The Case of the Sharaku Murders (12 page)

“But wait,” objected Saeko. “Aren't there plenty of scholars who believe Sharaku's prints
were
a success?”

“Yes,” confirmed Ryohei. “There are various reasons for believing the historical documents are wrong and Sharaku's prints actually sold quite well. Personally, I agree with that view.”

“In that case, it's not surprising Hoitsu continued.”

“But hold on a minute. That's putting the cart before the horse. The premise of the Hoitsu hypothesis is that Sharaku's prints weren't commercially viable—remember? Tsutaya continued publishing them even though they weren't selling because Hoitsu was footing the bill, isn't that right?”

“Oh, yeah,” conceded Saeko. “I'd forgotten that.”

“If you're working from the assumption that Sharaku's work was well-received, then the Hoitsu hypothesis never comes into play. Either way, the theory doesn't hold water.”

Saeko finally seemed convinced.

“Okay,” Ryohei went on. “Next up is Eishosai Choki. First I should explain that according to this theory Choki didn't act alone but was put up to it by Shiba Kokan. In other words, Kokan was pulling the strings.”

“Shiba Kokan… you mean the guy connected to Shoei?”

“That's right. So let's put this theory aside for later until after we've dealt with the remaining three.”

“Why's that?” asked Saeko.

“You'll see. Now, Negishi Ubasoku is something of an enigma. All we know about him for sure is that he illustrated one book published by Tsutaya. This theory rests entirely on the fact his style is very similar to Sharaku's. Actually, it's slightly an exaggeration to say he's an enigma. His real name was probably Kitao Shigemasa. Shigemasa was a close associate of Tsutaya's and at the time he was living in Negishi, hence his pseudonym. Shigemasa illustrated a number of books for Tsutaya.”

“Is that all?”

“Patience, please. You'll see the relevance of this later. Okay, next is Tani Sogai. To explain this theory, first I have to talk about Sharaku's fan paintings.”

“Fans… like the ones made out of paper that you hold in your hand? He painted those too?”

“Yes. There are just two such works of his known to exist. One is a picture of Otafuku scattering dried beans in spring to bring good luck. The other one shows a naked boy trampling a woodblock print by Toyokuni as a bald old man stands nearby, looking on sadly.”

“That's bizarre.”

“Yes, this is something that's perplexed art historians for some time. What's it supposed to mean? Some people claim the old man is Tsutaya, others say he's Toyokuni. But Tsutaya wasn't
that
old in the 1790s and Toyokuni was only around thirty. Assuming Sharaku did make this particular fan painting, then the old man depicted in it must have been someone he knew well. This is where Tani Sogai comes in. He was a highly esteemed teacher of Danrin poetry and a tremendously influential figure. He numbered many kabuki actors and ukiyo-e artists among his students and even boasted a few daimyo and other high-ranking samurai. Now, the person who proposed this theory happened to own a portrait of Sogai. When Sharaku's fan painting first surfaced and was in the news, he saw a picture of it and thought the old man looked familiar. Then he remembered his portrait of Sogai. He got it out and compared the two—it turned out they were practically identical. Now this is where things get tricky. His portrait of Sogai was unsigned. So
it
could have been by Sharaku, too. As he was staring at the portrait, his eyes fell on an inscription—a poem purporting to be in Sogai's own hand—which he had never paid much attention to. He noticed it was titled, somewhat enigmatically, ‘Ode to a Painting by Me.' So it
was
a self-portrait, the man concluded. And if Sogai painted it he must have painted the fan also. Thus the Sogai hypothesis was born.”

“Hmm… sounds a bit too good to be true,” said Saeko, with an entranced look on her face.

“Exactly. And there's something else. This theory glosses over one very important point: though the fan picture is signed by Sharaku, it's never been definitively authenticated. If it's a fake then the whole theory falls apart. Also, if the picture of the old man
is
Sharaku, why does he look so sad? It'd be more natural if he were smiling, since the boy in the picture is trampling a print by his archrival Toyokuni. It doesn't make any sense. Then there's the question of how you interpret the title of the poem. It seems to me the most straightforward reading of ‘Ode to a Painting by Me' is that the
poem
is by him and the
picture
is by someone else. If it were a self-portrait, wouldn't he have titled it, ‘Ode to a Painting
of Me
'? Sogai made his living with his pen, so he'd never have used such an ambiguous expression.”

Ryohei paused to take a breath. Saeko was looking at him in wide-eyed astonishment.

“I guess,” he said, sounding somewhat reluctant to continue, “all that's left now is the Kyoden hypothesis.”

“Is it as complicated as that?” asked Saeko, noting his change in tone.

“Well, it's a recent theory,” explained Ryohei, “developed with an awareness of the weaknesses of those that came before it, so it's going to be a bit harder to refute. I have to admit my own first reaction when I read it was why in the world hadn't anyone ever thought of Kyoden before? It must just have been a blind spot. Santo Kyoden, as I'm sure you're aware, was one of the most popular and prolific fiction writers of the Edo period. He had an especially close relationship with Tsutaya, and later Tsutaya's son; between the two of them they published over eighty of Kyoden's works. Now, it's commonly believed that while the rise of Toyokuni was part of the reason for Tsutaya's decision to publish Sharaku's work, his main aim was to recoup the money he lost during the Kansei Reforms. In fact, it was Kyoden who was responsible for Tsutaya's loss of fortune. In 1791, Kyoden was arrested for writing
The Kimono Chest
and other works dealing with prostitution. He was put in chains for fifty days and his publisher, Tsutaya, had half of his assets confiscated.”

“Wow, talk about harsh.”

“It wasn't the first time Tsutaya had a run in with the authorities for publishing banned material, but this time it seems they wanted to make an example of him. Anyway, the result was that now Kyoden owed him one—big time. In addition to being a writer, Kyoden was a pretty good artist. He'd been an apprentice of Kitao Shigemasa—we talked about him earlier—and even published woodblock prints under the name Kitao Masanobu. When Kyoden started writing popular fiction, he illustrated most of his books himself. If he hadn't happened to be an even better writer than artist, he'd probably have rivaled Utamaro as the great ukiyo-e master of his day. Anyway, if Tsutaya thought to exploit Kyoden's talent by asking him to make prints of kabuki actors under the name ‘Sharaku,' Kyoden would have been in no position to refuse.”

“So,” chimed in Saeko, “all our ducks are in a row. He's a good artist, he knows Tsutaya well, has plenty of reason for wanting to conceal his true identity… Looks like it must have been Kyoden, doesn't it?”

“So far so good, anyway.”

“How about his alibi?” asked Saeko. “Does it check out?”

“Well, he certainly was in the right place at the right time.”

“So you mean he
really
was Sharaku!” Saeko looked at Ryohei in shock. Ryohei laughed.

“Okay, I'll confess… Of all the theories, this is the one that convinces me the least,” he said bluntly.

Saeko was speechless.

“Sure, Kyoden had the motive, the means, and the opportunity. But why should he have changed his name to Sharaku?”

“Because,” suggested Saeko, “the authorities were keeping an eye on him…”

“That's what the person behind this theory believes. But actor prints weren't the least bit subversive. Remember, mica printing hadn't yet been banned under the government's sumptuary laws. That wouldn't happen until several months
after
Sharaku's prints were published. Anyway, even supposing there was a chance the authorities might decide to crack down on such extravagance, the responsibility lay entirely with the publisher. The authorities would never have gone after an artist for something like that. No, at the time Sharaku's first print appeared, Kyoden had nothing to fear from the law. If the argument is that he had been scared off publishing work of any kind, then he wouldn't have published
anything
after 1791. But in fact by 1792 he'd already published several books under his own name. In other words,” concluded Ryohei, “Kyoden had no need to conceal his true identity.”

He paused before continuing:

“Now, what about Tsutaya?” he asked rhetorically. “Might he have had a reason for wanting Kyoden to change his name in order to create an unknown artist named Sharaku? This scenario seems even more improbable. Kyoden was a huge celebrity. Other publishers were clamoring for his work. There's no way Tsutaya would have had Kyoden make over a 140 actor prints and then kept quiet about it. Quite the opposite—he would have put Kyoden's name front and center and publicized it heavily. In terms of name recognition, Sharaku and Kyoden were night and day. As long as Kyoden didn't object, Tsutaya would never have taken his name off his work. And there's hardly any conceivable reason why Kyoden might not have wanted to use his real name. No, I don't care if he's a perfect match in every other respect. For this reason alone I can't buy into the Kyoden Hypothesis. People are seduced by it simply because today Sharaku is much more famous than Kyoden.”

Ryohei had become impassioned. Saeko sat watching him, looking somewhat amused. After a brief pause she asked, “Say, what kind of person was Tsutaya anyway? Listening to you I get the impression he was pretty heavy-handed.”

“Heavy-handed or not, he was a shrewd businessman. He started out as just a small bookseller. Within a decade he'd built one of the biggest publishing houses in Edo. He must have had a good head for business.”

“Wow, only a decade!”

“Not only that, but by forty-one he'd elbowed his way past his competitors to become head of the publishers' guild. Since he was about twenty-four when he opened his first bookshop, in just fifteen years he'd risen to the top of his profession.”

“He must have been incredibly driven,” observed Saeko.

“Driven, yes, but also a man of vision. When comic poetry became all the rage in Edo he befriended the leading kyoka poets and got them to order books from him for all their students. He also took in promising young artists and looked after them. If you wanted to be cynical you might say he liked to incur people's gratitude. Utamaro was one of the many artists Tsutaya nurtured. But when Tsutaya bet on the wrong horse it sometimes ended up costing him a pretty penny. Fortunately, Utamaro turned out to be the most popular ukiyo-e artist in Japan, so on balance you'd have to say Tsutaya had a good eye for talent: Eishosai Choki, Kyokutei Bakin, Jippensha Ikku… They all owed their careers to Tsutaya. When it came to business strategy, he was head and shoulders above his competitors.”

“It seems he was quite a character,” said Saeko, “but I can't help feeling a bit sorry for him.”

“For Tsutaya?”

“Yes. I mean, most people today have heard of Utamaro, Sharaku, Bakin, and Ikku, but hardly anyone's heard of Tsutaya.”

“Well, that's life. Anyway, Tsutaya probably wouldn't have minded; after all, he was the one making all the profit. Plus, I think he must have taken a lot of satisfaction in seeing the artists he nurtured grow up and be successful.”

“I suppose that's true. But why would a shrewd businessman like him have taken a risk with an unknown artist like Sharaku?”

“Ah, now there's the rub. No matter how talented Sharaku was, someone as shrewd as Tsutaya wouldn't have continued publishing his work if it didn't sell. He'd have pulled the plug on the project without a second thought. But he didn't. He kept it up for ten months. Now, there are scholars who say the shock of losing half his fortune sent Tsutaya a bit off his head, or that he was so desperate to get his business back on its feet that he didn't know when to stop. But if Tsutaya had been as fainthearted as that, he'd never have built his empire in the first place.”

“Good point,” said Saeko, deep in thought.

“That's why I think Sharaku was a success from the very beginning,” went on Ryohei. “In fact, his prints must have sold so well Tsutaya pushed him to churn out more and more. Look, he starts off with deluxe, oversize color prints, right? Gradually they get smaller and smaller and cheaper and cheaper. The prevailing theory about this is that the earlier prints were a flop, despite all the money Tsutaya lavished on them, so he scaled back and kept plugging away, waiting for Sharaku's popularity to take off. But I think it was the reverse: Sharaku was a phenomenal success from the very beginning. When an artist is hot, people will snap up anything with his name on it. Mica printing was very expensive, so Tsutaya switched to something cheaper to produce. There was more profit in that. For the better part of a year, Tsutaya put just about everything else on hold and devoted all his attention to Sharaku. He wasn't running a vanity press. He had a family to support and employees who needed to be paid. He had to put food on the table. For that reason alone, I can't imagine he would have continued publishing Sharaku's work if it didn't sell. But let's suppose he was so enamored of Sharaku he wanted to publish him regardless. In that case, he would at least have found a more commercially viable artist to publish alongside Sharaku so as to make enough profit to scrape by. That's just common sense. But Tsutaya didn't do that. Why? Because Sharaku was bigger than any other artist at the time—that's the only possible conclusion based on what we know of Tsutaya's character. But either Sharaku fell into a rut and Tsutaya ditched him, or Sharaku realized Tsutaya was using him and decided to call it quits. Anyway, I imagine the reason Tsutaya stopped publishing Sharaku's work after ten months was something along those lines.”