山路愛山 Yamaji Aizan

This article was published in the Kokumin no tomo in serial form from November 23, 1895 until February 29, 1896.

………

Tsukagoshi Teishun is the authority on this subject so, naturally, a topic such as this ought to be his to address. Yet, Teishun has his perspective, and I have mine; there is merit in my supplementing his views with my own. I shall not dwell on how the Master might regard this unsolicited intervention of mine.

Introduction

I was reading an English magazine recently and came across an article discussing how contemporary novels often seize upon current events as their subject matter. It noted that Shakespeare, by contrast, never debated the issues of his day within his plays; rather, he was a figure who transcended the mere capture of fleeting, transient moments, focusing instead on portraying the eternal truths that lie deep within the human heart.

A writer for Waseda bungaku expressed a similar view, arguing that what Saikaku depicted was merely the immediate reality of the moment, capturing the ‘actual, but nothing more’, whereas Chikamatsu depicted human emotions that remain immutable across the ages, thereby capturing ‘truth’. Consequently, the writer claimed that Saikaku’s works were ephemeral, their influence on the human heart confined to a specific era, and thus incomparable to Chikamatsu’s works, which serve as a timeless treasury of the human spirit.

However, in my view, this argument is a forced distinction that attempts to rigidly separate ‘truth’ from ‘actuality.’ Just as Shakespeare undeniably epitomized the Elizabethan era, a time of the revival of pagan-influenced literature, Chikamatsu’s greatest merit lies in his masterful portrayal of life during the Genroku era. The eternal manifests within time; the spirit reveals itself through outward form; the infinite appears within the finite. ‘Truth’ and ‘actuality’ are inseparable, inextricably linked as cause and effect. As Carlyle argued, the spirit is the source of the form; to depict the reality is to capture the truth. If one seeks to capture the truth, one has no choice but to depict what is manifested in reality. While there is a distinction, Saikaku depicted attire, whereas Chikamatsu depicted emotions, both attire and emotions become distinct forms the moment they are set down by the writer’s pen. To depict such a form faithfully is to capture the truth. If Chikamatsu wished to truly depict human beings, he could only do so by taking the forms reflected in his own mind and rendering them with his pen. No matter how great his genius, he could not depict eternity apart from time, nor could he depict the spirit apart from attire.

To seek the Elizabethan era in Shakespeare, or the Genroku era in Chikamatsu, is by no means to disparage the dignity of these masters as playwrights. They captured their respective eras with great skill and thus succeeded in touching the hearts of the people. They vividly portrayed the fleeting, ever-changing phenomena before their eyes, and thereby succeeded in revealing the true nature of human emotion. Because their work was grounded in reality, it possessed truth. In contrast, works that are merely ephemeral, vanishing almost as soon as they appear, fail to achieve this truth even when they attempt depiction; this is because they capture only lifeless models rather than the outward expression of a living, active spirit.

Even in The Colours of Spring: The Plum Calendar, a novel that is, from a realist perspective, exceedingly vulgar and clumsy, we can still vividly imagine the society of that time. Take, for instance, the character Uraemon Karakotoya, the brothel owner depicted by Tamenaga Shunsui in this licentious tale: he is described as a man of ‘deep benevolence’ who ‘cherished the courtesans in his employ as if they were his own children’, yet who ‘suffered financial losses due to the business dealings of others’, ‘incurred heavy debts’, and ultimately ‘passed away from the worry and stress caused by these troubles’. Tanjiro, the ideal, handsome hero, is of noble lineage; he is naturally kind-hearted, regards the pursuit of profit as a vulgar act, is deeply compassionate, and is always moved by pity and sympathy for others. He is the sort of man who will rush to the aid of anyone in need, regardless of whether they are friend or stranger, without a second thought, yet he possesses remarkably little self-restraint when it comes to women. Yonehachi, the representative female figure, is unfailingly honest, kind-hearted, and quick-witted; though a geisha, she lacks the typical airs of the profession and is willing to make any sacrifice for the sake of her lover. These characters likely embody, to some extent, the temperament of the Edo natives who read such popular fiction.

The way two renowned geishas offer their sincere devotion to a young nobleman who has fallen on hard times, making sacrifices born of a sense of duty and affection, is precisely the kind of ‘romantic’ story that would appeal to the tastes of Edoites. The author of The Colours of Spring: The Plum Calendar, falls short as a writer because much of his depiction lacks substance, amounting to little more than superficial artifice; nevertheless, he managed, perhaps unwittingly, to cater perfectly to the preferences of the Edo public.

Works like Takizawa Bakin’s Nansō satomi hakkenden (The Chronicles of the Eight Dog Heroes of the Satomi Clan of Nansō) stand as prime examples of this so-called ‘idealist’ school of literature. His arrogant nature, incapable of tolerating others, naturally led him to read more books than he experienced reality; consequently, his writings were dismissed as either adaptations of Chinese works or mere solitary musings from the study. Yet, we observe that his books were widely read across the land precisely because, despite his life of aloof isolation, his work resonated with the sentiments of the time. The ‘Eight Dog Warriors’ he depicted were embodiments of a Confucianized ‘bushido’, reflections of the ideals cherished by the common people of that era. Their embodiment of the ‘encouragement of virtue and chastisement of vice’ reflects the values ​​of an age when the Tongjian gangmu (Comprehensive Mirror in Outline) was widely read. He responded to a public weary of the realistic fiction of writers like Saikaku and Kyōseki by offering historical ideals instead. Thus, one can readily discern the intellectual currents of the Bunka-Bunsei era within the pages of Hakkenden.

It is precisely for this reason that we seek to glimpse the Genroku era through the works of Chikamatsu. We view Chikamatsu as a snapshot of the Genroku era; we wish to discuss the Genroku era through Chikamatsu, and Chikamatsu through the lens of the Genroku era.

Who was Chikamatsu Monzaemon?

I am one who subscribes to the philosophy that Shakespeare does not reveal himself directly within his plays. Let the works speak for themselves: he reveals himself in the subjects he chooses to depict and in the very manner in which he speaks. Taine once struggled with Shakespeare’s plays, attempting to delineate the man’s true character. I do not claim to be attempting the impossible here. Yet, here lie the texts of Chikamatsu; let me, through them, surmise what manner of man he was. If we close our eyes and conjure up the scenery of our hometown, vivid images spring forth in our consciousness. Just as a flash of lightning piercing the darkness reveals a scene so clear that one can even count the roof tiles, so too, when our thoughts turn to the mountains and rivers of our home, details, such as the paving stones along an otherwise unremarkable path or a cat wandering by, are vividly reflected in our minds. For us, such vivid and intensely lifelike powers of visualization arise only when we think of our hometowns; yet for Chikamatsu, a born poet, such imagery emerged naturally regarding every subject he sought to depict. When he exercised his imagination, mountains would laugh, waters would rage, beauties would tremble, and warriors would stand resolute, bringing to life a world far more distinct than reality itself. Our own imagination is like viewing objects in the dim light of a lamp, where we can grasp little more than their outlines. His imagination, however, is like viewing objects by the burning glare of platinum; everything illuminated by that brilliant white light reveals colours so vivid they dazzle the eye. Consider, for instance, how he portrays the dream of Oman of the Ryukyu-ya in Satsuma-gata from Hakata kojorō nami makura (The Girl From the Sea). She is a woman driven half-mad by love; one whose tender heart has been shattered by a stubborn, spiteful stepmother; a woman who, resolved to die and hovering on the brink of death, attempts to make her way to her lover’s home. She barely managed to board the boat, intending to reach her lover on the far shore, but overcome by profound anguish, she drifted into a heavy slumber. Lulled by the rocking of the vessel, she fell asleep. In her dream, she died alongside her lover; she heard a monk chanting prayers for the dead and joined in offering prayers for the salvation of her own soul. When Chikamatsu depicts this, his brushwork is inspired, truly divine, capturing the very essence of her delirious state. He transforms the character of Oman into a living, breathing human being; he seizes upon the delusions of the time as reflected in her consciousness and allows her to speak of them herself, a feat that could not possibly be surpassed. Indeed, he portrays Oman’s madness with far greater depth and clarity than even her own consciousness could perceive. Consider, too, how he depicts the situation in Date-zome tezuna. He captures not merely the outward circumstances of the marriage, but also the sorrow and bitterness lurking within. These are but a few examples chosen at random. Throughout his entire body of work, we see that his imagination was extraordinarily vivid, and the characters he brought to life were tangible, breathing individuals of flesh and blood. He dwells among living figures, both in reality and in his imagination.

Although San’yō’s Nihon Gaishi (Unofficial History of Japan) is woefully lacking in scientific and evidentiary historical rigor, reading it remains a captivating experience that never fails to hold one’s interest; this is because his imagination was extraordinarily vivid, and the heroes and great figures he portrayed were all truly alive within his own consciousness. The Yoritomo, Takauji, Masashige, and Ieyasu he depicted do not necessarily match the figures that a scientific historian would reconstruct through induction from ancient documents; yet, the characters he created never lose their quality as living beings. They are figures who, though they may never have lived in actual reality, nonetheless lived vividly within his heart. He did not portray people as mere embodiments of a particular principle, but as living, active human beings. When he depicted Nasu no yoichi, it was as if he himself were riding alongside Nasu into the sea, gazing intently at a hero who, at the very focal point where all eyes converged, risked life and death in a daring feat of honour. He created the hero himself, sympathized with him, and revered him. The reason his portrayal of Nanko (Kusunoki Masashige) stirred the blood of loyalists across the land was that the figure was a living being, vibrant and real within his imagination. Chikamatsu succeeded in presenting us not with abstract principles but with living people, natural human beings capable of eliciting our sympathy or antipathy, because he possessed an imaginative power far superior to that which San’yō achieved in his historical writings.

If anyone believes that the secret to Chikamatsu’s success lay merely in the observation of facts, they have grasped only the superficial aspects of his work. Observation increases one’s knowledge of the external world, but it does not enable one to create anything new. Observation critiques; it does not imagine. A social critic is not a representative of society; the person who compares, weighs, and dissects is not the same as the one who paints the picture. Saikaku’s strength lay rather in observation and critique; he observed the various strata of society inductively and laid them out one by one. Yet, he could not use this material to construct anything else. His Five Women Who Loved Love is a single narrative, but in its very nature, it serves as a critique of five women. It lacks the quality found in Chikamatsu’s characters, who possess their own worlds and temperaments, appearing to live and breathe with vivid vitality. While one certainly cannot deny that the observation of the outside world played a significant role in Chikamatsu’s success, the various portraits of life he depicted were not mere patchworks of elements deliberately assembled from his observations; they were vivid, holistic renderings born of his imagination. He inhabited the scenes he created, becoming, in effect, one of the figures within the picture.

Dickens once spoke of harbouring the same feelings toward the characters he created as he did toward living human beings. Consider how Chikamatsu approached characters such as Sasano Gonza, Yamazaki Yojibei, and Satsuma Gengobei. He did not treat the figures he portrayed merely as subjects for cold, anatomical dissection; rather, he embraced them as his own living children, as beloved offspring. It is only natural that such a near-manic imagination caused his ‘historical plays’ to be criticized as absurd or preposterous. Just as a human shadow cast against mist can make even a small child appear larger than the Great Buddha of Nara, so too does a poet’s imagination transform clouds into playgrounds for angels and stretch white hair to a length of three thousand yards. Observe how Li Bai described nature: he spoke of the north wind howling from the heavens and snowflakes over Mount Yan as large as straw mats; he described mighty thunder roaring to split mountains in two and surging waves rushing toward the Eastern Sea. To his eyes, nature appeared sublime and magnificent. Chikamatsu’s ‘historical plays’ are the product of a near-manic poetic genius, a man of fierce imagination who spread the wings of his fancy without the slightest restraint. It is no wonder, then, that these plays often took on bizarre forms that defy our ordinary comprehension. A dream reveals the nature of the dreamer; Chikamatsu’s ‘historical plays’ are his dreams. He was a man who fell in love with the workings of his own fervent imagination. The modern age, critical and analytical in its approach to reality, is incapable of appreciating the value of such dreams. This is why his historical romances are not held in high regard by contemporary critics. Yet, let it be recorded: there was a time when the world, too, delighted in this dream alongside him.

When Bakin created Hakkenden, he fashioned all his protagonists into variations of himself; he treated the characters in his works as his own slaves. When Chikamatsu wrote his plays, he allowed his protagonists to fully express their individual personalities; he would identify himself with the characters he created. Bakin was a worshiper of the self; he could revere nothing other than his own ideals. Chikamatsu was a worshiper of heroes; he was deeply moved by whatever he beheld. Possessing broad tastes and profound empathy, he, much like Shakespeare, who recognized a warm, human heart even within the cruel Shylock, perceived the presence of genuine human feeling even in the character of Yohei, a man who murders a woman. He perceives the beauty of human emotion pervading lives of infinite variety, recognizing that a beggar, a lowly shellfish gatherer, or even an old woman who torments her stepchild is worthy of compassion. Just as a person under the influence of mesmerism feels themselves to be a beggar when told they are one, or a royal when told they are royalty, he enters the very soul of the characters he depicts and becomes one with them. Such profound empathy and fierce imagination worked in tandem to make him the bard who gave voice to the Genroku era. I maintain that the observation of reality played a significant role in Chikamatsu’s success. His ‘social dramas’ possess greater enduring value than his ‘historical plays.’ His historical plays deal with events of the past and are set in the aristocratic courts, realms beyond the reach of his own personal experience. It is precisely this lack of direct knowledge that allows his imagination to soar with such unbridled power. In his ‘historical dramas,’ he gave free rein to an imagination so frenzied that we cannot fully comprehend it. Had we lived in the same era and risen and fallen with the same currents of thought, we might have shared in the enjoyment of such vivid, lifelike imagination; yet, born as we are into an age of science, an age that prizes observation, we are unable to savour it.

To us moderns, who view the prophecies of Isaiah and Ezekiel as little more than the ravings of madmen, his ‘historical dramas’ offer no true appeal. It is a different matter, however, with his ‘social dramas,’ in which imagination is built upon a foundation of solid fact. These works are constructed from the realities of daily life unfolding around him. The imagination that ran wild and unrestrained in his ‘historical dramas’ moves with order and harmony in his ‘social dramas.’ The ‘historical dramas’ akin to midnight dreams, touched upon social reality and transformed into ‘social dramas,’ which represent his waking reality in the light of day. He captured the beauty found in the ebb and flow of daily human affairs and reflected it within the plays as a unified, panoramic vision. The success of a great poet mirrors that of a great hero; both achieve their greatest triumphs when they harness the forces of nature. Chikamatsu’s stature as an extraordinary poet stems from his fierce imagination, which seized upon the realities of the Genroku era to brilliantly capture the spirit and vitality of the times. Had he been denied contact with that tangible reality, he would have remained a mere dreamer, never awakening to true vision; he would have been nothing more than a writer of preposterous historical plays, failing to bequeath to the world those ‘social dramas’ that stand as eternal treasures.

Another factor contributing to Chikamatsu’s success as a playwright was the utter purity of his sensibilities. Much like a silkworm transforming mulberry leaves into silk, he crafted beautiful illusions out of a sordid society. Saikaku’s Osan and Mohei are realistic portrayals of a man and woman driven by impulse; in contrast, Chikamatsu’s Osan and Mohei are figures of tender conscience who, caught in an unforeseen predicament, unwittingly fall into the sin of adultery. Saikaku depicts the manifestation of carnal desire, whereas Chikamatsu depicts a conscience struggling against temptation. Both portray reality, yet Saikaku focuses primarily on human animal instinct, while Chikamatsu focuses on human nature. Horikawa nami no tsuzumi (The Drum of the Waves at Horikawa), Yari no gonza kasane katabira (Gonza the Lancer), and Koi hakke hashira-goyomi (The Almanac of Love) are all works in which Chikamatsu depicts the theme of adultery involving a married woman. Yet, the protagonists he portrays are invariably figures who command the reader’s sympathy. What he captures with consummate skill is the inner torment of conscience. It is not that he avoids depicting romantic affairs between men and women; indeed, his works contain passages that might make a modern gentleman blush. However, such elements were an unavoidable convention of the literature of that era, not a trait unique to him. His true distinction lies in the fact that he portrays human life not merely as an expression of bestial instincts, but as the unfolding of a beautiful conscience.

Who, then, was Chikamatsu Monzaemon? This is the gist of the answer I can provide.

What, then, of the Genroku era he depicted? Allow me to proceed and discuss that subject.

The Genroku Warrior

Saikaku’s Budō denraiki (Chronicles of the Way of the Warrior) records the lives of warriors in an age of bloodshed. Like Spartan soldiers, they endured deprivation and hardship, honoured their pledges, valued their honour, and regarded a clean death as their ultimate duty. The description ‘blood-thirsty’ was truly apt for them. For the sake of their honour as warriors, they would unhesitatingly walk the path between life and death, without the slightest trace of hesitation. Chikamatsu portrayed this type of warrior through the words of Hanshichi’s aunt in Nagamachi onna harakiri. The story goes as follows:

We hail from the Ryuzan area of ​​Ise. Our ancestor was Bunpei Inose, grandfather to the young man here. He was a commander of the matchlock corps, holding a stipend of 150 koku. Within the same clan was a high-ranking commander named Takagi Kunaï, who held 800 koku; the two were the closest of friends. One day, a merchant from the Kamigata region arrived to sell a short sword.

Amidst the gathering of their peers, Grandfather desired the blade and wished to purchase it. Takagi, too, set his heart on it. When they asked the price, the certificate of authenticity stated three hundred kan. Though they were close enough to speak freely, Takagi remarked, “Bunpei, that is a steep price for a man of your means, do you really intend to buy it?” That casual comment proved to be their shared misfortune; the gathering ended with awkward, wry smiles, but the talk of the incident spread throughout the province. People whispered that Inose was a fool, a man of meagre means coveting a blade far beyond his reach, trying to compete with the wealthy Lord Takagi, only to suffer public humiliation and be mocked as unworthy of the title of warrior. Unable to let the matter rest without losing face, Grandfather sold off his armour, horse tack, fine garments, and even his bedding to raise the funds. He purchased the sword, valued at three hundred kan, for two hundred and ten ryō. He immediately had a single character inscribed on the tang: ‘Wind’ chosen to symbolize his resolve to surpass Takagi. On the morning of the fifteenth day of the ninth month, he lay in wait on the road to the castle. He called out to Takagi, declaring he would not let him pass, and challenged him to a fair duel to the death. Upon returning to the estate, the grandfather, having entrusted his young daughter with his final command never to let the family fief fall into the hands of others, plunged his blade deep into his abdomen and drew it across to his right side, ending his life for the sake of a single principle of honour.

He was a man who would not hesitate to ruin his house over a single insult. He was a man who would not shrink from killing, even a superior, to uphold the dignity of a warrior. He was a man who, forsaking cool-headed judgment, acted upon fierce emotion. The Arab sleeps soundly through the night beside his enemy, only to engage in calm, spirited combat the next day; he, too, possessed a similar blend of composure and passion. Yet the world changed completely. The descendants of such warriors transformed into the men of the Genroku era, men who prized elegance and refined taste. As the saying of the time went: ‘For garments, the red plum blossom; for fish, the carp; for weapons, the spear; for men, the warrior.’

The fierce, blood-tempered warriors of the Kan’ei era had, by the Genroku era, become like blossoms, beautiful but delicate. The virtues of silence, composure, simplicity, and stoicism gave way to a nature that was emotional, multi-talented, eloquent, and knowledgeable, yet prone to self-indulgence and a flamboyant, unconstrained lifestyle. They took the stern, unyielding character of their forebears and adorned it with the blossoms of elegance, transforming themselves into figures of lavish splendour. Their outward appearance shifted from one of extreme austerity to one of extreme splendour. The daring spirit that once held life cheap on the battlefield gave way to a refined elegance in the pleasure quarters, a style where gold was spent lavishly and without hesitation. Just as Gustavus’s soldiers, having marched from the frigid, barren lands of Scandinavia to the vine-rich regions of Germany, became intoxicated by wine, these men became intoxicated by an era of peace and material progress. It was not that they had abandoned their old nature entirely, yet they now wore a new guise. Chikamatsu vividly captured the spirit and mettle of these flamboyant warriors.

If we take a few of the Genroku-era warriors he portrayed and examine their characters, we see clearly how they differed from the warriors of the Kan’ei era.

1. Date no Yosaku – the protagonist of Date-zome tazuna

He was a man known as the quintessential ‘dashing gallant of Tanba.’ His life was a turbulent journey marked by the extravagance and tragic brevity typical of a chivalrous, emotionally sensitive warrior. He was a retainer to a lord, and he fell in love with a young page in the inner chambers who served the lord’s wife, a lady known as Shigenoi. This was a deed that a warrior of the Kan’ei era would have deemed shameful, yet one that a warrior of the Genroku era felt no shame in committing. Romantic love was a pursuit favoured by the warrior of the Genroku era. Eventually, the affair came to light. Thanks to the benevolence of the lord’s wife, he narrowly escaped the sanctions of the warrior code; indeed, he was even permitted to consummate the romance and pledge his troth to the lady. Later, he rose to the rank of Chief of Ceremonial Affairs with a stipend of 1,300 koku, granted the privilege of wielding the military baton and commanding troops. Yet, his old habits resurfaced. While stationed in Edo, he frequently visited the pleasure quarters of San’ya. For this transgression, he had ‘neglected his vital duties.’ The warrior code could no longer show him leniency. Out of compassion, the lord’s wife intervened to commute his death sentence to banishment; his wife remained in the service of the lord’s household, becoming a wet nurse to the family’s children. Before leaving, he said to his wife: “The favour I have received from the House is far greater than I deserve; who could ever hope to repay it in this lifetime? Please, remain here and repay that debt of gratitude on my behalf.” And so, he became a horse driver on the Tōkaidō Road. To fall from the status of a high-ranking warrior with a stipend of 1,300 koku to that of a mere horse-groom was indeed an extraordinary fate; yet, for the warrior of that era, who lived in a time of unparalleled splendour, such a trajectory was by no means a rarity. “Shall I sleep with my love, or take a stipend of five thousand koku? What care I for five thousand koku? I choose to sleep with my love.” Singing this, he sacrificed both his five-thousand koku income and his illustrious family lineage for the sake of a single courtesan. When one considers the atmosphere of the times, he certainly embodied a certain segment of the Genroku-era warrior. He did not lament his fate; he lived as though he had been a horse-groom from birth. Though there were moments when he quietly reflected that his degradation was a ‘divine punishment,’ he was not a man given to constant anguish. Knowing neither how to turn back once he had set out nor how to retreat once he had advanced, leaping into the darkness without a backward glance, he carried in his blood the legacy of the earlier Kan’ei-era warrior. As a spirited horse-groom, he strode along the highways with a jaunty air, wearing the Komuro-no-hinnuki style of coat and singing songs with the carefree bravado of one who would ‘pour soup over the Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō and eat it all.’ It was in this manner that he fell in love with a woman at a post station. He possessed a gentleness like cotton in his dealings with women, going so far as to wager his master’s horse for the sake of the woman. He wept for her and listened to her every word; yet, for the sake of honour, he would not shrink from death.

2. ‘Spear-Wielding Gonza’

He was the quintessential Genroku-era warrior, a figure of splendour. Gone were the days when a ronin from Koshu or Fukushima, rough-hewn men who strode with squared shoulders and a swaggering gait, held sway. The era when a warrior took pride in a rugged, fierce appearance, with bristling brows and a stern, unrefined air, had faded into a dream of the past. He was a child of a new age, one that prized elegance and refinement. His dashing appearance was so captivating to women that it inspired songs like this: “Gonza of the Mansion is a dandy, a man who gleams like oil. A man who holds one’s gaze, melting the heart. Gonza is, in every way, a fine man. A man radiant as a flowering branch. A man who holds one’s gaze, melting the heart.” He stood before the world with a charm as fresh and lustrous as a flower before the morning dew dries. Indeed, physical perfection was something to which the Genroku warrior devoted their utmost care. Just as the art of the Genroku period represents a pinnacle in the history of Japanese aesthetics, the Genroku warrior themselves attained a state of physical perfection. They were the ultimate embodiment of an aesthetic ideal that harmoniously combined beauty and health. ‘Spear-wielding Gonzo’ is certainly portrayed as a figure who epitomizes this type.

Like Tanba Yosaku, he was a man vulnerable to love. He would meet in secret with Oyuki, the younger sister of Kawagawa Tomonojo, at the home of her nursemaid. Although the romance that blossomed between him and Oyuki was deeply passionate, he could not bring himself to ask Tomonojo for her hand. “To ask for your own sister’s hand from the lips of a young man like myself, it is simply too embarrassing.” Such were the words that betrayed his bashfulness. He possessed a tender sensibility, the sort that made him blush at the very act of confessing his love.

Yet, this was but one facet of the Genroku warrior. Warm blood and cold blood alike coursed through their veins. Nurtured by peace and the advance of prosperity, they had blossomed into a refined elegance akin to a flower; at the same time, however, they inherited the ruthless, bloodthirsty temperament of the Kan’ei-era warriors. Viewed in terms of circumstance, it was only natural that they became carefree young noblemen; viewed in terms of heredity, it is hardly surprising that they possessed a martial spirit steeped in the ethos of the warrior overflowing like blossoms from the branch. He was a handsome man, a young woman’s lover, yet in the art of horsemanship, he had no equal. Though he was so diffident that he hesitated even to speak of his own love, in martial prowess he yielded to no one. Even when he acknowledged his guilt and voluntarily stepped forward to be cut down by Asaka Ichinoshin, he never lost the dignity of a true warrior; with calm composure, he let the enemy sever his right arm, then drew his sword with his left to engage in combat, refusing to retreat a single step, and met his death with magnificent valour. The reason the Genroku warrior stands apart from the warriors of the Shogunate’s later years, distinguished as the ‘flowers of humanity’, is that beneath their flamboyant, flower-like attire, they harboured this chivalrous, martial spirit.

3. ‘Asaka Ichinoshin’

‘Kama no Gonza,’ ‘Asaka Ichinoshin,’ and ‘Iwamoto Chūta’ are three warrior figures depicted by Chikamatsu in the play Yari no Gonza Kasane Katabira (Gonza the Lancer); each represents a distinct characteristic of the Genroku warrior. Though they differed in appearance and circumstance, they were born in the same era and lived within the same atmosphere. While they differed in every other respect, they shared a common identity as products of the Genroku age. Asaka Ichinoshin was a practitioner of the tea ceremony. His wife, Osai, would often discuss the matter with their young child: “Look at your father. He has been granted a stipend increase for his martial prowess, though, of course, martial arts are expected of any warrior. Yet, because he is so skilled in the tea ceremony, he is highly valued by others. You, too, should learn the proper way to handle the tea utensils and the tea cloth while you are still young.”

It was characteristic of the Genroku era that warrior possessed talents extending beyond mere martial arts. When the Akō rōnin met their end, most of them left behind poems or verses. Even if their compositions were unrefined, there is no doubt that a significant number of them possessed literary sensibilities. In short, the Genroku era was an age of the arts, a time when all manner of artistic pursuits, which served to adorn an era of peace, flourished in full tide. Asaka Ichinoshin was a man of that very age.

It was only after the Kansei era that the admonitions of the Zhu Xi school, such as ‘The superior man is not a mere vessel’ and ‘Arts and literature are but trivial pursuits’, became the prevailing intellectual current. The so-called Genroku era did not place great weight on such scholarly debates. However, Asaka Ichinoshin was no mere master of the arts. Upon hearing that his wife had been taken by Yari no Gonza, he immediately resigned his post and set out on a journey of vengeance; yet, when his wife’s younger brother, Iwaki Jinbei, offered to join him as a second in the fight, he sternly refused, declaring: “Beyond the handling of tea-caddy lids and kettle covers, do not mistake me for one ignorant of how to take a man’s head. Though I may be of humble rank, I have prepared a splendid suit of armour and am ready to cross blades at a moment’s notice, a feat few among the high-ranking lords could match.”

Ah, this was the hallmark of the Genroku warrior. Though a master of the arts, he remained a true warrior. He cloaked his martial spirit within the refinements of culture and concealed an indomitable heart behind a composed demeanour. The reason the Genroku era retained its noble character was precisely because it abounded in warrior such as him.

4. “Iwaki Chūta-bei”

Among the warrior depicted by Chikamatsu, ‘Iwaki Chūta-bei’ is a figure who belongs to a bygone age; he is a warrior of the Kan’ei era who survived into the Genroku period. In the past, while reading Arai Hakuseki’s Oritaku Shiba no Ki (The Record of the Burnt Brushwood), I observed the immense power that the spirit of the times exerts in shaping the men who live within it. Hakuseki’s father flourished during the Kan’ei era, so his bearing naturally reflected the spirit of that time; Hakuseki flourished during the Genroku era, so her bearing naturally reflected the spirit of that time.

The nutrients circulating through every branch of the grapevine inevitably shapes the individual fruit. Iwaki Hyōbei was a man who embodied the values ​​of a bygone era and looked with stern disapproval upon the new age, an age tending toward ostentation and frivolous pursuits. Upon learning that his beloved daughter, Osai, had committed adultery with ‘Yari no Gonza’ while her husband was away, he flew into a towering rage. When her husband returned Osai’s personal belongings, her elderly mother spoke of how her daughter had cherished them:

“These things have been with her for ten years, yet she kept them looking as good as new, with such care, how could she possibly have committed such a wicked deed? Was she bewitched? Is this some kind of retribution? … From Ichinoshin’s perspective, he may have had every right to cast her out, but this is truly heartless, he wouldn’t even let her pass her things on to her child. Leaving them piled up at the gate like an eyesore, does he have no thought for the shame brought upon my child? Hey, you, servants and maids! Quickly, carry them inside before others see.”

Despite these pleas, he flatly refused.

“Listen to this: these are the wretched belongings of a woman, a creature of no consequence, the sort of woman a man like Ichinoshin would never associate with. What use could Ichinoshin possibly have for the possessions of such a woman? They are defiled objects; a warrior’s household would be tainted by their presence. Have the servants smash them to pieces, set them ablaze, and burn them all to ash.”

He did not shed a single tear for his beloved daughter; instead, he yielded absolutely to the unwritten code of warrior honour. Submitting to the dictates of the warrior code without so much as a twitch of the face was a hallmark of the samurai of the Kan’ei era. A prime example of the steadfast endurance cultivated by warriors of that time is the story of Arai Hakuseki’s father: while sitting silently in the presence of his lord, a mosquito bit his face, yet he did not even brush it away, allowing the insect to gorge itself on his blood until it fell off of its own accord.

Yet, bushido was not a philosophy that, like that of Stoic scholars or Brahmins, rested content with mere passive endurance. The way these warriors bore pain was not a matter of passive resignation, but of active, resolute fortitude. It was not because they possessed a philosophy of resignation to adversity that they acted so, but because they valued the spirit of resistance against hardship. They did not seek to alleviate their pain through philosophical reflection; rather, they withstood it out of obedience to the discipline of the warrior.

“Now, when Ichinoshin returned from Edo, his daughter Sameme presented the severed head for his inspection. Sakujinbei set out that very day to track down the culprit. Chūtaibei was no longer a young man, yet he was not so infirm that he could not stand or walk; he would not let his sword remain unstained by blood, nor could he rest easy in his bed or lose his mind in solitude. Believing he must find a worthy adversary, he resolved to first secure proof of the illicit affair—making it known to us and proclaiming the verdict throughout the domain—and then slay Kawagawa Tomonojō, making that deed the crowning memory of his twilight years.”

“Without staining his blade with blood, nor resting his head at ease, nor succumbing to madness over a woman…”

This verse captures the intuition with which a Japanese poet perceived the inner heart of this old warrior. He had once sought to slay his beloved daughter to preserve his honour; unable to do so, he resolved instead to kill Kawagawa, the man who had exposed her disgrace. What filled his being was a feverish thirst for blood. Such was the defining characteristic of the warrior of the Kan’ei era.

5. ‘Hishikawa Gengobei’

He was a man of renown from the Satsuma domain, and a child of romance. Although born into a warrior family, he was a youngest son; at the age of thirteen, he became a temple page with the expectation that he would eventually succeed as the temple’s head priest. Yet, he fell passionately in love with a woman known as ‘Oman of the Ryūkyū-ya.’ Because their romance unfolded against the backdrop of Satsuma, a domain governed by the harsh discipline of the warrior, the story took on a unique and distinctive hue. From that time on, the spirited youths of Satsuma already foreshadowed the destiny that would see them dominate the Japan of the future.

“Satsuma is a land of strict scrutiny regarding its people.” “If one were to be cast out by outsiders, returning home would mean facing punishment or death.” “It is the custom of our land: once a sword is drawn and strikes an enemy, one dies rather than sheathe it again.” “That is the true mark of a Satsuma warrior.”

Satsuma warriors were governed by the strictest of codes; they were the Spartans of Japan. Any behaviour lacking in resolve, such as being clouded by romantic love, was considered shameful for a Satsuma warrior, a man prepared to die for his cause. Thus, they amassed their martial strength and awaited the future. Yet, even in such turbulent times, amidst a discipline as severe as the biting frost and scorching sun, the flower of love managed to bloom.

The secret shared by the two was discovered. Before he could even shave his head to become a monk, Gengobei faced a fate that threatened him with execution. He had left Satsuma at the age of nineteen after making a vow of eternal commitment to Oman, and subsequently became a servant to a certain warrior. He bore his change of fortune much like Yosaku of Tanba; wearing a sash dyed in a checkerboard pattern, reminiscent of a karuta sash, and clapping the watchman’s clappers as he made his rounds of the estate, he seemed to take genuine pleasure in his new circumstances.

When he spoke of the past, he would say: “I was a man who once lived on a pittance of rice, scarcely enough to feed a sparrow, and was so destitute I could have straddled a horse’s backbone.”

Looking back at his history, one feels that both his past and present were but a dream. In that he harboured no attachment to the vicissitudes of fate and felt little regret, he was truly a warrior of the Genroku era. He found himself in a bizarre predicament: discovered by a man named Sasano Sangobei in the very bed of Sangobei’s wife. He fell under suspicion of adultery, yet he made no attempt to plead his innocence. Moved by Sangobei’s steadfast devotion to avenging his father, he refrained from insisting on his own blamelessness. “If she is the one you seek to kill, so be it. But the way you are staking your very life to avenge your parent… that is something I simply cannot bring myself to strike down. I shall not even lay a hand on my short sword. Go forth and take your vengeance upon the woman; I shall celebrate your departure and pray that you succeed in slaying your parent’s enemy.” Refraining from insisting on self-justification or using mere words to defend one’s honour was a trait passed down from the warriors of the Kan’ei era to those of the Genroku era, a characteristic most notably embodied by the warrior of Satsuma. He was not the sort of man to fear the suspicions of others, provided his own conscience was clear. Yet, ultimately, he could not break free from the bonds of love. Risking his life, he returned to Satsuma, changed his name to Sukesuke, and entered the service of ‘Oman’s’ household in hopes of fulfilling his romantic desires, a course of action that eventually brought disaster upon him. Nevertheless, he never lost his true warrior spirit, even unto death. While he lived with Oman, her stepmother, intent on thwarting their romance, came in pursuit of them. Even in this moment of crisis, he did not lose the dignity befitting a warrior. He declared to the stepmother: “Until yesterday, I was Sukesuke, a mere servant in your employ; from today, I am once again Yukawa Genbei. Though I possess not a single sen, I am a warrior; you, Shinbei of the Ryukyu-ya, may hold a fortune of a hundred thousand kan, yet our speech and our stations are worlds apart.” The innate pride of the warrior overcame the stubborn pride of his stepmother. Having already killed her, and subsequently, by mistake, the woman named Oman, he heard someone cry out, “Gengobei, do not strike!” Yet, showing no sign of agitation, he bared his upper body and glared fiercely: You clamorous townsfolk, who is this ‘Suna’ you speak of?” He stood ready to cut down anyone should he unleash his strength, and ready to die himself should he strike another down. Thus, he never once compromised the dignity of a warrior, even unto death.

These are but a few examples of the Genroku-era warrior depicted by Chikamatsu. One need only look at these works to see that he possessed an intuitive grasp of the divine. He was born during a pivotal era of shifting social mores. He witnessed a culture transitioning from simplicity to opulence, and from opulence toward inevitable decadence. In plays such as Spearman Gonza and The Drum of the Horikawa Waves, he depicted warrior wives who abandoned their virtue. He portrayed warrior who would buy a horse, ride it into the city, and then sell it for profit. He depicted men who, lulled by the Great Peace, forgot the true calling of the warrior class and sought advancement by taking up the drum instead of the sword. He depicted those who dallied with courtesans at the pleasure quarters. He depicted those who became obsessed with a married woman, sending her repeated letters and trampling upon the sanctity of her marriage vows. In one sense, the warrior of the Genroku era were slaves to carnal desire. There were those who, with splendid horses and elaborate bedding, would carry a young page on their mount and travel the long Tokaido road amidst a flurry of blossoms.

This truly captures the moment when the Japanese warrior reached the zenith of hedonism. Thus, from one perspective, the Genroku era was a kind of menagerie, an age given over entirely to the unbridled pursuit of animalistic desire. Just as the inner-chamber lady of a daimyo, depicted by Chikamatsu, might find herself unable to sleep, agitated after chancing upon a certain storybook, I cannot help but marvel that such bold, indiscreet words were voiced in the midst of a crowded public gathering. Yet, what Chikamatsu perceived with his poetic intuition was not merely this superficial decay. He saw a vibrant, living spirit beneath that rotting exterior. Even in the Genroku era, an age that, at first glance, resembled a menagerie, he discerned the presence of a fundamental humanity, immutable across the ages. He touched the deepest chords of the human heart in that time.

In this way, he captured the spirit of the Genroku era rather than its mere outward form; he portrayed beautiful emotion rather than raw, unrefined lust. He was the embodiment of the era’s quintessence. He depicted the true nature of the warrior, a nature that stirred powerfully even amidst the decay. In him, the Genroku era found a worthy representative; by singing of its beauty, he provided rich material for those who would later seek to analyse that age. History owes a debt of gratitude to the poet; for rather than merely capturing the outward form of the age, he captured its ideals. In short, the warrior he portrayed were not realistic depictions of the Genroku-era warrior, but rather the very embodiment of the Genroku warrior spirit. Passionate in love, bold in action, undaunted by adversity, valuing honour above all, and fearless of death, the ethos of the Genroku warrior, at once flamboyant yet resilient, is vividly drawn in his works. This ethos was the lifeblood of the Genroku era; it was the ideal the age yearned for, and the underlying ferment behind its social phenomena.

Consider the character ‘Umakata Sankichi’ in the play Date-zome tazuna. When asked by Yosaku to steal money, a task requiring the eleven-year-old boy to risk his life by sneaking into a daimyo’s* lodgings, he is admonished by Yosaku to take care and stay safe. He retorts:

“What a tedious, nagging fuss! If I don’t steal it, just throw me away. I wouldn’t have taken on this job if I weren’t ready for the consequences. I have no parents, no kin; my head is no bigger than a fist, if you’ve got the nerve, come and take it. If I steal and get caught, is it any wonder if my head gets lopped off?”

He accepts the task, staking his life upon it without hesitation. Though he is eventually discovered and driven from the premises, he reflects:

“To suffer such disgrace and yet survive, how could I possibly go on living? Better to be cut down in my misery.”

He stands his ground, refusing to budge. He kills his enemy, Hachizō, and is ultimately sentenced to death.

“Ah, this is my heart’s true desire. I have earned a notorious name and been trampled by others; even if I were spared, I would not truly be alive.”

“If I am to die, taking another with me is just a bonus, a little something extra for the journey.” “Father and Mother, all must die one day; until we meet again at leisure in the world to come, we journey from the afterlife and return to it, like a horseman riding back, or a traveller passing through.”

That she faced the naked blade about to sever her head with such composure, unafraid, reflects how this spirit manifested itself in the form of a young girl.

‘Nagamachi Onna Harakiri’ (The Woman’s Seppuku at Nagamachi) illustrates how this spirit inhabited the body of an elderly woman of the common people. In ‘Koi Hakke Hashira-goyomi’ (Love’s Eight Trigrams and the Pillar Calendar), when Akamatsu Ume-ryū admonishes her niece,

“Even if your head is severed, your limbs torn away, and your body used for a test-cut, do not begrudge your life for the sake of the master to whom you have pledged your loyalty”, her words demonstrate that this spirit also lingered within the old man who recounted the Taiheiki.

The Urban Class of the Genroku Era

A prolonged era of peace fosters material progress, and Osaka stood at the very heart of this advancement. According to the writings of Saikaku, there were merchants in Osaka at the time who commanded massive vessels, ships with a capacity of 3,700 koku, capable of navigating the rough seas of the North Country with ease, thereby securing dominance over domestic trade. In earlier times, travel between East and West was arduous; when people set out for Edo, they would sing:

“Though the mountains are not yet in sight, I have taken up temporary residence in the pleasure quarters of Edo; who knows when I shall return? I might as well leave my cares behind and go.”

Yet, as transportation networks, such as relay-horse stations and through-travel services, gradually developed, the culture of the Kansai region came to permeate the entire nation. Edo, the ‘Flower of the Shogun’s Capital’, began to rival and even surpass Kyoto in splendor, and the whole of society became intoxicated by the enjoyment of wealth. The lives of the people are inextricably linked to the structure of society; the ‘high tide’ of wealth during the Genroku era manifested itself first in the emergence of a wealthy class. Just as civic power first rose in the prosperous cities of feudal Europe, the opulence of the townspeople, capable of standing on equal footing with the warrior, first appeared in great metropolises like Kyoto and Osaka. As possessors of wealth, the source of all power, they drew a circle of people with specialized talents around themselves.

Martial arts masters, blind masseurs and musicians, tea ceremony masters, antique dealers, Noh instructors, and physicians all looked to them as benefactors and patrons. In this way, their immense wealth established them as a vital element of society. As the era of peace fostered extravagance, they stood as creditors to feudal lords who were unable to manage their domains’ economies; meanwhile, they played the role of patrons for plebeian literary arts such as renga (linked verse), haikai (comic verse), and sōshi (popular fiction). A class of wealthy townspeople emerged alongside this peace. Tycoons such as Yodoya, Gin-ya, Mitsui, and Kōnoike had already established themselves as a significant social force by this time.

The wealth that created these tycoons, capable of rivaling the warrior, also gave rise to a culture of opulence among the townspeople. Just as the samurai of the Genroku era blossomed in splendor, so too did the townspeople of that age flourish like brilliant, fleeting blossoms.

In The Love Suicides at Amijima, when Kamiya Jihei’s aunt mocks his wife, asking why, despite having a young and attractive spouse, he is so dissatisfied with the tea at home that he frequently visits teahouses, her words reflect more than just the personal foibles of Jihei, a man known for his playboy ways. At a time when young women and brides alike strove to emulate the styles of onnagata (male actors playing female roles) and fretted obsessively over their hairstyles, the general populace, from warrior to commoners delighted in such flamboyant fashions. Thus, the father of Osan in Koi hakke hashira-goyomi would stay up late at renga (linked-verse) gatherings and attend the morning tea ceremony hosted by Kazahaya Saishō, while Okame in Uzuki no momiji possessed a glamorous allure that rivalled the appearance of a courtesan. The townspeople of the Genroku era indulged in earthly pleasures in precisely this manner. Yet, material progress did not merely beautify the appearance of the townspeople or refine their tastes. The growth of wealth fostered the development of autonomous institutions; cities like Osaka evolved into self-governing entities possessing their own laws, their own will, and a life of freedom. The fact that the citizens of Osaka, as depicted by Chikamatsu, feared their town elders more than government officials, and dreaded the loss of their standing within the neighbourhood more than legal sanctions, amply demonstrates the extent to which their spirit of self-governance had developed. Customs regarding property, such as leasing, inheritance, and transfer, akin to those defined in modern civil law were already practiced within this nascent autonomous community. Instruments fundamental to the commercial world, such as promissory notes and bills of exchange, had already taken shape. The seeds of a civic morality were already germinating within this environment.

Chikamatsu was a keen observer of the citizens of Osaka. Just as he captured the spirit of the Genroku-era warrior in his portrayals, so too did he capture the spirit of the Genroku-era townspeople. Let us examine this further by looking at three or four specific examples. In essence, all the social dramas Chikamatsu penned are vivid portrayals of the Genroku townspeople. The characters he depicted were not indifferent to money, nor were they devoid of financial ambition, like the figures often drawn by Edo writers of the post-Kansei era; even when whiling away their time in the pleasure quarters, they constantly thought about money and felt the pain associated with it. Because he lived in Osaka, the metropolis of the townspeople, and understood their lives, he was able to skilfully portray their character, morality, and tastes. Two characters appearing in the play Yamazaki yojibei kotobuki no kadomatsu, namely Yojibei’s father, Jōkan, and Naniwaya Yohei—should certainly be viewed as representative figures of the Genroku townspeople. Yojibei’s father, Jōkan, is what might be called a ‘renowned man of taste.’ He was a man widely known for his patronage of the pleasure quarters. He himself would say, “It is a well-known fact…” He was a wealthy magnate of Yamazaki who lived in a truly magnificent residence; though known throughout the neighbouring provinces by the name Yamazaki Jōkan, and moving in the circles of the warrior class, his everyday conduct revealed a man who attached the stamp of his own conscience to every single coin, never parting with money lightly. Ah, this is precisely why the merchants of the Kamigata region ultimately came to dominate Japan’s economic world. Accustomed to dealing with shrewd clients and amassing wealth by accumulating small gains and attending to minute details, they truly understood the value of money. Having built their fortunes by gradually leveraging meagre capital, they never forgot that even a single sen was the fruit of hard labour. If they appeared to have an insatiable appetite for money, it was not out of greed; rather, they recognized that squandering money was tantamount to squandering the labour that earned it. To them, the refusal to spend money recklessly was a matter of both morality and discipline.

The stingy merchant from the Kamigata region had long been a figure of ridicule for the natives of Edo. In truth, however, the Edoites, inhabiting a city that was a newly established capital and a hub for speculators, failed to grasp the legitimate path to wealth or the nature of civic morality; consequently, they were unable to comprehend the distinctive spirit of the Kamigata merchant. Chikamatsu captured this spirit in the character Jōkan. Although Jōkan was indeed stingy, he was no mere simple-minded miser. Consider the situation when his son, Yojibei, was confined to the house under suspicion: Yojibei had wounded Hikosuke of the Haya-ya in a jealous rage over Azuma, a courtesan at the Fuji-ya in Osaka’s Shinmachi district. Yojibei’s life hung in the balance, depending entirely on whether the victim recovered or succumbed to his wounds; yet, despite the gravity of the crisis, Jōkan refused to spend money to appease the injured party for his son’s sake. Yojibei’s wife resented her father-in-law’s heartlessness, but he remained utterly unperturbed. Meanwhile, the wife’s father, a rōnin named Kajita Jibuemon, would board the ferry at Yodo every day to visit his son-in-law and discuss the matter. Yet, he remained unperturbed. Kajita, intent on his game of shogi, argued that Yojibei’s dire straits could not be ignored; still, Jōkan remained unmoved. Kajita, a warrior of spirited temperament, grew angry. He hurled the shogi piece at Jōkan’s head and reviled him for his heartlessness. Even then, Jōkan did not flinch. Turning to the furious Kajita, he calmly explained why he could not part with his money for the sake of his beloved child, saying: “A warrior’s child becomes a warrior because a warrior parent raises and teaches him the Way of the Warrior; a townsman’s child becomes a townsman because a townsman parent raises and teaches him the way of trade… Though I know well that upon death I cannot take even a single coin with me, to revere gold and silver like gods until the very moment of death is the natural path of the townsman. To part with money I have hoarded, money that would surely invite divine retribution or great calamity, is something I simply cannot bring myself to do, however dear the child may be.” True to his word, in adherence to the morality of the merchant class, and because every single coin was the fruit of honest, hard labour, he refused to squander his wealth, even for the sake of his own child. In him, the highest standard of financial morality among the citizens of Osaka at that time found its embodiment. It is no wonder he possessed such discipline; the integrity of his credit was absolute, inviolable even in the slightest degree. Just as the warriors of the Genroku era upheld the honour befitting their station, so too did the townsmen of that age uphold the moral rectitude befitting theirs; both exemplified true human dignity. Yet, while he outwardly refused, in strict adherence to civic morality, to divert even a single coin to his beloved child for personal use, privately he arranged the necessary funds, hinting through the ‘wind-fall’ ruse that flight was the best course of action; and once the child resolved to flee, he bestowed a vast sum upon him.

He earnestly entrusted the care of his child to his companion, Azuma, and, knowing there was a maidservant available, he insisted that even if she resisted, she be made to warm the sake and serve it to him; he warned, “Do not travel by horse, for people will see your face; ride in a palanquin, even if it costs more.” Observing this, one realizes that his actions regarding money did not stem from a lack of human feeling. For a native of Edo, a careful reading of Chikamatsu reveals that this particular play can dispel, like melting ice, any misconceptions held about the people of Kamigata. ‘Nanbaya Yohei’ is another representative figure of the Genroku-era townsfolk, though he possesses a slightly different character. ‘Jōkan’ represents the orthodox Kamigata townsman, whereas ‘Yohei’ represents the unconventional one; ‘Jōkan’ embodies the man who follows the established path, while ‘Yohei’ embodies the man who walks an extraordinary one. When calm, the waters stretch vast and blue; when stirred, raging waves rise up like walls. A single townsman reveals various facets of his character depending on the circumstances he encounters, yet ultimately, he remains a townsman of the Genroku era. ‘Nanbaya Yohei’ is the figure commonly known as ‘Nan-Yohei.’ His father was ‘Yozaemon of Nanbaya’, a merchant of such renown that his wealth was measured in ‘senkan-me’ (a thousand kan of silver) and his trade spanned the country. He was, in essence, a man ‘raised amidst the steam of a massive cauldron.’

This lineage naturally moulded him into a bold and strategic merchant. Just as the bloodline of a hero might produce a hero from birth, so too does the bloodline of a tycoon tend to produce a tycoon from birth. He suffered the misfortune of seeing his father’s business fortunes fail, forcing the family to retreat to Yawata, where his father eventually died of a broken heart, while he himself sank to living in a wretched hovel (a place so cramped and shabby it seemed a fitting shrine for the God of Poverty) and working as a lowly day labourer. Yet, he never lost the refined air of a great merchant’s son; known to the world as a ‘free spirit,’ he harboured great hopes for his future. Though he possessed not a single coin, he possessed a grand mercantile vision; he constantly walked about, mentally calculating how to buy this and sell that, even while lacking the actual capital. Just as there are military geniuses, there are mercantile geniuses; every enterprise is ultimately grounded in the character of the person at its core. He owned nothing, yet he possessed the true spirit of a merchant from the Kamigata region, a spirit of bold commercial strategy. It was during his days as a day labourer that he caught a glimpse of ‘Azuma’, a woman kept by Yojibei, and fell deeply in love with her. The kind-hearted Azuma, touched by his earnest affection, shared a drink with him; she explained the unbreakable bond she shared with Yojibei, making it clear she could not return his love, and offered him ten gold pieces, urging him to use the money to publicly redeem her from the pleasure quarters. He flung the money back, declaring, “I am no greedy man; it is not for silver that I have fallen in love.” Yet, upon hearing from Azuma of her steadfast devotion to Yojibei, he was deeply moved by the sincerity of her feelings. He accepted the money he had previously rejected, viewing the gold coins as the very lifeblood of Azuma, and vowed to put the funds to work in the oil trade. He immediately rushed to Edo, where he devised a brilliant business strategy to “turn a profit without harming others,” then promptly returned to Osaka. Tethering his horse at the gate of the pleasure district, he paid the price to redeem Azuma and bestowed her upon Yojibei, thereby repaying their kindness. He was a man who embodied the style of a ‘dashing, refined dandy from the Kamigata region,’ as described by Hiraga Gennai. Both Saikaku and Chikamatsu were men who studied the reality of human existence; both read the book of real life more than written texts; and both were keen observers of Osaka. While there is a distinction, Saikaku, as a critic, meticulously depicted the workings of the human mechanism, whereas Chikamatsu, as a playwright, directly portrayed the very essence of human life, ultimately, both dwelt among living people and depicted living people.

The fact that their work remains so close to real life is precisely why their writings transcend mere literary play to serve as practical guides for living. Knowledge comes from school, but wisdom comes from life. Works like Saikaku’s Eitaigura (The Eternal Storehouse of Japan) constitute a treatise on self-reliance; within them, one finds astute strategies for navigating the world and models of the ideal citizen, biographies of individuals who forged their own destinies. Reading them evokes the feeling of sitting at the feet of a great merchant from the Genroku era and hearing the story of his life firsthand. In a Japan where books offering guidance to the common people were scarce, literary works by the likes of Saikaku and Chikamatsu possess a value that makes them truly worthy of being treasured and handed down through generations. The people of the Kamigata region embody contradictions that the people of Edo cannot fully grasp. On one hand, they are worldly-wise and shrewd, like seasoned merchants; yet on the other, they possess a temperament that might lead them to sacrifice everything for the sake of love. They display a grasping nature, seemingly unwilling to part with even a single coin, while simultaneously demonstrating an integrity that refuses to accept even the smallest sum unless it is earned through honest means. At once a monster, a bodhisattva, a creature of appetite, and a righteous soul, no one surpasses Chikamatsu in revealing how all these contradictions flow from a single life, in masterfully portraying the true feelings within, and in making us realize that even the ‘Kamigata-ko’ (the youth of the Kyoto-Osaka region) are figures worthy of our affection. A poet seeks to intuit rather than merely dissect; it was through his profound intuitive power that Chikamatsu grasped the spirit of the Kamigata youth.

While I see no need to cite further examples beyond the two already mentioned, I feel compelled to say a few words about the character known as the ‘Pirate’ in the play Hakata Kojorō Namimakura.

Short-sighted historians often discuss the expeditions to Ezo undertaken by Mamiya Rinzō, Kondō Jūzō, and their associates during the Kansei era as if they were an unprecedented feat; yet, a full century before these political zealots, spurred by alarms regarding Russia, turned their attention to securing the northern frontier, merchants from Osaka were already actively engaged in commerce in the Ezo region. Even women who might otherwise shudder with fear at the mere sight of the scene will, much like gathering up scattered clues, bravely pursue commercial gain to secure the thread they seek; indeed, the prospect of profit emboldens people. Even the Northern Seas, waters that warriors once shunned, fearing the biting cold, and where merchants had previously hesitated to venture, came to be traversed by large ships seeking profit. Commerce possesses an inherent nature of expansion. Had the Shogunate not held to its ancestral policy of closing the ports, Japan would long ago have absorbed the wealth of the world through the efforts of its enterprising and adventurous citizens. Those figures known as ‘pirates’ emerged from the clash between the Shogunate’s ancestral edicts and the spirit of the townsfolk, a spirit that embodied the very drive for commercial expansion.

The band led by ‘Kesori Kyūemon’, depicted in the play Hakata Kojorō Nami Makura was labelled ‘pirates’ for lack of a better term at the time; in reality, however, they were Kyushu merchants who defied the Shogunate’s prohibitions to engage in maritime trade. Chikamatsu hints at this within the play. They would slip past the watchful eyes of officials on the appointed date, launch their boats late at night to rendezvous with foreign vessels anchored offshore, and conduct trade using tally-slip credentials. The adventurous spirit of overseas trade, which the Shogunate had sought to suppress since the Kan’ei era, was bound to resurface in Kyushu; situated close to China and Korea and possessing a complex coastline that offered natural trading harbors, the region was a place where such impulses were difficult to contain. Kesori Kyūemon was a native of Nagasaki who embodied this very spirit. At the age of twenty-seven, he fought and killed a burly young man from Satsuma. His defining traits were an unshakeable composure, an unwavering commitment to his word, and a complete lack of fear regarding death. These characteristics naturally led him to become the leader of a ring of illicit traders who defied national law to pursue commerce. His associates referred to him as ‘Oyaji’ (The Old Man). Describing his own circumstances, he would say: “Ours is a trade that turns luck into power; without luck, nothing is accomplished.” Their adventurous spirit was epitomized in this very sentiment. Living as they did, appearing and disappearing amidst the waves, defying national laws to stake their lives on chance, destiny was the only thing they could rely upon. Jehovah, who summons thunder, stirs the winds, and whips up the waves, is the revered deity of the Anglo-Saxons, a people who forged their destiny upon the high seas.

The philosophy of the Roman Empire, where fortunes shifted ceaselessly, was Stoic fatalism. To view the ocean as paradise, braving vast expanses of waves wherever the journey led, was the faith of the Ryukyuan people. The god of destiny was the patron of these adventurous, illicit traders. A nation’s way of life is mirrored in its revered deities. He would also speak of their bond: a shared life-or-death existence, a fellowship that honed the soul; a deep, intimate connection forged through the shared perils of their trade. This was their morality, the code of men who made the boundless ocean their home. In the eyes of the world at that time, however, they were nothing more than criminals violating the laws of the land. Moreover, viewed through the eyes of a historian, this represents an attempt by the spirit of the townsman, that is, a spirit that does not shrink from risk in pursuit of profit, to break free from the constraints of artificial restrictions. Anyone who claims that the Japanese lack the adventurous, expeditionary spirit of the Dutch ought to reflect deeply upon this play by Chikamatsu.

Women of the Genroku Era

The women portrayed by Chikamatsu do not possess the distinct individuality found in his male characters. Whether they are common prostitutes, noblewomen, courtesans, wives of townsmen, or wives of warriors, while the variety is certainly not lacking, they are, in essence, cut from the same mould. Just as every character in Byron’s works is merely a variation of Byron himself, every woman Chikamatsu depicted is simply a single spirit taking on various forms as it transmigrates. He did not succeed in portraying women as effectively as he did men. Yet, this is not necessarily grounds for criticism; for in an age that shunned women’s active participation in public life, it was inevitable that female individuality had not yet developed to the point where it would catch a poet’s eye. Circumstances shape personality; thus, women, often placed in similar circumstances, were naturally depicted according to a similar archetype. This is not to say that Chikamatsu failed to grasp the influence women held within the home; indeed, in works such as Uzuki no momiji (Maple Leaves in the Fourth Month) and Satsuma-uta (Satsuma Songs), he portrayed wives who surpassed their husbands in stature. He depicted the tendency for a woman’s influence within the home to often devolve into tyranny. He portrayed how domestic hardships, born of vice, could drive a young girl to her death. He was, of course, well aware of the power women wield. Yet, unlike his male characters, he failed to imbue his female characters with distinct personalities forged by unique circumstances. Had his ‘Okiku’ been placed in ‘Azuma’s’ situation, she would have become ‘Azuma’; had his ‘Otama’ been placed in ‘Osan’s’ situation, she would have become ‘Osan.’

He captured a diversity of character in his men, but replicated the same mould for his women. The defining trait shared by all the women he portrayed was a spirit of self-sacrifice. Consider ‘Seki no Koman,’ a renowned local courtesan on the 120 mile Tokaido road, a woman capable of saving up a hundred momme or two ryō in just half a year, who nonetheless devoted herself so utterly to her lover, Tanba Yosaku, that she was left with nothing but a single woven undergarment for the summer, yet felt no regret; or who, upon hearing her father had been summoned to the magistrate’s office, declared, “I cannot let my father be killed in a water-cage,” and sought to take his place. Consider ‘Shigenoi,’ who, refusing to defy her husband’s dying wish, severed the bonds of marital love to serve her lord in the palace, and even when she saw her only child fallen on hard times and working as a lowly horse-driver, steeled herself to feign heartlessness; yet, seeing him about to depart in such a pitiful state, she took the ichibu coin and the thirteen packets of medicine she had on hand, pressed them into his possession, and, letting slip just a hint of her deep, aching affection, called out: “Hey there, turn this way a moment. Take care you don’t get hurt on the mountain paths.” Just as the courtesan Azuma, of the Fujiya in Osaka’s Shinmachi district, famed for her blend of romance and wit, suffered in secret to shield her lover Yamazaki Yojibei from disgrace, agonizing over her predicament as a veteran courtesan unable to easily break free from her profession; or as the courtesan Kogoro of Yanagimachi in Hakata, Chikuzen, rebuked her lover Komachiya Sōshichi, who sought to buy love with the power of gold, boasting of having won over the likes of Takao and Takahashi, by saying: “As for those women Takao and Takahashi, a fool like you could make them cut their hair or part with their fingernails if you simply spent enough money. I know nothing of Kyoto or Fushimi, but the courtesans of this Shinmachi district possess a different kind of soul.” Consider the woman who, clutching the hem of a lover’s garment and clinging to his doorway, pleads that their vows remain unbroken; or ‘Osai’, a woman of refined tastes and dashing spirit, who tells her mother: “Mother, please listen. I have daughters of my own, and I have kept every single item from my own bridal trousseau intact, so that when the time comes for my children to marry, it will not be an undue burden on my husband, who is of modest means.” Or consider the woman who, despite falling into an unexpected illicit affair with ‘Yari no Gonza’, an affair that brings disgrace upon her name and ultimately costs her life, still declares that while she loves her lover dearly, she cannot simply cast aside the twenty years of intimacy and the three children she shares with her husband.

In every instance, these are women who devote their very selves to the ones they love most. The women of the Genroku era wept over the plays of Chikamatsu, which captured this very spirit. The Genroku era differed from the later Tokugawa periods precisely because the air breathed by its women was imbued with this spirit. Chikamatsu made this spirit his central theme, portraying how it manifested across the diverse circumstances of women’s lives. Saikaku saw the differences among women; Chikamatsu saw their fundamental sameness. Saikaku depicted the various states and conditions of women’s lives; Chikamatsu depicted that single, constant spirit as it traversed those varying circumstances. He perceived that a woman’s greatest virtue lay in devotion, and he applied this ideal to the women he portrayed; therein lies the difference between him and Saikaku. Yet, simply because the women in Chikamatsu’s works lack a clearly defined individuality, one should not hastily dismiss them as lifeless, statue-like figures. Through the women Chikamatsu depicted, one can reach the very essence of the man himself, even more deeply than through the men he portrayed. This is because his ideals regarding life and ethics are vividly embodied in the women who sacrificed themselves for their lovers. It is through these women that the great spirit of the Genroku era, which inspired him, finds its expression. Whatever faults the Genroku era may have harboured, even as the simple, upright spirit of the Kan’ei era gave way to a tide of extravagance and unbridled indulgence; even as temples kept flower-like young acolytes, and daimyō vied in the pursuit of aesthetic refinement amidst the pleasure quarters; even as courtesans let their crimson-lined sleeves flutter in the spring breeze, the people of that time had not yet become utter slaves to bestial lust. Outwardly, they were no more than the beasts of carnal desire depicted by Saikaku; yet within, they harboured a spirit that could be bought with neither gold nor tempted by the wealth of the world. Mankind is not utterly fallen, as prejudiced theologians argue; the Way exists even in urine and excrement.

Regardless of the era, be it the Genroku period or any other, the structure of society is founded upon a spirit of moral rectitude. It rests not merely on the pursuit of self-interest, but on a spirit of selfless devotion, a willingness to sacrifice oneself entirely for the sake of another. In Genroku society, this spirit manifested among warrior in the loyal retainers of Akō, who endured every hardship for their lord to carry out their act of vengeance; among commoners, in chivalrous figures like Yume no Rokubei and Fukuzui-in Chōbei; and among women, most notably in the many ‘double-suicide plays’ penned by Chikamatsu. This singular spirit imbued the very form of society, permeating all its various manifestations. Chikamatsu’s poetic intuition perceived the workings of this spirit within women and portrayed them with striking clarity. By capturing the living pulse of this spirit, he gave voice to the truth that human emotion, whether in the Genroku era or throughout the ages, remains constant and unchanging. Indeed, the theme of lovers’ suicide did not originate with Chikamatsu. In Osaka, where literature for the common people had long flourished, the practice arose, much like today’s newspapers reporting daily local events, whereby, whenever a double suicide occurred, anonymous poets would compose ballads filled with haunting, evocative sentiment and have them sold on the streets, spreading the tale of the tragic lovers’ end even to the countryside. Chikamatsu perceived the infinite poetic potential within this phenomenon; he saw that the very essence of human existence was encapsulated in this single theme. Consequently, his ‘double-suicide plays’ struck a chord with the tastes of the era. Stimulated by the public’s preferences, he channelled his creative passion into this subject matter; his artistry and the tastes of the age shaped and were shaped by one another. I must also add a word regarding the geographical distribution of women at the time. In Chikamatsu’s era, Edo was not yet the capital of Japanese womanhood. Just as the famous Dōchū Sugoroku (travel board game) traced a path starting from Kyoto and ending in Edo, the flow of Japanese civilization moved from the Kansai region toward Edo.

Since beauties are the product of luxury, and luxury is the product of civilization, the beauties of that era were, in effect, a product of the Kansai region. In the era of Terakado Seiken, the women of Edo, who had once dominated the age with their allure, were described in Saikaku’sThe Life of an Amorous Woman (Kōshoku Ichidai Onna) as follows: compared to the women of the Kansai region, those raised in Edo were generally characterized by flat feet, thick ankles and napes, and firm skin; they were unversed in the arts of romance and desire, and fearless in disposition; and while they possessed genuine sincerity at heart, they were ill-suited to serve as partners in the pleasures of the ukiyo (floating world). Consequently, the Genroku era saw a massive influx of Kansai women into Edo, ranging from the Shogun’s ‘Ōoku’ (Inner Palace) to the households of the daimyo, yet this wave of Kyoto-style femininity failed to refine the rough, barbaric sensibilities of the common people. In the theatres that embodied the tastes of the masses, Ichikawa’s ‘aragoto’ (bombastic, heroic style) won thunderous acclaim, and even in kabuki performances, the audience clamoured for bloody spectacles, such as the fierce, violent clashes of characters like Benkei or Kohei. For an audience with such tastes, plays depicting subtle emotions or the profound essence of human existence, such as ‘double-suicide dramas’, offered little room to evoke a deep emotional response. As the Kansai region was the centre of civilization at the time, the tastes of its women were more refined than those of their counterparts in Edo. Young townswomen were precocious in matters of love; even virgins from respectable families adopted the styles of the pleasure quarters, wearing their hair in the clever, tightly pulled-back ‘kuruwa-zama’ (courtesan-style) arrangement. They understood the bitter realities of human emotion at an early age. This explains why the ‘double-suicide plays’ resonated so deeply with the temperament of the people of Osaka. Chikamatsu’s ‘double-suicide plays’ stand as proof that the sensibilities of the people of the Kamigata region were more sophisticated and delicate than those of Edoites at the time. Regarding the value of historical drama: those who read plays such as Hamlet or The Tempest will perceive in Shakespeare a spirit deeply given to profound contemplation. While he often portrayed characters who merely drifted along with the tides of the world, never once agonizing over weighty issues, he also depicted figures who sought to directly examine the fundamental questions of human existence. He portrayed characters who grappled with the agonizing dilemma of life: “To be, or not to be.” It is for this reason that his plays possess the power not only to entertain the audience but also to make them reflect. Unfortunately, we do not find such a figure in the works of our own Chikamatsu; the protagonists of his ‘double-suicide plays’ met their deaths because they felt compelled to submit to the dictates of the world in which they lived.

He never once questioned the existence of this world or the reality of the myriad phenomena within it. Nor did he take as his poetic subjects those individuals who seek to interpret the meaning of human existence. Furthermore, upon reading Julius Caesar, one observes how skillfully Shakespeare portrayed public figures, patriots and orators, and how clearly he understood the mechanics of political tragedies involving conspiracies and assassinations. He depicted not only the private lives of individuals but also their public careers; he portrayed not merely the domestic sphere but the battlefield as well. In this regard, Chikamatsu falls short. While Chikamatsu’s portrayals were remarkably authentic when dealing with private family life or personal interactions, his grasp of reality faltered significantly whenever his pen turned to matters of state and national affairs. He lacked the insight to deeply empathize with, or even adopt as a subject, heroes who operated on the grand stage of politics and society. Yet, this does not mean we must immediately deem Chikamatsu inferior to Shakespeare. The bridge on the south bank is rooted in the north; even genius is constrained by circumstance. The reason Chikamatsu was unable to portray characters of profound philosophical depth was that the society of his time did not welcome such figures. The Genroku era was, much like the Elizabethan age, a time of literary renaissance; yet, religious institutions had sunk into the depths of corruption, and the populace was immersed in material progress. Although some Confucian scholars advocated the Yang ming school of ‘Learning of the Mind,’ their discourse centered on moral conduct rather than religious questions. Consequently, no matter how keen his poetic insight, he could not discover a figure like the frenzied Hamlet within such an environment. There are no waves without water, nor clouds without mountains; in truth, a character like Hamlet, a protagonist defined by a tormented psyche and deep, obsessive attachments, is one found only among the English people.

Such a figure could not be sought in the Genroku era, an age characterized by a placid, hedonistic contentment. Needless to say, Chikamatsu’s inability to portray such heroic figures or make their destinies his poetic themes stemmed solely from the fact that his audience consisted of Japanese townspeople who lived entirely removed from the realm of politics. In all artistic creation, the artist contributes three parts, while nature contributes seven. One can bend the willow to fashion a cup, yet no amount of skill can forge a sword from it; one can strike water to make it leap, yet it cannot be bound into a solid form. The reason Chikamatsu’s social dramas possess such enduring quality lies in the fact that his material was drawn from things he had actually seen and heard. He crafted his social plays upon the foundation of the reality unfolding before his eyes. It is solely because of this source material that reading them evokes such vivid imagery, making one feel as though transported back to that era. In contrast, his historical plays pale in comparison to his social dramas because the material was highly uncertain, and the worlds he depicted lay beyond the scope of his own personal experience.

Yet, despite the relative lack of success of his historical plays, the fact that they still garnered a substantial following, even when compared to his social dramas, is not without reason. Whether in The Tale of the Heike, The Taiheiki, or the Noh chants of the Ashikaga period, the sheer abundance of ghost stories reveals the immense power that imagination held over the minds of the people of that time. They engaged in imagination far more than in rational interpretation; they lived in awe of their own imaginings, and found delight in them as well. Chikamatsu’s historical plays were created against the backdrop of the Genroku era, a time when such imaginative spirit remained undiminished. He first dreamed, and then sought to appeal to the imagination of his contemporaries through the visions he had conjured. Because his social plays took scenes from immediate reality as their subject matter, the scope of his imagination was inevitably constrained. The genius’s pen was held in check by actuality, unable to give full rein to its unbridled freedom. Yet, alongside this, Nature, possessing a significance far deeper than any human creation, was captured by his brush and revealed its true form.

A poet fulfills his calling when he casts aside mere artifice and technique to unveil the infinite meaning inherent in Nature. I recognize that Chikamatsu’s social plays come somewhat close to this ideal. As for his historical plays, however, they depicted figures in the public sphere, realms beyond the reach of his direct observation; thus, while his imagination was free from the constraints of immediate reality, there was no corresponding manifestation of Nature to lend profound significance to the work. Though his pen moved with unrestrained freedom in these historical plays, the meaning contained within them amounted, in the end, to little more than a soliloquy. To put it briefly: in plays depicting contemporary society, Chikamatsu drew more heavily upon the natural world than did his contemporary, Ki no Kaion; conversely, in historical plays, Chikamatsu wrote more extensively than Kaion did. Yet, ultimately, his historical plays fall short of his contemporary dramas. From Chikamatsu’s own perspective, however, it was the historical plays that fully embodied the breadth of his genius, works into which he poured his erudition, his ideals, and his sensibilities. One could say that he concentrated his entire creative energy upon them. The reason they ultimately fail to surpass his contemporary dramas lies in the fact that, on one hand, they rely heavily on the power of the natural world, while on the other, they do not.

Because ‘contemporary domestic plays’ faithfully reflect the natural flow of life, the protagonists within them speak their own words and perform their own actions; consequently, there is little ‘narrative text’ provided by the author. In contrast, ‘historical plays’ are essentially the author’s own monologue, which explains the abundance of narrative text. In these historical plays, the author engages in more poetic recitation, more exposition, and more direct self-expression than in the domestic plays. Therefore, to discuss Chikamatsu’s literary style, one must look to his historical plays for examples. It is here that one finds the masterpieces of the so-called ‘Chikamatsu style’ works that dazzle the eye with their brilliant interweaving of Japanese and Chinese classical allusions, blending elegant literary language with colloquial speech. Indeed, one reason the public so admired his historical plays lies in his mastery as a stylist. Yet, to dismiss his historical dramas as merely vehicles for the ideals of his time is to overlook a fundamental characteristic inherent within them. If one were to view Chikamatsu’s historical plays merely as works where the author’s ideals are imposed upon characters who are human in name only, much like the protagonists in Bakin’s Hakkenden one would be at a loss to explain why they so captivated the audiences of the day. To my mind, the protagonists in his historical plays are not merely cold ideals draped in human skin; like the heroes of his social dramas, they possess distinct personalities, blood, and life. Yet, because they are not grounded in actual reality, they are often depicted as monsters that transcend the human norm. When we read these historical plays and feel drawn to the characters within, it is much like a child listening to the tale of the ‘Three-Day Monk’ and feeling fear, in both cases, a vivid, striking image is imprinted upon the mind. Whether it is Yamamoto Kansuke in The Battle of Kawanakajima, Watōnai in The Battles of Coxinga, or even the Northern Lady of Semimaru, who transforms into a serpent out of jealousy, we perceive in them animalistic lust, conscience, passionate blood, and human frailties, despite the abrupt or improbable nature of their stories. Even when he portrays figures who defy ordinary possibility, they remain monsters endowed with genuine individuality. This stands in stark contrast to Bakin, who used the ‘Eight Dog Warriors’ merely to project the cold, pedantic ideals of Confucian scholarship. To speak plainly, he did not set out to depict ideals; rather, he depicted the demons that haunted his own dreams. The secret to an orator’s success lies in understanding the audience; grasping the nature of the listeners is the first step toward commanding them. I recognize that the success of the playwright Chikamatsu also stemmed from this very principle. He possessed a keen understanding of how to cater to the tastes of the public; his plays were perfectly attuned to the preferences of his era. Rather than merely instructing the audience, he learned far more from them.

His plays certainly influenced the tastes of the Genroku era, yet the tastes of that era influenced his plays to an even greater degree; he was shaped far more by his times than he shaped them. If one reads his plays, one can discern within them the faces of the audience, spectators who loved the work and could not suppress their exclamations of praise. Just as the mother in The Battles of Coxinga speaks of Japan and extols the dignity of Japanese women, one can see the spirit of national pride reflected in the expressions of the audience who delighted in such moments.

Consider the scene where Mōzori Kyūbei, drawing inspiration from Kanjinchō, solemnly recites the ‘Chōja-kyō’ (Sutra of the Wealthy): “Wear neither silk nor pongee; even a cotton futon is the height of luxury… Do not leave fallen items lying about; if you tumble, rise up clutching the earth; lend no money without collateral; the greedy man gains by not buying; working by moonlight is a loss; nothing outpaces hard labor; split a single poppy seed a thousand times; mind how you burn your firewood.” This passage depicts the ideals of the merchant class, yet to say merely that is insufficient. To speak plainly, he was not portraying an ideal; he was portraying the demons that haunted the dreams of that age. The secret to an orator’s success lies in understanding his audience; grasping the nature of the listeners is the first step toward commanding them.

I believe the success of the playwright Chikamatsu stems from this very principle. He possessed a keen understanding of how to cater to the tastes of the public; his plays aligned perfectly with the preferences of his era. Rather than merely instructing the audience, he learned from them. While his works certainly influenced the tastes of the Genroku period, the tastes of that era exerted an even greater influence on his plays. He was shaped far more by his times than he shaped them. If one reads his plays, one can discern the faces of the audiences who loved them and lavished praise upon them. Just as the mother in The Battles of Coxinga speaks of Japan and extols the dignity of Japanese women, we can see the pride reflected in the expressions of the spectators who delighted in such scenes. When ‘Kesori kyūbei-mon’ searched through the ‘Kanjin-chō’ (subscription scroll) and solemnly recited the ‘Chōja-kyō’ (Sutra of the Wealthy) in a loud, imposing voice, declaring maxims such as

“Wear neither silk nor pongee; even a cotton futon is the height of luxury… do not leave things lying where they fall; if you tumble, rise up clutching the earth; lend no money without collateral; for the greedy, not buying is a virtue; to forgo night work on a moonlit night is a loss; nothing beats hard work. Split even a poppy seed a thousand times; when burning wood, never discard the ash. Nothing is to be wasted. Use pot soot to draw fine eyebrows; a broken wick is a wondrous remedy; a dry well serves as a place to store a ladder; even the tail of the wind has its sheath. Lend not your katsuobushi’ (dried bonito), nor your oak mortar, whetstone, millstone, or herb grinder, to a thousand people; though the loss may not be visible to the eye, there is no instance of such items returning without having worn down. Beyond this, value amiability and frugality; when one looks at the subjects of reading and arithmetic, one finds no flaw; if one takes those less fortunate as a model and upholds these precepts, mere specks of dust will pile up to form a mountain, truly, the golden words of the wealthy are beyond doubt.”

One can well imagine how those young men from the Kamigata region, when confronted with such words, would have burst into laughter at the sight of their innermost thoughts suddenly laid bare in the clear light of day. It is precisely the sort of thing they are always saying themselves.

“The master carpenter bears a grudge against the blacksmith; it is the smith who forges the latch for the gate. Camellias bloom in the valley, like a woven-straw hat, they would look lovely if they were to open wide. Looking down into the valley from the high mountain, I see you, my lovely one, bleaching cloth. The slope stretches on, clouds gather over Suzuka, and rain falls at Tsuchiyama.”

Because these elements, woven together with exquisite artistry, formed a masterpiece, the audience was so captivated they were unaware of their own ecstatic movements. They encountered characters akin to those they met in their daily lives; they saw aspects of their own inner selves drawn out and felt a deep empathy for them; they witnessed the living embodiment of their ideals in these social dramas, manifestations far more startling and vivid than any dream. In this way, they felt as though they had stumbled upon a truly exquisite feast. He felt as the age felt and sang as the age sang. He shared the delusions and the weaknesses of the age; his voice was the voice of the age itself. He grasped the great spirit coursing through the times and gave it a clear, articulate voice. The reason their works possess enduring value lies precisely in their proximity to that era, in the way they discerned the tastes of the times and drew them out. This is the greatest lesson that contemporary poets should learn from Chikamatsu. Genius is innate; yet, without the addition of experience, one cannot produce works worthy of enduring acclaim. The subjects to be sung, chanted, or depicted do not reside within the poet’s mind; rather, they exist in the actualities that awaken the poet’s spirit. Reality is not trivial. If one captures it and attains truth, the underlying principle, too, acquires lasting value.