Growing Up
GROWING UP
[Takekurabe, 1895-1896] by Higuchi lchiyō (1872-1896)
The prose of Higuchi lchiyō, 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 go—who 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 to—what? 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. It’s too far around to the gate—can’t 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 shopkeeper’s wife—not 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 Mencius’s mother, a boy of seven or eight goes about imitating this clown and that musician. “How about a round of the houses?” 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 child’s 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 it’s your business; would you see what you can do for this—and 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 father’s 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. “If that boy were anyone but the chief’s,” 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 Ikueisha—even 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 swagger—“Who do you think I am? I’m Chokichi, that’s who I am”—would 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 wouldn’t be easy to beat with Ushi the rickshawman’s son on his side, and Bunji the barber’s, and Yasuke from the toyshop. But better than any of them—should have thought of him before—Nobu 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 Nobu’s room, furiously brushing the mosquitoes from his face. “Nobu, Nobu. I want to talk to you.
“They say I’m tough. Well, maybe I am. But how about last year? Listen to this, Nobu: that runt of Shota’s swings on my little brother, that’s what. And then they all jump on him. How do you like that, all of ’em jumping on my little brother. And that’s not all, either. The Moose from the Dangoya—he’s so big he thinks he can go around like a grownup—he starts calling me a pigtail. My father’s the chief, but I’m the tail end, that’s what he says. How do you like that? I’m off pulling the float myself, but I’m all for showing ’em 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? There’s nobody in the world but Shota, maybe? I don’t care if he has money, he’s just a broken-down loan shark, that’s all he is. Be doing people a favor to kill him off. But this time I’ll get even. How about it, Nobu? For a friend. You don’t fight much, but how about it? For the street. You see the way he looks down his nose at us. Let’s get back at him. I’m not very smart myself, but you go to the Ikueisha too. How about it? Just carry a lantern, that’ll be plenty. If I don’t get back at ’em this time I’ll have to leave town. Come on, Nobu.” Chokichi’s heavy shoulders heaved with annoyance.
“But I’m no good at fighting.”
“That’s all right.”
“I don’t even know how to carry a lantern.”
“That’s all right.”
“You don’t care if we lose?”
“So we lose. All you have to do is go along. Let ’em know whose side you’re on, that’s all. I don’t know much myself, but if they shout big words at us you can shout big words back at ’em. Give ’em a little Chinese. I feel better already. You’re as good as all of ’em put together. Thanks, Nobu.” Chokichi’s 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 sash—their ways of thinking were as different as their clothes, and it was seldom that they were not at cross-purposes. But Nobu’s father, the reverend priest, and his mother too rather petted Chokichi (“Why the first squall he let out was right here in front of our gate”). 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 violen
ce lay with Shota. Approached thus man to man, what could Nobu say?
“All right, I’ll go along. I’ll go along, but don’t fight if you can help it. But if Shota starts something, why I can take care of him with my little finger.” Nobu’s timidity had somehow disappeared. He opened a drawer and took out a fine Kokaji knife that someone had brought him from Kyoto.
“You could really cut someone up with that,” said Chokichi. Careful, careful—is one to brandish a Kokaji so?
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Her hair—undone it would probably have stretched to her feet—was pulled up tight from the back. Shaguma, “red bear,” a ferocious name for a girl’s 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. I’d 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 lady’s favor, would call Midori over. “Go buy yourself a doll,” or, “It’s only a little, hardly enough for a ball.” 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. “Come on, I’ll treat you all”—the 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 Midori’s 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 sister’s 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 sister’s 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. “Farmer, farmer!” She cried over it for three days and three nights, but now it was she who laughed first. “Who showed you how to dress?” she would taunt, and no one could stand against her.
The festival was set for the twentieth. Midori’s friends were showering her with suggestions.
“We’ll do something together,” said Midori. “Don’t worry about money. I’ve got plenty. Just say what you want.”
The friends, quicker than adults to see their opportunity, knew that they were not likely again to have a ruling lady so generous.
“How about a show? We’ll use a store where everybody can see us.”
“You call that an idea?” The boy already wore his headband in the rakish festival manner. “We’ll get a mikoshi.4 A real one. The heavier the better. Yatchoi, yatchoi.”
“Leave Midori out, and let you have all the fun? What do you want to do, Midori?” 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.
“How about a magic lantern?” Shota’s lively eyes moved from one to another. “I’ve got some pictures myself, and we can get Midori to buy the rest. We’ll use the paper store. I can run the lantern, and maybe we can get Sangoro to do the talking. How about it, Midori?”
“Good, good. You have to laugh at Sangoro. We could put a picture of him in the lantern too.”
The plans were made. Shota bustled about putting together what was needed.
By the nineteenth the news had reached the back street.
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Nowhere hereabouts is one out of hearing of drum and samisen. Why then is a festival needed? But a festival is something special—only 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 year’s, some grumbled. Sleeves were tied up with yellow bands, the showier the better. There were pear-shaped Daruma dolls, owls, papier-mâché 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 feet—a contagious display of vitality.
Shota stood out from the crowd. His fair skin against a red-striped cloak and a dark-blue undershirt attracted one’s 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.
“What’s happened to her?” Shota went several times to the door. “Go see if you can hurry her, Sangoro. Have you ever been to Daikokuya’s? Just call in from the garden. She’ll hear you. Quick.”
“You want me to go see? I’ll leave the lantern here. But someone might take the candle—you watch it, Shota.”
“Stingy—you could have called her and been back in the time it’s taking you.”
Sangoro did not seem to mind being scolded by a boy younger than he. “I’m off. Back before you know I’m gone.” He bounded off—like the flying deva himself. One could understand why the girls giggled.
He was short and had a heavy head and almost no neck. His face, when he chanced to look over his shoulders at one, was like the pug-nosed mask the lion dancers wear, and it was not hard to see why he was called Buck-toothed Sangoro. He was dark, almost black, but what really caught one’s eye was the expression on his face. Always laughing, he had an engaging dimple in each cheek, and his eyebrows were twisted as though someone had pinned them on blindfolded in a parlor game. Here, one said, was a child with no harm in him. Sangoro’s rough kimono was not matched with the rest—too bad he had not had a little more time to get ready, he told friends who did not know the truth. His father had six children, Sangoro the oldest, and made his living in front of a rickshaw. There were steady customers in the teahouses, it was true, but no matter how briskly the wheel of the rickshaw turned the wheel of the family fortunes never seemed to keep up with it.
Sangoro had been sent off a couple of years before to a printing shop not far from Asakusa Park. Twelve was quite old enough to begin helping the family. He was by no means industrious, however, and he did not last ten days. There were a number of jobs after that, none of them for more than a month. From November until New Year he brought in a little money making shuttlecocks5 at home, and in the summer, with his talent as a street hawker, he helped the ice-seller by the medical station in the quarter. His friends had not approved when they saw him pulling one of the wheeled stages at the Yoshiwara carnival the year before—that was for the low-class musicians and dancers from Mannenchō. “Mannenchō.” He had acquired a new nickname and even now it clung to him. But everyone knew he was a clown and no one could dislike him. That was Sangoro’s one advantage in life.