Anthology of Japanese Literature (40 page)

THE ETERNAL STOREHOUSEOF JAPAN

[
Nippon Eitaigura
]
by Ihara Saikaku

This collection of brief tales dealing with how to make or lose a fortune was first published in 1688. It is not only of high literary value, but gives us invaluable descriptions of the life of the townsmen in the late seventeenth century. It bears the subtitle, "The Millionaire's Gospel, Revised Version."

THE TYCOON OF ALL TENANTS

"This is to certify that the person named Fuji-ichi, tenant in a house belonging to Hishiya Chozaemon, is to my certain knowledge the possessor of one thousand
kamme
silver. . . ."

Such would be the form of testimonial when Fuji-ichi sought new lodgings. It was his proud claim that in the whole wide world there was no millionaire quite like himself. For although he was worth a thousand
kamme,
he lived in a rented house no more than four yards wide. In this way he became the talk of Kyoto. However, one day he accepted a house as surety for a loan of thirty-eight
kamme;
in the course of time, as the interest mounted, the surety itself became forfeit; and for the first time Fuji-ichi became a property owner. He was much vexed at this. Up to now he had achieved distinction as "the millionaire in lodgings," but now that he had a house of his own he was commonplace—his money in itself was mere dust by comparison with what lay in the strong rooms of the foremost merchants of Kyoto.

Fuji-ichi was a clever man, and his substantial fortune was amassed in his own lifetime. But first and foremost he was a man who knew his own mind, and this was the basis of his success. In addition to carrying on his regular business, he kept a separate ledger, bound from odd scraps of paper, in which, as he sat all day in his shop, pen in hand, he entered a variety of chance information. As the clerks from the money exchanges passed by he noted down the market ratio of copper and gold; he inquired about the current quotations of the rice brokers; he sought information from druggists' and haberdashers' assistants on the state of the market at Nagasaki; for the latest news on the prices of ginned cotton, salt, and sake, he noted the various days on which the Kyoto dealers received dispatches from the Edo branch shops. Every day a thousand things were entered in his book, and people came to Fuji-ichi if they were ever in doubt. He became a valuable asset to the citizens of Kyoto.

Invariably his dress consisted of an unlined vest next to his skin, and on top of that a cotton kimono, stuffed on occasion with three times the usual amount of padding. He never put on more than one layer of kimono. It was he who first started the wearing of detachable cuffs on the sleeves—a device which was both fashionable and economical. His socks were of deerskin and his clogs were fitted with high leather soles, but even so he was careful not to walk too quickly along the hard main roads. Throughout life his only silk garments were of pongee, dyed plain dark blue. There was one, it is true, which he had dyed a persistently undisguisable seaweed brown, but this was a youthful error of judgment, and he was to regret it for the next twenty years. For his ceremonial dress he had no settled crests, being content with a three-barred circle or a small conventional whirl, but even during the summer airing time he was careful to keep them from direct contact with the floor. His pantaloons were of hemp, and his starched jacket of an even tougher variety of the same cloth, so that they remained correctly creased no matter how many times he wore them.

When there was a funeral procession which his whole ward was obliged to join, he followed it perforce to the cemetery, but coming back he hung behind the others and, on the path across the moor at Rokuhara, he and his apprentices pulled up sour herbs by the roots.

"Dried in the shade," he explained, "they make excellent stomach medicine."

He never passed by anything which might be of use. Even if he stumbled he used the opportunity to pick up stones for fire-lighters, and tucked them in his sleeve. The head of a household, if he is to keep the smoke rising steadily from his kitchen, must pay attention to a thousand things like this.

Fuji-ichi was not a miser by nature. It was merely his ambition to serve as a model for others in the management of everyday affairs. Even in the days before he made his money he never had the New Year rice cakes prepared in his own lodgings. He considered that to bother over the various utensils, and to hire a man to pound the rice, was too much trouble at such a busy time of the year; so he placed an order with the rice-cake dealer in front of the Great Buddha. However, with his intuitive grasp of good business, he insisted on paying by weight—so much per pound. Early one morning, two days before the New Year, a porter from the cake-maker, hurrying about his rounds, arrived before Fuji-ichi's shop and, setting down his load, shouted for someone to receive the order. The newly pounded cakes, invitingly arrayed, were as fresh and warm as spring itself. The master, pretending not to hear, continued his calculations on the abacus, and the cake-man, who begrudged every moment at this busy time of the year, shouted again and again. At length a young clerk, anxious to demonstrate his businesslike approach, checked the weight of the cakes on the large scales with a show of great precision, and sent the man away.

About two hours later Fuji-ichi said: "Has anyone taken in the cakes which arrived just now?"

"The man gave them to me and left long ago," said the clerk.

"Useless fellow!" cried Fuji-ichi. "I expect people in my service to have more sense! Don't you realize that you took them in before they had cooled off?"

He weighed them again, and to everyone's astonishment their weight had decreased. Not one of the cakes had been eaten, and the clerk stood gazing at them in open-mouthed amazement.

It was the early summer of the following year. The local people from the neighborhood of the Eastern Temple had gathered the first crop of eggplants in wicker baskets and brought them to town for sale. "Eat young eggplants and live seventy-five days longer" goes the saying, and they are very popular. The price was fixed at two coppers for one eggplant, or three coppers for two, whicl. meant that everybody bought two.

But Fuji-ichi bought only one, at two coppers, because—as he said—"With the one copper I now have in pocket I can buy any number of larger ones when the crop is fully grown."

That was the way he kept his wits about him, and he seldom made a mistake.

In an empty space in his grounds he planted an assortment of useful trees and flowers such as willow, holly, laurel, peach, iris, and bead-beans. This he did as an education for his only daughter. Morning-glory started to grow of its own accord along the reed fence, but Fuji-ichi said that if it was a question of beauty such short-lived things were a loss, and in their place he planted runner-beans, whose flowers he thought an equally fine sight. Nothing delighted him more than watching over his daughter. When the young girl grew into womanhood he had a marriage screen constructed for her, and since he considered that one decorated with views of Kyoto would make her restless to visit the places she had not yet seen, and that illustrations of "The Tale of Genji" or "The Tales of lse" might engender frivolous thoughts, he had the screen painted with busy scenes of the silver and copper mines at Tada. He composed Instructional Verses on the subject of economy and made his daughter recite them aloud. Instead of sending her to a girls' temple school, he taught her how to write himself, and by the time he had reached the end of his syllabus, he had made her the most finished and accomplished girl in Kyoto. Imitating her father in his thrifty ways, after the age of eight she spilt no more ink on her sleeves, played no longer with dolls at the Doll Festival, nor joined in the dancing at Bon.
¹
Every day she combed her own hair and bound it in a simple bun. She never sought others' help in her private affairs. She mastered the art of stretching silk padding and learned to fit it perfectly to the length and breadth of each garment. Since young girls can do all this if properly disciplined, it is a mistake to leave them to do as they please.

Once, on the evening of the seventh day of the New Year, some neighbors asked leave to send their sons to Fuji-ichi's house to seek advice on how to become millionaires. Lighting the lamp in the sitting room, Fuji-ichi set his daughter to wait, bidding her let him know when she heard a noise at the private door from the street. The young girl, doing as she was told with charming grace, first carefully lowered the wick in the lamp. Then, when she heard the voices of the visitors, she raised the wick again and retired to the scullery. By the time the three guests had seated themselves the grinding of an earthenware mortar could be heard from the kitchen, and the sound fell with pleasant promise on their ears. They speculated on what was in store for them.

"Pickled whaleskin soup?" hazarded the first.

"No. As this is our first visit of the year, it ought to be rice-cake gruel," said the second.

The third listened carefully for some time, and then confidently announced that it was noodle soup. Visitors always go through this amusing performance. Fuji-ichi then entered and talked to the three of them on the requisites for success.

"Why is it that today is called the Day of the Seven Herbs?" one asked him.

"That was the beginning of economy in the Age of the Gods: it was to teach us the ingredients of a cheap stew."

"Why do we leave a salted bream hanging before the God of the Kitchen Range until the sixth moon?" asked another.

"That is so that when you look at it at meal times you may get the feeling of having eaten fish without actually doing so."

Finally he was asked the reason for using thick chopsticks at the New Year.

"That is so that when they become soiled they can be scraped white again, and in this way one pair will last the whole year.

"As a general rule," concluded Fuji-ichi, "give the closest attention to even the smallest details. Well now, you have kindly talked with me from early evening, and it is high time that refreshments were served. But not to provide refreshments is one way of becoming a millionaire. The noise of the mortar which you heard when you first arrived was the pounding of starch for the covers of the Account Book."

TRANSLATED BY G. W. SARGENT

1
A summer festival.

THE NARROW ROAD OF OKU

[
Oku on Hosomichi
]
by Matsuo Bash
ō
(1644-1694)

The months and days are the travelers of eternity. The years that come and go are also voyagers. Those who float away their lives on boats or who grow old leading horses are forever journeying, and their homes are wherever their travels take them. Many of the men of old died on the road, and I too for years past have been stirred by the sight of a solitary cloud drifting with the wind, to ceaseless thoughts of roaming.

Last year I spent wandering along the seacoast. In autumn I returned to my cottage on the river and swept away the cobwebs. Gradually the year drew to its close. When spring came and there was mist in the air, I thought of crossing the Barrier of Shirakawa into Oku. Everything about me was bewitched by the travel-gods, and my thoughts were no longer mine to control. The spirits of the road beckoned, and I could do no work at all.

I patched up my torn trousers and changed the cords on my bamboo hat. To strengthen my legs for the journey I had moxa burned on my shins. Then the thought of the moon at Matsushima began to occupy my thoughts. When I sold my cottage and moved to Samp
Å«
's villa, to stay until I started on my journey, I hung this poem on a post in my hut:

When I set out on the twenty-seventh of March, the dawn sky was misty. Though the pale morning moon had lost its light, Fuji could still be seen faintly. The cherry blossoms on the boughs at Ueno and Yanaka stirred sad thoughts within me, as I wondered when again I should see them. My dearest friends had all come to Samp
Å«
's house the night before so that they might accompany me on the boat part of the way. When we disembarked at a place called Senju, the thought of parting to go on so long a journey filled me with sadness. As I stood on the road that was perhaps to separate us forever in this dreamlike existence, I wept tears of farewell.

I set out after composing this poem, the first of my journey, but I could barely go ahead, for when I looked back I saw my friends standing in a row, to watch me perhaps till I should be lost to sight.

This year, 1689, the thought came to me of going on a walking trip to the distant provinces of Oku. It did not matter if I should have the misfortune to grow gray on my travels, for I wanted to see places I had heard so much about but never visited. On the contrary, it seemed to me that I should be fortunate if I managed to come home alive. Leaving the future to decide this uncertainty, I pursued my journey to a town called S
ō
ka, which we were barely able to reach the day of our departure . . .

On the thirtieth of March we stopped at the foot of Nikk
ō
Mountain. The innkeeper told us, "My name is Buddha Gozaemon. People call me Buddha because I am so honest in everything I do, so even if you are staying just for the night, please make yourselves completely at home." Wondering what kind of Buddha had appeared in this world of sin and dust to protect such poor pilgrims as ourselves, I watched our host's actions, and saw that he was ignorant and crude, but of an open and resolute disposition. He was one of those Confucius describes as, "Strong, resolute, simple, and slow to speak—such a one is near to Goodness." His purity of heart was indeed most admirable . . .

When we crossed the Natori River and entered Sendai, it was the day that they celebrate by covering their roofs with irises. We found an inn and stayed four or five days. A painter named Kaemon lives here. I heard he was a person of taste and got to know him. He told me that for years he has been tracing places mentioned in poetry whose whereabouts are now unknown, and spent a whole day showing some to me. The fields of Miyagi were "thick with clover," and I could imagine how lovely they would look in autumn. Now was the time when rhododendrons were blooming in Tamada, in Yokono, and on Azalea Hill. We went into a pine forest which grew so thickly that sunlight could not penetrate the branches. This they call Under-the-Trees. It is because the dew fell thickly in former times too that the poet wrote, "Samurai, tell your lord to take his umbrella!"

We spent one day visiting the Hall of the Healing Buddha, the Amatsu Shrine, and other holy places. Kaemon presented me with sketches of Matsushima, Shiogama and other celebrated spots along our route, and also the parting gift of a pair of straw sandals with dark blue cords. Such attentions showed him to be a person of true refinement.

We continued on our way, following a map that Kaemon had drawn for us. At the foot of the mountains which border the narrow road of Oku, the famous To sedge was growing. They say that even now the people of the district present the governor every year with mats made of it. . . .

The urn-shaped monument stands at Taga Castle in the village of Ichimura. It is over six feet high and about three feet wide, I should imagine. An inscription can faintly be seen underneath the moss incrustation. It records the distance to various far-off parts of the country and then adds, "This castle was built in 724 by Ono-Asomi Azumabito, Inspector and Governor General, and repaired in 762 by Emi no Asomi Asakari, Councilor, Commanding General of the Eastern Sea and Eastern Mountain districts, and Governor General. First day of the twelfth moon."

Many are the names that have been preserved for us in poetry from ancient times, but mountains crumble and rivers disappear, new roads replace the old, stones are buried and vanish in the earth, trees grow old and give way to saplings. Time passes and the world changes. The remains of the past are shrouded in uncertainty. And yet, here before my eyes was a monument which none would deny had lasted a thousand years. I felt as if I were looking into the minds of the men of old. "This," I thought, "is one of the pleasures of travel and living to be old." I forgot the weariness of my journey, and was moved to tears for my joy.

We next visited the Tama River of Noda, and Rock-off-the-Shore, places celebrated in poetry. There is a temple on a mountain called Pine-till-the-End. When I saw that the ground between the pines was filled with graves, I was overcome by sadness at the thought that even the most enduring pledge of devotion between husband and wife must come to this. Then, as I reached the Bay of Shiogama, I heard the evening bell toll its message of evanescence.

The sky had cleared a little after a steady rain. Under the faintly shining evening moon the island of Magaki across the water seemed close enough to touch. Little fishing boats were rowing towards the shore, and I could hear the voices of the fishermen as they divided up the catch. I thought to myself with pleasure, "Now at last I understand the poem

That night I listened to a blind musician play the lute and chant north-country ballads which were quite unlike the usual war tales or dance-songs. The sound of his high-pitched countrified voice close to my pillow was distressing, but it gave me a special satisfaction to think that the traditional way of reciting the old ballads had not been forgotten in this remote place.

Early the next morning we visited the My
ō
jin Shrine in Shiogama. As rebuilt by the governor of the province, the shrine has imposing pillars, brightly painted rafters, and flight upon flight of stone steps. The morning sun was shining brilliantly on the vermilion lacquered fence around the shrine. I was profoundly impressed by the fact that it was the custom of our country to have shrines which contain the miraculous manifestations of the gods in such remote places, at the very end of the world.

In front of the shrine there is an old iron lantern. A metal door bears the inscription, "Presented by Izumi Sabur
ō
in 1187." It was strange how these words evoked for me scenes of five hundred years ago. Izumi was a brave and loyal warrior whose fame has lasted down to our time, and he is held in universal esteem. As it has been truly said, "A man should follow the ways of virtue and be faithful to his duties. Fame will then follow of itself."

It was already about noon. We hired a boat and crossed to Matsu-shima. After another five miles on the water we arrived at the beach of the island of Ojima.

No matter how often it has been said, it is none the less true that Matsushima is the most beautiful place in Japan, in no way inferior to T'ung-t'ing or the Western Lake in China. The sea curves in from the southeast forming a bay three miles across. The tides flow in with great beauty. There are countless islands. Some rise up and point to the sky; the low-lying ones crawl into the waves. There are islands piled on one another or even stacked three high. To the left the islands stand apart, and to the right rise linked together. Some look like mothers with babes on their backs, and some as if the babes were at their breasts, suggesting all the affection of maternal love. The green of the pines is of a wonderful darkness, and their branches are constantly bent by winds from the sea, so that their crookedness seems to belong to the nature of the trees. The scene suggests all the mysterious charm of a beautiful face. Matsushima must have been made by the God of the Mountains when the world was created. What man could capture with his brush the wonder of this masterpiece of nature?

On Ojima, an island which thrusts out into the sea, are found the remains of the Zen master Ungo's hut, and the rock upon which he used to meditate. Even now I could see under the pine trees a few priests who had abandoned the world. They live in peace in the little thatched huts from which the smoke of fallen leaves and pine cones was rising. I did not know who they were, but I felt drawn to them. As I walked in their direction I could see the moon shining on the sea, and Matsushima bathed in a beauty unlike that of the day. I returned to the beach and took a room in an inn. My room was on the second floor, with an open window looking out on the bay. When I lay down to sleep in the breeze and the clouds, I experienced a feeling of strange pleasure.

I lay down without composing any poem, but could not sleep. I remembered that when I left my old cottage I was presented with a poem in Chinese about Matsushima, and with a Japanese one on Matsugaura Island. I opened my knapsack and made the poems my companions for the night.

On the eleventh we visited the Zuigan Temple. This temple was founded many years ago by the thirty-second Zen abbot, when he returned to Japan after study in China. The seven halls of the temple now shine in gold and blue splendor worthy of Buddha's own dwelling in Paradise.

On the twelfth we set out for Hiraizumi by way of the pine of Anewa and the bridge of Odae, names familiar to me from poetry. The countryside was deserted, and the road no better than a trail that hunters or woodsmen might follow. We lost our way, and finally took entirely the wrong road, to emerge at a harbor called Ishinomaki. Far out across the water we could see Kinka Mountain "where bloom the golden flowers." Hundreds of merchant ships were gathered in the bay. In the town the houses fought for space, and smoke rose continuously from the salt-kilns.

I thought to myself, "I never intended to come anywhere like this . . ." We looked for lodgings for the night, but were refused by everyone. Finally we found a miserable little hut where we passed the night. Early the next morning we set out uncertainly on another unfamiliar road. As we traveled over a long embankment we could see in the distance Sleeve-Crossing, the Colt Pastures, the Vine Fields of Mano, and other places famous in poetry. We skirted the Long Marsh, a depressing place. We stopped for the night at a town called Toima, and then went on to Hiraizumi. We had covered over forty miles, I believe.

The three generations of glory of the Fujiwara of Hiraizumi vanished in the space of a dream. The ruins of their Great Gate arc two miles this side of the castle; where once Hidehira's mansion stood are now fields, and only the Golden Cockerel Mountain remains as in former days.

We first climbed up to Castle-on-the-Heights, from where we could see the Kitagami, a large river that flows down from the north. Here Yoshitsune once fortified himself with some picked retainers, but his great glory turned in a moment into this wilderness of grass. "Countries may fall, but their rivers and mountains remain. When spring comes to the ruined castle, the grass is green again."
¹
These lines went through my head as I sat on the ground, my bamboo hat spread under me. There I sat weeping, unaware of the passage of time.