In the cities under the shogun's rule, townsmen flourish. Like the words to the song, "Prosperity reigns." The merchants of the capital are an exuberant lot. They can afford it, for reckoning to them is second nature, and frugality has become a way of life. (*1)
      Last fall, when the Konparu school of no actors performed in the capital, not a seat remained in the house--though a box for the four-day performance cost ten silver pieces, and all tickets were cash-in-advance. To add to the furor, the old favorite Lady Komachi at Sekidera was on the bill, whetting everyone's appetite. Problems arose with the drum, alas, and the program was changed at the last moment. Even so, crowds thronged the theater. From the night before the opening, people piled upon people like a mountain of humanity.
      In the audience was a man from Edo, who had come alone to see the play. He ensconced himself in two boxes, which he had rented for ten silver coins apiece. He lined the two balconies with deluxe scarlet cloth, had shelves hung for his paraphernalia, installed folding screens and pillow boxes, (*2) and to the rear of his first balcony, a little kitchen, where he laid in a supply of fish and game, and baskets of fresh fruit. The adjoining balcony he had outfitted for the tea ceremony: a fire and a kettle, and cedarwood buckets with hinged lids to hold the finest water from the Uji and Otowa Rivers. Here he assembled physicians and drapers, Confucian scholars and poetry masters, and purveyors of every imported luxury. Farther back in the box were the owners of Shimabara teahouses and the little-boy brothels of Shijo. Massagers were also in attendance, along with samurai instructors of the martial arts and famous clowns known throughout the capital.
      Underneath the viewing stand a palanquin was parked, and a portable bath and privy were erected. The man had spared himself the slightest inconvenience. This was the very picture of luxury, the spirit of a man of plenty. Yet it was not birth that had given him his privi-

      *1  Translator's Note: Throughout Saikaku's fiction the people of Kyoto, the capital, emerge as frugal and sensible in comparison to the extravagance of Edo townsmen--a point that is made in this story with the introduction of the flamboyant Edo theatergoer in paragraph three. Edo is the premodern name for the city of Tokyo.
      *2  Originally used when a courtesan's bedding was transported to a house of assignation. They generally contained two wooden pillows and compartments for accessories, and came to be used for storing one's personal effects.

lege. It was money. When you profit in every venture, you're free to indulge as you please. When resources are inexhaustible, how deep are the delights!
      But the rest of us should be careful with our money. Especially as the season of frosts draws near. (*3) People think it's a long time, from the ninth-month billing to the year-end closing--we're all inclined to get careless. From the tenth month the weather is uncertain. The autumn rains fall, the wintry winds gust. Naturally, people's moods change. Now, only urgent matters receive attention. Things get put off until the spring. This brings a slump to the luxury trade. Everyone reconsiders his needs, and artisans find their orders canceled. With each day, the mornings are frostier and the nights are windier. People stay indoors, hibernating under warm quilts. Business is left to take care of itself and, before you know it, money is tight and you're in a pickle.
      But the demands of the season only increase: the Portrait Requiem at the temples of the Lotus sect, the Ten-Night Vigil of the Pure Land Order, Founder's Day at Tofuku Temple, the advance observance of the death of Shinran, (*4) evening festivities on the Day of the Boar. And by the time the fires are lit for the God of the Forge, a new theatrical season is upon us. On opening night, when theaters introduce their new companies, even stale faces look like new stars. Rumors fly through the buoyant crowd.
      "Today the producer himself will perform!"
      "Tomorrow the lead actor appears!"
      "The young players from Osaka have signed with the troupe of What's-his-name."
      Some theatergoers will do anything to appear cosmopolitan. Reserving box seats through the teahouse . . . sending bouquets backstage to an actor they met once in the greenroom. If a player should acknowledge them, how they bask in their glory! And when the show is over and the wine from their flasks has gone to their heads, the last thing they do is start home. They make for the teahouses of Ishigakecho, where they hire a room on the second floor and restage the dances from the finale. Their roistering reverberates like the screeching of dragons. The din carries to the Palace and echoes to the top of Mount Hie.
      Even for a prosperous man--a well-known clothier, let's say, who

      *3  Around the tenth month. Money was tight at this time and business slowed because merchants tended to save their cash for the expenses that came at year-end, both the cost of celebrating the holiday and paying off the year's debts.
      *4   1173-1262. Founder of the Buddhist sect known as True Pure Land.

serves as official supplier to Lord So-and-so, or a broker to the military house of Such-and-such--a spree like this is most extravagant. How ludicrous, then, for a small businessman. Go to the theater for your fun, if you must, but take care you're not seated near a smoker. He'll only try to filch tobacco. Rent a straw cushion and watch from the pit. You'll still learn the names of the actors.
      Not long ago a new play starring Yojibei (*5) opened in the capital. In the first-night audience were five or six young gallants with particular panache. From their balcony, second left of the stage, they presided over the theater, a stylish, insouciant presence. Sons are disinherited for extravagance like theirs. But if such a thought had ever flashed through their heads, it left not a blemish on their blithe young faces. On stage, handsome young actors cast longing looks in their direction. In the audience, people envied them.
      Among the spectators, however, was one who knew these men. People asked him all about them, and he obliged by divulging the true story of the scoundrels.
      "As a matter of fact," he said, "they all live west of the river. (*6) It makes me laugh to see them pretending they're from good neighborhoods, looking self-important. If you didn't know better, you'd think they all came from fine families. But let me tell you. That one in the black jacket: he married a woman fifteen years older, just for the money. He took her family name--her people are rice dealers--and then treated them like dirt. He made his wife's mother work all day at the mortar, he sent the brother out selling beans. I'd like to take that fancy sword he's got with its sharkskin grip and give it to someone who deserves it!
      "And the next one, in the shiny coat? Do you know what he does? He's a glue-maker. He deals in cattle bones and cow slobber. But, the way he dresses, you'd think his own bones were the product of fine breeding. Hah! He's had to put his house in hock. His creditors have taken him to court. He's embroiled in a silly property dispute with some of his neighbors. Considering all his problems, if you ask me, he's crazy to be out for a night on the town.
      "As for the third fellow, in the light brown jacket--he took out a loan for 5 kanme, pretended the money was his legacy, and used it to marry the daughter of a lacquer dealer. He even had himself adopted into his wife's family. But no sooner did his wife's father die than he began treating his mother-in-law with contempt. He didn't even wait for the mourning period to end before he started going to

      *5   Araki Yojibei (1637-1700), a leading kabuki actor based in Osaka.
      *6   An area of journeymen, craftsmen, and small tradesmen--hardly the affluent district that these men would have one believe they hailed from.

the theater again. The man does not know propriety. And his financial worth? It's non-existent. He can only buy enough rice and firewood for a day at a time. Does that stop him? No, he drinks with young kabuki actors. Poor boys! They think rubbing elbows with him is going to mean money. They're only human--how could they know? But, I'll tell you, in the last five years the man has never paid a bill.
      "And see that one in the striped jacket? He runs a two-bit money exchange. He couldn't make it into the new year with a clean slate if he didn't get help--last minute alms from his brother, the monk at Mii Temple. Except for him, there isn't a one among them who can show his face in the capital during the New Year holidays." (*7)
      When they saw him pointing up at them and chuckling, the profligates were flattered. They swept up the flowers that had garnished their meal and tossed them as favors into the audience. Camellias, narcissus buds, and kumquats wrapped in fine tissue paper cascaded from the balcony.
      "If they really had the money," said the man who knew them, unwrapping a piece of fruit, "these kumquats would cost them 2 fun each. Wait till the caterer finds out he's not getting paid!"
      With this, the curtain fell and the audience dispersed.
      Every day the little band of dissolutes made its rounds of the theaters. Funny, though: they always wore the same clothes. At the teahouses this was finally noticed. The matter of their bills was broached. But without offering so much as an excuse, the men vanished. Try though the teahouses would to collect, nothing came of it.
      Before long, it was the last day of the year. "Giving your creditors the slip on New Year's Eve is old hat," said one of the men. "I'm going to disappear at noon." No bill collector ever found him.
      Another feigned madness. Under house arrest, he eluded his creditors.
      The third managed to bungle an attempt at suicide. Investigations are underway.
      The buffoon who introduced these men to the teahouses stands as guilty as the thieves he vouched for. The authorities have warned his neighbors not to let him slip away.
      And the teahouse owners? Well, they were dreaming sweet dreams to count on their ship coming in with these men for customers. The rascals set sail to the ship and absconded, leaving the owners at sea without an island to swim to. As the year closed, all that the teahouses had to show for credit so unwisely extended were three straw hats left behind by the men who had hoodwinked them.

Translated by Robert Lyon Danly

     *7   Because they haven't settled their debts.