Pathway to Japanese Literature

My *Yose* Essays

Late Taishō Era Yose

Hyakumensō

When Terakado Seiken opened the “Yose” chapter in his *Edo Hanjōki*, one found the term “hyakumanako” (hundred eyes) there.
“Hyakumanako” referred to something like the flower-viewing eye adornments that Yanagimaru often used—this had likely been the source that gave birth to “Hyakumensō.”
And Hyakumensō itself, in the Tenpō era of old, must have been performances of truly delicate artistry—using mere shifts in the eyes, brows, and half the face to present audiences with myriad forms and expressions: now a man, now a woman, now aged, now youthful.
But ah, indeed—this was the true form!
From matters of the soul as well, it was far more genuine and artistic!

Just as Harunobu and Eishi’s delicate *ukiyo-e* faded with their era—much like how Gototei’s garish vermilion gave way to *nishiki-e*—later Hyakumensō performers adorned their brows, donned lavish costumes, and recklessly embellished their faces and bodies until they cried, “Behold Yuranosuke!”
The Tongue-Cut Sparrow!
And then—General Stoessel!
And so it seems these performances ultimately devolved into mere diversions for children.

However, upon reflection, one might sense that it was actually the original form that more truthfully embodied civilization’s spirit untainted by falsehood.
And thus, one cannot help but feel that what we commonly call civilization—all of it—belongs to this very category: whether it’s truly progress or regression remains utterly unclear—no, or rather, it seems to be both progress and regression at once…

Now then, when it comes to Hyakumensō performers in recent times, none could surpass the previous Shōryūtei Tsuruha.
That Tsuruha—with his gleaming bald head and prosperous-looking face—was truly a master of memorization.
His voice was hoarse enough to seem slightly concerning—but without question, his finest act was General Stoessel.
Then there was the Russian sailor in blue uniform—his pictorially masterful pose of raising a hand for help aboard the sunken warship—that I still cannot forget to this day.
When he performed Momotaro’s birth scene, it looked exactly like the automaton that had long been displayed in the exhibition hall on the street one block past Ten’yū in Nakamise—the one whose name escapes me.
It truly made one suspect it was a reincarnation of that very thing.
And then, the most striking spectacle was, without a doubt, the octopus!
The Octopus Priest—his head wrapped in a peach-colored towel, a bean-patterned headband tied about it—danced to the clack-clack rhythm, creating a heartrending spectacle indeed.
The current Tsuruha also performs it, but this alone is utterly on a different plane.
The caliber differs entirely.
In the current Tsuruha’s act, particularly, the manner of hand trembling is utterly childish, leaving the audience cold.
――Yet when I consider how that affable old man—the previous Tsuruha—ultimately went mad and died, even now I cannot escape the inexplicably eerie sensation of hearing, from somewhere unseen, the sharp cracks of Tsuruha’s head being struck with such vigor at the climax of each performance—a sound that lingers in my ears still.

The current Tsuruha, who succeeded Tsurusuke, was by no means foolish. First and foremost, in how effortlessly he kept pace with the times, I sensed an astuteness akin to his predecessor’s. Lately, even acts like plunging the stage into darkness and setting off red and blue fireworks of all sorts were increasingly seen as heresy against the Hyakumanako spirit—yet I could not help but feel this was no carefully devised innovation either. In this man’s performances, the Jintan advertisements felt period-inappropriate yet oddly endearing! The soldiers’ march, unlike that of his predecessor—now khaki-colored for the new century—exuded a Taishō-era flavor that pleased me. Recently, having conceived further from that march, he presented marathon races with identical staging. They still lacked the soldiers’ polish, but when he had them perform to Idaten’s musical accompaniment and such, it became all the more delightful as a Taishō-era tableau. Most utterly bizarre was an act where he hid his face with a folding fan to reveal a lewd snail-like visage. That had an eerie quality as if one were viewing Hokusai’s manga.

But on the whole, Hyakumensō being downstage and unexpectedly bringing out old-era musical accompaniments like those of a bygone band—it was in these moments steeped in Meiji-era sentiment that I felt the greatest delight.

There was just one person I wished to single out here: Fukuen Yū.
There existed no Hyakumensō as clumsy, witless, yet oddly endearing as that man's.
Uryū Iwako's bronze statue, the village mayor's trumpet-blaring tour of Yoshiwara—all these beings now too utterly detached from the times!
He ceaselessly plodded through these seasonal motifs alone, his costumes shabby beyond measure—but one needed to pay close attention when watching him.
In all the world, there was nothing as unbearably, excruciatingly pitiful as Fukuen Yū's Hyakumensō.
I always felt as though I were facing someone cast aside by the world, and could not help but shed tears alone.

Masu Dance

How many years has it been now?

Masu Odori performances used to appear at Yose theaters.

It was a small-statured elderly man named Shunpūtei Ryūsen who would stack seven large masu boxes at center stage, emerge in multicolored costumes, nimbly leap to the topmost box, and—chanting “First comes the pine by the pond” while producing an inexhaustible stream of folding fans from his sleeves—perform a dance piece titled “Pine Variations.”

Then once more shrouding himself in swirling murkiness, he would transform into a massive, lumpen Fukusuke like those described in magic lantern show narrations.
And like a peony blossom unfurling, he danced on with eerie uncanniness.

Though it was but an unremarkable spectacle with no particular claim to significance, something about watching these so-called “Five Transformations” and “Seven Transformations”—Edo-period dance pieces—set our hearts racing in those boyhood days.

Even so, that Ryūsen.

How many years had passed since he departed this world?

No—rather, where might those seven masu boxes left behind be now, and did they still remember their former master?

Masu Odori was a beautiful colorful spectacle.

Tachibananosuke

Lately, I find myself reflecting fondly on Tachibananosuke.
He may no longer draw crowds in Tokyo, but performers of his caliber have vanished entirely.
Above all, those elusive phrases from Oranda Jinku.
Terigarafu, Tsukiji's foreign settlement, river steamers—all preserved like Ōtsu-e paintings from that era.

And then there were children reluctantly lugging shamisens to practice—no matter how one considered it, that represented the pinnacle—those Meiji-era female performers who seemed to step out from the dim glow of gaslights.
But by the time one truly came to regret it, they were already no longer of Tokyo.

Miyako-ya Utaroku

Among the musicians I hold dear, there existed one called Miyako-ya Utaroku.
That sorrowfully ink-black timbre, that desperately tall frame, and that beautiful voice which defied conventional beauty—these I believe were qualities truly worth treasuring.
From days long past—like some eerily guttered candle—how strangely desolate stood Utaroku’s stage!

What I feel most keenly when attending today’s Yose theaters is the complete absence of musicians who should carry us into tomorrow’s era! Such is the reality. From the likes of Yanagi-kaime Edo-ya Hajime—those worthless peddlers who couldn’t sell anything beyond loincloths on the streets—how could one ever expect Yose music to flourish? With their conventionally pleasant voices (a quality I must reiterate is anathema to Yose music, whose foremost requirement being a gloriously unrefined voice), they put on absurd airs of mastery, striking pretentious poses where no true skill exists. Their sole virtue lies in lining the pockets of harmonica factories—what right have such creatures to be called “Yose musicians”?

First-generation Miyoshi’s humble yet beautiful stage; Mangiku’s fox-possessed mad flower of ecstatic roaring laughter.
A nightingale-brown haori worn by Koikan that made one think a member of the Hasshōjin had slipped out from their ranks.
――

Miyako-ya Utaroku, too, was among those few remaining—a true Yose musician!
In Shunpūtei Fūshi’s time, I was often made to hear the rakugo tale called “Uji Chūnagon.”
Chūnagon was the progenitor of rakugo who daily gathered his retainers to make them listen.
“Imagine there was a mountain somewhere. Imagine a river flowed from it. Imagine they sold white sake there. What do you think of this Yamakawa Hakushu?”
“Is it amusing?” he would ask, to which they all replied: “We find this state of affairs most amusing indeed.”
The lord commanded: “Then withdraw to the next chamber—you may all laugh without restraint.” Whereupon from the adjoining room came their voices united in sudden, startled laughter: “Aha-ha-haaah!”—thus did the punchline land.
Then they performed “Hakone Checkpoint.”
The voice uttering “My, oh my!”—its still unforgettable peculiar humor――.

When he sang “For those who know not Tokyo’s famous places—”, Hiroshige III’s *Thirty-Six Views of Civilization* unfurled like aged ōrongōri scrolls; in the Arigata-bushi melody “Praise be to Narita’s Fudō—”, there lay a lament for the tranquil lives of Tokyoites of yore—foolish yet profoundly sorrowful. When they danced “From the High Mountain—” without musical accompaniment in countless variations, the Dutch-influenced Chinese dance evoked the Ansei-era Tokihana Uta with its “Off to China we go now—”. How fine it was when Utaroku’s hands stiffened like rods in time with the backstage bell’s clang—and how delightful it was to hear the heavy drum resound when he performed the *Genji Melody of the Revised Sword Dance* with its “Brother three years older—” line. As for performers of the *suteteko* dance, aside from Nidaime Ensa, there likely remained only this Utaroku; Kananosuke’s performance would have been unbearable.

Even so, when the white midsummer always came visiting Tokyo’s streets quietly and mysteriously, I found myself thinking all the more of Utaroku.
For in Utaroku’s very bearing there resided something that irresistibly called to mind a blue viper seller arriving in arm guards redolent of indigo—so perfectly did he embody that image!

Today’s viper seller—

The fatigue of yesterday’s wandering livelihood

The prospects of tomorrow

While reciting Shirakusa’s “Viper Catcher” from the day he departed, when I recalled Miyako-ya Utaroku’s stage, something—something eerily—stirred within me, and this little folk song inevitably rose to mind: “Deceive the priest, return him to secular life, make him sell kohada sushi—” How strangely it all resonated.

Daytime performances

――There was nothing that made the feeling of being in the heart of the city soak so deeply and nostalgically into one’s very being as daytime performances.

That said, in pre-earthquake Tokyo there still existed Yose theaters worthy of daytime performances—those with old-fashioned wooden structures and slightly stylish yet antiquated gardens—venues that truly embodied colorful spectacle.
Even so—the Tachibana in Shin-Isemachi, for instance—their daytime shows surpassed their evening performances.
In that interminably long, dimly lit corner of the Yose theater—with Mansō’s fruit-counting voice echoing mournfully behind me like stevedores’ chants—I would lean against the wooden door like a gecko and listen, and always without fail, the world seemed a bleak, modestly overcast sky on a drizzling day——.
During the fourth act of a winter day’s solo performance, the stage grew dimmer still, and the late Enzō’s sallow, elongated face turned black as dried laver.
I would pull the hibachi firmly closer and listen with irreplaceable intensity to the comical “Safe Delivery” midwife’s endless recitation—“Nose’s black ticket,” “Yose’s playbill,” “Bathhouse’s half-ticket”—during those moments.
Speaking of which, at the Study Group’s 16th Anniversary Commemorative Performance (I still have that program!
On the fourth Sunday of April in Taishō 9, during Enzō’s *Hyakunin Bōzu*, the Chinese lantern plant’s fruits burned crimson.
Koenzō delivered *“Mind’s Eye”* with such desolate conviction one might have thought him truly blind.
If it was Tachibana who performed Kosan—the third Yanagiya generation used “Kotoi Kohei”—then even when Enma came rarely from Osaka for the late Sukejirō’s memorial...
Baraku’s solo performances now were invariably held on first Sundays, where twenty or so attendees always felt lonely alongside Baraku!

At the Tachibana family’s theater in Ryōgoku, the whistle of a river steamer could be heard piercing through during daytime performances.
Women holding Nagai Kafū’s works—their black collars striking—would occasionally appear in the box seats.—Along the path to the restroom hung a worn mirror inscribed in gold with stage names like “Ichiyakko,” “Monya,” and “Konan”—names already antiquated even then.
Ichiyakko is now Tachibana-ya Hanakitsu in Osaka.
I too find this hard to forget (incidentally, that alleyway-accessed Yose theater’s essence was epitomized first by this Ryōgoku Tachibana).
Then there was Asakusa’s tree-lined avenue.
Particularly when rain fell—how splendid that was.—Though I retain no memory of daytime performances themselves, Nisshu’s stage too lingers as an eerily beautiful recollection.
Peonies drawn like pomegranate calyxes!
(Gaping empty spaces lit by blue gaslight, the gutter outside frequently flowed past).

At Yakushi no Miyamatsu, rakugo study groups were frequently held.
On the sixteenth day of Obon there, I still cannot forget the color of Hiroshige’s sky gazed upon from the tightly packed second floor.—In Miyamatsu’s garden stood a pomegranate tree, and at that time, its blossoms opened.—From Osaka came Shōfukutei Shōkaku (the fourth) to perform “The Nurseryman’s Daughter.”
Kosan continued from “Nekohisa” with “I’m praying to your soul,” but it was utterly uninteresting.
No—rather than that, Enzō’s old tale “Summer Doctor” and the uproarious humor of “Straw-Stalk Serpent”!

Truly, there was nothing that made one feel the city's sorrow so profoundly as the melancholy dimness of daytime performances—whether in summer, autumn, or winter.

The daytime performances, long discontinued since the earthquake, seemed to have started up sporadically again around this year.
Just the other day, there had been an event called the Enji Society at Suehiro in Ningyōchō.
The young Enji (Yanagitei IV) skillfully performed "Shirokiya," "Yamazaki-ya," mimicry acts, and even the "Twenty-Four Hours of Spring Geisha" dance with plum blossoms.
The beautiful people of Yoshichō gathered like a profusion of flowers, and I found myself moved to tears by the serene hush of daytime performances after so long.
——And so, when I heard from its proprietor that "practice meetings" were being established one after another at Tachibana——I thought: Even if this resurgence of daytime performances did nothing more than add one more layer of poignant beauty to the city, it was truly a good thing.

However, I earnestly hope that daytime performances remain faintly overcast afternoons throughout all four seasons.
On days when the weather was too glaringly sunny—especially in summer—leaving the Yose theater became unbearably frustrating!
Daytime performances—if the weather there were fine,

“Due to excessively clear weather today, regrettably closed for the day!”

How about we decide that!!! Ha ha!

Muraku

Asanemura Muraku was Yanagi Shō.
The present-day Muraku—with his shaved head reminiscent of Ogawa Mimei’s portrait in those Meiji-era literary pamphlets rendered in brushwork—was none other than Yanagi Shō of bygone days.—Among Tokyo’s current rakugo artists, even amidst the elderly masters, I held this man in considerable esteem.
I regarded him as a rare find indeed.

In this modern age, whenever Muraku appeared, audiences would demand nothing but “drunkard” acts, and he himself—perhaps due to his waning popularity—mostly placated them with such routines before retreating from the stage—yet even those “drunkard” performances! Ah!
With his discordant delivery, exaggerated bashfulness, and unnervingly prim posture—both hands planted on his knees, his right hand invariably jerking upward unnaturally when he recited—he would launch into those chaotically jumbled renditions of *“Plum Blossoms in Spring”* or *“Kappore”* as though staging a formal performance, their allure intensifying the more attentively one listened.
In *“Condolences,”* he might expound upon radium, digress into vegetable market prices, or return home boasting about his wife—the variegated absurdity of it all!

In *Supply Corps Soldier*, Muraku would raise that bizarre voice of his—“Fu, fu, fu-ah!”—at unexpected intervals while sonorously reciting *Telegraph Poles Bloom with Flowers*.

On the slope bathed in crimson sunset

A trumpet tune that weeps as I do—

Did even the Tokyo of bygone days, when Hakushū wandered enraptured, project itself so vividly in deep vermilion?

Yet what I found most invaluable about Muraku was that peculiar flavor of his—the way Yotarō and Namayoi would abruptly shriek “Fu-fu-fu-fu-ah!” at random moments mid-conversation.
“Fu-fu-fu-fu-fu-ah!” he’d bellow before ending with a “gyu” sound—like an egg crushed underfoot. A ruptured gas balloon, perhaps?
I often caught myself wondering.
――That was its very essence――.
In his rendition of *Zukkoke*, he would recite:

*“There’s a fire—come out and see!”*

If it’s distant, close the door——

There, in a single strange pitch, he raised his voice,

Go to sleep—whoosh! Whoosh!

There were even lines like this.
It would be appropriate to call this the most Muraku-esque dignified song.

However, from where—from what—did he ever come to start uttering those “fu, fua, fua, fuah——” sounds? This is something I would dearly like to ask Muraku while sitting with my knees drawn up in earnest—(Author’s note: This Muraku later went mad and died). Have you not seen “Kakkyo no Kamabori”? “En’yū sutete ko, Danshi’s Pot Digging, Yūzō’s Yokachoro, Ichiba’s Rice Cakes”—even now, such Yose verses still occasionally find their way onto children’s lips. “Kakkyo no Kamabori, Tekeretsu no Paa——” was the specialty of Tatekawa Danzaburō, great-grandmaster of the school (I know not its origins; his appearance, it is said, resembled Katsura Konan). —So was this Danshi’s original creation, or did it exist prior? According to my teacher, Professor Yoshii, even Hana no En’yu performed it.—Nowadays, only two remain in all of east and west: the first Tachibana-ya Miyoshi (now the third-generation Enkō) and Tachibana-ya Koenta in Osaka.

But in this world there existed no dance so exhilarating yet inscrutable—its meaning scattering like flower petals, its movements erratic, its melodic phrasing and drumbeats plumbing the depths of sorrow—uncannily beautiful yet inexplicably mournful, drawing up tears that surged wave after wave.
――That might well be called our Yose’s most civilized dance.

Enkō’s and Koenta’s approaches differed entirely; though Koenta’s could never compare to Enkō’s flavor of cultural refinement, both carried intriguing atmospheres.

―First, I love those phrases—those utterly meaningless phrases!

First, he folded the futon and cradled it tightly like a child. He tied a headband and tucked a fan into his hair—Koenta, adopting a Chinese style, further wore his haori inside out—and wiped at the *suteteko* part. Then it began—it began—.

He first recited lines reminiscent of Karakara-ya’s dialogue—*“Ajaraka mokuren, kyūrai, tekohen—”*—before launching into *“tekeretsu no paa!”* With a boom, the taiko drum entered there (How tragic!). *“On the stage—a futon, a hibachi, a kettle—tekeretsu no paa! Mimicking the futon as a child like this—tekeretsu no paa!—Kakkyo gazed at the child he cradled with genuine affection while wandering about the stage.”* Then, with a pained expression, he sang: *“If you exist, I cannot fulfill filial piety—tekeretsu no paa!”*—and placed the child in a corner.

He began pacing around again. *“The Law of the Lotus Sutra reigns over all under heaven—tekeretsu no paa!”*—he returned once more to the center of the stage. He plopped down and looked at the child’s face. *“Today’s the seventeenth, tomorrow the eighteenth, day after’s nineteenth—paa!”* (This varied by performance date)—he twisted his fingers restlessly, like one from *Hana Goyomi Hachishōjin* facing imminent death.

From this point onward, the melody gradually trembled falteringly. *“The Yoshiwara courtesan sends letters but cannot step outside—paa! / Here I pine for her, but over there she feigns ignorance—tekeretsu no paa! / Pleading, threatening, coaxing, cajoling—still I’m cast aside—paa!”* —The song blurred utterly with tears.

And there, the tempo suddenly quickens.
A streak of brightness suddenly flowed.
*“Saiko Takuma has emerged, tekeretsu no paa!”* —Enkō’s hand becomes a hoe.
Red earth suddenly scatters across the stage like a Chinese figure depicted by Mōsai Yoshitake.
From here, the lyrics plunge into wild rapidity!
He threw the child into [the hole] and abandoned it—such was the progression.
But Koenta’s approach differs slightly more.
This is Our Land’s Twenty Acts of Filial Impiety!
It is.
An unconsciously structured rebellion of Edoite civilization against the Twenty-Four Filial Exemplars!
It is.
In other words, the motive for burying the child is completely contrary to the orthodox method.
*“If I have this child, I can’t stray—tekeretsu no paa!”*—there lies the origin of it all.
So, when [he] kicks the child aside, instantly the two are sharing a ride!
*“Cheek to cheek in a shared carriage’s canopy, clap! Tekeretsu no paa—come forth!”*

Be that as it may, there exists no dance that strikes us with such great glass beads of sorrow.
Florid melancholy.
Glistening sorrow.

Never have I felt such bittersweet anguish—at once joyous, sorrowful, and piercing—as when I lose myself in this dance, akin to gazing unblinking into the eyes of some peerless soul.

Therefore, straining my voice to its limit, thus do I also cry out.

Have you not seen Kakkyo no Kamabori?!
Ah, have you not seen Kakkyo no Kamabori!!!

Saiga’s Death

Yamato died.
When Tsubakuro came to Tokyo and assumed the identity of Saiga, Yamato at last died.

He was skilled.

That was Sen no Katsura Bunraku (Fifth Generation).

They reduced a treasure to beggary.

When I reflected thus, Yamato’s passing—more than En'u (First Generation), more than Imasuke (Kokontei, Third Generation)—was the most regrettable.
First, Yamato’s later years had been bleaker than those of Koenzō (Sanyūtei, Second Generation).
It was as if his name had vanished from the signboards.
Even Tatsukawa Danshi (Fifth Generation)—now Kin-koma (what became of him afterward?)—had fallen into a truly faint-shadowed second-rate position, but Yamato’s case, being incomparable even to Kin-koma’s artistry, struck me as all the more regrettable.
Especially in recent years, more strongly than my love for him—for Yamato—or anything else, I would chase after the slightest glimpse of his small name in the corners of playbills, rushing here and there, yet ultimately never once managed to hear him perform.
They said his health had failed—that he merely made backstage rounds.
This was apparently the current young headliners’ modest repayment for past kindnesses—those he had once supported.
Yet because of this, I never became familiar with his recent likeness until the end (though in that inner backstage world, Yamato had remained blessed until his final years).
As for someone like Hayashiya Shōzō—had there been a memorial gathering for Yamato—one sensed they would have moved heaven and earth to attend.
Indeed, just before his death from illness, they even held a day-and-night variety show jointly with Mutsumi and the association.
There Yamato succeeded to his father Saiga’s name—and then he died.)

The times when I would listen to Yamato and be impressed were indeed still during Bunraku’s era—his head balding like a roasted chestnut, his voice huskily roughened in the Edo manner, a single nasal hum worth a thousand ryō in gold.
Edo natives proved remarkably sociable among themselves, and with the reign enjoying peace and seasonal harmony, I felt inexpressible delight.
I would even find myself pondering deeply whenever hearing him perform as Heibei the Snake, the ballad singer in *Haikaitei Kyuraku*.

But if that were truly the case—did I really listen to him so frequently? No, I did not.
In my boyhood days of Dontaku festivals, when I would sneak into daytime performances under cover of home—or amidst the bittersweet young bamboo of late spring in the garden—or beneath the helplessly blue gas lamps of some night show in a town now forgotten—in such places, there were but a countable few instances, and without fail, they were always Tororon from Three Travelers.
I heard the same story only a handful of times.
Yet, despite being so "countably few," for some reason, I loved it to death.
Bunraku was a storyteller of rare, light, parasol-like artistry—even surpassing Enzō of Shinagawa (Tachibana-ya, Fourth Generation), whom I so adored—what a storyteller he was!
It even came to be thought of in such terms.

Such things are likely a sentiment most people even slightly devoted to Yose theater-going hold—much like recalling memories of a castle town they once visited.
In fact, an essay I once read by Kochō-san—though my memory now grows faint on whether it concerned Yanagiya Kingorō (Second Generation) or Enkyō—wrote something to this effect in reminiscing about a certain master: “However, I only heard this man perform five or six times at most, and even then, it was always the same revenge tale, scattered here and there.”
With only those memories to go on, Mr. Baba had clearly and unequivocally praised that man’s splendid artistry.
My Yamato is likewise.

Yamato was said to be skilled at stories like *Fujimōde*, which likewise captured the lighthearted travel moods of Edoites, but as I mentioned earlier, having only heard *Tororon*, I could hardly offer any meaningful assessment.

In the introductory routine of *Tororon* that every performer does, there's a section where they call out to the fire watchtower and inquire.
“Where’s the fire?” they’d ask. If someone answered “Yoshiwara,” they’d immediately dash off, but if the reply came “Kasai Sunamura,” they’d roar, “Go to sleep!”
That spot truly conjured the image of a night watchtower looming vertiginously high.
As for that fire watchtower routine—I believe mine surpassed even En'u’s in skill.

Once the story proper begins, it becomes that familiar part where they search for Tsuruya Zenbei. That segment was performed by Yamato (then known as Bunraku) in dodoitsu style:
“Though we three walk together tonight—” here he suddenly raised his pitch to carry across the room—“‘Tsuruya Zenbei!’ That’s how Big Brother taught us to deliver it.”
His voice was splendid.
He understood and executed it perfectly.
Yet when the singer himself performed “Though we three walk together, we can’t tell where Tsuruya is”—this section proved exceptionally brilliant—the others’ illiteracy remained concealed beforehand, with only one man confessing he couldn’t read Tsuruya’s signboard.
Big Brother launched into his trademark tirade:
“You blithering fool! If you’re heading back, drag your ass to school!—”
(When I heard him say “school”—ah, that Meiji spirit of Civilization and Enlightenment!)
The other man bowed sheepishly. “Well then, Bro, why don’t you read it?”
To which came the reply: “I can’t read it either.”
The other man pressed on:
“Then let’s both go to school together when we return to Tokyo!”
And so it continued...

This “Let’s both go to school together” was both amusing and heartwarming in its way.
Of course, En’u also performed *Tororon*.
“Hakone Mountain—did mountebanks devise this?” so queries Yatappei no Baraku.
When one enters the bath inverted, they lower the late Ko-sen.
I had heard even Shinagawa’s late Enzō perform it too—“*Meeting by chance as dawn pales the east—how I’d linger till sunrise...*”—chanted in that husky tone.
Shinshō too was skilled.
Even Enraku would mount strong-necked steeds in his youth.
The present Baraku of altar lamps; Shōzō of *Morning Flies*.

But in the end, of all the times I had been made to listen, this Bunraku’s *Tororon* stood supreme. Utterly untainted by modern sensibilities. And thus it became the journey of journeys—the very soul of an Edoite’s travels. Truly, I find myself convinced that none understood the emotional core of *Three Travelers* more profoundly than this Yamato of Bunraku.

That Yamato had indeed finally withdrawn his shadow from the stage.

For my part, I found myself utterly devoid of any sentiment.
I thought it would be permissible to weep for him.

Tonight, somewhere, the white smoke from the iron kettle boiling on stage must be sobbing unnoticed.
Namu Keisaiga Tonsei Bodhisattva!

Hyakumensō Anecdotes

Speaking of Minatoya Kokame—it was when the red bricks of Ryōunkaku blazed splendidly against the late spring sky—he would chant Kantō-bushi and *Tsukimi Uri* Shin’ai from behind gleaming gold teeth, having once stirred Asakusa morn and eve with a Daikagura troupe. Later appearing at Mutsu-ha’s Yose theaters, though he gained some popularity, his solo-stage fervor went too far; “That’s a misfit!” he was mercilessly derided by certain peers.

In truth, within that Kokame troupe was an old man dubbed Ganmodoki—his face a mass of large pockmarks, his Jōshū accent thick with stutters, his clumsiness comical beyond measure. One year, this Ganmodoki, alongside the Kokame company at Hanakawado Higashibashi-tei’s daytime performances in late spring’s waning days—in a solo hyakumensō act upon the stage—performed the headless corpse incident of Kōmeigawa that had then become the talk of the town. First came a detective bellowing as he brandished an arrest rope to apprehend the culprit; then the culprit himself with his ominous kama hat; next, a bewitching inn waitress in a red apron at the scene of capture—and nay, the culmination was a woman’s severed head floating and drifting upon the water. Given the man with his rough-hewn mask—unsettling enough to behold—this severed head was truly, utterly terrifying; indeed, I still vividly remember shuddering in horror. Though there were many hyakumensō performers, such grotesquerie as this was unlikely to exist again. First, I shall jot down a note here as a memento for posterity.

Yose Dodoitsu

Nowadays, there are no longer any good musicians at Yose theaters, and consequently, good Dodoitsu songs are no longer heard.

Before the earthquake, the predecessor of Bun no Iekashiku—with his crab-like scruffy face—would perform nothing but Dodoitsu songs day after day for ten years, always punctuated by hiccups.
――“Asari clams and basket clams—wait for the cockles, from turban shells sprout horns”―—this was said to be a masterpiece, but I have no memory of such lyrics or melodic turns; it was, as ever, only hiccups.
Otherwise, I remember that the bumbling routine of *Crab and Sea Cucumber* suited that face rather well, and it was quite fitting.

Utaroku, Entarō, Koikan—that Koikan would often appear draped in a flowing nightingale-brown haori,

*“The rootstock we nurtured hand in hand has withered”*

*A willow, its branches lightly brushed, sprouted buds.*

he sang.
And another thing—though I regrettably forgot the first half, the latter part went something like “toiling at Shiba’s Shinmei Shrine...”
I will never forget those Edo-style lyrics.

That man’s bearing and attire carried a late Edo-period sensibility, and combined with his dodoitsu performances, it sometimes evoked a fine sense of gallantry.

The undisputed masterpiece was Old Man Tachibana-ya Miyoshi.
That halting delivery—each phrase chewed over and spat out with deliberation—stood as profoundly stylistic; fashioned into a brash flavor reminiscent of Tachibana-no-suke’s artistry, it was collectively revered as a peerless treasure.

Among rakugo artists, Kosan III excelled, yet Baishō (Kinpatei VI), who later took the name Shinshō before his death, also shone.
Though his throat—versed in Tomimoto-style singing—held a husky timbre, with that very cadence he rendered “Three Travelers” and...

*“Since we parted, there’s been no word,”*
*“If perhaps your heart has changed again”*
*Though we meet by chance as daybreak whitens the east*
*how I wish to linger till sunrise*

And—I simply cannot forget the authentic flavor of delivering these lines straight.

Among those from that era, Old Man Mangiku was likely the musician who remained active until most recently. His seasoned artistry was indeed gratifying, yet I believe Mangiku truly shone in musical forms beyond dodoitsu—pieces like *Zehi Tomo*, *Sakura Hee*, and *Kuwana no Tonosama*. These days, while the current Kashiku carries poignant charm, his regional accent proves regrettable. Were Kohanji to rein in his slovenliness, he might achieve true distinction.

In Osaka, people fondly recalled the previous Senkitsu of Tachibana-ya. Take that distinctive dodoitsu style—with rhythmic beats inserted into the lower five syllables—for instance,

*“Strike or beat me as you will”*

*“It’s not that I’m in love—it’s just that I fancy you.”*

The inserted beats were handled there—and now,

…’s not…

and so he would conclude.

The same melodic phrasing was performed by the retired Entarō (Tachibana-ya, fifth generation), and further by his disciple Koenta—in some cases even called *Koenta-bushi*—yet each had their own peculiar charm. Entarō with that fiery beauty of tone, yet Koenta’s rendition—soft and husky, tinged with pathos—also felt impossible to discard.

Among Osaka’s rakugo storytellers, the dodoitsu sung by Hayashiya Some Maru (II) in his harshly hoarse voice surpassed even his own rakugo performances themselves. With flavors like yoshiko and sosori,

“By boat, it must be cold—here, take this to wear.”

“This kimono robe of mine for lounging”

When songs like these were performed—so plaintive, so old-fashioned—one could not help but ponder the social fabric of Naniwa in days long past…

When Sen’yū of the Tachibana-ya house played Dodoitsu on his shakuhachi with piercing clarity—back in those bright autumn nights at the Yose where I shed tears—I was still young, in my twenty-first or twenty-second year, those days of love.
But—even now, I feel that an indescribable sorrow suffuses his shakuhachi playing, seeping through all the more strongly when he performs Dodoitsu.

In conclusion, regarding the Dodoitsu performed by rakugo storytellers at Yose theaters—though lacking in beautiful voices and possessing a certain dullness—I hold as supreme those performances where the air of old-fashioned Wagōjin-style performers mumbling drowsily while singing remains vividly present, and I believe this should endure eternally.

In that spirit, as if performing one lofty kouta after another—like a spring breeze through willows—they do nothing but sing Dodoitsu songs in rapid succession,

“Now then, General over there—how about it?”

“Righto, got it. Well then…”

Such dodoitsu—those showy-flavored ones where all conversational elements were entirely omitted—were the lowest tier among musicians.

Thus, as I mentioned earlier, Kohanji—dialect-tinged yet amusing—and... well, now it seemed only these two remained.

Then there were Hagegame, [BANKARA] Tatsusaburō, [BANKARA] Shinbō, Kogame, the previous Iwateko, and the Daikagaku performers—all of whom had quite a number of excellent dodoitsu performances at the time—but I shall speak of this on another occasion.

Master Bunraku

Among those so-called authentic rakugo artists who approach their craft as if inscribing each stroke in meticulous block script, there were many with an oppressively introverted artistic style. In contrast, the so-called “popular figures” among rakugo artists—those dazzling crowd-pleasers—lacked descriptive depth, their psychological progression proved awkward, and not a few of them struggled to discern their artistic identity.

If we were to liken this to life, the former would be a dowdy, dutiful wife—undoubtedly chaste to the core, yet never one to enliven her oafish husband’s evening drink—while the latter, though irresponsibly amusing during their fleeting encounters, is ultimately a capricious mistress; leave her as a lotus flower in the field, and she cannot escape reproach.

A wife who serves her husband with unwavering fidelity, maintains herself with rouge and powder, and radiates such charm—if such a paragon of domesticity existed, then this life of ours would bloom with countless flowers in full fragrance.

In the world of art as well, the emergence of a talent who embodies both qualities—that is, one who is both foundational and dazzlingly beautiful in form—is an event promised only once every few decades.

That is precisely why the title of “master” persists in vain while true mastery itself so rarely materializes.

And yet—
Throughout the current rakugo world of both east and west, our Katsura Bunraku stood precisely as that precious, once-in-decades, unparalleled presence.
Since Master Enma fell ill, truly, upon whom else could one have sought this but him?

In this person’s *The Eel’s Banquet*, one could breathe in old Tokyo’s streets shimmering with oily heat from early Taishō; in *The Flower Vase*, discern late spring sunlight beating upon the retreating back of a provincial samurai—chamber pot triumphantly clutched—as he headed toward an inn near Bakurochō; and in *The Horse’s Nest*, visualize pre-earthquake Tokyo’s townhouse aura—low eaves and dim ceilings—in the bearing of the master testing his fishing rod.

All those people would immediately concur that my earlier praise of this person was not excessive.

Moreover, this Bunraku continued to maintain the unwavering passion and inquisitive spirit of an eternal youth.

Indeed, he had only just recently premiered works like *Tomihisa*, *Uma no Su*, and *Kabin* through his studies, and was now diligently expanding his repertoire piece by piece—taking years with each—through works like *Shibahama* and *Kyūshū Fukimodoshi*.

While it may be said that this was entirely natural—having reached such artistic heights and yet—this effort, this dedication—.

I dare—I dare say.
How many others are there? (Likely none but Shinshō among the top-billed performers.)

It was in this that I became utterly devoted.

At that time, while Enma-style stories were being transmitted one after another through Bunraku with traditional fidelity, it was precisely his clear-sighted realization—that they must not become mere carbon copies of Enma—that revealed Bunraku’s extraordinary nature all the more.
One might say there lay a “tomorrow.”

When measured against Enma’s renowned boldness, Bunraku’s artistry proved altogether lighter and more delicate.
His face, his bearing—every aspect of his distinctive character.

Herein lay Bunraku’s depth of self-knowledge: even for tales he had painstakingly imitated in Enma’s style, he now dared undertake a second refinement—cultivating each character and sharpening narrative cadences into his own distinctive form.
Some efforts had already borne fruit; others remained works in progress.

Therefore we may say that our Bunraku’s artistry—its very brilliance—holds promise of radiating ever more sharply in years yet to come.
At once there exists no other who makes manifest through their very flesh and bone that maxim “art demands lifelong discipline” with such visceral clarity.

For a time, it was often said that Bunraku was skilled but had few stories in his repertoire.
And I myself had believed so as well.
At least until five or six years ago.

But after that, when I became closely acquainted with this person’s training methods, I finally came to realize the profound lack of understanding behind such criticism.

As I had tediously reiterated, Bunraku’s “art” advanced one deliberate step at a time.
He would delve into a single story with deliberate persistence and meticulous care under the long, long passage of time—polishing it, burnishing its luster—and only once he was satisfied that it was truly good would he finally dig his second spade into the next “story.”

Therefore, to an outsider’s eyes observing in passing, his approach may seem merely slow and painstaking; yet when this person reaches sixty or seventy years of age, and his repertoire of performance pieces has reached an unexpectedly vast number, there will surely come a time when people stare in wide-eyed astonishment. I firmly believe this without doubt and, precisely because of that, from the depths of my heart, I unceasingly pray for my Bunraku’s self-care, self-restraint, and nourishment.

The Yose Theater on the Night of the Great Victory in the Greater East Asia War

In the dead of winter that year—as the Prince of Wales sank, Hong Kong fell, and remarkable victory reports streamed in from naval battles across the seas—I, still recovering from illness, was rushing to complete the final section of A Modern History of Rōkyoku, six hundred pages in all.

As it happened that I needed to obtain guidance from Hattori Shin-kun regarding dates and other matters, I visited the backstage of Ōtsuka Suzumoto nearby.
Until Hattori-kun came down from the stage, I waited in the dressing room.
Ryūtei Saraku was there.
There was Shōraku the paper-cutting performer; there was a poor-sighted young apprentice who had been a disciple of the late Ryūshi (Shunpūtei VII).

“After all, isn’t it that Japanese bombers are chasing after fighter planes, you?”

Shōraku warmed his hands over the brazier.

“Well now—that’s like mice chasing cats, isn’t it?”

“Strong… Strong no matter how you look at it…”

Old man Ryūtei Saraku spoke as if lamenting.
This man—who had once served as General Nogi’s staff officer in the Russo-Japanese War, returned home, then ascended the stage in military uniform to become a sensation with wartime rakugo pieces like *The Charge* and *Triumphal Return*.
He had constantly performed “General Nogi” routines, but—
Though still robust, his face had darkened with age and become mottled with liver spots. I gazed intently at this old warrior’s features.

“Amidst year’s end, this cold, this war—and yet such a crowd of patrons has come.”
“It’s all thanks to the Imperial Army’s great victory!”

Even more joyfully than a child receiving their favorite sweets, the poor-sighted young apprentice was beaming, his entire face quivering with excitement as he frolicked.
Throughout my life, I will never forget this person’s face at this moment.
Applause broke out, and Hattori-kun came down.

The wintry wind raged incessantly outside the latticed window.

The Events of These Past Few Days

“Mr. Azumi.”

“I hear you visited Fuji City on New Year’s Eve.”
“Last night, I went to Takashūzō’s place and strolled through the first-day market—when I heard you’d come, I felt terribly regretful.”
“I’d gone to discuss my wife’s new dance recital scheduled for autumn at the Nihonbashi Club, but even in the same Fuji City, unlike June’s first-day market, the bright scenery now felt utterly steeped in summer—distinctly apparent in the planted trees, insect sellers, and even above Tsurujinya.”
“There was even an ephemeral quality lingering that made one think summer might already be ending—three or four insect sellers had set up stalls.”
“But those confectionery shops from last year, decked out in red, white, yellow, light blue, and brown like five-colored sugar hina doll sweets—they were nowhere to be found this year, not in June nor now.”
As the goods sold grew increasingly mundane and household-oriented, Takashi kept lamenting how the town’s once distinctly summer festival-like atmosphere was steadily vanishing.

……It had been hazy and muggy since morning. In the midst of this, I had been proofreading the newly written full-length novel *Yose* until now. Thanks to that effort, I’d already completed two hundred and twenty pages. With one more breath, I would cross the mountain pass. There was now a plan at the bookstore to hold a publication commemorative performance for this book—in fact, last night I had gone out not only regarding my wife’s affairs but also to attend discussions about my own involvement.

To rewind two or three days: after finishing this *Yose* between February and March, I had completed another volume mixing novellas and short stories, then—since last month—embarked on writing the newly drafted full-length novel *Entyō*, only to completely exhaust my mind after reaching about a hundred pages. While there were usually times about once a month when I became unable to write, this instance proved too severe—when Takashi came visiting the other night, I’d been in no state whatsoever. People in voice-based professions sometimes experience moments where their voices suddenly fail—what they call “losing form”—and my mind seemed afflicted by something similar. And so I resolutely decided to abandon *Entyō* for the time being, wrapping the manuscript papers piled by my pillow in a furoshiki cloth and storing them away in the cupboard. Thus I steeled myself to pass the days and nights idly, aimlessly, to no purpose. For a man like me—who finds no joy beyond continually writing something—this amounted to considerable torment, but when even reading two or three lines of trivial notes in a magazine’s sixth issue left me dizzy, as happened this time…

Fortunately, the twenty-ninth arrived.
A misty drizzle hung in the air, but when Hyakuen Tachibana requested that my wife and sister visit Hachioji to perform dances for the air defense surveillance unit’s morale visit, I promptly tagged along.
The theater was the old Sekiya-za—where Sixth Onoe Kikugorō was said to have inaugurated the stage—now called Tōhō Gekijō.
We went straight there from the station.
Through the small, narrow dressing room window, a single reddish-yellow plum ripening on a tree in the vacant lot behind looked lonesome.
Creeping saxifrage spread across the ground with large bluish-black leaves so unremarkable they seemed almost bland.
Suddenly I recalled the view from a dressing room in a small Tottori theater I had visited long ago with my wife.
By noon I had grown hungry, so I returned to Hyakuen’s billiard parlor for lunch.
Our group then set out for Mount Takao.
Each time we abandoned the bus or cable car, fog would creep in to envelop us before receding into the distance.
We finally reached the observation deck only to find nothing but fog.
Yet mountain doves cried out ceaselessly.
After drinking cold sake we had brought, we rode the cable car back down.
While waiting for the bus afterward, we were caught in a torrential downpour.
The surroundings began darkening into a deep blue dusk.
By the time we reached Hachioji Town, night had fully fallen, and lights glowed in this main inn along the Koshu Kaido like a zangirimono stage backdrop.
We were led to a beef restaurant where we gorged on beef and pork (ah yes—that afternoon I had bought Mantaro Kubota’s still-new *Tokyo Night Stories* and Shukyo Chikamatsu’s *Orchid Lantern Love Stories* at a used bookstore in town).
There was also a particularly fine copy of Mr. Kubota’s *From Komagata* there, I might add).
Well then, thoroughly sodden with drink, I returned home on a late train that night.

Thanks to New Year’s Eve, my head had considerably recovered.
When I wrote postcards, my hand trembled slightly, but just being free from pain was relief enough.
After all—I thought—the trip to Hachioji had been worth making.

In good health, I set out through the faint daylight to attend the memorial service at Hanashizuka of Kumano Inari in Asakusa.
I met various rakugo storytellers, kōshaku reciters, Mr. Nomura, the owner of Suzumoto-tei, painter Ito Seiu, and members of the short comic storytelling association.
In the main hall—unusually fitted on the second floor—I sat beside Bunraku-kun, vacantly listening to sutra chanting.
In one of Akutagawa-san’s novels, there was a scene where someone “listened to sutra chanting as if it were shinnai balladry,” was there not?
Vaguely recalling that passage, I grew indignant at the neighborhood roofs visible from here—their crude barracks-like shoddiness glaringly apparent.
Bunraku-kun said he shared my sentiment.
Around one o’clock after returning home, I contemplated visiting Roppa-kun’s practice studio or going to Fuji City but ultimately took an evening nap instead.
Had I gone to Asakusa that night, I might have met you.
I woke thrice during the night and returned immediately to sleep each time.
At some point it seemed rain had begun falling.

On the crisply clear morning of New Year’s Day, I went for a walk toward Sugamo Station and unexpectedly found Professor Yoshii’s *Aimongyo Essays*. Since this was the new book I had waited two months for—making countless pilgrimages to the publisher’s office—no sooner had I bought it and returned home than I began devouring it. I was particularly drawn to stories about Mr. Ikuta Kizan in his youth, the opening of Professor Nagai’s *Yahazugusa*, and the tale of the bird seller appearing in Mr. Mokutarō Kinoshita’s poems—Furitsurunpu, Bonkotsu, and Miyakogawa. Now I could read without dizzy spells, and thanks to that, I passed the time without boredom until evening (moreover, it was quite enjoyable). And so, after taking a bath, I made my way through Fuji City’s bustle to visit Takashi’s place—thus came about the arrangement.

While I was writing near the conclusion of the above passage, three executives from the Bunraku Savoring Society arrived bearing sake.
No sooner had the drinking commenced than we whiled away half a day in idle chatter about Bunraku-kun and other rakugo artists.
When night fell, Matsudaira Akira-kun—soon to depart for the continent—came calling.
My mind appears to be mending gradually.
Yet at this juncture, I’ve resolved to take deliberate respite, postponing matters for another day entirely.
I must visit Takashi one of these times.

In our towns too, shinnai ballad street performers and accordion buskers became markedly more numerous every night. When these began appearing, one could distinctly feel "summer" in the air.

And so.

Baraku Memorial Service

Yatarō’s Memorial Service, Postponed to the Time of Rapeseed and Fugu Yutaka

On the morning of March 23 at Shitaya Sakuragi-chō Jōmyōin, a bright spring light pierced through into the dim main hall. Kōdanshi reciters and rakugo storytellers—Teizan, Sanyō, Roshū, Kosan, Bunraku, Karaku, Shinshō, Enshō, En’yū, and Saraku—sat encircling the space with hands pressed in prayer. Nomura Mumeian-kun and Saitō Toyokichi-kun were present. Imamura Nobuo-kun and his wife attended as well. My wife sat flanked by Okamoto Bunya-kun and Miyanosuke-kun. Since Baraku and I served as sponsors, they seated us right at the center. When the sutra chanting concluded,

Ah, even more desolate must Bamichi’s

Baraku’s household as spring departs

Then Bunyaki-kun began to recite Professor Yoshii’s Mad Baraku tanka with Miyanosuke-kun’s shamisen accompaniment. There were five tanka poems in total. Between those five songs, *shinnai* ballads, lively festival tunes, *geza hayashi* off-stage music, and *yuki no aikata* snow interludes were intricately woven in and performed with exquisite skill.

Those who have read Professor Yoshii’s *Haikaitei Kyoraku*, *Mad Performer*, and subsequent series of urban plays will surely remember—the 28th memorial service for that third-generation Chōkarō Baraku (whose real name was Homma Yatarō, hence called Yatappei Baraku), who died in madness.
Having postponed the January 16th death anniversary to today during the equinoctial week—and since I had been making monthly pilgrimages for seven years as my teacher Professor Yoshii’s proxy while Baraku had inherited the fifth-generation artistic name—we jointly conducted this memorial service.
Baraku, who had lived in Umamichi and Fuji Yokocho, spent most days and nights not at Yose theaters but inhabiting the Yoshiwara of the “Chūmonchō” and “Imado Shinjū” eras.
“Night snow—if only I could preserve its jade-like purity” might be called Yatappei Baraku’s anguished confession, voicing his recent state of mind.
Bun'yaki-kun had depicted that very figure with striking clarity within the descending three-note festival song.
As I sat eyes closed in drowsy reverie, tears suddenly began streaming from my eyes the moment the lively tune played.
And then they spread tepidly across my cheeks.

The days of performers’ lives from the end of Meiji to the early years of Taishō—both tranquil and serene.
Those days, that time—the Bamichi neighborhood.
For me, who spent my childhood in Asakusa Hanakawado, those memories flickered hazily before my eyes—as if gazing at faded photographs of my grandparents.
And as for me—what a journey of countless relocations it had been, from Shitamachi to Yamanote, to Kamigata, to Odawara, and back again to Tokyo!
How many years had passed since I first visited Professor Yoshii’s residence in Katase?
Due to circumstances, I had long been out of touch with my teacher, but through organizing a memorial service for San'yūtei Enma (third generation), who had long been ill in Sakachi, I unexpectedly received correspondence from him this time.
It was an event that had occurred less than ten days prior, and close friends like Furukawa Roppa, Tokugawa Musei, and Takatozo all rejoiced as if it were their own affair.
All these things, now combined with the shamisen of Baraku’s song, made me cry even more.
When I finally managed to suppress my tears and slowly opened my eyes, San'yūtei En'yū—now markedly aged in his dark brown Western suit—was incessantly wiping his eyelids with a handkerchief.
"When I die, please perform this instead of sutras too"—that’s what Kokontei Shinshō had said at the time, I recalled.

I went to the grave.
Though called a grave, the true one had been in Tsukiji's monzeki temple precincts—now likely vanished without trace, unattended—leaving only this seated Jizō statue established by Yanagi-school members: Kosan III, Imasuke, Basei, Bunraku, Saraku, Tsubame, Shinshō, and Enshi.
Those who erected it have all now passed away; only Ryūtei Saraku attending today remains hale.
Red peach blossoms, forsythia, quince, and marigolds bloomed with early spring vigor, smiling through the haze of incense smoke.
Again Bun'yaki-kun began reciting those tanka verses repeatedly.

After that, we were treated to a modest lunch at nearby Meigetsu-en.
We compiled an autograph album and sent it to Professor Yoshii and Mr. Kubota.

At the gathering, Teizan told this story.

At year’s end, when I visited Baraku—who was staying at a mountain lodge around that time—he said, “Write ‘Katō Kiyomasa barricades himself in Ulsan.’”
When I obligingly wrote that down for him, he next said, “Write ‘Tani Tateki barricades himself in Kumamoto Castle.’”
When I wrote that for him, this time he himself added afterward, “Homma Yatarō barricades himself in the second floor of his own house,” and boldly posted it at the entrance.
After showing it to the landlord and negotiating (what on earth did he say during those negotiations?!) he finally succeeded in getting them to lower the rent.
It was so characteristic of this man—who had composed “No face to pair an old lined kimono with autumn saury”—that it was amusing.

Saraku told another such story.

Ryūchō (Shunpūtei III), known as Hatsune-ya for his human-interest rakugo; Baraku; and I—the three of us had gone out for a night’s revelry back then. In those days, every house along Ohaguro-ditch had jump bridges stretched across to the opposite bank. Normally kept tautly raised, they were designed to be lowered only when needed—yet crossing them made the return absurdly short. Then Ryūchō, putting on his best brothel-quarter airs,

“Hey there! Pardon me—could you lower that jump bridge over yonder for a moment—”

They had them lower [the bridges] each time and crossed over with nonchalant expressions.
Baraku, on his way back, would dash into a morning bathhouse and—upon finding soaps left there by strangers—would say things as if he were their friend, sniff each one intently, then brazenly use whichever seemed most fragrant.

“Even I, back then, couldn’t pay my daily rent and couldn’t go home—ended up crashing in Mr. Homma’s second floor, you see.”

Now likely in his seventies, the still-spry old man Saraku stroked his smooth, reddish-brown head as he spoke reminiscently.

In the modest garden, the spring day was already beginning to wane.

*Excerpts from a Year’s End Diary*

December 26th.

A cold as severe as the onset of Daikan gripped the air, the wind raging fiercely.
Through this weather I made my way to Okamoto Bun'yaki-kun’s residence.
It had been some time since we last met following my wife’s recital the previous month, and there were various matters requiring discussion about next year’s arrangements.
While waiting amidst other visitors, I conversed with Miyasome-san, whose hearing had grown somewhat faint.
When the guests departed and we had nearly concluded our discussions, a middle-aged woman with a ruddy complexion and blue glasses—appearing every bit the seasoned practitioner—entered and casually slipped her hands into the kotatsu there.
Just as I prepared to leave, that woman was already receiving earnest instruction from Miyasome-san in the adjacent room.
Though indistinct to my ears, it seemed to involve something called “Ruishin Uri.”

I deliberately alighted at Sugamo Station on the Sōsen Line. I returned home by taking a detour from the narrow cliff edge along the railway line around the gentle slope next to the Kenban. Somehow, I found myself able to enjoy this path and had come to like it. I composed the verse: “Ah, the railway viaduct—mountains of year’s end come into view.”

Upon returning home—unfamiliar pairs of men’s and women’s geta along with children’s shoes; from the practice room’s electric phonograph, Shinshō-kun’s *Ujiko-jū* record was playing busily—it had been a visit from Tachibana Hyakuen-kun and his wife, who had gone with Baraku-kun on an Imperial Army comfort mission to South China, and their young boy. Hyakuen-kun had long been saying that the brass trumpet he wanted to sound from the stage next year when taking the name Tachibana-ya Entarō had become difficult to obtain because all the tofu shops had donated theirs, but this time, during his absence, a kind person managed to procure one for him; the story went that when he recently returned from his three-month comfort tour all the way to Hachiōji Station, amidst the mountain-like crowd of greeters, one person toot-tooted on it with great gusto. Wasn’t this a truly delightful story, perfectly fitting for Entarō’s name succession with the trumpet?

In the midst of that story, Katsura Bunraku-kun arrived. Having missed yesterday’s Bunraku-kai year-end party, he had come out of concern. We discussed various matters—arrangements for next spring’s Bunraku-kai and matters related to the Kōjōkai. As always, Bunraku-kun’s stories were light, soft, and delightfully enjoyable, much like the characters in his signature rakugo tales such as *Tsuru Tsuru*, *Himono-bako*, and *The Eel’s Banquet*. I forgot December’s haste and laughed helplessly.

Bunraku-kun left, and soon Hyakuen-kun and the others also departed.

After finishing an early dinner, I went with my wife to nearby Ōtsuka Suzumoto. Tonight was the Daikagura Festival—the very event I had missed seeing last year. Upon entering, Bankara no Tōnasu, now aged beyond recognition, was managing a lion alongside an unfamiliar man. Backstage, occasional cries of “Auspicious! Auspicious!” rang out in delightfully antiquated fashion. Next came Tōnasu performing “Divine Power Banzai!” with yet another stranger—a farcical routine fixated on mutual mimicry. It was nonsensically trivial yet irresistibly amusing. This, I realized, embodied that adage about discovering new value through old traditions. Later interspersed acts—five-tiered bowls, tray juggling, umbrella tricks, Maston’s ball-balancing—culminated in Marui Kamejirō (?) and his son demonstrating an exceptionally intricate single-ball routine. Their humorless precision commanded respect; each flawless execution kindled admiration. To witness such mastery emerging nowadays heartens me profoundly.

When young Ebizō was to perform *Gen Sanmi*, he brought out an elderly man of unusual appearance—one with thick, long eyebrows reminiscent of Bunraku puppets that made his eyes appear sunken.
Who could have known—this was Minatoya Kokame of yore.
How many years had it been since I last saw this man?
The intervening years had utterly transformed his countenance, yet as I kept looking, I began to discern that nostalgic visage of old—the one with the lump on its forehead—emerging from beneath the changes.
Moreover, though he hadn’t appeared on stage at all lately, his proper attire suggested his circumstances were not unfavorable.
His face glowed tautly with a glossy sheen.
I felt no small relief.
For me, raised in Asakusa, Minatoya Kokame was—together with the late spring sunset light that once shimmered in the windows of the Twelve-Story Tower—the unforgettable hometown of my childhood dreams.
It was sentimentality.
He performed neither *Shin’nai* nor his signature *Kantō-bushi*, and through this absence one could sense his decline—yet the Inohayata of old remained nostalgically dear and brought joy.
“*Thud* went the throw,” followed by “That one’s strange, this one’s strange, utterly strange, eh—” — even in the repetition of that dance, an extraordinary surge of joy welled up within me.
Even their poses—like couriers traveling naked on the road—were picturesque and splendid.
After that came the farce *Hakone Checkpoint*.
This lineup—Tomoe-ya Torako, Maruichi Kosen’s official, Ebizō in ink-black robes, Kogame’s *Kakuheishi* lion dance—was inexplicably gratifying in its luxurious casting.
“The father is Sakubei, the child is Kakuheishi”—the repetition of this dance was light and deft, thoroughly Edo-style in flavor.
On the whole, it could be said that Edo farces derived their pleasure precisely from such repetitions of comedic gestures.
After the intermission came Torako’s *Chobo*, Kosen’s *Matsuō*, Ebizō’s *Genzō*, Tōnasu’s *Chiyo*, Matsutarō’s *Kumagai*, and an unknown skinny man as *Atsumori*—each role fully utilized to create a performance with remarkable depth.
The joy of “art” traditionally preserved in Japan, in Tokyo.
For the first time in ages, I found myself deeply savoring the contentment of having partaken in year-end revelry.

December 28

Absentmindedly at dusk, I sat in the kotatsu.
This was because I couldn't bring myself to revise the particles in my completed manuscript *Enchō*, having grown so frustrated that I simply stared blankly into space.
Kokontei Shinta-kun entered.
He came as a messenger from Shinshō-kun, who wished to host a year-end party with me that evening.
We promptly prepared and went out together.
After coordinating matters at the Tōhō Meijinkai, Shinta-kun guided us to a modest restaurant tucked behind Shinjuku's pleasure quarters.
In the tatami room hung a summer-themed calligraphy piece from Kikakudō depicting cucumbers and broad beans.
Soon enough, Shinshō-kun rushed in and began drinking.
First beer, then sake.
The nameko mushroom akadashi proved delicious.
Only Shinta-kun and I partook of sea cucumber, while Shinshō-kun—with his poor teeth—ate beans instead.
I found it peculiar to drink alongside bean-eating.
Our conversation soon turned to various artistic topics, centering on my novel *Yose* which he had adapted into rakugo and performed.
I was struck by Shinshō-kun's remark that even now he held no high opinion of his own skills.
I spoke of *Enchō*, over which I'd agonized for five months.
Shinshō-kun declared he wished to perform this work too once published.
"I would dearly love for you to perform it," I responded.
The rakugo artists I cherish most in this world are Shinshō and Bunraku—these two gentlemen.
That I could sit drunk with both of them discussing art—in every sense this brought me happiness.
My heart swelling with joy, I drank copiously.

Drunk, I shook hands with Shinshō-kun several times.
Late at night, we rushed to a new establishment in the Suidobashi area; at Ōtsuka Station, I parted ways with Shinta-kun, who had been acting out "slippery" as if it were real life.
I too was a completely plastered Tora.
When I returned, it was already past twelve o'clock.

December 30.

As expected, it seemed I wouldn’t be able to get anything else done within this year.
The household members cleaned soot since morning.
I replaced the photos that had been developed into frames.

While reading *Yokohama City Historical Manuscripts – Customs Volume* in bed, I nodded off drowsily.

In the evening, I went with my wife to Togenuki Jizo to buy circular decorations, kadomatsu pine arrangements, and other items.
I came across some raw eel heads, bought them, and returned home.

An unpolished gem—
In the evening, to listen to Midorinami-kun’s "Captain-san" broadcast, I came to this kotatsu.
Since there was still plenty of time, I decided to write this diary.
Having ordered pine, plum, and coralberry arranged in a vase, I had the florist deliver them there.
I immediately arranged them on top of the radio set.
I felt that the new year had already arrived at our home.