indeed one I wish to hear again and again hereafter.

“The Fireman’s Son” revived for us the downtown life of distant days that was our spiritual hometown, along with the voices of our homeland.
The fire preamble had a slight flaw in timing akin to the *Dōkan* gag—though I shall certainly grasp how to address this in my feedback next time!—but otherwise, all other aspects bore the artistic dignity befitting a “grand master.”
While there exists a stenographic record of this staging by the late Shinshō, the opening scene—where the young master turned firefighter, weeping upon meeting his mother in a dream, is roused by comrades and urged to return to honest ways—was fully realized with precision.
The character portrayals and scenes were also well-realized.
It may have been a curious coincidence that I had been reading Mr. Nagata Mikihiko’s *Tōji* since daytime, but in any case, I was beautifully recalling the downtown of my childhood days.
Old shop curtains, a pawnshop with black walls, the drum of the first Horse Day—various seasonal scenes came vividly to mind.
That alone was a great happiness.
On the way back, it was raining a black rain like sleet.
I returned home through it, drank a cup with my wife, and went to bed.

Supplemental Yosebayashi

The Late Tsurue

In *Hyakumensō*, I once wrote about the late Tsurue and the deceased Fukuen Yū, but truly, no octopus priest of Tsurue’s caliber can be seen anymore.
With its features deeply wrapped in a pink hand towel and the *suteteko* accompaniment hastened, Tsurue’s octopus had truly become the very essence of an “octopus” itself.
Alas, even the current Tsurue—who has turned thief—and one called Komatsu still perform the octopus act at the very end, yet one can only sense that this present Tsurue and Komatsu now merely mimic an octopus in such a way.
But when it came to the late Tsurue, the performer’s own presence would vanish completely into the shade of potato leaves in a field, leaving only grand leaps of an enormous octopus—a whirling dance unfolding there most splendidly, most magnificently.
It is precisely for this reason that even now, one cannot help but call it a masterful technique.

Around this time, I received a letter from an acquaintance in Kobe concerning the late Tsurue. However, though I have long resided in Osaka, I never came to know the confectionery called “heya mimai” mentioned in the text; yet I cannot help but sense there was something that shared a common thread with the late Tsurue’s technical artistry.

It read:

“Tsurue’s *Hyakumensō* is even more nostalgic than Nekohachi’s solitary fury or Nippon Tarō’s roars.”
When they requested we relinquish a chest of drawers for a bride’s dowry, and my elder sister married into the household from its shadowy depths, I still recall the *heya mimai*—in Kansai, large manjū confections crafted in multicolored shapes—adorned with motifs like Pine-Bamboo-Plum, the Takasago old couple, sunrise, crane-and-turtle, and sea bream, where Hotei figures held white bean paste and bream held black.
As a child, my snacks were roasted sweet potatoes and fruit alone; I detested all else and refused to eat it.
“Tsurue carries a trace of that essence.”
...

*Tanuki no Koshō* (Koshō the Raccoon Dog)

Around the time when the deceased Koshō began gaining prominence for a while, in preambles like *Imado-yaki*, paddles often featured pairs of popular actors standing together—but instead of just actors, they should occasionally create ones with Kosan and Koshō too. Though admittedly, there was one recently, but it was a plain fan; he used to deliver such comedic bits quite often.

I had thought it was that man’s original creation, but the December 1899 issue of *Bungei Kurabu* features a piece by the previous-generation Koshō—who, unlike the recent person, went by Sanshōtei rather than Sanshōke—along with "Mountain Names and Temple Names" by the first-generation Koshō (of Edo period fame, known for his mastery of voice imitation as Onoe Koshō), whose preamble from the very outset was dedicated to fans.

“Even a fan painted with flowers and birds could generally be bought for three sen and five rin or about four sen, but if you had one with an actor’s portrait drawn on it, you’d find it cost six or seven sen... You wouldn’t find any depicting the faces of our rakugo world.”
“Of course, it’s not that there weren’t any. Some time ago, when Koshō browsed the night stalls in Ushigome—from your perspective, they were fans alright, plain ones at that—but since they had pictures of rakugo performers dancing jigs drawn on them, he asked how much they cost. The price was a mere eight rin. Then, next to them were fans with nothing drawn on them at all, and when he asked about those, they were also eight rin. So whether they had pictures or not made no difference—truly, there’s nothing as trivial as rakugo performers.”

Indeed, Koshō’s recent performance was this preamble’s straightforward reworking through borrowed structure. Even so, considering how that unabashed Koshō—having taken the name “Koshō” for himself—had painstakingly strived to inherit something from the previous generation through even the margins of his preambles, one cannot help but feel a wistful admiration for the artistic sensibilities of performers past, unlike these present-day people who, as Mr. Itō Chiyū once indignantly noted, seem content with any haphazard succession of stage names. Thus indeed, might not even in artists’ name successions the fragrance of tradition’s flowers seep and overflow in scattered profusion?

Incidentally, Tanuki no Koshō—a large, stout man who was reportedly not particularly skilled at storytelling. His appearance resembled a tanuki, hence this nickname.

He was the strict father of Ms. Ishii Miyo, the dancer.

Nippon Tarō

What has become of Nippon Tarō mentioned in that acquaintance's letter earlier? He had likely already died. With Nippon Tarō are entwined two memories—one bright, one dark—from my youth. Though it feels rather embarrassing, today I shall endeavor to write of them.

Tarō was a short-statured and frail-looking political-activist type who wore a bowler hat, pulled paper snow from his pocket to scatter it, fired pistols, swung arresting ropes, and performed solo dramas resembling grand chases between detectives and phantom thieves. He would appear hurriedly with a gust of wind, as if something were afoot, and look around,

“From a high mountain, peering into the valley’s depths—cucumbers and eggplants…”

Having delivered these lines in a monotone recitation, he then gathered the tips of his five fingers upward into a rounded shape, twice forming a flower-blooming gesture (presumably representing cucumber and eggplant blossoms!) while simultaneously making his mouth produce two sput-sput sounds like those of a suteteko drum accompaniment.

“Full bloom... full bloom...”

And there were times when he would utter it in the same tone and simply descend as he was.
The wrinkled voice of the late Danzō, accompanied by Shinnaigurashi narrative music, still lingers in my ears.

It is said that Tarō strung wires across the audience seats and moved freely over them, but this I did not see.
It is said he always carried a snake in his pocket and even demonstrated something called the Great Serpent Maneuvering Technique, but this too I did not see.
However, stories were often heard from various people about how he would swing his favored snake around to startle those in the dressing room, making them cry uncle.

But even so, Nippon Tarō—just what kind of person was he? I had heard he was a fallen Liberal Party activist who escaped from a prison in Hokkaido, but I cannot help feeling uncertain how much of that could be taken as true. There was talk of a tattoo called “Isshin Nyokyō” (“Mind Like a Mirror”)—I was once told by Kingorō that he would roll up his sleeve to display it on stage.

In any case, one might say it was a rather splendidly flamboyant act. Every last thing he performed was utterly trivial, yet now that matters had reached this point, I find myself deeply reflecting—wasn’t this in itself sufficiently splendid after all?

“In the past, oddities like Nippon Tarō were thoroughly lambasted in Mr. Okaoni’s performance ledgers and such—but now that very Tarō-esque quality has grown somewhat nostalgic at times. Ah, how the stars shift and times change.”

That Mr. Kimura Shōhachi should have made this remark in his essay *Yose Satsuki* (Taishō 14 [1925]) was entirely reasonable—for even in Taishō 14 this had held true, and now in Shōwa 19 (1944), that I in my early old age should be writing of it with such nostalgic fondness seemed so self-evident as to border on the tautological.

Now, this Nippon Tarō had teamed up with a dark-skinned, horse-faced woman named Matsuba or some such, appearing on stage and then at Mutsuki’s yose theater, only to vanish again soon after. Then in September of the year following the earthquake, he put up a billboard for a solo show at a minor venue called Ryūsuitei in Ushigome Sakanachō.

It was a terrible late-summer downpour of an evening, but I eagerly set out to listen.
I must confess that this eagerness of mine wasn’t solely due to wanting to hear Nippon Tarō.

The truth was, around that time, a certain Takarazuka actress to whom I was engaged (“revue girl” being a term not yet extant in Japan!) had finally secured a few days’ leave (though I had been making frequent trips to Kansai to meet her), and would be arriving in Tokyo the following day—the joy of that eve must have significantly contributed [to my eagerness] as well.
It could be said that Nippon Tarō, made the object of such excitement, was truly the height of irony—and it could also be said that if this meant gaining one more audience member, then it wasn’t entirely unwelcome either.
Ryūsuitei later became Katsuraoka Entertainment Hall, a regular venue for low-budget plays featuring performers like Wakamizu Midori in her twilight years, and eventually transformed into a Toho-affiliated movie theater. However, it had originally been a lonely little two-story building with seating filling its upper floor along the tram line.
To make matters worse, it was a night of heavy rain, so the audience numbered at best around twenty-odd people.
At the appointed hour of six o’clock, it was indeed a solo performance—Tarō, without even an opening act, climbed unceremoniously up to the stage.
And then, he harshly criticized the methods of the rakugo artists at nearby venues like Ushigome-tei and Kagurazaka Engeijō—until just recently he himself had been one of their number—and proclaimed that his own approach, this very way of doing things, was the true essence of a solo performance.
I seem to recall him also saying something to the effect that those guys nowadays don’t have the skill to perform alone all night.
As I listened, I found myself growing oddly happy; being in love, perhaps anything I heard would have made me feel this way.

First deciding to perform a musical storytelling piece, he delivered a full act of *The Hakone Checkpoint*. It was merely that he performed it, and it was by no means skillful. Rather, it could be said to have been distinctly clumsy. But even that made me happy—no doubt because I was in love.

Then in Kumobushi style, he belted out the naniwabushi ballad *Taishō Earthquake Chronicle*. I recall there being some strange gag involving an old woman at the Clothing Depot, but of course this too was delivered in that brash voice of his—a performance utterly beyond redemption. After that came lengthy explanations about how today’s accompaniment musicians couldn’t properly perform core dodoitsu ballads—that there were two schools of dodoitsu singing, Shiba style and Edo style—and declarations that tonight he would demonstrate the Shiba school’s approach; after all this bravado, he solemnly began singing two or three dodoitsu ballads—which were also utterly inept. I was even on the verge of bursting out in laughter. But in the end, all of that too—all of this—was just haphazardly delightful, no doubt for the same reason: because I was in love.

Next, he plunged the venue into complete darkness and appeared dressed as a Chinese man with a queue, fastening a teacup containing a lit candle to its tip before swinging it freely to the lively Shitamachi-style musical accompaniment. The light at the queue's end—like a magic lantern's floral wheel—leaped in hundreds and thousands, danced in endless multitudes, never ceasing. Truly, undeniably, this alone was a masterpiece. The audience of over twenty people clapped as if on cue. I grew truly happy—repetitive as it may sound—because I was in love.

But the impossibility of remaining endlessly delighted—how long because I was in love, how long because I was in love—descended upon me all too abruptly. Having been gratified by his first experience of full-house applause (though the audience numbered barely twenty), Nippon Tarō smiled broadly and—

“We’ll take a break here—but afterward I’ll come down to your seats, break every one of your arms, and instantly restore them to their original state for your viewing pleasure.”

Having said this, he briskly descended and left.

No—I was shocked, truly at a loss here. For with over twenty people in this audience, there was no telling when my arm might be snapped—and should that broken arm never mend properly, what an utter “drum needle” farce that would be! Yet against Nippon Tarō as my opponent, I couldn’t even think of fighting. Thinking thus and considering thus, I truly turned pale to the deepest marrow of my being at that moment, then halfway down Ryūsuitei’s stepped staircase retrieved my shoes and bolted into the still-pouring rain—truly, truly because I was in love.

Thus did two years pass.

I need not recount the detailed circumstances—stubborn as I was, I broke off my engagement with that Takarazuka actress who was then at the height of her popularity and wandered recklessly through the Kansai region in self-abandonment. Though I had no reason to drift to Kansai after parting with the Takarazuka woman, my works at the time—starting with *Kuraku*, then *Weekly Asahi* and *Sunday Mainichi*—were being welcomed exclusively by Kansai magazines; it was like a summer moth flying into flames, yet ultimately I gained no “yum” whatsoever. Night after night I drowned in drink, haunting the Hanazono and Kōbaitei theaters in Hōzenji Alleyway with their mournful hayashi music, seeking solace through performance after performance by the late Edajaku, Edatarō, and Shundanji.

Around that time, at a rather humble yose theater called Daihachikai run by the opposing faction, this Nippon Tarō happened to be performing.
He continued performing in his usual judo uniform, staging acts like "Melons and Eggplants" and solo plays (around the same time, this faction included Achako during his period of lying low).
But at that time, the horse-faced woman called Matsuba or some such was no longer appearing together with him.
Moreover, around the same time, according to what I heard from someone, Matsuba was a femme fatale near the Twelve-Story Building, and Nippon Tarō—who had become completely infatuated with her—ended up parting ways with his comrades, abandoning his wife and children, and sinking to performing at minor venues in Osaka’s Sanka district. Presumably moved by pity for his wife—who had fallen ill with grief over being abandoned by Tarō and died—he one day set out with Matsuba to enshrine his deceased wife’s ashes at Tennōji. Along the way, Matsuba was struck by a passing car and died instantly. Even the indomitable Nippon Tarō now leads utterly dreary days and nights—or so the story goes.

Having heard this, I found myself unable to dismiss it as another's misfortune and felt profound pity.
I could not help but feel it.
Those who chirped of Shinto gods, Buddhist teachings, love's impermanence, and life's dreariness—it seemed I was not alone among them.
But afterward—in Kansai, in Odawara, in Tokyo—my life following the parting with that actress went utterly awry.
And so I can now declare with perfect clarity: my "youth" was all darkness.

And so another five years had passed—Shōwa 5 (1930).

One early summer morning, Billiken—who had been skilled in minor magic tricks and had since passed away—and I were wandering through Nagoya’s Osu Kannon Temple grounds with mid-morning drinks warming our bellies. At that time when I had fully abandoned myself to despair, I was already posing as a storyteller and appearing at Shinmori-za’s special selection meetings—though the domestic affairs I was managing held no interest whatsoever. Moreover, regarding this current joint billing at Shinmori-za, I had secretly anticipated meeting this new dance practitioner—a former member of Shinbashi Kyōbō—even before our first encounter. Yet instead of productive discussions, we clashed over performance fees from the second day onward, leaving me to drown my rootless resentment in whatever morning drinks came my way.

Ironically, all around the city, posters bearing the name of my former fiancée—that Takarazuka actress who had by then transitioned to Shinkokugeki—fluttered in the balmy breeze, something that had become utterly unbearable for me.
To say this spurred my day-and-night drunkenness would be an understatement—it did not fail to add fuel to the fire.
Moreover, what abruptly met my drunken eyes at that moment was none other than Nippon Tarō himself—there on the roadside, laying out numerous tanzaku poetry strips and the like for sale—a figure of utmost desolation.
Despite boasting “An educated man does things differently” after each dodoitsu he sang, this Tarō—who in truth couldn’t properly read a single newspaper—would instead often engage in crude picture-drawing on stage, having the accompaniment musicians play pieces like *Twilight*.
Daubing those very crude drawings onto colored paper and poetry strips at that moment, Nippon Tarō of former times was barely managing to peddle them to passersby.

A lingering attachment remains here—
becomes enlightenment in the wild—
what thoughts at life’s end?

My teacher Yoshii Isamu had once composed this poem, but at that time I too stood not far from such cautionary precedents; now confronted with Nippon Tarō’s current state before my eyes, I found myself ceaselessly imagining this must be what my own self would become in the approaching days.
Even amid such musings, whenever I thought of the joint-billed woman with whom I still quarreled over performance fees, a renewed fury would surge within me, and promptly I would invite Billiken to enter the neighboring drinking den.
An hour without liquor made my hands tremble and tongue go numb—the me of those days, a helpless alcoholic adrift. Let me repeat: it was the “I” of that era when tomorrow held no certainty, when life itself seemed cloaked in utter darkness.

But life is unpredictable.

And then, when another eleven years had passed, I—astonishingly—appeared at that Shinmori-za under joint billing and, on that very day, was wed to the person with whom I had come into conflict.
That is to say, she is my current wife.

Nippon Tarō—who had been feared to end up as down-and-out as myself—found a favorable match with a daughter from the pleasure quarters and by all accounts became a proper gentleman of leisure enjoying a peaceful retirement or perhaps had already concluded his life in auspicious circumstances—or so I heard.
Even when comparing it to my own circumstances regarding this eccentric’s twilight years alone, I was filled with heartfelt desire to pray for his tranquility.

Even so, I ask again—Nippon Tarō—what could have driven you to take up such outlandish performances and live such an eventful life? Before long, I find myself thinking I’d like to sit down and hear the full story from even someone like Old Man Saraku. He must have had quite a novel-like early life.

Now, regarding my former fiancée who had transitioned from Takarazuka to Shinkokugeki—some ten days prior, I had chanced upon her on the street. Being two years my senior, she would have been forty-three by then; her recent state of mind likely unsound, for despite being plump she had grown peculiarly desolate, bearing no vestige of the spirited self she once possessed. On a cloudy spring afternoon, desolate myself, I parted from her at a certain crossroads in Yotsuya—she turning left, I right.