GROWING UP
[Takekurabe, 1895-1896] by Higuchi lchiyĆ (1872-1896)
The prose of Higuchi lchiyĆ, principal woman novelist of the Meiji period, contains strong echoes of Saikaku, and in a sense represents the last flowering of Tokugawa literature. Growing Up tells of a group of precocious children who live just outside the Yoshiwara, the Tokyo licensed quarter, and in particular of Midori, whose sister is a prostitute in the quarter; of Nobu, the son of a priest; and of Shota, heir to a pawnshop. The translation is virtually complete.
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It is a long way around to the main gate of the Yoshiwara, the licensed quarter, to the willows with their trailing branches; but the Yoshiwara moat, dark like the smiles of the black-toothed beauties,1 reflects the lights and the sport in the three-storied houses near enough to touch. Day and night the rickshaws come and goâwho can guess what riches they tell of? The section is named for the Daionji Temple, but for all that its name reeks of Buddhism, it is a lively enough spot, people who live there say. And yet you know at once, when you turn in by the Mishima Shrine, that the profits are small. Nowhere a decent house, only rows of low tenements, ten and twenty to the row, their roof lines sagging, their front shutters carelessly left half open. One hears no rumors of rich men in these parts.
Everyone has something to do with the quarter. A husband bustles about in the doorway of one of the less elegant houses, bunches of coat checks jangling at his waist. In the evening he sets out for work, and his wife clicks flint stones after him for good luck. Any night could be his last. Ten bystanders slain. Blood flows as murder-suicide is foiled. A dangerous business to be in. Why then is there such a festive air about these gallant twilight departures?
A young girl goes through her course: a minor figure in the wake of some famous beauty, a maid tripping along with the lantern of a great house in her hand, and presently she graduates toâwhat? Strange that it should all seem so romantic. There she is now in her thirties, assured and trim, walking down the street in quick little steps with a bundle under her arm. No need to ask what it is. At the moat she stamps on the bridge. Itâs too far around to the gateâcanât I leave it here? A seamstress for one of the beauties, presumably.
Fashions here are eccentric. Rarely is there a girl whose sash is pulled in with maidenly neatness. Rather you see wide, daring things thrown loosely around the waist. On an older woman the style is bad enough, but what about this cheeky thing here, certainly no more than fifteen or sixteen, whistling away like the celebrated ladies themselves? But that after all is the sort of neighborhood it is. That shopkeeperâs wifeânot long ago, when she still had a professional name in a cheap house by the quarter moat, she got to be friendly with one of the brave thugs you see about and the two of them went into business. When her savings are used up she can always go back to her old nest. Something in her manner tells of her past, and she is a great influence on all of the children.
In September comes the Yoshiwara carnival. With a precociousness that would astonish Menciusâs mother, a boy of seven or eight goes about imitating this clown and that musician. âHow about a round of the houses?â he says to his delighted audience. And presently you see him, the young gallant of the quarter, back from the bath with a towel slung over his shoulder, humming a mischievous song. His maturity at fifteen or sixteen is frightening. The school song has taken on the rhythms of the quarter, gitchon-chon, gitchon-chon, and at the athletic meets it threatens to turn into the tune all the beauties are singing. Education is never a simple matter, but think of the teacher who has to train these extraordinary children.
Not far from the quarter is the Ikueisha. It is not one of the respected schools, and yet it has something of a name. Nearly a thousand students elbow one another in its narrow rooms and halls. Among them, Nobu of the Ryugeji Temple.2 His thick black hair will one day be shaved, and his childâs clothes changed for the black of the priest. ... Perhaps it was by his own choice, perhaps he was only reconciled to what had to be. In any case he was a student like his father. Always quieter than the other boys, he had been the victim of many a bad joke. We hear itâs your business; would you see what you can do for thisâand they would sling a dead cat at him.3 But that was all past. He was now fourteen. His appearance was in no way unusual, and yet something about him, something of the priest, singled him out from the rest.
2
The festival was to be the twentieth of August. Floats and wheeled stages would push their way up the embankment, they might even invade the quarter. Young blood raced at the thought of it. One could never be sure what a half-overheard conversation might inspire these children to do, and the projects they had thought up were bold indeed. Matched kimonos for each street were but a beginning.
The back-street gang, as it liked to call itself, had for its leader Chokichi the son of the fire chief. Fifteen and violent, Chokichi had been a little too sure of himself since the time he took his fatherâs place and helped police the Yoshiwara carnival. He wore his sash low around his hips in the manner of the town braves, he answered down his nose when he bothered to answer at all. âIf that boy were anyone but the chiefâs,â muttered the wife of one of the firemen.
In Shota of the main street, however, Chokichi thought he saw someone who could give him blow for blow. Shota was three years younger, but he had money and he was an engaging lad no one could dislike. He went to a scholastically distinguished school while Chokichi had to do with the Ikueishaâeven when the two schools sang the same songs the Ikueisha somehow sounded apologetic, like a poor relation. Last year, and the year before too, the main street had blossomed more richly for the festival than the back street. There had even been young men out watching over Shota and his followers, and that had made it a little hard for the back street to pick the fight it wanted. Another such year, Chokichi knew, and his swaggerââWho do you think I am? Iâm Chokichi, thatâs who I amââwould come to seem a bit empty. He might not even be able to put together a team for a decent water fight at the Benten Ditch. If it was a matter only of muscles, Chokichi was of course the stronger; but Shota had a deceptively mild air about him and everyone was a little afraid of his learning. Two or three boys from the back street even had quietly gone over to his side. That particularly annoyed Chokichi.
Two days to the festival. If it began to seem that Chokichi would lose again, well, he would fight for what it was worth. What if he lost an eye or a leg? It would be a small price to pay if he could give Shota a few bruises too. Chokichi wouldnât be easy to beat with Ushi the rickshawmanâs son on his side, and Bunji the barberâs, and Yasuke from the toyshop. But better than any of themâshould have thought of him beforeâNobu from the Ryugeji Temple. If he could get Nobu to help there would be a few brains on his side too.
Toward evening on the eighteenth, Chokichi stole up through the bamboo groves to Nobuâs room, furiously brushing the mosquitoes from his face. âNobu, Nobu. I want to talk to you.
âThey say Iâm tough. Well, maybe I am. But how about last year? Listen to this, Nobu: that runt of Shotaâs swings on my little brother, thatâs what. And then they all jump on him. How do you like that, all of âem jumping on my little brother. And thatâs not all, either. The Moose from the Dangoyaâheâs so big he thinks he can go around like a grownupâhe starts calling me a pigtail. My fatherâs the chief, but Iâm the tail end, thatâs what he says. How do you like that? Iâm off pulling the float myself, but Iâm all for showing âem when I hear about it, only my father starts shouting at me and I have to take it all. And what about the year before? You heard about that, Nobu. All of them there in the paper store, and when I come around for a look they say I can go have my own party. How do you like that? Thereâs nobody in the world but Shota, maybe? I donât care if he has money, heâs just a broken-down loan shark, thatâs all he is. Be doing people a favor to kill him off. But this time Iâll get even. How about it, Nobu? For a friend. You donât fight much, but how about it? For the street. You see the way he looks down his nose at us. Letâs get back at him. Iâm not very smart myself, but you go to the Ikueisha too. How about it? Just carry a lantern, thatâll be plenty. If I donât get back at âem this time Iâll have to leave town. Come on, Nobu.â Chokichiâs heavy shoulders heaved with annoyance.
âBut Iâm no good at fighting.â
âThatâs all right.â
âI donât even know how to carry a lantern.â
âThatâs all right.â
âYou donât care if we lose?â
âSo we lose. All you have to do is go along. Let âem know whose side youâre on, thatâs all. I donât know much myself, but if they shout big words at us you can shout big words back at âem. Give âem a little Chinese. I feel better already. Youâre as good as all of âem put together. Thanks, Nobu.â Chokichiâs tone was not usually so gentle.
The one with the rough sash and the flopping straw sandals of the workman, the other the small priest with his blue-black cloak and his purple sashâtheir ways of thinking were as different as their clothes, and it was seldom that they were not at cross-purposes. But Nobuâs father, the reverend priest, and his mother too rather petted Chokichi (âWhy the first squall he let out was right here in front of our gateâ). The boys both went to the Ikueisha and suffered from the arrogance of the public schools. Then Chokichi was an unlikable boy quite without friends, while Shota had behind him even the young men of his street. There could be little doubt that Chokichi would lose again, and in all honesty one had to admit that much of the blame for the violence lay with Shota. Approached thus man to man, what could Nobu say?
âAll right, Iâll go along. Iâll go along, but donât fight if you can help it. But if Shota starts something, why I can take care of him with my little finger.â Nobuâs timidity had somehow disappeared. He opened a drawer and took out a fine Kokaji knife that someone had brought him from Kyoto.
âYou could really cut someone up with that,â said Chokichi. Careful, carefulâis one to brandish a Kokaji so?
3
Her hairâundone it would probably have stretched to her feetâwas pulled up tight from the back. Shaguma, âred bear,â a ferocious name for a girlâs coiffure, but so fashionable that perhaps even the damsels in the fine houses had taken it up. Her skin was white, her nose well shaped. Her mouth was a little large, but closed it did not strike one as unattractive. Taken one by one her features were no doubt less than perfect. She had a soft, clear little voice, however, a bright manner and a winsome way of looking at one. Iâd like to see her three years from now, young men on their way home from the quarter would say when they saw Midori of the Daikokuya, towel in hand, fresh from her morning bath, her throat white above an orange-red summer kimono gay with birds and butterflies, her black satin sash tied high at the waist, her colored sandals rather thicker than one usually sees in these parts. Midori was born in the south, and there was still a pleasant trace of the south in her speech.
What particularly won people was her straightforward generosity. Her income was remarkable for one her age. Her sister was prospering in the quarter, and some of the profits reached Midori herself. Attendants and satellites, hoping to win the proud ladyâs favor, would call Midori over. âGo buy yourself a doll,â or, âItâs only a little, hardly enough for a ball.â No one took these gifts very seriously. For the ladies they were a sort of business expense, and Midori knew enough not to be too grateful. âCome on, Iâll treat you allââthe matched rubber balls for twenty of her classmates were nothing. Once she pleased her friend the lady in the paper store by buying up all the shopworn games on the shelves. This opulence was a little extreme for Midoriâs age and station. Where would it all end? She had her parents, of course, but they had never been heard to utter a rough word to her. And if one was curious about the way she was petted by the owner of her sisterâs house, the Daikokuya, one found that Midori was not his adopted daughter, that she was not even a relation. When the gentleman came south to appraise the sister, the three of them, Midori and her mother and father, had given themselves up to his blandishments and packed their bags, and presently, whatever the understanding might have been, they were here keeping house for him. The mother took in sewing from the beauties, the father kept accounts somewhere in the quarter. The unwilling Midori was sent off to learn sewing and music and she went to school, but beyond that her time was her own: half the day in the streets, half the day in her sisterâs room, her ears filled with the sound of samisen and drums, in her eyes the reds and purples of the nightless city. When she first came to Tokyo she went out with a lavender neckpiece sewed to her kimono, and all the girls in the neighborhood laughed. âFarmer, farmer!â She cried over it for three days and three nights, but now it was she who laughed first. âWho showed you how to dress?â she would taunt, and no one could stand against her.
The festival was set for the twentieth. Midoriâs friends were showering her with suggestions.
âWeâll do something together,â said Midori. âDonât worry about money. Iâve got plenty. Just say what you want.â
The friends, quicker than adults to see their opportunity, knew that they were not likely again to have a ruling lady so generous.
âHow about a show? Weâll use a store where everybody can see us.â
âYou call that an idea?â The boy already wore his headband in the rakish festival manner. âWeâll get a mikoshi.4 A real one. The heavier the better. Yatchoi, yatchoi.â
âLeave Midori out, and let you have all the fun? What do you want to do, Midori?â The girls would have Midori decide, but there was a suggestion in their manner that they would as soon forget the festival and go off to see a play.
âHow about a magic lantern?â Shotaâs lively eyes moved from one to another. âIâve got some pictures myself, and we can get Midori to buy the rest. Weâll use the paper store. I can run the lantern, and maybe we can get Sangoro to do the talking. How about it, Midori?â
âGood, good. You have to laugh at Sangoro. We could put a picture of him in the lantern too.â
The plans were made. Shota bustled about putting together what was needed.
By the nineteenth the news had reached the back street.
4
Nowhere hereabouts is one out of hearing of drum and samisen. Why then is a festival needed? But a festival is something specialâonly Otori day in November can rival it.
The main street and the back street each had matching kimonos, their street names worked into the patterns. Not as handsome as last yearâs, some grumbled. Sleeves were tied up with yellow bands, the showier the better. There were pear-shaped Daruma dolls, owls, papier-mĂąchĂ© dogs for those under thirteen or fourteen, and the child who could show the most was the proudest. Some had seven, nine, eleven dangling from their sleeves. Large and small bells jangling on backs, youngsters prancing about in stockinged feetâa contagious display of vitality.
Shota stood out from the crowd. His fair skin against a red-striped cloak and a dark-blue undershirt attracted oneâs attention immediately, and on looking closer one saw that his tight green sash was expensive crepe and the Chinese character on his cloak was a marvel of expert dyeing. He wore a festive flower in his headband and his sandals echoed the beat of the drums. But for all that, he kept apart from the noise-makers.
The festival eve had passed without incident, and now the great day itself was coming to a close. Twelve of them were gathered in the paper shop, only Midori was missing. She still lingered over her evening toilet.
âWhatâs happened to her?â Shota went several times to the door. âGo see if you can hurry her, Sangoro. Have you ever been to Daikokuyaâs? Just call in from the garden. Sheâll hear you. Quick.â
âYou want me to go see? Iâll leave the lantern here. But someone might...