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Title: Kabuki : The popular stage of Japan
Author: Kincaid, Zoë
Language: English
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KABUKI
MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA • MADRAS
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO
DALLAS • SAN FRANCISCO
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.
TORONTO
[Illustration: The character of Kamakura Gongoro, a warrior of Old
Japan, as presented in Shibaraku! (lit., Wait-a-Moment). A famous
actor improvisation, or aragoto play, one of the hereditary eighteen
pieces of the Ichikawa Danjuro family. From a painting on silk by
Torii Kiyotada, the present head of the Torii School.]
KABUKI
THE POPULAR STAGE OF JAPAN
BY
ZOË KINCAID
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON 1925
COPYRIGHT
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
In my study of Kabuki I am deeply indebted to Mr. Seiseiin Ihara, the
author of several volumes on the history of the popular stage of Japan.
No progress toward an understanding of the development of Kabuki can
be made without extensive reference to this valuable work. I wish
particularly to acknowledge Mr. Ihara’s investigations into the mass
of chronicles of the theatre, his lives of the actors, his painstaking
researches into drama, also his collection of facts relating to the
interference of the officials with the theatre and persecution of the
actors. His _Generations of the Ichikawa Family_ has also proved a
record of great assistance.
Mr. Ihara has not only furnished me with data for study, but has been
an indefatigable friend. A true lover of the theatre, he is one of the
leading dramatic critics of Tokyo, and has not only given generously
of his knowledge as a recognised authority on Kabuki, but acted on my
behalf to smooth away a misunderstanding or straighten out a difficulty
that sometimes arose concerning my attendance at the theatre.
To the late Mr. E. Motono, brother of the late Viscount Motono, I owe
many of the first translations that opened up before me a new theatre
world. Mr. Eishiro Hori, Professor of English at Keio University,
rendered the greatest assistance in translations that gave me an
insight into the history and technique of the Nō and Doll-theatre.
I also acknowledge my indebtedness to Mr. Mokuan Sekine for his _Engeki
Taizen_, or Complete Drama, relating to the old customs of Kabuki,
and to his _Fifty Years of Meiji Kabuki_. Another fruitful source of
information has been _Kabuki Sosho_, a collection of old Kabuki records.
I take this opportunity to thank the friends who so often accompanied
me to the theatre, and who were unfailing in their help, Mrs. Koto-ko
Kuroda, Miss Shige Takenaka, Miss Chiyo-ko Hiraiwa, Mr. Hisashi
Fujisawa, and Mr. M. Kinai.
Nor can I fail to acknowledge the kindness of the three leading
managers of Tokyo who allowed me free access to their theatres, Mr. K.
Yamamoto of the Imperial, the late Nariyoshi Tamura of the Ichimura-za,
and later his son and successor, and Mr. Otani, head of the Matsutake
Company, which now controls the greatest number of playhouses in Japan.
For twelve years I sat among the critics of the Tokyo stage at the
regular performances, and cannot forget the unfailing courtesy of my
journalistic associates.
To my good friends among the actors, Nakamura Utayemon of the
Kabuki-za; Onoe Baiko and Matsumoto Koshiro of the Imperial; Onoe
Kikugoro, the sixth, of the Ichimura-za; Nakamura Kichiyemon of the
Kabuki-za, and Nakamura Ganjiro of Osaka; to Mr. Y. Ninomiya, stage
producer and playwright of the Imperial; Miss Ritsu-ko Mori, leading
actress of the Tokyo stage; Mr. Kiyotada Torii, the theatre artist; Mr.
Beisai Kubota, stage designer,—to all the friends of long standing in
the theatre, I take this opportunity to express my gratitude for the
privilege of their friendship and kind assistance.
ZOË KINCAID.
London, _March_ 2, 1925.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Acknowledgement v
Introduction xv
KABUKI
CHAPTER I
Kabuki 3
CHAPTER II
Kabuki Audiences 9
CHAPTER III
Conventions of Kabuki 17
CHAPTER IV
Craftsmanship of Kabuki 28
CHAPTER V
Kabuki’s School of Acting 35
CHAPTER VI
Actor Ceremonials 40
ORIGIN OF KABUKI
CHAPTER VII
O-Kuni of Izumo 49
CHAPTER VIII
Onna Kabuki: The Woman’s Stage 58
CHAPTER IX
Wakashu Kabuki: The Young Men’s Stage 64
CHAPTER X
Theatres of the Three Towns 74
YAKUSHA
CHAPTER XI
Danjuro and Tojuro 87
CHAPTER XII
Yakusha of Genroku 99
CHAPTER XIII
Yakusha of Horeki 111
CHAPTER XIV
Yakusha of Pre-Restoration Period 121
CHAPTER XV
Onnagata 132
CHAPTER XVI
Yakusha and Marionette 144
CHAPTER XVII
Lives of the Yakusha 153
SHIBAI
CHAPTER XVIII
Customs of Shibai 169
CHAPTER XIX
Shibai and Outside Influence 183
CHAPTER XX
Music of Shibai 192
CHAPTER XXI
Shibai and Interference 201
CHAPTER XXII
Externals of Shibai 215
SAKUSHA
CHAPTER XXIII
Customs of the Sakusha 225
CHAPTER XXIV
Representative Sakusha 232
PLAYS
CHAPTER XXV
Kabuki Play Forms 253
CHAPTER XXVI
Motives of Kabuki Plays 276
CHAPTER XXVII
Kabuki Rôles 310
MEIJI KABUKI
CHAPTER XXVIII
Meiji Kabuki 323
I. Yakusha of Meiji 323
II. The Ninth Ichikawa Danjuro 330
III. A Theatre Manager of Meiji 337
IV. Rise and Fall of Shimpa 342
V. Reforms of Meiji 347
VI. Actresses of Meiji 353
VII. Playwrights of Meiji and Taisho 358
KABUKI TO-DAY
CHAPTER XXIX
Contemporary Kabuki 367
Bibliography 377
Index 379
ILLUSTRATIONS
FACE PAGE
The character of Kamakura Gongoro, a warrior of Old Japan,
as presented in Shibaraku! (lit., Wait-a-Moment). A famous
actor improvisation, or aragoto play, one of the hereditary
eighteen pieces of the Ichikawa Danjuro family. (From a
painting on silk by Torii Kiyotada, the present head of
the Torii School) _Frontispiece, in colour_
Onoe Kikugoro as a brave samurai woman mounted on a white
velvet stage steed 22
Nakamura Matagoro, the leading boy-actor of the Tokyo stage
in the rôle of a girl-pilgrim, O-Tsuru 36
Announcing Ceremony. Kojo, or announcement ceremony, in which
the central figure is Ichikawa Danjuro. The modest actor
whose name is to be changed or rank raised bows low, hiding
his face from view. (Colour print by Hasegawa Kampei, the
fourteenth, and Torii Kiyosada, father of Kiyotada) 40
The last of the Ichikawa family, the granddaughter of
Ichikawa Danjuro, the ninth 42
Theatre Treasures exhibited. At the Nakamura-za, founded by
Saruwaka Kansaburo, the gifts given to him by the Shogun
were considered as treasures of the theatre and exhibited
on certain anniversaries with much respect, the actor
holding the gold sai, or battle signal, and covering his
mouth with a piece of paper lest his breath soil it.
(Colour print by Hasegawa Kampei, the fourteenth, and
Torii Kiyosada, father of Kiyotada) 69
Ichimura Uzaemon, the thirteenth, as Yasuna in a posture
dance descriptive of a man who has become demented because
of the loss of his wife 82
Onoe Matsusuke as Komori Yasu, or Bat Yasu, so called because
of the birth-mark on his cheek which resembles a bat. A
bold, bad man of Yedo 99
Matsumoto Koshiro, of the Imperial Theatre, in the character
of Townsend Harris, the first American Minister to Japan. A
photograph of the intrepid Kentucky Colonel is on the
actor’s dressing-table 111
Nakamura Utayemon, leading actor of the Tokyo stage, in the
rôle of Yayegaki-hime, the young princess in the play
Nijushiko, or Twenty-four Filial Persons 132
Three onnagata of Asia: in the centre Mei Ran-fan of the
Peking stage, to the left Nakamura Utayemon, the leading
onnagata of Japan, and on the right Nakamura Fukusuke, the
son of Utayemon and one of the most fascinating
impersonators of women in Tokyo 136
Nakamura Jakuyemon of Osaka, an onnagata who imitates the
acting of the marionettes 140
Yoshida Bungoro, a doll-handler of the Bunraku-za of Osaka,
who has devoted his life to the management of female
marionettes 144
A scene from Chushingura, as played by the marionettes in the
Bunraku-za of Osaka 148
O-Sato, heroine of a ballad-drama of the Doll-theatre.
Reproduced from an oil painting by an Osaka artist and
shown in a Tokyo art exhibition. The doll-handlers are
grouped behind like shadows 150
Yakusha making a round of New Year calls. In the foreground
a member of the Ichikawa family, with two pupils and his
servants, following behind an onnagata similarly attended.
The kites in the picture show the favourite pastime of
children during the New Year holidays. (Colour print by
Hasegawa Kampei, the fourteenth, and Torii Kiyosada, father
of Kiyotada) 154
Matsumoto Koshiro in the rôle of an otokodate, or chivalrous
commoner, ready to defend the oppressed lower classes from
the blustering two-sworded samurai 160
Nakamura Kichiyemon as Kumagae, a warrior of Old Japan 166
To mark the opening of the theatre season when actors,
playwrights, and musicians were engaged, there was a
gathering called Seeing-for-the-First-Time. (Colour print
by Torii Kiyonaga) 175
Advertising the Play. During the performances two men garbed
in long trailing feminine attire, their heads covered with
cotton towels, attracted the passers-by by their verbal
advertisement. One imitated the lines of the actors, and
the other handed out wooden tickets. (Colour print by
Hasegawa Kampei, the fourteenth, and Torii Kiyosada, father
of Kiyotada) 177
Face Lights for the Actors. When the theatre became dark
it was necessary to illumine the actor’s face with
candle-light. Here property men are holding out candles on
the ends of pliant rods that the face of the dancer may be
seen, and candles form the footlights. The performer is the
serpent princess in the disguise of a beautiful dancer in
the piece Dojo-ji. (Colour print by Hasegawa Kampei, the
fourteenth, and Torii Kiyosada, father of Kiyotada) 181
Ceremony of welcoming an actor. It represents the onnagata,
Segawa Kikunojo, returning to the Nakamura-za in Yedo after
an absence of two years in Osaka. (From colour print by
Utagawa Toyokuni) 182
Nakamura Ganjiro of Osaka as a melancholy lover in a play of
the people 186
Nakamura Fukusuke of Tokyo in an onnagata rôle 215
A Kaomise, or face-showing ceremony at the Nakamura-za in
1772. By this time the roof of the stage had disappeared
and only its symbol remained over the front of the stage,
which now approached the long narrow style in vogue in the
Doll-theatre. (Colour print by Utagawa Toyoharu) 217
Interior of the Nakamura-za in 1798 when Ichikawa Danjuro,
the sixth, was promoted to the head of the theatre. By this
time the roof of the stage had become a decoration
overhead. (Colour print by Utagawa Toyokuni) 218
The largest Nō theatre in Japan, that of Onishi Ryotaro in
Osaka, a modern structure combining architectural features
representing the different periods of Nō theatre
development 220
Kataoka Nizaemon, the eleventh, as Yuranosuke, the leader of
the Forty-seven Ronin, in the play Chushingura 228
Nakamura Ganjiro of Osaka in his favourite rôle, that of
Izaemon, the lover of Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s drama, and
played for two centuries by the Kabuki actors 256
Matsumoto Koshiro, the seventh, as Watonai, the grotesque
hero of Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s drama, Kokusenya Kassen, or
the Battle of Kokusenya. The inner garment is bright red
studded with brass, the lower purple with a design of
twisted white rope 262
Matsumoto Koshiro, the seventh, as Benkei, the warrior-priest
in Kanjincho. He performed in this rôle when the Prince of
Wales visited the Imperial Theatre 264
Sawamura Sojuro, the seventh, of the Imperial Theatre, as
Togashi, the keeper of the barrier, in Kanjincho, Kabuki’s
music-drama masterpiece 266
Morita Kanya, the thirteenth, son of the aggressive theatre
manager of Meiji, as Yoshitsune, the young hero of the
music-drama, Kanjincho 268
Onoe Baiko as the Wistaria Maiden, in a descriptive dance 272
Onoe Kikugoro, the sixth, as the transformation of a maid
into a white fox, in a descriptive dance, Kagami Shishi, or
the Mirror-Lion 274
Nakamura Ganjiro of Osaka as Genzo, the village schoolmaster
in Terakoya, or The Village School, by Takeda Izumo 278
Ichikawa Chusha as Matsuomaru in Terakoya (The Village
School), who sacrifices the life of his son that the
Michizane heir may survive 280
Jitsukawa Enjaku of Osaka as Gonta in the sacrifice play,
Sembonzakura, by Takeda Izumo 282
Ichikawa Sadanji as Sadakura, the highwayman, in the play
Chushingura 284
The Harakiri scene from Chushingura 286
Scene from Yotsuya Kaidan, or The Ghost of Yotsuya, by
Namboku Tsuruya. Onoe Baiko is seen as the disfigured
O-Iwa, and Onoe Matsusuke the kind old masseur who holds up
the mirror that she may learn the truth 294
Banzuiin Chobei, a man of the people, rôle by Matsumoto
Koshiro 300
Nakamura Kichiyemon as Sakura Sogoro, the Village Head who
his life for the good of the people 302
Nakamura Fukusuke of Osaka as a belle of the gay quarters.
Letters are made as long as possible to produce the better
effect 304
Onoe Baiko as the demon woman in Ibaraki, escaping with her
severed arm 306
Matsumoto Koshiro and Onoe Baiko in Seikinoto, the
music-drama piece, in which Baiko appeared as the spirit
of the cherry tree 316
Ritsu-Ko Mori, the leading actress of the Tokyo stage 347
The Imperial Theatre of Tokyo, completed in 1911. The
building withstood the earthquake shocks of the great
disaster of 1923, but the interior was destroyed by fire.
It has now been entirely restored. The Imperial is becoming
an international theatre centre, and has welcomed actors,
musicians, and dancers from England, America, Russia,
Italy, and China 368
Onoe Baiko, leading actor of the Imperial Theatre in an
onnagata rôle 370
(1) The new Kabuki-za. (2) Entrance Hall of the new
Kabuki-za. The new Kabuki-za, with a seating capacity
of 4000, which was opened on January 6, 1925. Under
construction at the time of the earthquake disaster,
September 1, 1923, the concrete structure remained intact.
Japanese architectural features have been used throughout
the Kabuki-za, and, rising out of the ruins of the city,
it is one of the most imposing buildings in Tokyo 374
INTRODUCTION
Interest in the Theatre, and in the arts and crafts which belong to
it, is to-day so lively and so general that it is rather surprising
how little has been written about the popular theatre in Japan. There
have been several books on the Nō, that unique form of drama which
rigidly maintains unaltered all the traditions and fine conventions of
the medieval period. But this stationary, aristocratic art has never
entered into the life of the Japanese people as has the Kabuki theatre,
with which the present volume is concerned. In January of this year was
opened the new building of the Kabuki-za, rising from the ashes and
ruins of the capital. It is a huge building, with a seating capacity of
four thousand. The Japanese cannot live without the theatre: it is in
a most real sense part of the national life. Through the theatre the
least educated become familiar with the heroic past of their country,
its legends and its actual history, so abounding in dramatic episodes
“where duty and inclination come nobly to the grapple”. It stimulates
and sustains their imaginative life; it is a bond of union for all
sorts and conditions of men. Such a theatre is worth knowing about;
and the art of this theatre is, in all its details, of extraordinary
interest. No nation is so thorough as the Japanese in any art they
undertake; and the Kabuki theatre exacts the most prolonged and
rigorous training from childhood in those who serve it; their art is
of the most finished. Technically, also, the devices and conventions
of Kabuki scenes—the revolving stage, for instance—offer points
of comparison and contrast with the European theatre which we can
profitably study, as readers of this book will discover.
The writer of this book has lived for years in Japan, has
assiduously frequented the theatre (and not the Kabuki theatre only),
and has made herself intimately acquainted with its history. Collectors
and students of Japanese colour-prints know how entwined with that
popular art is the life of the theatre. Some of the finest designers
of those beautiful prints devoted their lives to depicting the actors
of the day in their most successful scenes. And print-collectors have
long been in want of a book which would tell them about the famous
actors, whether of masculine or feminine parts (for women, as on the
Elizabethan stage, were played by men), and about the plays in which
they appeared. Only quite recently has it been discovered that the
actor-prints can very often be dated by the help of theatre-records;
and thus we are enabled to distinguish between the different actors of
stage-families bearing the same name. (The hereditary character of the
actor’s calling is another interesting feature of the Japanese stage.)
In this book one’s natural curiosity about the lives and personalities
of the successive Danjuros and other great actors is in large measure
satisfied: and I am sure that print-collectors will welcome this
illuminating aid to their study. But it is to those interested in the
theatre as theatre that these pages will appeal above all.
Many of us remember the performances of Sada Yacco and her husband,
Mr. Kawakami, in London, now many years ago. They gave us just a
glimpse of the fascination of Japanese acting: but they represented
an experimental effort—Sada Yacco herself was an actress only by
accident—and in the West we have never seen any true representation of
the national drama of Japan. I cannot but express the hope, which I am
sure will be shared by those who read these pages, that before long
Tokyo may be persuaded to send a company to Europe, and at last allow
us to enjoy and understand something of the scrupulous and intense
dramatic art, so rich in tradition yet so alive to the finger-tips, of
the Japanese popular theatre.
LAURENCE BINYON.
KABUKI
CHAPTER I
KABUKI
Solid attention from the close-set heads of the playgoers kneeling
on their cushions in the boxes of the pit to the crowded galleries
on three sides, and enthusiasm displayed in the tachimi, or
standing-to-see place near the ceiling, where patient people remain on
their feet for long hours—the keenest critics as well as the warmest
supporters of the actors—such is the scene witnessed daily in the
theatre of Japan.
The Occidental cannot long withstand the mass psychology of this
audience; that is, if he makes an attempt to share its point of view
and appreciate the excellent things provided upon the stage. He feels
its subtle unity, its amazing cohesiveness; he is carried away by an
unseen stream, engrossed, engulfed, and wakes up with a start to find
himself an entity again; or else, detaching himself from the atmosphere
in which he has been immersed, wonders at this overflowing expression
of Japanese life.
Statesmen, publicists, and editors of the Occident wax eloquent about
Japan and her problems, but here is something they quite ignore and
leave out of consideration, this manifestation of the pure spirit of
the people with minds relaxed enjoying the theatre art that pleased
their ancestors.
Seekers after mystery will not find it here, for there is nothing
that is inscrutable. Merely the people laughing or crying as the
play proceeds, spontaneous in their approval of the triumph of right
over wrong, absorbed in the clash of evil and good,—the same theatre
material that has served to amuse and attract mankind for the last
two thousand years.
Just the people, displaying depths of human nature, undisturbed by the
questions that vex the politicians, the propagandists, the militarists,
and other dread phantoms that cast their dark shadows over a sunny,
smiling world.
The creative spirit belongs to no one land or people, and its
expression becomes the treasure of all. Kabuki, the popular stage of
Japan, is the result of three hundred years of intensive cultivation.
Its genius and successful achievements belong to a common sum total,
and are a contribution to the world’s theatre. Its actors are members
of the same fraternity as those of the West, and claim kinship with
them.
Nothing in the entire realm of Japanese life reveals the
characteristics of the people so unerringly as Kabuki. It is a
store-house of history, and has exercised a moral force upon the whole
people. The crowded audiences in the big theatres of Tokyo, Osaka,
Kobe, Kyoto, Yokohama, and the countless minor places of amusement,
testify to the enjoyment and relaxation afforded by the performances.
There are the achievements of the actors, who may easily be recognised
as men of the first ability; the frequent attempts of new stage
writers, that are worthy of consideration as evidence of Japan’s modern
tendencies; the living traditions of the old masterpieces to witness,
and the many interesting ceremonies of the theatre. Kabuki represents a
whole world of creativeness both past and present, a sphere of theatre
activity that remains a _terra incognita_ to the Occident.
There is something poignant in the endeavours of generations of Kabuki
players who obeyed the voice within them, asking no acknowledgement,
expecting no return, doing their duty as they knew it without the
least idea of the vague western hemisphere—completely unknown to their
brothers in other lands.
For more than three hundred years these actors have lived and had
their being in their own narrow spheres. True to the best theatre
instinct within them, they bequeathed their accumulated treasures
of style and taste, the purest and most varied of theatre material,
to their successors, the modern actors, who, so far as the West is
concerned, remain obscure, unvalued, and unappreciated, even as did
their ancestors when Japan was isolated and had no relations with
outside countries. Yet their art was good, and will one day gain
recognition. They have carried on their traditions unswervingly; they
are the custodians of all that pertains to the theatre of the present,
and the future looms large with possibilities.
There are three separate and distinct theatres in Japan: the Nō, or
classic drama, with its masked figures, perfected five hundred years
ago; Ningyo-shibai, or the Doll-theatre, where marionettes interpret
complicated ballad-dramas; and Kabuki, the popular theatre, in which
male players reign supreme. These are the Japanese theatre arts,
interwoven into the very fabric of society, the amusements of the
people that reflect their psychology, tastes, and aspirations.
The Nō became crystallised into an art at the time of the Shogun
Yoshimitsu (1368–1398). Long before Yoshimitsu held sway, the country
had been brimful of song, dance, poetry, minstrelsy, and the three
theatres of modern Japan may be said to have inherited the accumulated
tendencies of a thousand years.
Deeply rooted in the people was the love of theatrical entertainments
which were held in connection with the festivals of shrines and
temples. From these performances developed companies of players who
formed hereditary actor families, the members of which were regarded as
belonging to the common people.
When Yoshimitsu saw a performance at a Kyoto temple that pleased him he
gave his patronage to the players, and at one bound they were elevated
to a new position. It was at this time that the Nō was brought to a
state of perfection, and the support and encouragement given by so
highly placed a personage resulted in the monopoly of this theatre by
the aristocracy, to be reserved henceforward for their own use and
entertainment.
During the long Tokugawa regime, the Nō continued under the protection
of the Shogun, and was patronised by the various daimyo. When the
shogunate fell, the Nō almost went out of existence, but slowly
regained its prestige, and within recent years it has attained
unprecedented popularity. It is regarded as a means of culture, and is
claimed by increasing numbers of intellectuals. Yet it still retains
its aloofness from the common theatre, which it continues to disdain as
cheap, vulgar, and sensational. In spite of the fact that it has come
to a standstill and lives on the past, its influence is very great.
As an expression of the human spirit by means of inanimate figures, the
Doll-theatre of Japan is unique. It is a surprise to find this jewel of
art in Osaka, the city of smoke-stacks—an art that has been alive in
Japan for more than three hundred years, but is at present practically
confined to one small theatre, the Bunraku-za.
Other countries have their doll-theatres in more or less flourishing
conditions, but few have reached such a state of completeness as that
of Japan. For here is a rare combination—inanimate figures instead of
actors of flesh and blood; doll-men trained from childhood to acquire
the technique to manage the cold and lifeless forms through which
flows the creative genius of the handlers; minstrels and musicians who
have devoted their lives to the interpretation of the plays; and the
best brains of the dramatist employed in order that the dolls may be
triumphant and their use fully justified.
Kabuki, the popular stage, was but the assertion of the people to the
right of their own form of entertainment, since the Nō had become the
exclusive amusement of the higher classes. All the materials for a
theatre of the people were abundantly at hand, and it only needed the
impetus to start it flowing in the right direction.
Ningyo-shibai, or the Doll-theatre, and Kabuki rose at the same
time, both popular theatre arts. Kabuki was destined to be profoundly
influenced by the marionettes, and the music of the Doll-theatre owed
its inspiration directly to the Nō.
While Japan’s theatre genius has not developed in the same direction as
the intellectual drama of the Occident, her actors are the product of
severe discipline. Kabuki is one of the most professional stages of the
world. The actors are trained from childhood, and keep their place in
the ranks until their steps are tottering. There is no opening for the
amateur to gain admittance to this well-regulated world with its set
standards.
And of the countless plays, but few are known to the West. There are
the dramas rich in human nature, as romantic and sentimental as the
West could desire, with a realism that rivals that of the Occident.
On the other hand, there is a remarkable excursion into the realm
of the unreal, and grotesque characters cut out of the cloth of
exaggeration form the characteristics of the many quaint plays that
have been handed down to posterity by the nine stars of the Ichikawa
family, the actor-line that has contributed more than any other to the
development of the Japanese theatre. There are, also, the shosagoto,
or music-posture pieces, ethereal, graceful, fairylike creations, and
associated with these a whole sphere of descriptive dancing.
To attempt to justify the existence of Kabuki by seeking to explain
it in the light of the Occidental theatre means to digress, for
comparisons are idle until the whole story of the Japanese stage is
made known. No doubt when Kabuki becomes more familiar to the West much
of a critical nature will be written as to where the two approach or
diverge.
The aim of this book is to lay the essential facts of Kabuki before
Occidental readers. For it is believed that the way to judge such an
institution is to find out first what it signifies to those who have
brought it into existence. After which may be considered the value
it holds for the West. When an attempt is made to explain Kabuki in
Western terms confusion begins. It becomes a much simpler matter if
left to explain itself.
In the Nō the actor and playwright were subservient to interpretation,
and art was greater than personality; in the Doll-theatre, playwrights,
minstrels, doll-handlers—all worked so enthusiastically that they
forgot themselves and were absorbed in the marionette,—a truly
unselfish theatre co-operation. Much of Kabuki, however, has been of an
ephemeral nature. The actors improvised as they saw fit. It was their
world and the playwrights were their servants. The whole art of Kabuki
evolved by these players of Japan is unconscious, and should be of
the greatest interest to lovers of the theatre in all lands, for the
reason that the relation of a people to their theatre, the different
use of dramatic materials, the development of characteristic customs
and conventions reveal by way of comparison and contrast the virtues or
defects of the systems that exist elsewhere.
CHAPTER II
KABUKI AUDIENCES
An indescribable din, thoroughly characteristic of the atmosphere of
shibai,—that forms part of the pleasure of theatre-going,—is composed
of a hubbub of voices, the clatter of tea-cups, the twang of the
samisen, the thunder of big drums, the cries of the vendors selling
pots of hot tea, rice-cakes, or oranges to customers in the back seats
of the gallery, and the metallic click-clack of the hyoshigi, or wooden
clappers, that signal the beginning or end of the curtain.
Long before the playgoers begin to arrive, heavy, scattered drum-beats
echo through the vacant theatre. This is a reminder of the old days
when the drummer stationed in the yagura, or drum-tower, beat his
tattoo to announce the opening of shibai, and to hasten the people on
their way.
By the time the dekata, or ushers, are bustling about showing the
people to their places, the great drum sounds with slow, regular
rhythms. A flute begins to shrill, weaving an intricate maze about the
deep-toned measures. Next the light, staccato beats of a Nō drum are
added to the medley of sounds which, becoming faster and faster, seems
to anticipate the thrilling and brilliant scenes that are about to be
represented on the stage.
The drummers cease their clamour abruptly, and there succeeds a quiet
space broken by the noise of the stage carpenter’s hammer, and the
calls of stage hands. Soon the pit is densely packed, the people
kneeling down on their cushions in the little square boxes that
hold no more than four with comfort. The galleries facing the stage,
and to right and left, hung with many lanterns and covered with scarlet
cloth, begin to fill.
Increasing the animation of the scene are the changing curtains of rich
satins or crepes embroidered or dyed with gay designs, presentation
gifts to the actor, symbolising his rank, rôles, or ancestry, that are
drawn aside one after the other. The many-coloured kimono and gold and
silver obi worn by the fair sex heighten the brightness of the picture.
Deluges of rain do not prevent people from crowding to the theatre, for
when ordinary pursuits are interfered with the whole day may be given
up to seeing the plays and enjoying the hospitality of shibai.
Should a typhoon be raging, the chaya, or tea-house, presents a lively
scene; every second a dozen dripping, two-wheeled kuruma arrive, the
short oilskin coats of the pullers streaming with water, their bare
legs splashed with mud, as they unbutton the flaps of the hooded
vehicles that old, fat dowagers, charming wives, white-haired old
gentlemen wearing silk skirts, and geisha, immaculate of toilet, may
emerge, only to be succeeded by an endless variety of persons bent on
relieving the monotony of the day by a visit to shibai.
Within the chaya, the wide cement entrance floor is quickly covered
by a mountain of geta, or clogs, and dripping oiled-paper umbrellas,
all thrown together in what seems utter confusion, were it not for the
wooden identification tags.
Servants add to the pandemonium by running in all directions calling
out loudly as they take the honourable guests’ hats and overcoats,
or escort them to their places within the theatre, while crowds of
apple-cheeked country maids struggle valiantly to fill innumerable blue
and white teapots, disputing with each other as to the destination of
these indispensables, arranging them on trays, or filling them by
dipping up the boiling water from a huge brass kettle over the charcoal
fire let down in the floor.
Outside, the red and white paper lanterns decorating the under-eaves of
the tea-house blow about wetly, and a fusillade of vertical rain falls
unceasingly upon the grey mud of the street.
From street to seat, and a new world appears, the audience kneeling
down on the cushions of the small boxes, packed in like sardines in
the narrow confines—faces, faces everywhere, from the patient standing
people of the highest gallery to the close-set heads of the first row
in the pit. Immediately, the piles of clogs and soggy umbrellas that
must be sorted out before the dispersal of the audience, the blustering
gale without, even the deafening roar of the unceasing rain upon the
roof of the theatre are forgotten, as attention is focussed upon the
vivid characters of the Kabuki plays.
Or to leave the dusty, traffic-worn city in the yellow glare of noon,
and entering the chaya become lost in Kabuki’s dreamland, is a pleasant
sensation. The old world wags. Afternoon gives place to evening,
and by the time the playgoer issues forth again into the sphere of
actualities, a chorus of thanks from the tea-house attendants for his
coming sounding in his ears, the stars are bright in the canopy of
darkness.
At the time of O-Kuni, the founder of Kabuki, shibai meant to sit on
the grass or earth, and something of its out-of-door origin still
remains. The buildings never at any time give the impression that the
play is being enacted in some stuffy, mouldy subterranean cavern.
Especially in hot weather the audience has a sense of airiness and
freedom.
Going to the theatre in midsummer is made agreeable and comfortable.
White curtains cover the galleries; the audience is clothed for the
most part in cool, white cotton kimono, and the entire auditorium is
a-flutter with white fans. The playgoer may look away from the stage
and rest his eyes by the sight of a moonlit sky, even bats and
moths venturing in from their night resting-places, attracted by the
bright interior.
Sunlight slants through the audience and falls on the upturned faces
in the pit, and is reflected in the well-oiled and perfectly arranged
coiffure of the Japanese woman. Patches of brilliant sunshine stray
upon the stage, touching a golden screen or sumptuous costume. The wind
blows, moving the fragile paper lanterns suspended from the galleries
or in rows over the stage, shibai’s most characteristic decoration.
The heads of the kneeling people in the galleries are outlined against
an open space of blue sky, trees, and roofs. Afternoon fades, and
the background behind the playgoers changes to dark blue velvet
imperceptibly melting into the blackness of night as the play proceeds.
For summer audiences suggestions of coolness are made. In a certain
scene gold screens will be used, on which are painted pine-clad
islands, blue water, and white waves. When that mysterious sea of faces
upon which the actor plays is one fluttering mass of paper fans, then
the taste inclines to realistic typhoons with thunder and lightning
and real rain, that splashes all over the stage, or there is shown an
under-the-ocean scene in which fish and mermaids disport themselves.
Should a piece with the savour of the sea be given, a curtain is
suspended from the galleries showing blue waves on white, and creepy
ghost plays are a cooling influence when it is necessary to forget the
hot clamminess of the streets.
In winter, however, the near-to-nature aspect of shibai is not
conducive to comfort. Then it is necessary to sit on the feet to keep
them warm, and the chill air blows through chinks and cracks. The only
heat provided is a small porcelain vessel filled with charcoal embers
placed in a box that has an aperture in the top, while over the whole
is placed a wadded covering—a hand-warmer that theatre-goers could not
very well do without.
But if there is signal neglect of creature comforts in the
winter shibai, there are compensations. There is no lack of warm
food and beverages to suit the taste of the most fastidious. During
the intervals between plays the people promenade along the corridors
and purchase souvenirs at the stalls, where many tempting wares are
displayed to view. An air of enjoyment and pleasure pervades the
atmosphere.
April is still, as it was in the old days, the gayest and most
attractive month for playgoers. Thousands of provincials flock to Tokyo
and Osaka, and the theatres vie with each other to provide the most
attractive programmes. Artificial cherry blossoms form the decorations
outside the theatres, and the stage shows some special arrangement of
these flowers.
Following the old custom, November is the most dignified theatre month
in the calendar, when the great actors play their finest rôles to mark
the opening of the theatre season. The celebration of the New Year
is observed in a special manner, the decorations consisting of pine,
bamboo, and plum, and lanterns bearing the names and crests of the
leading actors. December is the dullest and most uninteresting theatre
month, since the year-end settlement of outstanding accounts makes it
necessary to retrench in order to meet all obligations, and because the
busy household preparations keep many a matron and maid at home.
Not all the plays on a programme, that lasts from noon to near
midnight, are calculated to hold the attention—in some scenes the
action, if it can be so called, meanders gently on, the audience
manifesting a mild interest. There is a deep undercurrent of repose
upon the stage, the actors going about their business leisurely,
knowing nothing of the hurry with which Western players cram the events
of a lifetime into a short two-hours-and-a-half.
People attend shibai not so much to be startled by sensations, as for
relaxation. They take their ease, and feel at home. The dekata
waits upon them, attending to their personal needs with a courtesy that
makes each individual consider himself an honoured guest.
In the midst of a scene that calls for passive interest, the dekata may
be seen balancing in one hand a pile of red or black lacquer boxes full
of hot rice and tempting viands with which playgoers are accustomed to
regale themselves, or laden down with sake bottles or teapots, moving
dexterously from one box to another in the pit.
At such times the doctrine of self-realisation of Asia is best
revealed. Contented old men send the smoke from their small, metallic
pipes floating towards the ceiling; grandmothers drink tea from cups
that hold three mouthfuls. Old cronies discuss the play over sips of
hot sake; others read the programmes to acquaint themselves with the
forthcoming plays; babies are nursed, dressed, or put to sleep; geisha
take out their mirrors and industriously preen and powder; children
devour sweets and oranges.
But while each person is enjoying himself according to his own ideas, a
hush seems to envelop the entire assembly. There is a sense of unity,
an undertow of quietness, that holds the diversified units of the
audience firmly together.
As a revelation of human nature there is nothing so illuminating in all
Japan as the Kabuki audience. Quick to see the humour of a situation,
it is tragedy that it likes and which touches it to the quick.
It is a mistaken idea to suppose that all the people of Japan are
samurai to the extent that they never show their feelings. Loyal heroes
who die for a cause, victims of the conflict between love and duty,
sacrifice of self that others may live, these always bring the tears,
and handkerchiefs are pressed to brimming feminine eyes in all parts of
the theatre. Nor are men above the softer emotions. They may be seen
weeping bitterly in such scenes as that in _Chushingura_ when Enya
Hangan commits harakiri and his faithful chief retainer, Yuranosuke,
comes just in time to catch his last words. Others mop their heads or
cough to keep back the tears. Kabuki audiences seem rather to enjoy
a good cry. The sorrow of farewell, mother-love, blindness, death, the
common human experiences move them deeply. They may be dazzled by a
gorgeous spectacle, excited by a combat, absorbed by the movements of a
dancer, but when it comes to the sentiments of everyday life the Kabuki
audience responds in a wave of sympathy.
Formerly the audience was composed chiefly of middle or lower class
people. Nowadays all classes attend, and a member of the Imperial
family, the Prince Regent, witnessed Kabuki performances for the first
time when he visited the Imperial Theatre in Tokyo with the Prince of
Wales. A distinctive feature of theatre-going are the parties of people
who attend regularly in a body, patrons of the leading actors. Firemen,
wrestlers, and tradespeople may thus be seen, according to the custom
of their ancestors. The geisha are the steadiest patrons of the actors.
Sometimes they make a brave show gaily apparelled, occupying the best
seats in the gallery. They form an interesting element of the audience,
smoking, chatting, weeping over the play, and making up with powder
puff to obliterate the traces of tears, the young ones in dazzling
kimono and obi, the more sedate in sober garments.
When a popular actor in a piece that has withstood the shocks of time
is before the audience interest becomes intense. Familiarity with
the play adds to the keenness of the enjoyment. Before a favourite
character makes a grand entrance by the hanamichi, every head in the
pit is turned to see him come. Shouts of welcome are heard as a beloved
hero is about to make his appearance on the scene.
Half of the enjoyment to the playgoers in seeing these old plays is
expectancy; not so much in the unfoldment of the plot, for they know
the story by heart, and have witnessed the play often, but how the
actor will interpret it.
One of the privileges of the audience is to make audible remarks,
and they are free and unrestrained in the expression of their
admiration or criticism of an actor in a well-known rôle.
“You did very well!” shouts a voice after an actor has portrayed a
character to the general satisfaction. If an actor is ill, but refuses
to disappoint the audience, a sympathiser calls out: “Take care of
yourself!” or “Thank you for coming when you are so ill!” Should a
young player, rapidly climbing the ladder of fame, display so much
skill as to astonish, there is a surge of great pride throughout the
audience, and shouts of “Nippon Ichi!” (“Best in Japan!”) are showered
upon him.
When the minstrel and the samisen player, who are to furnish the
incidental music of a doll-theatre classic, mount their platform to the
right of the stage, there are cries of: “Now do your best!”
Glowing memories of the varied scenes in shibai do not soon fade away;
the friendliness of the tea-house mistresses who have remained for long
years at their posts; the thrilling experience of meeting an actor off
the stage in an upper room of a tea-house looking down on the blaze
of oblong lanterns that form the street illuminations; the unfailing
attentiveness of the dekata, those servitors of shibai who seem to have
wandered into the present from old Yedo; an actor on the hanamichi
surrounded by the people, all eyes intent on his movements, or the
unrestrained applause when an actor reaches a high level of acting.
Many shibai landmarks are passing, giving place to more advanced ideas.
In the leading theatre, chairs have now replaced the cushions laid on
the matting as in a Japanese dwelling; steam heat ensures a well-warmed
interior in winter; maids in black frocks and white bib and tucker
are replacing the dignified, faithful dekata; the time given to the
performances is steadily being reduced. Shibai must progress. But in
their efforts to be up to date the iconoclasts would throw overboard
much of the honest and simple regime that has for so long distinguished
Kabuki.
CHAPTER III
CONVENTIONS OF KABUKI
While the development of the popular theatre of Japan has been
co-existent with that of England and Europe, and fundamentally it is
the same, there are striking differences in the conventions. These are
the result of the isolation of Kabuki, due to the seclusion policy of
the shogunate which endured for two centuries and a half.
Kabuki conventions appear at first sight so different from our own that
it takes time to understand and appreciate them. Familiarity, however,
reveals the taste and sincerity of the Kabuki collaborators, who, far
from the influence of the theatres of other lands, worked out their own
salvation.
One of the most interesting conventions to the Occidental is the
hanamichi, or flower-way. It is an extension of the stage proper to
form a path through the audience. There are always two hanamichi in a
theatre, one on either side of the stage, that on the left being the
wider and more important, that on the right smaller and less used.
Some of the most vital principles of Kabuki are at work when the
hanamichi is employed. The modern playwrights who ignore it, not only
rob the actors of something strongly theatrical, but at the same time
take away from the audience the keen delight that comes from close
contact with the creations of the stage.
Pageantry and ceremonial claim the hanamichi as their own. Sweeping
over it come processions of gay courtesans; priests in stiff brocades
chant as they march solemnly to some ornate stage-temple; daimyo trains
wind their way with all the pomp of feudal days; the whole theatre
becomes a stage and every person in the audience feels his connection
with the play and players.
A company of courtesans enter by the hanamichi and fill it with as
brilliant a blaze of colour as it is ever possible to see in a theatre
that is justly famous in this direction. The grotesque personages of
the prints, the taiyu of old Yedo, are reproduced, the glittering robes
of gold and bright embroidery, the elaborately decorated headdresses,
and heavily padded brocade rolls to their many kimono, making them the
most topheavy persons that could ever be imagined, balancing themselves
on their stilt-like black geta, or high footgear, as they lean on the
shoulders of their male attendants for support. A whole hanamichi of
these extraordinary creatures, men bearing large lanterns, and little
maids in scarlet, following in the wake, makes a picture that fairly
dazzles.
Many priests with an aged abbot at the head pass through the audience
in great dignity and enter a golden temple in the gloom of tall trees,
the incense, wave on wave, rising into the air and spreading out over
the audience. Fighting men in armour suddenly swarm over the two
hanamichi, right above the heads of the bewildered people in their
small boxes in the pit, and the whole audience is taken by surprise at
the number of men rushing towards the stage.
The greatest variety of entrances and exits is made possible by the
hanamichi. A hasty messenger chooses this way for entrance; and a
slow exit is made by a melancholy lover with downcast head and folded
arms, determined to depart this life. There is the splendid, imposing
entrance of a shogun, prince or brave warrior, or the striking exit
of some masquerading fox or demon, while the actors are fond of slow
introductions, standing for a long time in the most conspicuous
position on the hanamichi that they may be viewed from every vantage
point in the theatre.
Tall autumn grasses on each side of the hanamichi, prepare for the
entrance of a hero playing on his flute in the moonlight, an
assassin creeping behind him. If the scene upon the stage is that of
winter there will be a snowdrift on the hanamichi, and blue and white
cotton will transform this narrow audience-path into a stream of water.
An umbrella lies carelessly outspread on the hanamichi; it gently moves
as though by its own volition, then there is a puff of smoke, and out
springs a beautiful maiden, who dances. By the same trap-door issue
forth such characters as Nikki Danjo, magician and conspirator, who
transforms himself into a rat that he may steal a family document, and
then assuming his own form, although still resembling a rat, stands in
the midst of the people, and the next moment mysteriously disappears
through the hanamichi.
Armour-clad fighters perched high upon velvet stage-horses thrill
by their nearness, and long-lost brothers find each other on the
hanamichi. With rapture lovers are united; a wounded hero, shot by an
arrow in the eye, reels and sinks down with exhaustion, and two comic
old females go out talking volubly to the amusement of the audience.
Such are the characters, gay or grave, who have been brought into
existence by the hanamichi.
As a means to further characters on their way, the hanamichi is most
useful. Two actors will leave the stage taking the hanamichi, and cross
over by a narrow footpath into the centre of the pit, where they stand
and act. Meanwhile a bridge has been pulled off and a red shrine pushed
on, and by the time they wander back to the stage proper they have
travelled a long way on their journey.
Travellers, servants, court ladies, peasants, and vendors,—they make a
motley train as they pass over the hanamichi and are so near the people
that they might, if they wished, reach out and touch their garments.
Interpretative music forms part of almost every play. To produce
certain moods in the audience, the drummers and samisen players are
accustomed to make sounds and rhythms to increase the emotion or
picturesque effect of a scene. These men are called hayashikata, or
musicians, and perform on a number of instruments, furnishing
Kabuki’s incidental music. They are stationed to one side of the stage
and concealed from view, but as a concession there is an opening in the
painted scenery, or screens, that they may survey the stage and keep in
close relation to the action.
To accompany conversation there are irregular notes of the samisen,
and when the characters are thus engaged and what they say is of great
interest the audience is so hushed that the stray notes of the samisen
sound like dripping water in a silent house. At other times this
samisen accompaniment to dialogue is more of a hindrance than a help.
For people walking or marching the samisen has another rhythm, and
certain variations of measures suggest a lonely farm house.
When two noble persons converse together, the flute, sho (an ancient
reed instrument), drum, and samisen are played softly. Rippling sounds
convey the merriment of a feast, and excited rhythms are heard as a
combat takes place.
For battle there is the confusion made of quick beats of the big drum.
To increase the sound of the warlike preparations, a metal gong is
struck rapidly, there is a clash of cymbals, and the blowing of a conch
shell.
To make more solitary a lonely mountain scene, a horse-driver’s song
is sung to the jingle of horse-bells, and when an echo is required
two small drums answer each other. Gay and lively festival scenes
are accompanied by intricate interweaving of light drum-beats. Crazy
persons make their appearance to irregular notes of the samisen, while
regular rhythms of the big drum suggest wind. Falling snow is made by
soft, muffled, regular drum-beats. Waves are suggested by a vigorous
stroke on the big drum, and then a quiet tap, in imitation of the ebb
and flow of the tide.
At sunset there is the deep boom of a temple-bell, when lovers are
parting, or the approach of some tragic _dénouement_ in deserted temple
or country cottage. For harakiri scenes the piercingly sad flute
and subdued samisen express the regret of the dying, and for tragedy
there are sad little ripples of the samisen in a high tone.
Soft samisen measures accompany melancholy moonlit scenes, and the
striking of a wooden gong used in Buddhist worship suggests the
appearance of something frightful. Light taps of the big drums make
known a sinister motive, and the big drum beaten quickly announces
impending evil, while the clatter of the geta, or wooden clogs, on the
hanamichi, to the thumping of the samisen and the light tattoo of the
small drums, conveys an impression of light-heartedness.
Most of the conventions in regard to make-up have been handed down
by word of mouth from one Ichikawa Danjuro to the other, and form a
complicated subject. Dead white, with broad black eyebrows, and touches
of red to eyes and corners of the mouth, has long been the accepted
stage mask for samurai, or persons of high degree. White also forms the
established make-up for women. Villains are generally made up with red
faces, country people are tanned brown by the sun, and comedians paint
their faces with red, white, and blue.
In the exaggerated rôles created by the Ichikawa house, the
countenances of these imaginative personages give scope for the most
daring attempts. This elaborate design for the face is called kumadori
(lit., to-make-borders).
Brave men who have fought a good fight and lost, confront their
enemies with an expression of retaliation, broad red lines around the
eyes, nose, and chin, with red forks over the forehead. Again, such a
character is made up with light pink shading out from the red strokes.
Strong and courageous warriors, undismayed although in the hands of
their enemies, have chins of grey, red lips bordered by white, broad
upward strokes of red from eyes and cheeks to forehead, and raised
eyebrows like the antennæ of some black beetle, the whole giving the
impression that the hero is bristling with anger; his hair standing on
end.
Benkei, the warrior-priest, loyal to his young master, Yoshitsune,
is represented with a grey chin, no eyebrows, two curved lines on
forehead, outlined in pink.
A villain of wrathful mien is made up according to the Ichikawa
convention with the lower part of the face black, a black and white
design on the chin for a beard, the upper portion of the face covered
with a network of purple veins, and for eyebrows the antlers of a
deer in dark blue. A villain of a different description appears with
a bright red face, a pink nose and mouth, and thick black elevated
eyebrows.
Most of the conventions for the making up of ghosts have been created
by the Kikugoro family, their specialty being the weird and ghostly.
A Kikugoro ghost has a branching design of blue veins, a red mouth
outlined in black, and eyes painted with red and black. Another
apparition has an indistinct blue tinge over the face, the features
slightly touched with black. The face of a fox in human disguise is
white with sharp pink points upward from the bridge of the nose, and
slanting black eyebrows. The spirit of a frog has sharp curved lines of
dark and light green about eyes, mouth, and forehead.
Not unlike the clown of the Western circus, the Kabuki comedian makes
up with a white ground on which lines of red are painted about the
nostrils and eyes, while a red circle between the eyes supports a heavy
horizontal line intended for eyebrows. The cheeks are decorated with a
blue curved design, suggested by a squirming eel, which represents a
moustache.
The modern actors are not slaves to the conventions, but depart from
them whenever they feel inclined, making up to suit their own ideas
of the characters they take. The actor performs this elaborate duty
himself, laying on the lines with brush and finger tip. Matsumoto
Koshiro, of the Imperial Theatre, is acknowledged the most versatile
and original in his making up, always creating something new and
astonishing.
[Illustration: Onoe Kikugoro as a brave samurai woman mounted on a
white velvet stage steed.]
One of the most striking conventions of the Japanese theatre is the
Kabuki horse, supported underneath by two minor actors who specialise
in supplying legs to make-believe steeds. It waves its mane, kicks and
steps about to show its mettle, or jogs along, a patient pack animal.
But always it forms a necessary part of the action of a play, as well
as an important feature of the stage picture.
This remarkable quadruped with the very human legs and knees occupies
a distinct place of its own in the old plays, and its prestige is not
dimmed even in the latest productions. Its ancestor may be seen on the
Doll-stage, prancing about among the puppets, but the velvet mount of
Kabuki is much more dignified, and has advanced a great deal since it
ceased to associate with the marionettes.
In a music play, _Omori Hikoshichi_, by Fukuchi, the horse becomes one
of the chief characters. The hero, Omori, while assisting a young woman
to cross the ford of a river is suddenly attacked by her. He finds that
she is trying to recover her father’s sword, and having it with him, he
generously gives it up. To hide his act from his men, he pretends to be
overcome by uncanny influences, but this excuse does not satisfy the
retainers, and when Omori jumps upon his horse, they pull the bridle
this way and that, the restive animal rearing and plunging to the
strains of the samisen. At length Omori frees himself and appears in
the background on a hill, his war-fan upraised in triumphant attitude,
the very intelligent stage-horse pawing the ground, apparently sharing
its master’s triumphant emotion.
Acting a horse rôle is not so easy as it may appear, since the fore and
back legs must by some stage legerdemain perform in harmony. The front
legs take the initiative since to this actor is given the position of
look-out. There is a window in the throat of the horse that allows
the chief interpreter a partial vision of the stage. The hind legs
must follow blindly, and moreover this actor is in a stooping position
and apparently has little air for breathing purposes. How the two
players enter the outward frame, and how they get along inside, remains
a mystery to playgoers, who do not inquire about the matter too closely.
When the young hero, Atsumori, in bright armour, makes his entrance
upon the hanamichi riding on a white velvet horse, he has attached to
the back of his saddle a series of black lacquered hoops, from which
is suspended a long, loose covering of thin orange silk, that streams
high above his head and floats like the train of a lady at court far
behind the horse. Kumagae, a grizzled warrior, is magnificent on a
black horse that tosses its head as though it were truly a fiery steed.
He wears gold armour, rides on a black velvet mount, and the streaming
silk is of purple. They follow one another into the sea, and the two
horsemen are seen in the perspective surrounded by conventional blue
and white waves, crossing swords amid the surges. The young hero is
overcome. Then the riderless horses, like real runaways, dash along the
hanamichi, making a grand exit.
There seems no danger that the Kabuki horse will ever become extinct,
for it is employed with too good effect in many of the best plays. A
samurai escaping from a battle leans with fatigue on his horse. The
enemy are upon him and he must say farewell to his dumb friend, which
shows affection for its master by rubbing him with its nose, while the
actor without words expresses the sorrow he feels at parting from his
faithful companion. Again, the central figure of a dance may be a white
horse, with gay trappings of red fringe and brass ornaments.
Some day this interesting quadruped may be considered too antiquated in
the pitiless glare of the progressive present, and, ashamed of itself
for being a hoax so long, slink away into oblivion.
But it cannot be supplanted by a real one, so long as it forms an
important part of the pageantry of the hanamichi, when resplendent
daimyo ride in state through the audience in the midst of the little
boxes crammed with their human occupants craning their necks to see
the passing show.
It would be hard to imagine Kabuki without its devoted kurombo,
or property man. Concealed from head to foot in black, the face
covered by a flap, which he seldom raises except in an emergency,
the kurombo (lit., black-man) serves the stage unselfishly, claiming
no recognition, pleased to put his own personality completely in the
background; withal he is a most important personage. The variety of
his tasks gives him an entire familiarity with the stage. He is a
super-actor and stage-manager, entrusted with the smooth running of the
performance, responsible for a hundred details, and yet remains the
humble menial of the theatre.
A queer profession it seems, to flit about the stage so unobtrusively
that the audience is not aware of his presence; yet always engaged
in making inanimate objects significant. He holds a piece of silver
paper on the end of a long pole and a fish jumps before the eyes of
the audience. Hiding behind a thicket of bamboo, he causes the long
feathery plumes to sway in a wind storm. The pendant branches of the
weeping willow are suddenly agitated by the kurombo in anticipation of
some ghostly event, or he squats down behind a clump of grass making
it shiver to reveal the concealment place of some desperate character
about to come forth.
What magic he effects by means of his long pliable rod! At one time
butterflies flutter from the end, or a white moth is suspended over the
face of a sleeping man near a white paper lantern, awakening him in
time that he may protect himself from danger.
It is the kurombo who causes snakes to glide upon the scene and wriggle
in the most realistic manner, while cats, rats, and even crabs make
their appearance at the psychological moment at his bidding.
Sometimes he remains so quiet that he appears to be nodding or napping,
but the next moment bounds away accomplishing his purpose. Always on
the alert, he watches for sliding screens that do not open, or
gates that are about to topple over, and holds up a curtain that a
dead man may disappear since he is no longer needed on the stage. By a
dexterous touch behind, he changes the neutral costume of an actor to
one all gold and silver, or gives the right tug that brings the long
hair of a distraught heroine all dishevelled about her.
His solicitude for the infants of the footlights is touching. Crouching
behind a boy actor, he guides his actions and gives him his cue,
waiting to escort him on and off. And when the feet of the old actor
become feeble the kurombo is close at hand to assist, knowing his least
movement from long association.
Silent observer of the great men, the actors, creeping on all fours
behind some gorgeous figure in gold brocade, the kurombo is conscious
of the sins and omissions of the players, and he is the humourist of
the situation. But he never shows that he is human. The audience seldom
if ever catch a glimpse of his face, perhaps only in profile as he
takes up some partially exposed position, with book in hand, prompting
the actors whose memories are not trustworthy.
The boy kurombo begins to learn the mysteries of the stage at an early
age. His father brings him to shibai when he is a mere baby, not more
than four years of age, and he may be allowed to go upon the scene
and take away a pair of sandals, or other small property, in order
that he may begin to learn his life’s duties. Small actors and equally
diminutive kurombo thus grow up together.
It is customary for the kurombo in his novitiate to sit at each side
of the stage unconsciously taking in every detail. These children soon
become accustomed to gaze in a detached way at the audience, which
must make a vast impression on their minds, and at the same time they
evince a lively interest in all that concerns the stage. Their eyes,
round with wonderment, look at a play as though it were a fairy tale
unfolding before them,—the ghosts and demons, samurai and peasants
of Kabuki passing near. It is small wonder that the kurombo, whose
taste for the theatre is bred in the bone, stays with it until old age
claims him—always a shadow.
The most perplexing convention of the Japanese theatre to the
Occidental, long accustomed to mixed players, is the fact that
Kabuki is the possession of actors, and that women characters are in
consequence in the hands of males. If this seems a strange business for
a man, it must be remembered that Shakespeare’s heroines were played by
youthful English actors.
Moreover, it is realised that the peaceful atmosphere and orderly
regime behind the stage,—the environment in which the actor lives and
works, is in many respects like a man’s club in the West. This freedom
to work unhindered by the opposite sex gives the Kabuki actor a greater
opportunity to be himself, and the remarkable calm that seems to
permeate all that takes place on the stage may be one advantage of the
pure male theatre.
Masks and marionettes have had a large part in the shaping of Kabuki
conventions. Many of these conventions, that seem so strange and very
often absurd upon first acquaintance, become more intelligible in the
light of the debt the popular theatre owes to the Doll-stage and to the
still older form, the Nō.
Stepping in imaginary waves, washing the feet in water that does not
exist; cooking food without fire, drinking tea from empty cups; blows
that do not touch; cold steel that does not clash,—all these have come
to Kabuki out of the inexhaustible suggestiveness of the Nō. Rhythmic
movement to express emotions resulting in symbolic gestures, pantomime
and postures of the puppets, were the contribution of the Doll-theatre
to the development of Kabuki.
Without these two restraining influences there would have been nothing
to prevent Kabuki from following the same realistic route as that of
the Western stage.
CHAPTER IV
CRAFTSMANSHIP OF KABUKI
When it comes to a question of what the Japanese Theatre holds for the
West, the craftsmanship of Kabuki should be of first importance.
Characteristic simplicity, taste, and style are shown by the men
accustomed to handle material for stage pictures. Above all, these
workers are free from a worship of things, and do not overcrowd, but
concentrate on essentials. In the management of details the producer
displays a finish that is near perfection. Things are not allowed to
clutter up the stage for their own sake, but are necessary only as a
medium to express the underlying motive of the play. In the manner,
also, in which trees, flowers, birds, the sea, mountains, waterfalls,
lakes, and the seasons are represented, it is apparent that Kabuki is
still near to nature, and a product of a non-commercial age.
During the three hundred years of its history, Kabuki experts have been
designing scenery and fashioning furniture and properties, unknown to
their contemporaries in England and Europe, who were quite as much
alive to the adornment and embellishment of their stage productions.
Hasegawa Kampei, the fifteenth, is the leader among Kabuki craftsmen
in Tokyo. He considers himself a simple workman, and is busy designing
and executing scenes in all the theatres of Tokyo, showing a surprising
versatility and creativeness. He has, however, to compete with the
flood of westernisation that would destroy the very foundations of the
art his ancestors developed.
The first Kampei, the son of a samurai, was a skilled artisan in
wood-carving and the decoration of temples, setting up stone gateways
and lanterns, and the beautiful wooden gates of approach. His ability
in this direction became so well known that he was called in to help in
the production of plays.
In 1644, large furniture began to be used at the Ichimura-za in Yedo.
And by the time of Kampei, the eleventh, the development of odogu
and kodogu, or great and small furniture, was at its height, and his
designs are regarded as models at the present.
The greatest improvement in the Yedo stage took place from 1780 to
1800, and the Hasegawa Kampei who presided over the destiny of the
stage at that time invented new contrivances, especially in the
management of ghosts; causing buildings to rise into the air, and
trap-door disappearances. Finally the fashion for realistic furniture
became so great that the interior of one of the great halls of the
Imperial Palace, Kyoto, was reproduced on the stage. The authorities
protested against the extravagance shown in this beautiful conception,
and inferior materials were substituted by order.
Although the members of the Hasegawa family were skilled men, the real
source of Yedo’s stage scenery progress was due to the creativeness of
the Doll-theatre in Osaka. The collaborators for the dolls were fertile
in ideas, and developed new stage settings in bewildering rapidity.
If there is one direction in which Kabuki shows the true craftsman
more than another it is the pictorial. It is doubtful if on any other
stage in the world can be viewed more charming effects achieved by
such simple means. A red lacquered bridge over an iris pond, and the
characters in picturesque combinations of colours; the soft greys and
whites of a snowy scene, and in the centre an ancient cherry tree in
full bloom; the lonely camp fire of a beggar in the mountains, a castle
moat in the moonlight; a single fantastic pine by the seashore, are
some of the familiar Kabuki scenes.
Brighter and more elaborate is a maple picnic under flaming
foliage, the leaves falling, the feast spread on a scarlet rug, all the
properties of black and gold lacquer, and the rainbow tints of Asia
used plentifully in the costumes.
There is a flash of steel in the moonlight as many assailants rush upon
a samurai, and the air is filled with fireflies. After the courageous
hero has disposed of his enemies he wipes his sword, and to ascertain
that it is quite clean lifts up a cage of imprisoned fireflies, by the
glow of which he is able to see. Or again, it is old Nihonbashi, the
Bridge of Japan, the centre of Yedo and from which all distances were
calculated; Mount Fuji in the distance; a band of firemen returning
after a conflagration, singing a characteristic song.
Much more elaborate is a cherry-viewing party, come to enjoy the cloud
of pink blossoms, grouped on a hill-side, seated on a red carpet,
with a gay silk curtain for background, made of stripes of black,
yellow, purple, red, green, the masses of drooping flowers arranged
with thick red ropes strung with brass bells, white paper lanterns
in the greenery, serving-maids in pink kimono, merry masked dancers
entertaining the company.
In a Nagasaki play relating to the visit of a Chinese envoy, there
is seen a temple interior that could not be simpler and yet suggests
grandeur—the background, a wide expanse of gold screens arranged
with sliding doors on which are painted gold and black dragons, and
in the foreground the actors, a group of daimyo in grey-blue, the
bronze-brocade and gold-clad villain receiving the gifts that are to be
presented to the emissary from China.
Not all Kabuki’s scenes are simple and serene, and nothing daunts the
superior stage carpenters when once, they try their hands.
In a popular play there is a scene depicting a realistic earthquake,
and a mansion collapses under repeated shocks. The building sinks down
amid stage, according to some secret of the carpenters, and the hero
makes his way out of the roof, ruin and desolation around him.
When it comes to sensational snowstorms, typhoons, and conflagrations,
Kabuki can hold its own with the Western stage.
It is, however, in architecture that the hand of the Kabuki craftsman
is shown unmistakably. He has been free from the thraldom of the
picture frame of the Western stage, and in following his own devices
has worked with a freedom that has produced some satisfactory results.
The producer has taken the main room of a Japanese dwelling for his
model—a straw-matted room, sliding screens for background, a severely
plain apartment; for its sole decoration, an alcove containing a
hanging picture, before which stands a vase of flowers or object of
art. It has not been necessary for him to knock out one side of the
house in order to allow the audience a view of what is passing within.
The Japanese room being open to the outside, forms an admirable setting
for the action of the plays.
To this room, which is in reality a platform for the players, he has
added adjoining apartments, corridors, bridge-passages, verandahs,
and the sloping roof is always present, either in part or as a
whole. Completing the picture are gardens and rustic gates, stone
water-basins, stepping-stones, wells, bridges, ponds, fences, and
stone lanterns, and he has surrounded his buildings with the favourite
flowers of Kabuki, lotus, chrysanthemum, peony, iris, and azalea. With
a true love of nature he has placed in his scenes cherry and plum trees
in full bloom, and has used pine trees and scarlet maples, drooping
willows and feathery bamboo.
With a room as scene of action, the Kabuki carpenters have created
types for all classes of dwellings the plays require. The background
for a room in a great mansion will show a series of sliding panels
on which are painted Chinese castles and pagodas, golden clouds, and
green misty hills. Silver screens may be decorated with black waves in
motion, or blue water, lotus leaves and flowers. The structures to be
represented vary from an elaborately constructed mansion in cream
wood to the realistic interior of the middle-class home in which the
white-papered windows and doors form a pleasing feature. Temples, a
hermitage in the midst of a forest, the thatched cottage of a farmer,
are all variations of the one theme, which gives the widest latitude
for invention and decoration.
Much of the action in Kabuki plays takes place in this room, with only
the screens for background, and standing lanterns at each side. But
there are more elaborate architectural triumphs, such as the great red
entrance gate of Nanzen-ji, a Kyoto temple, carved, decorated, ornate,
two-storied, and produced in detail. The bold robber, Ishikawa Goemon,
hides in the second story, and comes forth on the railed balcony to
smoke. This portion of the gate is first shown, the wall behind him
in gold, painted with many-coloured clouds. As he stands there in his
black velvet kimono and great overcoat of gold and black, the gate
begins slowly to rise until the lower part is completely in view, the
chief temple building in perspective within the arch of the gate, and
Goemon looking down from his lofty position at his enemy below.
At another time, the Kabuki craftsmen spare no pains in constructing
the Yomei gate of the famous Nikko Shrines, one of the best pieces
of architecture in Japan, and so perfectly is it reproduced that the
workmanship calls for admiration. But when no longer needed, the entire
structure, which towers high, slowly turns over on end, and the bottom
represents the background for the following action.
From grey dilapidated temples where apparitions make their appearance,
or the nobility partaking of ceremonial tea in some landscape garden,
the Kabuki craftsman passes to the fashioning of a red pagoda, the
under-eaves showing many brilliant colours. He places two stories of
the structure in a snowy scene. Warrior-priests in grey with white head
coverings rush on the scene armed with long spears. An old dignitary
wearing gold armour, over which there is a thin, black, priest’s robe,
stands at one side with a torch in his hand. Another figure, in
silver brocade and white, poses on the steps leading to the pagoda. The
hero in armour—red, green, and gold—appears on the upper gallery. Then
ensues a big fight in the whirling snow, the deep boom of a temple bell
sounding through the fray.
The revolving stage that plays such an important part in the scenery of
Kabuki has a complicated technique of its own. It allows of three, and
sometimes four sets of scenes, that may be in the course of preparation
while the actors are engaged in front. But as a general rule the
carpenters are busy with but one full set, while the play proceeds.
For an extension of the stage picture, the stage is turned to right
and left, or revolves half way for some new scene. In addition to the
surprises in store for the playgoer in the changes effected by the
revolving stage, there are the strange appearances of characters forced
up through a large opening in the floor of the stage, like groups
of statuary, and devices for the sudden disappearance of characters
through walls and steps, the elaborate apparatus for ghosts that
emerge through lanterns or vanish into thin air, and for chunori, or
air-riding feats, when a character suspended in mid-air moves across
the stage.
The kodogu, or small properties of Kabuki, are a study in
themselves,—the lantern in all its shapes and sizes, the oil-paper
umbrella, vases, and hanging pictures. The articles in use are not
made to look beautiful at a distance, but are genuinely so: tall
candle-sticks in brass or lacquer, chests, sword-rests, cups, swords,
helmets, lacquered tables, tobacco-boxes, bronze utensils for a temple
altar, or Buddhist images, they all represent the arts and crafts of
the country.
Keen to adopt and adapt new things, Kabuki is now sensitive to European
stage influences, and with a characteristic lack of confidence in its
own creations, appears to be opening the door too wide in welcoming the
ideas of the West.
The thought can hardly be avoided, however, that the achievements
of the Kabuki craftsmen are a contribution to the world’s theatre. But
what the place and value of their work in comparison with the stage of
the West remain for the judgement of the future.
[Illustration: Crest of Onoe Kikugoro (Two fans).]
[Illustration: Crest of Onoe Tamizo (Stork and plum combined).]
[Illustration: Crest of Arashi Kichisaburo (Combination three
characters).]
CHAPTER V
KABUKI’S SCHOOL OF ACTING
A high standard of acting is maintained among the actors of Kabuki.
It is an hereditary profession; the actors, trained from childhood,
are brought up in the atmosphere of the theatre. Tamura Nariyoshi,
the theatre manager of Meiji, described the circumstances of the
actors’ growth when he once likened them to farmers who plant rice but
know nothing of chemistry, watch the plants shooting up yet have no
scientific knowledge of the alchemy of water, sun, or fertilisation.
In the same manner are the talents of the actors cultivated. They are
entirely unconscious of the laws that govern their art, and when they
reach a high position among their fellows it is but the flowering of
natural genius.
Should an actor be fortunate in having sons of his own, he early
apprentices them to the stage. He is a protecting spirit, watching
their efforts, disciplining, encouraging. His sons are to inherit his
mantle, and therefore he gives abundantly of his experience, seeing
that they are given the proper advantages, for although young they are
the heirs of to-morrow, and Kabuki is careful of the type.
When an actor has no son, he adopts a successor from among his pupils.
He takes a number of youths who wish to study his stage methods, which
they learn by constant association with him on and off the stage.
As they progress in their work they are advanced, and carry on his
traditions when he has passed away.
It is the custom for children of seven, or even younger, to be
placed in the care of a leading actor, since Kabuki plays have many
child-rôles. A few trials in juvenile characters with which the
audience are thoroughly familiar, and it is easy to predict whether the
youthful player has a future or not.
The cleverest boy-actor on the Tokyo stage to-day is Nakamura Matagoro,
who holds his audience in a surprising manner, his voice, bearing,
and face all marking him as a future star. The son of an actor who
possessed much talent but never rose to the top, Matagoro, on his
father’s death, was taken under the wing of Nakamura Kichiyemon, a
young actor of acknowledged ability, whose patronage assures the lad’s
career.
Thus the youthful actor begins to associate with his elders in a
natural way, and has no opportunity to gain the idea that he is a
prodigy. He gazes up into the faces of men who have been acting for
half a century, and old age looks benignly down as the small tot speaks
his first lines.
Even mediocre talent can grow and expand in an atmosphere of
calm confidence. The child is not forced or abused, but grows
up in a Montessori fashion. When the youth reaches a state of
self-consciousness and its attendant awkwardness, this is taken as a
matter of course. The audience tolerate his gaucheries, knowing that
he will one day bloom as a full-grown actor. Had the training and
discipline of the actors been otherwise, Kabuki might have experienced
a different fate.
This is but the education of Old Japan, the apprentice to the arts
and crafts growing up from childhood with a master, profiting by his
experience, encouraged by his guidance and protection. In contrast
there are the doubtful benefits of modern education that does not
prevent the tragic waste of the finer forces of human nature; art
impulses and aspirations of the souls of the young, thwarted and
hampered, untrained, unregarded, until the neglect of their true
development makes the world for them a desert rather than a paradise.
[Illustration: Nakamura Matagoro, the leading boy-actor of the Tokyo
Stage, in the rôle of a girl-pilgrim, O-Tsuru.]
The young actor not only has the daily experience of facing the
audience, but he takes part in the busy life behind the stage, and is
like a member of a big family. His work does not end in the theatre,
for instruction under a dancing master is a necessary part of his
education. He visits the dancing teacher’s house daily, and undergoes
a training that exercises every part of his body, and gives him that
remarkable control which is one of the assets of the Kabuki player. In
addition, he must learn many stage accomplishments, especially if he is
intended to become an onnagata, or specialist in women’s rôles.
The impersonal East has had much to do with the actor’s power to efface
himself, and his lack of concern for self is one of his distinguishing
qualities. No doubt the marionette has exercised full sway over him,
for in acting in plays written originally for the dolls he is quick to
imitate their movements, and sometimes gives the impression that he
has made himself into a puppet and is standing behind manipulating the
strings.
Again, the exaggerated acting of the imaginative characters of the
jidaimono, or historical plays, with the elaborate kimono, covered
by striking designs, the peculiar fashion of the hair, and strange
mask-like make-up, have proved a perfect disguise for the actor’s
personality, leaving him free to emphasise his art and to lay aside
personal considerations.
His gestures may be those inherited from the dance, or movements from
the Nō; they may have a direct relation to real life or be copied from
the marionettes. He has also a wide range in styles of acting. In one
piece he is the centre of a music posture dance—masses of men on either
side in a straight line, diagonal or curving, or in a pyramidical
group. Next he is a lone figure on the stage in a descriptive dance
that causes every person in the audience to be absorbed in his least
movement.
He may strut bravely as a grotesque character; as a hero, symbol of
loyalty, in an historical piece; or as a melancholy lover in a play
of the people. His best acting may, however, be in the display of
skill in fencing, jujitsu, or swordsmanship, and in the thick of a
fight he captures his audience by an equally matched combat, or thrills
it by a one-man performance against an overwhelming number. Part of
a stage fight is in reality an acrobatic display, but a chief actor
always leaves such tactics to the minor players, since it is beneath
his dignity to tumble about the stage in mere physical displays.
Perhaps one of the most interesting things in the whole realm of Kabuki
acting is the manner in which he holds the audience for long periods
without speaking by the power of suggestion, a legacy from the Nō
performers.
In _Kochiyama_, a play by Mokuami, there is a long scene in which the
actors utter no words. At night, on the outskirts of Yedo, a samurai
lies in wait for a passing palanquin. As it comes into view his sudden
rush and gleaming sword frighten the bearers, who make off hastily,
leaving their passenger to shift for himself. From the palanquin there
is nothing but an awesome silence. The samurai expects to find some one
he wants, and cautiously lifting the curtain with his sword he scans
the occupant, asleep.
One look within and the would-be assassin sees that the crest on the
sleeve does not belong to the man he seeks, and as he withdraws, the
slumberer awakened sees the flash of the samurai’s sword and says: “Is
that a falling star?” He little dreams that his friend’s overcoat lent
to keep him warm has saved his life. One line only is spoken in this
wordless drama.
Defeated by a court of justice, a villain is sitting in a dejected
mood. A page brings him a cup of tea, and silently leaves a short sword
as a sign that the sooner he takes himself away from the world the
better for all concerned. The condemned person drinks his tea slowly,
then regards the sword, and understands the message conveyed to him. He
picks it up, and leaning upon it shows by the expression of his face
that he is making up his mind in a very different direction, and
intends to use it upon some one else.
Delicate and dainty, a charming heroine assists her warrior husband to
don his armour, for he must not lose a moment in preparing for battle.
She attempts to lift his helmet, but it is too heavy for her, and
placing it with difficulty on the long sleeve of her kimono, she drags
it across the stage. The audience is interested in how well and how
long the onnagata is able to give the impression of a frail young woman
struggling with the ponderous weight of a golden helmet.
Perhaps one of the best uses to which suggestion in acting is put is in
the play _Sendaihagi_, in which Masaoka, the faithful nurse, prepares
the food for the little prince in her charge, as his uncle wishes to
poison him that he may administer the wealthy fief for his own purpose.
Masaoka unfolds a low screen that discloses a black lacquer table,
under which are a gilded rice pot and water jar, and other kitchen
utensils for boiling the rice and making tea. Those accustomed to
realism will question how real food is to be cooked with such gorgeous
and apparently theatrical stage furniture, and then will become lost in
admiration, for the actor suggests all the necessary movements without
actually resorting to them. The gold water ladle is used to dip up
imaginary water, and the uncooked grains of rice are seen as though
the water had all been poured off. Masaoka’s task comes to an end.
The bubbling of the steam against the lid of the rice pot is imitated
behind the scenes, and a black-robed property man is plainly seen to
move a screen in such a manner as to place within easy reach of the
faithful nurse the food that has taken fully an hour to prepare.
The actor plays many a rôle in his time, but it is given to those of
Kabuki to play many rôles in a day. He may act as a humble servant,
then as a robber, a resplendent priest, a drunkard, an upright samurai,
and terminate his day’s work by appearing in a comic or picturesque
dance.
CHAPTER VI
ACTOR CEREMONIALS
The Kabuki actor has long maintained a high regard for the dignity of
his calling, and carefully preserves the old ceremonials in connection
with elevation in rank, memorial plays in honour of an ancestor,
introductions of young actors, succession to the headship of an actor
family, and the observances of the anniversaries of actors past and
gone.
These are stage events which serve to deepen the personal interest the
playgoer takes in the actors, and are links that bind the player to the
past, and express his hope in the future.
Kojo, or the announcement ceremony, is the one seen most frequently.
The curtain is drawn aside, and there is seen a double line of actors
prostrating themselves in the attitude of humility before the audience,
their faces resting upon their outstretched hands.
Behind them plain gold screens are arranged, they kneel on a long
scarlet rug, and are dressed in the stiff skirts and shoulder-straps
that formed the actor’s attire of ceremony in the old days. A little
apart is the announcer, generally an elderly man who has been long
in the service of the actors, a sort of chief of staff of personal
attendants. He calls out in a peculiar voice, asking every one in the
audience to pay attention. Then the chief actor raises his head, and
addressing the audience with the utmost courtesy draws attention to
the young man who has changed his name and is at the threshold of his
career, expressing the hope that the audience will pardon his mistakes,
and take an interest in his future progress. The father of the
actor whose rank is thus raised may also speak a few words in his son’s
behalf, and the chief object of interest then raises his face modestly,
and asks the patronage of the audience.
[Illustration: ANNOUNCING CEREMONY. Kojo, or announcement ceremony, in
which the central figure is Ichikawa Danjuro. The modest actor whose
name is to be changed or rank raised bows low, hiding his face from
view. (Colour print by Hasegawa Kanpei, the fourteenth, and Torii
Kiyosada, father of Kiyotada.)]
At other times, the kojo is for an actor well on in years, who declares
that he has given his stage name to a son or pupil, and that owing to
his age and infirmities he is not able to take an active part, and
desires to enter upon a period of semi-retirement.
Something of the close relation between father and son in Kabuki was
shown in a kojo given at the Imperial Theatre in connection with the
succession to a new name by the son of Onoe Baiko, the chief actor
of this theatre. Baiko’s son, who is being carefully trained in the
art of the onnagata, became Eizaburo, the seventh, denoting a certain
state of progress in the attainment of the Onoe stage standards. The
kojo on this occasion was performed with more than customary dignity,
seven stars of the Onoe family, including Onoe Kikugoro, the sixth,
attending, and each saying a few words of congratulation, strewing
flowers, as it were, in the pathway of the young actor.
Similar to the solicitude of a mother in her care and consideration
given the _début_ of a daughter into society was that of Baiko for the
son who is to follow in his footsteps and inherit the traditions of his
art.
As is the custom upon the occasion of a change of name and consequent
advancement in rank, a play was given in which Eizaburo took an
important rôle, and although he was very young and immature, still in
his teens, he had the responsibility of acting in a character, given
to perfection by his father, that of Yuki-hime, or the Snow-Princess,
the beautiful young heroine who is made a prisoner in Kinkaku-ji, the
Golden Pavilion of Kyoto. She is at last bound with ropes and tied to a
cherry tree.
Then the doll-stage, from which the play was taken, asserted itself.
Eizaburo became a marionette, and was moved by two doll-handlers, who
were none other than his father and another member of the Onoe
family. Yuki-hime, true to the doll-actors, went through a complicated
pantomime to the accompaniment of minstrel and samisen player,
descriptive postures that revealed her determination to escape. Drawing
the outline of a rat in the fallen petals about her feet by means of
her big toe, the real rodents appear by magic, or rather on the ends of
pliant black rods held by two property men on each side of her; using
their teeth upon the rope, Yuki-hime is soon free.
Onoe Matsusuke, the veteran member of this family, was the announcer,
following the custom of the Doll-theatre; the young actor, Morita
Kanya, the thirteenth, became rhythm marker, stamping his feet to
emphasise the changing beats, while Onoe Baiko and Onoe Kozo were the
doll-handlers, who stood behind the erstwhile marionette and moved it
according to the requirements of the play.
Dressed in the black costumes of the doll-stage the handlers came to
the front of the stage before the piece began, lifted the face flaps of
their black hoods and introduced themselves to the audience in their
new disguise, then assumed again the black obscurity, and the strange
but highly fascinating movements of Yuki-hime began.
It is only the really great, whether among actors or members of other
professions, those who have reached the height of their careers, who
can descend to such personal effacement as this. Perhaps it is only
possible in the East, where there still lingers some instinct for
the great truth that mankind has from time to time recognised—that
personality is less important than art.
The fifteenth anniversary of the death of Ichikawa Danjuro, the
ninth, was celebrated in a fitting manner by the Tokyo stage, and the
kojo, or salutation to the audience, was given at the chief theatres,
the Imperial and the Kabuki-za. Thirty players, for the most part
those associated with Danjuro during his lifetime, and also his two
daughters, made up two long lines of bowing actors, recalling the
ceremonies of Yedo Kabuki. All were in the terra-cotta kimono
bearing the famous crest formed by three squares, worn by the first
Ichikawa in the Genroku period, and used by his descendants and pupils
ever since.
[Illustration: The last of the Ichikawa family, the grand-daughter of
Ichikawa Danjuro, the ninth.]
In the kojo given at the Imperial, Matsumoto Koshiro, the most talented
pupil of the late Danjuro, acted as master of ceremony. There was one
very small figure among the actors, Danjuro’s grand-daughter, bowing
before the footlights between her father, Ichikawa Shinsaburo, and
her uncle, Ichikawa Sansho. The appearance of this last descendant
of the chief actor-house of Kabuki caused the audience to grow
enthusiastic in their applause.
An actor’s improvisation at the Kabuki-za to honour the memory of
Danjuro was also given. The stage showed the front of a Yedo theatre
with a tea-house at one side and a sign announcing the Danjuro
anniversary. Nine of the most popular onnagata of the Kabuki-za and
Ichimura-za entered as maids of the tea-house and stood waiting for
the appearance of otokodate, or chivalrous commoners. These popular
characters were taken by fourteen of Tokyo’s best actors, and they
came in slowly by the two hanamichi and stood facing each other,
talking across the audience, displaying by their voice and manner
some characteristic which had endeared them to playgoers in past
performances. With the onnagata they made a brave array of actor talent.
Into their midst came the veteran onnagata, Nakamura Utayemon, chief
of the Tokyo actors. He made his entrance as the mistress of the
tea-house, and addressed the audience on Danjuro and his work for
Kabuki.
The Ichikawa crest was conspicuous in the decorations of the theatre
within and without, and high over the entrance of the Kabuki-za, where
the yagura, or drum tower of the Yedo theatre was accustomed to appear,
there shone forth at night a huge Ichikawa crest in electric globes,
somehow linking the modern actor of Japan with the fraternity in the
West.
Less elaborate is the announcement of a minor actor’s promotion to a
grade or so above the rank and file, made during the progress of a
play, which is done in various graceful ways.
Two women in the establishment of a daimyo, rivals in the play, enter
by the hanamichi with their attendants, and the procession proceeds to
the gate of a temple. All enter with the exception of the rivals, and
one maid.
For a moment the current of the play is turned aside, and in the
gay-patterned costumes of their rôles, the two leading characters kneel
down on the stage with the maid between them, each taking turn in
explaining how the young man in the female disguise has been a pupil of
a stage favourite who has recently died, of his association with him,
and that as he has now progressed in his work they crave the patronage
of the audience. The maid then returns thanks for the favour of the
audience, and all three rising to their feet they take up the lines
of the play as though there had been no interpolation,—the maid being
admonished to join the others within the temple, as she may be needed.
When the adopted son of Danjuro, the ninth, was fired with ambition
to become an actor, since he was a member of so distinguished an
actor-house, no teacher seemed ready to volunteer. His father had been
a banker, and he was thus not born in the purple. Nakamura Ganjiro of
Osaka generously consented to assist him. For years he studied hard and
at last made a first bow in a Tokyo theatre. His introduction planned
by Ganjiro only serves to show the esteem in which the great Danjuro
was held, and that for his sake Ganjiro was willing to assist a member
of his family.
The scene selected for the introduction was that of the pine-shaded
highway, the Tokaido, Mount Fuji in the background. By way of the
hanamichi came a retinue of retainers in bright scarlet, with thin
over-garments of white. The son-in-law of the illustrious Danjuro
appeared as a splendid daimyo riding on a horse, a white-haired
servitor leading the way.
On reaching the stage the rider dismounted, and kneeling in the
centre of two long rows of the retainers who bowed low over their
outstretched hands, the sponsor, Ganjiro, spoke of Ichikawa Danjuro and
expressed the wish that Sansho, his son-in-law, would become a good
actor. Sansho, responding, declared that he would do all he could to
improve.
No sooner were his words spoken than a white satin curtain descended,
having for design a large carp attempting to jump up a waterfall,
symbol of the difficulties Sansho must overcome before reaching the
heights of the profession.
Sainyu, one of Osaka’s fine old actors, came to say farewell to Tokyo
but a short time before his death. The ceremony of retirement was
most appropriate. The stage was prepared for a comic dance, and while
various performers were attracting the attention of the audience, a
large box, such as is used to contain a toy or doll, was carried in
and remained to one side while the merriment proceeded. Finally, when
curiosity with regard to the box had increased considerably, property
men lifted the mysterious object and placed it in the front of the
stage, removed the side nearest the audience, and within was disclosed
the venerable actor as a marionette. In the many-coloured garments of
Sambasso, the humoresque figure of the Nō stage, and manifestation of
an ancient Shinto deity, whose semi-religious dance was performed at
dawn with the opening of the theatre, he was brought forth limp and
lifeless.
Stage attendants attached imaginary wires to his arms and head, and he
performed this characteristic dance after the fashion of the dolls.
Finally, real wires were attached to his costume and he rose into
the air, still making marionette motions with his arms and legs, and
disappeared into the regions above stage,—a feat for an actor over
seventy years of age.
His love for the ceremonial also causes the actor to cherish the memory
of the real persons whose lives have formed the material for drama.
When the play of Sakura Sogoro is to be performed, the actors repair to
Sogoro’s village, not far away from Tokyo, where stands a shrine sacred
to the martyred village head who presented a direct appeal to the
Shogun to lessen the heavy burden of taxes imposed upon the farmers,
and in consequence forfeited his life. There the actors address his
spirit, and during the run of the play a temporary shrine is erected
within the theatre before which daily offerings of fruit, vegetables,
and wine are made.
In the same manner, whenever _Chushingura_ is performed in Tokyo, the
actors who are to take part assemble at Sengaku-ji, the little Buddhist
temple where are buried the Forty-seven Ronin, before whose tombs
clouds of incense rise unceasingly. Nor do the Osaka actors forget
to keep green the deeds of Michizane, the patron saint of Japanese
literature, who departed from Osaka on his sad exile, and whose tragic
fate inspired Takeda Izumo to write the Village School, and other
loyalty scenes, in his famous doll-drama. Whenever a portion of this
play is given the actors pay their respects before the spirit that has
been deified in one of Osaka’s most popular shrines.
So long as there are actors who delight in changing their names and
giving new ones to their sons, and to whom ceremony has a recognised
place in the theatre, the fine old Kabuki regime will not soon pass
away.
ORIGIN OF KABUKI
CHAPTER VII
O-KUNI OF IZUMO
To a woman, O-Kuni, a ritual dancer attached to the great Shinto Shrine
of Izumo, in the “Province of the Gods”, belongs the credit of founding
the popular theatre, some time in the year 1596, on the dry bed of the
Kamo River in Kyoto.
According to _Izumo O-Kuni Den_, or The Biography of O-Kuni of Izumo,
in the possession of the late Baron Senge, from whose family come the
hereditary ritualists of the Shrine, O-Kuni was a miko, or sacred
dancer. Her father was called Nakamura Sanyemon, and served the Shrine
in the capacity of an artisan. The family name of Nakamura was derived
from the district of Nakamura in Kitsuki, where O-Kuni’s family lived,
the site of the great Shrine of Izumo then as now.
O-Kuni left Kitsuki on a pilgrimage, so the story goes, wandering
through several provinces, performing her dance, and asking for
contributions for the repair of the Shrine, and at last reached Kyoto.
Evidently the gay capital exerted such a powerful fascination over her,
that she felt no inclination to return to her duties in connection with
the Shrine. There is no record that tells of O-Kuni’s change of heart,
or what eventually prompted her to set up a platform on the banks of
the Kamo, where were to be found all the motley train of entertainers
who flourished at that time.
Kyoto, the birthplace of the popular theatre, was, when O-Kuni made
her appearance, a city of half-a-million inhabitants. Murdoch
says in his _History of Japan_: “It is well to remember that if
Japan had no Free Cities, she had what Germany, or indeed any other
European country, had not,—a single great city with a population of
half-a-million. Such Kyoto was even at one of the lowest ebbs in its
prosperity at the date of Xavier’s visit to it in 1551. In 1467 at
the outbreak of the war of Odin, it contained 160,000 families, or,
perhaps, 900,000 souls. Few cities in contemporary Europe could boast
even a tenth of that population.” Captain Francis Brinkley also refers
to the splendours of Kyoto palaces and fine residences in the fifteenth
century, and says that even men who made medicine or fortune-telling
their professions and petty officials such as secretaries had stately
residences.
Fenollosa in his _Epochs of Chinese and Japanese Art_ writes about
Kyoto civilians, and as to the patrons of the artists, he asks: “Who
were Okio’s patrons? Why, the silk weavers, bronze casters, the
embroiderers and fine lacquerers, the æsthetic priests of Kyoto
temples, the great potters grouped at the foot of Arashiyama, the great
merchants who sent their fine wares all over Japan even to the daimyo’s
yashiki.”
Such was Kyoto, the political as well as artistic centre of Japan, when
O-Kuni gave the impetus that started the movement to establish Kabuki,
the people’s stage, that to-day has inherited all the wealth of past
materials and is turned resolutely toward the promise of the future.
Her performances were of the simplest character. She has been described
as wearing a priest’s robe of black silk, with a small metal Buddhist
gong suspended from her neck by a vermilion silk cord, and as she
struck the gong with a mallet, she danced and chanted a Buddhist sutra.
Seiseiin Ihara, Kabuki’s leading historian and one of the prominent
dramatic critics of Tokyo, who was born in the shadow of the Shrine
of Izumo, has taken great pains to gather from the old records the
story of O-Kuni. He says that it may seem incredible that a Buddhist
dance should have been performed by the miko of Izumo Shrine,
but he points out that it was the period when Shinto, or the “Way of
the Gods”, the reverence and worship of the ancestors of the race
and departed souls who were great in life, and Buddhism, the “Way
of Buddha”, or the faith in a universal being and a future state of
happiness, lived peacefully together. Buddhist priests were prominent
at Izumo, and a bronze image of Buddha was placed in front of the
Shrine where incense was burned, and the sutras were recited by eight
females who performed to musical instruments used in Buddhist as well
as Shinto ceremonies. To-day the combination seems hard to believe,
since Shintoism and Buddhism are strictly separated.
It was therefore not unusual that O-Kuni’s Shinto dance should have
been modified by Buddhism, and that her performances were later greatly
influenced by the sermons of the priests, as an old book about the
people of Kyoto records.
But if her dances had remained in a simple and semi-religious state,
it is doubtful if O-Kuni would have succeeded in impressing herself so
vividly upon her day and generation as she did. Her art was to undergo
a sudden transformation. One day she met Nagoya Sansaburo, one of the
handsomest and bravest young samurai of Kyoto. They fell in love and
married. Sansaburo, who was famous for his military exploits, joined
O-Kuni in her public appearances and soon became renowned as an actor.
He recognised that her dance was not sufficiently interesting, and set
himself to carry out improvements that soon made O-Kuni one of the most
popular personages of the time.
Sansaburo’s ancestors had been samurai in the Province of Owari. His
father served under the great general Hideyoshi, and was advanced to a
post of honour. He was blessed with ten children, Sansaburo being the
seventh. And as the father’s income was not sufficient to maintain such
a large family, he was sent at an early age to Kennin-ji, a Buddhist
temple in Kyoto, to be brought up by the priests.
In 1590, when Hideyoshi attacked the Castle of Odawara, one of his
right-hand men was Gamo Ujisato, whom Murdoch, in his history of the
early relations between Japan and other countries, characterises as the
most brilliant proselyte the Jesuits had made. Gamo Ujisato was one
of the bravest captains of the age, and Hideyoshi began to fear his
ascendency. He was poisoned at a tea ceremony party by an underling who
acted on a hint from Hideyoshi, and so died in his fortieth year.
This Gamo Ujisato held a review of his troops in the neighbourhood of
Kyoto previous to the storming of a feudal stronghold. The inhabitants
of the city went to see the spectacle, and young Sansaburo clad in a
priest’s purple robe was among the curious throng. Ujisato on horseback
caught sight of the acolyte and was greatly taken with the handsome
boy. Later he asked his father if he might engage Sansaburo as a
page. Soon after Ujisato returned to his domain in Izu, and Sansaburo
followed in his suite.
At the time that Ujisato undertook one of his most daring military
campaigns, Sansaburo followed his master, wearing a garment of pure
white silk lined with crimson, and armour woven with variegated
colours, and carrying a spear in his hand. His courageous conduct in
this campaign formed the theme of a popular song, and his name soon
spread to all parts of the country.
After Ujisato’s death, Sansaburo returned to Kyoto with considerable
property left him by his lord, and led an extravagant life, passing
his time in the pleasures of the capital. It is easy to see that the
alluring O-Kuni, who was such a novel amusement to the citizens of
Kyoto frequenting the popular entertainment resort on the Kamo River,
must have captivated his fancy, for he quickly decided to cast in his
lot with hers.
Sansaburo, bred in a military family and having associated with one
of the celebrated feudal lords of the period, was in consequence
acquainted with the best in literature and art. That he was familiar
with the Nō stage, particularly with the Kyogen, or comic pieces
given between the Nō plays, is very certain, for he soon changed
O-Kuni’s simple Shinto-Buddhist dance into the nature of Kyogen. No
doubt he considered that her performances savoured too much of religion
to please all and sundry, so he taught her popular songs and also
composed pieces for her.
She did not, however, succeed in winning the highest popular favour
until she transformed herself into a male, wearing swords and covering
her head with a peculiar head-dress. From the time that O-Kuni assumed
the outward guise of a man, dancing with two swords thrust through her
belt, the people flocked to see her.
For the first time Sansaburo called her performances Kabuki, the name
by which the Japanese stage is known at the present day. The word was
no new invention. It had been in use for a long period to signify
something comic, and gradually came to lose its original meaning and
was used to denote the particular kind of theatrical entertainment that
had arisen, and from that time forward Kabuki was applied to everything
pertaining to the popular stage.
The word for theatre, “shibai”, also came into general use at this
time, meaning to sit on the lawn or grass, from the fact that the
platform for performances was a temporary affair and the audience sat
on the ground.
Still later Sansaburo introduced more and more of the Nō elements,
the externals of O-Kuni’s stage being largely borrowed from the
aristocratic theatre. And how the present highly complex stage of Japan
developed out of O-Kuni’s dance is the story of the rise of Kabuki.
O-Kuni was not only popular with the masses, the nobility patronised
her. On one occasion she was invited to the Fushimi Palace, near
Kyoto, to entertain Hideyasu. He was the son of Iyeyasu, who was later
to found the Tokugawa Shogunate. But Hideyasu had been adopted by
Hideyoshi, Japan’s military overlord at this period, and was held as
a hostage and guarantee of Iyeyasu’s good faith. When O-Kuni danced
before this young prince, she wore around her neck a crystal
rosary, which is evidence of the Jesuit influence upon Kyoto, for the
Portuguese and Spanish priests at this time went about wearing their
long strings of beads to which was attached the cross. In imitation,
O-Kuni, when performing, hung one about her own neck, more as a
decoration than a declaration of the Christian faith.
This novelty of the day interested Hideyasu, but he considered that it
was not good enough for her, and taking some coral ornaments from his
armour presented them to her. At parting, O-Kuni conveyed her thanks
in a poem which she composed on the spur of the moment. He was so much
impressed by her performance that it cast him into a melancholy mood,
and he made the comment to one of his retainers that among thousands of
women this one had won fame for herself as the greatest dancer, and yet
he had not been able to obtain any special distinction.
Hideyasu might well reflect upon O-Kuni’s reputation, for although he
distinguished himself for his valour and military genius, he was not
chosen from among his many brothers to succeed as the second Tokugawa
Shogun.
There is also an account relating how O-Kuni was appreciated at Court;
how an Imperial princess held an entertainment in 1601 to which the
actress was summoned to dance, and how the younger members of the court
imitated her.
In 1607 she went to Yedo, the seat of the shogunate, now Tokyo and the
capital of the Empire. She performed on a temporary stage that had
been used by Nō actors who had just held Kwanjin Nō, or performances
to raise funds for the repairing or building of temples and shrines.
In Yedo, these Nō performances were given under the patronage of the
Shogun, and were often not so much for religious purposes as to help
swell the incomes of the Nō actors. They were generally held within
the compound of the Shogun’s palace, the performances taking place
on a temporary stage erected for the occasion, to which, as a great
concession, thousands of the common people of Yedo were invited.
The leading actors of the Kwanze and Komparu Nō schools had just ended
their programme, and it was on this stage that O-Kuni appeared.
It is also related that she danced before Oda Nobunaga, one of the
foremost military leaders of the time, by whose death Hideyoshi was
able to rise to power. And it is said that both Hideyoshi and his chief
retainers patronised O-Kuni. There is a story that she was invited by
Hideyoshi’s faithful lieutenant, Kato Kiyomasa, to the southern island
of Japan, where he held sway as the daimyo of Kumamoto. But it seems
impossible to believe that O-Kuni should have been engaged to such an
extent, and more probable that some of the great ones recognised her
talent, and the story was applied to all the outstanding personalities
of her time. For, after all, while the great and noble of the land may
have appreciated her, it was to the people that O-Kuni particularly
addressed herself.
_Kabuki Koto Hajime_, or Beginnings of Kabuki, a book written by a
Kabuki playwright, Tamenaga Icho, and published in 1762, says that
O-Kuni was beautiful, that she was skilled in calligraphy—an important
female accomplishment—that she had a sympathetic nature, loved flowers
and the moon, and that a snowy evening or a maple scene in the autumn
inspired her to poetry. There is an account of O-Kuni written by an
author who must have attended her performances, and yet he does not
dilate upon her beauty, which must have been an oversight, for judging
from the general details known about her she certainly possessed some
superior power of attraction.
Both Sansaburo and O-Kuni died while the O-Kuni Kabuki was at its
height. The chroniclers do not tell how they parted company, or ended
their stage careers, but Sansaburo gave up acting and became a retainer
of the lord of Tsuyama, whose wife was his sister. He was killed by
the daimyo’s chief retainer during the building of Tsuyama Castle.
This man had been long in the service of the daimyo, but Sansaburo
aspired to outrival him on account of his relationship, and because
of his association with the illustrious Gamo Ujisato. The two had a
dispute and fought, and Sansaburo was killed. His friends retaliated by
immediately taking the life of the chief retainer, and his two brothers
were also punished by self-inflicted death at the command of the daimyo.
When O-Kuni grew old, and had outlived her career on the stage that she
had created with Sansaburo, she returned to her old home in Kitsuki,
near Izumo Shrine. Here she retired from the world, and lived in a
rustic cottage, spent her time in reciting the sutras, writing verse,
and died at a ripe old age. This account of O-Kuni’s last days appears
to be very reliable, as it is from _Izumo O-Kuni Den_, or Biography
of O-Kuni of Izumo, from records preserved among the Shrine archives.
The exact date of her death is not given in this record, and her last
resting-place is also unknown.
Seiseiin Ihara, who has made exhaustive researches concerning O-Kuni,
finds many conflicting statements in the old books, which were written
without much care for accuracy regarding names and dates. _Kabuki Koto
Hajime_, or Beginnings of Kabuki, says that Yoshiteru, one of the last
Ashikaga Shoguns, summoned her to dance in his presence several times
and praised her. But this is somewhat imaginary, since in such a case
she would have appeared in Kyoto many years previous to 1596, in which
year, most of the records agree, she began to practise the new art.
_Kabuki Koto Hajime_ also says that Sansaburo was in the service of the
Shogun Yoshiteru, as was O-Kuni, that they fell in love, were dismissed
and became ronin, which is one of the many improbable tales related of
the pair.
Another book says O-Kuni went to Sado Island, following the report
that gold had been discovered there. This is quite possible, but on
the strength of this story some writers state that she was a native
of Sado, which is certainly not true. Other writers are so mixed up
in their dates, that they make out there was a wide gulf in years
between O-Kuni and Sansaburo, and that it was impossible that he should
have married a woman so much his senior, while others declare that it
was O-Kuni’s daughter that Sansaburo married. In _Tokaido Meishoki_, or
Noted Places of the Tokaido (the great highway between Kyoto and Yedo),
O-Kuni is said to have married a Nō Kyogen actor, and there are other
misleading and confusing stories.
One of the most interesting of these is attributed to Lafcadio Hearn.
He objected to the account of O-Kuni in _Things Japanese_ by Basil Hall
Chamberlain, especially to that sentence where it is written that the
reputation of O-Kuni and her companions was far from spotless. Hearn’s
story is to the effect that O-Kuni was a priestess in the great temple
of Kitsuki, and she fell in love with a swashbuckler, Nagoya Sansaburo,
and fled to Kyoto with him. On the way her extraordinary beauty caused
another soldier of fortune to make love to her; Sansaburo killed him,
and the dead man’s face haunted the girl. She supported her lover by
giving dances on the bank of the Kamo River, and he became a famous
actor. When he died she returned to Kitsuki, becoming a nun, and built
a temple that she might pray for the soul of the man who had been
killed.
Hearn’s love of the ghostly carried him very far away from the
true facts, but nevertheless he felt the romance of the O-Kuni
legend strongly enough not to wish to tarnish her name, as the more
matter-of-fact Mr. Chamberlain does so lightly.
It was long after O-Kuni’s day, when the second and third O-Kuni were
carrying on her traditions, and this woman’s stage employed mixed
players, that the laxity of morals set in.
CHAPTER VIII
ONNA KABUKI: THE WOMAN’S STAGE
Companies headed by women were formed in imitation of the O-Kuni Kabuki.
They appeared not only in Kyoto, but made grand tours to distant
parts of the country. A feudal lord whose domains were near the
present prosperous tea-trade centre, the city of Shidzuoka, invited a
Kyoto actress and her company, and when the famous Nagoya castle was
completed, the daimyo who had co-operated in the building, celebrated
by giving an Onna Kabuki entertainment. Even Date Masamune, lord of
Sendai, one of the first daimyo to accept the Christian faith, and who
sent an embassy to Rome, asked an actress to perform in his fief.
About this time, the O-Kuni Kabuki had finally settled at Shijo Bridge
in Kyoto, the head of which was the third O-Kuni.
The popularity of these players was so widespread, that the women
of the gay quarters followed their example, and companies of women
performers were recruited from the ranks of the prostitutes. A man
called Sadoshima Yosanji taught these women dancing, and erected a
theatre. Schools for the training of actresses were established, and
talented dancers were developed who competed with each other for the
favour of the public. One of these women, Sadoshima Shokichi, gave a
performance at the Yoshiwara, in Yedo, and at the time a placard was
set up on Nihonbashi, the Bridge of Japan, which was one of the chief
landmarks of Yedo, as it is of modern Tokyo. The male musicians who
performed at this time were very expert, according to this bridge
advertisement, and attention was called to the comic nature of the
pieces to be performed.
Although the name Onna Kabuki signified a woman’s theatre, it was not
long until the two sexes were playing together indiscriminately, men
taking the rôles of women, and the characters of men being assumed by
women. Upon one occasion Ikushima, an actress, appeared at Nakabashi
in Yedo. When the curtain was drawn, the head actor of the company
advanced in most gorgeous attire, wearing swords ornamented with gold.
With him was an equally resplendent actress. More than fifty females
danced together during the performance. They took the rôles of men and
wore swords. The musicians sat on camp stools, and the singers recited
to the strains of the samisen.
This is the first mention of the samisen in the theatre, the
three-stringed instrument that was in after years to revolutionise
Kabuki as well as the Doll-theatre. The instruments in use until the
introduction of the samisen were the Nō drums and flute, but the
samisen with its strident, irregular rhythms was to be associated from
this time onward with the whole gay, frivolous world, far removed
from the austerity, dignity, and ritual with which the flute and Nō
drums were associated. The samisen had been brought to Japan from the
Loo Choo Islands. A similar instrument had long been in use in China,
so that it seems probable that it had its origin in China, but was
imported into Japan from the islands to the south-west, where Chinese
influence had long been uppermost.
When Onna Kabuki was at its height, there were four companies in Kyoto
called O-Kuni, Sadoshima, Shinobu, and a company managed by a man named
Dansuke. Shinobu removed to Ise province, Dansuke and his company
established themselves at Osaka, that was then as it is to-day the
leading commercial centre of Japan. The Sadoshima party was divided
into two, headed respectively by Takeshima and Sadoshima, both
of whom had sons who became noted actors in the first period of the
male theatre. They were Takeshima Kyozaemon and Sadoshima Dempachi.
The latter was a dokegata, or comic actor. Sadoshima’s grandson wrote
_Sadoshima Nikki_, or the Journal of Sadoshima, which deals with the
Kabuki of his time, and is a theatre classic.
Had the women companies remained exemplary in conduct and kept their
ranks free from the other sex, the history of the Japanese theatre
might have been quite different. But the leading actresses were
prostitutes; their art was a means to an end, and they abused their
privileges as entertainers. No permanent and self-respecting theatre
could have continued to exist on such an immoral foundation. The
degradation of the Onna Kabuki was due in no small degree, however,
to the playing of men and women together. The public very soon came
to look down upon these players, and they were referred to as Kawara
Kojiki, or Riverside Beggars, derived from the fact that the first
Kabuki players had erected their temporary stages on the dry beds of
Kyoto rivers. The term was from this time handed down to besmirch the
reputations of generations of honest, legitimate actors that followed.
In 1608 a proclamation by the Shogun’s Government was made limiting
the Onna Kabuki to the outskirts of the cities, where its baneful
influence might be less of a contamination to society. Several court
ladies who had carried on flirtations with the handsome young actors
of the Onna Kabuki were exiled, in punishment of their misdemeanours,
and Government interference was frequent. In 1626 a notice advertising
a performance was ordered to be taken down. In 1628, when a company of
actresses played at Takanawa near Shinagawa, in the suburbs of Yedo,
the theatre was so crowded that great confusion ensued, and the place
was ordered to be closed.
The climax came when the Government of the third Shogun, Iyemitsu,
issued a strict order (1629) forbidding female performances of any
kind. At one stroke the performances of women dancers, the actresses of
the Onna Kabuki, and even the women minstrels who sang to the movements
of the marionettes in the puppet show, came to an abrupt end.
Again in 1630 a company of mixed players attempted to give a
performance, the actors appearing as women and the actresses as men,
but an order was immediately issued excluding all females from the
stage. In 1640 a company of male and female players announced they
would play together, but their performance was stopped, and in 1645
the proprietor of a theatre was severely punished for employing female
players. This was done as an example, for violations were frequent.
In the history of the Doll-theatre, also, there had been companies
of women who handled the marionettes while female minstrels sang
and recited the ballad-dramas to which the dolls moved, and women
accomplished in the samisen accompanied the minstrels. These
Doll-theatre companies of women were not long to endure, and soon came
to grief.
Somewhere about the time that O-Kuni was beginning to dance on
her temporary stage by the riverside in Kyoto, Ono-no-Otsu, a
lady-in-waiting in the household of the great general, Oda Nobunaga,
had composed a long ballad called _Joruri Hime Monogatari_, or the
Story of Princess Joruri. It had been sung by a minstrel to the
accompaniment of the samisen.
This was an improvement on the balladry of the blind musicians, who had
recited their stories of love and battle to the mournful minor strings
of the biwa. The first tayu, or minstrel, to sing the improved balladry
inaugurated by Ono-no-Otsu, was a woman called Rokuji Namuyemon. After
her there were both male and female minstrels, but the prohibition of
the Onna Kabuki also included the female minstrel. The talent of woman
had repeatedly tried to express itself in the realm of the theatre, but
now the heavy hand of the puritanic shogunate fell upon her activities,
and the result was the suppression of all stage aspiration on the
part of females for three hundred years.
Ihara Seiseiin, commenting on this in his _History of the Japanese
Stage_, says that although the Shogun’s Government was under the
necessity of maintaining the morals of the people, the prohibition had
an ill effect upon the theatre, and the injury has not been completely
healed. He thinks that if the Onna Kabuki had been left to develop
naturally, it is most probable that there would now exist a different
state of affairs, and actresses would have adorned the Japanese theatre
as they do in the Occident. But, he continues, it was impossible for
the Tokugawa Shogunate to have such foresight with regard to art, and
the fact that there are no names of actresses adorning the history
of the Japanese stage must be attributed to this initial, stern,
prohibitive measure of the shogunate.
These strict laws regarding the appearance of females on the stage were
enforced until the last days of the shogunate, when its grip loosened
on many of the measures that had been made to regulate the morals of
the people and to control their democratic tendencies.
With this relaxation there again came into existence a woman’s theatre,
headed by a brilliant actress, Kumehachi, who was a contemporary of
Danjuro, the ninth, the great star of Meiji. She took male rôles as
did other women of her company. With her death her company disbanded.
A successor to Kumehachi exists to-day who also acts men’s characters
most successfully, Nakamura Kasen, but she loses much of her prestige
by acting with mixed players. The establishment of a school of
actresses in connection with the founding of the Imperial Theatre in
Tokyo belongs to the modern history of the Japanese stage.
Judging from the conditions that have been brought about by mixed
players on the Western stage, it was a fortunate thing that women were
excluded, for the actors were able to develop a masculine theatre
unhampered by petticoat influence. Whether this is an advantage to
the art of the theatre remains to be seen when Kabuki, the unique
masculine stage of Japan, will become known outside the land of its
origin.
In order that men should reign supreme in the world of make-believe,
the creativeness of the Japanese woman in the direction of the theatre
has thus been clearly sacrificed. But in the future their talent may
be able to find scope for development in a theatre of their own, as an
expression of the spirit of women. The tendency of the theatre art in
Japan is toward a separation of the sexes, and there is hope that in
the future a women’s theatre, free from the immoral influences that
caused the downfall of the Onna Kabuki, will coexist with Kabuki, the
firmly established masculine stage.
O-Kuni’s prominence began in 1596, when she first met Sansaburo, and
she reached the height of her fame in 1601. By 1629 women were strictly
prohibited from performing in public. Thus the women’s theatre she had
founded came to an abrupt end, after an existence of three decades.
CHAPTER IX
WAKASHU KABUKI: THE YOUNG MEN’S STAGE
The first Kabuki theatre to be founded in Japan in which performances
were given by companies composed entirely of men was started in the
third year of Genna, 1617, by Dansuke, who seems to have been an
enterprising manager. It was Dansuke who formed companies of women
from the pleasure quarters of Kyoto, and who was invited by no less a
personage than the great daimyo, Date Masamune, to bring his players
to his feudal capital, Sendai. Dansuke also established a company of
female players in Osaka, but he is known chiefly in the history of
Kabuki as the founder of the first male theatre.
The tercentenary of this historical event was not allowed to pass
unnoticed, and in December 1917 the establishment of Dansuke’s male
theatre and the three hundred years of Kabuki development were
celebrated by special performances given at the Minami-za, in Kyoto,
where Nakamura Ganjiro, Osaka’s leading actor, and Matsumoto Koshiro of
the Imperial Theatre, Tokyo, played together to commemorate the event.
Kyoto slumbering in its wide valley, enclosed by its templed hills,
once the scene of great theatre activity, is now far surpassed by the
stages of Tokyo and Osaka, but the leading actors of these two cities
met to celebrate one of the most important anniversaries in the history
of the Japanese theatre.
It was before mixed companies were prohibited that the male theatre
took its rise. Handsome youths had taken part with the women
players, and the separation was an easy step.
With the strict prohibition of the Onna Kabuki, these young male
players were left in entire possession of the field, because the chief
players were youths, the entertainment they afforded was called Wakashu
Kabuki, or Youths’ Stage. Numbers of these theatres arose in rapid
succession in the three theatre towns, and even spread to the provinces.
In Osaka the first Wakashu theatre was established in 1624, while
Saruwaka Kansaburo founded Yedo Kabuki, or the Yedo Stage, in the same
year.
From Dansuke’s first theatre in Kyoto there grew seven flourishing
theatres. And they might have gone on increasing, but the authorities
considered it safer to place a limit on these places of amusement,
and licences were granted to seven persons who were considered the
descendants of the first theatre proprietors in Kyoto who had acted in
the imitation Kyogen during the intervals of O-Kuni’s dances. These men
were retainers of the Ashikaga Shogunate, and when this regime came to
an end they were obliged to take up Kabuki, the new entertainment of
the people, as a means of livelihood, and became managers of theatres.
If they had been in the service of the Shogun, who was the chief patron
of the Nō, they must have been entirely familiar with the Nō stage, and
so introduced much of this older theatre art into the newly developing
stage of the people.
In Osaka, also, theatres grew apace and were finally limited, but it
was in Yedo, the capital of the newly established Tokugawa Shoguns,
that the theatres made greatest headway.
Saruwaka Kansaburo founded the first theatre in Yedo in 1624, when he
established the Saruwaka-za. Nine years later, Miyako Dennai started
the Miyako-za, and the following year Murayama Matasaburo opened the
Murayama-za. Still later Yamamura Kobei erected the Yamamura-za,
and these were for some time the chief theatres of Yedo.
With regard to the stage performances there was very little difference
between the Onna Kabuki and the Wakashu Kabuki—the young actors always
appeared as the stars, while the older actors had to be content with
minor rôles. The handsome youths, attired in female costumes, with long
sleeves that swayed with their movements, wearing their hair arranged
in the most fetching fashion, carried on O-Kuni’s dancing traditions.
These had originated in the descriptive dance, or posture movements,
of the Nō, while the comic plays, more or less based on the Kyogen,
as performed by the older actors, soon began to change into something
special that was to develop still later into the varied forms of the
Japanese drama of the present. The dances largely borrowed from the Nō
also underwent gradual transformation into the Shosagoto, or modern
music-drama, that more closely resembles a Western ballet than any
other Occidental stage form.
The externals of the Wakashu theatre were also the same as those
of O-Kuni, except that the bamboo fence had given place to a more
substantial wooden one, and a gallery had been introduced for the
entertainment of high-class patrons. The drum tower of O-Kuni’s theatre
remained and persisted long after the entire construction of the
theatre had been changed, becoming in time more elaborate and permanent.
The most interesting person of this period is Saruwaka Kansaburo,
Yedo’s first actor-manager. Many details of his career have been handed
down, while the facts relating to the theatre proprietors of Osaka and
Kyoto are both meagre and vague.
Kansaburo, like most of the theatre men of his time, came from Kyoto
to Yedo. He was of good stock, one account stating that he had sprung
from the lord of the castle at Numadzu in Suruga Province, called
Nakamura. However, a more reliable record appears to be that handed
down by his posterity, that the family was descended from a daimyo
called Nakamura, a follower of Hideyoshi, and that a member of this
family, Nakamura Jiyemon, came to Yedo, became a ronin, and married his
daughter to Saruwaka Kansaburo, who took the name of his father-in-law.
The name “Saruwaka” was given to the comic actors who acted with
O-Kuni, and as Kansaburo excelled as a comedian, he took this as his
stage name.
Kyoto was the home of refinement and culture, but the political centre
had shifted to Yedo, and was swarming with ronin, or independent
samurai who were not attached to any particular feudal lord. They all
drifted to Yedo to seek their fortunes, and Kansaburo saw a chance
of utilising these wandering spirits. The reasons which led to his
establishment of a theatre are given in a book he wrote called _Temaye
Miso_, which being interpreted means: “My own bean soup”—in other
words, “talking shop” about his profession. In this he says that as
the ronin from different parts of Japan assembled in Yedo after the
fall of Osaka Castle, when Hideyori, the son of Hideyoshi, perished in
the flames, and Iyeyasu became the ruler of feudal Japan, there were
many soldiers of fortune who had been deprived of their living and
were so reduced that they were obliged to beg for food from door to
door, reciting utai, or choruses of the Nō, to the accompaniment of
the tsuzumi, or small drum of the Nō stage. He planned to employ these
strollers by starting a theatre and giving them an opportunity to make
use of their Nō training.
In consequence the Saruwaka-za was established in 1624 at Nakabashi,
near Kyobashi, in Yedo, and while Kansaburo waited for his application
to erect a theatre to be granted, he dreamed that a white crane with a
branch of icho, the tree with fan-shaped leaves, in its mouth, entered
his house from the summit of Mount Fuji. This was a lucky dream indeed;
and proceeding forthwith to a diviner for explanation, he was told it
was a good omen, and that his request would be granted. Accordingly,
after the theatre was constructed, he had placed on the curtain
hung around the drum tower over the entrance a design of a crane, which
came to be associated with Yedo theatres for many years afterwards.
Also, on the curtains hung at the entrance and within the theatre, he
used the design of an icho leaf.
An incident in Kansaburo’s career shows the importance in which he was
held, and proves the position of the actor, who had not yet come to be
regarded as a despised class as in after years.
In 1633, when the Shogun’s pleasure boat Atakamaru entered Yedo Bay
from Shimoda in Izu Province, Kansaburo was summoned and ordered to
stand at the bow of the vessel and to sing a sailor’s song. By way of
reward he was presented with a sum of money, a coat used in battle,
and other military gifts. While it was common at the time to refer to
actors as “riverside beggars”, the treatment accorded Kansaburo was a
special honour to his profession, and was remembered long after when
the playfolks were regarded as social pariah.
In the following year Kansaburo and six actors of his theatre were
invited to the palace of the Shogun, where they performed Kansaburo’s
own play, called _Saruwaka_, and several other pieces, and were given
fine clothing and money. These articles have been preserved and handed
down from one head of the family to another, and were on exhibition at
the Imperial Theatre during January 1919, when Nakamura Akashi, the
fifteenth, performed _Saruwaka_, the hereditary piece of his family, in
memory of the founding of the Yedo Kabuki by his ancestor Kansaburo.
This play _Saruwaka_ concerns the adventures of a retainer who goes
on a journey to Ise without his master’s permission, and returning,
to avoid punishment, assumes a disguise, and so cleverly entertains
him with stories of his travels that the daimyo forgets to take him to
task. It smacks of the Nō Kyogen, and reveals the inspiration the early
Kabuki received from the Nō theatre.
[Illustration: THEATRE TREASURES EXHIBITED. At the Nakamura-za,
founded by Saruwaka Kanzaburo, the gifts given to him by the Shogun
were considered as treasures of the theatre and exhibited on certain
anniversaries with much respect, the actor holding the gold sai, or
battle signal, and covering his mouth with a piece of paper lest
he should breathe upon it. (Colour print by Hasegawa Kanpei, the
fourteenth, and Torii Kiyosada, father of Kiyotada.)]
Kansaburo was to attain to even higher honour in his old age.
In 1657 there took place what is referred to as the Great Fire of
Meireki, when the business portion of Yedo was burned down, including
the four chief theatres and many minor ones. As there was little hope
that they would be rebuilt quickly, Kansaburo decided to visit his old
home in Kyoto, and journeyed thither with his second son, Shimbochi.
While there he was invited through a Court noble to perform his piece
_Saruwaka_ before the Imperial Court.
Just as he was about to begin he found that he had forgotten to bring
an obi required for his costume, and the Court noble who had introduced
him took a red cord and tassel attached to a thin bamboo curtain near
the Mikado, and gave it to the performer who wore it during the play.
As it was far too long and dragged upon the floor, Kansaburo was
obliged to put one end around his neck. Ever after he wore the cord and
tassel rather than an obi when he performed in this piece, and passed
it on to his successors so that it became part of the conventional
Saruwaka costume.
On this occasion Kansaburo was given a black velvet haori, or
over-garment, adorned with a crest that had as a design three leaves,
and he also received a rich kimono embroidered in gold and silver. His
son Shimbochi was only nine years at this time, and he danced in a
piece called _Shimbochi’s Drum_. The Emperor was so much pleased with
the child’s performance that he exclaimed: “Akashi! Akashi!”—Never
tired of seeing! This cognomen was bestowed upon the boy by the
Emperor. Like the costume and the cord and tassel, this name became
hereditary in the family. The present Nakamura Akashi, now living in
Tokyo, is over seventy years of age, and the fifteenth of this actor
line.
Kansaburo died soon after his return to Yedo. His second son inherited
his name, but died young, and a cousin became the third Kansaburo,
while the fourth was Nakamura Denkuro, a famous actor of the Genroku
period. Kansaburo had two brothers, one of whom was a Nō Kyogen
actor, Kanjuro, while the other was Kineya Kangoro. The grandson of
Kineya Kangoro, called Kineya Kisaburo, first introduced the samisen
into the orchestra of Kabuki, and is the founder of the Kineya line of
musicians, who have been connected with the theatre ever since, and are
to-day the chief house of Kabuki musicians.
In _Ayame Gusa_, or the Sayings of Ayame, concerning the ideas of
Yoshizawa Ayame on the theatre in general, and the onnagata specialty,
of which he was a genius, in particular, he writes about the treasures
of the Nakamura-za, Kansaburo’s theatre. When he founded the first
theatre in Yedo he called it the Saruwaka-za, but his descendants later
changed the name to Nakamura. Here for 150 years, says the _Ayame
Gusa_, the treasure of the theatre was a gold sai, a duster-like
equipment of war used for signalling in battle by the warriors of
Old Japan, consisting of a short handle with stripes of thick gold
paper attached. This had been presented to Kansaburo when he sang a
sailor’s song on the Shogun’s pleasure craft as it entered Yedo Bay.
Still another article treasured by the Nakamura-za was a costume of
gold brocade worn in the piece _Saruwaka_, also a fine bamboo screen
presented to Kansaburo by a daimyo, and a drum from some equally
exalted personage.
With regard to the other theatre proprietors of Yedo, Miyako Dennai
obtained permission to build a theatre in 1633, and the following year
Murayama Matasaburo erected the Murayama-za. He was the younger brother
of Murayama Matabei, the actor-manager of Kyoto. Both had come from
Sakai, the old seaport near Osaka, which flourished greatly when it was
opened to Western trade, and declined when the Tokugawa policy closed
the country to foreign intercourse. Their father had been a retainer
of the Ashikaga Shogunate, and was a follower of Nagoya Sansaburo.
Yamamura Kobei was given permission to build the Yamamura-za.
Kawarasaki Gonnosuke established the Kawarasaki-za in 1648. He was a Nō
actor, but later went to Yedo from the provinces and started a theatre.
Not only did the theatres increase in numbers in the three towns,
but they spread to the provinces as well. The audiences received
better accommodation, curtains and stage furniture began to be used.
Theatres had been somewhat like side-shows, and the audience changed
at the end of each performance, which continued indefinitely, but with
improvements in all directions plays of several scenes began in all
three theatre centres.
It was in 1644, when the Wakashu Kabuki was in full swing, that another
prohibition by the Government laid it low for the very same causes
that had put Onna Kabuki out of existence. The charming young actors
were responsible for moral abuses that undermined the Spartan code of
the samurai. There was a scandal because of the relations between
a daimyo’s wife and a young actor, and the Government, always on the
alert to punish the sins and omissions of the theatre, ordered that
the front hair of the Wakashu actors be shaved off. Shorn of their
locks they no longer presented an attractive appearance, and as they
had existed only to please through their persons their usefulness was
gone. The prohibition of the Wakashu Kabuki was a blow at the luxurious
and effeminate habits that were then indulged in by the samurai and
aristocracy. Wakashu Kabuki had much to do with the spread of these
habits, and to suppress them was then considered the only remedy
against the social evil of the time.
The prohibition of Wakashu Kabuki in Osaka and Kyoto differed from that
of Yedo. A quarrel of two samurai over a young actor playing a female
rôle took place in Yedo. The theatre was closed, and on this account
the doors of all the other theatres were shut. As they did not reopen
for long years, the actors were in dire distress.
In Osaka the theatres were closed in 1656 because of a disturbance
in the audience, but permission was given to continue the following
year. The Kyoto theatres, however, went out of existence for twelve
years, and it was only in 1668 that Murayama Matabei, Kyoto’s
actor-manager, was allowed to restart.
Not much is known about Matabei, quite contrary to the case of Saruwaka
Kansaburo of Yedo, but an interesting side-light is thrown upon him by
_Kabuki Koto Hajime_, or Beginnings of Kabuki, which says that Murayama
Matabei asked the governor when he was going to pay his respects at
Gion; meaning by this, at what time the theatres of the Gion district
in Kyoto were to begin again, but the governor withheld his consent.
Thereupon Matabei followed him to his residence, and slept under the
eaves, where he was exposed to rain and his clothes were spoiled so
that he became ill and thin as a ghost. His followers brought him food,
and afterwards his patience was rewarded, for his petition for the
reopening of the Kyoto theatres was granted.
While Kansaburo is remembered as the founder of Yedo Kabuki, as well as
for all his honours and triumphs, Matabei, the Kyoto actor-manager, in
his long fight for his profession will endear himself to all lovers of
the theatre.
Although the authorities of the day may have thought it expedient to do
away with the theatre, not caring to admit that such an institution is
a necessary part of life and cannot be destroyed, yet something must
be said for their attitude. They felt obliged to keep order, as the
theatres had become unruly places where the new turbulent spirit of the
people was finding expression, and might have gone beyond the bounds if
left unchecked.
Mr. Ihara, in his comments on the abolition of the Wakashu Kabuki,
expresses the belief that this strict measure had unexpected benefits.
Onna and Wakashu Kabuki had made an appeal merely to the eyes and
ears, and personal attractiveness was the main object. In consequence,
inexperienced youths held the centre of the stage, while mature actors
were obliged to serve as foils.
With the abolition of Wakashu Kabuki, Yaro Kabuki, or the Men’s
Stage, came about, but this term was used only for a short time
to distinguish the performances from the Wakashu. Yaro Kabuki was the
second epoch in the male theatre that with great strides was to develop
conventions, ceremonies, customs, actors, plays, and playwrights, such
as have made Kabuki a thoroughly characteristic institution of Japan.
[Illustration: Crest of Ichimura Uzaemon (Orange and leaves).]
[Illustration: Crest of Kataoka Ichixo (Leaf of Icho tree).]
CHAPTER X
THEATRES OF THE THREE TOWNS
The intense theatre activity of Yedo, Kyoto, and Osaka that followed in
the wake of the edict against Wakashu Kabuki was but the outcome of the
growing consciousness of the people and an expression of their natural
art craving.
The competition between the stages of the three towns brought about
rapid developments in every direction, and many of the conventions that
distinguish the modern stage were inaugurated at this time.
Yedo was the seat of the Tokugawa Government, the Shoguns ruling the
country with an iron hand. The feudal lords and their vassals paid
allegiance to this Government, and Yedo swarmed with two-sworded
samurai. It was the liveliest centre of the country for the ronin, or
samurai unattached to a master, and in consequence all the adventurous
spirits of the time were attracted here as moths to a candle. Yedo
Kabuki thus developed marked characteristics of its own.
The atmosphere of Kyoto was entirely different. Here lived in seclusion
the Emperor, surrounded by the Imperial families and the nobles. The
usurping Shoguns had reduced the Emperor to impotence. Kyoto was the
home of artists, poets, writers, and the people were calm, elegant, and
given to refined pursuits. The actors of Kyoto contributed not a little
to the taste and style of Kabuki.
Osaka, also, had a great influence upon Kabuki. Here, people were
well-to-do and full of energy. This town had for centuries been one
of the foremost centres of trade, and the inhabitants counted
theatre-going among their chief pleasures. Osaka Kabuki contributed
some of the most important material that went to the building up of the
theatre of the people.
When the handsome young players of Wakashu Kabuki no longer held
the centre of the stage, acting made rapid progress. Theatre
construction greatly improved; the introduction of the samisen caused
a special music of the theatre to come into being, which was soon to
differentiate Kabuki from the farces of the Nō theatre it had imitated
so slavishly. There also arose a new school of music, Yedo Nagauta
(long poem or song), the basis of Kabuki’s interesting music-dramas.
At this period the onnagata, or specialty of acting women’s rôles,
began, a convention that makes the Japanese stage so unlike anything to
be found in the Occident.
It had been customary on O-Kuni’s stage, and later on the women’s
stage, for men to assume women’s rôles and women to appear as men,
but when the Government forbade women appearing on the stage it was
necessary, not only from an art point of view, but also from a business
one, to find substitutes.
Therefore, in the natural course of events, men came to monopolise
female rôles. This was no new thing after all, for the Nō, that
flourished for two hundred years before Kabuki had sprung into being,
was also a male theatre, and not only did men wear women’s masks
when impersonating the tragic heroines of the Nō drama, but the
impersonators of females in the farces of Nō, or Kyogen, were likewise
males, wearing cotton coverings over their heads, as may be seen to-day
in the performances of the Nō.
Besides, the male impersonator of women had long been a convention of
the Chinese theatre, and as Japan had absorbed within herself so much
of the civilisation from the continent, it was not surprising that her
theatre conventions, as well as those of her other arts, should be akin
to those of China.
Yet there was in Japan a tendency towards a theatre development
similar to Europe, had not the Government so resolutely set itself
against all freedom of action on the part of the theatre folk.
In this early period of expansion there were many good actors whose
traditions were carried on and who made a firm foundation for the
brilliant Genroku age, Kabuki’s greatest period of growth and
out-flowering.
Among the tateyaku, or leading actors, before Genroku, there were three
men of influence—Arashi Sanyemon, of Yedo; Fujita Koheiji, of Kyoto;
and Araki Yojibei, of Osaka.
Arashi Sanyemon was born in 1635 and died in 1690. He came to Yedo
from Settsu Province, where his father was a prosperous fish dealer.
In one of his popular plays there was a line about the moon having its
clouds and the flowers their storms, and people quoting this called
out “Arashi!” when he appeared on the street. This was a poetical term
meaning mountain-wind, or storm. Sanyemon thought this a good stage
name, and thereafter adopted it, a cognomen that has been used by
actors ever since.
Sanyemon was not content to play to Yedo audiences, but went to Osaka,
where he became the proprietor of a theatre. He greatly improved plays,
wore magnificent garments, and acted to the accompaniment of flute,
drum, and samisen. His plays served Chikamatsu Monzaemon as originals
when that dramatist wrote two of his best-known doll-dramas. Arashi
Sanyemon was succeeded by his son, who became one of the noted actors
of Genroku.
Contemporary with Arashi Sanyemon was Fujita Koheiji, of Kyoto. He had
come from the adjacent province of Ise, after acting in small country
theatres, and was a close rival to Arashi Sanyemon. It is said that he
never lost his popularity on the stage during his career, although he
did not attempt to hide the ravages of time by using face powder in
making up. His gestures were those of real life, and were considered as
models that were handed down to his successors. Fukui Yagozaemon, of
Osaka, the first playwright to compose long pieces of several acts,
had much to do with increasing Koheiji’s reputation, writing plays for
him that pleased the public.
Likewise, Yagozaemon was largely responsible for the fame of another
influential actor, Araki Yojibei, of Osaka, who ended his earthly
career in 1700. This early playwright, Yagozaemon, was not only a stage
writer, but a good actor as well, and was successful as a kawashagata,
or middle-aged woman character. He was one of the stage authorities of
his day, and wrote a play for Yojibei that was the great success of the
time. It was _Hinin Adauchi_, or The Beggar’s Revenge, the first long
play to be composed in Osaka, free from all association with the Nō
drama, a piece that has long survived, with modifications, and is still
a favourite with modern actors. Yojibei was versatile; he was praised
as clever in stage fighting and excellent when impersonating a wounded
man, so that he was an early advocate of realism in acting.
Among the dokegata, or comedians, there was an actor who could boast of
blue blood when it came to theatre lineage. He was Sadoshima Dempachi.
His father before him was Sadoshima Denbei, who had headed one of
the Onna Kabuki companies in Kyoto. Dempachi had been brought up in
the theatre atmosphere. From the theatre chronicles it is found that
he was ugly and did not have a pleasing voice, two disqualifications
for a tateyaku, or chief actor, but he was a dancer _par excellence_,
and this covered a multitude of sins, since dancing is the basis of
the Japanese actor’s art. Sadoshima Dempachi was fortunate in the
possession of a son who inherited his genius, Sadoshima Chogoro,
who, although less of an actor than a dancer, had much to do with
the movements and postures of the newly arisen music-drama, and left
behind him a journal concerned largely with the secrets of dancing, the
_Sadoshima Nikki_, or Journal of Sadoshima.
When the Wakashu Kabuki went out of existence and plays were produced
that required complicated characters, a strict division of labour
among the actors was carried out, and they were obliged to play only
their own specialties.
In the Onna Kabuki the rôles had been fixed as in the Nō theatre. There
was a shite, or chief actor; a waki, or secondary player; and tsure,
or assistants. In Wakashu Kabuki, the handsome youth who was selected
as star of the company was called taiyu, or chief, while older actors
acted as secondary and supporting players. As in the Nō there were
kyogen shi, or comedians, so there were dokegata, or funny men, in the
Wakashu Kabuki.
The specialties of the newly established male stage were simple at
first, then became more and more complex. They were the tateyaku,
or chief actor, who played the hero, always a good, courageous, and
loyal personage. The katakiyaku was the name of the specialty in
villains,—the bold, bad characters who caused all the trouble. There
were the onnagata, or actors playing women’s rôles; the dokegata, or
comedians; oyajigata, or elderly men, and the kawashagata, or females
of middle age. Youthful heroes were played by wakashugata, while
koyakugata was the name given those who took children’s rôles.
With the increase in the importance of acting, and the overwhelming
interest the public took in the competition of the actors, the most
complicated system of rank came to be bestowed upon the players.
During the Wakashu Kabuki regime, the audiences were simply charmed
by the dancing of attractive young men, but as soon as complicated
plays brought diversified characters, the people became most critical
of acting, a characteristic that has remained as regards the Japanese
playgoer. This holds true equally of modern audiences, that are ever
alert to see the differences between good and indifferent acting, and
which they appear to find much more worthy of consideration than the
merits or demerits of the play.
Playgoers took keen interest in the rank earned by their favourites,
and were elated if an actor became more prominent, and equally
disturbed if he did not live up to the promise of his early career.
The most important rank was termed jojo-kichi, or best-best-good.
Intermediate rank was marked by the Chinese characters denoting jojo or
best-best, chu-no-jojo or middle-best-best, and chu-no-jo, middle-best.
Later on, the system determining the talents of the actors became
elaborate. There was first the superlative standard, called
head-of-all-acting, and this was like Miranda, created of every
creature’s best, top of admiration. Murui followed, a most coveted
title, signifying without rival, applied to the best in each specialty,
whether it was an onnagata or a tateyaku.
The third rank was jojo-kichi, best-best-good, used for the
second in each specialty, and the fourth was shingoku-jojo-kichi,
or truest-best-best-good; the fifth, dai-jojo-kichi, or
great-best-best-good; while the sixth was called ko-jojo-kichi, or
little-best-best-good.
The seventh rank was jojo-kichi, best-best-good. This was the standard
rank, the others were given only to the great stars. Below jojo-kichi
were the eighth and ninth ranks, and still lower a number of different
terms diminishing in value. These were written in Chinese characters
beside the actor’s name on the programme and on the bill-boards outside
the theatre, of which he must have been inordinately proud.
In _Kokon Yakusha Taizen_, or Ancient and Modern Actors, published by
Hachimojiya in the third year of Kwanyei (1791), there is a statement
as to the origin of these ranks. In China the rank was given to loyal
persons who were considered worthy of reward for merit. The titles jojo
and jo-chu-no-jo were conferred upon them.
Murasaki Shikibu, the famous court lady, who wrote the _Genji
Monogatari_, or stories concerning the adventures, largely romantic,
of Prince Genji, used the rank of jojo-kichi when she wished to give
one of her heroes a meritorious title, taking the jojo, or best-best,
from the custom prevailing in China, and adding kichi, or good, on
her own account. As the art of the actors developed their genius
was recognised, and this system of reward devised. At first the
classification fell into the categories of good, middle, and poor, but
gradually the most extravagant terms were used to denote the pinnacle
of art achieved.
Along with this minutiæ in connection with acting the dramatic critic
was called into being, the actor and his critic being complements of
each other the world over.
Persons of literary pretensions began to criticise the actors, and
published their opinions. It is not clear when the first of these
criticisms appeared, but Ihara Seiseiin mentions 1656 as the probable
date.
At first the criticisms dealt largely with the personal appearances of
the onnagata, who were the most fascinating players on the stage, their
borrowed feminine charms and graces being attractive to men and women
alike. Then followed publications relating to anecdotes of the actors.
Criticism improved as the critics were given more food for thought, and
were able to judge the value and quality of the acting, rather than
mere descriptions of an actor’s dress, face, or manners.
There were two famous dramatic critics during the fruitful Genroku
period, when the theatre rose to the summit of its achievements. One of
these was Ihara Saikaku, the author of a popular novel, _Ukiyo Zoshi_,
that was not distinguished for its moral tone, and other writings, and
Hojo Danshin, a composer of haiku, or short poems.
Their criticisms were written in their leisure hours and were a matter
of their own pleasure. They were blessed in that they were not obliged
to think of newspaper proprietors, sensitive theatre managers, or the
vagaries of the reading public, but could spin out of their heads the
fancies that came to them after attending the theatre. They were not
obliged to rush to some smoky, noisy newspaper office, there to grind
out their copy at a late hour on the typewriter with printers’ devils
ready to snatch in desperate hurry. No doubt they sat all day long
on the tatami, or straw mats, of their dwelling, looking out upon some
quiet landscape scene, and thinking at leisure.
Much of their writings is trivial in the light of the present, but,
on the other hand, they reveal intimate glimpses of the theatre and
actors that would be delightful to a lover of modern Kabuki, if the
task of separating the wheat from the chaff in this formidable array of
scribblings was not so difficult.
Following the example of Ihara Saikaku and Hojo Danshin, other literary
men devoted themselves to chronicling the events of the theatre, and
they wrote copiously, giving minute descriptions of the gestures and
elocution of the actors.
Books of criticism were called hyobanki (lit., account of reputation),
and these became the monopoly of the Yedo publisher, Hachimonjiya. The
first of these books appeared in 1656; the series continued until just
before the Restoration, the publishing house lasting for 211 years.
Hachimonjiya Yisho, the head of the firm, was a writer about theatre
matters as well as a publisher, and his partner in the business,
Ejimaya Kiseki, also wrote books relating to the theatre. The partners
quarrelled and separated for some years, each issuing his own
publications, but afterwards they forgot their differences and once
more collaborated. Their successors carried on the work of issuing the
hyobanki, which were the only books descriptive of the theatre. They
reached hundreds of volumes, and are an encyclopaedia of Kabuki.
While the theatres of Kyoto and Osaka changed hands frequently and
went by various names, four historic Yedo playhouses were started in
this formative period with which generations of actors were to be long
associated. They were the Nakamura-za, Ichimura-za, Morita-za, and the
Kawarasaki-za.
The descendants of the owners of these theatres had the exclusive right
to give performances and to be theatre proprietors. The actors
were their retainers. As a result there came into existence in Yedo
different theatre clans, with the establishment of an hereditary caste
in theatre circles.
Saruwaka Kansaburo had founded the first Yedo theatre in 1624, calling
it the Saruwaka-za, but his cousin, the third Kansaburo, changed the
name to Nakamura-za, a playhouse in which appeared many of the most
talented actors that adorned the Yedo stage.
The Ichimura-za was originally the Murayama-za, founded by a brother
of the Kyoto manager, Murayama Matabei, who endured so many privations
while waiting patiently for the governor to give permission for the
long-closed theatre to reopen in Kyoto.
The Yedo Murayama adopted several sons to succeed him as head of the
theatre, but they had no business ability, and the theatre was finally
purchased by Ichimura Uzaemon in 1666, a name long recorded in the
annals of the theatre and borne at present by the popular actor of the
Kabuki-za in Tokyo, Ichimura Uzaemon, the thirteenth.
Uzaemon’s ancestors were said to have been samurai in the service of a
daimyo. On coming to Yedo from the provinces he entered the employment
of Murayama Matasaburo and afterwards became the sole proprietor,
giving the theatre his own name. He was not an actor, but successful in
business management, and few of his successors distinguished themselves
on the stage. The Ichimura-za crests, one an orange with leaves at the
top and the other a stork in a circle, have continued to be theatre
symbols from the time of the first Ichimura-za to the present. This
playhouse passed through many vicissitudes, and was removed from its
original site and finally destroyed by fire. The last theatre bearing
this name has come down to modern times, and was destroyed in the great
disaster of 1923, a temporary Ichimura-za serving at the present.
Still another theatre, the Morita-za, was to have considerable
influence upon stage history. It was established in 1660 by Morita
Tarobei, who came to Yedo from Settsu Province. Among his advisers
was a comic actor, Bando Matakuro, and he adopted this actor’s son,
transferring his property to him and calling him Morita Kanya, the
second, a name that has been inherited for 250 years by actors and
managers. The thirteenth Morita Kanya is now a member of the Imperial
Theatre company, and his father was one of the most aggressive theatre
managers during the modern period of Meiji.
[Illustration: Ichimura Uzaemon, the thirteenth, as Yasuna in a
posture dance descriptive of a man who has become demented because of
the loss of his wife.]
The Yamamura-za was another of the first Yedo theatres, and would
in all probability have continued together with the Nakamura-za,
Ichimura-za, and Morita-za, but one of its leading actors became
involved in a scandal with a lady-in-waiting at the Shogun’s Court, and
it was demolished by the authorities.
Kawarasaki Gonnosuke established the Kawarasaki-za in 1648. He was at
first a Nō actor, but came to Yedo from the provinces and started a
Kabuki theatre. Among several plays he composed, that concerning the
revenge of the Soga Brothers was most popular. In 1663 this theatre was
incorporated with the Morita-za, but later they separated and continued
until modern times, the Kawarasaki-za having been closely associated
with the Ichikawa actor-line.
Za—as applied to a theatre—had not been especially invented to meet
the new theatrical situation. Long before the Nō had become firmly
established in the fourteenth century, companies of players attached to
the great Shinto Shrines had called themselves za, which previous to
this time had been in use to denote a commercial guild. It was a case
of history repeating itself that the resurrected term should have been
used in connection with the new playhouses that were springing up in
all directions.
Such was the rise of the theatres in the three towns, a rapid
development that came about in the half-century between the abolition
of the Women’s Stage and the beginning of Genroku, Japan’s golden age.
Enthusiastic audiences filled the large theatres of Yedo, Kyoto, and
Osaka, flocked to the doll-theatres where the marionettes triumphed
and threatened to outrival the actors in popularity, while innumerable
minor playhouses of a temporary character were set up in the compounds
of shrines or by the cross-roads, and spread in the provinces.
It was a time of actor-worship. Two great stars appeared. They were
Ichikawa Danjuro, of Yedo, and Sakata Tojuro, of Kyoto, diverse in
their principles, leaders of the two schools that laid the foundations
of modern Kabuki.
From this time onward the yakusha, or actor, dominated the theatre.
YAKUSHA
CHAPTER XI
DANJURO AND TOJURO
The first two Kabuki actors endowed with creativeness of a high order
were Sakata Tojuro, of Kyoto, and Ichikawa Danjuro, of Yedo, exponents
of contrasting theatre principles—the real and unreal.
They were epoch-making actors, and the manner in which they moulded the
plastic theatre material of their generation is visible at the present
day in the two schools they founded, that still flourish side by side
in Kabuki.
Sakata Tojuro reflected the taste and elegance of his Kyoto
environment. He was romantic and natural in his acting. He left no
successor, but there have always been actors faithful to his styles The
present Nakamura Ganjiro, of Osaka, in taking Tojuro for model and in
inheriting his mantle, has appeared to be the very incarnation of this
old actor.
Ichikawa Danjuro, of Yedo, established the school of aragoto, or
rough acting—made out of the cloth of exaggeration, the grotesque,
picturesque, unnatural, unreal. He was followed by eight members of
his family, who carried on his traditions. Many of the Ichikawa actors
were men of genius, who not only handed on their theatre inheritance
but added new features. No other actor line has had such a powerful
influence upon Kabuki as the nine members of this family.
These players appeared in what is called the Genroku age—the sixteen
years from 1688 to 1703. But it also includes the years preceding
and following, altogether a space of thirty years—a period of
growth and expansion. It has been named the Japanese renaissance, and
sometimes called the golden age of Japanese civilisation, and was
a period of high achievement in literature and in art. Chikamatsu
Monzaemon, Japan’s first dramatist, flourished in this period, and
Ihara Saikaku wrote his criticisms of the actors.
Tojuro’s ancestors lived in the northern province of Echigo, and his
father owned a Kyoto theatre. He is said to have been born in 1645,
and died in 1709, and was the most representative actor of Osaka and
Kyoto for the whole of the Genroku period. Tojuro was the star of the
Miyako-Mandayu-za, of Kyoto, for many years. Chikamatsu Monzaemon wrote
plays for him, before he turned his entire attention to composing
pieces for the marionettes. Kaneko Kichizaemon, another playwright
of the time, was closely associated with Tojuro, and has left many
impressions of him in his book _Jijinshu_—or Collection of the Year’s
Dust—little stories about actors, chiefly Tojuro. “All these stories
came to my insignificant ears,” he writes, “therefore I call this book
a collection of the year’s dust.”
Tojuro was a power in the transformation of Kabuki out of the chaotic
state that followed the abolition of the Wakashu. He believed that art
was long and time fleeting; he displayed broadmindedness toward his
contemporaries, and did not criticise them. He was noble and refined
in appearance, we are told, and had received a far better education
than was the lot of most actors of his day. He had literary ability,
and collaborated with his playwright friends in the composition of his
plays, and wrote several dramas himself. Kaneko Kichizaburo writes that
Tojuro learned to play the Nō drum from a Nō musician, so that he must
have been familiar with the aristocratic stage, and the dignity and
ceremonials of the Nō actors. His personal character was high, and he
frowned upon the immorality of the actors, which was something that
could hardly be avoided in such a loose and luxurious age. No record
is left to tell of his wife and children. He had a sister whose son he
adopted, but the son went to Yedo to live, and did not become an actor.
His younger brother inherited his great name, yet only succeeded in
imitating Tojuro, so that his talents stopped with himself and were not
transmitted, as in the case of the Ichikawas of Yedo.
Many anecdotes have been handed down relating to Tojuro’s extravagance.
He received a large salary, but was not at all frugal, and was
accustomed to say to those who remonstrated with him about his
wastefulness that in order to be a great actor it was necessary to
be generous-minded and reckless. He never wore a dress that had been
washed; his room was lighted by candles, not by the oil wick which
was general in those days. Moreover, he did not subsist on rice and
vegetables, the diet of most families, then as now, but lived like a
daimyo, partaking of fish and fowl. Every day he drank a cup of the
rarest tea, while he warmed his sake with costly charcoal, all in the
lordly manner of a feudal magnate.
When actors repaired to his house for rehearsal, he received them
seated on a beautiful silk cushion, with a gorgeous lacquered
tobacco-box in front of him, and served his guests a sumptuous repast.
Once, when he played in Osaka, he ordered drinking water from Kyoto to
be brought to him in casks, and his rice was selected grain by grain.
When he was asked the reason for this extravagance, he replied that
if his rice were not properly selected the grains might be mixed with
grit and his teeth be ruined; and that if he drank Osaka water he might
become ill, and in consequence be obliged to absent himself from the
stage, to the great loss of his manager. It is suspected that Tojuro
loved advertisement more than Kyoto water, and knew how to make himself
talked about by the people of his day.
He was at his best when portraying tradespeople, and was more at ease
in plebeian than in aristocratic rôles. His successful plays were
those dealing with everyday life rather than historical pieces, which
were the delight of Ichikawa Danjuro. Tojuro’s specialty was acting in
plays dealing with the gay quarters, which pleased the people of the
Genroku age immensely.
How he regarded the art of the actor may be judged from an extract
taken from Kaneko Kichizaburo’s Sidelights on Tojuro: “When a poor
man desires money he may be able to obtain it by stealing, or he may
find it in the road, but with regard to acting nothing can be stolen.
An actor who is ignorant of the fundamental principles is one who is
destined never to excel.”
Kaneko tells another story to illustrate Tojuro’s attitude towards the
art of acting. A certain actor who had a son 12 years of age wanted him
to learn the art, but did not think it necessary for him to bother how
to write or to know anything about figures. Tojuro hearing of this said:
“The art of an actor is like a beggar’s bag and must contain
everything, whether it is important or not. If there is anything not
wanted for immediate use keep it for a future occasion. An actor should
even learn how to pick pockets.”
At one time, returning with Kaneko from the theatre, he stopped
suddenly on the bridge they were crossing and stood motionless, looking
down into the water, deep in meditation over some problem of acting.
The playwright asked him if he had dropped something, but he did not
answer. After a pause he said: “Well I have learned a great lesson!”
On another occasion he stopped at a tofu-ya, or white-bean-curd shop,
went straight in and watched how it was manufactured, and after
thoroughly acquainting himself with the process, thanked the proprietor
of the place and went away. Such information might be worth while to
know, since he could use it on the stage some day, and therefore he put
it into his beggar’s bag.
That Tojuro valued the art of the real upon the stage may be judged
from the many stories that have been handed down about him, but that
he was aware that the real might be carried too far is shown from the
_Jijinshu_: “Tojuro had to play the part of a beggar, but did not wish
to wear tattered and soiled garments. He thought the audience came in
order to be amused, and that if things were too realistic it would make
a bad impression upon them.”
On the other hand, the care he exercised with regard to naturalness
on the stage is shown from another of Kaneko’s little stories. A
gatekeeper suddenly aroused from sleep was to yawn and ask: “Who is
it?” Tojuro objected to the manner of the actor playing the gatekeeper,
and made him repeat it many times before he considered it satisfactory
in giving the audience the correct impression of one suddenly awakened
in the dead of night.
Tojuro’s claim to fame began with his acting of Izaemon, the lover
of Yugiri. Yugiri was a courtesan of the gay quarter of Shimbara, in
Kyoto, and afterwards lived in a famous house called the Ogiya in
Shimmachi, Osaka. It was first written in one act. Chikamatsu Monzaemon
took the love story of Izaemon and Yugiri, and wrote a masterpiece,
_Keisei Awa no Naruto_. It is the favourite play of Nakamura Ganjiro,
of Osaka, to-day. Tojuro acted Izaemon in this piece on the eighteen
occasions it was performed during Genroku, and it never failed to
attract a large audience.
Thus Tojuro was the founder of the natural school, which, if there had
been no other influences to hinder its supremacy, would have developed
in a similar way to the realistic stage of the West.
There were, however; other theatre materials for the asking, and the
members of the Ichikawa family made use of these with lavish hand,
causing the talents of the actors to flow in channels quite removed
from Tojuro’s realistic art.
The first of the nine Ichikawas was born in 1660, and died in 1704. His
father was a samurai in the province of Kii, named Horikoshi. When
the daimyo he served was defeated in battle, Danjuro’s father became a
ronin and lived in retirement in the district. Afterwards he removed to
a village in the province of Shimosa, where he became a farmer. He went
to Yedo in 1644, and called himself after the village he had left. He
was a man of strong character, skilled in writing, an adept at figures.
It was very natural, possessed of such accomplishments, that he should
become popular among his neighbours in Yedo, and he was chosen to
represent the landlords of his locality.
He was good at business and made a fortune for himself. There were in
Yedo in those rough-and-ready times men called otokodate, or chivalrous
men of the people, who did not fear the blustering two-sworded samurai,
who too often attempted to intimidate the peaceful citizens. Danjuro’s
father associated himself with these brave spirits, who were always
ready to defend the helpless and to protect the interests of the middle
and lower classes. Such was the father of the first Ichikawa Danjuro,
the representative Yedo yakusha of the Genroku period.
The exact date of the first Danjuro’s advent into the world is in
question, some accounts say 1660, others 1648, but as the inaccuracy
of dates in Japanese records is so frequent, it is not a matter to be
greatly concerned about. His father’s friend acted as godfather and
called the child Ebiso,—a name which has persisted in the family, and
is given to the members when they are very young. The boy’s dwelling
was in the vicinity of the Nakamura-za and Ichimura-za, that drew him
irresistibly, just as the Tokyo urchin of to-day steals off to see the
moving pictures whenever he has sufficient to pay the entrance fee. He
must have made up his mind at an early age that he wanted to become
an actor, for he appeared for the first time at the Nakamura-za, when
he was 14 years of age. He took the stage name of Ichikawa Danjuro,
and acted the rôle of Kintoki, the fabulously strong baby-hero of a
Japanese fairy tale,—a red-faced, muscular baby, generally depicted
with an axe over his shoulder. The new actor was an immediate
success.
Danjuro was responsible for a new mode of acting that astonished and
delighted Yedo people,—the aragoto, or rough style. The Doll-theatre
was the source of his inspiration. There were minstrels who recited
the military exploits of Kimpira, a Hercules who slew demons and
beasts. The minstrel, desiring to appeal to the fighting spirit of
the Yedo people, beat his rhythms with a long iron rod, and sometimes
wielded this weapon so wonderfully that he broke off the heads of the
performing dolls or smashed the scenery in his exploitation of valour.
The people had begun to grow tired of plays dealing with the effeminate
and luxurious life of the gay quarters; they wearied of sentimentality,
and welcomed performances that were more manly and possessed a
militaristic appeal. Danjuro, the first, seized the opportunity to
please the citizens of Yedo, originated the exaggerated artificial
style now inseparably linked with the Danjuro line, their famous
eighteen plays, or _Juhachiban_, being treasures of Kabuki that are
woven out of the pure fabric of fancy, and so unreal that those steeped
in realism can find but little to admire in them. Yet they represent
the talent of this long actor line; they have been altered, improved,
added to in the way of treatment, costume, and acting by successive
members of the family, unadulterated theatre material, full of taste
and style, but as yet unknown to the unseeing eyes of the West.
Like Tojuro, the first Danjuro was not only an actor, but also of a
literary turn of mind, and took an active part in the composition of
his plays.
As he wished for a son to succeed him he repaired to Narita, not far
from modern Tokyo, where stood then, as to-day, the famous Buddhist
temple sacred to Fudo, the God of Fire. Here he worshipped, praying
to Fudo for a son. The petition was granted, for a son was born
who inherited his father’s characteristics to a remarkable degree.
Danjuro had a play written concerning Fudo, by way of returning
thanks, and selected a business name by which his successors are always
known—Naritaya, after the temple in the village of Narita. Horikoshi
remained the family name, that of his samurai ancestors; Naritaya was
the name given off the stage by his fellow-actors and familiar friends
and tradespeople; while Ichikawa Danjuro was his stage name. He also
possessed a _nom de plume_ with which he signed his short verse, for he
was a poet in addition to his other qualifications.
Descriptions of Danjuro say that he was strong, his arms brawny,
his shoulders broad, and that he stood erect. Warrior rôles were
his specialty, and when imitating heroic deeds of the Doll-theatre
he played with such a display of force, and his gestures were so
remarkable, that when he trod the stage the reverberations were so
violent that the stock-in-trade of such porcelain shops as happened to
be in close proximity to the theatre were threatened with destruction!
However, Danjuro could, when occasion demanded, use naturalistic
methods, for the critics of his day praise him when he acted the rôle
of a blind shampooer, and mention his gestures as being “so natural”!
In an old book there is a description of his stage methods. He was
asked to attend a social function in the mansion of a certain nobleman,
and requested to give some aragoto piece. He took down the upper
part of his kimono and performed as Kagekiyo—the hero of several Nō
dramas—and his actions were so spirited that he broke all the shoji,
or white paper screens. The guests were anxious to know what the host
would think of the entertainer’s destructive methods, but, contrary
to their expectations, the daimyo was pleased and presented him with
a costly gift. Danjuro is said to have made the comment after his
strenuous acting that if an actor was afraid in the presence of a
daimyo he could not play aragoto.
The contrast between the styles of Tojuro and Danjuro was very
great, but both truly reflected the tastes of their audiences.
The three theatre towns had then, as they have at present, special
characteristics.
Kyoto was quiet and easygoing; Yedo military and intense, the centre
for the samurai from the provinces who continually came and went.
The inhabitants of Osaka and Kyoto, who were mild and gentle in
disposition, went wild over Tojuro’s artistic acting, taking pleasure
in the effeminate, sentimental heroes and heroines of the gay quarters,
and they rather looked with disdain upon the exaggerated, artificial,
and altogether extraordinary acting of Danjuro.
Danjuro was bold, eccentric, rough, and heroic; Tojuro elegant,
sensuous, and luxurious, reflecting the spirit of the Kyoto and Osaka
people, who were pleased to see his plays of everyday life, and
faithful depiction of human nature. Tojuro was eloquent, and sometimes
his speeches were so long as to tire his audience; Danjuro was so
quick-spoken that sometimes he could not be understood. The theatre
materials out of which Danjuro and Tojuro cut their patterns—the real
and unreal—continued to coexist after the Genroku period. The one
did not swallow up the other; but both maintained their place and
use,—sometimes mixed, with strange results, sometimes found without
adulteration.
Perhaps the most famous of Danjuro’s plays is _Kanjincho_, a
popularised version of _Ataka_, a Nō drama. “Kanjincho” means a
Buddhist scroll upon which are written the names of subscribers to a
fund to restore or rebuild a temple. Without asking leave, Danjuro
appropriated this Nō play. A member of the house of Kineya, the
musicians of Kabuki, suiting the music to the plot, there was evolved
the most perfect music-posture play of the Japanese theatre. Danjuro,
the first, played it in 1702. The theatre was crowded, and the piece
continued for 150 days. It was called Oshiai Junidan, meaning to crowd
or push together. And after the lapse of more than 200 years this
Kabuki masterpiece still holds audiences in a spell, and never fails to
arouse the greatest enthusiasm. It was performed before the Prince
of Wales on his visit to Japan in April 1922.
Danjuro played another piece, _Soga no Goro_, at the Ichimura-za, which
became the inspiration of every actor in later times. When he acted
Goro, the hero of the Soga play dealing with the revenge of the Soga
brothers upon the slayer of their father, he wore a kimono embroidered
in a design of lightning, and three rice measures, or three boxes of
graduated size fitting into each other. After this he took three rice
measures as his crest, and this was to become one of the most famous
actor-symbols on the Japanese stage.
Danjuro journeyed to Kyoto and Osaka, and astonished the audiences
in these cities by his originality and activity, the country people
flocking in from the outlying districts. In Osaka he was so well
received that a popular song sang his praises. He studied short poems
while in Kyoto, and his teacher gave him a _nom de plume_, the custom
of an actor taking a poetry-name originating with him.
An account is given in _Kabuki Koto Hajime_, or Beginnings of Kabuki,
of Danjuro’s meeting with Tojuro. Danjuro went to the theatre to see
Tojuro act, but found that he was absent on account of illness. Danjuro
greatly regretted that he was unable to see Tojuro on the stage. But on
the following day a messenger came from Tojuro inviting him to dinner
at a restaurant.
When Danjuro reached the place, Tojuro failed to make an appearance,
and after he had waited for a long time and was beginning to grow
impatient he saw his host in ordinary dress arranging flowers in
another room without as much as casting a glance in the direction of
his guest, as unconcerned as though quite unaware of his presence. This
made Danjuro angry, and he was just on the point of retiring when a
messenger from Tojuro apologised for the delay and said he would join
him immediately. He had changed his clothing, wearing his very best,
and received his guest in the most dignified manner.
Danjuro was so much impressed by his appearance that he said there
was no necessity to see him act, and left for Yedo the next day.
The gossip of the time said that Tojuro planned to overawe his Yedo
rival, and had determined that no Yedo actor should carry away laurels
from Kyoto during his lifetime, so that if this report be true the
long-established rivalry between the theatres of Yedo and those of
Osaka and Kyoto had already begun at this time.
Danjuro’s stage career ended suddenly at the age of 45. His death is
one of the most tragic events in the history of the Japanese theatre.
He was murdered in his dressing-room by a fellow-actor in 1704. Some
accounts say that the murderer’s name was Sugiyama Hanroku. Ihara
Seiseiin, who has closely inspected the suspected actor’s record for
the year in which Danjuro was murdered, says he was unable to find the
name of Sugiyama Hanroku, but discovered one Ikushima Hanroku, who was
recorded as an actor of considerable ability, being ranked as first of
the middle class. Accounts with regard to the motive prompting the deed
are conflicting. Some say jealousy; others that this actor had a son
who was a deshi, or follower, of Danjuro, and had changed his name to
Ichikawa; again that Hanroku was a man of evil character, and Danjuro
gave him some sound advice which he did not heed, and that this made
Danjuro indifferent to the son. Yet most accounts agree that the cause
of the tragedy was Danjuro’s changed attitude towards the son.
The result of this crime was that the proprietors of the theatres were
summoned to the magistrate’s office, and an order was issued that
continuous plays could not be given, and only those of one act were
allowed, the audience to be changed at the end of each act.
Hanroku made good his escape from Danjuro’s dressing-room, but was
taken to prison on that day, and died there before his sentence could
be carried out. Danjuro’s widow cut her hair short, and lived a life of
retirement in Meguro, now a suburb of Tokyo.
Danjuro, the first, was fortunate in leaving behind him the
successor who had been given to him in answer to the prayer made to
Fudo, the God of Fire, at the Narita Temple, for this son was to become
one of the most famous actors of the Danjuro line.
[Illustration: Crest of Ichikawa Danjuro (Three rice measures).]
[Illustration: Crest of Ichikawa Ennosuke (Derived from toy resembling
three monkeys).]
[Illustration: Crest of Ichikawa Chusha (Peony).]
[Illustration: Onoe Matsusuke as Komori Yasu, or Bat Yasu, so called
because of the birthmark on his cheek which resembles a bat. A bold,
bad man of Yedo.]
CHAPTER XII
YAKUSHA OF GENROKU
During the Genroku period that produced so many men of distinction
in art, literature, and the drama, the audiences of the three towns
had a brilliant array of actor talent from which to choose, and the
achievements of the contemporaries of Sakata Tojuro and Ichikawa
Danjuro resulted in a keen appreciation of the actor’s creativeness.
The common people were to become familiar with a high order of acting,
since the emphasis, whether rightly or wrongly, as judged by Occidental
standards, was always on the actor, the playwright being of secondary
importance.
Three stars were to be seen during Genroku on the stages of Kyoto,
Osaka, and Yedo. They were Yamashita Kyoyemon; Takeshima Kyozaemon,
the son of that Takeshima who had been the head of a company of women
players in Kyoto; and the second Arashi Sanyemon, son of the actor of
the same name, who previous to this had gained great success in Yedo,
and then removed to Osaka, where he owned a theatre.
Yamashita Kyoyemon, who died in 1717, was the son of a Kyoto artist.
He was at first a Nō actor, but gave up this profession to follow the
fortunes of Kabuki. Sakata Tojuro regarded him as a rival, and Kyoyemon
often acted with Tojuro at the Miyako-Mandayu-za in Kyoto. Once a
rumour was circulated that he was dead, which proving untrue the people
flocked to his banner, and he was more popular than ever before.
The historians of Kabuki agree that he was a man of fine bearing
and gentle disposition, and that while he did not quite equal Tojuro’s
grand manner he was in no way an actor of little talent. It was
Kyoyemon who appeared in the first stage version of _Chushingura_,
the tragedy of the Forty-seven Ronin, who avenged the death of their
lord and then committed harakiri in Yedo. Afterwards the tale inspired
Takeda Izumo, who wrote a drama for the marionettes that is undoubtedly
one of the masterpieces of the Japanese theatre to-day.
It is said of Kyoyemon that even a rustic from the provinces, who had
never seen him before, and knew nothing concerning him, could not
fail to be impressed by his presence, and to understand without being
informed that he was the leading actor.
He had his little frailties, however, for he was too fond of applause,
and so eager for the praise of the audience that he pandered to the
tastes of the lower classes, and was given to making vulgar asides.
This was entirely unlike Tojuro, who had a high moral character. Like
Tojuro, however, he held the mirror up to nature, and the side-lights
upon his stage methods that have been handed down reveal the fact that
he excelled as a samurai, particularly as a ronin, or free-lance, who
roamed the country in quest of adventure, and wearing the costume of a
traveller.
One of Kyoyemon’s brothers became a celebrated priest, and his daughter
married Sawamura Chojuro, a leading actor of a later period. His wife’s
sister married an onnagata, the first Yoshisawa Ayame, and their son
Matataro inherited Kyoyemon’s name, becoming Yamashita Kyoyemon, the
second—hence his family occupied a prominent position in the actor
fraternity.
The second actor of importance at this time was Takeshima Kyozaemon,
son of Yamato Dansuke, of O-Kuni Kabuki fame. Although he played often
in Kyoto, he made Osaka his headquarters, and at last went to Yedo,
where he played with Ikushima Shingoro, the unfortunate actor exiled
because of a love affair with a lady-in-waiting of the Shogun’s
Court. For three years he played at the Ichimura-za and Morita-za, and
then took up his residence in Kyoto, where his son was the proprietor
of a theatre. He was particularly partial to samurai rôles and knew how
to handle a sword. His son was also a good actor, and succeeded to his
name.
The third famous actor of Tojuro’s time was Arashi Sanyemon, the
second. He was younger than Tojuro and Kyoyemon, and died early. The
first Arashi was his father, but the boy was evidently regarded as
an ugly duckling, for his father did not consider that he possessed
sufficient talent for a stage career, and he was apprenticed to a
candle dealer, the business requiring him to travel from one place to
another. When the elder Arashi was taken ill, the son was called to
Osaka to take up the parental profession, and so had the difficult task
of trying to live up to his father’s reputation. At first the audience
laughed at him, but as he had the same face and voice as his father,
he soon attracted attention and came to be regarded as one of the
leading actors. Indeed, he was considered in some respects superior to
his father, especially in the art of love-making; he was genuine and
unaffected, and possessed a well-shaped nose and fine eyes.
The foregoing actors were tateyaku. The most noted actor to take
katakiyaku, or the villain rôle, of this period was Kataoka Nizaemon,
who died in 1715. At first he was a samisen player of Osaka, and
during his early years was associated with the management of Osaka
theatres, beginning a stage career in middle life, yet reached high
rank and was regarded as a genius. He was tall and well-proportioned,
and had a fierce look in his eyes which gave him a decided advantage
in the villain rôle. He could also play the hero well, but received
great praise for his old men characters, a specialty that seems to
have remained in the possession of this actor line, for the modern
representative, Kataoka Nizaemon, of the Kabuki-za, Tokyo, never
pleases his audiences better than when playing as oyajigata, or old men.
Nizaemon was samurai-like in his bearing. He is on record as
saying that actors should be familiar with popular poems, know Buddhism
and Shintoism, and be well informed on a variety of subjects so as to
draw upon such knowledge in their work on the stage. No doubt Nizaemon
practised what he preached, for he played many rôles in his time. His
real son, who was a theatre owner, succeeded as Nizaemon, the second,
but died soon after, and the Kataoka generations were continued by a
younger sister of the first Nizaemon, who had married an actor. It was
her son who succeeded to the hereditary name of Kataoka Nizaemon, the
third,—a stage name that has continued down to the present. Kataoka
Nizaemon and Ichikawa Danjuro are the only two actor families that have
come down from Genroku in unbroken succession to modern times.
The first Danjuro’s greatest contemporary in Yedo was Nakamura
Hichisaburo, who died in 1708. He was Danjuro’s equal in many respects,
and shared the honours of Yedo Kabuki with him. But Hichisaburo left no
family to carry on his traditions, and in consequence obtains a less
important position in the history of Kabuki than Danjuro, the first,
who founded a line of actors that have been uppermost on the stage for
more than two hundred years, and were regarded as the feudal lords of
the theatre before whom all others of the fraternity bowed in respect
and admiration.
Nakamura Hichisaburo was exactly the opposite to Ichikawa Danjuro in
his stage methods. He belonged to Sakata Tojuro’s real school, and was
quiet and restrained on the boards. Danjuro was bold and exaggerated,
Hichisaburo effeminate and mild. They represented the two currents of
the popular mind during Genroku. Danjuro was not altogether welcome
in Kyoto and Osaka, Tojuro’s stronghold, where his style was not
wholly appreciated, although he was acknowledged to be a great actor.
Hichisaburo, on the contrary, met with great success on the stages of
these towns.
He was a handsome man, and the criticism of the time acknowledged
his dignity of manner. Unlike Danjuro, he did not startle with the
strength of his militaristic actions, which caused him in some quarters
to be regarded as slow. But this was according to Yedo critics, who
had grown accustomed to Danjuro’s striking efforts. In Kyoto, it was
contended that Hichisaburo was not good as a fighter, but one critic
declared that he was like patent medicine, good for everything.
Hichisaburo’s manner on the stage was similar to Tojuro’s, yet the
stars of Kyoto appeared to tower above him. As a lover he was very
popular, and delighted in mixing Yedo slang with his stage lines, and
knew how to reach his audiences. It is said of him that he was good
in pathetic rôles and “could bring tears to the eyes of a demon”.
Moreover, he was a good dancer, which was probably due to the fact that
he was entirely familiar with the Nō stage. Some years younger than
Danjuro, he married the daughter of the second Nakamura Kansaburo, and
probably took the name of Nakamura from this family.
Like most of the actors of this early period he wrote his own plays,
the most successful of which was _Asamagatake_, or Mount Asama.
Although Hichisaburo was a Yedo actor, he spent much of his time in
Kyoto and Osaka.
The most prominent actor who imitated Hichisaburo was Ikushima
Shingoro. Hichisaburo was taken ill on the stage while playing Juro,
one of the brothers in the Soga revenge, his favourite rôle.
After Danjuro and Hichisaburo, the most distinguished actor of
this time was Nakamura Denkuro, who died in 1716. He was of more
aristocratic theatre lineage than the two prominent Yedo actors
above, for he was no less a personage than the grandson of Saruwaka
Kansaburo. The first Kansaburo had three sons: the first was the child
of a concubine and did not inherit; the second son, who accompanied
Kansaburo to Kyoto and danced before the Emperor, succeeded as second
of the line, taking the name Akashi, which he was given at the
time of this performance in Kyoto. He left his name to his younger
brother, who became the third head of the family.
The son by the concubine was blessed with two sons, and one of them was
no other than Nakamura Denkuro, who exercised considerable influence
upon Yedo Kabuki, establishing traditions that have been handed down to
modern times. Denkuro’s father, perhaps because of his illegitimacy,
never appeared as an actor, but was engaged as an accountant of the
Nakamura-za all his life. Nevertheless, it was his son who inherited
the theatre genius that might have been expected to appear in the first
Kansaburo’s legitimate offspring.
The rôle of Asahina, an historical character, at the Nakamura-za made
Nakamura Denkuro famous, and the manner in which he painted his face
with broad red lines and the style, colour, and design of his costume
have served as a model for all succeeding actors who have essayed this
popular rôle. Asahina was a bold warrior of the time when Yoritomo
ruled by the sword in Kamakura. Denkuro used Asahina’s crest to
decorate his stage costume, a crane in a circle, and it has always been
preserved, Asahina not being considered by audiences or actors as the
real thing unless faithful to all the details of Denkuro’s grotesque
creation.
And it is by these traditions that the modern Tokyo actors link this
old past with the bustling, strenuous modern days, for a veteran of
the Kabuki-za in Tokyo succeeded to this illustrious stage name a few
years ago, and to celebrate the auspicious occasion appeared in all
the startling array of colours, unearthly red make-up, and exaggerated
gestures and postures of his Yedo predecessor.
On account of chronic illness Denkuro was obliged to withdraw from
the stage at the height of his career, and could only return to say a
few words on the introduction ceremony of the second Hichisaburo, who
was a child-actor when he took the name Nakamura Hichisaburo had made
so famous. Denkuro had been closely associated with the first
Hichisaburo, hence his interest in his youthful successor.
Another tateyaku who acted with Danjuro, and was regarded as equal to
Nakamura Denkuro, was Miyasaki Denkichi. He was put in prison with
other actors in connection with a scandal in a nunnery. The abbess
of the institution was a favourite at the Shogun’s Court, and in
consequence of her high position, and because the entrance of the
despised playfolks within her female fold was regarded as a laxity of
moral practice that deserved high punishment, she was sentenced to
death and the actors were imprisoned. Miyasaki Denkichi played on the
stages of the three towns, but died in obscurity, very likely as a
result of his irregular life.
Among the deshi, or followers, of Danjuro, the first and most noted was
Ichikawa Danshiro. An actor bearing the name died in 1922, a veteran
member of the Kabuki-za company in Tokyo.
In the middle of his career this first Danshiro shaved his head and
became a Buddhist priest, retiring to a provincial temple. As Yedo
Kabuki of those days was lacking in good actors, messengers were
frequently sent to his distant temple asking him to return to the
stage, but he repeatedly refused. At last he consented upon the
condition that at the end of the performances he was to return to his
holy profession.
He acted the rôle of Mongaku Shonin, the samurai who made love to the
heroic Kesa Gozen, or the Lady Kesa. Wishing to get rid of her husband,
the samurai planned to kill him in his sleep. Kesa Gozen gave Mongaku
a sign by which he would know the right head to cut off—the hair was
to be freshly washed. But to his horror the assassin found that he
had killed the Lady Kesa herself, who had thus sacrificed her life to
preserve her honour and by her act had saved the life of her husband.
In penitence for this deed, Kesa Gozen’s lover became a priest, and
the interest of the Yedo playgoers in Danshiro’s return to the stage
in this priestly rôle may well be imagined. True to his word, this
follower of Danjuro returned to his temple and died there in 1717.
As to the celebrated villains who played with the above actors, the two
stars were Yamanaka Heikuro and Nakajima Hiroyemon.
Senior to Tojuro and Danjuro, Yamanaka Heikuro died at the age of
83, and played with both the first and second Danjuro. He adopted a
son, who did not live to succeed him. Many stories are told of the
impressiveness of this stage villain, and how even the actors playing
with him sometimes became frightened at his appearance. He was of large
physique and a man of forceful character, so that he was eminently
fitted to play the diabolical katakiyaku whose fierceness and violence
caused the Yedo audience of those days to feel thrills of horror.
Great stage changes took place during the second part of the Genroku
period, and the rapidly developing Doll-theatre began to influence
Kabuki and its actors. The public tired of the sentimentality
introduced by Tojuro, and expressed a taste for the loyalty and
sacrifice plays such as were in vogue in the Doll-theatre, that had
begun to capture the public imagination.
The actor genius of the latter part of the Genroku period was
undoubtedly Sawamura Chojuro, who was born in 1680 and died in 1734.
He was the son of an Osaka merchant. His elder brother was also an
actor of repute, and a younger brother an expert drum performer.
Although he played with Tojuro, he did not confine himself to this
school exclusively, but was influenced by the different styles of
the Genroku stage. He assimilated and harmonised the characteristics
of the celebrities who had preceded him, and so did much towards the
establishment of the rules of acting that pertain to modern Kabuki. He
made himself popular in samurai plays, in those of everyday life that
reflected the manners and customs of his time, and he was equally at
home in historical pieces that required the exploitation of the
unreal, while he excelled also in dancing. His son, called Chosaburo,
became the second Chojuro.
A follower who took the name of Sawamura Chojuro, the third, was
destined to found a strong actor family that is flourishing in Tokyo
to-day, half a dozen members of this name now being prominent. He
was known on the stage as Sawamura Sojuro, a name to reckon with in
Japanese stage history. The present Sawamura Sojuro of the Imperial
Theatre, Tokyo, with his four actor sons, and a nephew, Sawamura
Chojuro, make a formidable family array of players, there being no fear
for some time to come that this line will suffer extinction.
When Yedo Kabuki lost its two Genroku stars, Danjuro and Hichisaburo,
there was a vacancy that no one else could fill, and the Yedo people
must have felt a lack of interest when witnessing the performances of
those who tried to take their places. There were in reality only two
actors in Yedo at this time who upheld the past glory of the stage. One
was Ikushima Shingoro, and the other Nakajima Kanzaemon.
Ikushima Shingoro, one of the most tragic figures among these old
actors, was born in Osaka, and came to Yedo during his years of stage
apprenticeship. He acted almost exclusively at the Yamamura-za. He was
44 years of age when his love affair with a lady of the Shogun’s Court
caused him to be banished from Yedo, and for twenty years he lived in
his place of exile, never returning to the scene of his stage triumphs.
A modern play has been made concerning this unfortunate actor, who,
according to the gossip of the time, was more sought after by the
venturesome Court lady than disposed to seek her himself.
And just as Saruwaka Kansaburo’s performances before the Emperor and
Shogun had been an honour to the whole actor profession, so this
Ikushima scandal was to remain a blot on the actor’s escutcheon for
many years to come. The whole trouble was caused not so much by
Ikushima, or the owner of his theatre, Yamamura Chodayu, as by the
romantic Lady Yenoshima herself. Although the secret of the friendship
of the actor and lady was kept for many years, the audacious Yenoshima
put the fat in the fire. As representative of the Shogun’s mother she
was sent with other Court ladies to pray at Zojo-ji, a Buddhist temple
of Yedo that remains one of the striking features of modern Tokyo. The
party reached the temple early in the morning, and there presented
but a few of the many gifts they had brought with them, reserving the
best to be distributed at the theatre as favours. Hastening over their
devotions, the party made haste to the Yamamura-za.
All was excitement within the theatre, where seats had been reserved
for a hundred persons. The proprietor, Yamamura Chodayu, and the
leading actors headed by Shingoro, clad in ceremonial kimono, came out
to meet the distinguished party, and a feast was given. It is said that
Yenoshima and her friends grew slightly hilarious, and a sake bottle
was pushed over, with the result that the contents fell upon the head
of a samurai in the audience below, who became angry, and in spite
of apologies left the theatre. Yenoshima’s behaviour that day at the
Yamamura-za soon became known, and it was not long after that the whole
disgraceful affair came to the ears of the officials of the Shogun’s
Government, with the result that Yenoshima was exiled to a small island
off the coast in a distant part of the country.
She was then 33 years of age. Her sentence was lightened afterwards
owing to the clemency of the Shogun’s mother, and she was transferred
to the province of Shinano, where she was put in charge of the local
daimyo. In those days, however, as it was the custom to punish not
only the guilty, but to inflict it likewise upon the immediate members
of the family, Yenoshima’s brother was condemned to death, and a
younger brother exiled. After this the iron hand of the shogunate
rested heavier than ever upon the theatre folks, for the Yamamura-za
was not only deprived of its licence, but the building was demolished,
all property confiscated, and this theatre ceased to exist. The
proprietor as well as the actors, Ikushima Shingoro and Nakamura
Seigoro, and even the onnagata, Iwai Hanshiro, were all exiled.
The first Matsumoto Koshiro appeared at this time, and as the seventh
Matsumoto Koshiro, of the Imperial Theatre, is one of the leading
actors of present-day Japan, it is interesting to know something of
the founder of this line. He came to Yedo from Shimosa province, and
was at first an onnagata, but later changed to tateyaku. He belonged
to Danjuro’s aragoto, or rough-acting school, inherited from the brave
balladry of early Yedo Joruri, and is even said to have rivalled
Danjuro in the art of the unreal. In middle age he shaved his head as a
sign of retirement from active life. His adopted son succeeded to his
name and stage inheritance, but later on he became by adoption Ichikawa
Danjuro, the fourth, the Matsumoto Koshiros afterwards being closely
associated with the Ichikawa family, the present Matsumoto Koshiro
having been the deshi, or pupil, of Ichikawa Danjuro, the ninth.
In Kyoto, an actor who showed much originality and played in both
Osaka and Kyoto at the time the above actors were active in Yedo,
was Shibazaki Rinzaemon, who was quick to recognise the art of the
doll-actors. His specialty consisted in imitating them. He was well
fitted in personal appearance, character, and voice to be a leading
actor. He began his stage study in Osaka, where the dolls were
beginning to rival the real actors, and it is easy to see how the
movements of the puppets, their airs and graces, postures and gestures,
as created by the nyngyo-tsukai, or doll-handlers, who were artists in
every respect, introduced the Kabuki actors to a whole new world of
expression, of style and taste, which they were eager to command.
A star common to the stages of Kyoto and Osaka when Shibazaki Rinzaemon
flourished was Kosogawa Juyemon. He had been a samurai in daimyo
service, and became an actor from choice. As revealing the sentiment
of the time, it is recorded that one of his relatives came to
the theatre to kill him because the ex-samurai had the insolence to
act under his own name. This the relative considered a piece of great
effrontery, and but for the pacification of the theatre people would
have carried out his intention. Shibazaki Rinzaemon was good, as might
have been expected, in samurai rôles. He lived to a ripe old age,
and when he became too infirm to appear as a fighting man, contented
himself with old men’s rôles. Before his death he lost his sight,
but still his usefulness upon the stage did not cease, for he was
accommodating enough to act blind characters.
[Illustration: Crest of Ichikawa Sadanji and Ichikawa Udanji
(Ivy leaf).]
[Illustration: Crest of Bando Hikosaburo (Stork).]
[Illustration: Matsumoto Koshiro, of the Imperial Theatre, in the
character of Townsend Harris, the first American Minister to Japan. A
photograph of the intrepid Kentucky Colonel is on the actor’s dressing
table.]
CHAPTER XIII
YAKUSHA OF HOREKI
After Genroku, the most flourishing period for Kabuki and its yakusha
was Horeki, an era covering seventy years, during which three shoguns
held sway.
Historically, Horeki endured from 1751 to 1764, the name being given to
the reign of an emperor. It came to be applied to the years preceding
and following it, a period in which the dominating influence was that
of Yoshimune, the third Shogun of the Tokugawa regime.
Owing to the extravagance of the shogunate, the country was on the
verge of bankruptcy. Immorality was on the increase, and efforts were
made to keep the restless people under control. Luxury in all shapes
and forms was frowned upon by the authorities. The literary centre
of the country was transferred from Kyoto to Yedo, and the greatest
activity was to be found in the theatres.
If Yedo Kabuki had lost its lustre when the first Ichikawa Danjuro
and Nakamura Hichisaburo passed away, its prestige was fully restored
by the second Ichikawa Danjuro and the first Sawamura Sojuro. In the
latter part of this period the fourth Danjuro was a great theatre power.
Ichikawa Danjuro, the second, was born in 1688 and died in 1758.
When a child of 10 years of age he appeared on the stage, but owing
to his father’s tragic death, was left without a stage sponsor. If
his father had lived, he would have been trained and advanced in all
possible ways. The actors of the time evidently neglected him. He
was given insignificant rôles, and was otherwise badly treated.
His mother, who had retired to live in a quiet spot outside Yedo,
declared that she would never go to the theatre to see him act until
he was earning a salary of 1000 ryo, which meant that he must become
a successful actor. The sudden taking off of his father, and the cold
attitude of the theatre folk, stimulated the young actor to hard work.
Accordingly, he went to the Narita temple, and there prayed that he
should become a more successful actor than his father. The God of
Fire that had answered his father’s prayer must have listened, it
would almost seem, to his foster-child’s petition, for while the first
Danjuro’s salary per year was 800 ryo, the second received 1270. After
this it became customary to refer to a highly salaried actor as a
“thousand-ryo yakusha”.
It was Ikushima Shingoro, of Court-scandal fame, who shielded and
protected the second Danjuro, when he was struggling to advance.
He proved a worthy successor to his father, and his place in the
annals of Kabuki is that of an original, creative actor, who not only
re-established his father’s traditions, but carried them on most
successfully.
His visit to Osaka is memorable. He had received an invitation from
Sadoshima Chogoro to play at his theatre, but Danjuro demanded an
enormous salary for those days, something quite out of the ordinary in
the way of remuneration. And Sadoshima Chogoro, thinking that Danjuro
would never ask such a sum unless he had something startling to offer,
did not hesitate to comply with the extraordinary request.
When Danjuro made his first appearance in Osaka he was not well
received, as the rivalry between the Osaka and Yedo actors was keen
even in those far-off days. It has survived until the present, a
continual state of tension, or feeling, always existing between the two
prominent stages of the country.
Something of this adverse undercurrent was displayed soon after
he had begun to act, for a man in the audience threw a mat at him to
put him to confusion, repeating his words, expecting that this would
cause the Yedo actor to become tangled up in his lines. With the
utmost composure and dignity Danjuro bowed low, apologising for the
interruption, and then, to the great surprise of the audience, repeated
a long speech backward. This greatly pleased the people, and Danjuro
eventually captivated Osaka playgoers. Even the disturbing factor,
the man who threw the mat, thought better of his behaviour, for he
afterwards called at Danjuro’s inn and apologised, and the generous
actor entertained him with sake.
While playing in Osaka, a courier all the way from Yedo brought him sad
news—the death of his adopted son. He had bestowed the name of Danjuro,
the third, upon this young actor. As he had no son of his own, it was
necessary to adopt another stage heir, and his choice fell on the
second Matsumoto Koshiro, who thus became Ichikawa Danjuro, the fourth.
The second Danjuro lived a long stage life, and died in his seventies.
Like his father, he was small of stature, and his specialty was
aragoto, or rough, imaginative acting. He was also good in plays
demanding the real in acting, for he loved to represent an otokodate,
or chivalrous commoner, and was popular as a lover and a fighter. Quick
to feel the appeal of the marionettes in the Doll-theatre, he was one
of the first actors to play in a doll-drama. His chief success in this
direction was in Chikamatsu’s _Kokusenya Kassen_, or The Battle of
Kokusenya.
His art, however, was too unreal to suit the times. His whole tendency
in acting was anti-real. To mimic the natural or represent the real
did not enter his mind. Tojuro’s principle, the use of the real and
natural, took hold and flourished in Yedo, and the audiences were quite
carried away. Danjuro remained untouched by the popular acclaim of the
real. The taste of the new generation was changed; they were tired of
his father’s methods; they wanted the real, yet Danjuro, true to
the artistic instinct within him, held steadfast to his own principles.
He not only improved his father’s plays greatly, but collaborated in
the composition of many new pieces to which he did not sign his name.
Like his father, he was given to poetry, and was the best pupil of his
poetry teacher. His diary, _Oyino Tanoshimi_, or Pleasures of Old Age,
is a model of the diary composition of the Tokugawa age. He displayed
much originality in the designing of costumes, and was an artist when
it came to making up. Filial towards his mother, he was full of love
and respect for his wife, and was so moral in those immoral days that
he was regarded as a sage.
His attitude towards the lower classes of society was generous and
magnanimous. When receiving visitors, even to the humblest menials of
the theatre, he treated them as honoured guests, wearing hakama, or
the silk skirt, rather than customary attire, as he wished to improve
the manners of the theatre folk. When invited to the residences of
the great or wealthy he was never fawning. He was, however, very
extravagant, and thought an actor should be as magnificent as possible.
Sawamura Sojuro acted on the Yedo stage with Danjuro, the second, and
is credited with greater versatility than the second Ichikawa. Born the
son of a samurai of rank in Kyoto, he was dismissed from his father’s
roof on account of dissipation. At first he served in a subordinate
capacity in the house of Sawamura Chojuro. Afterwards he undertook the
duties of a clerk in the theatre, but at last requested to be made a
follower of the Sawamura family. For some reason or other Sawamura
refused to bestow his name upon this theatre upstart, there was a
quarrel, and the would-be actor went off to seek another stage patron.
But as he could find no actor with sufficient faith in him to lend
support, he was obliged to play in the unimportant theatres of the
provinces. He was, therefore, unable to obtain the rank that would
distinguish him as an actor of ability, and had to be content with
the stage leavings, serving in the orchestra or playing small rôles.
A reconciliation with his former master was at last effected; he began
to play big rôles and was immediately successful. Bad luck, however,
pursued him, for recognition of his ability was delayed. The Osaka
stage authorities, doubtless for reasons of their own, were not willing
to grant him the rank to which he was entitled. Sawamura Chogoro at
last advised him to try his fortune in Yedo.
On his first stage experience in the Shogun’s capital he acted a minor
rôle at the Morita-za, and was not long in making a quick advance.
Within five years he ranked second to Danjuro, and after an absence of
twenty-six years returned to Osaka with all his Yedo Kabuki prestige
behind him, and received a warmer welcome than when, as a greenhorn, he
had attempted to obtain stage rank in vain.
One of Sojuro’s most famous rôles was as Yuranosuke, the leader of the
Forty-seven Ronin. Sojuro liked to act ronin, for he was a free-lance
himself, and he was seen in several pieces that had ronin as heroes.
These plays were suppressed by the authorities in order to prevent
the loyal retainers of the feudal lords from becoming dissatisfied.
One of Sojuro’s ronin plays was based on the real story of the famous
Forty-seven, whose master was forced to commit harakiri. They waited a
good opportunity, and revenged themselves upon the enemy who had caused
their lord’s death, and then all took their own lives. The samurai’s
loyalty to his lord was not merely a popular stage theme, but in real
life this laying down of life for a cause was characteristic of the
people.
The Doll-theatre dramatist, Takeda Izumo, wrote a masterpiece based
on this story, and the ningyo-tsukai, or doll-handler, managed the
Yuranosuke doll in imitation of the gestures and style of Sojuro.
As he had been brought up the son of a samurai, he knew the Nō stage,
and in all pieces influenced by the classic drama he was at home.
In contrast to Danjuro he spoke in the language of everyday life.
Danjuro delivered his lines as much as possible removed from the speech
of ordinary mortals and their affairs. Sojuro did not care for the
elaborate make-up that was so thoroughly characteristic of the first
two Ichikawas and the members of their family who were to come after.
Sojuro greatly depreciated Danjuro’s impossibilities. For instance,
Danjuro lifted up a house with both hands as a symbol of strength,
which brought forth criticism from Sojuro, whose faith in the real was
so great that he never ventured to stray on the unknown highways and
byways of the unreal.
There is a description of a stage costume he wore, one that has served
as a model which is still faithfully preserved; it was of white satin
and bore large designs of crows and storks. With this he wore a purple
head-covering. Such was the taste and elegance of this Horeki age.
Although much of it has vanished, yet traces still cling to modern
Kabuki—something to marvel at, especially when it is considered that
all this accumulation of theatre treasure-trove is as unknown to
London, Paris, and New York to-day as it was during Sojuro’s triumphant
career upon the Yedo stage.
So nearly equal were the second Ichikawa Danjuro and the first Sawamura
Sojuro that there was great difficulty in deciding which was foremost.
Danjuro was pure Yedo; therefore, no matter how nearly mated they were,
he always held a slightly higher position than Sojuro. In rank they
were equal, and close competitors in winning the favour of playgoers,
and yet off the stage it is good to know they were warm friends. Sojuro
was most accomplished. He composed short poems, was an adept in the tea
ceremony, was familiar with the Nō stage, and wrote plays.
With these two stage celebrities, there were at this time Otani
Hirotsugi, a genius in shosagoto, or the music-posture pieces of
Kabuki, and there was Bando Hikosaburo, a fine actor, whose name has
been inherited by an actor of the modern Tokyo stage. In addition,
there was a capable actor of the Ichikawa school called Ichikawa
Danzo, some years senior to the second Danjuro, who occupied a special
position. And there was the eighth Ichimura Uzaemon, an actor as well
as the proprietor of the Ichimura-za. The fifth, sixth, and seventh
Uzaemons died young, one after another, and were more concerned with
the management of their theatre than with stage appearances. But the
eighth Ichimura Uzaemon distinguished himself in both capacities.
The fourth Ichikawa Danjuro, who held the centre of the Yedo stage
in the latter part of Horeki, was by no means one of the outstanding
figures of his family, and yet he could hardly be called a failure.
He carried on the traditions without adding to them, leaving his son,
the fifth, to add fresh lustre to the Ichikawa fame. The fourth was
regarded as the illegitimate son of the second Danjuro, and his mother
was the daughter of a theatre tea-house keeper, but she had been
adopted into the family of a relative of the Ichikawa house.
Danjuro the fourth’s career was full of vicissitudes, and towards the
end of his life he cut off his hair to signify retirement from the
world, and kept religiously aloof from the theatre. When Danjuro, the
second, died, the fourth was but twenty years of age, and it took a
long time for the public to appreciate him. He was thought unworthy of
the great stage name, and it was considered that he had not inherited
the family genius. His talent matured slowly, however, and he finally
came to be looked upon as the head actor of Yedo Kabuki. He was
entirely different from his supposed father, the second Danjuro, for
he had a fine, large physique, while the second Danjuro was small; the
fourth had an oval, long face, the countenance of the second being
round; the temperament of the second Danjuro was placid, that of the
fourth was nervous. His wife was the daughter of the second Danjuro, by
adoption. For second wife, he took the daughter of the famous onnagata,
Iwai Hanshiro.
Rising on the stage, said the fourth Danjuro, was like ascending
a ladder. It must be accomplished by degrees. It was very dangerous to
ascend three steps at a time. The most interesting period in an actor’s
career was when he was one or two steps from the top of the ladder,
when he would have the greatest number of admirers. But in his own case
he said that after he had reached the top there was nothing to do but
descend.
For seventy years—during the whole of Horeki—there were three
representative actors on the stages of Kyoto and Osaka. They were
Anekawa Shinshiro, Nakamura Juzo, and Nakayama Shinkuro.
The first of these stars, Anekawa Shinshiro, was born in Osaka,
appearing when a child at the Arashi-za. His favourite rôles were
otokodate. He knew the taste of his public. The otokodate spirit
was rife among the populace, and a new feeling for their rights and
privileges was uppermost among the people.
Shinshiro lived long enough, however, to outgrow his popularity, for in
his later years he was criticised as monotonous, his acting considered
antiquated, and he failed to thrill his audience with novelties—the
same cry for the new that is common to all the stages of the world at
all times. There was another reason why Shinshiro’s popularity began
to wane, for the lack of originality within Kabuki was beginning to be
felt, and the reason interest in him declined was due largely to the
poverty of plays and the general condition of the country.
Nakamura Juzo began to rise as Shinshiro declined. Juzo had the
advantage of being ten years younger than Shinshiro, and was well-born,
since he was the son of a samurai who had turned ronin. He lived in
Osaka, and as his younger brother became an onnagata, he was also
influenced to enter the profession, performing during his earlier
career in provincial theatres, especially in Ise, and later in Yedo.
His specialty was to represent samurai, and he was excellent as a stage
fighter. No doubt his samurai antecedents had given him his taste
in this direction. As samurai of noble mien and aristocratic bearing
he was at his best. Yet the criticism of the time records that he was
a dry and uninteresting actor, and failed to choose the bright-hued
kimono bearing striking designs, that expressed the player’s taste,
delighted the people, and inspired the print artists.
Many other good actors there were when the above three stars were
shining. There was Sakiyama Koshiro, of the Osaka stage, who was active
for fifty-five years, dying at 70. He was a fine dancer, especially in
pieces adapted from the Nō. He adopted the son of a ronin to succeed
him, and his line stopped, and was then renewed again, but eventually
died away.
And there was Arashi Sanyemon, the third, the real son of the second
Arashi, who had been a Genroku star. He was not only an actor but a
theatre manager as well, and excelled in wagoto, or love-making. He was
also noted for his dancing, and played in pieces that had been handed
down by his two predecessors.
Sadoshima Chogoro, who had invited the second Danjuro to play in his
theatre in Osaka, and gave him the high salary that he demanded, was
something of an exception in the theatre world of the three stages, for
he never secured fame as an actor. He had, however, much to do with the
establishment of shosagoto, or the music-drama of Kabuki, on a higher
level.
This Sadoshima Chogoro was the son of Dempachi, a dokegata, or
comedian, and a dancer of great skill who was prominent just before
Genroku. Chogoro was fortunate in having such an experienced stage
father, and he was soon apprenticed to dancing. The chroniclers of
Kabuki tell how the father taught the boy to dance on the goban,
or small table used for playing go, the national chess game. The
child was often summoned by persons of high degree to take part in
entertainments, and once a prince ordered an artist to make a model of
him dancing on the goban.
He never seriously competed for a place among the actors, but long
remained Kabuki’s most famous dancing teacher. When he reached old age
he shaved his head and retired from the world, taking up his abode in
front of Kennin-ji, a Buddhist temple of Kyoto. Sadoshima Chogoro left
one of Kabuki’s literary treasures, the _Sadoshima Nikki_, or Journal
of Sadoshima, in which he disclosed the secrets of shosagoto.
He criticised the actors of his time as having gone astray from the
true path of dramatic art, and reflected in his writing the change that
had already set in—the beginning of the decline of Kabuki, for the
brilliancy of the Genroku period and the progress of Horeki were not
repeated in the years that followed.
[Illustration: Crest of Morita Kanya (Three-petalled blossom).]
[Illustration: Crest of Nakamura Utayemon (Kyoto shrine charm).]
[Illustration: Crest of Bando Mitsuguro (Three Chinese characters,
meaning dai, or great).]
CHAPTER XIV
YAKUSHA OF PRE-RESTORATION PERIOD
The one hundred years previous to 1868—the year Emperor Mutsuhito began
his epoch-making reign—is regarded as the period of Kabuki’s modern
history. By 1868 the Tokugawa Shogunate had come to an end, the Emperor
had been restored to power, and his capital removed from Kyoto to Yedo,
and Japan, which had been closed to the outside world, was thrown open
to trade with other countries.
The Tokugawa Shogunate’s steadily diminishing power, and the general
stagnation of society due to the lack of stimulus from without, were
faithfully reflected in Kabuki. From 1764 to 1788 the people continued
to idolise the favourite actors, the productiveness of the critics
continued as before. But in the Kwansei era, 1789–1800, the theatre
began to decline, and during the years of Bunsei, 1818–1829, the climax
of Kabuki’s downward plunge was reached.
These were lean years for the people, and unless they saved their money
they could not afford to attend the theatre, for the price of admission
was high. It was the custom for Yedo people after they had seen a
performance to go through the streets imitating the actors’ delivery
of their lines, much as the popular airs of the latest musical comedy
are heard in the thoroughfares of London, Paris, or New York. In these
slack years the theatre audiences fell off steadily, and no echo of
Kabuki was heard. At this time, too, the actors demanded an increase in
their salaries, as it was impossible for them to carry on their former
easy and extravagant existence during the hard times. The theatres
were involved in greater and greater financial difficulties. Many of
the good old theatre customs began to be neglected.
There was, however, no decrease in theatre genius, and very many
actors rose high above their fellows, although they lived through an
unprofitable period.
The most representative actor during Kwansei (1789–1800) on the stages
of Osaka and Kyoto was Nakamura Utayemon, an actor of the same name
and line being at present the senior of the Tokyo stage. This first
Utayemon was the son of a physician, who had led a life of dissipation
and finally took to the stage. He kept steadfastly to one specialty,
that of katakiyaku, or villain rôles. When he played in Yedo he was
well received, but on a visit to Osaka, he said something on the stage
which offended his audience, and they returned the compliment by giving
him the cold shoulder for some time. The famous bad characters of the
doll-dramas he made his own, particularly the heavy villain Iruka, the
formidable tyrant in _Imoseyama_, and the evil-doing but loyal Gonta of
_Sembonzakura_, two characters that modern audiences are never tired
of seeing portrayed. When he was 68 he gave his name to a follower; at
75 he played his best villains, and died three years later. Although a
pupil succeeded as second, his own son became Utayemon, the third, and
was an actor of great prominence.
Some years junior to the first Utayemon was Asao Tamejuro, who was a
famous onnagata of the Kyoto and Osaka stages. He was a small man,
possessed a light, bright style, and appeared best in plays depicting
everyday life rather than those dealing with the unreal.
In Yedo also there were two bright and particular stars at this time.
They were Nakamura Nakazo and Matsumoto Koshiro.
The career of Nakamura Nakazo is one of the most varied of all the
actors. He was possessed of many theatre gifts, but he had inherited
a samurai temperament and exercised his genius just when social
conditions had begun to dampen the enthusiasm of the people for the
theatre.
Nakamura Nakazo was the son of a ronin called Saito, and was born in
Fukugawa ward of Yedo. Left an orphan when young, he must have had no
relatives to care for him, but by chance O-Shun, a dancing mistress,
saw the boy, and adopted him at the age of five. She went to pay her
respects at a temple, and a ferryman plying across the Sumida River
gave the boy to her. His only sponsor was the keeper of a sake shop, so
far had fallen the child from his rightful position in society as the
son of a samurai.
The dancing mistress not only belonged to a well-known school of
dancing, but her family were costumers to the Nakamura-za. Her husband
was a teacher of Nagauta, the special Yedo Kabuki music, so the boy was
brought up in the theatre atmosphere. At 7 he began to be instructed
in dancing, in which he did not take much interest at that early age,
and he was often chastised. His adopted father tried to make him a
Nagauta singer, but he proved a failure. From childhood he substituted
on the stage when the regular actors were unable to attend. Nakazo has
left a journal in which he wrote of his boyhood and how pleased he was
when he was allowed to wear a good kimono, had a little room upstairs
all to himself, and was not scolded so much for his many lapses from
grace. O-Shun, his adopted mother, saw to it that he grew up proficient
in dancing, and he repaid her, for he was very graceful, and was
often asked to perform at the residences of the nobility when they
entertained.
His accomplishments included familiarity with the Nō, writing and
fencing, and he learned how to perform on the drum of the Nō orchestra,
that instrument of complicated rhythms. He married O-Kichi, the
daughter of the third Kineya Kisaburo, a member of the leading family
of theatre musicians that flourishes to-day. When his adopted mother
died, his wife, O-Kichi, took her place, and taught the samisen, while
he taught dancing.
On the stage he took part in dangerous feats—in which, had the
arrangements failed, he would have been killed. His wife became ill and
luck went against him. He attempted to commit suicide; he drank and
gambled and led a dissipated life, which led to endless money troubles,
and now and then he was forced to make geta, or wooden clogs, for a
living. His difficulties lasted for twenty-four years, but gradually he
reformed, began to study, and became a pupil of the fourth Danjuro.
His face was his fortune, and perhaps because of his handsome
appearance his fellow-actors were often jealous of him. He was proud
and sensitive and easily given to quarrelling. The change for the
better in his career was a decided contrast to his previous melancholy
existence, for he became the chief actor of Yedo, and received a salary
of 1000 ryo.
Then, when it might have been expected that he would throw his gains
away, he began to save. The wife of his youth died, and he soon
possessed himself of another. He started a new theatre, and fire
burned it down; rebuilt it in summer, and that autumn his house was
inundated. Gave his name to a pupil and took it back, and at last was
so unsuccessful in every venture, he determined to change his luck by
acting in Osaka and Kyoto. In Osaka he was successful, but in Kyoto
he quarrelled over a money matter, and died soon after at the age of
53—a samurai to the end, hot-tempered, and ready to fight at a moment’s
notice.
His style of acting was similar to that of the second Danjuro, but it
was in Kabuki’s music-posture pieces, or shosagoto, that he was at his
best.
The fourth Matsumoto Koshiro, who acted on the Yedo stage at the same
time as Nakazo, was born in Kyoto, and also led a troubled life. He
acted at the Ichimura-za, but was not a success, and his elder sister,
who owned a theatre tea-house, advised him to give up his attempts
on the stage, and take over the management of her business. Later on
he must have proved his worth, for the fourth Danjuro took him
under his patronage. He was not on friendly terms with the fifth
Danjuro, which caused a good deal of Yedo gossip. The Ichimura-za could
scarcely maintain itself, and the salaries of the actors were not paid.
Koshiro went to Osaka by ship, taking with him the Yedo onnagata,
Iwai Hanshiro, and some one thirsting for revenge because Koshiro had
insulted another actor, threw stones at him as he was departing.
In Kyoto, where he acted, feeling was stirred up against him and he was
not popular. To increase his troubles the Ichimura-za went bankrupt.
Towards the end of his career, he and the fifth Danjuro, who had so
long been estranged, became good friends. One of his sons became a
famous actor, and succeeded him as Matsumoto Koshiro, the fifth.
In the period that followed, the most popular actor was Ichikawa
Danjuro, the fifth. He was the son of the fourth, and his mother was
the adopted daughter of the second. He acted with Nakamura Nakazo. His
wife was the daughter of Iwai Hanshiro, but they did not get along well
together; she wished for a divorce, and they lived separately. Finally
he married the widow of Ichikawa Yaozo. At 51 he retired to Mukojima
across the Sumida River from Yedo, where he drank sake, wrote poems,
and wore a patched kimono of many colours, refusing to meet theatre
folks. One of his sons, to whom he gave the illustrious stage name of
Ichikawa Danjuro, the sixth, died young, and another of his sons became
Danjuro, the seventh.
The most famous actor of the Bunka-Bunsei period (1804—1829) in Kyoto
and Osaka was Kataoka Nizaemon, the seventh, directly descended from
the Genroku actor who founded the line. Born in Kyoto, he became a
follower of Nakamura Nakazo, but for some reason master and pupil
parted company. He was very large and stout and well adapted to play
villains, which was his specialty. Everywhere he acted he was popular.
He was active on the stage until the age of 75, when he played in
a rôle that required that he should appear scantily clothed. Some one
in the audience called out to him: “Be careful not to take cold!” to
which the veteran replied: “When I am on the stage, I don’t feel cold,
I perspire.” Death claimed him but a short time after his retirement.
His own son died, and he adopted the actor who later became Kataoka
Nizaemon, the eighth.
When Nizaemon, the seventh, was acting in Osaka and Kyoto, the star of
Yedo during the corresponding period of Bunka and Bunsei was the third
Bando Hikosaburo, youngest son of the eighth Ichimura Uzaemon. In later
years he shaved his head, retired from the world, and lived in Honjo, a
Yedo ward, where he posted up a notice on the gate to the effect that
waste-paper dealers and actors were not allowed in. He was handsome
and gifted, and died at the age of 75. Acting with him was the fifth
Matsumoto Koshiro, son of the fourth. The fifth Koshiro had a very
large nose and his eyes were close together, two facial defects the
print artists were fond of depicting, so that this Yedo actor is easily
picked out in the pictures illustrating the theatre of this time. His
daughter married the seventh Danjuro, but was divorced and became a
nun, and lived at Ikegami near the Nichiren temple, not far from modern
Tokyo.
Also, about this time there was Onoe Kikugoro, the third. He was a
specialist in sewamono, or plays of everyday life, and established
traditions that are being carried on by his descendants to-day. His
wife O-Kiku was the daughter of an actor, and he had three sons and two
daughters, but the sons died in youth. Koshiro’s daughters both married
actors, one to Ichimura Uzaemon the twelfth, and the other to the
fourth Kikugoro. His grandson by Uzaemon was the fifth Onoe Kikugoro,
the rival of Ichikawa Danjuro, the ninth—the two great stars of the
Meiji era. His great-grandson is Kikugoro, the sixth, one of the most
energetic actors of the contemporary Tokyo stage.
At one time the third Kikugoro thought he would try what it felt
like to be a plain citizen of Yedo. He opened a mochiya, or cake
shop dealing in a favourite refreshment of his day, as it still
remains of Tokyo people—steamed and pounded rice moulded into mound
shapes, and prepared in various ways. He hung out a shop sign, in
shape sexagonal, lacquered in red, and adorned with a gold design
of grasses and written characters signifying Mochiya Kikuju, or the
Chrysanthemum-Long-Life-Mochi shop. It was not true to its name. Inside
the place there were costly art objects, and rare dwarf plants, while a
mechanical toy, a Chinese boy, moved by a special device, came to meet
the guests as they entered, and brought them tea and cake.
Of course, Kikugoro was the object of the visitor’s interest, and the
matter of cakes was of much less importance. The actor would sweep the
garden and talk with the visitors, but one day he suddenly tired of
the whole scheme, after some customers had purchased a particularly
small amount of his cakes. Kikugoro is said to have exclaimed: “They
have seen my beautiful garden and listened to my compliments, and paid
only 64 mon for cakes, so I’ll go back to the stage.” Perhaps he was
hankering after it anyway, and made this an excuse.
From the latter part of Bunka and Bunsei to Kaei, or from 1804 to 1848,
the great actor of Yedo was the seventh Danjuro, grandson of the fifth,
the sixth having died young. He went on the stage at the age of four,
and when he started to cry, a convenient substitute was hurried up. At
the age of 17 he succeeded to the ancestral name. At the age of 42,
he was exiled by the Governor of Yedo because of extravagance on the
stage, since he had used real armour, and the stage setting for one of
his plays had been an exact reproduction of the interior of a mansion
of the aristocracy. Forbidden to come within a ten ri radius of the
town, it meant that the Yedo stage was not to know him for many a year.
He was small, and had large eyes, and was very similar to his son,
the ninth Danjuro, whose memory is cherished by many Tokyo playgoers
to-day. Like all the members of his family, he showed a special leaning
towards aragoto, and added to the family plays by adapting the Nō drama
to Kabuki. He is said to have combined the strong points of the third,
fourth, and fifth in this actor line, and had literary talent, composed
poems, and wrote a diary called _Tokumiyemasu_, I Can See Afar.
He took unto himself three wives and three concubines. His first wife
was the daughter of the fifth Matsumoto Koshiro. She had been the
wife of Sawamura Sojuro, had married again, and her third venture was
to marry the seventh Danjuro, but this union did not last long, and
they were divorced. Danjuro, who was very courageous, married another
daughter of Koshiro, divorce separating them again, due this time to
disputes between Danjuro and Koshiro. For his third wife he picked out
the daughter of a theatre tea-house proprietor. He had seven sons and
five daughters. There was, therefore, every reason to believe that the
Ichikawa clan would survive for years to come. The fate of the family
was otherwise, for not only is there no Ichikawa Danjuro at present,
but the sole blood link as representative to carry on this family is
the little granddaughter of Danjuro, the ninth.
The seventh Danjuro was famous for his extravagance. His residence
was more beautiful than that of a daimyo, and no doubt the Yedo
authorities, ever alert to suppress luxury among the people, were ready
to pounce upon him, using some pretext or other in order to hold him up
as an example to be avoided.
When he was obliged to go into exile his eldest son had the
responsibility of carrying on the affairs of the Ichikawa family in
Yedo, and succeeded as Ichikawa Danjuro, the eighth. He gave every
sign of great promise, but because of family and professional troubles
committed suicide in Osaka.
The fifth son of the seventh Danjuro inherited the headship of the
family after the tragic death of the young actor who had been
called Ichikawa Danjuro, the eighth, for such a short time. Ichikawa
Danjuro, the ninth, became the most famous actor of this line, and he
brings us down to modern times. Danjuro, the seventh, had a number
of followers who distinguished themselves. Among them were: Ichikawa
Kodanji, the third; Ichikawa Monosuke, the fifth; and Ichikawa Danzo,
the fifth.
As the leading yakusha passed away one after another, the only one
considered capable of filling the place they had left vacant was the
fourth Nakamura Utayemon.
His father kept a theatre tea-house in Yedo, and his mother was related
to Fujima Kanjiro, the costumer and dancing teacher. It was natural
that this Utayemon should take to dancing, and he was trained to become
a teacher of dancing. At the age of 10 he was adopted by Fujima. When
the famous third Utayemon was about to produce a certain play in Osaka,
he did not have the correct costumes and sent for his Yedo costumer.
It was a month’s journey from Yedo to Osaka in those days, and it was
Fujima’s adopted son who travelled along the Tokaido on the mission.
While very youthful he knew all the needful information regarding the
costumes, and was helpful in many ways.
He remained in Osaka, where he became a student of the stage and made
rapid progress. The famous onnagata, the fourth Iwai Hanshiro, had
asked him to fashion a costume, but did not like the manner in which
it had been finished, and not only scolded the lad, but boxed his ears
into the bargain. The desire to get even for this insult made the
fourth Utayemon ambitious to succeed on the stage.
After an absence of sixteen years, he returned to Yedo a finished
actor. At the age of 39, the third Utayemon did him a great honour
by conferring his name upon him. A deshi, or follower, of the third
Utayemon was righteously indignant, since he considered the third
Utayemon’s adopted son should have succeeded. There were hot disputes
among Utayemon’s followers, and at last he invited them all to his
house, and said: “I will not give my name to Hichitaro, but I will give
it to his art.” The fourth Utayemon was large of stature, had fine eyes
and good features, and excelled his master, the third, in many respects.
His rivals were the fourth Bando Mitsugoro and the fifth Sawamura
Sojuro, but he won for himself a higher place on the stage than either
of these Yedo actors. His adopted son was a star of the Meiji era, who
was succeeded by the present Nakamura Utayemon, the veteran onnagata,
who has the position, both from service on the stage and for his art,
as head of the Tokyo stage.
Utayemon the fourth’s two rivals were the fourth Bando Mitsugoro and
the fifth Sawamura Sojuro. Mitsugoro, the fourth, was the adopted son
of the third. He suffered from paralysis and was frequently away from
the stage, and yet in spite of his physical disability continued to
act supported by a kurombo, or black-robed property man. He was known
for his literary talents, wrote poetry, and the chroniclers say he was
always poor.
The fifth Sawamura Sojuro was the son of a servant in a chaya of the
Ichimura-za, and his mother was the daughter of a farmer living at
Kameido, the district of modern Tokyo famous for its wistaria garden.
He seems to have been a pet of all the actors, and became a pupil of
the fourth Sojuro, who died at the age of 21. The third Onoe Kikugoro
said he would make an actor of him. Matsumoto Koshiro also lent him his
patronage, and took him to Osaka where he remained to study. Sojuro,
the fifth, had four daughters, and two sons, one of whom, the second
Tannosuke, became a star of the Meiji period.
These actors did not enjoy the prosperity of their predecessors. The
theatres had a hard struggle for existence, the players were always
involved in financial difficulties. The stage grew dull, the playwright
stale. The Tokugawa Shogunate was toppling to its fall, and the
whole country waited for the restoration of the Imperial power,
the breaking down of the barriers that had prevented relations with
other countries, and the birth of modern Japan with its remarkable
changes and developments.
[Illustration: Crest of Matsumoto Koshiro (Blossom of Icho tree).]
[Illustration: Crest of Nakamura Kichiyemon (Wings of butterfly).]
[Illustration: Crest of Nakamura Ganjiro (Combination of four
characters)]
CHAPTER XV
ONNAGATA
The story of the yakusha from the beginning of the male theatre to the
dawn of the Meiji era would not be complete without mention of the
onnagata, or players who specialised in women’s rôles.
Although the popularity of the most attractive and gifted onnagata was
very great, yet as a class they never tried to outrival the tateyaku,
or chief actors. Like the women of real life whom they sought to
impersonate, they rarely attempted leadership in stage matters, and
were content with modest rôles among the famous actors who played upon
the stages of the three towns. The onnagata held a place all their own,
and one of the most interesting developments of Kabuki has been the
training and cultivation to fit men to play female characters.
The accidental cause that led to the creation of the male theatre, and
in consequence to the existence of the onnagata, was the prohibition
of mixed players and finally the banishment of women from the theatre.
Yet it was but a reversion to an older order of things theatrical,
for the practice of excluding women and employing men in their stead
was centuries old in Japan and China. Long before O-Kuni began her
performances on the river-bed at Kyoto, no female had dared to tread
the sacred boards of the Nō stage lest its sanctity be impaired.
The disappearance of women from the theatre may have been due to the
status of Japanese women, for in the general scheme of things at that
time in Japan her social position prevented her from asserting a
claim to the recognition of her talent, and she had no right to the
free development of her instincts in the sphere of the theatre. Whether
the strict adherence to the onnagata convention was due to the fear
that moral corruption would follow the custom of men and women playing
together, or that it was desired to keep women within their own sphere
and to restrain their appearance in public where they did not belong,
it is certain that all female talent in the direction of the theatre
was religiously suppressed.
[Illustration: Nakamura Utayemon, leading actor of the Tokyo Stage, in
the rôle of Yayegaki-hime, the young princess in the play Nijushiko, or
Twenty-four Filial Persons.]
There is, however, a deeper reason to account for the onnagata. This
specialty gave an actor an opportunity to apply a principle of all good
art,—creativeness. The woman’s coiffure, make-up, and costume acted as
an effective mask. The onnagata was able to hide himself behind his
character, and not allow his own masculine personality to struggle
through the disguise. The actor within the raiment of a woman was just
as free from personal considerations as the doll-handler who pulls the
strings and causes his doll to move. It was no mere lark to masquerade
as a woman, but a serious study that required a lifetime to bring to
perfection.
In a period of Japan when the samurai was uppermost and the artist
counted for nothing, it is all the more surprising to find these actors
devoting their lives to the art of female character-acting, and it
was natural that they should be looked down upon by the militarists,
who held in scorn everything effeminate. But the actors served the
stage because the instinct within them was too strong to go unheeded.
Moreover, they were as unconscious of their art as is a bird of its
trill, and equally unaware of their service to their fellow-actors, to
their day and generation.
The first onnagata of Kabuki are shadowy; they have left their names,
but very little has been recorded of them. Kyoto produced the early
onnagata, later Osaka became a headquarters, but Yedo was not the
soil in which they could flourish. The people of Kyoto had not parted
with their taste for things elegant, artistic, and literary,—the
inheritance of centuries. Yedo was a political centre, and did not
breed onnagata. But one characteristic of the onnagata was that they
were common to the stages of the three towns. They received their early
training in Kyoto or Osaka, then spent the best part of their careers
in Yedo, or else wandered from one town to another. Still another
peculiarity of the onnagata was that so many of them took to Buddhism,
retiring from Kabuki to spend the remainder of their lives in some
peaceful temple.
In Kyoto, Itoyori Gensaburo first acted female parts, and in Yedo,
in 1642, Murayama Sakon came from Kyoto to play at the Murayama-za.
He has been described on his first appearance in Yedo as wearing a
flowing robe of light silk, his head covered with a cloth dyed in many
colours, and he carried in his hand a branch of a tree to which was
attached a long piece of paper inscribed with verse. His performance
was nothing more than a simple dance. His popularity, however, brought
disaster, for the authorities, ever watchful lest the theatre corrupt
good manners, issued an order prohibiting onnagata. The existence of
Kabuki trembled in the balance. It was some time before the matter was
settled, for the proprietors of theatres, with the worthy Saruwaka
Kansaburo, founder of Yedo Kabuki, at their head, made an application
that male players be allowed to play as females, and permission was
granted, provided the specialty should remain distinct from men’s
rôles. This was the real origin of the onnagata.
Murayama Sakon’s rival and contemporary was Ukon Genzaemon. He was
playing on the Yedo stage in 1655, when the city was swept by a
conflagration, and his theatre was destroyed. As the actors of that
time were forbidden to appear on the stage wearing long hair, but were
obliged to shave the crown above the forehead, they covered their heads
with a piece of silk to prevent the disfigurement from being seen. Ukon
is described in the theatre gossip of the day as wearing an orange silk
head-covering, and as he was a handsome youth and very womanly,
it is easy to imagine that the Yedo audiences were highly pleased with
him. From the criticism of the time, he was considered beautiful, a
fine dancer, but had no animation, and so became monotonous. Murayama
Sakon and Ukon Genzaemon played together in the same play, and were
closely associated in the theatre of Osaka, Kyoto, and Yedo.
Another of these shadowy onnagata was Ebisuya Kichirobei, who was very
likely kin to a theatre proprietor of that name. And there was Tamagawa
Sennojo, who first went to Yedo in 1661. He played for two years at
the Saruwaka-za, and afterwards, when performing in Nagoya, received
what must have been a huge salary for his time, one ryo a day. He is
mentioned in the theatre chronicles as an unrivalled onnagata; that he
first went on the stage at the age of 14, and both while acting and in
private life always wore the flowing robe of a woman, not giving up
this practice until he reached that age which is considered so unlucky
for a man in Japan, 42. He broke a bone, and afterwards his dancing
was less graceful; he died at 50, his audiences never failing in their
appreciation of him.
Two adopted sons of Murayama Matasaburo, the proprietor of the
Murayama-za, became onnagata, but neither inherited their father’s
theatre. There were also Taki Sansaburo, who came from Kyoto to play at
the Murayama-za, and whose death at the age of 19 has been described in
a romantic manner by the theatre historians. Tamagawa Shujen, also from
Kyoto, was an onnagata who, early in his career, gave up the stage and
became a priest.
Still another onnagata of this early period of Kabuki was Tamamura
Kichiya, who rose to prominence, but afterwards declined. Ihara
Saikaku, the dramatic critic of Genroku, has written of him as follows:
“It is beyond doubt that he is brilliant on the stage; it is as though
he were not of this world. He is skilled in his art, but with it is an
air of pride and arrogance that is not satisfactory.”
Kichiya was responsible for setting the fashion in women’s apparel,
for he tied his obi in a certain manner at the back and this style
became the vogue. The character in which he excelled was as Yokihi, the
beautiful mistress of a Chinese Emperor. A Nō play of this name deals
with the beauty after she had passed on to another world, one of the
many ghostly personages of the Nō, but when Mei Ran-fan, the Peking
actor, appeared for the first time in Tokyo at the Imperial Theatre
a few years ago, one of his successes was as Yokihi, a very human,
badly behaving young person who became slightly intoxicated, but who
was clad in all the colours of the rainbow, a most fascinating female.
Tamagawa Kichiya, as the charming Yokihi, must have been an object of
the greatest interest to Yedo people.
Ito Kodayu is mentioned in the old books as a noted onnagata. Saikaku
commenting upon him wrote: “He is an onnagata by nature, his character
being quiet and gentle”. Among many onnagata whose names alone remain
there is Nakamura Kazuma, who was a fine dancer. He retired from the
theatre and opened a shop selling toilet articles that existed in Yedo
for several generations.
During the Genroku period, which produced so many actors of note, the
most representative of whom were Sakata Tojuro, of Kyoto, and Ichikawa
Danjuro, the first, of Yedo, the art of the onnagata underwent a great
change. Emphasis had been laid on the ability to dance and on good
looks, but as greater stress was put on the ability to act, the art of
the onnagata made rapid advancement.
The senior among the Genroku onnagata was Ogino Sawanojo, who died in
1704. He played heroines to Danjuro’s heroes, and was long associated
with the first Ichikawa. He wore an obi of unusual width, and it became
the fashion among the ladies of the capital. Tiring of the stage,
he gave it up and opened an incense shop, but the attraction of the
theatre was too great, and he returned. Always closely associated
with Danjuro, he died the same year in which the founder of Japan’s
most famous line of actors was murdered in his dressing-room.
_Amayo Sanbai Kigen_, or Three Cups of Sake on a Rainy Night, a book
of criticism, praises Ogino highly: “Even the gods and Buddha would be
struck with the actions of this man. He is most realistic in pathetic
scenes. As a lady of high rank, or a wife of the lower classes, he
leaves nothing to be desired.”
[Illustration: Three onnagata of Asia: In the centre Mei Ran-fan of the
Peking Stage, to the left Nakamura Utayemon, the leading onnagata of
Japan, and on the right Nakamura Fukusuke, the son of Utayemon and one
of the most fascinating impersonators of women in Tokyo.]
The first onnagata in Kyoto during Genroku was Yoshizawa Ayame,
who died in 1729. He was brought up by a widowed mother leading a
precarious existence on Dotombori, the theatre street of Osaka. At
first he was a page in the household of a daimyo, and later went on the
stage. In the characters he played, he was not restricted to certain
types of fair women as had been the case with his predecessors, but was
most versatile, acting equally well heroines of the gay quarters, women
of bad character, and ladies of high degree.
The playwright, Fukuoka Yagoshiro, collected Ayame’s ideas about the
art of the onnagata, and made them into a book called _Ayame Gusa_, or
the Sayings of Ayame.
In this Ayame declared that an onnagata should have the heart of an
onnagata even in the gakuya, or green-room. When partaking of bento
(eatables served in a box) and sushi (cooked rice rolled into dainty
morsels and stuffed with vegetables or fish after the manner of a
sandwich), he should take care not to be seen eating. If his manners
were masculine, and he ate and drank in the same manner as a tateyaku,
his acting would not be successful. An onnagata, Ayame declared, should
hide the fact of his being married, and if he were asked about his wife
he should blush. Even if he had many children he must be like a child
himself.
Ayame also believed that the chief thing for an onnagata to do was
to play the part of a good woman. This ought to be the duty of an
onnagata, and rôles that were not proper, even though the play was
popular, should be declined. He advocated that an onnagata should not
lose the gentleness and mildness of a woman, but he recognised the
unnaturalness of a male acting female rôles, and gave the advice
that it was wise to develop the natural feelings of a woman in daily
life, and not to use too much affectation on the stage. A really good
onnagata was an actor who passed his daily life with the heart of a
woman. When an onnagata on the stage thought that he had an important
rôle as a woman, his actions would become unwomanlike.
Contemporary with Ayame was Midzuki Tatsunosuke, a precocious actor who
played with Sakata Tojuro when he was 16. He died at the age of 73,
and the onnagata school he established endured long after his death,
several of his pupils distinguishing themselves. Yoshizawa Ayame had
a deshi called Sodesaki Karyu, who became a popular onnagata. He was
born in the country near Osaka, yet spent most of his life in Yedo. His
talent was versatile, and he could act the greatest variety of women,
from a princess to the wife of a coolie. Following the fashion of many
retired onnagata, when he left the theatre he started an incense shop,
but his interest in the business, which could not have been highly
lucrative, soon waned, and he returned to the stage, playing in the
rôle of chief actor instead of onnagata. His audiences took kindly to
the change, and he did not lose his stage reputation in consequence.
Towards the end of the Genroku period there were a surprising number
of onnagata playing on the Yedo stage, nearly all of whom had come
from Osaka. This was due to the fact that Kabuki was rapidly absorbing
the ballad dramas of the Doll-theatre, and many an actor who desired
to become an onnagata received stimulus to his ambition when watching
the doll-handlers as they moved the female characters. The art of
these doll-handlers was so remarkable that it was only natural that
the future onnagata of Kabuki should learn how to act the doll-drama
heroines, and eventually imitate the doll’s every gesture and movement.
There was a ningyo-tsukai, or doll-handler, called Oyama, who was
a genius in moving female dolls, and his name became so closely
associated with his art that the onnagata were often called oyama,
a term that is synonymous with onnagata and used quite as frequently by
theatre folk to-day.
Among these numerous onnagata was Sawamura Kodenji, brother of Sawamura
Chojuro, who occupies a prominent place as a leading onnagata in the
history of Kabuki. There is a story told of Kodenji that he visited
a temple, Fujidera, in the Province of Kawachi. He travelled thither
in a kago, or palanquin, and was so fatigued after his long journey
that when he got out he uttered an exclamation that would have come
naturally from a woman under like circumstances. Kodenji acted with the
first Danjuro.
Nakamura Senya at first was an insignificant onnagata in Yedo, but he
went to Osaka, where he scored a great success in a courtesan play
and remained there many years, returning to Yedo after an absence of
eighteen years. The criticisms of the day complained that he had grown
fat, but was still a true onnagata in spirit and gesture. When Nakamura
Senya returned from Osaka, he started the custom for a Kyoto or Osaka
actor performing in Yedo to give gifts to minor actors and theatre
employees. He presented a good many kimono dyed in a certain colour
which became all the rage, and was called Senya dye.
Next to Senya was Ogino Yayigiri, whose favourite rôles were those of
heroines who have died with their lovers—double suicide, or shinju,
a popular theme of the Doll-theatre plays. Just as Sawamura Chojuro
was the representative actor of this later period of Genroku, so Ogino
Yayigiri was the leading onnagata. His successor was drowned in the
Sumida River, and a Kabuki playwright used the accident for the plot of
a play.
During Horeki, there was much confusion as to the division of labour
among the actors, and they exchanged their specialties whenever they
saw fit. There was not the same concentration upon the onnagata, and
the art suffered in consequence.
In the modern history of Kabuki during the hundred years previous to
the Restoration, a line of onnagata, who went by the name of Iwai
Hanshiro, dominated Yedo Kabuki. The first of the name was manager of
a theatre in Osaka during Genroku, and had four children. His two sons
succeeded him as the second and third Hanshiro respectively, but they
were tateyaku. It was the fourth Hanshiro who established the famous
onnagata line. He was the son of a doll-handler in Osaka.
The fifth Hanshiro, son of the fourth, was a noted onnagata, and there
was seen on the Yedo stage an unprecedented actor family alliance—the
fifth Hanshiro with his two sons playing together, all three onnagata.
Hanshiro, the fifth, played the rôle of a beautiful princess, even
when he had reached old age, and at 63 shaved his head as a sign of
retirement from the world and lived at Asakusa in Yedo, not far from
the Goddess-of-Mercy Temple that dominated this quarter then even as it
does at the present day. He died at 72, but old age was not able to dim
his charm or good looks, and it was the current expression among the
playgoers of his time that Hanshiro’s eyes were worth 1000 ryo.
The fifth Hanshiro played with the fifth Matsumoto Koshiro and Bando
Mitsugoro, and Yedo audiences were enthusiastic about them. This
Hanshiro also travelled a good deal, and was popular wherever he went.
Once he took ship to Nagasaki, and while boarding the vessel missed his
footing and fell into the sea. He was rescued by a sailor. He took his
sudden plunge quite calmly, and did not struggle in the waves. This was
his customary attitude toward life. On the way back from Nagasaki he
travelled by land as he was to act in Nagoya, and his baggage returned
by boat to Yedo. When he arrived at Nagoya, he received word that a
fire had destroyed the house in which his belongings had been stored.
Two days after this his son, the sixth Hanshiro, died. But Hanshiro
did not want the members of his company to become depressed at his bad
news, and ordered many summer kimono adorned with iris patterns, and
distributed these among the actors so that their eyes would be
pleased and there would be no sign of mourning.
[Illustration: Nakamura Jakuyemon of Osaka, an onnagata who imitates
the acting of the marionettes.]
Hanshiro, the fifth, married a daughter of the third Sawamura Sojuro,
named O-Chiyo, who was of gentle disposition and very accomplished.
She possessed considerable literary talent, and was well versed in
poetry. She never went to the theatre, because she considered it highly
ridiculous to see her husband in a woman’s rôle. After his son the
sixth Hanshiro died, a second son succeeded as Hanshiro, the seventh,
but he died in middle life. The eighth Hanshiro brings us down to
recent times, for he was one of the stars of the Meiji period.
The fourth Yoshizawa Ayame, son of the third, and descended from the
first Ayame of Genroku fame, was a popular onnagata. He managed an
Osaka theatre and travelled back and forth between Osaka and Kyoto,
succeeding to the name of Ayame at the age of 53 and dying at 56.
Not less popular in their day than the Iwai Hanshiro line was the
onnagata family of Segawa. There was the third Segawa Kikugoro, who was
born in Osaka, the son of a theatre costumer. His son became Segawa
Kikunojo, who, unlike most actors, was economical, saved his earnings,
and invested in houses and land. The adopted son of this Kikunojo
became Segawa Kikunojo, the fourth, and he was a famous onnagata. He
enjoyed but a brief career, dying at the age of 31.
At the time the sixth and seventh Hanshiro were acting, the fifth
Segawa Kikunojo was acknowledged to be the leading onnagata in Yedo. He
was a large man, but possessed rather rough manners, being short and
abrupt with his fellow-actors, and much disliked by his neighbours. Yet
upon the stage there was no one to compare with him. He died at 31, at
the height of his career.
In the Bunka and Bunsei period the representative onnagata in Osaka
and Kyoto was Nakamura Tomijuro. He was exiled by the authorities from
Osaka for extravagance. He tried to have his sentence revoked,
and travelled up to Yedo to appeal to the authorities, but in vain.
Although he had been at the top of his profession, with no other
onnagata to rival him, yet he was unable to return home, and spent
his life in Sakai, the port near Osaka, where he was obliged to play
in country theatres with inferior players. This must have been severe
punishment for an actor of genius, who lived to be 70 years of age.
Nakamura Karoku, another onnagata of distinction, was the son of a
clerk connected with the Mitsui Company in Osaka. He came to Yedo at
the age of 40 and played there until he had reached 74, dying at 80.
He was a large, handsome man, and had blood relations with many actor
families. His first wife died; he married a second half his age, and
had altogether twelve children. One daughter married the third Arashi
Kichisaburo, another became the wife of Ichikawa Kodanji, while a third
was the wife of Kataoka Nizaemon, the eighth. Nakamura Karoku was
succeeded by his son.
He had a habit of coughing when crossing a bridge near his home to let
his household know of his approach, and was considered very extravagant
because there were always two candles burning at the entrance to his
house that a bright welcome should be waiting him when he returned from
the theatre.
Famous for his good looks was the second Sawamura Tannosuke, son of the
third Sawamura Sojuro. He was born in Kyoto, and his father died when
he was 14. There was a rumour once that he had committed suicide, but
this was not true; he had hurt himself on the stage and did not appear
for some time.
Ichikawa Dannosuke, an onnagata, son of the fourth Ichikawa Danzo,
failed in the management of the Kiri-za in Yedo, and committed suicide
at 32. There was Nakayama Nishi, an onnagata common to the theatre of
Osaka and Kyoto, who specialised in innocent young girl rôles, dressed
in gaudy kimono, and loved to be conspicuous. He retired and
opened an oil shop. And there was the fourth Yamashita Kinsaku, who was
trained in small theatres, was stout, had a clear voice, and played
chiefly in middle-aged women’s characters. Nakamura Daikichi, who
became ill on the stage, fainted in the gakuya, and died before his
heavy wig could be removed, was another popular onnagata.
Such were some of the onnagata who distinguished themselves in the
Japanese theatre during two centuries, the period from 1642, when the
first Kyoto onnagata played in Yedo for the first time, to 1868, the
year of the Restoration. The actors of Meiji, and the developments that
took place upon the opening of Japan to commercial relations with other
countries, belong to the story of Meiji Kabuki, which forms a later
chapter.
Yet it must be mentioned that because of the present array of onnagata
that adorn the stages of Osaka and Tokyo, there is very little danger
that the specialty is near extinction. On the contrary, the two leading
theatres of Tokyo are headed by onnagata, Nakamura Utayemon, of the
Kabuki-za, and Onoe Baiko, of the Imperial. It is also very significant
that this unique art is still unknown in that other half of the world,
where, since the boy actors of Shakespeare’s time, who played the
famous heroines of the eternal dramatist, the playing of female rôles
by males has become a lost art.
CHAPTER XVI
YAKUSHA AND MARIONETTE
How the doll-actors took their rise, how for them the best theatre
talent of the land was concentrated, and how these gorgeously costumed
puppets of wood, animated by pulleys and strings, influenced the actors
of flesh and blood, forms a unique chapter in the history of the
Japanese theatre.
Kabuki and Ningyo-shibai, or the Doll-theatre, were the two chief
amusements of the people during the long period of national seclusion
when the Shoguns ruled in Yedo. And many of the conventions of the
modern stage are unintelligible to the Occidental unless the debt
Kabuki owes the art of the Doll-theatre is clearly understood. The
relationship of the marionette and the yakusha can only be briefly
touched upon here, since the complex history of Ningyo-shibai belongs
to a separate volume.
The Doll-theatre began as a popular entertainment of the people at the
very same time that O-Kuni’s dance on a temporary platform on the bed
of the Kamo River in Kyoto marked the beginning of the popular theatre
that was to become the exclusive possession of male players.
The exact date when minstrel, or tayu,—the accompanist on the samisen,
or samisen hiki,—the ningyo-tsukai, or doll-handler, and the ningyo,
or doll-actors, began their remarkable collaboration is not known, but
when O-Kuni was practising her art the Doll-theatre had already begun
to exercise an influence upon the public.
This combination of ballad sung and recited by the minstrel, while the
performer on the samisen marked the rhythms to which the dolls
moved, and the doll-handlers created the gestures that expressed the
emotion of the ballad-drama, was called Joruri, because the first
ballad to be sung to the samisen concerned the love affairs of the
legendary lover Yoshitsune and the beautiful Princess Joruri.
[Illustration: Yoshida Bungoro, a doll-handler of the Bunraku-za of
Osaka, who has devoted his life to the management of female
marionettes.]
A woman is credited with inaugurating this new form of entertainment.
She was Ono-no-Otsu, a lady-in-waiting in the household of Oda
Nobunaga, the famous general, whose death gave Hideyoshi his
opportunity to become the chief military dictator.
The love affairs of Princess Joruri seem to have been the impetus that
started a great flood of ballad-dramas about the time of O-Kuni, for
there existed in this early period a thousand red or blue covered books
in which was written the story acted out by the dolls and illustrated
by wonderful drawings of strange heroes and heroines.
To Menukiya Chosaburo is attributed the distinction of founding the
first doll-theatre. He obtained the services of a man in Nishinomiya, a
village near Osaka, who knew how to make puppets, and started to move
them to express the emotions of the different ballad plays. He first
performed in Kyoto, and had the honour of being summoned before the
Emperor. Such was the dignity of the early puppets. With Kabuki, the
Doll-theatre came in after years to be despised, being considered as
something low and vulgar.
Female minstrels, or Joruri Katari (lit., to speak Joruri), made their
appearance about the same time as O-Kuni in Kyoto, and two of them were
famous, Rokuji Namuyemon and Samon Yoshitaka. In an old book there are
pictures of these river-bed entertainments in Kyoto, and on a screen
belonging to the Keicho period, when O-Kuni was active, there is
depicted one of the first Joruri theatres conducted entirely by women.
The tayu, or minstrel, sat on a platform higher than the stage on which
the dolls were handled. The puppets had no hands or legs, and the hands
of the women manipulators were not seen. Those who strummed the
samisen were also women. But when the women’s stage, or Onna Kabuki,
was found to be the source of moral corruption and was prohibited, the
women of the Doll-theatre likewise came under the ban and were obliged
to go out of existence.
Kyoto continued to be the centre of the doll performances, which spread
to the surrounding towns and were well received in Osaka. Every class
of the people patronised this new form of entertainment.
The rise of the Doll-theatre to public favour was the result of the
relation of the dolls and minstrelsy. They had existed separately for
many years. Before Joruri was born, there were blind minstrels who
sang their ballads, accompanying themselves by scratching the ribs
of their fans to mark the rhythms. These blind men were called zato,
and frequented the compounds of shrines and temples, or stationed
themselves on street corners, putting up an awning for protection, and
reciting their ballads to all who would stop to listen. Sometimes they
were asked to help to entertain at feasts, but generally they wandered
about from place to place, staying at mean inns, giving entertainments
for the guests, thereby earning a lodging, and at other times singing
short pieces to make their livelihood. They came to be regarded as
beggars, and were looked down upon accordingly.
Strolling puppet players there were also, with boxes suspended by cords
around their necks. They displayed their dolls on the top of the box
which formed a miniature stage for the movements of the little figures.
In the fullness of time the dolls and minstrels approached each
other, instead of leading separate existences. But it was music that
brought them together. The introduction of the samisen from the Loo
Choo Islands, by way of the port of Sakai, near Osaka, shortly before
O-Kuni’s appearance, was the medium that united these workers in the
sphere of puppetry. By the end of the sixteenth century, this
combination had produced the popular music-ballad drama called Joruri,
which at one time threatened to completely overwhelm Kabuki in the
estimation of the people.
The initial stages of the Doll-theatre development are very
interesting, for the conventions evolved at this time were appropriated
by the real actors and may be seen upon the modern stage of Japan. The
first ballad plays in which the dolls performed harped on one motive,
the efficacy of I prayer to gods and Buddhas. The stage technique in
use at this time was especially adapted to display before a wondering
audience appearances of gods, phantoms, apparitions, and ghosts, and
many ingenious contrivances were invented to suit these supernatural
visitors, while the plots of the plays were moulded so that the various
stage tricks in connection with the godly and ghostly personages could
be carried out.
During the vogue of the doll-ballads, with the answering of prayer
for plots, elaborate machinery came into use for the manipulation
of grotesque characters which were neither man nor beast, god nor
demon, strange creatures created that machinery might give them
life. Conjuring also played its part in astonishing the audiences of
those days, and there was a period when the most ingenious devices
were planned, in which water was used, the characters of the stories
disappearing into waterfalls, floating on lakes, and even moved by
water power.
Then followed an outburst of the military spirit in Joruri, and the
answered-prayer balladry took a secondary place. It was the adventures
of the great warrior Kimpira, the incarnation of courage, slayer of
devils and demons, that captured the popular fancy. The exploits of
brave men were of more interest than the ghostly and godly pieces, and
Kimpira overshadowed all the rest.
The Kimpira bushi, or Kimpira tune, was started in Yedo by Sakurai
Tamba, and he was followed by his son Izumi Dayu, who was even more
sanguinary than his father. He handled an iron rod so dexterously
when he marked the rhythm to his ballad about the extraordinary
adventures of Kimpira that he knocked off heads and lopped off limbs of
the dolls every day. This realistic display suited the Yedo audiences.
Izumi is said to have disliked everything weak and unmanly, to such
an extent that his door-keeper was always a strong man, physical
robustness being his ideal. Perhaps the muscular guardian of the
entrance was a necessity rather than an ideal, for the spirit of
combat sometimes seized the audience, after witnessing a martial doll
performance, and two men would begin to fight in the midst of the
crowd, within or without, proving too much for the stout gate-keeper.
Izumi Dayu began to quarrel himself, and at last killed a man and was
executed. This bloodthirsty Joruri did not last long, and when the
mania cooled down the efficacy-of-prayer ballads came into vogue again
for a short time.
It was Takemoto Gidayu who gathered up all that was useful in the
Joruri that had gone before him, and established the school that has
been called after him, and continues to the present day,—Gidayu Joruri,
more often spoken of simply as Gidayu. He was originally a farmer in
Settsu province, and had a voice of large range. In Kyoto he learned
how to sing Joruri from a follower of the minstrel Inouye Harima.
Gidayu first appeared in Dotombori, the theatre street of Osaka.
Tatsumatsu Hachirobei, a ningyo-tsukai, or doll-handler, was a genius
in moving the dolls, while Chikamatsu Monzaemon, Japan’s greatest
dramatist, wrote the plays.
The name of Gidayu’s theatre in Osaka was the Takemoto-za. It had
flourished for some time when one of Gidayu’s followers wrote a play
called the _Jewel-Well-Double-Suicide_, which was produced at Sakai,
the port city near Osaka. It proved so successful that this man opened
a rival Doll-theatre calling it the Toyotaki-za.
[Illustration: A scene from Chushingura, as played by the marionettes
in the Bunraku-za of Osaka.]
For long years these two theatres were close rivals, the
competition between them bringing about great improvements in
stage management, and each tried to outdo the other in new plays, good
minstrels and doll-handlers, elaborate settings, stage devices, and
gorgeous costumes.
For nearly eighty years, during the Doll-theatre’s golden age, the
collaboration of the workers was so complete and Successful that Kabuki
was quite cast into the shade.
The movements of the dolls were so spirited, the doll-handlers so
creative in the variety of gestures that they invented to express a
whole world, gay and grave, that the actors came at last to acknowledge
the puppets as a source of inspiration. At first they imitated, but
as the vogue for the Joruri Gidayu grew intense, the yakusha were
converted into enthusiastic devotees. They went to the Doll-theatre
to learn, and returned to their own acting with a keener zest. The
marionettes demonstrated before their eyes the heights and depths of
acting, of which they had been unaware, and they were competitors in
their own profession, saving them from the inertia of self-satisfaction.
The playwrights of Joruri Gidayu were responsible for the best
dramas that have been produced in Japan. Especially were they highly
successful in a new kind of play, the jidaimono, having historical
personages for characters, fashioned out of the most fascinating
imaginative material that brought the dolls into full play as creatures
of a world of fantasy.
In time Yedo actors who were removed from the doll atmosphere of
Kyoto and Osaka were obliged to journey down to these towns that they
might know how to play the characters of the Doll-theatre plays. The
jidaimono became all the rage in Yedo, and the actors could no longer
remain indifferent to the activity of the doll performers.
But the movements of the dolls were not the only attraction, for stage
costumes were purloined as well, and Kabuki appropriated unto itself
all the novelties and ideas of the Doll-theatre one after the other.
Something of an influence was exerted upon the Doll-theatre by the
legitimate plays and players, but it was small in comparison with the
highway robbery of everything of interest from the Doll-theatre carried
on for years by the actors and stage managers of Kabuki.
Chikamatsu, who never hesitated to take his ideas, plots, and materials
from any source that suited his purpose, borrowed to some extent
from Kabuki. One of his plays, _Tamba Yosaku_, was originally played
twenty years before his own composition by the first Arashi Sanyemon.
_Yuki-Onna-Gomai-Hagoita_ (lit., the Snow-Woman-Five-Battle-dores),
a Chikamatsu masterpiece, was in reality one of Arashi Sanyemon’s
favourite plays. The dolls also took for model the gestures and style
of living actors, closely following their specialties, young women,
heroes, and villains.
Sakata Tojuro’s most popular rôle, that of Izaemon, in the play
concerning Yugiri, a heroine of the gay quarters, influenced
Chikamatsu, for he took Tojuro’s one-act play and made it over into
one of his masterpieces, _Yugiri of Awa in Naruto_. Moreover, the
doll-handlers imitated Tojuro’s manner and gestures as Izaemon.
Chikamatsu also modelled his characters on such actors as Yoshizawa
Ayame, Midzuki Tatsunosuke, and Kataoka Nizaemon. Sawamura Sojuro
played as Yuranosuke, the leader of the Forty-seven Ronin, and this
Kabuki piece was the basis of _Chushingura_, the masterpiece of the
Doll-theatre playwright, Takeda Izumo, in which the Yuranosuke doll
portrayed the manners and gestures of Sojuro.
Lovers of Kabuki do not like to acknowledge the extent to which the
actors borrowed from the stage of the inanimate players, but it was
very great.
Sometimes famous actors were sons of the ningyo-tsukai, or puppet
performers, and young actors who went to the dolls to study soon
discovered that they were able to see themselves as others saw them.
[Illustration: O-Sato, heroine of a ballad-drama of the Doll-theatre.
Reproduced from an oil painting by an Osaka artist and shown in a Tokyo
art exhibition. The doll-handlers are grouped behind like shadows.]
One of the most famous ningyo-tsukai, Bunsaburo, designed many
costumes for his puppets. One he embroidered in plum blossoms
and young bamboo for the doll representing Michizane, the patron
saint of Japanese literature—in history the prime minister who was
exiled from Japan by his enemies; and he also dressed the triplets,
faithful servants of Michizane, in kimono bearing large yellow
horizontal stripes lined with scarlet to emphasise the fact that they
were brothers. Thereafter, when these characters were represented by
Kabuki actors the exact costumes were worn. Once during a performance
Bunsaburo saw a doll on the point of falling and went to the rescue.
The doll moved in an awkward manner, not according to the rules and
regulations, and the audience laughed. It afterwards became the custom
to make this doll do the same thing, and the Kabuki actors imitated
even this.
_The Battle of Kokusenya_, by Chikamatsu, was one of the first
doll-plays to be acted in the theatres of Osaka, Kyoto, and Yedo.
Ichikawa Danjuro, the second, took the chief rôle, that of Watonai, a
picturesque character who had a Japanese mother and Chinese father and
went to China in search of adventure. Later the second Danjuro acted in
other pieces by Chikamatsu that were first played by the dolls. Takeda
Izumo’s plays, as well as those of Kino Kaion, both play-writers for
the dolls, were used by Kabuki actors.
The relationship between the two theatres became far more complicated
during the Horeki period. Not only the plays, but the acting, stage
furniture, and costumes of the Doll-theatre influenced Kabuki. The
music of the Doll-theatre was also incorporated into Kabuki.
Previous to the first year of Horeki (1757), the Doll-theatre was at
its height. After this it declined.
As fast as the Doll-theatre artists evolved new plays, they were
quickly seized upon by Kabuki. The public came at last to be more
interested in the real actors than in the dolls. The vogue of the
puppets slowly and surely began to wane. No progress was made, the
theatres burned down, the minstrels and doll-handlers changed from one
theatre to another.
After 1804 the dolls almost went out of existence, but rallied
in later years, and to-day this unique art is crystallised in the
Bunraku-za, of Osaka. A small Doll-theatre held its own in the theatre
quarter of Kyoto until recently, but the ever-increasing prosperity
of the surrounding moving-picture theatres has driven it to the wall.
There are touring companies that pay visits to the different towns
at regular periods. Once a year a Bunraku-za company plays in Tokyo,
and the leading actors may always be seen in the audience watching
closely the puppets acting in their own familiar rôles. The art of the
Doll-theatre is by no means dead, the spark of art is smouldering, but
it would take some big wind to fan it into flame once again,—perhaps
the wind of self-confidence among the theatre-folk of Japan in their
own institutions.
The decline of the Doll-theatre was due to the fact that Kabuki took
everything the dolls had to offer, and made such a poor return that
the doll-stage began to starve. When Kabuki and the Doll-theatre had
approached so nearly together, one had to go under, for there was not
sufficient novelty to attract in the sphere of the marionettes, the
source from which Kabuki had so slavishly drawn inspiration.
There was another very good reason, too, why the Doll-theatre almost
ceased to be. The collaboration that had made it the centre of talent
came to an end. Had the dolls continued to succeed, it would have been
necessary to maintain the source of their originality, and it was the
misfortune of these mute actors that the workers ceased to serve in
their behalf, harmony died, and talent gradually fell away.
Kabuki, which benefited so largely from the creativeness of the dolls,
faithfully preserves these traditions, and still lives on the past,
that golden age when the doll was at its height, and for whom so many
workers offered in their behalf the theatre gifts that in them lay.
CHAPTER XVII
LIVES OF THE YAKUSHA
The yakusha (lit., rôle man), of Kabuki, belongs to the actors’
fraternity, the brethren of the buskin, who form a peculiar company of
their own, irrespective of the lands from which they have sprung or the
creeds they hold.
Of Kabuki and its long line of brilliant actors, the world knows
nothing. Their art was good, although it received but scant
appreciation or recognition from those who occupied the seats of the
mighty.
They were faithful to their ideals, and what they have accomplished
is a contribution to the actor’s art of the world. In their day and
generation the yakusha were members of a degraded class, looked down
upon, derided, but nevertheless they were true to the theatre instinct
within them.
Similar to their fellows in the West, these actors of Japan met with
success and were the idols of the people. They died in harness, or
passed their remaining years in obscurity. There were players whose
names for some reason or other suddenly disappeared from the lists of
the theatre chroniclers—others about to lose their popularity were
fortunate enough to take a new lease of life, and continued to act
until old age claimed them.
It was not infrequent that the yakusha took it into his head to retire,
but, thinking better of it, returned again to the glamour of the stage.
Among the yakusha there were always some who grew monotonous and
old-fashioned, and failed to keep abreast of the times in which they
lived.
Above this innumerable tribe of play-folks tower the men of genius
who carried all before them, delighting the audiences of the three
theatre towns, the most-talked-of and most beloved personalities of the
time, taking ill while playing a favourite rôle, or breathing their
last in their dressing-rooms, in which they spent such a large portion
of their lives.
Many of the yakusha were similar to the Western actors in one
respect—they were great spendthrifts, and the larger the earnings the
greater the extravagance displayed. When the authorities in Yedo who
presided over the affairs of the theatre found a yakusha who was too
fond of display, his goods were confiscated, or else he was obliged to
pay a penalty.
Considerable literary ability was found among these despised
theatre-folk. They were especially fond of poetry; and studied under
the masters of the different forms of short poems, and often excelled.
The part the yakusha played in the composition of the Kabuki plays
has not been fully acknowledged. That they often wrote plays or aided
materially in the collaboration is well known. It was a common stage
custom for the actors to improvise in the plays to suit themselves, and
while the greater portion of this ephemeral material has perished, much
remains to be seen, particularly in the eighteen traditional pieces of
the Ichikawa family.
That the yakusha had the heart to study literature and compose poems
is very much in their favour, when it is considered that they were
regarded as a low class of persons—the dregs of society. It would
have been quite natural if they had neglected the difficult art of
calligraphy, owing to their strenuous lives in the theatre, but many
yakusha were as versed in writing the complicated characters as they
were in all the other accomplishments that distinguished the genteel
person of Japan at this time. One actor was so proud, of his ability in
this direction that he wrote long epistles the better to show off his
accomplishment.
[Illustration: YAKUSHA MAKING A ROUND OF NEW YEAR CALLS. In the
foreground a member of the Ichikawa family, with two pupils and his
servants, following behind an onnagata similarly attended. The kites in
the picture show the favourite pastime of children during the New Year
holidays. (Colour print by Hasegawa Kanpei, the fourteenth, and Torii
Kiyosada, father of Kiyotada.)]
They intermarried to a remarkable extent. Since they were
segregated to certain quarters near the theatre, they chose their wives
for the most part from among their own fraternity. The daughters of
actor families married men of their father’s profession, and their
daughters again became the wives of actors. This brought about such
complicated genealogies that it became impossible to unravel the
tangled relationships.
Now and then a yakusha strayed out of the fold and took unto himself a
farmer’s daughter, or, as was quite common, selected a maiden who had
passed her life in the theatre atmosphere, daughter of the proprietor
of a chaya, or theatre tea-house, that catered daily to the audience.
Sometimes a yakusha had for father the keeper of a restaurant, and the
sons of wrestlers made good actors as they were of fine physique.
Many of the leading actors were sons of ronin, or samurai who had
severed connection with their feudal lord and joined the ranks of the
common people. The first Danjuro was of samurai stock, his father a
ronin. Again, the dissipated sons of military families took up acting
as a profession when turned out of doors by their stern samurai fathers
for their sins and omissions.
A famous onnagata, Yoshisawa Ayame, was a page in a samurai house
before he became an actor. The first Nakamura Utayemon was the son of
a physician. Others were sons of ningyo-tsukai or doll-handlers in
the puppet theatre, and the yakusha were related to stage musicians,
dancing teachers, costumers, and even the menials of the theatre.
Arashi Kanjuro became a colour-print artist under Toyokuni, and was
called Kunihara.
Not infrequently the yakusha studied the Nō, and introduced many
features of the classic drama into his own productions. There were
actors of refinement, who stood apart from the vulgarity of their
day, but on the other hand a great many who, influenced by the odium
attached to their profession, led loose and immoral lives. But in this
they only followed the lead of their times, for vulgarity and
sensuality was the order of the day, as might have been expected, since
the monotony of peace and the stagnant regime of the Tokugawa Shogunate
were largely responsible for the licentiousness that prevailed.
At this time there were actors who worked as understudies and were not
regularly employed, and when not on the stage earned money by their
immoralities. They did not accept compensation from the theatre, but
appeared for the sake of exhibiting their personal charms and provided
their own costumes. Until 1830 these good-looking young men were to
be found in private tea-houses in connection with the theatre, and
from their ranks came some of the famous onnagata. This is the other
side of the theatre, but accounts in large measure for the deep social
prejudice that existed against the Kabuki yakusha, a prejudice that is
by no means entirely removed at the present day, although the standing
of the actors has been elevated and their position in one of Japan’s
most characteristic institutions is fully recognised.
Sons born in a leading actor’s family were given a thorough stage
training, making their first bow to the audience while still infants
in arms, but less fortunate children had great difficulty in winning
a place on the stage. Yakusha who succeeded without family, and who
relied only upon their talents, often received their early stage
apprenticeship as members of travelling companies, or were seen in
kodomo shibai, or children’s theatre companies. There were, also,
temporary theatres set up in compounds of shrines, called miya shibai,
or shrine theatres, and those along the river, called hama shibai, or
shore theatres. The ability of many a popular actor was very often
first discovered in such surroundings.
It was difficult for the outsider to break through the yakusha caste.
The family system of preserving the line was as strong among the
yakusha as it was from the Shogun and aristocracy down to artists,
artisans, tea ceremony and flower arrangement teachers and
musicians. And if there was no direct descendant to inherit the family
name an heir was adopted. This forms one of the most interesting
characteristics of the yakusha, for the son not only succeeded to the
family name, but carried on the traditions of his father’s stage art
with an unswerving fidelity, preserving the inheritance of the past,
but also attempting to enhance the reputation of the family, and in
turn passing on the capital and accumulated interest to the next
successor.
The inclination of the yakusha towards Buddhism was very strong.
_Kabuki Koto Hajime_, or Beginnings of Kabuki, says with regard to this
characteristic:
“Those who played tragic rôles wanted to borrow the power of _Hokkekyo_
(Buddhist Scripture of the Lotus of the Good Law), and especially were
faithful to the Nichiren sect (founded by Nichiren, the stormy petrel
of Japanese Buddhism, seven hundred years ago). They had to have some
religion to forget the terrible characters they played, as they might
be haunted by them when they went home.”
Ichimura Takenojo, a nephew of the first Ichimura Uzaemon, the
proprietor of the Ichimura-za, became an acolyte in a Buddhist seminary
in the district of Honjo, Yedo. He had his head shaved and put on
priest’s robes, and giving up the applause of the stage for the calm of
the cloister, went straight off to the Buddhist institution. Afterwards
he studied at Hiei-zan, the mountain monastery overlooking Kyoto, and
rose to a leading position in the priesthood, becoming the head priest
of a mountain temple, and returning to a Yedo temple, where he died in
his old age. Yamashita Kyoyemon, contemporary of Sakata Tojuro, had a
priest brother, and Yamatoya Imbei of Osaka had two Buddhist priests
for brothers.
Ichikawa Danshiro, the most talented pupil of the first Ichikawa
Danjuro, left the stage in the middle of his career to become a
priest. Many urgent messages were sent from his former theatre in
Yedo requesting him to rejoin the actors, and at last he consented on
condition that he return immediately the performances were over to
his secluded temple life.
Of quite a different character was Miyasaki Denkichi’s connection with
Buddhism. He was with other actors imprisoned on account of a scandal
in a nunnery, and since the head nun was a favourite of the Shogun’s
Court she was sentenced to death.
Many of the yakusha shaved their heads as a sign of their retirement
from active life. The fourth Ichikawa Danjuro was one of those who
voluntarily abandoned a flourishing career, and Sadoshima Chogoro, the
author of _Sadoshima Nikki_, or Journal of Sadoshima, took a holy name,
and lived in front of the Kennin-ji, a Buddhist temple, in Kyoto.
Some of the star actors went on pilgrimages. Arashi Sangoro visited
the thirty-three temples sacred to Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy, in
Kyushu, and afterwards became a priest.
The yakusha had his superstitions. He went to shrines and prayed to
obtain the fame of actors past and gone, or made special supplications
that he might be successful in a new rôle. He was like other men; he
mixed up in fights and had to go to prison, he had his love affairs
and rivalries; sometimes became despondent and committed suicide
early, or retired to open a shop dealing in incense, or white powder
for the face. There were not only skilled musicians, amateur poets,
and painters among them, but they were uppermost in the making and
producing of plays. They were able to sew their own stage costumes
and to embroider them with elaborate designs. Their costumes had
a considerable effect upon the fashions, inducing men to dress in
extravagant taste, while women of good families followed the example
set by the actors on the stage, copying colours, designs, and styles,
even the width of the obi.
The yakusha travelled up and down the country from Yedo to Osaka and
Kyoto, held their anniversaries and ceremonies, and were careful
of the type, training their sons in the way they should go. In spite
of this, misfortune often overtook a prosperous family, and the line
withered away. It was renewed by some young relative, only to disappear
in after years. No family flourished generation after generation as did
the Ichikawa Danjuro line, and yet there is no representative of this
name upon the Tokyo stage to-day.
Nakamura Nakazo is on record as having expressed the opinion that
actors should not be seen in public, but should be known only on the
stage, and secure fame by their art alone. He thought it was a mistake
for play-folk to attend picnics, moon-gazing or snow-viewing parties,
or mix with the crowd.
The second Ichikawa Danjuro was also a believer in the actor’s
anonymity and seclusion from the public, and considered that if an
actor was not good-looking he would not appear to advantage on the
street. It is true that if the yakusha went out wearing fine apparel
and attracted people by his dignified bearing, the defects of his
character or lack of talent would be hidden. As the face of the yakusha
was certain to be less attractive off the stage than on, he should take
care not to be seen by the people.
Danjuro further declared that as an actor’s life was full of anxiety,
it was necessary that he should enjoy all the comforts of home, and
receive every care to maintain his health. It was best for the yakusha
to stay at home, so that he would have no occasion to become angry, and
as he was the object of public attention he should aim to be as refined
and beautiful as possible.
When young, Danjuro the second thought, the yakusha should wear his
head covered, and in middle age that he should ride in a kago, the
basket conveyance hung on two poles and carried on the shoulders of
bearers. And this must not be regarded as extravagance, but to make a
good impression upon theatre-goers and therefore a duty to the theatre
proprietor, for he considered it of the greatest importance for a
yakusha to be magnificent in order to fill an eminent position.
Contrary to Danjuro’s opinion, Sawamura Sojuro, the first, believed in
the simple life for an actor. He said a chief actor should mingle with
the people in the streets, and aim to be unpretentious, for a yakusha
would thereby be able to learn of his defects upon the stage. As for
clothing, it was quite sufficient to have one kimono for each season.
It was, however, natural to wish to dress well, but it often proved
ruinous. It was best for the yakusha to leave his name to posterity as
a stage celebrity rather than as a millionaire, to be remembered for
his art rather than for his money.
Kataoka Nizaemon, the first, of Osaka, declared that actors should be
conversant with poetry and literature, and know all subjects relating
to Buddhism and Shintoism, information that would be of use to them on
the stage.
When Ichikawa Danjuro, the second, built a fine new residence after
his dwelling had been burned down, he gave a house-warming party, and
a hundred short poems were written by the guests who attended. In the
tokonoma, or recess of the reception-room, was hung an autographed
poem by Kikaku, a well-known versifier. On the sliding doors were
pictures by artists of the Tosa School. The small metal pieces inserted
into the doors were of the best workmanship. There was a painting of
chrysanthemums done especially for Danjuro by the master of flowers,
Korin, and a flower vase after a design by Basho.
He counted among his friends many of the intellectuals of his day, and
upon one occasion he was seen out for a walk between Hanabusa Icho, the
painter, and Kikaku, the poet, the two outstanding geniuses of the age.
His name was known at the Shogun’s Court, for there is a mention in the
diary of a daimyo, Matsura Sezan, that one day the Shogun, Tokugawa
Yoshimune, passed through the ward of Honjo, and the route took him
near a shrine where he noticed a votive offering on which was written
a poem, signed Hakuin, Danjuro’s poetry name. Appreciating the
literary talent the poem revealed, the Shogun turned to his retinue and
asked who had composed it, but as none of them knew, he explained that
it was the nom de plume of Ichikawa Danjuro.
[Illustration: Matsumoto Koshiro in the rôle of an otokodate, or
chivalrous commoner, ready to defend the oppressed lower classes from
the blustering two-sworded samurai.]
Nakamura Nakazo has left mention in his journal concerning a visit he
made to a member of the Choshu clan, to the effect that he had been
invited by a retired personage to his residence, made of hinoki wood,
meaning a mansion such as was erected for the aristocracy, and that
he was entertained with tea and asked to dance. The appreciative host
not only gave each one of the party a gift, but after his return to
his domain in Choshu he sent Nakazo a suzuri, or box for holding the
Japanese writing brush and ink stone.
Retired persons of the upper class were considered privileged to enjoy
life as they pleased, and they often went to the theatre incognito.
After the performance they invited the actors to the chaya, and gave
them gifts.
Actor worship permeated the people; the playgoers of the three towns
enjoyed them, criticised, gossiped about them, even as they do at the
present day. The theatre was the great recreation of the people, and
the actors, how they looked, how apparelled, and the quality of their
acting formed the endless topic of conversations and discussions.
And yet in spite of the fact that the actors held such a firm place
in the affections of the people; that they were the exponents of a
theatre which reflected the national characteristics to a remarkable
extent; that they represented the taste, style, and ideas of their time
in no small degree, and that they were often men of cultivation and
refinement off the stage,—their profession was scorned.
They were the object of long persecution. It would be difficult to find
in the history of the theatre throughout the world a deeper prejudice
or more complete contempt for the actor than has been the portion of
the Kabuki yakusha.
This state of affairs was largely due to the attitude adopted
towards the theatre by the Tokugawa government. From the official
standpoint the theatre was a vulgar institution and had an immoral
effect upon society. Through the production of socialistic plays, the
minds of the people were influenced, and the authorities sought to
control the overflowing life that found a vent in theatre-going. The
theatre also encouraged luxury, causing the people to wander away from
the paths of economy, and to desire the elaborate houses, furniture,
and clothing they saw upon the stage.
The strict control exercised over the actors was not all due to the
desire of the governing classes to elevate and improve the governed.
It was part of their plan to keep back the natural democracy of the
people, which, like a rising tide, threatened to grow stronger than was
good for the welfare of the shogunate.
Murdoch in his _History of Japan_, in characterising the rule of the
Shoguns, touches the core of the matter when he says:
“The Yedo machine of mediocrities had converted Japan from a
progressive into a stationary state, chiefly because the Tokugawa
flunkeys of those days wished to preserve their own position....”
And it was the officials of government who were under the conviction
that the theatre and actors were a source of moral corruption, and in
consequence saw to it that this particular sphere of influence was
segregated to special sites in the three towns, much in the same way
that the “gay quarters” were separated from the ordinary channels of
life.
But this was not sufficient restraint, and social intercourse with the
townsmen was forbidden. To complete the social boycott the actors were
obliged to reside together, were prohibited from going far from their
homes and ordered to keep well within their own preserves; they could
not mingle with the people unless they wore a deep basket-like straw
hat that hid their faces from sight.
Saruwaka Kansaburo, in 1624, in compliance with the Shogun’s order
sang a sailor’s song at the helm of the Shogun’s pleasure boat, and in
1648 he and his followers were summoned to the Shogun’s palace to show
their art.
But in 1719, when the mother of the eighth Shogun, Yoshimune, and his
children wished to see dancing and were about to send for the actors,
the officials opposed the plan, reminding them of Yenoshima, the Court
lady, and her scandal with the actor Ikushima Shingoro. Doll performers
were ordered to attend instead.
As for the status of the yakusha, it fell very low indeed after
Saruwaka Sansaburo’s time, for they were ranked among the lowest
classes, but one degree removed from the eta, the pariah class. In the
census lists they were not entered as other men, but were noted by the
numeral suffix, then used in the enumeration of cattle.
Although it was the deliberate aim of the Government to lower the
standing of the actors, it is clear they were not placed on the
same level as those outcasts of society, the eta, as is seen from a
judgement given in a law court in 1708.
Satsuma Kogenda held a Kabuki performance in a village called Masaki,
in the Province of Awa. The eta were debarred from attendance, and
three hundred of them living in the neighbourhood were so enraged, they
attacked and destroyed the theatre. A representative of the outcasts
filed a suit in court against the theatre-owner and actors, as well as
the musicians, but a decision was given in favour of the theatre, and
the leaders among the eta who had instigated the attack were sentenced
to exile.
In _Okina Gusa_ (lit., Old Man Sayings) there is an account which
well illustrates the social attitude towards the actor. Kirinoya
Gonjuro, who acted chiefly in Osaka and Kyoto, was the son of a
flower-arrangement teacher. A certain official living in Kyoto belonged
to the same school of flower-arrangement as the actor’s father, and the
two were on friendly terms. When Kirinoya was appearing in Kyoto he
had to go to the magistrate’s office on some business connected
with the theatre, and the official discovered that his friend’s son
had joined the ranks of the vulgar Kabuki players. He ordered Kirinoya
to call at his residence, and when he did so he would not allow him to
enter, but commanded him to prostrate himself on the ground before the
entrance, and is reported to have said to him:
“Although I have been a friend of your father, your status in society
is quite beyond the pale of intercourse. If you cease to be an actor I
will allow you to enter my house and will renew our friendship, but not
otherwise.”
The actor, quite overcome at this prejudiced attitude, replied:
“I thank you for your kindness, but it is impossible for me to give up
my profession. Although I have thus lowered myself in the social scale,
I am chief among the actors, and there are many of my followers who are
dependent upon me for a livelihood. I cannot deprive them of this. Even
among us who are despised there is loyalty and fidelity, and I have no
other course but to follow my profession. In this case I cannot see you
again.”
Another sidelight upon the social prejudice against actors is shown by
a story that is told of Kosagawa Juyemon, a samurai in the service of
a certain feudal lord, who had become an actor from choice. A member
of his family went to the theatre where he was employed, and being
informed that he was acting under his own name grew so infuriated that
he threatened to kill the young man, but was finally pacified by the
people of the theatre.
In _Kabuki Koto Hajime_, or the Beginnings of Kabuki, the author rises
to the defence of the actor: “The Kawara Kojiki (Riverside Beggars)
all belonged to the common people. But this was not so in reality.
They washed and cleaned their bodies before praying for the safety and
prosperity of the country. What is said of them is not true.”
Dr. Yuzo Tsubouchi, one of the leading modern dramatists, in
commenting on the prejudice against the actors, writes: “Many persons
despised them and still harboured against them the prejudice which had
originated in the tradition that they had been put under the control
of the eta during the Kamakura shogunate. Even at the close of the
Tokugawa rule they were not looked upon as respectable citizens, and
consequently the military class studiously avoided intercourse with
them and refrained from visiting the theatre.”
In a similar strain the late Rev. Arthur Lloyd says in his _Notes on
Japanese Drama_ in the Transactions of the Asiatic Society of Japan:
“The shibai had but a poor reputation. No samurai or respectable person
would have degraded himself by attendance at a performance. They were
compelled to live like eta, in Ghettos or districts of their own, being
shunned by all persons of position or repute. It was folly to expect
anything at all noble or inspiring from persons compelled to live in
such surroundings, and it speaks volumes for the despised play-actors
and playwrights that they did not sink lower.”
Captain Francis Brinkley in the chapter dealing with Refinements and
Pastimes in his _Japan: its History, Arts and Literature_, writes as
follows regarding the attitude toward the actors of Meiji: “Ichikawa
Danjuro and Onoe Kikugoro, the princes of the stage at present, would
long ago have earned a world-wide reputation had their lot been cast
in any Western country. There cannot be any second opinion about their
capacities, or about their title to rank with the great tragedians of
the world. But in their own country, though their names are household
words, taint of their profession clings to them still. Men speak of
them as a ballet dancer of extraordinary agility or a banjo player
of eminent skill would be spoken of in Europe or America—renowned
exponents of a renownless art.”
Undoubtedly this attitude of the upper classes had much to do with the
triviality and vulgarity that existed in the theatre. But on the other
hand, the isolated actors and playwrights belonged all the more
to the theatre. Left without leadership, they worked out their own
salvation, and made their own standards. Lacking the stimulus that the
recognition and encouragement of the highest in the land might have
given them, they were able through their own innate sense of art and
unerring desire for beauty to bring about the present rich accumulation
of artistic forces within Kabuki which may yet be an impetus to the
Western theatre, hungry as it is for just such fare as Kabuki is able
to provide so bountifully.
When all is considered the yakusha was more sinned against than
sinning. In fact, he was often more cultivated than the ordinary
citizen, even the samurai who, especially in the lower ranks, were
merely rough, unlearned soldiery, and often knew nothing of courtesy
or manners. “Too often”, says Fenollosa, “we have read that the whole
brilliancy and value of Japan lay in her samurai.”
The yakusha excelled in military arts, they used judo and fencing with
good effect on the stage, and were expert in swordsmanship. They were
obliged to be skilled counterfeiters of the samurai, since the most
popular plays were those dealing with the exploits of the two-sworded
hero, and nothing pleased playgoers better than to see the stately
daimyo and his loyal retainers represented on the stage, for they were
personages so far removed from the everyday life of the plain citizen.
After all, it was the outcast yakusha who upheld the flower of
chivalry and idealised the faithfulness of man for master, loyalty and
self-sacrifice, the favourite themes of the plays.
Again, it was the yakusha, held in such low esteem, who was to keep
alive the feudal age, long after it had passed away. And it is the
yakusha to-day who maintains the dignity of bearing and represents
the heroic deeds of the samurai, when many of their descendants have
wellnigh forgotten the principles that actuated their ancestors.
[Illustration: Nakamura Kichiyemon as Kumagae, a warrior of Old Japan.]
SHIBAI
CHAPTER XVIII
CUSTOMS OF SHIBAI
One of the most remarkable customs connected with theatre going was
the unearthly hour in the morning the shibai opened. Just before dawn,
or between four and five o’clock, the big drum in the drum-tower was
beaten as a signal that the performances were about to begin.
Those who lived near the theatres were obliged to hurry over an early
breakfast that they might reach the playhouse by sunrise, but to the
playgoers who were obliged to walk miles on foot, or countryfolk bent
on seeing the famous actors, it was a matter of lengthy preparations
the day before, and their journey shibaiwards was begun in the darkness
of night. To a woman especially it was a serious undertaking to attend
shibai, because hours were spent in oiling and arranging the hair,
bathing, dressing, and making the face as attractive as possible with
paint and powder.
Only the most enthusiastic playgoers planned on reaching the shibai
in time for the first piece, and it was customary for people to stay
overnight at the shibai chaya, or at an inn to be in readiness for
the great event. To children allowed to accompany their elders the
excitement preparatory to setting forth in the dead of night must have
made these unforgettable occasions thrilling adventures. If by chance
the grandparents formed part of the party, the child would listen
to reminiscences of the fathers and grandfathers of the actors then
playing, and the youthful playgoers when grown up would in turn recall
their early visits to shibai, the long day spent in the theatre,
the dinner at sunset in the tea-house, after which came the return
homeward.
By the time the first golden rays of the sun were gilding the
grey-tiled roofs of the town, people might have been seen coming from
all directions to theatre street, where the scenes were so lively that,
according to an old book, _Kokon Yakusha Taizen_, or Ancient and Modern
Actors, “the prosperity seen outside the shibai every day cannot be
expressed by a writing brush”.
And, indeed, the excitement of arrival must have compensated for the
loss of sleep and long travel, for there was noise and confusion
outside the theatre where the bill-boards, gorgeous posters depicting
the characters in the play in brilliant colours on powdered gold
backgrounds, glistened in the sunlight, the many coloured flags,
presented to the actors on which their names were to be seen, floated
bravely in the breeze, and rows of lanterns bearing the actor’s crest
decorated the theatre inside and out.
In a translation made by the late Lord Redesdale and published in _The
Far East Magazine_ in 1871, there is a description of the shibai taken
from an old book about the sights of Yedo, which gives an intimate
picture of the interior as it looked to a playgoer of that day.
“The gallery ... is hung with curtains as bright as the rainbow in the
departing clouds. The place soon becomes so crowded that the heads of
the spectators are like the scales on a dragon’s back. When the play
begins, if the subject be tragic, the spectators are so affected that
they weep till they have to wring their sleeves dry. If the piece be
comic they laugh till their chins are out of joint. The tricks and
stratagems of the drama baffle description, and the actors are as
graceful as the flight of the swallows. The triumph of persecuted
virtue and the punishment of wickedness invariably crown the story.
When a favourite actor makes his appearance his entry is hailed with
cheers. Fun and diversion are the order of the day, and rich and poor
alike forget the cares which they have left behind them at home;
and yet it is not all idle amusement, for there is a moral included and
a practical sermon in every play.”
As a testimonial to the respect the actors felt for their high calling,
and a link with the ceremonial traditions of theatricals in Japan, it
was the custom for a comic dance, or Sambasso, to precede the regular
performances, and this was given before the sun had risen.
Originally Sambasso was a mirth-provoking dance performed in the
courtyards of Shinto shrines to give pleasure to the gods. Sambasso
is the masked figure of a jovial old man clad in ample robes bearing
designs of large white storks, pine branches, tortoises and other
emblems of good luck. He moves to the slow measures of flute and
drum, postures with a fan, or shakes a bunch of bells used in the
kagura, or Shinto dances. This ancient performance long ago passed
into the possession of the Nō stage, became one of its most treasured
ceremonies, is given on auspicious occasions, the secrets jealously
guarded and handed down from father to son, the actors fasting and
cleansing themselves before taking part in it.
Both the Doll-theatre and Kabuki appropriated Sambasso, modifying it
to suit their own requirements. As to its outer appearance, the figure
was a venerable old personage, but in fact it was believed to be the
personification of one of the great deities worshipped at a chief
Shinto shrine. This top-heavy, humoresque dancer, one of the most
ancient theatrical figures extant in the world, that is faithfully
preserved to-day and has a thousand years behind it, was looked upon
by the theatre-folk with the deepest reverence and awe, since the
performance of this dance meant the purification of the stage. It is
well to recall this, when the yakusha of Old Japan are stigmatised as
vicious, plebeian, loose, and immoral.
A picture of the stage in the early hours of the day, before the sun
had made its appearance, is found in the old record of shibai, _Kokon
Yakusha Taizen_, or Ancient and Modern Actors.
It tells how above the heads of the audience there were lanterns
on which were to be seen the actors’ crests, and suspended from the
gallery hung others bearing the symbols of the tea-houses. In front of
the stage many candles were seen burning. First, there was the Sambasso
dance, and after this all the play actors with the principal actor in
advance made their entrance upon the stage, each carrying a lighted
candle in his hand and clad in ceremonial skirts, long and voluminous,
that encased their feet and flowed yards behind them like a lady’s
train—the same costume worn by the great daimyo when attending social
and state functions at the Shogun’s Court. The spokesman for the actors
asked the patronage of the audience for ten thousand years, meaning to
the end of time, a characteristic salutation of Asia, and in response
the audience signified their appreciation by clapping their hands.
When the actors had retired, music was heard and an auspicious song
was sung, the _Shikainami_, or Waves of the Four Seas, a passage from
_Takasago_, a Nō play in which a prayer is made for the peace of the
world and the smoothness of the waves in the four seas.
Following this, an announcement of the programme was read by a
dignitary of the theatre. He began by crying out in a ringing voice:
“Tozai! Tozai!” or “East-West! East-West!” This was to call the
attention of people to the east and the west, and, indeed, in all parts
of the theatre, who were thus admonished to listen to the important
details of the plays to be acted. These men knelt down on the stage in
front of the curtain, and read the programme in a peculiar style and
with a flourish that belonged to the theatre. Gradually they became
few in number, their salaries were decreased, and their place in the
theatre was less and less recognised. The custom is now and then seen
to-day, particularly at the beginning of Takeda Izumo’s _Chushingura_.
A puppet announcer is placed outside the curtain and manipulated from
behind, the doll going through the motions of an animated delivery
of details connected with the play while an actor behind is
responsible for the words.
Special performances were given four times a year, when the shibai
ceremonial had a distinct place of its own; these were the celebration
of the New Year, Spring, the Bon, or Festival of the Dead, in
midsummer, and the opening of the shibai season in November. One of the
most interesting of these was the Kaomise, or Face-Showing ceremony, on
which occasion the actors were displayed before the admiring gaze of
the audience, not as characters in a play, but in their own persons, to
ask for the patronage of the people. It was a gracious acknowledgement
of their close relationship to the audience, and at the same time gave
expression to a subtle flattery of the playgoers, whom they thus took
into full confidence as an essential part of the theatre.
The Kaomise was generally held in November with the inauguration of new
theatrical season. At this time the actors prayed for the peace of the
country and a bountiful harvest. Elaborate preparations were made. The
night before many gay lanterns were seen on the theatre streets, even
before the smallest and most insignificant of buildings. The actors’
residences as well as the shibai tea-houses were bright with crested
lanterns, and large ones were placed at the entrance to the theatre and
on each side of the actors’ dressing-rooms. It was a veritable feast of
lanterns.
At this time the actors who had been engaged for the season were
announced. It meant a new combination of players, for Kyoto and Osaka
yakusha would come to Yedo, and _vice versa_. The playwrights and
musicians who were to serve the theatre for the ensuing year were also
secured, and proper announcements made during the Kaomise, as well as
the forthcoming plays, whether newly written or old favourites in a new
guise.
In the Kaomise ceremony the actors came to the stage by turns, and
addressing the audience in an intimate way told what characters they
would play, that they were glad to see the audience, and asked
for their favour. This took up a great deal of time, but the occasion
was gay and pleasant, and formed a fitting beginning to the theatre
season. On the first day there was no charge for admission, and after
the actors had introduced themselves special plays were performed.
Details of the Kaomise differed in the three towns, and varied
according to the taste of the actors, who improvised to suit their own
fancy. In Osaka, according to the _Kokon Yakusha Taizen_, the Kaomise
was given seven times in succession, beginning in the evening and
terminating in the small hours of the next day. Lanterns festooned
the Dotombori, Osaka’s chief theatre street, bearing the crests of
the leading actors. Gifts to the actors consisting of tubs of sake,
bales of rice, dried fish, etc., were piled up so high as to reach the
drum-tower. Playgoers came in boats by way of the Dotombori canal,
the town being transected, then as now, by innumerable waterways. The
author declares that the Osaka Kaomise was superior in attractions to
similar ceremonies in Yedo or Kyoto, and that the scene was so fine
that words could not be found to give it adequate description.
The dignity of the theatre was again shown in the Kojo, another
announcement ceremony, when a promotion in rank, succession to a new
stage name, or accession to the headship of an illustrious actor-family
was made known to the audience. At such times the actors prostrated
themselves on the stage, their heads touching their outspread hands.
Then the chief actor would raise his face and speak on behalf of the
actor whose change in rank or name was thus announced. He would in his
turn, with the utmost modesty and humility, ask the audience to be
lenient with his many mistakes, but that he hoped to improve and to
please them in the future.
Among the many actor customs there was the Ashigoroye, or
Arranging-the-Feet-in-Good-Order. Previous to the opening day of a new
performance, the young actors would assemble outside the theatre
and then proceed to the residence of the head of the company, their
chief, who would receive them in state, sitting in a place of ceremony.
The guests were clad in their best garments, and each one would receive
a cup of sake from the host and return it to him. After partaking of a
feast, all were requested to contribute to the evening’s entertainment
by a song or dance. This custom gradually disappeared.
In connection with the November Kaomise there was a social
gathering of the theatre people called the Yosehajime, or
Getting-Together-for-the-First-Time. The men employed in the business
management of the theatre attired in their best, carrying large
lanterns in their hands adorned with the crest of the theatre,
proceeded to the homes of the actors, where they were received and a
fine repast spread before them.
Then the chief actors repaired to the residence of the theatre manager
where they were warmly welcomed, while the onnagata gathered at the
home of the leading onnagata, as might have been expected of such
lady-like players.
At length actors, playwrights, managers, and musicians, all those
engaged for the year to fill their respective niches in the theatre
world, assembled outside the shibai just beneath the drum-tower, a
goodly company of theatre-folk on the best of terms with one another.
Under the leadership of the manager, they entered the theatre where a
banquet was held in a room behind the stage.
[Illustration: To mark the opening of the theatre season when actors,
playwrights, and musicians were engaged, there was a gathering called
Seeing-For-The-First-Time. (Colour print by Torii Kiyonaga.)]
There is a colour print by Torii Kiyonaga, painted and printed in
1784, depicting this custom so faithfully that it brings the scene
vividly before our eyes. It shows the low two-storied houses on each
side of theatre street in Yedo, with a glimpse of the drum-tower of
the Nakamura-za to the right. On the big lanterns elevated on poles on
each side of the theatre entrances, are seen the crests that recall
the dream of Saruwaka Kansaburo, the founder of Yedo Kabuki, while
waiting for a licence to open his theatre. He dreamed that a stork
with a branch of an icho tree in its beak flew from the summit
of Mount Fuji and entered his house. He took this as a good omen for
his new enterprise, and the theatre crests were chosen in accordance
with his dream. In Kiyonaga’s print a flying stork is seen on one
lantern, a fan-shaped icho leaf on the other, while these two emblems
of the Nakamura-za are represented on the paper spheres adorning the
tea-houses and actors’ residences that line each side of the narrow
thoroughfare.
In this picture the representatives of the theatre world are clad
in the silk shirts and the stiff upper garments, or kamishimo, worn
over the shoulders and tucked into their belts, that distinguished
the gentleman of that day. If the yakusha were spoken of as riverside
beggars, they still clung to the conventional garb of the middle and
upper classes at that time worn in Japan. They also carried a sword
in their belts, which was the privilege of the samurai. But this
concession had been allowed since the Shogun had issued an order that
the actors should be taught morality, and as a step towards their
“uplift” it was commanded that they should be neatly dressed and wear a
sword on leaving the theatre. When the play was over, the chief actor
was escorted home by two young actors, a servant bearing a chest of
clothing. The onnagata was accompanied to his house by attendants,
one holding a big protecting umbrella over the head of the creator of
feminine rôles.
With a similar display of dignity, the actor made his round of calls
during the New Year season, the sleeves of his kimono bearing the crest
of his family, a retinue following in his wake, the cynosure of all
eyes as he passed through the admiring throngs of holiday-makers.
There were interesting customs in connection with the door-keepers.
They were strangely costumed in long trailing women’s kimono, of vivid
hues and bearing loud designs, thrown on carelessly over their ordinary
wearing apparel, ostensibly to keep themselves warm, as they sat for
long hours on raised platforms just outside the entrance doors, but in
reality this striking attire was assumed to attract the attention
of the public. Over their heads and drawn down over their ears were
towels that were dyed with the crest of the chief actor of the theatre.
One of these men was busy dealing out the tickets, long oblong pieces
of wood, on which were written the big black Chinese characters
denoting the place in the theatre it entitled the purchaser to take.
The second door-keeper was more of a persuader than a distributor of
wooden tickets, for with fan in hand he gesticulated while he loudly
advertised the plays and players, sometimes imitating the delivery
of the actor’s lines. His task was to keep up a flow of small talk,
interspersed with wit and humour, and so induce people to enter.
[Illustration: ADVERTISING THE PLAY. During the performances two men
garbed in long trailing feminine attire, their heads covered with
cotton towels, attracted the passers-by by their verbal advertisement.
One imitated the lines of the actors, and the other handed out wooden
tickets. (Colour print by Hasegawa Kanpei, the fourteenth, and Torii
Kiyosada, father of Kiyotada.)]
Previous to the opening day, the door-keepers read the names of the
plays, the actors, and their parts. Dressed in their womanish kimono
they presented an extraordinary sight, as, holding between them a long
paper scroll on which the programme was written, they delivered their
voluble announcement to the crowds anxious to hear news of what was
going forward in the shibai.
With a change of programme, the actors and their rôles were advertised
to the public by an actor’s crest board, narrow pieces of wood with the
crest at the top. These were arranged side by side outside the shibai.
One of the most interesting customs was the kamban, or bill-board on
which paintings of a high order were frequently to be seen. These
posters illustrating the plays, done in bright colours, were hung
on kamban that were bordered by wide lacquered frames often richly
ornamented with brass, and placed along the front of the shibai.
A special school of painters was called into being to look after these
pictorial advertisements, and they became the specialty of the Torii
family. They were first started in Genroku by an actor-founder of this
line of theatre artists. Less beautiful street posters were pasted up
on fences and houses where several roads met.
With the beginning of Kabuki, the shibai advertisements consisted
of boards on which Chinese characters were written. Later on,
in Kyoto these simple announcements were framed and decorated with
artificial flowers. To make them even more attractive an actor pasted
a picture on the board. These posters were placed in the street to
proclaim to the passer-by the nature of the coming performances.
This custom originated with Nagoya Sansaburo, when he sought to make
O-Kuni’s river-bed show widely known. He was the first person to write
announcements on wood in Chinese characters and to set them up at the
cross-roads.
The founder of the Torii family was an Osaka actor, who followed the
onnagata specialty, but painting was his hobby, and he began to make
pictures for the kamban of Dotombori. Later he removed to Yedo. His
son, Kiyonobu, inherited his father’s talent, and as his style of
painting greatly pleased the Yedo people, he soon became very popular
and was called Torii, the first.
It is recorded that an artist of another school was requested to make
the Yedo Kamban. In 1818 there was a disagreement between the then
reigning theatre artist Torii Kiyomitsu and the management of the
Kawarazaki-za, with the result that Utagawa Kuniyoshi was asked to
undertake the work. He chose for his subject O-Kuni Kabuki, and treated
it so well that all Yedo made a pilgrimage to gaze upon the picture,
and the plays in progress within the shibai proved to be of lesser
attraction. This not only resulted in a falling-off in attendance,
but shortly after the theatre was burned down, and the superstitious
playfolk traced this ill luck to the absence of the Torii posters. They
hurried back to him, and he continued to monopolise this feature of
shibai. To-day the traditions are being carried on with much success
by Torii Kiyotada, the seventh Torii to be associated with the work of
painting shibai posters.
The different members of the Torii school have also been responsible
for the banzuke, or illustrated theatre programmes, that are sent out
by an actor to his patrons or by the theatre to its supporters. The
banzuke consists of a large piece of paper on which are seen brush
sketches of the plays and characters. These are neatly folded,
and give the playgoers the whole story of the new programme. This old
custom is still in force.
Shibai chaya, or the tea-houses that served playgoers, are not to-day
what they were in former times, since their usefulness has practically
departed. In the brave days of old, the chaya were influential
institutions, for no respectable persons would dream of entering the
shibai by any other way than through the tea-house.
Owing to the long theatre hours, which continued from sunrise to
sunset, the chaya became a positive necessity. The intervals between
the curtains were often very long, for the actors and their dependents
performed their work in a leisurely manner, considerations of time
scarcely entering into their calculations, as the plays went on from
twelve to fourteen hours.
Moreover, there were no conveniences in connection with the shibai of
those days, and it was necessary for every one to seek out the chaya
for recreation, gossip, food, or rest. Although the samurai were not
supposed to be seen at such a vulgar entertainment as the shibai, he
managed to be a frequent visitor, often attending incognito. If he
went in his proper attire, he carried two swords thrust through his
waistband, and when such a dignitary condescended to witness the plays,
his precious weapon, often a family treasure, had to be deposited in
the chaya before he could kneel down to enjoy himself in his box in the
gallery.
There were many kinds of chaya attached to shibai,—the great chaya,
or first-class tea-houses, in close proximity to the theatre, and the
front chaya, or those somewhat detached, generally opposite. Many
little chaya or small places of business, were also to be found.
A first-class theatre had as many as nineteen chief tea-houses,
twenty-eight of a slightly different grade, and a great variety of
minor places. The maids of the tea-houses waited on their guests with
tea and cakes, cushions, tobacco, and the chaya vied with each
other in the cooking of tempting dishes. The old customs with regard
to the tea-house in Tokyo were to be seen at the Ichimura-za until the
earthquake disaster, where much that characterised the Yedo playhouses
was preserved.
Kyoto audiences were unaccustomed to applaud in the early period
of Kabuki. They discussed the plays and players and gossiped among
themselves. If a playgoer wished to tell an actor how well he had
done, he would write a note to this effect and have it sent into his
dressing-room. Osaka audiences were not so restrained, and early in
Genroku it was the custom for the Dotombori playgoers to shout and clap
their hands. The actors were much gratified, for, like members of their
fraternity in other parts of the world, they were not above playing to
the gallery.
The first time a person in an audience in Osaka dared to express the
pleasure the actors had given him, he shouted out loudly, “You did
very well!” There were occasions, however, when the enthusiasts in
the audience used complicated sentences when bestowing praise, and so
interfered with the plays.
The audience was also quick to show disappointment at the failure of
the players and did not hesitate to shower them with adverse criticism,
some quick-tempered persons throwing cushions and other objects at the
stage if the play did not suit them.
Yedo was not far behind Osaka in noisy demonstrations, and the
audiences of present-day Tokyo, Osaka, and Kyoto still maintain the
characteristics that distinguished their ancestors two hundred years
ago.
Quite necessary to the management of an audience that remained under
the roof of the theatre for twelve hours were the dekata, or servitors
of shibai. The rank and file of the dekata were ushers, and wore dark
kimono tucked into baggy Turkish trousers. They showed the people to
their seats, brought them cushions on which to kneel, supplied them
with programmes, tea, cakes, and tobacco, and were as busy as the
denizens of an ant-hill the entire day.
There were two divisions of dekata, headed by leaders, or managers
whose higher rank permitted them to wear haori, or overcoats, which
sometimes bore the crest of the theatre. The duty of some of these
servants was to wait upon the actors in their comings and goings.
Others had charge of the seats in the gallery reserved for special
playgoers. Two of these men were selected to sit on either side of the
stage, to see that the play was not disturbed, for the presence of a
fighting man who had partaken not wisely but too well of sake would
sometimes cause great confusion.
Another was stationed at the end of the hanamichi, where some of the
best acting was done. His special duties, as keeper of the way, were to
see that it was kept clear for the entrances and exits of the actors.
Others were given the task to guard the actors’ dressing-rooms, to
prevent the intrusion of unwelcome outsiders, who sometimes strayed
unbidden into the calm atmosphere of the world over which the actors
held sway.
While the dekata wore dun-coloured garments, the personal servants
of the actors were truly theatrical in appearance, for they donned
bright blue or red kimono that had for pattern a design showing the
crest of the actor to whom they were attached. It was their custom to
pay special courtesies to a patron of their chief when he visited the
theatre, and the more consequential or wealthy this individual happened
to be, the greater the number of actor attendants who waited upon him,
which marked him out as a playgoer of first importance.
[Illustration: FACE LIGHTS FOR THE ACTORS. When the theatre became dark
it was necessary to illumine the actor’s face with candle light. Here
property men are holding out candles on the ends of pliant rods that
the face of the dancer may be seen, and candles form the foot lights.
The performer is the serpent princess in the disguise of a beautiful
dancer in the piece Dojo-ji. (Colour print by Hasegawa Kanpei, the
fourteenth, and Torii Kiyosada, father of Kiyotada.)]
For footlights, there were candles set in tall wooden candlesticks
along the front of the stage. These were not sufficient on a stormy or
gloomy day, and tsura akari, or face-lights, were introduced the better
to illuminate the actor’s countenance and costume. Stage assistants to
right and left held these candles up, adapting themselves with great
dexterity to the movements of the actors.
Now and then this custom is still to be seen in the theatres of
Tokyo and Osaka, when the effect is so pleasing that the electric light
with its harsh glare appears to be anything but a happy invention for
stage illumination.
Perhaps one of the most picturesque shibai customs in Yedo was the
ceremony of Norikomi,—literally, to-come-riding. When an Osaka or Kyoto
actor travelled along the Tokaido, the main highway between Kyoto
and Yedo, he was accorded a special reception at the end of his long
journey, and was generally met some distance out of Yedo.
His means of conveyance was a kago, or palanquin, something after the
fashion of a sedan chair, which was firmly fastened to a stout pole
borne on the shoulders of many bearers in front and behind. Often an
actor of importance accompanied by his pupils and servants made quite
a retinue, and caused a small sensation among the townspeople as the
procession wound through the streets.
When the visiting actor drew near the theatre that had engaged him,
the entire fraternity of shibai people, dressed in kimono of the same
colour, waving fans, came out to meet the newcomer and shouted a noisy
welcome, clapped their hands in regular rhythms, to which the actor
would respond by clapping his own. Afterwards a feast was spread and
sake cups exchanged. This began in Yedo, and was also observed in
Osaka, but the Yedo Norikomi was always much more gay and festive.
These are a few of the many interesting shibai customs that were in
vogue in Yedo, Osaka, and Kyoto, before such world events as the
Declaration of American Independence or the French Revolution.
[Illustration: Ceremony of welcoming an actor. It represents the
onnagata, Segawa Kikunojo, returning to the Nakamura-za in Yedo after
an absence of two years in Osaka. (From a colour print by Utagawa
Toyokuni.)]
CHAPTER XIX
SHIBAI AND OUTSIDE INFLUENCE
The rills of outside influence that trickled into shibai during the 225
years of Tokugawa peace were very small, but the real hunger of the
people for knowledge from overseas is shown in the eagerness with which
Kabuki appropriated such information as could be smuggled into the
country.
From the time that O-Kuni and her successors wore rosaries with the
cross attached as a decoration for their stage costumes, Kabuki
exhibited receptiveness to imported ideas from Europe and China.
When O-Kuni was attracting the populace of Kyoto everything European
became suddenly the vogue. Murdoch in his _History of Japan_ refers to
this period of Western influence as follows: “Western dress became so
common that on casually meeting a crowd of courtiers it was difficult
to say at once whether they were Portuguese or Japanese. To imitate the
Portuguese some of the most ardent votaries of fashion even went so far
as to commit the paternoster and the Ave Maria to memory. Reliquaries
and rosaries were eagerly bought; all the lords, Hideyoshi and his
nephew, went about with crucifixes and reliquaries hanging from their
necks, a tribute not to piety, but to fashion.” Murdoch also mentions a
feudal lord who marched to Yedo at the head of two thousand picked men,
whose banners all bore beautiful crosses, while on his own helmet was a
great “Jesus” in gold.
It was in the middle of the sixteenth century that the relations
between Japan and the West first began, with the coming of the
Portuguese ships to the coast of Kyushu in 1543. They were followed by
the Spanish, English, and Dutch. Xavier reached Japan in 1549 and left
in 1551.
As the result of the Jesuit missionaries’ activities, Christianity
spread in the neighbourhood of Kyoto, where churches were built.
An English factory was established in Japan in 1613, but withdrew
ten years later. The Jesuits came to be looked upon as political
intriguers, and Hideyoshi issued orders to suppress Christianity. The
expulsion of the Spaniards took place in 1624, followed by edicts
against the Portuguese and Dutch.
By 1630 Western books were interdicted, and in 1635 all travelling
abroad was prohibited under penalty of death. Ninety years after
the first arrival of the Portuguese ships, foreign intercourse was
forbidden, except with the Dutch and Chinese under severe restrictions.
So rigorous were the measures taken against Christianity that by 1638
it had been practically extirpated.
This did not prevent the people from evincing great curiosity with
regard to the unknown lands beyond the seas, and references to the
forbidden subject were frequent in the plays, particularly those
written for the marionettes. In these old pieces the playwrights
equipped their characters with the firearms introduced by the
Portuguese, who had given instruction how to make guns and cast cannon.
In one of these plays a telescope is seen, which two comedians use with
such telling effect that they can see the approach of the heroine from
afar. Other characters take out spectacles the better to see to read
by the light of the oil wick in the andon, or portable paper lantern
carried about to illuminate a room.
This early period of intercourse with other lands produced an
unmistakable effect upon stage costumes. Many of them have been
carefully preserved, and may be seen to-day. They are generally
fastened in the front by many buttons, and are made of materials never
in common use in Japan.
In a play written long ago a line occurs with the words: “Love is
a magnet”. And in one of the eighteen hereditary pieces of the Ichikawa
family the theme of magnetism is dramatised.
Records are left to tell how various actors travelled to Nagasaki. This
was not a theatre centre, and it may be surmised that the quest was
made to obtain information from the Dutch, who were allowed to live
at Deshima, a small island outside Nagasaki harbour. Here they were
confined and allowed to trade, but were refused permission to put foot
on the mainland. A gay dance known in shibai by the un-Japanese name
of Kappore, is thought to have had a Western origin. Some actor or
musician must have witnessed the sailors of a trading ship performing
in a treaty port.
The treatment of the Chinese during the Tokugawa regime was much
better than that meted out to the Dutch. The Ming dynasty in China
was overthrown in 1644, and this brought many refugees to Japan.
The Chinese were free to move about the country, to have their own
quarters, and to build temples. Among them were traders, scholars,
artists, and doctors. It is not unlikely that actors, or those
familiar with the Chinese theatre, were also among the representatives
of China in Japan at that time. Fenollosa mentions that complex
Chinese movements of every variety were surging about Kyoto in Horeki
(1751–1763), and that Japanese scholars obtaining painted scrolls and
books in Nagasaki returned to Kyoto or Yedo laden down with them.
Some indirect influence may have been brought to bear upon Kabuki and
Ningyo-shibai from these sources.
Aragoto, or the rough acting of Ichikawa Danjuro, the first, was
closely akin to the principles uppermost on the Chinese stage. His
strange make-up, broad lines of black or red, or combinations of
black, blue, and red, are acknowledged to have come from China, and
other methods of making-up used on the doll-stage, later copied by the
yakusha, are undoubtedly of Chinese origin, as may easily be seen
by comparison with the present-day conventions on the Peking stage.
It was in the matter of stage costumes that Chinese influence was
greatest. Weavers had been brought over from China in Hideyoshi’s time
and were gradually assimilated with native workers. The making of
textiles reached the height of development in the Genroku age. This
importation of materials, rich in design and colour, had a remarkable
effect upon the costumes of the Nō stage, and to a considerable extent
also upon Kabuki and Ningyo-shibai. Rare stuffs, woollen and velvet
from Holland, were worn on the stage; gold brocades and embroideries
from China. Wigs were also greatly improved at this time, and beards,
probably from the Chinese theatre, began to be used.
In the Kabuki chronicles it is stated that a painting of Ichikawa
Danjuro, the second, was taken to China by traders plying between
Nagasaki and the Chinese ports, and it seems likely that the yakusha
became familiar with some of the favourite Chinese actors.
In his _Notes on Japanese Drama_ in the Transactions of the Asiatic
Society, the late Rev. Arthur Lloyd suggests the possible influence of
the West on shibai. He says:
“In 1603 the Spaniards had been fifty years in Japan, and they were not
all priests and missionaries. Sailors and merchants came, too, many of
whom would associate with Japanese, and some probably with Japanese of
the class to which O-Kuni and her husband, the ex-samurai, belonged.
Such men would naturally possess copies of some of Lope de Vega’s
comedies, and thus may have come to Japan the seed from which grew the
Kabuki theatre.”
This is pure conjecture on Mr. Lloyd’s part, but he used it to throw
light on the proscription of Kabuki plays, and explained that there
were other licentious practices in Japan in the seventeenth century
which were not interfered with, and that the proscription would become
intelligible and consistent if there was but a shadow of ground for
suspicion that the shibai and the Spaniard were even remotely
connected.
[Illustration: Nakamura Ganjiro of Osaka as a melancholy lover in a
play of the people.]
This view may be to some extent true, for the ever-suspicious
authorities were aware that the best avenue for the forbidden knowledge
to reach the people was the shibai, and hence their anxiety to prevent
the spread of radical ideas. Many incidents attest to this watchfulness
on the part of the officials. It is recorded that the father of the
third Nakamura Utayemon received magic power from a foreigner in a rôle
that required him to make a sudden transformation into a ghost.
Again, Tsuruya Namboku, a playwright who specialised in the ghostly,
wrote a piece with a sea rover, Tenjiku Tokubei, as hero, and as it
was necessary to effect a quick change in the stage management, the
alert censor suspected that Namboku had secured his information from
Christians, who were supposed to be devoted to magic methods. Namboku
was arrested, but was released, as there was not sufficient evidence to
prove that he had been in league with Occidentals.
Tsuruya Namboku created a character in Tenjiku Tokubei that has
outlived generations of actors and remains popular with modern
audiences. Tokubei sailed away on unknown seas to India and returned
with wealth greater than that of a daimyo, many strange tales to
relate, and curious articles to exhibit. Such a play must have been
of lively interest to the shut-in people of Japan, who were gradually
awakening to the attractions of the world without.
The costume of this sea adventurer is a most remarkable one, and no
doubt reflects the knowledge of Western clothing as it existed in Japan
a century ago, in Namboku’s time. It is a long coat of strange brown
material, belted in at the waist with a brass buckle for ornament;
the hat a circular affair banded with fur and crowned with a quaint
top-knot.
He finds that the girl he loves has become the concubine of the
feudal lord whose territory is adjacent to his village. Tokubei gains
audience of the lord and with great pride exhibits his fire-sticks
(matches), crocodile skins, sneezing powders (snuff), and perfumes.
He discusses with his host how the conquest of India may be effected.
But the conservative aristocrat turns a deaf ear to Tokubei’s tales,
and accuses him of harbouring Christian heresies. Kicking aside his
offerings the host leaves the room in disgust.
At home with his parents Tokubei is warned that the police are coming
to arrest him for practising Christian witchcraft. In the last scene
he appears on his scarlet sailing ship decorated with many brilliant
colours. There is a fight on board, a pardon arrives from the lord, but
at the same time he learns that his love, O-Tae, in despair, has taken
her life.
His native land holds nothing for him—better far that he follow the
fortunes of the sea. He gives the order to sail, and the big vessel
begins to turn, creaking and straining until the prow projects well
over the footlights, as though it would sail straight through the
audience.
Tokubei stands at the prow reading O-Tae’s farewell letter, which is so
long it reaches down over the side of the craft. The great white square
sail is hoisted, and the vessel points out to the imaginary ocean, the
gorgeous scarlet junk, with its sail full of the mystery of sea-going,
recalling dim memories of pirate tales which charmed in childhood.
In an article contributed to a theatre magazine, Ihara Seiseiin tells
how he discovered the plot of _Romeo and Juliet_ in a comedy by Tsuruya
Namboku, that indefatigable seeker after weird material for his plays.
The coincidence is attributed to the fact that at the time the play was
written, during Bunka (1804–1817), the Dutch were in Nagasaki and may
have produced the play, a report of which eventually reached Namboku’s
ears.
This work, says Ihara, was a comedy rather than a tragedy, and it was
called by the fanciful title, _Kokoro no Nazo Tokete Iro Ito_ (lit.,
The-Solution-of-the-Heart-Riddle-Coloured-Thread). The last two
words of the title were suggestive of the thread shop kept by a widow
named O-Ritsu, who had a beautiful young daughter, O-Chiyo, and
also refers to the tangled strands of the plot. It was in five acts,
the second and third showing Occidental influence. The head clerk,
or banto, of the shop was a villain called Sagohei. But O-Chiyo had
already bestowed her affections on a ronin, Honjo Tsunagoro. The
mother, not in the secret of her daughter’s love affair, settled upon
one Kambara Sagoro, and in spite of O-Chiyo’s unwillingness to accept
this man as husband the mother went forward with the preparations for
the marriage.
The scheming banto, who saw the pretty daughter as well as the
prosperous thread business slipping out of his grasp, resorted to
desperate measures, and consulted his confidential friend, a doctor
called Torin. From him a quantity of poison was secured, but it
possessed peculiar qualities, for like Juliet’s potion it produced sham
death, and an antidote was to be administered that would bring O-Chiyo
back to life.
The conversation concerning the poison was as follows:
Sagohei (turning to the doctor): I say, Torin-san, is this the poison I
asked you to prepare?
Torin: Yes, it is. It is called Hammyo. I mixed it with suitetsu,
hokyu, and sake, and it will kill a person in one minute. Should it
succeed, the bridegroom will be turned out of doors, and you will take
his place, also the thread shop will be yours. But I have an antidote
that will revive the bride, and she will become your wife. The dead
brought back to life! What a fine medicine I possess!
The banto received the deadly poison, and the doctor was just about
to hand over the antidote when Sagohei was called away. At the same
time the doctor received an urgent call to see a patient. There was
nothing left for him to do but to trust the antidote to the little
apprentice-boy of the shop.
This worthy went out to buy some pepper to be used in the soup at the
marriage feast. When he returned, the boy gave the wicked Sagohei the
pepper instead of the antidote, and as the condiment was opened in
the dark both Sagohei and the boy sneezed a good deal.
Then came that moment in a Japanese wedding when the bride and
bridegroom drink sake from the same cup. One sip of the poisoned sake
and O-Chiyo fell dead.
The stage then revolved, showing the kitchen and the sorrowful mother
holding an argument with Sagohei as to the disposition of the one
hundred ryo that was part of O-Chiyo’s dowry. The mother wished to
present it to a temple, but the clerk insisted it should be buried with
her.
O-Chiyo’s lover next appeared—discharged from service under his feudal
lord because he had been implicated in the loss of a highly treasured
poem in the handwriting of the poet. This had been pawned, and in order
to redeem it he was obliged to find 250 ryo.
The apprentice-boy threw away the antidote, thinking it was pepper
and therefore of no further use now that a calamity had overtaken the
house. Tsunagoro picked it up, and the boy told him that 100 ryo was
to be buried with the body. A night watchman happened to overhear the
boy’s words, and planned to rob the grave, Tsunagoro in desperate need
of money decided on the same course. Both the doctor and the clerk had
a similar end in view.
A graveyard is the next scene, O-Chiyo’s coffin in sight, while a
dead patient has been interred, with O-Chiyo’s name placed over it.
Tsunagoro watches, and when the doctor comes prowling about, knocks
him out with a blow. At this moment O-Chiyo begins to groan. Tsunagoro
wishes to give her the antidote but hesitates. Is it to be the money
or the woman? After a struggle, he decides he cannot leave O-Chiyo to
die, and so brings her back to life. She gladly parts with the money,
but asks him to run away with her, as she does not wish to return home.
This the ronin is in no mood to do, but finally they steal away arm in
arm as the night watchman and the clerk attempt to rob the grave, and
administer the pepper to restore the corpse to life which makes the
two rascals sneeze prodigiously. Unlike the majority of Japanese
plays that end in tragedy, Tsunagoro and O-Chiyo were married and lived
happily ever after.
With such a play Tsuruya Namboku entertained Yedo audiences a hundred
years ago.
* * * * *
Had shibai been wide open to the world, and relations with other
theatres established, its character must have been entirely different.
Very little evidence can be produced to show that either China or
Europe exerted any considerable influence upon it.
Owing to its enforced seclusion of more than two hundred years, it
was free to develop in its own way, and for this reason shibai may
be regarded as one of the purest and most characteristic of Japan’s
national institutions.
[Illustration: Crest of Otani Tomoemon (Cross).]
[Illustration: Crest of Kataoka Nizaemon (Two circles and lines).]
CHAPTER XX
MUSIC OF SHIBAI
Just as the impulse back of shibai had been the need of the people to
possess their own theatre, so the rise and development of Joruri during
the Tokugawa period was but the spirit of the common people seeking
expression in music.
Dignity, tranquillity, and refinement characterised the ancient Court
music and the complicated measures of the flute and drum of the Nō
stage. Something more cheerful, more stirring and gay, was necessary as
refreshment for the people. The instrument that caused a revolution in
the musical world of Japan was the samisen (lit., three strings), which
opened the floodgates for the inundation of the three towns by the
greatest variety of fushi, or tunes.
The samisen was not indigenous, and most accounts agree that it came
to Japan from the Loo Choo Islands. Some authors seek a Western origin
for the samisen, and think it was brought in by the Portuguese. One old
writer believed it to be an instrument used by the savages of Loo Choo
Islands, made from the skin of sea snakes. The ancestor of the samisen
is to-day carried by strolling minstrels in all the odd corners of
China, and must have been introduced into Japan by way of the southern
islands where the inhabitants were largely Chinese. The difference
that exists at present between the two guitar-like instruments of
the Asiatic continent and the Island Empire lies in the bodies,—that
of China covered with snake-skin in the natural colours, while white
tanned cat-skin serves the same purpose in Japan. The performer in both
cases uses a plectrum to strike the three strings and thereby
produces a whole world of rhythms unfamiliar to the ears of the
Occidental.
The Chinese instrument came to Japan by an indirect route, and was not
accompanied by musicians skilled in its mysteries. When it reached the
hands of the blind biwa players they were unacquainted with the deep
experience behind it, and were obliged to grope for a way themselves.
The samisen led to a period of the greatest musical creativeness the
country had ever witnessed, and the wonder grows that this innocent
little instrument produced in some remote time as a necessity of
the Chinese soul should have been discovered by the people of the
three towns and adapted to suit their musical requirements with such
astonishing results. Perhaps the magic measures of the samisen may yet
meet some need of the people in Western lands, and so in the fullness
of time please the ear of the whole world.
The samisen was not in use when O-Kuni and Nagoya Sansaburo began their
collaboration, for their musicians borrowed the flute and drum of the
Nō. Towards the end of the O-Kuni Kabuki, the samisen player had taken
up his position behind the dancers, and a new and livelier element had
become apparent in the performances.
Up to the advent of the samisen which brought about a complete
change in the music in vogue among the people, the musical forms of
the country had come to be the monopoly of the higher classes. The
gagaku, or music of the Imperial Court, could not be heard on ordinary
occasions, but was reserved for the highest functions. Transplanted
from China in the early days of intercourse between the two countries,
it was so far removed from affairs of everyday life as to belong to
some celestial land. After a thousand years this ancient music is still
heard at entertainments at Court, or in connection with Buddhist or
Shinto ceremonies, and its slow and stately cadences produce a serenity
in the minds of moderns that carries them back into an age when hurry
was unknown.
This music was too lofty, and beyond the grasp or enjoyment of
the people, even if it had been accessible to them. Entertainment was
afforded by the blind minstrels who played the biwa—an instrument not
unlike a lute in shape. They sang and recited the melancholy adventures
of the Heike, who were exterminated in their struggle with the Genji
clan, in sad and tragic tones—sounding the very depths of negation.
There was but little inspiration in this minstrelsy for the good people
of the three towns hungering for romance.
Likewise the Nō was reserved for the intellectuals, whose inner life
had been sufficiently cultivated to appreciate its rarefied atmosphere
of the unreal. Inseparable from the words and movements of the Nō were
the rhythms of drum and flute, full of mystery, Buddhism, asceticism,
its warriors and ghosts far removed from the world and its ways.
Before the samisen’s supremacy, the minstrels who went about relating
their stories scratched the ribs of their fans to form the beats
necessary to their recitals, and priests who sang songs to popularise
their scriptures beat their rhythms on the same metal gong as that
employed by O-Kuni. So necessary was rhythm as an accompaniment to
these ballads that the early minstrels shook a bundle of sticks, or
waved a metal rod like a baton.
With the greatly improved rhythms of the samisen at their command,
minstrels sprang up in all directions, the new style of music being
called Joruri, since the first ballad to be composed to the strains of
the samisen concerned the love adventures of Joruri-hime, or Princess
Joruri. Abundant materials were at hand, and the minstrels competed
with each other in depicting the life of the time. The songs sung
at festivals, by sailors, horsemen, farmers, vendors, were eagerly
seized,—stories of battles and love, even religious propaganda formed
the theme set to the ripple of the samisen.
This great activity culminated in the Joruri of Takemoto Gidayu
who, gathering up all the existing materials, concentrated them in
his little doll-theatre, the Takemoto-za of Osaka. Here Chikamatsu
Monzaemon collaborated with him, by writing the plays for the
marionettes that moved to the voice of minstrel and samisen
accompaniment. Gidayu Joruri, or the balladry of Takemoto Gidayu, in
turn had an overwhelming influence upon Kabuki.
It was Kineya Kisaburo who first introduced the samisen into the
orchestra of Yedo Kabuki. Kisaburo was the grandson of Kineya Kangoro,
a younger brother of Saruwaka Kansaburo, the founder of Yedo Kabuki.
Kangoro was an expert in the O-Kuni Kabuki, and when young was attached
to the Saruwaka-za as an actor. He had two actor sons, Kisaburo and
Rokuzaemon. Later on Kisaburo gave up acting, and took up the samisen
as his specialty. The name Kineya, or rice pounder, came from the crest
chosen by Nakamura Kangoro. Thus it came about that this family of
Kabuki musicians and singers were firmly established and have continued
until the present day.
The Kineya genealogy is extremely complicated, but the headship of
the house has been handed down from father to son. When there was a
failure in blood relation, the best pupil succeeded. The present Kineya
Rokuzaemon is the fourteenth in descent, a young man in the twenties.
He is at the head of the Kineya musicians attached to the Imperial
Theatre of Tokyo, possesses a good voice, and has appeared since he was
a lad, growing up, as it were, in the service of the stage.
At the time of the fifth Kineya, the theatre music in which the family
specialised became known as Nagauta (long poem or song). Before this,
the Kineya singers had entertained with short pieces, but their art
developed into something more important, for they furnished the
accompaniment of drum, flute, and samisen, also the singing to which
the actors danced in the music-posture dramas, or shosagoto, the most
characteristic productions of Kabuki.
This style of theatre music originating in Yedo, it has always
been distinguished as Yedo Nagauta. The music is reminiscent of the Nō,
from which it has taken much of its technique. The large number of Nō
dramas that have been popularised in order to suit Kabuki requirements
have received special treatment at the hands of different members of
the Kineya family, who possess some two hundred compositions.
There are several branches to Kineya—offshoots of the main line a
hundred or more years ago—such as Yoshizumi, Fujita, and Yoshimura. The
last two companies of musicians are chiefly attached to the Kabuki-za
of Tokyo, although they occasionally appear at other theatres. Tokyo
critics consider Yoshizumi Kosaburo to possess the best voice, but
it is not strong, and his activities are confined to entertainments
given in small halls or private residences. He is a ronin among the
musicians, and is not a regular member of a theatre company. The
two most popular Kineya singers at present are Yoshimura Ejuro, of
the Imperial Theatre, and Fujita Utazo, of the Kabuki-za. Kineya
Rokuzaemon, although young, has proved himself worthy to assume the
responsibilities as head of this old family.
After Nagauta, the most popular theatre music is Tokiwazu. It belongs
to Joruri, or balladry set to the samisen, one of the innumerable
streams of this music of the people. The minstrel who founded this
line was Miyakoji Bungojo, and his tune was styled Bungo-bushi.
This became all the rage in Yedo, for the words that went with the
new airs were highly sentimental, treating of love adventures,
elopements, and kindred subjects. It had an unwholesome effect upon
society, however, the Bungo-bushi inducing men and women to step out
of the prescribed paths of virtue. The authorities did everything
in their power to suppress it, but without success. It was but a
reaction against the Puritanic rule in force, and the themes of
Bungo-bushi—adultery, elopement, suicide, and gambling—were but an
expression of dissatisfaction on account of the rigid feudal laws
which continually interfered with the people, and caused them to break
loose by way of protest.
Miyakoji Bungojo lived the life of which he sang, for he was the victim
of an unhappy love affair and committed shinju, or double suicide, with
a young woman. His adopted son, Mojidayu, succeeded to and completed
his father’s work. When Bungo-bushi was forbidden, Mojidayu founded his
own school. He was afraid that his new style of music might suffer the
same fate as Bungo-bushi and made great changes. In order that it might
survive he took all the life and sensation out of it, so that it now
gives an impression of stiffness and repression.
When Mojidayu looked about for a name for his music, he hit upon one
that offended the authorities. It was considered much too assuming
and high-sounding, and was taken away from him in consequence. As
Mojidayu lived near one of Yedo’s bridges, the Tokiwa-bashi, or
Evergreen-Bridge, not far from the modern Bank of Japan, he selected
Tokiwazu, and by this name his music has been known ever since. The
present Mojidayu is the seventh in succession. Kiyomoto, another branch
of Gidayu, is closely allied to Tokiwazu, and a great variety of these
tunes may be heard among the people.
Shibai has faithfully preserved the most characteristic musical
elements, and it is within the theatre that Japanese music is best
represented. Gidayu Joruri, Yedo Nagauta, Tokiwazu, and Kiyomoto,
with a variety of minor styles, form the musical settings for Kabuki
productions.
The Gidayu Joruri in vogue in shibai is taken bodily from the
Doll-theatre, and is used whenever a drama written originally for
the marionettes is produced. In these masterpieces the actors are
responsible for the dialogue, while the minstrel sings the descriptions
to the accompanying rhythms of the samisen, giving the players an
opportunity to posture and gesture to their hearts’ content. The Gidayu
minstrel and samisen player kneel on cushions on a raised rostrum to
the right of the stage, a silver or gold screen behind them. In
front of the minstrel is a lacquered book-rest, where lies the ballad
book (joruri-bon) in which the passages of the play are written by
hand in large, bold characters. Sometimes the minstrel enters into the
conversation, when he scolds or weeps, laughs or pleads, according to
the emotion of the moment.
The difference between Gidayu and Nagauta is that the first is balladry
and requires both recitation and song, conversation and description,
while Nagauta is but a series of songs, solo or chorus, interspersed
with sustained orchestral effects of samisen, drum, and flute in
complicated rhythms. A full Nagauta corps, composed of many singers and
samisen players, all in ceremonial stage costume, kneeling in a row on
a red-covered dais across the stage, with the drummers grouped below,
forming a background for the gorgeous characters of the music-drama, is
an unforgettable and truly representative Kabuki picture.
In Nagauta the singers commit the words to memory, or have a small
book close beside them. Like the chorus of the Nō stage, they carry a
closed fan which is taken up in one hand as they sing, and placed in
front of them at the end of their song. Tokiwazu and Kiyomoto partaking
of the nature of Gidayu, the singers kneel behind the lacquered stands
supporting their books, and are generally stationed on a high platform
to left or back of the stage, the only instrument being the samisen.
The movable platforms on which the musicians and singers sit are pushed
on and pulled off as the exigencies of the descriptive dance require.
Sometimes a curtain is held up in order that they may make good their
escape from the stage.
As Nagauta had an affinity with the Nō, and treated of poetic and
mystical subjects, the upper classes patronised the Kineya family, and
it has therefore always enjoyed a superior position. These singers
and musicians were regarded in the theatre as guests of honour, who
had condescended to accept the hospitality of shibai. They were
never classed so low in the social strata as the yakusha, but had
a recognised rank and place.
With the members of the Gidayu, Tokiwazu, and Kiyomoto companies
it was different. Their patrons were the wealthy merchants and
tradespeople. And because Tokiwazu and Kiyomoto were so closely related
to shibai, they came to be considered as something low class and
vulgar. In addition, as the whole world of popular songs and short
dances that formed the accomplishment of the geisha were associated
with the samisen, this instrument was never heard in the homes of
persons of taste and breeding, or those who valued their position of
respectability.
One of the greatest defects of the samisen music is that it is divided
into so many schools, each guarding jealously its traditions. When
some new expression of the people’s will is necessary these separate
elements may be concentrated to form a new musical force, just as
Takemoto Gidayu recognised the value of the Joruri of his day and,
combining them, established the balladry of the Doll-theatre on a firm
foundation. Moreover, however much criticism may be levelled at the
samisen for the trivial and superficial matter with which it is often
related, it remains none the less the national music.
The samisen differs so largely from Western instruments that
comparisons are useless. This is because samisen music depends almost
completely on rhythm, rather than melody, to interpret emotion. Sound
is inexhaustible, and by groupings of sounds in changing rhythms
the samisen musicians gain the effects they desire. Western ears
are so accustomed to harmony, that a departure from its stereotyped
combinations causes bewilderment and irritation. Any other use of sound
and rhythm than that to which their ears have grown familiar fails to
affect them. The music of shibai presents a whole world of uncharted
music material.
Ripple-clang-bang; smoothness, roughness, villainy, tranquillity;
falling snow, a flight of birds, wind in the tree-tops; skirmish
and fray, the peace of moonlight, the sorrow of parting, the rapture
of spring; the infirmity of age, the gladness of lovers,—all these and
much more the samisen expresses to those who are able to look beyond
the curtain that shuts this musical world away from Western ears
because of its baffling conventions of sound rather than melody.
Symbol of the despised yakusha, and in use in the
none-too-irreproachable geisha world, the samisen has been held in
disfavour by the upper classes. Left to their own devices, the people
created their own theatre, music, and art. There was no impetus from
the aristocracy, who held themselves aloof from the mass of the people.
The samurai had little to do with the creative spirit, the scholars
steeped in Chinese philosophy and literature looked backward to the
glorious past of Japan’s great continental neighbour,—it was the people
of the three towns, unaided, without guide or inspiration from their
betters, who produced the music of shibai, the plebeian legacy of the
Tokugawa age.
[Illustration: Crest of Nakamura Jakuemon (Two sparrows, face to face).]
CHAPTER XXI
SHIBAI AND INTERFERENCE
When the history of shibai is considered, the wonder grows that it did
not die of discouragement. The effects of the ceaseless persecution
that prohibited and hampered the creativeness of the theatre, and
brought it into evil repute can hardly be measured.
Although the chilly formalism of the Tokugawa Shogunate seriously
interfered with the development of the theatre, the latent genius of
the people asserted itself repeatedly with new vigour after each fresh
attack on the part of the authorities. Rules and regulations with
regard to stage settings, costumes, architecture, furniture, and plays
almost prohibited shibai out of existence. And the interference went so
far as to concern itself with petty persecutions in the matter of the
yakushas’ private lives.
Suppressed for centuries, the taste of the people began to express
itself in luxury and extravagance, and nowhere was this state of
society so perfectly mirrored as on the stage. Hence the constant
conflict between the officials and the theatre. The enforcement of
simple living ideals had gone too far, and the restless people, tired
of repression, like a pendulum that swings back, began to long after
the flesh-pots of Egypt.
How far frugality was carried out in Old Japan may be imagined from
a statement made by the late Marquis Okuma when, on one occasion, he
addressed new recruits to the Army. “In my province”, he said, “the
cultivation of the sweet potato was forbidden at one time. Similar
to this was the prohibition of sericulture by the Shogun’s
Government. The reason was that the fields were necessary for the
cultivation of rice, and should not be used for materials of luxury,
for by so doing the good old habits of the people would be entirely
destroyed. In this age of enlightenment,” Marquis Okuma continued,
“even a schoolboy could at once detect the fallacy of such a view, but
it enables us to see what great stress our fathers and grandfathers put
upon the importance of simple living.”
Another view concerning this side of Japanese life under the shogunate
is expressed by Murdoch in his _History of Japan_: “Even at the present
day the lower classes in Japan are remarkable for the fewness of their
wants, rather than for the abundance of their possessions; but in
the brave days of the sixteenth century few of them could indulge in
the luxury of having any wants at all, beyond those of the birds or
rabbits. The poverty of the country people at this time was clearly
grinding.”
Quite contrary in every respect were the resplendent yakusha, with
their extravagant tastes and striking styles that made such a strong
appeal to the senses, and the guiding principles of the nation which
placed little value on the possession of worldly goods and emphasised
simplicity and economy. Permeating the people was the Buddhist doctrine
of impermanency with its emphasis on the non-worship of things, and
opposed to this stood the yakusha who delighted in stage costumes
of the richest materials, the most dazzling embroideries in gold
or silver. The actors’ love of display and extravagance required
drastic measures in order that they should be held in check. The
very gorgeousness of the stage showing the purest instinct for all
the colours of the rainbow gathered up from the odd corners of Asia
produced tendencies in the people that it was considered necessary to
uproot.
It is curious to reflect that at identical periods the Puritans in
England and the Tokugawa Shogunate were interfering with the theatre,
for in 1642 an order of the English Parliament forbade all public
entertainments, and the shogunate prohibited the Wakashu Kabuki, or
Young Men’s Stage, in 1644. There was thus a similar attitude towards
the theatre in the two island nations of East and West, separated so
widely and as yet scarcely aware of each other’s existence.
After the Women’s Stage, or Onna Kabuki, had been stopped, Government
interference was frequent. The direct cause of the banishment of the
youthful actors of Wakashu Kabuki in 1644 is attributed to the chief
magistrate of Yedo. He was invited to a friend’s residence, and saw
among the attendants a young lad who was not only above the average
in good looks but graceful in his movements and showed superior
intelligence. The magistrate inquired his name and parentage, hoping to
engage him as a page in his household. To his astonishment he was told
that the attendant was an actor. Straightway he ordered the officials
under him to go to the theatre and see that the front locks of the
young players were shorn, for fear their attractiveness might be the
means of corrupting society.
The shaving of the actors’ heads, directly responsible for the downfall
of Wakashu Kabuki, continued long in force. And a further indignity was
heaped upon the yakusha, for they were obliged to proceed regularly to
the police station that their heads might be examined, as they were
prone to elude the authorities in this regard if not watched.
Soon after the edict that caused the abolition of Wakashu Kabuki the
four leading playhouses of Yedo, together with the doll-theatres and
minor places of amusement, were ordered to be suspended because of the
scandal between an actor and the wife of a daimyo. The authorities were
evidently bent on the extermination of the theatre, but after repeated
petitions on the part of the proprietors permission to reopen was
granted the following year.
That the actors were regarded with open admiration by the ladies of
the aristocracy is evident. Many stories are told with regard
to the measures they took to see the players, often inviting them
to their homes. This led to social breaches the officials were not
slow to hold up as fearful examples of depravity. In 1648 the third
Shogun’s Cabinet issued an order against members of the aristocracy
attending the theatre, and in 1655 there was a regulation to the effect
that as already proclaimed the yakusha were not allowed to attend the
mansions of the aristocracy even if they were invited. With regard to
their stage costumes they must not be luxurious, and plays in which
extravagance was displayed were not allowed to be performed.
A conflagration that swept Yedo in 1657, in the third year of
Meireki, called the Great Fire of Meireki, gave the authorities a
good opportunity to confine the theatres to one quarter. The fire had
started from a Buddhist temple, and lasted until the following day,
destroying the business centre of the town. When after considerable
delay the theatres were allowed to be rebuilt, fewer licences were
granted, and but four large shibai were permitted to be erected in
Sakai-machi. Here for a period all the places of amusement, large or
small, were segregated.
A description of Sakai-machi is given in _Joruri Shi_, or the History
of Joruri, by Takano. He writes that it was a long street running east
and west. To the south were several doll-theatres clustering on each
side of the Nakamura-za. But a short distance away were the Ichimura-za
and Miyako-za, set in the midst of marionette shows. “Imagine how
flourishing these places were in olden times”, observes the author.
Side by side were the shibai, wherein the inanimate marionettes
competed with the actors of flesh and blood, all the buildings crowded
together on one thoroughfare,—each theatre displaying its banners,
flags, lanterns, and crests, while the sound of the drums beaten in the
yagura, or drum-towers, must have made quite a stir in the peaceful
Yedo of those days.
By 1661 the yakusha’s footsteps were dogged by regulations. He was
not allowed to mingle freely with the people. In 1662 it was forbidden
for actors to use sticks ornamented with gold or silver, and he was
ordered to wear a kimono of the plainest description. If he consulted
his own taste and wore patterned material that showed a gay design,
he was promptly pounced upon. Under pains and penalties the yakusha
was not to ride in a kago, or palanquin, or on horse, and expressly
prohibited from walking about freely.
These regulations relating to the daily lives of the play-actors became
a species of tyranny, and it was not surprising that they were broken
heedless of the consequences. For it was found impossible to suppress
a human being’s most natural desires and instincts. In consequence
the same rules and regulations were made over and over again, the
strictness of the observance depending on the firmness or laxity of the
officials in power.
Although the inclination of the actors and playwrights was always
towards a larger and freer expression of their taste in colour and
design, yet they were obliged to keep to things less ornate, for in
1668 there were declarations that the theatres of Sakai-machi must
not be gorgeous, but as modest as possible. Cotton and silk materials
of an inferior quality were to be used for stage costumes, the best
workmanship in embroidery was to be avoided, and the use of red or
purple dye was entirely forbidden. Curtains of cotton crepe were
granted, but those of silk could not be used. Yakusha were ordered
not to meet members of the samurai class after acting, and they must
not speak with traders or artisans except for a brief meeting. The
actors were also forbidden to enter the shibai chaya, or mix with the
audience, and as these regulations were frequently ignored, punishments
were continually inflicted for infringements.
Again in 1678 there was an official announcement to the effect that it
was rumoured the actors were called to the residences of samurai and
merchants. If discovered, the delinquents were to be severely punished.
The actors’ residences were restricted to the theatre district;
furthermore, they were not to lodge in the houses of other people, or
to have as inmates of their homes those who pursued other walks of life.
Regulations issued in this same year concerned finery on the stage,
which was to be carefully avoided. The costumes, both of the yakusha
and the marionette, were required to be fashioned of cheap silk or
cotton, and greater strictness was to be observed in the shaving of the
actors’ heads.
Should an actor and his patrons feel inclined to take a pleasant
outing together on the Sumida river, it was regarded as a serious
lapse from grace, and as for straying outside the prescribed limits
the authorities found themselves busy enforcing their rules, since the
irrepressible yakusha could not be kept within bounds very long at a
time.
There was a regulation demanding that metal should not be used for
stage swords; they were to be of wood or bamboo covered with silver
powder. Another forbade actors from being smuggled into the mansions of
samurai or merchants clad in female costumes, nor were they to enter
the homes of private citizens under the assumption that they did not
belong to the degraded fraternity.
During these long years of interference, one outstanding event came
to be largely responsible for the strict supervision of the theatres,
and this was the scandal involving the actor Ikushima Shingoro and
Yenoshima, a lady-in-waiting at the Shogun’s Court. Their amours proved
to be a social upheaval the officials could neither forget nor forgive.
Long after the affair had blown over it remained a dark cloud that cast
its shadow on succeeding generations of actors.
An account of this, taken from _Chiyoda no Oku_, or the Harem of Yedo
Castle, is quoted by Ihara Seiseiin, in his _History of the Japanese
Stage_. It tells how the unfortunate theatre-folk became victims
because of Lady Yenoshima’s passion for Ikushima Shingoro.
Some time in 1714 the Yamamura-za, one of Yedo’s original shibai,
was opened, and Ikushima Shingoro was playing there with much success.
At the same time, one of the most prominent among the ladies-in-waiting
in the castle was to be sent to pray at the temple of Zojo-ji, as a
representative of the mother of Shogun Iyetsugu. Owing to the fact that
several daimyo, or feudal lords, and hatamoto, or direct vassals of the
Shogun, had selected this day to repair to the temple to take part in
Buddhist services, the Court lady’s visit was postponed, and Yenoshima
chosen to fulfil the duty.
Accordingly she sent a messenger to acquaint the priests that she
intended to arrive very early in the morning, and that no preparations
would be necessary for her reception. She would, however, find it
highly gratifying if arrangements could be made whereby she and her
party could pay a visit to a theatre in Sakai-machi. As might have been
expected, the reply of the priests to this missive was that the theatre
part of the lady’s programme was impossible, since it was outside their
jurisdiction.
This made Yenoshima very angry, and she arranged matters to suit
herself. There was a young clerk, or banto, in the employ of a Yedo
dry-goods establishment, and he was accustomed to go to the castle
regularly for orders. Here was a likely person to carry out her
commands, and he was accordingly commissioned to prepare the gallery of
the Yamamura-za for a party of one hundred persons.
As planned Yenoshima proceeded to Zojo-ji, but hurrying over her
spiritual duties, and presenting but a portion of the money, materials,
and other gifts that were designed for the priests, she kept the
remainder to be distributed as personal favours at the theatre. She was
accompanied by several other ladies-in-waiting of first rank, as well
as those who occupied lesser positions in the secluded world of the
Shogun’s household; also by male attendants.
The arrival of this company at the Yamamura-za must have presented
a most unusual spectacle in theatre street. Yamamura Chodayu,
the proprietor of the theatre, with the leading actors, Ikushima
Shingoro and Nakamura Seigoro, clad in ceremonial costumes, welcomed
the distinguished visitors at the entrance to the theatre. During an
interval between the plays a feast was held, and Yenoshima, who became
slightly intoxicated, spilled a bottle of sake, the contents of which
fell down on the heads of a party below. It happened to be a samurai of
the Satsuma clan accompanied by his wife. Although one of Yenoshima’s
party apologised, the irate samurai left the theatre.
Yenoshima was advised to return to the castle without delay, but she
would not listen, determined to enjoy the adventure to the utmost.
Yamamura Chodayu invited the ladies to his private residence, where
Nakamura Seigoro and his wife assisted in the entertainment. This young
woman was very beautiful, a graceful dancer as well as accomplished
samisen player, and had often been called to the castle to amuse the
Shogun’s mother.
It was not until late at night that Yenoshima retired, returning to the
castle, and entering by an inconspicuous gate. Yenoshima, who was a
bold and independent character, 33 years of age, with an income of 600
koku of rice to her credit, patched up a story of the day’s proceedings
for the benefit of the Shogun’s mother, omitting all reference to her
wild escapade at the theatre.
In due time the whole matter came to the knowledge of the officials,
when it was discovered that Yenoshima had been carrying on relations
with Ikushima Shingoro for seven years, and that she had taken one of
this actor’s daughters into the service of the Court under the false
pretence that the girl was from a samurai family.
The Government dealt severely with all those who had participated in
the carousal. Yenoshima was sentenced to exile on a lonely island,
her fate being softened at a later date through the clemency of the
Shogun’s mother, who pleaded for her, when she was taken into the
custody of the daimyo of the Province of Shinano.
It was the custom of these days for the entire family to suffer
when one member had committed an offence, and consequently the death
penalty was meted out to Yenoshima’s elder brother, while a young
brother was exiled. Other relatives shared in the punishment.
As for Yamamura Chodayu, Ikushima Shingoro, and Nakamura Seigoro, they,
too, were exiled—even Iwai Hanshiro, the most popular onnagata of the
period, sharing in the banishment. The Yamamura-za was first deprived
of its licence, then the building was demolished and the property
confiscated by the Government. Such was the end of the Yamamura-za, for
it never dared to raise its head again among the Yedo shibai.
At the same time the theatre censors drew their net of regulations
closer and closer. Yedo shibai, unlike those of Osaka and Kyoto, had
previous to the Yenoshima affair two galleries, making three stories,
but the authorities reduced them to one. Thin bamboo blinds had been
suspended from the galleries as a protection for high-class playgoers
that they might be removed from the vulgar gaze, but these were ordered
to be taken down. This meant that persons of good family could no
longer attend the theatre. Passage-ways from the theatre to the homes
of the proprietors were taken away, special rooms for banqueting at
the tea-houses were given up. Even the roofs of the theatres, that had
been constructed in a more substantial way to protect playgoers against
the elements, were ordered to be made in a lighter fashion. When
alterations were desired in the construction of theatres or tea-houses,
report had to be made first to the officials before permission to
proceed could be obtained. The theatre was closed early, and no plays
allowed to run after sunset.
Such were some of the shibai regulations that came about as the result
of the Lady Yenoshima’s indiscretions.
Stage costumes especially came under the merciless scrutiny of the
authorities. Special restrictions were made in 1789. All costumes were
examined on the day preceding the performance. Officials were
appointed whose duty it became to examine stage affairs to the minutest
detail, and after they had peered into all the nooks and corners behind
the stage, they gave permission for the play to be performed, or
interfered sadly with the arrangements, by demanding alterations at the
last moment, according to their whim, or from some idea of the proper
respect due to their dignity. If there were any changes in the plays
after the inspection, the offenders were summoned to appear at the
censor’s office and were fined or reprimanded.
Many devices were resorted to by the yakusha to protect their
beautiful kimono that they often designed themselves and as frequently
embroidered with their own hands. Sometimes the better to pass the
officials’ inspection they sewed pieces of plain material over the
decorated portions of their costumes, but if a report of fine raiment
reached the ears of the ever-watchful ones, reprimands were in order.
As a means to put down extravagance, it was ordered that the actors’
salaries should be reduced by half. But the yakusha generally found
ways and means to evade this attempt against his income. Requests were
made to the officials by the management that an actor wished more
salary, and if this was refused he remained away from the theatre
under pretence of illness. The plays could not go on without the
drawing attraction of the popular actors, and there came a time when
the troubled managers asked the officials how the shibai could be
maintained under such circumstances. The fourth Nakamura Utayemon was
fined for receiving too much salary. Nakamura Nakazo records in his
journal how his theatre could not make the customary advance on his
salary and he received a short sword by way of compensation.
When an onnagata, Segawa Kikunojo, was returning home from the theatre
one day in the year 1789, he wore an attractive kimono made of good
silk crepe, and his clothing was confiscated. Onoe Matsusuke, when
taking the rôle of a Court lady, wore a beautiful over-garment
tied with silver cords, and was reprimanded for extravagance. The third
Nakamura Utayemon was responsible for a costly curtain used during one
of his performances, and he was taken to task by the officials, with
the result that he became disgusted and decided to return to the Osaka
stage. As he had made an agreement with the Yedo theatre for a term of
two years and he had remained but one, the authorities brought him back
to serve out his contract.
A gay performance was given at the Nakamura-za in 1791, and the stage
properties were confiscated. Ichikawa Yaozo made a gift of one hundred
and ten kimono to the people of the theatre, and when this raised the
ire of the economy-loving officials Yaozo is reported to have said: “My
father Yaozo left 100 ryo to be used in accordance with his will. I
gave the kimono as he wished.”
At the Ichimura-za a robber was depicted selling the treasures of a
daimyo, and the authorities stopped it because it related to a feudal
lord. When a festival was held at the Ichimura-za in memory of the
Soga Brothers, the heroes of many a Kabuki piece, the theatre people
wore conspicuous kimono, and displayed a great many lanterns for
decorations. Since it was something out of the ordinary, they were all
fined.
Once, when the play required the interior of an Imperial Palace, very
beautiful stage furniture was used, but this came under the ban, and
inferior articles were ordered to replace the originals.
Interference even went so far as to plays. The sakusha, or playwrights,
were strictly forbidden by the Government to write real history into
their dramas. In consequence, they were obliged to camouflage fact with
fiction. Reports that were circulated far and wide, matters that had
been discussed in every household, were represented as belonging to a
distant period. The playgoers, however, were quick to understand the
reference. This is the reason why the opening scene of _Chushingura_
is placed a hundred years or more previous to the date of the
sacrifice of the Forty-seven Ronin.
A quarrel broke out in the audience at the Yamamura-za at one time
because the name of a contemporary personage had been used in a play,
and thereafter no reference was allowed to living persons. Great care
had to be taken in the choice of names given to the characters in a
play, for if a cognomen selected was already in the possession of some
high family complaints were lodged with the authorities.
When fire again destroyed the Nakamura-za and Ichimura-za, they
were ordered to be rebuilt away from the centre of the town. The
Kawarazaki-za, which stood somewhat apart from the other theatres,
and had been untouched by the fire, was left undisturbed. The removal
of the theatre site was explained as due to the laxity of the actors,
who were forgetting themselves and mingling with the people; because
they played such common, vulgar things that had a bad influence upon
society, and because shibai was the source of changes in the fashions
that incited the citizens to extravagance.
The severest period of interference the theatre had to undergo was
during the administration of Mizuno, Lord of Echizen, the prime
minister of the shogunate, who began his sweeping reforms in 1842,
hoping thereby to prop up the falling Tokugawa Government. And when the
Ichimura-za and Nakamura-za were burned down, this dignitary decided
that the time had arrived to put an end to the fortunes of shibai. It
was his intention to crush this institution of the people at a blow, in
order that the widespread immorality alleged should be suppressed.
Mizuno stopped the work of theatre reconstruction, and would have
carried out his reforms with a high hand if it had not been for the
head man of the theatre district, called Toyama. This official was
brought in for consultation. The fate of Yedo Kabuki hung in the
balance, and the whole question depended on Toyama’s views as to the
right of the people’s theatre to exist. Whatever his defence it
proved an effective checkmate to Mizuno’s plan to abolish shibai, and a
compromise was made by means of which the theatres were to be removed
as far as possible from Yedo castle, and at a safe distance from the
homes of the citizens to preserve them from contamination.
The new quarter selected was Saruwaka-cho in Asakusa, the most thickly
populated district of modern Tokyo, where the lurid pictures outlined
by electric light of kinema houses, second-rate theatres, and many
other places of entertainment are now to be found. This district is
still called theatre street, although Tokyo’s leading playhouses are
scattered throughout the capital.
Mizuno’s attempt to check the evils of society were all in vain. Soon
after his time, Meiji era dawned with the restoration of the Emperor to
power, and the lives of the people began to flow in new and unexpected
channels. The thoughts of those in power were too much engrossed
with the opening of their country to trade and outside influences to
trouble about the shaving of the actors’ heads, and the innumerable
and wellnigh insupportable restrictions that had so long been endured
gradually became null and void.
For 244 years, from the prohibition of the Women’s Stage to the
Restoration, or from 1624 to 1868, interference with the theatre had
continued without relaxation in the three towns—the regulations in
Yedo, which form the subject of Ihara Seiseiin’s painstaking researches
in his _History of the Japanese Stage_, applying in a greater or lesser
degree to the shibai conditions of Osaka and Kyoto.
One of the most deplorable results was the relegation of the actor and
playwright to the lower strata of society. The repetition of the rules
and regulations against the theatre as a nest of iniquity that had no
right to existence caused the people to grow indifferent towards the
actors and playwrights. They undervalued them personally, although they
enjoyed their art. Yet had their genius attained a much higher level
than it did, there would have been no recognition for them in the
scheme of things made possible by the shogunate, since the spiritual
products of the people counted for nothing.
The venerable and eloquent Marquis Okuma, addressing a gathering of
literary men and women at his residence, admitted literature’s place
in Japan. His past career, he said, had been taken up with politics,
diplomacy, religion, and economics; but he had given no consideration
to literature. He confessed that he now realised for the first time,
after a long life of eighty years, that literature was necessary in
the building up of a new civilisation and the reconstruction of a new
society for human beings, just as the different branches of science
were necessary. As he had been born into the serious Saga clan, which
had no idea of pleasure, he had never once in his earlier career
witnessed a theatrical performance. He had no taste for music, and was
taught to look down upon literature.
This was the common attitude towards the drama, acting, and
everything else that pertained to the Japanese theatre. Badgered
and beset by unsympathetic outsiders,—who were the mere minions of
officialdom,—isolated and degraded, the players and playwrights,
pariahs of society as they were, builded better than they knew.
[Illustration: Nakamura Fukusuke of Tokyo in an onnagata rôle.]
CHAPTER XXII
EXTERNALS OF SHIBAI
For a faithful preservation of the stage of the Murayama-za, one of
Yedo’s first shibai, modern playgoers are indebted to a play within
a play. It concerns Banzuiin Chobei, a plain citizen of Yedo who was
treacherously done to death by an evil samurai, and brings to mind
the turbulent Yedo days when the samurai tested their new swords on
such loiterers as happened to pass their way, while the otokodate,
or chivalrous commoners, were ever ready to take the part of the
oppressed, and risk their lives in crossing swords with the blustering
soldiery.
Chobei and Mizuno happen to meet in the Murayama-za. The play is
progressing on the old-fashioned stage, patterned so closely after that
of the Nō theatre. Four pillars support a heavy sloping roof that is
constructed like the entrance to a temple. The stage is square, the
musicians kneeling at the back. A long bridge passage joins the stage
at right angles—the hashigakari of the Nō theatre.
The characters in the play are a youthful hero in gorgeous attire and a
timid onnagata listening to an argument between a peaceful priest clad
in scarlet and Kimpira, the grotesque, bloodthirsty hero of the old
ballads.
Guards are stationed on either side of the theatre near the stage
proper to preserve the peace. Looking down on the stage to right and
left are upper boxes hung with fine bamboo curtains for such members
of the privileged classes as may attend. For audience there are the
playgoers of Tokyo. And when all eyes are focussed on the stage
of the Murayama-za, a character in the play, a drunkard looking for
a quarrel, swaggers in along the hanamichi and causes a disturbance.
Chobei suddenly appears, springing out of his seat in the pit, and
as if by magic the twentieth century is wiped out, and the playgoer
travels back into the past, and for the moment is immersed in the very
atmosphere of the old Yedo shibai.
This early Yedo stage showed scarcely any difference from the type in
vogue during the Onna Kabuki and Wakashu Kabuki periods, and was in all
essentials like that of O-Kuni Kabuki with the exception that it was of
a more permanent construction.
There was, however, no roof as a protection against the weather. The
pit was of beaten earth, and the groundlings had a straw mat apiece and
were provided with a small hibachi, or brazier, Tickets were purchased
for the whole or half day, or for one act. But evidently the theatres
knew how to charge,—a matter that is not overlooked even at the
present,—for in an old book it is mentioned that it was necessary to
pay even to light one’s tobacco. These lights were called fire-ropes,
a twisted cord of rice straw set on fire and left to smoulder, a
convenient manner of starting a pipe in the days before matches, when
the only means of producing fire was by striking the flint.
During the first years of Genroku, a roof to cover the audience was
built, and galleries added for the accommodation of the increasing
attendance. The construction of the theatre made great progress when
Government regulations demanded that playhouses be of one story and
straw mats used to keep out rain and sunshine.
After the segregation of the Yedo shibai to Sakai-machi, many
improvements came about. The Ichimura-za used drop as well as drawn
curtains, and large stage furniture was seen for the first time.
[Illustration: A Kaomise, or Face Showing ceremony at the Nakamura-za
in 1772. By this time the roof of the stage had disappeared and only
its symbol remained over the front of the stage, which now approached
the long narrow style in vogue in the Doll-theatre. (Colour print by
Utagawa Toyoharu.)]
But by 1750 the main externals of the shibai were fixed and showed a
striking change. The bridge passage of the Nō used by shibai for
entrances and exits had given place to the hanamichi, or flower-way—the
continuation of the stage through the audience. There were galleries
behind which were sliding doors and movable screens of fine bamboo,
ensuring privacy for those occupying these elevated seats. In Yedo
three galleries were a feature of the shibai, but these were not seen
in Kyoto and Osaka. This was because the Yedo playhouses enjoyed
greater prosperity and were more crowded than those of the other towns.
Drawn curtains were used, the stage was decorated with artificial
flowers, and elaborate stage furniture came into use.
Owing to the scandal of Lady Yenoshima and Ikushima Shingoro in 1714,
the architecture and developments of shibai externals received a
severe check. Substantial roofing was forbidden and straw mats were
ordered instead. The building was limited to one story, and galleries
were abolished. As the result of a petition filed by the three chief
theatres in 1718, permission was granted to cover the theatres with
boarding, and afterwards, when frequent fires threatened to destroy
these flimsy erections, more substantial structures were allowed with
tiled roofs, and thick mud walls, like those of warehouses, or godowns,
in which valuables are still stored. Until recent years this type of
playhouse persisted in the three towns.
One of the most interesting facts concerning the development of the
externals of shibai was the rapidity with which the stage outgrew its
original form.
The place for performances in the Nō, later in O-Kuni Kabuki, and
likewise in the first Yedo theatres, had all been square. Greater
space was needed for the representation of complex plays, and the back
pillars were eliminated. When _Chushingura_ was to be presented in Yedo
in 1757 the two large front pillars to right and left of the stage were
found to be in the way, and were sacrificed. With the four supports
gone, the temple-like roof of the stage also went out of commission.
This roof, associated with the Nō stage for hundreds of years, and
about which clung something religious and sacred, had so long
been a familiar external of shibai, that the theatre people, while
realising that it had served its purpose, did not wish to part with it
altogether. It was therefore represented in relief, projecting over the
proscenium.
Nowhere is this adaptation of the stage to the new requirements of a
developing drama more clearly to be seen than in the illustrations of
shibai left by the print artists. A picture attributed to Masanobu
shows the interior of the Nakamura-za in 1740. The thatched roof of
the stage is still in existence, as well as the two front-pillars,
but those at the back have disappeared in order to give greater room.
Slightly elevated to the left is a platform for the musicians, and
although the square platform had not been dispensed with, it was
becoming too cramped.
In this picture the second Danjuro appears in one of the family pieces,
Yanone, or Arrow-Point, acting on a small apron-like projection of the
stage. His big three-rice-measure crest is clear upon one shoulder,
and in front of him there is an exaggerated whetstone on which he is
about to sharpen a huge arrow. The small enclosure in which he sits
represents the temporary dwelling-place of this highly imaginary
character. There are two galleries, and a narrow passage-way through
the pit, while lanterns bearing the actor’s crest are suspended from
the ceiling.
Practically the same scene is represented in another colour print by
Masanobu of the Nakamura-za interior four years later, in 1744. A
near view of the stage is obtained, but it shows no change. Actors
of the Ichikawa and Otani families hold the centre of the stage. In
the background is the bell which shows the piece to be Dojo-ji, the
music-drama Kabuki appropriated from the Nō relating to a female demon
that comes to wreak vengeance on the new bell of the temple, Dojo-ji,
which has just been hung. Segawa Kikunojo, the onnagata, stands on the
hanamichi representing the fascinating maiden who is the evil creature
in disguise.
[Illustration: Interior of the Nakamura-za in 1798 when Ichikawa
Danjuro, the sixth, was promoted to the head of the theatre. By this
time the roof of the stage had become a decoration overhead. (Colour
print by Utagawa Toyokuni.)]
Still another colour print by Nishimura Shigenaga, of the
Nakamura-za in 1749, shows a sudden transformation of the stage. The
two front pillars and the heavy roof that had come to be an encumbrance
have disappeared. In this picture the piece represented is Takeda
Izumo’s _Chushingura_, enacted with so much success by the marionettes
that the real actors sought to emulate them. Sawamura Sojuro, popular
as Yuranosuke, the leader of the loyal Forty-seven Ronin, and Ichikawa
Ebizo are the central figures. The musicians have been relegated to a
position in the wings; there are screens for background, and a curtain
to the left bears the icho-leaf emblem adopted by Nakamura Kansaburo,
the founder of Yedo Kabuki, after his lucky dream.
Practically the same theatre interior is reproduced in a print of the
Ichimura-za made in 1752, with the exception that the curtains on
either side of the stage show the crest of this theatre, a conventional
orange with its leaves.
In a colour print by Utagawa Toyohara in 1771, the stage of the
Nakamura-za has lost all connection with its square origin. In this
picture there are seen the two hanamichi, large and small, that are
still a feature of the modern shibai. Another picture by the same
artist done in the following year shows a Kaomise, or Face-Showing
ceremony, at the Nakamura-za, and perspective is used to suggest
the spaciousness of the interior. This is evidence of the complete
transformation from a square to a long stage parallel to the audience.
The picture is one of the series depicting eight famous places of Yedo.
The Kaomise, or Face-Showing ceremony, with Danjuro, the sixth, as
leading actor at the Nakamura-za in 1798, also forms the subject of
a print by Toyokuni, which shows that the externals had by this time
become permanent.
This transformation of the stage within a short period, approaching in
its essentials the Western theatre, would lead to the supposition that
outside influence was at work. But the cause lay nearer at home. It was
the stage of the Doll-theatre that eventually prevailed. This was long,
low, and deep, to afford ample room for the complicated movements
of the marionettes, the combined efforts of groups of doll-handlers,
and for the comings and goings of the property-men and scene-shifters.
In order to cope with the plays introduced from the realm of puppetry,
the externals of the doll-stage were adopted, and the only link with
the origin of shibai on the banks of the Kamo River in Kyoto was the
roof-symbol placed in a position of honour as decoration above the new
stage.
The two most striking features of the interior of the theatre brought
into use with the changed form of the stage were the hanamichi and the
revolving stage.
The hanamichi, or flower-way, was a continuation of the stage through
the audience, a place for entrance and exit, where the intimacy of
actor and audience was firmly established.
As to its origin, there is an opinion that it was a path leading to the
stage through the pit, bordered on either side by a low bamboo fence
decorated with flowers. There is also the idea that it came about to
accommodate admirers of particular actors who started the custom of
bestowing gifts upon their favourites. According to the ceremony of the
East, their presentations were elaborately wrapped up, the string that
tied the parcel was decorated with an artificial flower, and for the
bearer of these gifts a regular path was made connecting with the stage.
These are fanciful ideas that can hardly be justified. For the presence
of the two hanamichi in shibai shows conclusively how consistently the
Kabuki actors and playwrights conformed to that inherent desire of the
audience to be on intimate terms with the gorgeous personages of the
theatre.
[Illustration: The largest Nō theatre in Japan, that of Onishi Ryotaro
in Osaka, a modern construction combining architectural features
representing the different periods of the Nō theatre development.]
When the bridge-stage connecting with the square platform, purloined
from the Nō theatre, was abandoned, the hanamichi, raised just above
the heads of the playgoers, was substituted, an audience stage designed
for striking entrances and sensational exits, a place to display
to the fullest extent beautiful garments, fascinating actors, to
intensify emotion, and heighten a dramatic situation.
In the same manner, the revolving stage became of great assistance
in staging the long plays with many acts, for while the actors were
playing out in front, the carpenters were busy with their creations
behind, and the change of scene could be quickly effected.
With long use it developed a special technique, and was turned to suit
a variety of landscape and architectural requirements. It has been
very largely responsible for the undeniable beauty of Kabuki settings.
This was acquired in the same manner as so many other good things of
shibai that had not emanated from within; it was borrowed from the
Doll-theatre. Among the complex apparatus of the Doll-theatre was found
the revolving stage long before it came into the possession of Kabuki.
Outside the shibai, the most characteristic feature was the yagura, or
drum-tower. This was a small square platform built out from the roof
and above the main theatre entrance, where was placed the big drum
used to announce the opening of the shibai. Around it on three sides
a curtain was stretched, bearing the crest of the theatre. This had
been used by O-Kuni and Nagoya Sansaburo when they established their
new entertainment, and it was supposed to resemble a castle tower with
a battle drum. It was the custom to erect five spears in this tower,
which _Kabuki Koto Hajime_, or Beginnings of Kabuki, mentions as
representing five retainers who held the lances for their feudal lord.
But the origin of the yagura is vague.
Since the time of O-Kuni, however, until the present, it has continued
to adorn the outside of the theatre, and although it is seen no more
in Tokyo, in the shibai of Kyoto and Osaka it is still preserved. The
drummer no longer beats his signal from the big-drum tower, but he now
performs this duty within the theatre just previous to the drawing of
the curtain, making a stirring sound that causes playgoers to
hurry to their seats with pleasurable anticipations.
By the middle of Meiji a flood of Western stage ideas had begun to
inundate Japan. Imported styles of theatre architecture, together with
externals, now threaten to supersede those that are so thoroughly
characteristic of shibai and have been in existence for so long. Old
shibai is passing. It seems but a matter of time before the picturesque
externals developed in the three towns in the brave days of old shall
have vanished from the land.
[Illustration: Crest of Jitsukawa Enjaku (Double well-head).]
[Illustration: Crest of Nakamura Fukusuke of Tokyo (Back of plum
blossom).]
[Illustration: Crest of Onoe Baiko (Chrysanthemum and leaves).]
SAKUSHA
CHAPTER XXIII
CUSTOMS OF THE SAKUSHA
The Kabuki playwright, or sakusha (lit., to-make-man), was part and
parcel of the theatre. He served the theatre because it was in him to
do so, but the smallness of his remuneration and the inferior position
assigned to him greatly restricted the scope of his activities and
retarded his development. He degenerated finally into a mere drudge of
the actors, a menial to carry out their commands. The actors enjoyed
the right of way, and while the ideas of the playwright were eagerly
seized upon, the sakusha continued to be crushed to the wall. There
were no literary men aloof from the theatre to form a higher court of
appeal and dictate in the matter of plays.
A glimpse of the dignity of the old sakusha and the theatre gatherings
in which he figured, as well as some of his customs, is afforded in
_Engeki Taizen_, or Complete-Account-of-Drama, by Sekine Mokuan, one
of the leading modern writers upon the theatre.
The sakusha were divided into different classes, and assigned
to various duties in the theatre. The tate sakusha, or leading
playwrights, were also called the tate tsukuri, while the second ranked
as nimaime, and the third were called the sanmaime. Under these were
the kyogen sakusha, or kyogen kata, and there were still a lower class
whose duty it was to act as secretaries and to write out the plays
by hand. Another function of these supernumeraries was to write the
announcement of the plays in big characters on the boards in front
of the theatre, and they were responsible for the synopsis of
the play, provided for the enlightenment of the audience. They also
attended to the correspondence of the theatre folk. The different rôles
in a new play were given to the clerical sakusha to be transcribed for
the actors.
Since the performances began early in the morning and continued all
day, it was a task to provide a long programme with many acts and
scenes. In the writing of these lengthy plays an inferior sakusha was
always allotted the opening scenes, which merely prepared the minds of
the audience for what was about to happen, fixing a few landmarks by
way of introduction. The secondary sakusha was held responsible for the
act that followed, but the most important act of a piece was always
reserved for the best writer. This is the reason why so many of the
strongest scenes in a play have survived when the work done by the less
gifted writers is now sunk in oblivion. The composition of the poor
writers merely served to make known the characters of a play to the
audience and generally had very little merits.
In the old days the first and second playwrights were obliged to
attend the theatre every day before the second act, and to stay until
the performances were over. It is therefore not surprising to find
that they practically spent their lives in the theatre. When the good
old customs began to relax, the chief writers took turns in visiting
the theatre, and if there was no special place for their use, they
sat themselves down in the space reserved for the superintendent, or
disciplinarian of the busy world back of the stage. Later on a room was
assigned to them.
The wages given to these men were very small. The head sakusha received
a lump sum, and this he had to divide among the others. If a sakusha
displayed some particular talent and the play went well, then he
received a gift in money direct from the management.
Tsuruya Namboku was considered to have received quite an unusually
high payment, for he was given 50 to 60 ryo for the run of one of his
plays, and a certain small sum for every day of the performances.
The ordinary sakusha was paid a sum very much less than this, and
when he divided among the smaller fry there was precious little left
for himself. Mokuami and Fukuchi, the two star playwrights of Meiji
era, received as remuneration from 150 to 200 yen for their new plays
in which Danjuro, the ninth, appeared. This was handsome treatment
compared to the meagre compensation considered sufficient for the old
sakusha. On the other hand, Danjuro reaped thousands of yen—a fortune
compared to the pittance doled out to the men who had provided him
with a vehicle for his talents and the means of stage success. The
recognition of the talent of the yakusha was out of all proportion to
that accorded the sakusha, and this still holds true of modern Kabuki.
In the early days of the Kabuki playwriters, it was the custom for
a theatre to employ a first-class sakusha, and after he had written
his piece, he would decide what actors were to take the different
characters, and the play was planned according to the qualifications of
the actors. But as time went on the actors came to decide themselves
what should be performed, and the playwrights were invited to assist in
the carrying out of the actors’ ideas. There were also the suggestions
of the theatre proprietors to be considered, for they had an eye to the
main chance, and the freedom of the writer of plays was continually
curtailed, his dignity impaired, and his originality hampered.
One Kabuki ceremonial, however, allowed the leading sakusha to take a
prominent part, and this was the announcement of a new play. It was
called sekai-sadame, or world-decision, meaning the selection by the
sakusha of certain material from the interesting world at large.
After the playwriter had received the approval of the chief actors,
consulted with the theatre proprietor, and arranged the minor rôles
with the players of lesser rank, he then began to write his play.
He received a sum of money in advance, settled on a lucky day, and
started to work. Paper and ink were supplied. Generally when the
sakusha knelt before his small low table to begin he was provided with
five bundles of the very best paper, and five bundles of a lesser
quality, five pairs of fude, or writing brushes, and five tablets of
concentrated ink, called sumi, which after being moistened and rubbed
against the stone in the ink-box produces the jet-black fluid into
which the brush is dipped before making the beautiful characters of the
Japanese written language.
Those privileged to attend the “world-decision” were the leading
playwright, chief actors, the proprietor and manager. After the time
of the second Ichikawa Danjuro, second-class playwrights were allowed
to be present and two or three onnagata. Originally it was a most
dignified meeting, but the good old customs degenerated and it became
less significant.
On the day of the announcement of a new play, towards sunset, long,
narrow, gaily-coloured lanterns were hung above the entrance to the
theatre, and the innumerable tea-houses also displayed their lanterns
in honour of the occasion. The theatre streets were ablaze with paper
spheres, and the whole district felt the importance of the ceremony.
Those especially invited attended clad in their best, a silk skirt or
hakama, and a black silk overcoat, or haori, on the sleeves of which
was to be seen the family crest, in white, of the wearer.
Behind the stage in a room reserved for the purpose was the place of
meeting. A series of folding screens were arranged about the chief
participants, outside of which were grouped the various theatre folk
and attendants. The number of persons within the screened space was
limited, as the details of the new play were to be kept secret, and
news concerning it was not allowed to leak out too quickly to rival
theatres.
There is one instance on record when the privilege of being invited to
the ceremonial of the play announcement was granted to an outsider.
It was when Danjuro, the seventh, was actor-manager of the
Kawarasaki-za in Yedo, and Sawamura Toshi, who was very popular, was
taken to the meeting, but there was much discussion and a great fuss
made over this innovation.
[Illustration: Kataoka Nizaemon, the eleventh, as Yuranosuke, the
leader of the Forty-seven Ronin, in the play Chushingura.]
When the dignitaries of the theatre had taken their places the stage
manager would formally address the leading playwright as follows:
“I hope that you will give us your support this year as before. It
would be a very auspicious thing if we could learn what choice you have
made of a play.”
Then the chief sakusha stood up, holding a folded paper in his hand,
and read forth the name of the play and its characters, also the names
of four or five of the leading actors who were to take the chief rôles.
At this juncture there might be some disagreement between the stage
manager and the sakusha, and if so the point was decided by lottery,
but afterwards when all details of the play were decided beforehand
this part of the ceremony became a mere formality.
The sakusha holding the paper, symbol of the play, tied with red and
white cords, handed it first to the stage manager and afterwards to
the actors, and when this was over all present clapped their hands
with regular beats, as is the custom at gatherings in Japan, as a sign
of congratulation. Then the much-handled paper was given to the chief
actor, and the stage manager said to him:
“May it please the spirit of the god in your house to keep this paper”,
to which the actor would make answer:
“I will take it home and keep it until to-morrow, and congratulate
myself on having this play.”
Then all present again clapped their hands, and the meeting came to an
end.
The matter of the refreshments served at such times differed in each
theatre. At the Morita-za, manju, a bean-paste cake, was given to the
people within the screen, while at the Ichimura-za a dinner with sake
was served generously.
This old custom gradually lost its significance, and in later
years it was not observed in the same dignified manner. Sometimes
the new play meeting was held at the house of a sakusha, and later
the manager of the theatre invited those concerned to his house. The
play had to be endorsed by the manager first, and the position of the
sakusha gradually changed for the worse.
When the play-deciding meeting was over, the sakusha wrote out the
actors’ rôles, and when everything was settled a draft of the piece was
sent to the police authorities, a practice that exists even at present.
The police censors examined the new play before permission to stage it
was granted.
Another event of importance to the sakusha in Yedo’s theatrical world
was the first rehearsal held every year on October 17th, when the
general plan of new plays was announced and the actors assembled for
rehearsal. This was called yorizome, or first gathering, and was held
on this particular date because it happened to be the annual festival
of the Goddess-of-Mercy temple in Asakusa. This particular day was
selected by Nakamura Kansaburo, since he had such a strong faith in
Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy. The temple sacred to this Buddhist
divinity was the centre of worshippers from all parts of Yedo, as it
still remains to-day in teeming Tokyo.
It was a gathering attended by the playwrights, the actors, with the
exception of the lowest ranks, and officials of the theatre. The
head of the musicians, or hayashikata, was also present. This was a
festive occasion in the theatre quarter, and the streets were bright
with lanterns. After a general exchange of dinner parties, these
people of the theatre gathered together in front of the shibai right
under the yagura, or drum-tower, and entered by the small door called
the nezumi-kido, or rat door, so called because it was so low that
people had to bend their bodies almost double to go through. When
they came to the stage they clapped their hands in unison, and passed
on. Upon arrival at the place of meeting, which was generally held in
a room on the third floor behind the stage, the company again
clapped their hands.
The meeting was conducted with such a rigid regard for details, that
even the sitting position assigned to the respective persons was
minutely arranged beforehand.
The theatre manager addressed the proprietor, saying that he deemed it
a great favour to be able to hold the meeting this year, to which the
proprietor answered: “May all the years to come be as auspicious as
this”. Short songs were then sung, after which the chief sakusha turned
his body towards the theatre shrine, where a symbol of the animal of
the year was placed—the years being called after the tiger, rat, horse,
cow, monkey, dragon, etc., according to the twelve signs of the Chinese
zodiac.
Since the sakusha was obliged to read the play before the actors
delivering the lines, according to the distinction between old and
young, hero and villain, men and women, it is easy to imagine that when
he faced the shrine and declared the title of the new play it must
have been given with a sonorousness and a flavour of the theatre that
impressed itself upon those who were to take part in it, and shows a
reverence for the ideas that emanated from the sakusha’s brain, even if
these worthies of the theatre were never placed on an equality with the
actors.
After the title of the play had been announced with all due ceremony,
a repast followed. At the Nakamura-za, the front of the theatre was
adorned with an arrangement of artificial pink and white plum blossoms,
and various refreshments were served, while at the Ichimura-za Japan’s
diminutive oranges were thrown about from one person to another to
increase the merriment.
CHAPTER XXIV
REPRESENTATIVE SAKUSHA
The actors were their own playwrights in the early period of Kabuki,
for the pieces they produced were the result of collaboration. They
planned, altered, or improvised as they felt inclined.
Previous to the Genroku age which produced Chikamatsu Monzaemon, who
stands head and shoulders above the dramatists of Japan, both for the
quality of his work and for the number of pieces he produced, there
were two pioneer writers of plays—Fukui Yagozaemon, in Osaka, and
Miyako Dennai, in Yedo.
Yagozaemon was the first Kabuki playwright of importance. He wrote
_Hinin no Adauchi_, or The Beggar’s Revenge, in three acts, in the year
1664. Plays up to this time had been limited to one act. The convention
of the Nō stage to give but one-act pieces had been established long
before Kabuki was born. Yagozaemon’s departure from all precedent was
something of an innovation, and the piece met with great success.
It had for plot the adventures of a samurai who disguised himself as a
beggar in order to take revenge upon an enemy, but was himself attacked
by the man whom he sought. The piece had qualities of longevity, for
it has remained a favourite with actors for the past 250 years, and is
at present one of the best plays in the repertoire of Nakamura Ganjiro
of Osaka. When he acts the beggar, Ganjiro resurrects the Kabuki of
Yagozaemon in a vivid manner.
Middle-aged female characters were Yagozaemon’s specialty, and
he was considered an encyclopaedia on theatre matters, for no young
actor was supposed to know his art unless he had studied under him.
By means of his plays he was largely instrumental in adding lustre to
the careers of the actors Fujita Koheiji and Araki Yojibei, as well as
Kaneko Rokuyemon, for whom the Beggar’s Revenge was especially written.
In the same year that Yagozaemon produced his continuous play, Miyako
Dennai wrote _Imagawa Shinobi Guruma_ in two acts, that was produced
at the Ichimura-za, in Yedo. It concerned a loyal vassal by the name
of Imagawa Toshihide who, while making an effort to save the life of
his lord, was injured and carried home by his wife, the title meaning,
Imagawa in Disguise in a Cart.
And it was in this piece that Ichimura Takenojo played. He was the
nephew of the first Uzaemon, the proprietor of the Ichimura-za, but
shaved his head and became a Buddhist priest.
Rapid development in settings, costumes, and plays had already begun
when Miyako Dennai wrote this play, for at the end of each act a black
curtain was let down, and during the interval when the next scene was
being prepared a dance was performed. Stage furniture was used and many
improvements carried out in stage settings.
An actor who studied under Yagozaemon, called Kaneko Rokuyemon, had
two followers, Tominaga Heibei and Kaneko Kichizaemon, and both of the
latter became well-known playwrights.
Heibei has left no record as an actor, but he was the first to separate
the two professions, making them distinct from each other. In 1680,
Heibei signed his name as a playwright on the banzuke, or illustrated
announcement of the plays. The theatre folk considered it a very
presumptuous proceeding, and Heibei was cordially disliked for putting
himself forward. Yet by so doing he definitely disconnected the two
professions.
He lived until the middle of the Genroku age, when playbooks began
to have wood-cut illustrations. Some of his works have been preserved,
in which there are complicated plots of fair ladies, gentlemen ready
in the use of swords, revenge, women disguising themselves as men, and
males masquerading as women, the appearances of ghosts, all of which
appear to have been popular Kabuki themes in Heibei’s time.
Towards the end of his career, Heibei’s plays were not successful, and
he was advised to write better ones. According to the _Kokon Yakusha
Taizen_, or Account of Ancient and Modern Actors, Heibei is said to
have replied to the criticism levelled at him by saying that it was not
right to compose uninteresting plays, at the same time it would be the
greatest good fortune for the theatre proprietor if there were always
good plays. But before the audience grew tired of good plays, the grass
would grow in the Dotombori canal (which waterway the Osaka theatres
all faced in these old days as they do at present). Heibei must have
been confronted by the same problems that beset the modern playwriter
all over the world.
More is known of Kaneko Kichizaemon than of Tominaga Heibei, although
they were both pupils of Kaneko Rokuyemon. Perhaps it is because
Kichizaemon wrote later than Heibei, beginning in the middle of
Genroku, in Kyoto. He was an actor, and ranked as a dokegata, or comic
specialty, and was criticised adversely because he made his own part
prominent in the plays he wrote.
The most significant fact in relation to Kichizaemon is that he
collaborated with Chikamatsu Monzaemon in writing for the most
outstanding actor of Kyoto during Genroku, Sakata Tojuro. They first
began this collaboration in 1699, at the Miyako-Mandayu-za in Kyoto,
and it lasted for ten years, when Kichizaemon continued to write for
Tojuro’s successor, Yamashita Kyozaemon, and Chikamatsu threw in
his lot with the marionettes, leaving for Osaka, where he produced
pieces in rapid succession for the Doll-theatre. His plays written
for the doll-actors were the first real contribution to Japanese
literature that a playwright had made.
Kaneko Kichizaemon wrote two volumes called _Jijinshu_, or Collection
of the Year’s Dust, little stories about actors in which he played
Boswell to Tojuro’s Johnson, recording this famous actor’s words
and advice and handing down a vivid impression of the man. It is to
be regretted that he has not treated us to similar glimpses of his
co-worker, Chikamatsu, but the latter had not then distinguished
himself, and it can easily be understood how Kichizaemon worshipped
the great actor for whom he wrote, and put down his sayings about the
theatre and his art as though they were oracles.
There is one passage in _Jijinshu_ which shows Chikamatsu Monzaemon and
Kaneko Kichizaemon at work. We read:
“One day Chikamatsu and the author collected the actors in the gakuya,
or dressing-room, and told them about the play. Those who had received
good parts praised it, but those who had rôles not to their liking
did not say anything. Those who could not decide whether the play was
good or bad looked at the faces of the other actors and sided with
the majority. And those who were ignorant and did not understand good
plays, became cross and scolded the servants, and left the gakuya or
dressing-room without saying good-bye.
“At this time Tojuro was zamoto, or stage manager, and if he did not
give an opinion no one would say anything. He would address the actors:
‘Now, you actors, practise your parts well,’ and so would take his
departure. The actors would begin to rehearse from the next day; they
learned their rôles in four or five days, and as soon as they had
learned one play they would begin another. And when this new play was
given to the actors, Tojuro said he wished to have it explained once
more, after which he did not say anything with regard to his rôle.
“The character he was to play required him to wear high rain clogs
and a wide straw hat, so he ordered these properties to be made,
and when they were handed to him put them on and said: ‘Now give me
my lines,’ and Chikamatsu Monzaemon gave them to him. ‘This is a good
play,’ he said. ‘When I first heard it I thought so. Some plays are
greatly admired by the audience, while others are not popular. Now I am
over fifty years, and yet I am unable to criticise the play, or tell
whether it is good or bad, for had I known how to criticise plays I
might have become an extraordinary person by this time. Before I began
to learn the words I wore the geta and took the stick. It is better not
to criticise at first, but to try and understand.’”
Kichizaemon concludes by saying: “Whenever a rôle was given to Tojuro,
whether short or long, good or bad, he always studied it carefully”.
The giant among the playwrights of his time was Chikamatsu Monzaemon,
but as his best plays were written for the Doll-theatre, he does
not rightly belong to an account of Kabuki playwrights. It is true,
however, that the great influence his compositions had upon Kabuki,
even to the present day, can hardly be over-estimated.
His real name was Sugimori Nobunori, and the little town of Hagi,
in the Province of Hizen, that has produced so many men famous in
Japanese history, regards him as an illustrious son. This is disputed,
since several other villages in different parts of the country also
put forward claims as to Chikamatsu’s birthplace. Even his last
resting-place is not known, for his grave is found in two places, the
cemetery of Hyomyo-ji, a Buddhist temple in Osaka, and in a village
near this city. And so the greatest playwright of Japan, who wrote
more than one hundred plays, was born and died in obscurity. It is
thought that he was an illegitimate son, since there seemed to have
been some cloud upon his life. The Sugimori family were of good repute,
and served the lord of Hagi.
In his youth Chikamatsu entered the temple named Chikamatsu, at
Karatsu, in the province of Hizen, and it was from this temple
that he took his professional name later in life. While dwelling there
he must have laid the foundation for that large knowledge of Buddhism,
history, and literature he displays so abundantly and convincingly in
his plays. The calm of the Buddhist retreat soon became monotonous to
his vigorous spirit, which sought for new worlds to conquer. He went
to Kyoto, where he remained for some time with a brother, then entered
the service of the noble house of Ichijo, where he became familiar with
the customs and ceremonies of the aristocracy, and more particularly
with the traditions of the Nō, which influenced his earlier writings
greatly. When he severed his relation with this princely establishment,
he had conferred upon him a certain rank in acknowledgement of his
service.
So little is known concerning Chikamatsu’s life that it is impossible
to conjecture the reasons that led him to write for Kabuki, and
associate with the “riverside beggars”. His first success was at the
Miyako-Mandayu-za, Sakata Tojuro’s theatre. _Kokon Yakusha Taizen_,
or Account of Ancient and Modern Actors, a chronicle of the theatre,
published in 1750, records that Chikamatsu surprised the audience by a
novelty, in the form of the ghost of a Court lady called Fujitsubo that
came out of wistaria flowers and was transformed into a snake. People
in the audience were so pleased they shouted: “Monzaemon! Monzaemon!”
In spite of his apparent popularity, Chikamatsu had a sudden change
of heart, and at the age of 38 he left for Osaka there to collaborate
with Takemoto Gidayu, the Doll-theatre minstrel. What was Kabuki’s
loss at this time proved to be a gain later on, for his masterpieces
were absorbed by Kabuki and generations of actors since Genroku have
performed the varied characters of his plays.
A brother, with whom Chikamatsu had stayed when he first went to
Kyoto, was a medical authority in his day, who had published books on
medical subjects, and also works on history. This younger brother once
suggested to Chikamatsu that he could utilise his talent to better
advantage than in writing for the Doll-theatre, as we are told by Dr.
Fujii in his _Life of Chikamatsu_. But the latter retorted that the
profession of writing plays might be less harmful than the writing of
treatises on medicine, because in the latter case misprints or errors
might prove very harmful to the lives of men.
Chikamatsu took his materials from all sources. He helped himself
liberally to the plots of the Nō drama and of Nō Kyogen, Buddhist
sermons that were recited to popular tunes, songs of the people,
children’s airs and even vulgar ditties, while the songs of folk-dances
he used to advantage. He was a scholar, familiar with the Chinese and
Japanese classics, and learned in Buddhism. But he always aimed to make
the common people understand, and considered that the lower classes
were his regular audience and chief patrons. He died at 64, in 1724,
having written steadily for thirty years, composing one hundred and
thirty pieces.
When Chikamatsu Monzaemon was engaged in producing his plays for the
Takemoto-za of Osaka, a playwright who attempted to rival him was
Kino Kaion. He had been a priest, and was a man of culture, but his
knowledge was not so deep as that of Chikamatsu. Ten years younger than
Chikamatsu, he wrote for twenty-five years, producing forty plays. But
there are few masterpieces among them.
After Chikamatsu’s death Takeda Izumo, his most brilliant pupil, became
the head of the Takemoto-za. Although Takeda was not so prolific a
writer as was his master, several of his plays may be said to surpass
the best pieces of Chikamatsu, particularly his _Chushingura_, also
_Terakoya_, or the Village School, that fine scene in the long play
concerning the exiled Michizane, a high official of the Imperial Court,
victim of an intriguing enemy a thousand years ago. Most of Takeda
Izumo’s plays were appropriated by Kabuki, and are still played by the
real actors as well as the puppets.
The rival Doll-theatres, the Takemoto-za and the Toyotaki-za,
brought about two camps of playwrights, and their keen competition
supplied a large number of plays. At the Takemoto-za, which always
attracted to itself the greatest number of talented workers, there were
after Chikamatsu and Takeda Izumo—Hasegawa Senshi, Miyoshi Shoraku, and
Matsuda Wakichi. Chief among those who wrote for the Toyotaki-za were
Kino Kaion, Nishizawa Ippu, Tanaka Senryu, Namiki Sosuke, and Yasuda
Abun.
Very few details have been handed down regarding these writers,
but their plays are eloquent testimony to their genius. When the
Ningyo-shibai was on the decline Chikamatsu Hanji wrote a number of
plays that helped to stem the tide of misfortune.
Such an array of first-class writers cannot be found in the annals of
Kabuki. Indeed the dolls and their plays were the real foundation of
the Japanese stage, and even to-day it is these plays, repeated over
and over again, that please both actors and audience. The men who wrote
that the dolls should become radiant figures in a world created by
their imaginations, left behind them a richer legacy of plays than did
the sakusha of Kabuki. Succeeding generations of actors have acted in
them, for they are plays that never lose their power to please; their
vitality remains undimmed by the passage of time.
Among the many talented as well as minor writers who were inspired
to compose for the marionettes, Chikamatsu ranks first, Takeda Izumo
second, and Chikamatsu Hanji third, judging by the number of their
plays that became the property of Kabuki and have withstood the shocks
of time.
The Genroku age, which produced Chikamatsu, Sakata Tojuro, and
Ichikawa Danjuro the first; which saw the rising tide of talent in all
directions and a deepening of the consciousness of the people, also
witnessed an increased activity in the production of plays. And one
characteristic of these pieces was that theatre managers were often
responsible for plays, while many of the actors composed for
themselves.
Saruwaka Kansaburo, the founder of Yedo Kabuki, had been a playwright
as well as the proprietor of his theatre, the Saruwaka-za, afterwards
the Nakamura-za. Sadoshima Saburozaemon owned a theatre in Osaka,
and also wrote his own plays. After Miyako Dennai in Yedo, there was
Kawarasaki Gonnosuke, who wrote a play about the revenge of the Soga
brothers that was a great success. The name Kawarasaki Gonnosuke has
been intimately connected with the history of Yedo Kabuki, and was
inherited by a modern actor. There was Nakamura Hichisaburo, the
rival of the first Ichikawa Danjuro in Yedo, whose play, _Keisei
Asamagatake_, or The-Lady-of-the-Gay-Quarters-Mount-Asama, brought him
a wonderful success.
Fukuoka Yagoshiro was an actor specialising in old men’s rôles in
Kyoto. He recorded the opinions of the noted onnagata Yoshisawa Ayame,
in his _Ayame Gusa_, or the Sayings of Ayame, concerning the secrets
of onnagata acting, for which he is better known than for the plays
he left to posterity. And there was Midzushima Shirobei, who was a
tatayaku, or chief actor, as well as a sakusha. He was a patron of
Yoshizawa Ayame.
Miyasaki Denkichi, who played with Ichikawa Danjuro, the first, and who
was implicated in a Yedo nunnery scandal with another leading actor,
Yamashita Kozaemon, also wrote his own plays and was often assisted by
his son, Sakakuyama Kanpachi, who was a sakusha.
But of all these actor-playwrights, by far the most interesting and
significant was Ichikawa Danjuro, the first. The eighteen hereditary
pieces of the Ichikawa family to-day are the treasures of Kabuki,
reflecting much of the vanished taste and style of these old days.
More than half of these eighteen pieces were originated by the first
Danjuro, and among them is _Kanjincho_, adapted from the Nō, and
unquestionably the most perfect music-drama of Kabuki. Kanjincho
(the name for a Buddhist scroll, in which the donors to a temple
building fund were recorded) was first played by Danjuro in 1702, and
the popularity of the piece was so great that the theatre was crowded
daily. The first performances continued for 150 days—an unusually long
run for those times, and gained the nickname, Oshiai Yunidan, or the
To-Crowd-Together-Play. Danjuro had a _nom de plume_, Mimasuya Hyogo,
and this he used when signing his plays. In the composition of the
Ichikawa plays, Hayakawa Dengoro is said to have had a hand. He was the
son of an Osaka theatre proprietor, and played upon the Yedo stage,
appearing in the specialty of a katakiyaku, or villain. He collaborated
with Danjuro in the play in four acts about the revenge of the Soga
brothers, a piece which attracted great attention. Other of the
Ichikawa plays owed much to this sakusha, and even Nakamura Hichisaburo
was indebted to him for assistance in the composition of his piece,
_Keisei Asamagatake_.
Adzuma Sampachi was a dokegata, or comedian, and wrote plays, and
towards the end of his theatre career devoted himself exclusively to
writing for the stage. At one time he presented a piece to the actors,
and it was refused. Nothing daunted, he re-wrote again and again,
presenting it six times. On the seventh trial it was appreciated,
and the actors apologised and thanked him for his work. It was his
custom to go out in a kago, or palanquin, slung on poles carried on
the shoulders of bearers. He would pay the kago men to take him out
into the country, or to some place of interest. On excursions of this
kind he gained his ideas, and when his plan for a play was complete he
gathered the actors together and began rehearsals. The piece by which
he is best known is _Yaoya O-Hichi_, or O-Hichi, the Daughter of the
Vegetable Dealer, based on a Yedo story of a girl who, in order to see
her lover, committed a capital offence, setting fire to her father’s
house, for which she suffered the death penalty. This play still
remains a favourite on the Tokyo and Osaka stages. The critics of
Sampachi’s time described him as utterly ignorant, that he pandered to
the popular taste, and did not rank high among the sakusha.
Contemporary with these men, there was Nakamura Denkichi, who was
the first professional playwright in Yedo. Before him the actors had
combined in themselves the two professions, but Denkichi confined
himself exclusively to writing. He was a cousin of Nakamura Kansaburo,
and studied for the stage under Nakamura Denkuro, but abandoned it.
He considered that plays should above all please the eyes, and be
written so as to be understood by women and children. Although his
pieces were not distinguished for literary qualities, they made up for
this lack in the spectacle provided for the eye. Denkichi must have
been a better stage manager than a writer of plays, for under him the
settings made great improvement.
At this time, there was Arashi Seisaburo, an illegitimate son of the
second Nakamura Kansaburo, half-brother of the leading actor, Nakamura
Hichisaburo. He collaborated with Danjuro, and one of his best plays is
_Ryujo Sanjuniso_, or the Thirty-two-Faces-of-a-Dragon. There were also
Nakamura Seigoro, a follower of Nakamura Denkichi, and Tsuuchi Jihei.
Kabuki’s wholesale borrowing of plays from the Ningyo-shibai began in
1717. The play that started this movement was _Kokusenya Kassen_, or
The Battle of Kokusenya, by Chikamatsu. It had as hero a warrior whose
mother was Japanese and father Chinese. The warrior went over to China
to restore an emperor to the throne, performing the most amazing feats.
The piece was full of Chinese ideas, and as a breath of the outside
world, must have been appreciated at this time.
Whatever the attraction of this Chikamatsu piece, it ran for seventeen
months at the Takemoto-za, the Osaka Doll-theatre. The second Ichikawa
Danjuro gave this play in Yedo, and it was produced in Osaka
and Kyoto. After this all the plays that proved successful in the
Doll-theatre were quickly adapted to the needs of Kabuki.
Namiki Shozo (1730–1773) was one of the most prominent sakusha in
Kyoto, during the middle decades of the eighteenth century. He studied
under one of the best Ningyo-shibai playwrights, Namiki Sosuke, and
wrote for the dolls as well as for the actors. In his time the vogue
for the Doll-theatre had already begun to wane, and allured by the
superior attractions of Kabuki he wrote more for the latter than for
the dolls. His plays were full of complicated situations that tested
the actor’s ability, a technique he had acquired as a result of his
apprenticeship to the ningyo school, which demanded many situations
to keep the movements of the marionettes full of significance, for
otherwise their dollships would have become all too apparent.
In Osaka during the Horeki period the leading sakusha was Nagawa
Kamesuke, and he was followed by Tatsuoka Mansaku and Namiki Gohei.
Mansaku was the son of an onnagata, and lived in Kyoto until he was
51 years of age, when he went to Osaka. He died at 68, in 1809. His
talent was best expressed in historical plays, but as the authorities
prohibited the use of real facts upon the stage, he contented himself
with making over historical events, which he did in a way very
satisfactory to the playgoer.
Namiki Gohei, born in Osaka in 1747, was the chief playwright of his
time. His plays were so much in demand in the theatres of the three
towns that he travelled back and forth a great deal. He was patronised
by Sawamura Sojuro, the third, and also wrote for the third Onoe
Kikugoro. _Banzuiin Chobei_, written for the fourth Ichikawa Danjuro,
remains exceedingly popular at the present day, showing the democratic
leaven that was working in Japan in Gohei’s day. This is among his best
pieces.
Chobei was an otokodate, or brave commoner, ever ready to champion the
cause of the weak and down-trodden citizens, often the victims of the
tyrannical two-sworded gentry. He incurred the enmity of an evil
samurai, who put him to death. This was a theme to stir the audiences
of Osaka and Yedo.
After the death of the third Sojuro, Namiki wrote for his son, the
fourth Sojuro, and for the fifth Matsumoto Koshiro. As he had been an
actor in his early days, he knew something of the stages of Osaka and
Yedo, that had many different characteristics, and he combined the two.
His play, written around the ever-verdant story of the Soga brothers’
revenge, one of the most fruitful sources for the Kabuki’s sakusha’s
inspiration, was so popular that it was given for many years at every
Yedo theatre on the New Year programme, and the custom was only
discontinued at the beginning of Meiji. In using historical material,
Gohei felt the cramping influence of the authorities, and he skilfully
combined the true with the false facts of history. Popular rumours of
the day, gossip that went on round the hibachi in the dwellings of
Yedo, were prohibited from finding representation on the stage, and
consequently Gohei utilised the talk of the town as false reports,
and the audience knowing the true inwardness of things that had been
circulated far and wide, could easily understand his references.
That the business of playwriting was not very lucrative seems to be
suggested from the fact that Gohei once kept a tobacco shop in Osaka,
later becoming a seller of sake. In Yedo he also opened a little
medicine shop and sold pills, an old-fashioned Chinese remedy for colds.
His excursions into business could not have been to his liking, but due
rather to forced circumstances, since he is on record as having said
when he sat down before his desk: “All the world is my own. No enemy is
near me. All the actors are my own, and I can use them as I like.”
A Yedo playwright some years younger than Namiki Gohei was Horikoshi
Nisanji, but his plays have not been handed down as have been those of
his more popular Osaka contemporary.
Nisanji was followed by Sakurada Jisuke, who became the first
playwright of Yedo, and wrote during a period of forty years. He
was associated with such distinguished actors as the fifth Ichikawa
Danjuro, the fourth Matsumoto Koshiro, the first Nakamura Nakazo,
and the fifth Iwai Hanshiro. He excelled in plays depicting real
life, or sewamono, and took his characters from the varied life
about him,—handsome young samurai, heroines of the gay quarters, and
brave men of the people. The play of his that has lived longest is
_Sukeroku_, one of Kabuki’s most characteristic pieces, with scenes
laid in the gay quarters, and Sukeroku, the very personification of
bravery and loyalty, as the hero.
The periods of Bunka and Bunsei, or from 1804 to 1817, saw the
beginning of Kabuki’s decline, and for fifty years before the
Restoration in 1868 there was little development. It was a time of
stagnation, and the people shut up within their own country were
beginning to suffer from lack of outside stimulus. A distinct loss
of originality began to show itself in the theatre, and there was
a dearth of good playwrights, while the Doll-theatre had taken a
plunge downward, and there was little activity among the writers for
the marionettes. Kabuki had depended largely upon the Doll-theatre
playwrights, and failing these fell back upon dramatisations of popular
fiction. The novels of Bakin, Tenehiko, and Kyoden were dramatised for
the stage.
Although the theatre had become more complex, and material for plays
was abundant, the period did not produce the playwright. The position
of the sakusha, which in the beginning had been of great dignity,
changed for the worse. They became mere slaves of the actors. There
was a stage writer called Nagawa Shimesuke, son of the keeper of a
theatre tea-house, who did not create, but patched and altered at the
bidding of the actors, so that he was nicknamed Sentaku-ya Shimesuke,
or Laundry-Man Shimesuke, which gives a good idea of the playwriters’
low estate at this time.
Nagawa Tokusuke gave up the priesthood to become a playwright. He had
been connected with a country temple, and went to Osaka to learn how to
write. There were so few sakusha at this time, that the third Nakamura
Utayemon invited him up to Yedo, and was so anxious to encourage him,
hoping that he would prove to be a goose to lay golden eggs in the way
of popular plays for the actors, that he bestowed upon Tokusuke the
precious family pen-name of Issen, used by the first Utayemon when he
signed his poetry. One of his plays was a failure, which disconcerted
the actors to a considerable degree. He returned the literary _nom de
plume_ with which his patron Utayemon had honoured him, and departed
whence he had come. Thereafter he wrote pieces for side-shows, set
up along the banks of rivers, on temporary sites in the compounds of
shrines, or at cross-roads. At last he shaved his head and retired as
the keeper of a tea-house in Kyoto, dying at 79. So the sakusha, like
the yakusha, had their falls from favour, and their lives often ended
in disappointment.
The third Utayemon wrote his own plays, but did not have good luck in
the sakusha whom he engaged to help him,—Nagawa Seisuke. He did his
best with Nagawa’s poor compositions, but the latter possessed inferior
ability. On one occasion the playwright became angry because his ideas
had not been carried out properly, and he drew his sword to kill
Utayemon, when he was stopped.
Tsuruya Namboku stands out from among these unsatisfactory writers,
and several of his plays are regular features of the modern stage. He
was the son of a dyer in Yedo, wrote especially for the third Bando
Hikosaburo, and was particularly successful in ghost plays. Onoe
Matsusuke and Onoe Kikugoro, who were in their element when playing
ghostly rôles, shone in Namboku’s compositions. The most familiar of
his plays to modern audiences is _Yotsuya Kaidan_, or The Ghost of
Yotsuya, the latter a certain quarter of Yedo that remains to-day one
of the thriving centres of Tokyo. Namboku was a genius in the
invention of stage apparatus to make his supernatural characters more
gruesome, and _Yotsuya Kaidan_ is an example of his skill in overcoming
mechanical difficulties.
He caused O-Iwa, the weird heroine of this play, to make her entrance
upon the scene through a large lighted lantern, and disappear through
the solid wall, etc. Once he pasted black paper all over the stage to
fashion the body of a whale, and a Jonah-like actor stepped out of it
carrying a crown. The audiences of his time were quite carried away by
the boldness of his ideas, and his works have a lasting quality, for
their power to make the flesh creep is undiminished.
It was the lot of the sakusha to be poor, and Namboku was no exception.
An incident is told of him that during a period of poverty he was
kneeling in front of his little writing-desk, when his wife entered and
asked for the wherewithal to buy some rice. He had no money, so she
took the mosquito net, an indispensable article in a Japanese house
in warm weather, and went to the pawnbroker, where she exchanged it
for sufficient coin of the realm to keep the house supplied with rice
for a short period. Namboku made good use of this domestic episode,
and has immortalised it in _Yotsuya Kaidan_. The long-suffering O-Iwa
is cruelly treated by her husband that she may leave the house, as he
wishes to marry another woman, younger, prettier, and richer in this
world’s goods. In his attempt to get rid of her he sells everything in
the house piece by piece, the mosquito net among them, hoping by his
callous cruelty to drive her away.
Namboku died at the age of 75, in the compound of the well-known Fox
Shrine in Fukugawa, a ward of present-day Tokyo. He had a son who
succeeded him, and who became adviser to the seventh Danjuro. The
latter was a quick writer, and specialised in plays that had the gay
quarters for settings.
A quaint character among these pre-Restoration playwrights was Hanakasa
Rosuke. This was not his real name, but rather a theatre nickname,
Flowery-Straw-Hat-Rosuke, given him because of his habit of going about
in extraordinary clothing. He generally wore a gaudy kimono, yellow
velvet tabi, or socks, and on his head a wide straw hat adorned on top
with artificial flowers, in imitation of a festival reveller in the
cherry-blossom season. He was the eldest son of the chief doctor of the
Takeda Clan, and had been bred in a samurai atmosphere. He was also
something of a scholar, but never became a first-class sakusha.
Rosuke went to Osaka and wrote for the theatres there. He returned with
the seventh Danjuro, when this great actor was allowed to return to
Yedo, after the long exile imposed upon him for extravagance. Later,
Rosuke wrote for the third Kikugoro, but he spoke against Kikugoro’s
son, and was requested to cease composing plays for the Onoe family.
Again he left Yedo, and went to Osaka, where he died in poverty at the
age of 76.
For many years after Namboku Tsuruya, there were no playwrights capable
of filling his place except Mimasuya Nisoji, who gained a position
in Yedo because of his long service to Yedo Kabuki. For twenty years
Nisoji wrote for the third Kikugoro, the fourth Nakamura Utayemon, and
the seventh Danjuro, but his work consisted largely in revision. He
belonged to a wealthy family and began to write for his own amusement.
On account of extravagance and dissipation, he was sent away from his
home, and died in his seventies.
Nisoji and Namboku were great friends, and they played practical jokes
upon each other. Namboku was once slightly ill and Nisoji asked a Court
doctor to go and examine him. A kago, or palanquin, carried on the
shoulders of six stout bearers proceeded to Namboku’s humble dwelling.
The Kabuki sakusha had received no warning of the Court physician’s
visit, and was greatly surprised. Taken unawares, he got out of his
bed and bowed low on the mats. When the great medical man took his
departure, the kago bearers asked for money, but the maker of plays was
incurably poor, and could only pay a small portion of the kago
men’s demands.
In order to get even with Nisoji, Namboku planned a counter joke.
There was a certain shrine in Shinagawa, a suburb of Yedo, where the
spirit of the famous general, Kato Kiyomasa, was enshrined, and it
was Nisoji’s habit after visiting the shrine to repair to a tea-house
in the vicinity. There was some gossip that Nisoji had carried on a
flirtation with the daughter of the tea-house keeper, and Namboku
ordered a lantern to be made bearing his friend’s crest together with
that of the tea-house maiden, and hung it up in front of the shrine.
Nisoji was much perplexed, and acknowledged that Namboku had evened up
the score.
The second Namiki Gohei was the second son of a vassal of the Shogun.
He was expelled from his house because of dissipation and association
with actors. The third Gohei was a follower of the first Namiki, and
it was he who collaborated with the seventh Danjuro in giving the
finishing touches to _Kanjincho_, Kabuki’s music-drama masterpiece.
Nishizawa Ippo was the grandson of a novelist and kept a bookshop. He
had many literary friends, and wrote plays, but there are few genuine
pieces of his left, as they have been patched and altered, there being
no protection for plays, and no conscience about changing them to suit
the requirements of the actors.
Segawa Joko kept a gofuku-ya, or drapery shop, in Yedo, and wrote plays
because he felt an inclination to do so. Finally he was persuaded
to give up his business, and he became a tate sakusha, or chief
playwriter. He sinned in verbosity, and the actors tired of his long
speeches. It might have been better for Joko’s peace of mind had
he continued to deal in kimono and obi. His specialty consisted in
dramatising the stories related in the yose, or places of amusement
where the professional story-teller held forth. The eighth Danjuro was
successful in some of these pieces, and they are still favourites with
playgoers.
The last sakusha to shine before the dawn of the Meiji era
was Sakurada Jisuke, who was born in 1802 and died in the tenth
year of Meiji, 1877. He was associated with actors and literary men
for forty years, and during most of his career he was head of the
Yedo playwrights. He wrote many plays, and among them are a number
frequently given by the actors of modern Tokyo and Osaka.
The little eccentricities of the sakusha were long remembered after
they had passed away. Sakurada Jisuke had a habit of frequently moving
his residence. He would make a hole in his cupboard through which his
rice was poured by the delivery boy from the rice shop, as he did not
like people to see how much he had ordered at a time. But while he
was parsimonious in some matters, in others he was prodigal. He lived
in Mukojima, across the Sumida River from Tokyo, and at times bought
a whole bag of charcoal, for use in the hibachi, to warm himself in
the boat that took him across the river—just to make a show. The trip
across the river was brief, and he was well aware he required but a
small portion. When an old farmer came selling squash, Jisuke purchased
his entire stock-in-trade and then presented him with one of the
vegetables as a reward, after which the countryman spread the tale of
the sakusha’s generosity.
It was a time when the fortunes of the sakusha were at the lowest ebb,
when writers for the theatre were entirely subordinate to the actors,
and yet the dignity of his profession must have been felt by Jisuke,
for it is reported that he resented being placed under young actors.
After Jisuke, the most prolific stage-writer was the second Kawatake
Shinkichi, better known in his later career as Mokuami, who belongs
more appropriately to the story of Meiji Kabuki.
When dying, Sakurada Jisuke expressed a last wish:
“Do not have Buddhist ceremonies or anniversaries for me, but be
careful not to neglect Yedo plays.”
PLAYS
CHAPTER XXV
KABUKI PLAY FORMS
I
The four characteristic play forms of Kabuki may be classified as
follows: sewamono, plays of everyday life; jidaimono, historical
drama; shosagoto, music-posture drama; and aragoto, highly imaginary
improvisations. Closely allied with these forms is odori, the
descriptive dance, which forms the very foundation of the actor’s art,
as it is known and practised in Japan.
Sewamono are plays in which human nature holds sway, the playwright
selecting for his material the joys and sorrows of the people around
him. Those composed for the Doll-theatre partake of the nature of
balladry, the marionettes moving to music, song, and recitative, while
those written for Kabuki are more akin to the drama of the West.
Jidaimono, historical drama, are pieces that have heroes and heroines
taken from the pages of history for central characters.
But since the playwright was forbidden by the authorities to represent
the real events of history, his only recourse was to take famous
personages and set them in the midst of a wholly imaginary and
irrelevant plot. As he was unable to confine himself to truth, he
allowed his imagination to run riot in the painting of characters and
scenes as far removed from the realities of life as possible.
Shosagoto, also called furigoto, the music-posture drama, provide the
most characteristic Kabuki pieces. Largely influenced by the Nō,
the shosagoto combine all the Kabuki arts—plot, music, scenery, acting,
movement, and colour, and represent the most sincere collaboration of
the Kabuki specialists.
Even more detached from life than the jidaimono is the fourth variety
of Kabuki play, the aragoto (lit., rough acting). Originated by the
first Ichikawa Danjuro, these pieces cannot be classified as drama, for
they scarcely possess any form, and are the result of improvisation on
the part of the different members of the Ichikawa family, who added or
altered, improved or patched up, producing the traditional eighteen
pieces of this house.
The essence of aragoto is exaggeration, and this applies to every
detail, gesture, posture, movement, costume, and acting. The flimsy
material that serves to unite all these strange ingredients is
generally an abstraction, and the expressions and words used are
largely symbolic. The entire emphasis is placed on the art of acting,
and the playwright is left a long distance behind.
Modern stage-writers have made signal departures from these
time-honoured forms, and melodrama, as well as translations and
adaptations of Western plays, are now frequent. In the weaving of their
patterns, however, the modern playwrights appear to wish to throw
overboard as much lumber of the past as possible, but without great
success. Out of the fusion of East and West that is going on upon the
Japanese stage at present, much of interest is to be expected in the
future.
On account of the long hours through which the performances extended,
it was necessary to spread a veritable theatrical feast to sustain the
interest of the audience and keep its attention from wandering. The
programmes were so planned as to include all types of Kabuki pieces,
and this holds equally true of the entertainments afforded by the
modern stage.
In the old days the arrangement of the programme was fixed and
unchangeable, and although at present changes are made now and
then, the sequence of the pieces remains practically the same.
Ichibamme, or the first piece, is a selection of three acts from a
jidaimono, or historical drama. Then comes the naka-maku, or middle
curtain. This is a short shosagoto, but occasionally a one-act aragoto
offering is presented. Sometimes two short pieces are given, and
nowadays this is the position assigned to any attempt by a new writer.
Next comes the nibamme, or second piece. This is a sewamono, or play
depicting the life of the people. For conclusion there is a gay dance
in which the young actors are generally to be seen. This is called the
hane-maku, or end curtain.
Although the Kabuki play forms fall into these four categories, actors,
playwriters, dancing masters, musicians, and others responsible for
the productions never allowed themselves to follow rigidly the special
forms that had been evolved. These stage workers were like a painter
who dips his brush into the colours on his palette as they are needed.
Similarly the Kabuki experts combined the real with the unreal;
introduced dance, pantomime, and, music, even feats of acrobats as they
saw fit, and worked freely, unconscious of limitation.
II
Chikamatsu Monzaemon was one of the first dramatists to discover the
value of human nature as material for his plays, and his contemporaries
and successors also sought inspiration in the domestic life about them,
producing the type of drama called sewamono, or plays of the people.
That “All the world loves a lover” is as true of Chikamatsu’s Izaemon
as of Shakespeare’s Romeo. Originally acted by Sakata Tojuro of
Kyoto in the Genroku age, Izaemon is one of the oldest rôles on the
Japanese stage, and never loses its freshness. Animated, sentimental,
full of the eternal dreams and joys of youth, Izaemon makes his
appearance on the hanamichi eager to see his love Yugiri, an inmate
of a house called Ogiya in Shimmachi, the gay quarter of Osaka. Here
at a tea-house where he is well known he buys a wide straw hat that
hides his face, it being the custom at the time for frequenters of the
quarters to go about with their faces hidden. Izaemon selects one that
has a red cord on the top, so that Yugiri shall know him. Yugiri, the
centre of a courtesan train, makes a brilliant show upon the hanamichi,
and within her domain Izaemon is seen as a petted, gilded youth,
accustomed to the luxury of the day, as became the son of a prosperous
business-house in Kyoto, the Fujiya.
Then is seen the abode of Izaemon’s business-like mother, who, left a
widow, has carried on the house in a capable manner. She sorrowfully
disinherits Izaemon because of his prodigality as Yugiri’s lover.
Izaemon alone, on a snowy day, in a room of his home looking out on
the garden, dreams of Yugiri; asking himself what she is doing at
that moment, regretting he cannot go to Osaka since his mother has
declared he must find a livelihood for himself. Anxious, yet happy in
his dreams, his mother appears, and presents him with a poor kimono
made of paper, that his father was obliged to wear when working hard to
lay the foundation of the family fortune. This is given the youth as a
symbol that he must leave the house on account of his extravagance and
likewise must build up his own career. Poor and unsuccessful, tired
with wandering about, Izaemon returns to see Yugiri as he has heard
that she is ill. A deep straw basket-shaped hat covers his face, his
kimono is weather-stained and patched, a forlorn figure, as he stands
at the door of the Ogiya. Servants of the place take him for a beggar,
and attempt to drive him away, but the proprietor recognises his former
wealthy patron, and warmly invites him within.
[Illustration: Nakamura Ganjiro of Osaka in his favourite rôle, that of
Izaemon, the lover of Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s drama, and played for two
centuries by the Kabuki actors.]
Izaemon next learns that although Yugiri has been ill she has
recovered, that a samurai, Hiraoka of Awa, is interested in her,
and that the son born to Yugiri and himself has been adopted by Hiraoka.
Believing Yugiri faithless to him, and overcome by jealousy, he enters
her room and awaits her coming, pretending to be asleep. When she
succeeds in arousing him he feigns coldness and indifference, but
finally he can no longer suppress his true feelings, and they give
expression to the sufferings they have both undergone during the
separation. It is one of the best love idylls of the Japanese stage.
The conversation between the youthful lovers is interrupted by the
abrupt entrance of a stranger dressed as a samurai, wearing a sword.
Taking off the cloth wrapped about the head, the newcomer reveals the
coiffure of a woman, adorned with beautiful combs and hair-pins. It is
O-Yuki, the wife of Hiraoka, who, disguised as a man, has sought an
interview with her rival. She has come to ask Yugiri to relinquish all
claim to the child, wishing to adopt him as heir of the Hiraoka family.
There is a pathetic scene when Yugiri journeys to the home of the
samurai that she may see her son for the last time, and Izaemon, in
order to obtain one glimpse of the boy, goes disguised as a kago, or
palanquin bearer.
The path of true love never did run smooth. Yugiri becomes ill. The
plight of Yugiri and Izaemon appears hopeless. O-Yuki, overcome with
pity, sends money to ransom Yugiri from the Ogiya, and at the same
time Izaemon’s mother, softened by her son’s sufferings, sends a still
larger amount to buy Yugiri’s freedom. Her child is also restored to
her, and with her loved ones she goes forth to freedom, all to be
happily united with Izaemon’s mother in Kyoto.
* * * * *
In one of the best sewamono, _Nozaki-mura_, or The Village of Nozaki,
by Chikamatsu Hanji, is seen the eternal triangle composed of
Hisamatsu, O-Some, and O-Mitsu.
Hisamatsu, employed in the establishment of a well-to-do
pawnbroker of Osaka, fell in love with the daughter of the house,
O-Some. They were apparently made for each other, and the parents of
O-Some would have gladly given their consent to the marriage, had not
the villain of the play, an elderly, dissipated clerk of the pawnshop,
cast covetous eyes on his master’s daughter, and, jealous of the
growing friendliness between Hisamatsu and O-Some, spread scandal about
them.
There is another obstacle, however, for Hisamatsu has already been
betrothed to O-Mitsu. He has been selected by O-Mitsu’s father,
according to the prerogative of parents in Japan to choose life
companions for their children. O-Mitsu lives with the old man in the
country, anxiously awaiting the day when she will become the bride of
Hisamatsu, they having been brought up like sister and brother.
One of the best scenes in this long domestic tragedy is the meeting of
the three youthful characters. There is something so genuinely homely
and human about O-Mitsu, as she is seen busying herself in preparation
for her marriage to Hisamatsu, all unaware that her future husband
has already given his heart elsewhere. The drab interior of a humble
farmhouse seems to have been transformed, and to reflect something
of the girl’s radiance as she poses to the rhythm of the samisen,
the minstrel on his rostrum to the right of the stage explaining her
movements.
Those long acquainted with the play know that O-Mitsu will cut slices
from daikon, the long, white, radish-like vegetable, in readiness for
the wedding feast, but how she does it is watched with fascination.
Every one, too, knows that she will make her toilet before the
round metal mirror, full of bashful happiness at the thought of her
approaching marriage.
Even while O-Mitsu is deep in thoughts of herself as a bride, her
rival, O-Some, of whom she has never even dreamed, appears on the
hanamichi in the midst of the audience. She is the very acme of good
taste and style, the daughter of an Osaka family that does not
lack in this world’s goods. She is clad in a resplendent purple kimono.
O-Mitsu can never hope to compete with this beautiful creature, who
comes knocking at the cottage entrance.
Looking within her mirror O-Mitsu sees the reflection of the visitor,
a vision of beauty, in contrast to her own rustic simplicity, and the
flame of jealousy begins to bum. In her confusion she pays no attention
to O-Some, overturns her mirror, and chops up the daikon recklessly
into small pieces.
Still hostile to the visitor, who remains waiting for admittance,
O-Mitsu is joined by Hisamatsu and the father, who are not yet aware of
a stranger’s presence, although O-Mitsu puts her head out of the door
in anything but a hospitable manner, making exclamations of scorn and
anger expressive of her hostile state of mind as she pushes her rival
away, closes the latticed door, and to make sure that it is secured
against O-Some’s invasion, places against it a bundle of dried twigs
gathered for fuel.
Very human, too, is the application of moxa, a burning medicine,
to the legs of the old farmer, who writhes with pain at each fresh
ministration by his daughter. Hisamatsu, taking part in this operation
by massaging the old man’s shoulders, is surprised to find O-Some at
the entrance and motions her to go away. He has not yet had time to
break the news of his relations to the Osaka maiden, and is at a loss
what to do. O-Mitsu also continues to show her displeasure, but the
unwelcome visitor cannot be driven away. The farmer, at last viewing
the newcomer, realises the situation, and drags the unwilling O-Mitsu
out of the room, leaving the lovers together.
After a sorrowful love scene between Hisamatsu and O-Some, O-Mitsu
returns, but they are astonished to find that she has cut off her hair
and wears the garb of a nun. She has decided that Hisamatsu and O-Some
belong to each other, and so sacrifices herself that they may have no
regrets on her account. O-Some is full of gratitude, and Hisamatsu
is overcome by her sacrifice. O-Some’s mother next appears to take her
daughter home.
The stage then revolves showing the side of the cottage, a stream of
water, a boat landing, and a boatman waiting for his passengers to the
left, while on the right two palanquin men are ready to take Hisamatsu
away.
Quickly the hanamichi is spread with a blue and white cotton cloth to
represent water. Mother and daughter prepare to embark in the boat. The
shoji, or white paper windows of the cottage, are pushed aside, and
O-Mitsu gazes out sadly.
To the rippling, merry rhythms of the samisen, and a spring song in
praise of the plum blossom sung in a rollicking way by the palanquin
bearers, they take their departure; Hisamatsu carried in a palanquin
on one hanamichi looking across the heads of the audience at O-Some,
and again with regret at O-Mitsu; O-Some and her mother borne over the
cotton waves spread out along the main hanamichi, the boatman working
so hard at the task of plying the oar that he has to take off his coat
to cool himself, the blue and white robed property men really doing all
the pushing and pulling of the craft so that it moves smoothly through
the audience. O-Mitsu and the old father stand together outside the
cottage, lonely figures, bearing the brunt of the sorrow of farewell;
the whole theatre becomes a stage, and each and every person in the
audience feels his or her connection with the play and with the actors.
Hisamatsu and O-Some were not destined to enjoy life. Believing that
they could never clear themselves of the aspersions cast upon their
characters by the slanders of the evil clerk, they seek a happier world
where their spirits may be united. In the gloomy storehouse, erected as
a mark of congratulation when O-Some was born, the bodies of the lovers
are found together.
III
For the exploitation of the unreal we must turn to the jidaimono. The
audiences of Old Japan did not bother their heads if the plot of a
play was so complex that they really could not remember where it began
and how it ended, to judge from _Kokusenya Kassen_, or the Battle of
Kokusenya, a jidaimono by Chikamatsu Monzaemon that enjoyed unbounded
popularity when first produced in 1710, and continues to hold its own,
proving its lasting qualities.
Like Tennyson’s Brook, the complicated characters in this piece come
and go, and the play goes on for ever; in consequence, modern audiences
must witness it piecemeal, since it is only the doll-actors that are
able to give the play in its entirety, and even they must be active
from morning until late afternoon if they are to act all the scenes in
this queer old Chikamatsu drama.
Fashioned out of the cloth of exaggeration, Chikamatsu’s hero, Watonai,
has no kinship with human beings; his fierce countenance showing broad
red and black markings, the bushy hair, the outer costume of purple
covered over with a design of twisted rope in white, the inner garment
of scarlet studded with brass buttons, the huge curved sword—Watonai
might as well belong to the theatre of the moon, since he has nothing
in common with ordinary mortals.
Watonai’s father was a faithful minister of a deposed Ming Emperor, who
took refuge in Japan, and married a woman of Kyushu. Their son, fired
with enthusiasm to go to his father’s country in an attempt to restore
the Ming dynasty, reaches the castle of Kanki, a Chinese general
married to Watonai’s half-sister, who had been left behind when her
father was obliged to flee to Japan.
Arrived at the Lion Castle, Watonai allows his Japanese mother to enter
as a hostage, and his Chinese sister, Kinsho, whom he has never seen,
declares she will try to win her husband to Watonai’s cause. If he is
favourable, she will pour white face powder into the stream beneath her
window, and should the answer be in the negative, a quantity of
rouge will dye the water. But the general does not favour his unknown
brother-in-law from Japan, and Kinsho stabs herself in the breast, her
blood dyeing the rivulet that flows into the Hoang-ho.
Watonai, standing on a stone bridge, watches for a sign from his
sister, understands the answer is unfavourable (a property man
dexterously turning over a flap in the blue stage river to show the
necessary red colour). Amid much stage agony Watonai’s mother and
sister die, and Kanki consents to aid the hero.
When the bridge on which Watonai stands, gazing anxiously into the
river searching for a sign from his sister, is slowly forced up from
below the stage, the hero is seen shading his face with a wide straw
hat, and holding a flaming torch,—the audience little realises the
amount of preparation that has been necessary for this impressive
entrance.
Nor can the trouble the actor takes to make up according to the
Ichikawa traditions be fully realised, unless a close inspection of
this remarkable personage is made behind the stage.
The actor who takes the rôle of Watonai must transform his everyday
countenance into a theatrical mask, that might be an apparition from
the planet Saturn. The face is first painted dead white, and on this
ground he draws red lines with a writing brush. Beginning with the
bridge of his nose, two lines curve out over his forehead suggesting
a lobster’s claws, the sweeping lines on cheeks and about the mouth
forming spaces of white that are shaped like peony petals. Touches
of black about the eyes and mouth are made to make them large and
aggressive. Then the terrifying wig is put in place—large, bristling,
the hair standing on end, signifying the daring courage of a character
half Chinese and half Japanese with intent to conquer China.
After seeing Chikamatsu’s Watonai, it is realised that Japanese actors
take even more pains to be unreal than Occidental actors endeavour to
be lifelike.
[Illustration: Matsumoto Koshiro, the seventh, as Watonai, the
grotesque hero of Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s drama, Kokusenya Kassen, or
the Battle of Kokusenya. The inner garment is bright red studded with
brass, the lower purple with a design of twisted white rope.]
Kinkaku-ji, or the Golden Pavilion, built by the Shogun Yoshimitsu
in the fourteenth century, still stands for the public admiration in
Kyoto, an historical sight in the old capital. This forms the setting
for a popular scene in a fantastic doll-theatre play that is one of the
best examples of jidaimono.
In this long complicated drama by Nakamura Ake and Asada Icho, the
chief character is the villain, Matsunaga Daizen, who has usurped the
Shogun’s power, and taken up his residence at the Golden Pavilion,
where he leads a dissolute life. A beautiful young woman, Yuki-hime,
daughter of a famous painter, is confined in Kinkaku-ji, this mansion
of romance being reproduced in a realistic manner by the scenic
craftsmen of Kabuki.
Tokichi, a loyal retainer of the Shogun, enters upon the scene, and his
battle of wits with Daizen over a game of go, the Japanese chess, is
a familiar and favourite scene with playgoers. Outplayed by Tokichi,
Daizen in his anger overturns the go table and throws a lacquered
counter-box into a well in the garden, ordering Tokichi to pick it out
without wetting his hand.
Not to be outdone, Tokichi immediately overcomes the difficulty by
placing a hollow bamboo pole to the waterfall that forms part of the
painted scenery of the background, and the water in the well rising he
lifts out the counter-box with his fan, and places it on the upturned
table which he holds outstretched in one hand, his postures signifying
triumph over the tyrant.
Yuki-hime, left alone with Daizen, is commanded to paint a picture of a
dragon, which she declares she cannot do without having seen one. Very
conveniently a silver dragon jumps up the painted waterfall aided by
the indefatigable property men, and Daizen holds out his flashing sword
that she may catch the reflection of the dragon.
But she sees much more, for the blade is that once owned by her father,
and she knows that Daizen is her father’s enemy. Without more ado
Yuki-hime’s arms are bound about with rope and she is tied to a
cherry tree. She struggles to free herself, but as this is all in vain,
she calls magic to her aid. Rats rush to the rescue and gnaw the rope,
setting Yuki-hime free from Daizen’s clutches.
Tokichi once more enters, searching for the Shogun’s mother, who has
remained immured in the Golden Pavilion and invisible. He climbs a
tree to reach the upper story, and, rolling up a curtain, the hostage
is seen sitting calmly within. It is an unusual and picturesque scene
worthy of the jidaimono tenets.
After entering into the doings of all these queer stage-folk, it is a
pleasure to find that Daizen, like most theatrical villains, is finally
defeated by Tokichi’s superior strategy.
IV
In contrast to the realistic plays with their snow-storms and
earthquakes, fighting bouts and harakiri scenes, there are the
shosagoto, or music-posture dramas. Dr. Yuzo Tsubouchi once
characterised these pieces as phantasmagoria. To the stage workers
in the Occident, groping their way to find a new method to unite the
independent arts of the theatre, this Kabuki form would come as a
delightful surprise.
The shosagoto consists of a slight plot, simple dialogue, descriptive
dances, symbolic movement, descriptions sung by a chorus,—welded
together by the rhythm of drum, flute, and samisen. For the shosagoto
the three different styles of stage music are used, Nagauta, Tokiwazu,
and Kiyomoto, that originated in Yedo and are as typical of Yedo Kabuki
as the Joruri, or balladry of the Doll-theatre, is of Osaka.
Both as to plot and music, the shosagoto owe their inspiration to
the older music-drama of the Nō, and the best pieces are adaptations
of Nō plays. A partiality for the weird is pronounced in shosagoto.
No doubt the fantastic characters of the Nō had much to do with the
cultivation of this taste in the people, and the craftsmen of
Kabuki have become master-hands in the staging of such plays.
[Illustration: Matsumoto Koshiro, the seventh, as Benkei, the
warrior-priest in Kanjincho He performed in this rôle when the Prince
of Wales visited the Imperial Theatre.]
_Kanjincho_, a scroll on which are written the names of those
contributing to a fund for the erection or repair of a temple, is an
acknowledged Kabuki masterpiece.
The play had its origin, far back in the past, in the classical Nō
drama, but for 200 years has been produced on the popular stage.
Preserving much of the Nō tradition as well as Buddhist atmosphere,
it gives an impression of dignity, but even more of unity of plot and
treatment, of speech and chorus, of posture and costume, centring in
the motive of loyalty of man to master.
The setting represents the Nō convention—a wide-spreading pine tree
painted on the background, bamboo decorated walls to right and left.
Singers and samisen players of the Nagauta orchestra are clad in the
terra-cotta ceremonial kimono of the Ichikawa actor family, to whom the
piece belongs by inheritance. Below the red dais of the Nagauta, the Nō
drum beaters sit on stools, the flute player and round-drum performer
kneeling at the sides. The movement, straight forward to the climax and
_dénouement_, is built upon the ever-complex and conflicting rhythms
of drum and flute. The colour and design of the costumes lend a larger
beauty to the harmony of their postures, gestures, and dances.
Benkei, a warrior priest, is the principal personage in the play, and
he holds the centre of the stage for an hour. As the drama opens,
the drums begin to beat, and voice and flute are added. Togashi, the
keeper of the mountain barrier, makes his appearance from the left,
where the black, green, and red curtain is held on high to let him
enter, according to the Nō tradition. He makes an impressive entrance,
accompanied by a page bearing a sword, and advances to the front of
the stage, where he announces that he has heard there is trouble
between Yoritomo, the lord of Kamakura, and military dictator of the
country, and his brother Yoshitsune, and that the latter, with his
attendants, has started from Mutsu in the disguise of a yamabushi, or
mountain priest. He has received orders to prevent them from passing
the barrier.
Yoshitsune presently appears on the hanamichi, a wide hat and a staff
in his hand, with a Buddhist box upon his back to carry the sacred
sutras, or other religious writings.
When the yamabushi with Yoshitsune are standing in a line in the midst
of the audience, Benkei comes last, a striking figure in his brocaded
skirt and black upper robe adorned with gold characters related to the
doctrines of the yamabushi. He carries a rosary with vermilion tassels.
He is the hero of many adventures, and has sworn faithfulness to his
young lord, Yoshitsune.
Togashi, on guard, bars the way. Benkei declares that they are on a
mission to collect funds to rebuild the temple of the great Buddha at
Nara, but the ever-watchful Togashi announces that if the yamabushi are
upon such a mission, they must have a subscription list, and he will
listen while Benkei reads it.
Benkei must pass this test. Slowly he takes out of his box the
Kanjincho, a scroll containing the names of donors to the temple fund,
and pretends to read the contents. Togashi doubts him as he unwinds the
scroll, and creeps up quietly to have a look. Benkei snatches it away
and Togashi starts back. The dramatic value of the situation is greatly
intensified by the exaggerated costumes of the two principal figures,
whose postures bring storms of applause from the audience.
Then comes one of the most interesting moments of _Kanjincho_, the
questions and answers. Togashi says that he does not doubt that they
are genuine yamabushi, but still he would like to ask Benkei some
questions, and he puts the warrior-priest through a cross-examination;
why he dresses in such a warlike costume when his life is devoted to
Buddha, why he wears a sword, being a priest of Buddha. Benkei has a
quick answer for all the questions that Togashi hurls at him, and
at length the party are permitted to proceed on their way, the keeper
of the pass admiring Benkei’s faithfulness to his master.
[Illustration: Sawamura Sojuro, the seventh, of the Imperial Theatre,
as Togashi, the keeper of the barrier, in Kanjincho, Kabuki’s
music-drama masterpiece.]
Benkei leaves by the hanamichi, the yamabushi follow, and Yoshitsune
is left behind on the stage. One of Togashi’s men whispers in his
ear. He thinks he has discovered Yoshitsune among the yamabushi. To
throw him off the scent Togashi calls them back. The little company is
proceeding quickly along the hanamichi when the abrupt order causes
them to halt in dramatic attitude. To allay all suspicion, Benkei
takes an unpardonable liberty and strikes Yoshitsune with his staff.
After Togashi and his men have retired, Benkei seeks Yoshitsune’s
forgiveness for his rash act, and weeps because of his offence, but
Yoshitsune signifies his approval of Benkei’s strategy, which has saved
their lives. The delighted retainer jumps back, bows his head to the
stage, and then expresses in a dance the emotions he has gone through.
Yoshitsune and the yamabushi pass out by way of the audience path to
the beating of drums and light ripples of the samisen.
Left all alone, the faithful Benkei takes up once more the yamabushi
box, slips it on his back, and starts by way of the hanamichi. The
curtain is drawn, the attendant holding back one end as Benkei pauses
before making his wonderful exit. He takes three jumps on one foot and
then leaps forward, whirling his staff in air, and repeating this,
clears the hanamichi in three great bounds, giving expression to his
triumphant mood and the strength of his loyalty to his master, amid
the thunder of big drums, the shrilling of the flute, and the steady
metallic clapping of the hyoshigi, that announce the end of the piece.
V
For the same reason that the music of shibai, depending as it does on
unfamiliar groupings of sound and intricate and ever-changing rhythms,
does not appeal immediately to Occidental ears, so the aragoto
plays of Kabuki are equally incomprehensible. They are largely the
improvisations of actors, have little plot, and sometimes are quite
meaningless. Unliterary they are to a degree. But their whole value
lies in the remarkable stage treatment they display, how it is done
apparently being of much greater importance than what it is about.
These strange plays do not appeal to the intellect, nor are they
planned to stir the emotions. They are not intended to be anything in
particular, simply the unconscious theatre instinct at work creating a
feast of colour and movement to spread before the eyes.
The eighteen pieces of the Danjuro family are for the most part
aragoto, in which acting and posture are the chief features.
_Sukeroku_ is among the best of these quaint Ichikawa pieces. The
scene is the outside of a house in the gay quarters, the entire front
vermilion-coloured and barred, the usual show place for the inmates
according to the old custom. Several gorgeous processions pass over
the hanamichi to the stage, and then comes the villain, a venerable
white-haired old gentleman, in bronze brocade, the very person the
hero, Sukeroku, seeks.
Sukeroku makes an unusual entrance, running in through the audience,
his head bowed low and covered from sight by a half-shut oiled-paper
umbrella. He makes a striking theatrical figure, for he wears a black
kimono lined with pale blue and edged with scarlet, while his belt,
or obi, is of green brocade bearing for design in gold the familiar
three-rice-measure crest of the first Danjuro. A red neckcloth sets off
the white mask-like face with the broad red outlines about the eyes,
true to the make-up traditions of the Ichikawa house. A purple band is
tied around his head and falls in folds at one side.
In his postures on the hanamichi with his black and white umbrella,
Sukeroku every second assumes a new pose, that causes him to appear
like a piece of statuary in a bewildering number of aspects, as he
shadows forth the meaning of the character he represents,—the
bravery and fighting spirit of an otokodate, or man of the people,
always ready to defend the weak. He also suggests that Sukeroku is in
reality Goro, one of the Soga brothers, and that he is disguised as
Sukeroku, and is searching for a lost sword.
[Illustration: Morita Kanya, the thirteenth, son of the aggressive
theatre manager of Meiji, as Yoshitsune, the young hero of the
music-drama Kanjincho.]
Thus the actors who created the character in the time of the fifth
Danjuro knew what they were about, for the Soga brothers, otokodate,
chivalrous commoners and searchers after swords, were prime favourites
with Yedo audiences, and they were combined for greater effect in the
character of Sukeroku.
Seeking for a quarrel in the pleasure quarters, brave Sukeroku is no
respecter of persons, for his only aim is to make men draw their swords
that he may find the one of his quest.
His taunting of the stately old villain in the attempt to arouse his
ire, and the intimidation of a samurai whom he causes to throw down his
swords and then crawl on all fours between his outstretched legs, are
full of humour.
As a last attempt to make the venerable miscreant show his sword
Sukeroku, championed by Agimaki, the gorgeous belle of the quarter,
suddenly jumps forth from his hiding-place behind Agimaki’s ample
robes, and assaults the brocade-clad dignitary, who involuntarily draws
his blade. At sight of it Sukeroku immediately recognises that it is
the precious weapon of his search.
Later he kills the villain and takes the sword, when a new danger
threatens him as the men of the enemy are about to surround him. He
looks about to find a place of concealment, and as a last resort jumps
into a big water tank used on the occasion of a fire. Throwing aside
a pyramid of small tubs, that are used as ornaments across the top of
the same, he knocks the bottom out of one and placing it over his head
allows it to float on the surface of the water.
The searching party look everywhere to find him. They even climb
to the roof of the house, but Sukeroku and his stolen sword are safe
under the water.
When he emerges real water splashes all over the stage and comes as a
surprise in a play so entirely artificial and unreal. Perhaps on that
very account it has the intended effect, for the audience is quite
startled by the audacity and bravery of this highly imaginary hero.
* * * * *
Kagekiyo, a legendary character, the hero of several Nō dramas, is the
central figure in an aragoto piece in the possession of the Ichikawa
family. It represents the actors’ impress upon theatre material,
nebulous, without the concentration that comes from a literary mind.
Yet to lovers of the unreal it is full of attraction.
Certainly very little of the world of reality clings about the material
or movement of this one-act species of drama which has for motive the
valour and strength of Kagekiyo, a general of the Heike clan, whose
cause has been defeated and who is confined in a cavern.
His appearance is dramatic in the extreme, when the guards allow him to
gaze forth from a square opening in the bars of his prison-cave. His
face is heavily lined with broad red lines, his fierce and threatening
top-knot of hair that stands straight on end is accentuated by peculiar
side wings of lacquered wood suggesting strands of hair that form a
frame for the ferocious countenance. His costume of glittering gold
brocade, with vivid touches of green and red, is in keeping with the
strange visage of the dauntless warrior.
That he may taste all the bitterness of defeat, his wife and daughter
are led in bound with rope, and he is brought forth to speak with them,
his arms tied behind him in the most approved manner of the modern
serial moving picture.
When everything seems against the outlandish hero, he is freed from
his fetters and allowed to sit on a huge boulder in the centre of the
stage, where he postures as he relates the misfortunes of his clan
and declares his loyalty—an active figure whose every gesture is
all the more conspicuous because of the groupings of the immovable
personages on either side.
Kagekiyo shows some traces of human emotion, and is overcome at the
treatment meted out to his wife and daughter, yet still keeps a stout
heart, even when his son is placed within the gloomy cavern.
He scorns the Genji generals who gaze on his captivity, by refusing
their offerings of food, kicking it unceremoniously away, and bellows
in the extravagant style that is so typical of aragoto. At length his
outraged feeling getting the best of him he lifts up the great stone
on which he has been sitting and uses it as a missile to throw at the
Genji followers, who, driven hither and thither, are finally routed.
Kagekiyo, fighting to a finish, reaches a climax of grotesqueness as he
poses in triumphant attitude brandishing a large beam of wood which has
been his weapon of defence.
VI
Odori is closely allied to the Kabuki arts, and forms an essential part
of a great variety of pieces. Since without it no theatre programme
would be considered complete, odori becomes one of the most important
Kabuki forms.
Tamura Nariyoshi, a theatre manager with a long experience of Kabuki
behind him, a genius of the Meiji period, who died a few years ago,
once said that the mere movement of the limbs was not dancing. Should
a dancer wish to suggest that he was looking at Mount Fuji, gazing at
the sea, or watching a shadow, the three ideas must be expressed in
different ways. Dancing, like acting, he said, should have a meaning,
and the performer must keep steadfastly to the central idea, otherwise
interest would be lost.
This is the clue to the understanding of odori. The least gesture made
by the dancer has significance, and nothing is left to chance. The
training in dancing the yakusha undergoes gives him control over all
parts of his body. He uses his head and shoulders equally with the
eyes and face; the arms, hands, and fingers are all expressive, while
the waist and feet play no small part in the presentation of the idea
of the dance. Pantomime is first cousin to odori, and rhythm and song
next of kin.
Of the many material objects the Kabuki dancers have chosen as media of
expression, the chief is the fan. For a thousand years this has been
a symbol of the dance, and its technique has come about through the
desire of centuries of dancers to convey emotion through the movements
of the dance.
What magic this fragile object is able to create is clearly visible
when some dancer of long training who has acquired a mastery of
movement, opens and shuts his fan, causing flowers to bloom, and rain
to fall; or waving it outstretched, butterflies flutter and a boat
tosses on the waves. He closes it and traces the outline of a mountain
and points to the stars; or opens it sweepingly in imitation of the
frolic of the wind.
What a world of romance the fan discloses, suggesting shyness,
affection, disapproval, consent! How the widespread silver fan beckons
to some enchanted moonlit garden; upraised, reveals a triumphant mood;
or the dancer, with a stamp of feet and swift motion of the body and
fan thrown about from hand to hand, describes some merry festival under
the falling petals of the cherry trees.
In connection with odori there is an important Kabuki expert, the
furitsuke-shi (lit., movement-to-make master), who is largely
responsible for the charm of the descriptive dance, but who has
received scant recognition for his work. The furitsuke-shi has trained
the actors, assisted in the production of the music-posture dramas and
innumerable short dances, and when given an opportunity to create has
left behind him pieces that are still the stock-in-trade of the actors.
Since the early Kabuki performances largely consisted of dances, the
players were accustomed to manage according to their own ideas and
tastes. With the rapid development of Kabuki a dance specialist was
necessary.
[Illustration: Onoe Baiko, as the Wistaria Maiden, in a descriptive
dance.]
Pantomime as an element of dancing had long been old on the Nō stage,
but it came afresh to Kabuki from the Doll-theatre, where the movements
of the marionettes were so remarkable in the sphere of the dance that
the actors were obliged to imitate them. Gradually there came into
existence experts who devoted their time and talents to the teaching of
this art to the actors.
The furitsuke-shi was an obscure profession, but nevertheless very
important for the stage. The sakusha furnished the libretto for the
odori, or shosagoto, while the furitsuke-shi planned the movements,
studied the relation of the dancers to each other, calculated the
picturesque groups, and produced the ensemble so characteristic of
these Kabuki forms.
The furitsuke-shi were the repository of the complicated dancing
technique of their day, yet they were quite subordinate to the actors,
and when they wished to carry out an idea they were obliged to consult
their superiors, and in consequence worked under great difficulties.
Apartments were assigned to the stage dignitaries as became their
rank in the shibai world, but such was the position of the humble
dancing-master that he generally fraternised with the men who furnished
the incidental music for the plays, and who were considered far beneath
the regular musicians performing out in front, the Nagauta, Tokiwazu,
and Gidayu performers. The furitsuke-shi were regarded as merely
hangers-on behind the stage.
It often happened, however, that these men became actors. The fourth
Nakamura Utayemon was the son of a furitsuke-shi. A modern instance of
this is Matsumoto Koshiro, the seventh, the most versatile actor of the
Tokyo stage, who was adopted when a child to become the head of the
Fujima school of dancing, but later was taken under the patronage of
the ninth Danjuro Ichikawa, and is the master’s most brilliant follower.
On the other hand, actors who were good in dancing but failures
on the stage, often followed this profession. Bando Mitsugoro, one of
the best dancers of the Tokyo stage to-day, has practically given up
acting, appearing only in dancing pieces. He gives his time largely to
the instruction of young actors.
At present the Fujima house of dancing is the most flourishing in
Tokyo. The founder of this family was a Nō Kyogen actor called Kambei,
who hailed from a village named Fujima. He migrated to Yedo and taught
dancing, and was succeeded by his son. The third Kambei, however, was
one of the most original exponents of this school, and how he came to
inherit the headship of the family forms an interesting story.
He was employed as a boy of all work in the fish market, that
stronghold of independent Yedo citizens, and was sent by his employer
to escort his little daughter to and from her dancing lessons. Having
to wait in the entrance of the house, the boy soon came to take a vivid
interest in the proceedings, and by dint of peeping within he learned
the dances much quicker than the legitimate pupils. The second Kambei
recognised the lad’s ability, and not only took him under his wing, but
eventually married him to his daughter, and made over to him the Fujima
school.
Kambei, the third, died under strange circumstances. It was found out
that he had carried on a love affair with the mistress of a daimyo
who was one of his patronesses. The lord is supposed to have had him
secretly dispatched, and then sent his body home with the explanation
that he had suddenly expired. It was thought by his wife and pupils
that he had been poisoned, but the mystery was never solved.
His wife carried on the teaching but, being a woman, she had no
relation with the theatre. Among the third Kambei’s pupils was
Nishikawa Senzo, who became a star of the Nishikawa school.
[Illustration: Onoe Kikugoro, the sixth, as the transformation of a
maid into a white fox, in a descriptive dance, Kagami Shishi, or the
Mirror-Lion.]
After the third Kambei’s time the Fujima house had two branches
founded by his pupils; one was called Fujima Kangoro, and the other
Fujima Kanyemon. As the Kangoro line has always had a woman at its
head, it has not been employed by the theatre. That carried on by
Kanyemon is now the first school of Tokyo, with Hanayanagi second.
Nishikawa maintains its prestige in Nagoya; Kyoto possesses the
Katayama school, while the leading schools of Osaka are the Umemoto and
Yamamura.
[Illustration: Crest of Nakamura Denkuro (Metal cross).]
[Illustration: Crest of Sawamura Sojuro (Alphabetical character
repeated).]
CHAPTER XXVI
MOTIVES OF KABUKI PLAYS
I
One overwhelming motive is to be found in the plays of the Doll-theatre
and Kabuki—loyalty and self-sacrifice. These were the popular themes
that stirred the people to the depths.
It is the conflict of giri (sense of justice, duty, obligation) and
ninjo (humanity, sentiment, feeling) which forms the backbone of all
the drama produced before the Restoration of the Emperor in 1868.
Lord Macaulay has said somewhere that we may safely conclude that the
feelings and opinions which pervade the whole dramatic literature
of a generation are feelings and opinions of which the men of that
generation partook.
This is true in a particular sense of the loyalty tragedies enacted
by the marionettes and played by the Kabuki yakusha, for not only did
these representations inculcate in the masses a passion for service
and self-abnegation, but in them are faithfully mirrored the life of
Japan’s feudal age.
If, as Mr. St. John Ervine has said, “the supreme test of a nation’s
health is its capacity to produce and to appreciate tragedy”, then
these old tragedies, full of the devotion of man for master, the filial
duty of children, the faithfulness of wives, and readiness to lay down
life for a cause, are revelations of the peculiar virtues and strength
of soul that have characterised the humbler people of Japan for the
past two hundred years.
Of the many loyalty pieces that come to mind, few are more typical
than the long, complicated play concerning the exiled Michizane, the
patron saint of Japanese literature, _Sugawara Denju Tenarai Kagami_
(lit., Sugawara-Family-instruction-hand-writing-mirror). To Takeda
Izumo, the Doll-theatre playwright, Kabuki owes a debt of gratitude
for this loyalty masterpiece that is the test of the modern actor’s
ability. It has even found its way in mutilated form to the London
stage as The Pine Tree, and has been performed on the New York stage as
Bushido.
_Terakoya_, or The Village School, is but one of many fine scenes
in this long drama dealing with Sugawara Michizane, an historical
character who lived a thousand years ago, suffered exile because of
a court intrigue, and is venerated to-day as the patron saint of
literature. The loyalty of Michizane’s servants, the triplets, called
after the plum, cherry, and pine trees, or Umeomaru, Sakuramaru, and
Matsuomaru, forms the complicated strands of the drama. Genzo, who
has been in the service of the high dignitary and learned writing and
letters under him, attempts to hide the heir to the Sugawara family,
whom the unrelenting enemy wishes to destroy. Hoping to evade the
searching eyes of the villain, Genzo starts a school in a distant
village.
There is the familiar opening, the village children busy at their
desks writing in their very much-used copy-books, the little son of
Michizane, although in disguise, distinguished from the others by his
aristocratic bearing. The fat dunce is punished by Genzo’s wife, and
stands on his desk with a lighted incense stick in his hand, admonished
not to stir until it is burned down.
Matsuomaru’s wife comes to place her son Kotaru in the school, but
in reality to give him as a willing sacrifice that he may become a
substitute for the princely heir whom the enemy seeks to kill.
Genzo’s entrance by way of the hanamichi focusses all attention upon
him. He walks slowly and sadly, with folded arms. For he is faced with
a situation which will test his loyalty to the fullest extent.
He must save his master’s son. Entering the school the children bow
respectfully. He calls two of the boys by name and they answer, raising
their heads. But they are country-bred, and cannot be substituted for
the prince.
The dejected schoolmaster sinks down deep in meditation, when his wife
introduces the new pupil, the son of the faithful Matsuomaru. He does
not look at the child at first, but when he does he gives a start, for
the handsome boy is a veritable solution of his difficulties. He gazes
steadfastly into his face, showing his determination. If the worst
should happen, he will be obliged to kill the newcomer as the only
means of saving the little prince.
A gorgeous red-faced official arrives to receive the head of the
prince, and Matsuomaru accompanies him for purposes of identification,
while the fathers of the pupils prostrate themselves humbly on the
hanamichi, waiting to take their precious children home, afraid of the
peril that awaits one of the pupils in Genzo’s school.
The examination by the pompous official of the school children must
always remain a classic of the Japanese stage, as one by one they
are called, the official placing his fan under their chins to look
into their upturned faces, Matsuomaru shaking his head as the country
bumpkins pass before him,—a comic relief from the tenseness created by
the coming tragedy.
Not finding the prince, the official and his numerous attendants, or
country policemen, file into the school and take possession. Matsuomaru
says that not even an ant can escape, as a warning to Genzo, and the
impatient official demands that the head may be cut off without delay.
[Illustration: Nakamura Ganjiro of Osaka as Genzo, the village
schoolmaster in Terakoya, or the Village School, by Takeda Izumo.]
Genzo hesitates; the head-box the official has brought is under his
arm. Then he goes to an inner room, and the sound of the blow of a
sword is heard. Genzo returns and the box with its gory trophy is
placed before Matsuomaru for final judgement. The actor taking the rôle
of Matsuomaru suggests without words Matsuomaru’s anxiety. The
face of Michizane’s heir may confront him, or he may be obliged to look
upon the face of his own child, and this forms one of the most dramatic
situations in the scene.
“Good!” he says at last. “There is no mistake! It is the real
head!”—and he covers it up quickly, since he cannot bear the sight of
Kotaru’s face.
Genzo, who has been watching closely, ready to strike Matsuomaru down
with his sword should he disclaim the head, exchanges an amazed but
relieved glance with his wife. The tension is over.
Then comes the explanation, Matsuomaru asking how Kotaru behaved
knowing that he had to die for the prince; the regrets of Genzo and
his wife; the meeting of the little prince with his mother. Of all
the countless loyalty scenes of the Japanese stage, _Terakoya_ for
construction, pathos, and swiftness of movement cannot be surpassed.
[Illustration: Ichikawa Chusha as Matsuomaru in Terakoya (The Village
School), who sacrifices the life of his son that the Michizane heir may
survive.]
* * * * *
Another scene that stands out vividly among the loyalty plays is also
by Takeda Izumo, and it would be difficult to judge which displays the
better workmanship, _Terakoya_, The Village School, or the Sushi-ya
scene from _Yoshitsune Sembonzakura_. Yoshitsune is the name of that
legendary hero of Japan whose adventures form the plots for many a
Kabuki play, and _Sembonzakura_ signifies ten thousand cherry trees,
suggesting something of the lustre and fame of Yoshitsune’s name.
Sushi-ya is a humble shop where rice sandwiches stuffed with vegetables
or fish are sold. It was in this sushi-ya that a Heike prince lived in
disguise.
The interior of the sushi-ya is shown, wooden buckets arranged in neat
rows. The young man of the shop, who is in reality the Heike prince,
enters with a small tub slung over his shoulder, as he has been about
the business of the shop. O-Sato, daughter of the proprietor, loves the
effeminate youth, and is seen making overtures to him, which he
does not particularly relish. Gonta, the prodigal son of the family,
returns home.
This character has the bushy hair which Kabuki has conventionalised to
identify robbers and bold, bad men. His large black-and-white-checked
kimono is in striking contrast to his bare skin and the inky blackness
of his wig. He has come after money, and knows well how to play upon
the feelings of his mother. She is inclined to scold him at first, but
he relates a tale of woe with such telling force that she is instantly
won over to his side.
When Gonta turns his face towards his fond parent his countenance
expresses all degrees of contrition and misery, but when he takes the
audience into his confidence he swiftly changes to the prodigal again,
crafty and watchful, lest his good acting in the rôle of a much-abused
person may fail to secure him the advantage he desires.
The mother goes to open a chest of drawers to give him some money, but
she cannot unlock it. Gonta, who really belongs to the light-fingered
gentry, easily picks the lock and helps himself generously. Some one is
heard approaching, and to hide his newly acquired riches he places the
money in one of the sushi tubs standing on the verandah, and disappears
behind the blue and white curtain that separates the shop from the
dwelling.
By way of the hanamichi, the old keeper of the sushi-ya returns home in
a state of agitation, with some object concealed under his arm wrapped
in a kimono, and when the prince, in the capacity of a servant of the
place, comes to welcome him, the master sends him on an errand, and
when alone unwraps a human head and slips it for concealment into a tub
standing next to that in which Gonta has deposited his ill-gotten gains.
Disclosing his secret to the prince, the old man tells him how his
enemies are searching for him, but that he accidentally came upon the
body of a samurai who had been killed in a fray and with whose head he
intends to mislead the enemy.
Shortly after, Gonta comes forth, seizes the tub with the head
and makes a hurried exit by the hanamichi. Then the wife and child of
the prince appear. O-Sato, who has been sleeping behind a low screen,
awakens at the sound of their voices and realises the high degree of
her supposed lover. Her love-dream over, she is weepingly respectful to
the fine lady.
For safety’s sake, the Heike prince and his family leave the house,
and have barely escaped before a resplendent warrior walks with
stately tread through the audience, accompanied by a retinue of
attendants. He is dressed in black and white, with a wonderful
head-dress, the decorations of which are like the golden antennae of
an insect, glittering in the mellow glow of the lights carried by the
torch-bearers.
In terror the sushi-ya runs to meet the train and peers up into their
faces, but they pay little attention. The old man, at the command of
the grandee, places the sushi tub which he thinks contains the head in
front of the examiner, who orders that the ghastly object be brought
forth. The mother has seen her erring son, Gonta, place the money in
that very tub, and she objects to the examination of the contents since
she knows what a disappointment awaits her husband.
While they struggle over the tub, Gonta strides bravely along the
hanamichi, full of importance, the sushi tub containing the head under
his arm. This he offers for the examiner’s inspection, and so saves the
day!
But the parents think that he has proved disloyal and taken the head of
the prince for the sake of the reward, and their belief is strengthened
when they see that he has with him the supposed wife and child of the
prince, gagged and bound, whom he treats in the most insulting manner.
The pompous official then demands the head. The torch-bearers draw near
that he may view it the better. He unfolds his gold fan and continues
to gaze for a long time, conveying to the audience without words that
he is satisfied it is the head of Prince Koremori, and prepares to
depart. Gonta watches his every movement, fearful that something may
happen at the last moment to upset his carefully made plans. Before the
official departs he presents Gonta with a gift in the shape of a kimono.
No sooner has the examiner left, than the sushi-ya, overcome at the
idea of his son’s lack of loyalty in giving up the prince and his
family to the enemy, falls on Gonta with his sword and pierces him to
the heart.
With his remaining strength, poor, misjudged Gonta places a whistle to
his mouth, and the true prince, with his wife and child, come at the
call from their hiding-place. It is Gonta’s own wife and child who have
been sacrificed. The parents realise too late what has happened, and
are overwhelmed with grief, and the prince examining the garment given
to Gonta discovers that part of a priest’s robe has been hidden within
its folds. He takes the suggestion and puts it on, realising that the
official was well aware that the head placed in front of him was not
that of Koremori, and had sent this hint to the Heike prince to retire
to a monastery.
The dying Gonta surrounded by the now priest-prince and his wife and
child, his own parents and sister, breathes his last as the curtain is
drawn amid the noise of the loud clapping of two pieces of wood, which
in Kabuki always signifies the end of the play.
[Illustration: Jitsukawa Enjaku of Osaka as Gonta in the sacrifice
play, Sembonzakura, by Takeda Izumo.]
* * * * *
Another scene from a loyalty play, _Sendaihagi_ (Sendai referring to
former generations, and hagi, a flowering shrub), written by Matsu
Kanshi for the Doll-theatre in 1784, has withstood the shocks of time
so well that it may be seen many times a year on the modern stages of
the three cities, Tokyo, Osaka, and Kyoto.
It concerns a young daimyo, one of the wealthiest among the feudal
lords, who led a dissolute life. The lord’s excesses were encouraged by
a relative, who intrigued to have him removed from the headship of the
family that he might manage the domain to his own benefit. There
was a small heir, Tsurukiyo, in the way of the final completion of this
dark design, and Masaoka, his faithful nurse, was ever watchful in her
protection of him.
The finest scene in _Sendaihagi_ is that in which Masaoka prepares the
food for Tsurukiyo, for she knows that his enemies will attempt to
poison him. The splendid room of a great daimyo’s ancestral mansion is
a strong contrast to the meagre fare the faithful nurse prepares.
At all costs she must cook the meal herself, for enemies lurk in all
parts of the house, and have been given orders to kill the boy who
stands in the way of the coveted inheritance.
Masaoka unfolds a low gold screen, disclosing the utensils used in the
tea ceremony, and slowly begins to make the meal for the little prince
and her son Semmatsu, who is his playmate. The children ask when the
rice will be cooked, as they are very hungry, and trying to forget the
pangs of hunger they engage in play. Masaoka, busy at her work, is
overcome with emotion, as she alone realises the desperate situation,
and the peril which threatens Tsurukiyo.
With this fear at her heart, she does not go about her task happily or
briskly, but pauses now and then to weep.
When Tsurukiyo comes to take a look at the boiling pot, inquiring how
long it will be before the meal is ready, he surprises his nurse in a
tearful mood. But she regains her composure, and announces that the
rice will soon be boiled. A flock of sparrows fly near the verandah,
and Tsurukiyo throws them some uncooked grains of rice. After the
sparrows have disappeared, the children realise their hunger again and
make a fresh appeal. Semmatsu, who is patience itself, understands that
he must amuse the prince and begins to sing a song and clap his hands,
in which pastime Tsurukiyo joins.
This does not divert for long, and Tsurukiyo becomes angry at
repeated delays and murmurs discontentedly, his small companion
shedding tears because he is unable to console him. Finally Tsurukiyo
says that even the sparrows are fed, but that they have nothing to eat.
After the children have partaken of Masaoka’s frugal repast of plain
boiled rice, the action is rapid. An aged relative of the family enters
clad in gold brocade, her white hair flowing down her back, guided over
the hanamichi by maids bearing lanterns, and an accomplice carrying the
box of poisoned cakes, a gift for Tsurukiyo.
As his fare has been of the scantiest, Tsurukiyo looks longingly
at this box, but a whispered word from Masaoka warns him in time.
Semmatsu is mistaken for Tsurukiyo, and the wicked woman who has been
commissioned to kill him performs her task in a cruel fashion, Masaoka
sacrificing the life of her son in order to save that of the little
lord.
II
The working out of the ends of justice, the righting of wrongs, the
trailing of a murderer for years by the entire members of a family,
such were the plots that appealed to the audiences of Old Japan, and
the writers of plays knew well how to serve their desires.
As the secret map describing a lost gold mine, or parchment hidden in
the head of a bronze idol relating to a buried treasure starts the
interminable, harrowing incidents of a modern cinematograph serial, the
subject of revenge for wrong done held together the many scenes and
acts of the Doll-theatre and Kabuki plays.
The greatest revenge play of Japan is _Chushingura_ (lit., Loyal
Retainers’ Storehouse), or the story of the faithful Forty-seven
Ronin, who waited an opportunity to slay the miserable old villain who
had caused their lord, Hangan, to commit harakiri, and when they had
accomplished their end died as one man by their own hands.
Produced in 1748, _Chushingura_ was written by Takeda Izumo in
collaboration with Namiki Senryu and Miyoshi Shoraku.
[Illustration: Ichikawa Sadanji as Sadakura, the highwayman, in the
play Chushingura.]
If the final test of drama be character, then the claim of
_Chushingura_ to a first place among the plays of Japan is thoroughly
justified.
First and foremost, there is Yuranosuke, the leader of the loyal
Forty-seven. Both his entrance upon the harakiri scene to catch the
dying request of his feudal lord, Enya Hangan, and his exit sternly
resolved to avenge the death of his master, are things to remember,
not only because they show the true dramatic situations born of a
good dramatist, but also because the actor suggests so powerfully
Yuranosuke’s emotions.
Hangan must carry out the severe decree in the presence of the
officials who have announced the penalty for his offence committed
within the Shogun’s palace. He hesitates, since he is anxious to see
his chief retainer before he bids farewell to the world.
Yuranosuke, who has been sent for, hastening on his way from Hangan’s
fief in the provinces, has not yet reached the Yedo mansion of his
lord. The audience, feeling the suspense, watches the hanamichi. At the
very last moment he comes along the narrow way above the heads of the
playgoers without noise or clatter, dropping down on his knees humbly
before he reaches the stage proper. Sorrow, anxiety, respect—all are
mingled in his manner.
Not a moment too soon, he catches Hangan’s last words, and gives him
the consolation he needs so sorely. Yuranosuke takes the dirk from the
lifeless hand, pays the last marks of respect to the body, and places
it within the palanquin to be carried to the temple for the burial
service.
And what a situation it is for a good actor, as Yuranosuke with
composure, yet regretfully, performs his duties in a mansion that is
to know his master no longer! Grouped about are the retainers who have
served the lord since childhood, and whose fathers and forefathers
were employed in like capacity under the lord’s ancestors, suddenly
made ronin, unattached samurai, set adrift, to wander about
the land! Castle and lands confiscated, wives and children turned
out-of-doors, men ready to unsheathe their swords in their lord’s
defence, depending on him for their living and well-being, all to be
scattered to the winds to lead poverty-stricken existences. Rough
justice the men would have immediately, but the superior-minded
Yuranosuke begs them to wait for a better opportunity.
[Illustration: The Harakiri Scene from Chushingura.]
Left alone outside the red gate of his master’s yashiki, Yuranosuke
suggests his future plan, as drawing forth the bloodstained dirk he
gazes upon it, there being no doubt that he is prepared to sacrifice
his life in the cause of righting the great wrong inflicted upon the
house and all its dependents.
For contrast in character there is the self-controlled, well-bred
Hangan, trying his best to behave himself as becomes his rank and
station, and the unscrupulous old official Moronao, hardened in the
school of intrigue. If only Hangan’s men had taken the precaution to
bribe the crafty Moronao as had the representative of Wakasanosuke,
Hangan’s friend! But then there would have been no play. Unconscious
that he is expected to stoop so low, Hangan keeps watch over himself,
as Moronao by taunt and insult tries to make him take the offensive
that is to cost him so dearly.
In the fourth act, again comes the clash of good and evil. The disloyal
Sadakuro in the midst of the faithful has turned highwayman, seeking
his livelihood by waylaying travellers. A colour-print actor come
to life, he seems to be,—his whitened legs, arms, and chest vivid
against the black kimono that is tucked into his belt; the black, bushy
robber’s wig against the white face,—a picture in black and white.
As though quite accustomed to put wayfarers out of commission, Sadakuro
halts old Yoichibei, slays him with a sword and throws the body over
the hillside, then wrings out his wet clothes. How much suggestion
plays its part in Kabuki acting may be seen throughout _Chushingura_,
but nothing is more interesting than Sadakuro’s wordless play, as he
wrings the rain from his kimono and wipes the imaginary drops from his
face, bringing before our eyes his wild life in the lonely places,
showing the high courage of the samurai, yet the hardened soul of the
criminal.
No doubt the dramatist created him to make the deeds of the loyal
retainers shine forth all the more brightly. And so he stands, counting
with satisfaction his booty, when a stray shot from Kanpei’s gun
strikes him in the chest, dyeing him red, an evildoer gone to his just
deserts.
There is, again, the erring Kanpei, Hangan’s servant, loitering about
with O-Karu, a maidservant of his mistress, when he should have been
attending to his duties by waiting at the Shogun’s gate. He returns to
find the uproar caused by Hangan’s attack upon Moronao. Fearing that
he will be censured for his neglect, he runs off with O-Karu to the
home of her father, Yoichibei, in the country, hoping to return to the
service of his lord when they are both pardoned.
Yoichibei, glad to aid Kanpei in his endeavour to raise funds that he
may contribute towards the cause, sells O-Karu to a house in Kyoto, and
is returning home with the money when struck down by Sadakuro. Kanpei,
out hunting, runs after a wild boar, but finds he has killed a man
instead, and takes the purse he finds on Sadakuro, reaching home to
discover that O-Karu is on the point of leaving for Kyoto, and that the
purse he has secreted within the folds of his kimono must be that of
Yoichibei, and in consequence that he has killed his father-in-law.
When Yoichibei’s body is brought into the cottage the old widow
believes Kanpei to have committed the crime. He cannot save his wife,
O-Karu; he believes himself guilty, and when two of the ronin arrive,
sent by Yuranosuke to return a sum of money already sent by Kanpei, as
he has not yet been reinstated in the good favour of the band, Kanpei
can stand it no longer and commits harakiri. Before he expires he is
cleared, for Yoichibei’s wound was not made by Kanpei’s gun but
Sadakuro’s sword. Ghastly and realistic is Kanpei’s end, but he is not
forgotten, and is regarded henceforth as one of the band.
There is, also, that gay scene in the Kyoto tea-house where Yuranosuke
leads a dissipated life in order to put the spies of Moronao off the
scent, and the sadness of farewell when the leader of the Forty-seven
takes leave of his wife and home, and finally the gathering together
on a snowy day, and the storming of the great red gate that guards the
entrance to the residence of the enemy. Swarming within they return in
triumph with the head of the villain. Later they commit harakiri, and
are buried together with their lord in the compound of Senkaku-ji, the
Buddhist temple in Tokyo, where before their tombs the incense is still
kept burning.
III
Those who believe that Kabuki has no love scenes might be enlightened
after witnessing some of the tender passages in plays that have pleased
audiences for two centuries, and are yet able to hold the attention, as
modern pieces scarcely ever do.
Miuranosuke, the brave young hero, comes home wounded from the battle
because he has heard his mother is ill. He serves the great Lord
Yoriye, of Sakamoto Castle, on Lake Biwa, who has declared war upon
Hojo Tokimasa of Kamakura. Toki-hime, his betrothed, is the daughter of
Tokimasa, and Miuranosuke finds that his future wife is the daughter of
the sworn enemy, and that she is taking care of his mother in a poor
country cottage, where they have taken shelter.
Toki-hime in her long scarlet robe, into which is woven a pattern of
golden winding water and flowers, and wearing a silver head-dress
that forms a frame to her face—dainty, appealing, the very spirit of
youth and devotion,—shines forth in her splendour, the shabby cottage
interior as a setting.
Miuranosuke makes a young warrior to suit the taste of the most
carping of critics. Staggering through the audience, clad in sky-blue
brocade and scarlet armour, the heads of the people in the boxes on
a level with the hanamichi turn to see his entrance. He reaches the
gate of the cottage and then sinks down from exhaustion. Toki-hime
quickly restores him, and they express their devotion for each other
in postures that instead of tearing the affections to tatters, as is
the way with realism, suggest the depth of their feeling, the minstrel
singing and describing, and the samisen player beating the rhythms.
The hero’s aged mother, lying ill in bed, opens the shoji of her
sick-room only to upbraid him for leaving the battle; she threatens to
sever their relationship as mother and son unless he returns.
Then follows one of the best scenes in the province of onnagata acting.
Toki-hime tries to aid Miuranosuke to attire himself in his armour, and
her grace and delicacy are emphasised by the efforts she makes to carry
the heavy helmet, which at last she is obliged to drag across the floor
of the cottage.
Later Toki-hime is seen standing alone in quiet meditation by a dim oil
light. Here is the eternal conflict in the female breast in all ages
and all countries, the struggle between love and duty. Will she kill
Miuranosuke’s mother as her father has commanded, giving her a sword
for this express purpose, or will she be faithful to her love?
In the midst of her quandary a queer personage enters, dressed in the
unmistakable costume of the Kabuki comedian: a bright yellow kimono
with broad black stripes running from shoulder to shoulder, short baggy
trousers made of horizontal stripes of brown and fawn, and the sleeves
bound with broad bands of scarlet. To the overtures of the fool she
turns a deaf ear.
When Toki-hime is just about to kill herself as the only way out of the
difficulties that beset her, Miuranosuke stops her and says his doubts
regarding her loyalty to him are at an end. He begs her to live
a little longer in order to dispatch her father, his enemy, and as he
intends to die in battle, pleads with her to join him in death, when
they can be married in another world.
The playwright thus strains the love-loyalty and filial piety themes to
the utmost.
Rather poor consolation for Toki-hime this, but her love for him
conquers and she consents. Then the spies come and say that they have
overheard all, and the arch-spy robed in black hastens on his way to
inform her father, when there issues out of the well in the garden
a deadly spear-thrust, and he is killed on the spot. An imposing
personage clambers out of the well. He is Sasaki, staunch supporter of
Miuranosuke, who has been masquerading as the comedian, and in that
capacity tested Toki-hime’s fidelity.
There is a sound of battle, the clash of cymbals and the thunder of big
drums, Miuranosuke and Sasaki must away to the fray. Toki-hime, winsome
and wistful, watches their departure.
Word comes to Toki-hime at Kamakura that Miuranosuke has died on the
battlefield. She is overwhelmed by sorrow. One day she gives Sasaki the
opportunity to strike down her father, but when he examines the head
that he has taken as a trophy, he finds to his bitter regret it is that
of Toki-hime.
* * * * *
Usuyuki, or Thin-Snow, and her lover, Sonobei Sayemon, are the youthful
figures in a love idyll of the Doll-theatre of which Kabuki players
never seem to tire.
They meet in cherry-blossom time at Kiyomizu, that fine old Buddhist
temple built up on the steep hillside commanding a view of Kyoto
nestling in its wide valley. This is always an appropriate play for the
cherry season, and these flowers are used as a pendent curtain across
the stage, while trees in full bloom are placed on either side, and in
the centre there is an ornate red-lacquered temple structure.
In addition to its romance, the play of Usuyuki and Sayemon is one
of the most famous sword pieces of the Japanese stage. Sayemon presents
the gift of a sword to the temple, but an evil swordsmith damages it in
order that Sayemon may be punished, jealousy prompting the villain to
come between the lovers.
Usuyuki and Sayemon have just been married, when messengers arrive
bearing accusations against Sayemon on account of the tampered sword.
The affectionate, innocent young couple are parted. Usuyuki is taken
into the custody of her husband’s father, and Sayemon entrusted to the
keeping of his wife’s father.
Love laughs at barriers, however, and they secretly escape together.
The fathers commit suicide that their children may be cleared of all
doubts and suspicions, and Usuyuki and her husband return to enjoy an
uninterrupted life of peace and happiness.
* * * * *
Miyuki and Asojiro are household names in Japan, the chief figures
in a romance that started one summer evening in Kyoto, when at a
fire-fly festival on the river their boats came together, and they
fell in love at first sight, exchanging fans on which they had written
extemporaneous verse. They plighted their troth, but stern samurai
business kept Asojiro in another part of the country, and Miyuki,
neglected and forlorn, wept so much that she became blind, and started
to wander about the country with her nurse trying to find her faithless
lover.
The finest scene is that in which the blind girl plays the koto, or
long harp-like instrument, at an inn where her lover is stopping.
Asojiro and an elderly samurai are on a special mission, and his
companion thinks only of his duty, and allows for no delinquency or
soft-heartedness on the part of Asojiro, who is overcome when he finds
the blind koto player, brought in by the innkeeper to amuse them, is no
other than his own Miyuki.
All he can do is to give her some remembrance and a sum of money which
he leaves with the innkeeper. By these tokens Miyuki knows that
she has been in the presence of Asojiro, and half distracted she runs
to the river to overtake her fleeing lover, who has been obliged by his
taskmaster of a travelling companion to hasten on his way. The river
has risen, and the ferrymen will not take any more passengers across.
There are many wet eyes in the audience, for the parting of young
lovers never fails to appeal to the tender-hearted in all countries the
sun shines upon.
The playwright knew that his audience would be disappointed were the
lovers never to meet again, and the sympathetic innkeeper makes a gash
in his body in order that he may provide the blind maid with a liberal
portion of his blood, whereby her eyesight is miraculously restored.
Later she is united with Asojiro, and all ends well.
* * * * *
No mention of the lovers in Japanese plays would be complete without
the names of Yayegaki-hime and Katsuyori, characters in a Doll-theatre
jidaimono by Chikamatsu Hanji, called _Nijushiko_ (lit., Twenty-four
Filial Persons), after a book of Chinese tales regarding the filial
deeds of this exact number of personages.
This long play relates the rivalry between the heads of two clans,
which is settled by the betrothal of the daughter of one great daimyo
to the son of the other. But Yayegaki-hime’s father has in his keeping
a much-treasured helmet belonging to Katsuyori’s family, and the young
man dressed as a gardener secretly visits the house of his betrothed
that he may secure the helmet.
Yayegaki-hime soon penetrates his disguise and in spite of his cold
demeanour she wears her heart on her sleeve. They are in the midst of
an exchange of affection when the eavesdropping father breaks in and
spoils it all. He hands Katsuyori a letter enclosed in a lacquered box
with the request that it be delivered at once. Then two villainous
retainers are sent after, with intent to waylay and kill Katsuyori.
Meanwhile the faithful heroine decides to steal the helmet and
carry it to Katsuyori. Fox fires are seen burning in the garden, and
aided by the magic of foxes she becomes possessed of supernatural
strength, and bearing the helmet aloft steals out of the house.
Servants rushing in to prevent her escape are overcome by enchantment,
and she flees along the hanamichi, the minstrel explaining that
she traces her way across frozen Lake Suwa by the footmarks the
accommodating and sympathetic foxes have left in the snow to guide her
to her lover.
IV
Kabuki ghosts are more artistic than matters for psychical research.
Supernatural visitors are dearly loved by playgoers in Japan, and as
material for stage treatment the ghostly is handled with great skill.
Tall autumn grasses waving silvery plumes, a lonely deserted cottage
that gives one a creepy sensation, a rising moon casting a melancholy
effulgence, the distant booming of a temple bell—and ghostly Japan is
well represented.
In such a play, a travelling silk-dealer neglects his wife and wanders
far afield, experiencing many adventures. At last his steps turn
homeward. His wife appears, but he does not know that she is a visitant
from another world, although the audience is in the secret, the
delicate suggestions of ghosthood preparing them for the supernatural.
She tells him her sad story, he falls asleep, and she disappears in a
truly ghost-like fashion, sinking down slowly behind the stone which
marks her burial-place. The stage is darkened and with the light there
is seen the reality—the dwelling in ruins and decay, tall weeds growing
through the broken floor, and a pale moon throwing its white light over
the deserted scene.
In a play by Mokuami, Sogoro, a fish-dealer, of a low type but
chivalrous, comes to right the wrong done to his sister O-Tsuta, a maid
in the residence of a daimyo. She has been tortured and put to death
at the instigation of a man-servant in the lord’s service whose
overtures she had spurned. Sogoro appears brandishing a sake tub, from
which he has imbibed too freely. He is finally calmed by a gift of
money for the girl’s funeral expenses, and the news that the plotter
against his innocent sister has gone the way of all stage villains.
O-Tsuta, who has been sent to her untimely end under such wrongful
circumstance, returns as an apparition. Her body has been thrown into
the garden well and issues forth in a puff of smoke, a haggard, grey,
emaciated spirit with uncanny movements appearing as a shadow on the
shoji, or white paper window.
* * * * *
Kasane is another ghostly heroine popular with Kabuki audiences. She is
disfigured and deformed, and has been transformed from a pretty woman
into one unpleasant to behold. Kasane has married Kinugawa, her dead
sister’s husband, and, all unknowing, she is the victim of ghostly
jealousy.
Her husband keeps her blissfully unaware of her facial defects, as he
has forbidden her to look in a mirror. She does so, is overcome by
horror, fights with Kinugawa and is killed. Her ghost rises out of
the river, long, wan, grey, tapering, like a shadow that moves upward
through no power of its own, to disappear in a similar strange fashion
behind a bridge.
Once more the wraith appears calling Kinugawa to come, and he is just
about to sink under the enchantment of the ghostly Kasane, when he
thinks of a spell to break the chains of death that seem binding him
and is released just as morning dawns. A black drop curtain falls
revealing a sunny morning, people passing over the bridge, among them a
charming young maiden, the very actor who impersonated the unfortunate
Kasane but a moment before.
* * * * *
Of all the ghostly heroines of Kabuki, O-Iwa is certainly the most
tragic. She is the creation of Namboku Tsuruya in his play
_Yotsuya Kaidan_, The Ghost of Yotsuya, the latter a thriving quarter
of modern Tokyo.
[Illustration: Scene from Yotsuya Kaidan, or The Ghost of Yotsuya, by
Namboku Tsuruya. Onoe Baiko is seen as the disfigured O-Iwa, and Onoe
Matsusuke the kind old masseur who holds up the mirror that she may
learn the truth.]
Iyemon, oil-paper umbrella maker, one-time samurai, then ronin in hard
luck, has a pretty young wife, O-Iwa, who has just borne him a child.
His indifference to her is remarkable. The daughter of a well-to-do
neighbour is in love with Iyemon, and her family conspire to put the
wife out of the way by sending her a gift of medicine which is a
powerful poison that will disfigure her face. The poor creature, weak
and ill, unsuspecting the dark design, thankfully drinks the fatal cup.
An old masseur takes pity on the unfortunate O-Iwa, and is thoroughly
solicitous, a character that saves the play from becoming too sordid.
O-Iwa changed by the poison presents a hideous aspect, and the actor
taking this rôle plays directly upon his audience.
The following scene shows Iyemon feasting at the neighbour’s house,
where he is asked to put away his wife and marry their daughter. He
consents, but his hesitation is the one redeeming quality to his
credit. Then he returns home with set purpose to treat O-Iwa so
shamefully that she will leave the abode of her own accord.
He refuses to give her money, even takes her clothing and the mosquito
net, which he pretends to pawn. O-Iwa, shocked by her altered looks,
overcome by her husband’s inhumanity, no longer desires to live, and
kills herself with a sword.
Iyemon returns home once more to find her dead body, and at the
same time discovers Kohei, the servant, whom Iyemon had gagged and
imprisoned in the cupboard in a previous scene. Kohei is a witness
to O-Iwa’s misery, and so Iyemon puts him out of the way. The two
corpses are no sooner bundled out of sight by Iyemon’s ruffians than
the bride arrives in state and there is a scramble to prepare for her.
When Iyemon approaches his new wife she is still in her wedding robe.
He takes off the white veil that covers her head and discovers the
frightful visage of O-Iwa. Making a plunge with his sword he cuts off
the head of his bride. In haste he runs to tell her father, when
he encounters the ghost of Kohei, and using his weapon again he severs
the head of his father-in-law.
The scene which follows, however, quite outdoes anything in the
supernatural in which Kabuki is wont to specialise. Iyemon fishing in
the river discovers the door to which the bodies of the two victims
were tied when they were thrown into the water. O-Iwa raises her head
and speaks in sepulchral tones, and the door turning over, Kohei’s
ghost repeats its tragic phrase: “Master, medicine, please!” For these
were the words Kohei used when interceding on O-Iwa’s behalf. The same
actor takes the rôles of both ghosts, and the lightning change from
wife to servant is left to the imagination of the spectators, and only
the stage mechanics beneath the blue and white cotton waves know how
the transformation is effected.
* * * * *
Without doubt _Botan Doro_, The Peony Lantern, takes first place among
the ghost plays of Kabuki. A Chinese tale retold by the professional
story-teller, Encho, and dramatised by Mokuami and Fukuchi, the two
outstanding playwrights of the Meiji era, it is always performed in
midsummer. Ghosts are a cooling influence for theatre-goers surfeited
with the sights and sounds of the hot thoroughfares, and shades from
another world clad in grey, with wan, indistinct faces, seen vaguely
behind weeping willow branches, seem appropriate stage characters in
summer weather.
The chief characters in _Botan Doro_ are O-Tsuyu, a beautiful maiden in
love with Hagiwara Shinsaburo. There is also the young lady’s maid, and
a picturesque evildoer, Tomozo.
O-Tsuya meeting secretly with her lover is suddenly surprised, and they
are rudely parted. In despair, she commits suicide with her maid, and
the ghostly shapes visit Shinsaburo nightly. A priest gives him a small
golden image of the Goddess of Mercy to ward off her nocturnal visits,
and puts up a charm to keep O-Tsuya away.
Tomozo, the hero’s faithless servant, steals the image and tells
his wife that the ghost of O-Tsuya will appear and pay him a sum of
money for hiding it, the influence of which prevents her from entering
her lover’s house. He is firmly convinced the ghost will appear, and
his look-out for the apparition is so full of surprise and contrast,
and the suspense so well sustained, that the audience is thoroughly
keyed up in anticipation. Tomozo and his wife talk so much of the ghost
that every moment they think she has come, and soon are trembling with
fear, the frightened wife taking refuge under the large green mosquito
net suspended over her bed.
O-Tsuya and her maid are suddenly seen to float behind the drooping
branches of a willow tree, seemingly suspended in air, the maid
carrying the ghostly lantern, shaped like a pink peony, that gives out
a dim and intermittent glow.
The transaction over between O-Tsuya and Tomozo, the ghosts make their
way towards Shinsaburo’s house, but they cannot enter unless the
Buddhist charm above the doorway is removed. This Tomozo accomplishes,
and immediately as the two weird shapes vanish, a peony lantern is seen
to rise mysteriously from mid-stage and without the aid of hands, sail
through the air and enter an open space over the door. Shinsaburo is
now left to the mercy of the ghosts, who claim him as their own and
take him away from the land of the living.
There is a superstition concerning The Peony Lantern to the effect that
actors who play the ghosts’ rôles soon pass away. This was brought
home when the play was presented at the Imperial Theatre in August
1919. During the performances two of the most promising young actors of
Tokyo, taking the rôles of mistress and maid, took ill and died within
a week of each other. Nightly they had been seen, pale-faced, the hair
worn long and dishevelled, the maid with the ghostly lantern in hand,
moving behind the willow tree. Soon they were to become like the shades
they impersonated, no longer of the earth, earthy.
V
The frequency with which heads—the variety that Salome bore on a
charger when she danced before King Herod—enter into Kabuki plays would
seem to bear out the pronouncement made by the late William Archer
that the Japanese drama was “barbaric and insensate”. This was the
impression made upon a Western critic on first contact with Kabuki
during a brief visit to Japan. Considering, however, the wide range of
Kabuki plays, this sweeping statement revealed but half-knowledge.
Even as the unnatural crimes in Shakespeare’s plays pleased the
Elizabethans, so the playwrights of Old Japan provided strong fare
for their feudal audiences. Unless the abstract motive of loyalty is
recognised, the significance of a head symbol as a stage accessory is
lost.
One of the best of many such loyalty pieces is Omi Genji, by Chikamatsu
Hanji and Miyoshi Shoraku. Two brothers, Moritsuna and Takatsuna,
descendants of the Genji clan, live near the lake of Omi. They are on
different sides, one for the Shogun, the other a rebel. Moritsuna holds
his brother’s son, Koshiro, as a hostage and tells his venerable mother
to instruct the lad to commit harakiri that Takatsuna may be influenced
to take an honourable course of action.
The boy is disinclined to listen to his grandmother, the more so as he
sees his mother approaching the gate. His grandmother tries in vain to
carry out the execution, but her love for her grandchild renders her
powerless to act. Messengers arrive and relate in descriptive posture
dances how the battle went and that Takatsuna has been killed. A
representative of the Shogun comes with Takatsuna’s head in order that
Moritsuna may identify it. He is Tokimasa, a dignified old warrior in
gold armour, his white hair bound with a silver band, and comes through
the audience followed by his retainers in armour, one carrying the
head-box, another a chest of armour.
The head-box is placed in the centre of the stage and the
ceremonial of examination proceeds. Moritsuna slowly seats himself in
front of the box. With eyes that do not see, he carefully takes off the
long upper portion and lifts up the shallow lower portion of the box
on which rests the head, placing it on top of the cover which makes a
stand for it, the face looking out toward the audience.
Koshiro, peering forth to see the head, disturbs the august assembly
by leaping down from an upper room and committing harakiri, Moritsuna
taking no notice of the tragic deed further than to upbraid him for his
impolite behaviour in the presence of the exalted guest. He continues
his silent examination of the head. The audience is so hushed that the
stray notes of the samisen sound like drops of water echoing through
a vacant house. It seems an endless time before he lowers his eyes,
and the longer he evades looking the more the actor hypnotises the
audience. At last Moritsuna’s brotherly affection overcomes his strong
self-control, and conflicting emotions are seen upon his face.
Slowly his gaze travels down. It is the moment the audience have been
awaiting. There is a slight start when his eyes rest full upon the
face, an imperceptible surprise, and then a smile of relief. It is not
the head of Takatsuna. His brother is still alive.
But even while smiling he makes up his mind to resort to subterfuge to
deceive Tokimasa, and to hide the truth from this worthy person.
Moritsuna takes the head in his arms, addresses a lament to it, places
it before the dignitary and declares it to be the true head of his
brother. Here is revealed the psychology of the Oriental audience,
for Moritsuna’s camouflage is mightily approved, and shows itself as
something essentially Eastern.
Tokimasa retires and Moritsuna gives vent to sorrow that Koshiro should
have sacrificed himself. The boy, realising that the head was not that
of his father, and hoping to lead Tokimasa into the belief that it was,
takes his own life—another species of Eastern camouflage. There
is not a dry eye in the audience when the dying boy says farewell to
all the members of the family, and breathing his last as a spy, hidden
within the chest of armour, is discovered and killed.
The Occidental will say: What an unpleasant and disagreeable play
with a gory head for chief object of interest! Yes, so it seems
to Westerners accustomed to regard things, externals, as of more
importance than the inner but more potent expression. To the Kabuki
audience the head is not repugnant, nor suggestive of a corpse or
bloodshed; it is merely the medium for the expression of Moritsuna’s
emotion, and the whole interest centres not in the inanimate object,
but in the art of the actor.
VI
Socialistic tendencies, dissatisfaction with the oppression of the
governing class, often found expression in Kabuki plays. A favourite
piece of this kind has the champion of the downtrodden, Banzuiin
Chobei, for hero.
Chobei is at the head of a business that supplies men to feudal lords,
kago bearers, attendants to travel in the long trains that escorted the
daimyo in their goings and comings to and from the capital. His men
are loyal to him and fearless, and when they encounter the samurai of
a hatamoto, or direct retainer of the Shogun, called Mizuno, an evil
character, there is a skirmish and Chobei’s side is victorious.
Mizuno and Chobei happen to meet in the theatre, the Murayama-za, one
of Yedo’s first shibai. The play is progressing on the old-fashioned
stage, when a drunkard bursts in through the audience and causes a
disturbance. Chobei springs out of a box in the pit to help straighten
things out. At this juncture Mizuno appears in an upper box reserved
for the gentry to the left of the stage, and they exchange words. From
this time onward Chobei is a marked man.
[Illustration: Banzuiin Chobei, a man of the people, rôle by Matsumoto
Koshiro.]
Mizuno’s messenger comes to Chobei’s dwelling, and delivers an
invitation to dinner. Chobei’s wife does not wish him to accept, but
he cannot refuse, as he would be taken for a coward. He says farewell
to his wife and little son, gives his men last instructions, and sets
forth.
Within Mizuno’s residence, Chobei is received with every sign of
hospitality. He is unafraid, and behaves with the courtesy of manner
that belongs to a man accustomed to stand up for what is just and
right. An attendant purposely spills sake over his clothing, and then
recommends that he take a bath. The maid leads him to the bath-room.
The steam is issuing forth from the big tub. He is just about to enter
when he is attacked. Chobei, with only his fists to defend himself,
lays about him, and five men are stretched on the floor, the stage
bath-room being considerably larger than that in real life.
The host then attacks, and even he is no match for the alert Chobei.
Left alone he might have fought off his enemies, but one of the men
strikes him from behind, and so he dies,—a victim to the treachery of
that day.
Mizuno was afterwards ordered by the Government to commit harakiri to
atone for this and other crimes. So says history, but Chobei’s memory
is kept fresh by generations of actors.
Still another play of the people is that of Sakura Sogoro. He was the
headman of a village not far from Tokyo. The people were oppressed by
the feudal lord, and groaned under the taxes imposed until famine and
destitution stared them in the face.
Sogoro decides to go to Yedo to present a petition to the Shogun,
knowing that his life will be forfeit for this act of insubordination.
When he returns, his wife and four sons are executed at the command of
the daimyo.
He bids good-bye to his wife on a snowy evening, and tries to induce
her to accept a divorce, and so escape the punishment that is bound to
overtake the family. But this she refuses to do, preferring to share
his fate. Sogoro trudging through the snow-drifts, with his eldest
son clinging to him, and his wife and little ones looking forth from
the open shoji, is a typical Kabuki farewell scene.
He knocks at the rude hut, where an old watchman is trying to sleep
beside a few embers of charcoal, and guarding the boat that is chained
to a stake just below on the marshy lagoon—or blue and white cotton
cloth which represents the historical watercourse that bore Sogoro
away on his desperate mission. Sogoro is recognised with joy by the
watchman, who tries his best to dissuade him from going, but at last
agrees to row him on his way, and breaks the chain, thus defying the
law of the daimyo.
The direct appeal is made when the Shogun, after a hawking expedition,
stops to rest at the shrine sacred to his ancestors in what is now
known as Uyeno Park (Tokyo). The retinue is passing over a bridge
connecting two red-lacquered buildings. Sogoro throws his petition,
which a sympathetic follower of the Shogun secretes in his sleeve, and
the procession passes on, leaving Sogoro bound, a martyr to the cause
of the suffering country people.
Whenever this play is produced in Tokyo, the actors taking part repair
to the district of Sakura where Sogoro lived and pay their respects
to his shrine, likewise a little shrine is erected within the theatre
where offerings of sake, fruit, and vegetables are made before the
spirit of the man who died that the wrongs of the people might be
righted.
[Illustration: Nakamura Kichiyemon as Sakura Sogoro, the Village Head
who sacrificed his life for the good of the people.]
VII
Love tragedies were in high favour, as may be seen by the number of
plays produced that have for motive shinju, or the double suicide of
unfortunate lovers who hope by departing this life to obliterate their
sins and omissions and to be united in the after-world. Invariably the
settings of these romances were the immoral quarters.
Chikamatsu Monzaemon wrote several pieces of this character, and
they were so popular that they had a great deal to do with the
encouragement of young people to become partners in the shuffling-off
of this mortal coil.
If Chikamatsu had written little else, his characters Jihei and Koharu
would save his name from oblivion. This piece, _Sayo Shigure Tenno
Amijima_ (lit., Evening-shower-heaven-net-island), was first staged in
1720 in the Osaka Doll-theatre, when Chikamatsu was in the sixties.
He had taken an excursion to the ancient Shinto Shrine of Sumiyoshi,
near Osaka, when the news reached him of the double suicide of a couple
called Jihei and Koharu. He ordered his palanquin-bearers to carry him
home as quickly as they could, and within his dwelling seized paper
and writing brush and elaborated the ideas that had come to his mind,
scarcely stopping to take breath until the play was finished.
Koharu is a belle of the Kinokuniya, a house in the Osaka pleasure
quarters, and Jihei conducts a prosperous paper shop, and has a wife,
O-San, and two children. His wife has been bestowed upon him by his
parents, and as she is not his own choice, his wandering fancy is
captivated by Koharu. He forgets everything in his infatuation, and is
on the brink of ruin when O-San writes to Koharu asking her to give up
Jihei. This Koharu consents to do after a struggle between her apparent
duty and her love for the young man. Jihei, unacquainted with the
facts, believes her false and mercenary.
Jihei cannot settle down to the domestic routine, and his thoughts will
turn to Koharu. His peace of mind is further disturbed, for he learns
that he has a rich rival who intends to purchase Koharu’s freedom and
who has invented various belittling tales about his desertion of Koharu.
When O-San hears how things are, she declares that Koharu would die
rather than submit to her new patron, and that Jihei must buy her out
without delay. Her treasured kimono are given to Jihei, and, sobbing,
the loyal wife says that although she and the children may have no
clothing, reputation is dear to a man, and that the wealthy person
who wishes to take possession of Koharu must be defeated at all costs.
O-San’s father then arrives on the scene, declaring that he has come to
take her home, and that they must consider themselves divorced.
Beset on every side, Jihei and Koharu decide to die together. Jihei
leaves the Kinokuniya after paying his account. Then he stands by the
side of the house waiting for Koharu. His elder brother, Magoyemon, who
fears that Jihei may do something rash, comes to inquire about him, and
is told that Jihei has returned home and Koharu is sleeping. It is late
at night, and Magoyemon has Jihei’s little son on his back to whom he
says: “I hope you won’t take cold. You are unfortunate to have such a
father”, which remark Jihei overhears as he hides in the shadow.
The night-watch strikes his two pieces of wood as a signal that all is
well, and the sound echoes in the deserted street. Then Koharu keeps
the tryst, and they run as fast as they can to the river-bank, where
their bodies are found together in a clump of bamboo the next morning.
[Illustration: Nakamura Fukusuke of Osaka as a belle of the gay
quarters. Letters are made as long as possible to produce the better
effect.]
Equally familiar are Wankyu and Matsuyama in a drama of the gay
quarters by Kino Kaion; while Hanshichi and Sankatsu in a long play by
Takemoto Saburobei are stage characters known the length and breadth of
Japan. Hanshichi, a victim of the marriage system, becomes enamoured
of Sankatsu, which brings so many complications around them, they
are obliged to commit shinju, Hanshichi’s long-suffering wife O-Sono
adopting their daughter as her own.
Almost all the playwrights of this period pandered to the popular
taste, and wrote long plays with the gay world as background, but
there is a marked difference in the compositions of the Osaka and Yedo
writers, since the tastes of the audiences of these two towns were so
unlike. The tragic heroines of the Yedo Yoshiwara did not resort to
shinju to the same alarming extent as did the members of the frail
sisterhood in Osaka.
Ihara Seiseiin, explaining the close connection between the gay
world and shibai, says: “Foreigners sometimes ridicule the intimate
relations between the plays and the Yoshiwara. This was not the fault
of Kabuki, but rather must be attributed to the state of society at
that time. Just as priests and temples had ruled the spirit of the
people during the Hojo and Ashikaga periods, so during the Tokugawa age
it was the courtesans’ quarters which influenced the customs and spirit
of the people. The leading characters of the Nō plays were priests,
while the plays of the people related to heroines of the gay world.”
The patronage of these quarters and interest in plays dealing with
the inmates was largely a protest against the official desire to make
of society one drab, colourless pattern. The immoral quarters were
almost the only places where men could assemble for relaxation and
amusement. Peace continued for more than two centuries, and the samurai
had nothing to do. The country was shut off from intercourse with the
outside world, the atmosphere grew stagnant, and men resorted to the
pleasure-quarters as a relief from boredom. In consequence, gossip of
prostitutes, their love stories and tragedies, formed the chief topics
of the day, and these were faithfully reflected in the works of the
Doll-theatre and Kabuki playwrights.
VIII
A partiality for the weird is one of the most pronounced tastes of
Kabuki.
_Modori Bashi_, a shosagoto, by Mokuami, has for hero Watanabe Tsuna,
who meets a beautiful woman and discovers she is a supernatural
creature. He pursues her into the air, fights with her, and at last as
a climax cuts off her arm, after which he drops down upon the roof of a
temple. The play is full of demon lore.
The time of _Modori Bashi_ is a thousand years ago, and the place
the Modori bridge of Kyoto by moonlight. Watanabe wears one of those
exaggerated costumes so characteristic of shosagoto, and looks
cautiously at the bridge which is supposed to be enchanted. The
long branches of a willow tree move as though a ghostly wind was
blowing, although the curious-minded wonder how many stage assistants
are pulling the strings down below, and the quick beating of a drum
announces the approach of something uncanny.
The female demon is in the guise of a beautiful maiden brilliantly
arrayed, and she immediately makes advances to the warrior, who does
not seem to be very anxious to accept the amorous overtures. The
attitude of the two is exactly opposite to the conventional love scenes
on the Western stage, where the maiden refuses and is hard-hearted,
while the lover tries to gain her favour. The demon uses all her arts,
but the warrior cannot easily be won over.
Watanabe’s flirtation with the devil woman in disguise continues until
he leads her upon the bridge, and then looking down into the water he
catches the reflection of her face and knows that she is not a human
maid, but that she is his enemy and would lure him to destruction. The
gradual change from a charming woman into a terrible devil is effected
by changes in face, voice, and posture, a transformation that gives an
actor with the weird for specialty a good opportunity.
While the hero and the uncanny creature attack each other in a posture
dance, the bridge disappears, drawn off by invisible hands behind the
scenes, and a red-lacquered shrine is pushed partly into view and
completes the very striking stage picture.
The dance between the two becomes wilder and more intense, reaching a
climax as the maiden darts behind the scene. Almost immediately she
returns in her true shape, wearing a grotesque mask, while her mane is
light brown, with a white stripe down the middle and so long it trails
over the stage. She dances wildly about in a fight with warriors, whose
swords glint in the semi-darkness of the stage; storm clouds hurry
across the sky as though scurrying before a cyclone.
A curtain of gauze representing clouds shuts off the view. The
warrior and the creature he pursues are in mid-air struggling together
right over the roof of a temple. He cuts off one of her arms, and
clutches it wildly in triumphant posture while the mutilated devil
woman disappears into the aerial regions.
[Illustration: Onoe Baiko as the demon woman in Ibaraki, escaping with
her severed arm.]
As companion piece to _Modori Bashi_ there is _Ibaraki_, by the same
playwright, which shows the very highest and best development of the
music-posture play.
Watanabe Tsuna, after capturing the arm of the devil woman, guards the
box in which it is kept, as he is certain she will return to claim her
severed member. Disguised as a venerable old lady, refined, peaceful,
and altogether attractive, the weird monster appears and desires to
enter Watanabe’s abode, but is refused admittance.
Much disappointed, she is leaving, when Watanabe calls her back under
the impression that she is one of his relatives, and she is taken
within and a feast spread, before her.
When Watanabe’s adventures are related, she expresses a wish to see the
arm. At sight of it there is a sudden transformation of her face from
that of a placid, kindly old woman to something hateful and sinister.
Unable to disguise her true nature, she snatches up the arm and makes
off, followed by Watanabe.
When she returns in full fiendish regalia, with long flowing white
mane, wearing a terrifying horned mask with staring gold eyeballs,
there is a clever fight in the nature of a posture dance, and the
strange, picturesque creature suddenly breaks away from the struggle
and jumps into the air, where she is poised for a moment—the triumphant
posture of all the characters at the end satisfying the audience that
the devil woman has been overcome.
* * * * *
Among the many weird shosagoto, few equal _Dojo-ji_ in beauty and
interest. Taken from a Nō drama of the same name, _Dojo-ji_, The
Temple of Dojo, it is concerned with that old tale of a beautiful
princess who, loving a priest, pursues him, and changing herself into a
serpent and twining around the bell in which he is hiding, melts it in
her jealous rage. A new bell is hung and she returns to vent her spite
upon it.
The temple atmosphere is created when the action begins, the hanamichi
swarming with priests and overflowing upon the stage. The Nagauta
singers and musicians sit motionless in the background, while a great
verdigris-hued temple-bell suspended by a red and white twisted rope
swings high among pendent cherry flowers, making a gay scene.
The priests in their quiet black and white costumes are a foil for
the radiant princess who, upon her entrance, becomes the centre of
the picture, and by her changing movements absorbs all the attention.
As soon as the kimono of her serpent highness vanishes like magic
under the deft touch of the black-robed stage attendant, the lady
with the hidden snake-like nature undergoes a series of rapid
costume-transformations, one exquisite creation following the other.
Now she dances with a little gilt drum, small rounds of silver, or
bewilders with a sudden display of scarlet and gold disks, one on her
head, and one in each hand, that give place to a succession of others,
or simply waves a wand of cherry blossoms. As a relief to the movements
of the snake in disguise, a large number of theatrical priests dance,
motley fellows in yellow, black, grey, and red, adding to the rhythm
which is felt as the compelling undercurrent of the whole piece.
When the serpent-princess feels her diabolical self getting the best
of her, she seeks safety in the big bell swinging high overhead. It
descends, and she disappears within. Then the priests work hard trying
to exorcise the evil spirit, all to no purpose. Their movements about
the big bell add to the picturesqueness of the scene.
Soon the hanamichi is again filled with strong men, clad in white
and silver kimono, who come to use their force against the
princess-serpent, for the priests cannot prevail. With one accord and
uttering a long cry in unison, they take hold of the bell-rope and
begin to haul.
By degrees the great bell swings upward, and a weird figure is seen
crouching under a blue-green silk scarf. To the thunder of big drums,
the serpent begins a fighting-dance which makes a strong stage
movement and prepares for the entrance of a hero resplendent in vivid
green, bright red, shining gold and black, armed with a huge piece of
green bamboo. He comes to subdue the creature of evil that, entirely
surrounded, climbs upon the top of the bell, and crouches there, a
frightful figure in silver brocade, black flowing mane, and face
terrible to behold. The priests in fear and trembling wrap themselves
about the bell as in a human cord, and the valiant man stands
triumphant.
After it is all over and the curtain is drawn, the inquisitive
theatre-goer wonders how it was possible for the beautiful princess to
completely change into the garments and make-up of the uncanny creature
within the limited space underneath the bell. But that is a stage
secret, and does not concern the audience.
CHAPTER XXVII
KABUKI RÔLES
They make a strange passing show, like personages from dreamland, the
people of Kabuki: a daimyo on a hawking expedition, strolling puppet
showmen, monkey performers, blind minstrels, pilgrims and priests,
samurai and farmer, swordsmith and robber. Creations of playwright and
actor, these warriors and lovers, villains and ghosts form vivid and
abiding memories in the minds of the Japanese people.
In the consuming passion for loyalty and self-sacrifice, character was
often subordinate, and the heroes and heroines of the plays went to
absurd lengths to justify the overwhelming theme. The ethics taught
by these rôles differ in many respects from the familiar figures of
the Western stage, yet at the same time the depths of human nature are
sounded, the same tragedies and comedies that make the whole world kin;
the eternal clash of evil and good. In addition, there are the rôles
fashioned out of the pure fabric of fancy, showing an unquenchable
thirst for beauty, and love for the striking and the strange, grotesque
and supernatural, creatures called forth from enchanted gardens of the
imagination.
A strict adherence to rôles was brought about in the early stages of
Kabuki’s development, and this system persisted. There were first the
tateyaku, or hero rôles, characters always championing the right; the
katakiyaku, or villain specialty, a necessary rôle where the upright
and ignoble were thrown into contrast; oyajigata, or old men’s rôles,
and kawashagata, the characters of elderly females. The comedian
was called dokegata, while onnagata was the name given to men who
played women’s rôles, and koyaku were children.
As the plays became more complex these rôles underwent modifications.
Of villains there was a rogues’ gallery,—an interesting study in
itself. Deep-dyed personages, irredeemably wicked, were created,
the worst of the worst; bad men in gorgeous costumes were sometimes
half good, and there were villains with a hint of pathos in their
natures, while the smooth individual who could smile and smile and be a
villain still was among this company. The favourite character of this
description was one outwardly bad, a disguise to cloak the good within,
a person merely pretending to be among the evildoers but all the time
assisting the righteous cause.
Many different types of heroes were born, from those of honest
peasantry to the samurai and aristocrat. Venerable old men were as
popular as callow youths. A popular rôle was a karo, or chief retainer,
in the service of a feudal lord, and a mediator who tried to bring
peace and harmony between warring factions was a rôle that pleased
the people. Brave fighting men who could hold off an overwhelming
number of attackers thrilled the audience; young daimyo, elegant,
effeminate, robed in rich brocades; otokodate or chivalrous commoners,
ready to unsheathe their swords in the protection of the brow-beaten
lower classes; lovers torn between the affections and stern duty, and
strong unrelenting characters forsaking wives and children to wander
about the land in search of an enemy that the ends of justice might be
attained,—such were the rôles played to the delight of their audiences
by the yakusha, or rôle men.
In the sphere of the onnagata there are an endless number of good
women and true, from the consort of a Shogun to the fair ladies of the
nobility and wives of ordinary citizens. Beautiful, youthful princesses
wearing flowing kimono of scarlet, purple, or pink adorned with gold,
and crowned with silver head-dresses, are a fascinating creation of
the onnagata. The three favourite rôles of this description are
Toki-hime, who forsakes her father for her husband; Yayegaki-hime,
who takes a treasured helmet from her father and restores it to its
rightful owner, her lover; and Yuki-hime, who, bound by a tyrant to
a cherry tree, calls rats to her aid that gnaw the ropes and set her
free,—all youthful maidens of high degree.
Middle and old age are not despised in Kabuki, and the matron,
white-haired grandmother, and middle-aged women have a recognised
place. They are sometimes the chief characters in a play, for in Asia
it is just as natural to be old as young—a stage in the journey of life
that all must reach.
Admiration for the actors who create such contrasting types of women
grows the greater the more we become familiar with these fascinating
females; bad, slangy, naughty girls; voluble, gossipy wives of the
tradespeople; brave, heroic women of the samurai class; not to overlook
the faithful nurse, innocent maidens, the bad stepmothers, and
maidservants, honest and faithful.
Rôles the actors enjoy playing, characters that are household
names, such is the combination which has established Kabuki on such
a firm foundation that it has weathered the storm of the conflicting
influences that have broken about its strong citadel.
Tomomori, of forlorn hope, the last of his clan, his white and silver
armour bespattered with blood, makes a final stand before plunging
into the waves. He climbs to the top of a rock, and picking up a huge
anchor lifts it high above his head; then casts it into the sea, the
rope attached to his body drawing him relentlessly, until he falls over
backward to his fate, as realistic a death-agony as could be found on
any stage.
Kezori Kuyemon, a sea rover, in a drama by Chikamatsu Monzaemon,
talking Nagasaki dialect, a swaggering freebooter the actor loves to
paint. And Kezori’s junk that fills the entire stage, the crew, a
rough-and-ready lot, looking for trouble. The vessel begins to
turn as though a real pirate craft, and not one resting upon a painted
ocean with a painted sky for background. Kezori stands on the prow,
his hair, brown and bushy, bleached by exposure to sun and wind, his
beard shaggy and unkempt, his seafaring costume having for design a
diabolical devil-fish.
For contrast, Heiyemon, a servant to one of the Forty-seven Ronin,
who undergoes a struggle between filial duty and faithfulness to the
loyal retainers. Heavy-hearted he leaves home, saying farewell to
father, wife, and child, knowing that he may never see them again. He
stops to rest in the shade of the big pine trees that line the great
highway, the Tokaido, and to eat the simple boiled rice his wife has
prepared for him. Home-sickness overtakes him, and he cannot touch the
food. Doves fly down from the trees above, and they make him think all
the more of home. He must see his father once more, and apologise to
him for his neglect; he must show his heart, and tell of his secret
intention to join the band. But when he starts, remembrance of the
cause he has espoused pulls him back. Wavering between the two desires,
he sees the mother dove has fallen to the ground dead, and the young
ones hover about her as though bereft. Casting all scruples to the
winds, he runs homeward, only to find that his father was aware of his
undisclosed plan, and the better to aid him has committed suicide that
he may be free to devote himself to the great cause.
Kochiyama, a crafty priest of low rank, visits the mansion of a daimyo,
and passes himself off as a prince of royal blood at the head of a
great temple. He makes a striking figure in his white inner garment and
thin scarlet outer robe, and is treated with every mark of respect.
Knowing of a scandal within the household, he seeks to profit. He
tells the lord he will lose all his possessions should the affair be
made known. The maids spread a fine feast in front of him, but he
waves it aside, saying that he would prefer a drink of the tea brewed
from the golden globe flower. Acting on the hint, the steward of
the household brings him the required hush money. On his departure
he coolly confesses the game he has played, and laughs insolently at
the enraged servants of the daimyo. On the hanamichi he meets with a
confederate and counts the booty.
Seven hundred years ago the Soga brothers, Goro and Juro, revenged
themselves upon Kudo, the slayer of their father, and since that time,
like the story of how Horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of
old, the tale has been sung and acted, there being hundreds of Kabuki
plays with Goro and Juro as characters; their story inspired the
playwrights of the Doll-theatre and formed the theme of several Nō
dramas. The mother desires the eldest son to do the fatal deed, hoping
to save the two younger. They are all anxious to take part in the
killing of the man who treacherously put their father to death when
they were children. Goro pleads that Juro be allowed to accompany him,
and the mother reluctantly consents. The blind brother who has become a
priest is denied, and so takes his own life.
They wear straw raincoats and rough straw sandals and the wide hat of
the farmer; they start off to the foot of Mount Fuji, where Kudo has
gone on a hunting expedition. Goro’s costume is black with a gay design
of butterflies, white plovers on the wing adorning that of Juro. They
creep into the hunting-lodge where Kudo is sleeping, and accomplish
their end. Soon the youths are surrounded, put up a brave fight, but
forfeit their lives.
Few plays reflect the national characteristics more than the Soga
Brothers’ Revenge,—the impersonal emotions of Goro, Juro, and the
mother; the deeply implanted desire for revenge in Old Japan for
wrong done; the allegiance to the dead rather than the living. The
Soga brothers did not think at all of leaving their mother; they were
consumed with loyalty to the spirit of their departed father.
Stammering Matabei—how many fine actors have essayed this rôle created
by Chikamatsu Monzaemon! In history he was the founder of colour
prints in Japan, but in this play he is an artist who desires his
master to recognise his ability by giving him the great name of Tosa.
His teacher, however, is not willing to acknowledge his genius.
Tongue-tied, he cannot reveal his mind to the master, and his voluble
wife, who makes up for his loss of speech, only complicates matters.
Suddenly, a number of farmers run through the audience armed with hoes
and other agricultural implements announcing that there is a tiger in
the neighbourhood. Matabei stutters that there are no tigers in Japan,
and that it must be the creation of some artist come to life. Scarcely
are the words uttered than a tawny tiger emerges from a bamboo thicket
and wags its head. A younger and more favourite pupil takes a brush and
draws an outline of a tiger in the air, and in this is sufficient magic
to drive the ferocious animal away.
Then Matabei and his wife out of disappointment plan to die together,
and the artist decides to paint a farewell picture. He chooses a square
stone water-basin, and gazes into the water to catch the reflection
of his face, for he wishes to draw his own portrait. He selects the
side away from the audience and begins to work when, on the opposite
side, facing the audience, appears the picture he is drawing. His art
is so wonderful that the picture has penetrated the stone, and when
the teacher sees the miracle he relents and allows Matabei to take the
coveted name.
How a common robber may become so picturesque that all his faults
are forgiven is to be seen in the rôle of Ishikawa Goemon. He had a
Chinese father and a Japanese mother, and in punishment for his highway
robberies he was finally boiled in oil. Goemon took up his quarters in
the second story of the great red gate of Nanzen-ji, a Kyoto temple,
and made his depredations by night. In a huge black velvet costume,
a loose outer garment of gold brocade, and the conventional wig of a
villain, hair that stands on end like a chestnut bur, Goemon emerges
from his place of concealment to the gallery above the entrance gate
and surveys the scene, smoking his pipe peacefully. Then the
man searching for him appears out of the nether region of the stage,
catches the reflection of the robber’s face on the surface of the water
in a bronze temple-urn, and exclaims that so long as there is sand on
the seashore there will be robbers in the world.
Bad characters transformed into heroes—these rôles appealed to Kabuki
audiences. Such was Gonta, a vagabond, a braggart, and a bully, and yet
he proves to have a heart of gold. He was ready to bluff a samurai out
of his money, swagger boldly, yet shows tenderness for his child, and
does not hesitate to sacrifice both wife and offspring when he responds
to the clarion call of loyalty.
An uncompromising villain is Kosai, the octogenarian keeper of a house
of ill-repute, a revelation of selfishness and indifference to the
suffering and anguish caused by his slave traffic. A red tam-o’-shanter
worn by ancients in Japan covers his head, beneath which is the aged,
seared, hardened face. His kimono is of large brown and yellow checks,
over which is thrown an upper garment of dark green, and he leans
on a tall red-lacquered staff,—a harsh and fantastic figure. His is
a personality so deeply sunk in crime that even those actors who
specialise in katakiyaku, or villain’s rôles, scarcely ever act such a
despicable character. It seems a thankless task to play such a monster,
and yet the very strength of his wickedness is sufficient to stir up
lethargic citizens who allow such persons as Kosai to flourish like
green bay-trees. He meets his just deserts, but hanging seems too good
for him.
Fortitude in the face of suffering and death gives the Kabuki actor
the opportunity to perform some of his best rôles. Such a Spartan rôle
is that of Sato Masakiyo; poisoned by his enemies and with but a short
time to live, he is seen with his beautiful young daughter-in-law
seated in an ornate red pleasure-craft on Lake Biwa. A small boat
comes near with a messenger from the enemy to see if the poison
has taken effect, and he is surprised at the hero’s complacency. Next
a gift of armour is presented, but Sato strikes his sword against the
chest, and the would-be assassin concealed within turns a somersault
over the side of the vessel. A temple bell booms out, a sailor’s song
is heard in the distance, and the ship points out over the audience.
Sato, who has shown admirable control in the face of physical
suffering, reels to the prow, and there calmly surveys the scene,
remarking that it is a fine day, while the stage-blood which oozes from
the corner of his mouth falls down upon his white neckcloth.
In the Kabuki actor’s large repertoire of weird rôles there are few to
equal the frightful monster, Tsuchigumo, or The Earth Spider, a popular
version of a Nō drama. This creature weaves its spell round a warrior
who suffers from some mysterious illness. The spider visits him in the
disguise of a priest and throws the web that enmeshes him. It is like
day fireworks, made of thousands of strands of compressed paper, that
when released fly forth like a fine-spun web, spraying far out over
the footlights and above the heads of the people. Again, the spider
is tracked to its den and comes forth to fight, shooting the fragile
strands of its web into the boxes of the pit. Old and young reach out
eagerly for the filmy stuff that wanders gossamer-like from stageland,
and the intimate relation between the audience and the players is fully
established.
[Illustration: Matsumoto Koshiro and Onoe Baiko in Seikinoto, the
music-drama piece, in which Baiko appeared as the spirit of the cherry
tree.]
Out from the phantasmagoria of the shosagoto stands _Seikinoto_. In
this, Seikibei, a grotesque character, is seen enjoying himself alone
on the stage, imbibing from a large red sake cup, when there is let
down from the realm of the stage hands above a piece of grey carved
wood to represent clouds in which are prominences the audience is led
to believe are stars. Shining down into his broad sake cup the stars
foretell that should he cut down the ancient cherry tree in the centre
of the stage, he will be able to realise his ambition.
He seizes an axe almost as large as himself and proceeds to fell
the tree. But he is stopped by an apparition, the spirit of the cherry
tree. She is seen at first, faint and weird, within the bole of the
tree, but comes forth and dances with Seikibei, property men causing
sudden transformations in their costumes. She is in a cherry-coloured
kimono, her hair long, and face pale. Seikibei wears a queer black
costume bordered with large black and white checks, his hair all
tumbled. In a picturesque posture dance they attack each other, he
armed with his exaggerated axe, she defending herself with a branch of
the cherry, the spirit coming out victorious in the strange encounter.
Three female entertainers in the mansion of a great lord are an
entertainment in themselves. Like creatures of some other world they
make their appearance through the stage, forced up from the depths of
stagedom by a special contrivance to form a motionless group like a
piece of statuary. Clad in similar costumes, one carries a bamboo rake,
another is armed with a garden broom, while a third has a basket. They
are in frolicsome mood as they attend to the garden and pick twigs of
scarlet maple. To add to their enjoyment they make a fire with the
maple leaves and warm some sake, which is supposed to have additional
virtues if so prepared, according to a Chinese poem.
A mere sip of the beverage sends these fanciful females into different
states of intoxication, and there is such a fantastic scene that it
could not by the wildest flight of imagination be made into an argument
against the cup that cheers; one laughs, the other scolds, and the
third weeps. The samisen and the minstrel support now one and then the
other, causing a din and clatter that is so well calculated as to be
less confusing than it seems in the mere description.
One is in reality a spy, and slips away thinking her companions
are still under the magic of the sake warmed by the burning maple
leaves. The other two come quickly to themselves since they are also
secret-service damsels on the look-out for spies, and so it turns out
that the intoxicated trio were only feigning drunkenness after all.
When three well-matched actors take these rôles, there is an
interesting display of onnagata skill.
Three onnagata rôles in _Kagami-yama_ (lit., Mirror Mountain) provide
sharp contrasts in the types of women. Iwafuji is a wicked maid in
the household of a feudal lord, while ranking below her is O-Noe, all
that is gentle and good. Jealous of the virtues and accomplishments of
O-Noe, the evil Iwafuji intrigues, and her plot succeeds so well that
the good maid is disgraced beyond all hope of redress. There is no way
in which O-Noe can clear herself, and she takes her life.
O-Hatsu, servant to O-Noe, true-hearted and valorous, heedless of the
consequences, meets Iwafuji in the garden and fights to a finish, the
bad Iwafuji dying to the satisfaction of the audience, while the young
lord of the mansion appears to approve O-Hatsu’s action, and promotes
her to the position in the household her mistress enjoyed.
Among the heroines of the common people there is O-Fune, the daughter
of a ferryman named Tombei, in the village of Yaguchi. A fugitive
samurai takes shelter in their cottage with his lady-love, whom he
passes off as his sister. As a price has been put on the guest’s head,
Tombei, an old villain, wishes to obtain the money. O-Fune manages
to spirit the hero away. It is a rôle of many emotions. In love with
the guest, made love to by her father’s assistant, jealous of the
fine lady, she is wounded by her father who has attempted to kill the
fugitive,—and summoning all her strength she beats the drum in the
tower, gathering the people together that the samurai may have the
opportunity to escape to a place of safety.
Should any one ask a ferryman on the Sumida River in Tokyo to tell an
old story of that muddy commercial stream, he would no doubt relate
the tale of Takao, and how she was ransomed from the courtesan life by
a daimyo who paid her weight in gold, and how when she attempted to
escape from his pleasure-boat on the river, as she loved another, the
enraged lord cut off her head.
And that character taken from the pages of a fairy-tale, O-Ryu,
the spirit of the willow tree! She lives in a rustic cottage in the
heart of the forest, with her husband Heitaro and little son. When she
hears the woodsmen chopping down the old willow near by, she knows that
her earthly life is over. As the stroke of the axe resounds, O-Ryu is
transformed from a modest wife to a greenish ghost. There is a great
whirl of willow leaves about her, and in the fitful glare of uncanny
green light she says farewell to her child and disappears among the
trees, becoming fainter and fainter until she is lost in the distance.
Some actors are better fitted to act rough Yedo girls, or women of
the lower classes, but it is the ambition of the best onnagata to
portray noble women. Such a rôle is Kesa Gozen, or the Lady Kesa, the
unfortunate but heroic noblewoman. Held up as an example of chastity
and devotion, Kesa Gozen should take her place among the good women of
the world’s stage.
A samurai falls in love with her, and to protect her honour and save
her husband, she becomes privy to a dreadful plot against him that she
knows will never be carried out. At night the samurai approaches the
bedroom, gropes about, and finds the wet hair that he has been told is
that of the husband. Tragic indeed is the youth’s awakening when, on
the steps leading to a temple close by, he uncovers the head he has
taken, and sees by the light of the moon that it is the face of the
woman he loves.
MEIJI KABUKI
CHAPTER XXVIII
MEIJI KABUKI
I
Yakusha of Meiji
Ichikawa Danjuro, the ninth, was the torch-bearer of Kabuki during the
long reign of the Emperor Mutsuhito, known as the Meiji era, which
endured for forty-five years (1868–1912).
There were barren years for the theatre previous to the Restoration,
and the stagnant condition of the people showed itself in the lack of
Kabuki creativeness. When the long-shut gates of Japan were suddenly
thrown wide open to the dazzling wonders of the West, men did not have
time to spend in shibai, and their thoughts were engrossed by the
rapid changes that took place in politics, industry, education, and
religion. The whole course of Kabuki could not be changed overnight,
and in consequence remained stationary. The theatres almost went out of
existence, and women and children formed the audiences. It took some
years for Kabuki to pull itself together, for Western influences were
inundating the country, and neither the players, the playgoers, nor the
playwriters were able to “find themselves”. If it had not been for the
greatest member of the Ichikawa family, the actors might have become
like lost sheep and strayed from the fold, separating themselves from
their past, and worshipping all the new and confusing tendencies of the
day.
Danjuro, the ninth, was the bridge that spanned the sudden gulf
which yawned between the traditional past and the uncertain and
changing modern world. He may be regarded as the saviour of Kabuki
during a period when it might have suffered shipwreck, had there
not been a man of genius at the helm to guide the craft through the
troubled waters.
In the last days of the shogunate and the early years of Meiji, there
were a number of yakusha who shone even in these troubled times. The
theatres were still grouped together in Saruwaka-cho, Asakusa, when
the Emperor, travelling in state from Kyoto, reached his new capital.
Commodore Perry, who knocked at the door of Japan at a most opportune
moment, could have witnessed a performance at the Ichimura-za or
Nakamura-za in this quarter of Yedo, had he been so minded.
For thirty years three men had held the centre of Kabuki in the days of
the fast-decaying shogunate. They were Onoe Kikugoro, the third; the
seventh Ichikawa Danjuro, and the fourth Nakamura Utayemon.
Danjuro, the seventh, became the chief actor of the Ichimura-za at the
age of 23. His extravagances both on and off the stage came to the
attention of the authorities, and he was suddenly summoned to appear
before the district officials, and there sentenced to exile from Yedo
on the ground of unwarranted indulgence in luxury.
“Ebizo, Kabuki actor”, so the sentence read, “we have long warned the
above person that he is not allowed to build an extravagant residence
and to use fine furniture”, and continued to enumerate his lapses from
grace, particularly mentioning the fact that he wore on the stage a
suit of real armour which belonged to a military officer.
Although a petition asking for a pardon was presented by his relatives
and friends, the hard-hearted officials were unrelenting, and he was
obliged to wander about the country for seven years, playing for the
most part in Osaka, where he was most popular. In 1849 was allowed
to return to Yedo, and gave special performances to express his
thankfulness that his years of exile were at an end.
On the way out of his dressing-room to the stage, he complained of
illness, and was advised not to appear, but persisted. While acting his
speech failed, and he made a sign with his hand, when the curtain was
drawn. He was carried off the stage, and died soon after.
His eldest son succeeded as Ichikawa Danjuro, the eighth. He became
chief actor of the Ichimura-za at the age of 16, repairing to a temple
every day to pray for success. The Government had no opportunity to
reprove him,—on the contrary, he was given a reward for filial piety.
To his exiled father he sent money, repaid the debts of his family, was
kind to his numerous brothers, left the theatre between acts to inquire
about his mother, and assisted the family pupils when old age overtook
them.
Reports of his high character were spread, and he was worshipped by the
Yedo people. In spite of his genius and probity, his father’s marital
adventures (for the seventh had three wives and many concubines) must
have weighed heavily upon his mind. He went to play in Osaka, but the
audiences were studiously cold, there being the old jealousy of the
Yedo stage, and the eighth Danjuro was treated slightingly. This was
more than the sensitive young actor could endure, and he committed
suicide at an inn in Osaka, dying unmarried at the age of 32.
During the first years of Meiji there was one actor who attracted great
attention,—Ichikawa Kodanji, a pupil of the seventh Danjuro. He was the
son of a man who kept a stall selling fireworks at the Ichimura-za. On
one occasion he was detained by illness, and was late in taking his
cue. His superior, Arashi Rikaku, chastised him for the offence by
striking him with a zori, or straw sandal, which caused him to fall
down a stairway behind the scenes. He never forgot this incident, and
later, when he had become successful and was playing with Rikaku, he
cleverly inserted a reference to the zori incident into his lines.
It is Kodanji’s association with Kawataki Mokuami, the leading
playwright of Meiji, that makes him of interest in the history of
early Meiji Kabuki. The two formed a close partnership, Mokuami writing
the realistic plays of the plain citizens that showed Kodanji’s talents
off to the best advantage. His son became the fifth Kodanji, a veteran
of the Tokyo stage who continued to act until within the last year of
his life, dying in 1922.
After the Kodanji of early Meiji had passed away there was no one to
take his place, and Kabuki was almost derelict.
The actors upon whom the responsibility of Kabuki rested were Nakamura
Shikan, Bando Hikosaburo, Onoe Kikugoro, the fifth, the eighth Iwai
Hanshiro, last of this long onnagata family, and the young actor who
was to succeed as head of the Ichikawa line.
By far the most capable actor of the time was Bando Hikosaburo, the
fifth. His father was a carpenter attached to the Goddess of Mercy
Temple in Asakusa, but as soon as he was born he was adopted by the
fourth Hikosaburo as his stage heir. After performing in Osaka for some
time, he returned to Tokyo, bringing with him a geisha called Ichiryu
(One-Dragon), a young person with whom he had become enamoured. For the
sake of his new love he caused his wife O-Yei to be divorced. O-Yei
was a sister of the fifth Kikugoro, and one of the latter’s pupils
stole into Hikosaburo’s house and attempted to injure the fascinating
One-Dragon. Such a sudden lapse from grace on Hikosaburo’s part started
all tongues wagging, especially as he had been strict in his behaviour,
and most modest and decorous in his demeanour. His popularity was
lessened for a time, but as his acting continued to improve, people
forgot all about his morals.
Next to Hikosaburo in ability, and a close rival, was Nakamura Shikan.
He was the son of a minor actor, but adopted by Nakamura Utayemon.
With such a stage sponsor, Shikan was trained in dancing and greatly
excelled in this Kabuki art. Utayemon presided at the kojo, or
announcement ceremony, when the young actor took one of the Nakamura
family names, that of Fukusuke. But soon after this he was given
a sum of money and returned to his own home. The gossips of the day
said that he had fainted several times on the stage and was physically
unsound; others contended that he had become involved in a love affair
displeasing to his adopted father. He had been playing in Osaka with
Utayemon, but suddenly returned to Yedo alone. Two years later Utayemon
died in Osaka and a wealthy patron provided the funeral expenses in
the divorced son’s name, as though nothing had happened to sever their
relations. There were two funerals, one in Osaka and one in Yedo, and
Shikan gained a great deal of sympathy, having posed as most filial to
an unkind parent.
Shikan was, however, a worthy successor to Utayemon, as was evidenced
when he acted at the Ichimura-za in company with Nakamura Tomijuro, one
of the first onnagata of Osaka. Later on, to announce his increased
fame and reputation, he took another name of the Nakamura family,
Shikan, but the public regarded this as an unwarranted procedure, for
had he lived Utayemon would certainly not have bestowed it upon him.
So nearly matched in ability were Shikan and Hikosaburo, with but two
years’ difference in their ages, that they were pitted against each
other, and their patrons often indulged in fights over them. During
a performance, when these actors were playing together, they came
through the audience by way of the two hanamichi, the one to the right
of the stage a mere footpath, that to the left a platform that was in
reality a continuation of the stage proper. They quarrelled as to who
should take the main hanamichi, and the dispute waxed so hot that they
finally drew lots to settle the matter. Shikan’s mother was a person of
influence in shibai circles, and she was so zealous on her son’s behalf
that she caused considerable trouble.
Even in his old age Shikan’s light was not dimmed, and he continued
to act until death claimed him. Hikosaburo was also an actor of fine
parts—handsome in appearance, possessed of a rich voice, and
clever in making-up. He was generous-minded, proud of the position he
had gained, but always lacked in good taste and refinement.
An actor of the first ability was Sawamura Tannosuke, the second son
of Sawamura Sojuro, the sixth. In the first year of Meiji, he was
playing at the three chief theatres in Saruwaka-cho. At the age of 16,
he began to act in leading onnagata rôles, and was a genius in the
delineation of women’s characters. A tragic fate overtook him, and his
loss to the Tokyo stage was very great. Suffering an injury to his
feet, gangrene set in. Everything was done to save him, and he was
taken to Yokohama, where an American medical missionary was consulted.
Both feet, however, were amputated in the third year of Meiji. In spite
of this great physical disability, Tannosuke continued to appear on
the stage, supported by several black-robed property-men, and so great
was his popularity that the people crowded to see him. His wife was
unfaithful to him, and was on intimate terms with one of his pupils,
and this added to his hopeless condition, filling the remaining days
of this unfortunate onnagata star with unhappiness. The young actors
who followed afterwards in Tannosuke’s specialty were deprived of the
stimulus and high standard he had set, and a lack of good onnagata was
characteristic of the greater part of the long Meiji era.
The three stars of the Meiji era were Ichikawa Danjuro, the ninth,
known in his early career as Kawarazaki Gonnosuke, the fifth Onoe
Kikugoro, and Ichikawa Sadanji. Associated with them was Iwai Hanshiro,
the eighth, the last of this talented onnagata line.
Twenty years elapsed after the death of the eighth Danjuro before the
succession of the ninth. Onoe Kikugoro, the fifth, was the second son
of Ichikawa Uzaemon, the twelfth, and his mother was the daughter
of the third Kikugoro. He succeeded to the headship of the Kikugoro
family, ranked with the ninth Danjuro, and in some respects surpassed
him. It was in drama of everyday life that Kikugoro most excelled,
the sentimental and realistic having the greatest appeal for him in
contrast to the unreal proclivities of Danjuro, the ninth, who was a
faithful exponent of the traditional style of his family.
The fifth Kikugoro left behind him three sons. He adopted his nephew,
Onoe Baiko, now the leading actor of the Imperial Theatre; and two
sons were born to him in middle age, Kikugoro, the sixth, and Bando
Hikosaburo, of the present Tokyo stage.
Ichikawa Sadanji was born in Osaka, studied under several actors,
finally becoming a disciple of the Ichikawa family. At first he was
a poor actor, and gave no sign of a promising career. Mokuami, the
playwright, assisted him greatly by providing him with new plays and
furnishing him with advice, and so great was his advancement that he
was able to hold his own with Danjuro and Kikugoro, the three stars
playing together until death separated them. The eighth Hanshiro who
appeared with these actors was the son of the seventh, and was born
in Osaka. He was extremely effeminate in manner, a true onnagata of
the old school, and was known for his good deeds, always assisting
his pupils, and kindly disposed to his servants and the menials of
the theatre. An award of merit was given him by the Government, as an
example to others of a good citizen and loyal subject.
On his deathbed the characteristics of this actor were not subdued.
He exercised his talent for verse-making as a parting gift to life.
“Hakitate no waraji”, he wrote, “tsumetaki Haru no Yuki”, the “Waraji
I am accustomed to wear are cold in the spring snow.” Thus he made the
suggestion that life was like a pair of waraji, or coarse straw sandals
worn on a long journey, and that they suddenly felt cold as in a spring
snow.
Still another onnagata was Ichikawa Monnosuke, the fifth. Born the son
of a Yedo restaurant proprietor, he served his apprenticeship to the
stage in Osaka. His son was one of the most popular onnagata in the
latter part of Meiji, and a brilliant young grandson, Omezo, is an
adornment of the Tokyo stage to-day.
One after another the three stars, Kikugoro, Danjuro, and Sadanji,
passed away, and gloom settled down upon the Tokyo stage. It was years
before the people took an active interest in shibai, and an equally
long time before the actors regained confidence in themselves. The
three stars had been the centre of attraction, and a considerable
period had to elapse for the new growth and development that was to
culminate in the flourishing theatre condition of the present.
II
The Ninth Ichikawa Danjuro
From the point of view both of character and of art Danjuro, the ninth,
is considered the greatest actor that Japan has produced.
Kaburagi Kiyokata, one of Tokyo’s leading artists, describing Danjuro,
said that he could only be painted with broad lines, for upon the
stage he presented such beautiful figures as could only be seen in
old sculptures. And such was his ability in portraying historical
characters that the people thought of past heroes only in the light of
Danjuro’s creations.
Although he upheld the treasured anti-real style of the Ichikawa
line, he threw himself with enthusiasm into the portrayal of rôles in
a new type of play called katsureki, or living history, in which he
painted his characters with accuracy of detail, showing the influence
of Western drama, and also his revolt from the inconsistencies of the
jidaimono, or historical pieces of the Doll-theatre. An actor of such
great parts was never seen before in Japan, and his like may not appear
again for generations to come.
The ninth Danjuro (born 1838, died 1903) was the son of the seventh
Danjuro. His mother was not the legal wife of his father, and was the
daughter of a restaurant proprietor. She had in addition to Danjuro,
the ninth, three sons and a daughter.
The hereditary owner of the Kawarazaki-za, Kawarazaki Gonnosuke, had
made a promise to the seventh Danjuro that he would adopt one of his
numerous brood, and the fifth son was selected to become the head of
this family. Gonnosuke was an influential shibai proprietor, and the
boy was regarded as a young aristocrat of the theatre. At the time of
his adoption Gonnosuke was not married, and his mother undertook the
task of bringing up the coming Danjuro in the way he should go.
From his fifth year there were but few pleasures in store for the boy.
He was carried to the house of his dancing master on the back of his
nurse. Once, when the seventh Danjuro visited Gonnosuke, the latter
remonstrated, and said the boy would certainly be killed by his severe
training. To this the grandmother sarcastically rejoined that Danjuro’s
children were all dipped in tubs of sugar, but that there was some
pepper mixed with it. Evidently she had no faith in the manner the
Ichikawa children were managed, and time has shown the correctness of
her view-point, for the boy in the care of Gonnosuke’s mother was the
only one of the family to attain success. Certainly Danjuro, the ninth,
appreciated the interest shown in his welfare by this old woman, for
in his later years he never failed to express his appreciation of the
training he received in his youth.
Afterwards Gonnosuke took a wife, and she had a son and a daughter. It
was a severe disappointment when the daughter died young, for it was
planned that she should marry the adopted son. Thereafter Danjuro did
not get on well with his adopted mother.
A whole series of misfortunes overtook Danjuro. First, his father
was ordered out of Tokyo, and his own mother accompanied him into
exile. At the age of fifteen he took the name of Kawarazaki Gonnosuke.
Danjuro, the eighth, committed suicide in Osaka, and this family
tragedy was followed by the death of a younger and promising brother.
Still another brother was unable to become an actor, as his face
was marred by smallpox, and a brother adopted by Matsumoto Koshiro
was not a success. Then came the destructive earthquake of 1855, and
the Kawarazaki-za was entirely demolished, as was the city. There
was trouble in securing a license for the reconstruction of the
Kawarazaki-za; it ceased to be, and the young Gonnosuke faced a barren
inheritance. In addition to all this, his adopted father was attacked
and killed by robbers.
The various vicissitudes through which he passed did not prevent him
from becoming an actor, and he made rapid progress in his profession.
At 34 he married Masu, whom his adopted mother had chosen for him. Hard
times followed, and he was obliged to travel in the provinces, but
even when acting in country shibai, his Tokyo creditors followed and
attempted to take the receipts. When they returned to Tokyo he and his
wife had no home to go to, and took temporary shelter in the abode of
one of Danjuro’s patrons.
The construction of a new playhouse, the Shintomi-za, by the energetic
theatre manager, Morita Kanya, started Danjuro on a new and prosperous
career. Kanya was more than willing to produce novelties that would
startle Tokyo, and Danjuro set to work to make improvements in Kabuki.
In this he was greatly encouraged by the famous statesman Prince Ito,
and Matsuda Michiyuki, a Governor of Tokyo prefecture, who became an
enthusiastic supporter of the Shintomi-za.
Morita Kanya’s innovations were often failures in that they went over
the heads of the people, and the finances of the Shintomi-za were far
from satisfactory. Danjuro played in a minor theatre, but ill-luck
followed him, and during one of the performances fire broke out and
destroyed this shibai. He escaped wearing his stage wig and costume, to
the great astonishment of his family on his return home.
A signal honour was given Danjuro in 1887. He was commanded by Count
Inouye to play before the Emperor. His Majesty had consented to
visit the Inouye residence, and would witness a Kabuki entertainment
for the first time. Not since the days of Saruwaka Kansaburo, who had
danced before the Emperor in Kyoto, had there been such recognition of
the officially despised play-folk.
In the beautiful Inouye garden a temporary stage was set up, and
facing it a throne before which hung a thin bamboo curtain. From this
elevated position the late Emperor watched the plays and expressed deep
interest. The first piece was _Kanjincho_. The same piece was selected
for presentation when the Mayor of Tokyo entertained the Prince of
Wales at the Imperial Theatre in April 1922, and on this occasion the
Prince Regent entered the portals of a theatre of his own land for the
first time.
The Danjuro performances lasted for three days, the Emperor witnessing
the plays on the first day, the Empress on the following day, and the
Emperor’s mother on the last day. Takeda Izumo’s _Terakoya_, or The
Village School, was presented before the Empress, and her sympathy and
feelings were so stirred that those near Her Majesty saw tears in her
eyes, and were perplexed, thinking that the play had better be stopped.
The tears of an Empress over the sacrifice of Matsuomaru’s son that the
heir to Michizane might live, and the loyalty of Genzo, the village
schoolmaster! These were red-letter days, indeed, for the whole yakusha
fraternity.
With the building of the Kabuki-za, Danjuro enjoyed his greatest
prosperity. Here one success followed the other; and Tokyo showered its
approval upon the great actor. Later in life Danjuro was persuaded to
go to Osaka. He had refused repeatedly to accept an engagement since
the eighth Danjuro had committed suicide there; the treatment meted out
to his brother by the audience was an insult to the Ichikawa name that
had never been wiped out.
Contrary to his expectations, Osaka received the distinguished Ichikawa
like a conquering hero, and he reaped a golden harvest, the largest sum
of money ever given an actor in the history of Japan,—something
like 50,000 yen for forty days. Throngs of people came to see him upon
his arrival, but he carefully avoided the crowds as he did not care to
ride through the streets to make a show of himself.
Some delay was caused in the stage arrangements on the opening day, and
the audience became impatient, causing a great uproar. This so troubled
Danjuro that he told his wife that he was quite prepared to leave
Osaka should the audience make disagreeable remarks. He had purposely
excluded Ichikawa plays from the programme, for should the audience
prove unfriendly the affront to his ancestors could not be endured.
With the noise out in front increasing, the dutiful wife was told to
make preparations for a hasty departure, and left for the railway
station, where she awaited her husband’s messenger. It turned out to
be good news that he brought, however, for Osaka had behaved well, and
welcomed the Tokyo star with every sign of respect and admiration.
Towards the end of his life he took great pleasure in the building of
a beautiful country home on the sea-coast not far from Yokohama, and
here he retired when his health began to fail, exhausted with his long
stage service. He planned to give a farewell performance, and selected
Takeda Izumo’s _Chushingura_ in which all his pupils were to appear.
But this plan could not be carried out, for he became steadily weaker.
Like other yakusha he had his gods to whom he prayed, and there were
two god-shrines placed in his garden where he paid his respects every
morning.
When he knew his end was near, he requested that his hands and mouth be
washed with water, and turning in the direction of the garden shrines
he clasped his hands together in worship, and recited a sutra. After
that he never spoke again, the members of his family each in turn
taking part in the last Buddhist rite for the dying, wetting his lips
with a piece of paper dipped in water, during which he was conscious.
He passed away in the early morning. His funeral was more imposing
than that for a minister of state, and it seemed that all Tokyo mourned
his passing.
Danjuro left behind him no son to assume his mantle. His elder daughter
married the son of a banker, and this young man became the head of the
private family, and has never been able to succeed to the illustrious
name and become Danjuro, the tenth, although he has spent years in the
study of acting in Osaka. Ichikawa Sansho, as he is known, will never
be able to follow in the footsteps of his father-in-law.
Danjuro’s younger daughter married a minor actor, Ichikawa Shinsaburo,
and they have a daughter, who is thus the last representative of the
family. Danjuro left behind him a number of talented pupils. The best
among them is the present Matsumoto Koshiro, the seventh, of the
Imperial Theatre. Because of a youthful escapade, Danjuro declared
that Koshiro should not succeed him, which seems a severe penalty, for
Koshiro is the one Tokyo actor capable of carrying on the Ichikawa
traditions. In consequence, not until Danjuro’s grand daughter grows up
and marries and her offspring show traces of the Ichikawa genius, will
there be seen again a worthy successor to this illustrious actor line.
No greater proof of the strong affection of the people for Danjuro
could have been witnessed than the unveiling of a bronze statue to his
memory in June 1919, in the compound of the great temple sacred to the
Goddess of Mercy in Asakusa, that crowded district of modern Tokyo
where lived the ronin father of the first Ichikawa Danjuro.
The statue is of Danjuro in the character of a warrior of the Kamakura
age, Gongoro, in the play _Shibaraku_, or Wait a Moment, one of the
eighteen Ichikawa pieces. Perpetuated in bronze are the grotesque
costume, the strange wig, the two great curved swords thrust through
the belt, and a fan raised in one hand—a pose that delighted lovers of
the aragoto style when Danjuro was seen on the stage in this piece.
All those who had enjoyed any relation to Danjuro during his
life were invited to be present, which meant the attendance of the
entire theatre fraternity,—actors and managers, playwrights, critics,
journalists, artists, as well as representatives of official life. A
band of Asakusa firemen in their old-time picturesque Yedo costumes
were prominent, and all classes of theatre folk, musicians, property
men, ushers, dancing teachers, pupils and servants of the actors, were
assembled together. It might have been a scene of a hundred years ago
in Yedo, but for an occasional frock-coated dignitary, and the presence
of the monotonous straw hat of the West.
Speeches were made by the Mayor of Tokyo, and other men of weight and
importance. It was when Danjuro’s best followers stood up to view, four
of the most popular actors in Tokyo, that the applause broke forth.
They were Matsumoto Koshiro, Ichikawa Chusha, Ichikawa Danshiro, who
died in 1922, and Ichikawa Sadanji, son of Sadanji, the star of Meiji.
There was, however, one moving spirit in the proceedings, an informal
master of ceremony, and this was Ichikawa Shinjuro, long associated
with Danjuro and as loyal a retainer as ever served a feudal lord.
Shinjuro was accustomed to assist Danjuro in his preparations to go
on the stage, and no one was so eager as he to do honour to his late
master on the occasion. Danjuro’s widow and her two daughters, and
their husbands, Ichikawa Sansho and Ichikawa Shinsaburo, stood at the
base of the stone pedestal. Danjuro’s little grand daughter pulled the
string, and the late actor as Kamakura Gongoro, symbol of bravery and
courage, was revealed.
The curtain that had hidden the statue had scarcely touched the ground
when the faithful Shinjuro scaled the stone base. A black lacquer
stand was handed up to him and next a large silver bowl filled with
sake. Quickly they were placed at the base of the statue. In the brief
space of time in which Shinjuro made the offering before the statue
of the ninth Danjuro, it seemed that his spirit was present and
animated the lifeless bronze.
The sudden sight of the characteristic aragoto posture of the statue
also recalled the peculiar position the Ichikawa family have maintained
in the Japanese theatre for the past two hundred and fifty years.
III
A Theatre Manager of Meiji
The foremost and most progressive theatre manager of Meiji was Morita
Kanya. He laboured hard to improve shibai and elevate the status of
the actors. Unquestionably he was a benefactor, and if he erred in
following after false gods, and was under the impression that the
superior theatre of the Occident should be his pattern, he was no more
astray than hundreds of others who allowed themselves to be swayed by
the worship of the West.
At the age of 18, Morita Kanya, the twelfth, started to manage the
hereditary theatre of his family, the Morita-za. In the early days of
Kabuki the Morita-za was one of the important shibai of Yedo, but later
became amalgamated with the Kawarazaki-za. In time the Kawarazaki-za
gained the ascendancy, and for a long time the Morita-za was
non-existent. When the Kawarazaki-za was destroyed by an earthquake,
a suit was brought against its owners for the re-establishment of the
Morita-za, and a licence was granted the latter shibai. No sooner was
the victory won than the elder Morita Kanya died, and the son was left
with large responsibilities.
The first step of Kanya was to obtain permission to move the Morita-za
to the centre of Tokyo. The theatres grouped together in Saruwaka-cho
were too far removed, and so close together that competition was
harmful. If the theatres had been left in this condition, they would
have speedily deteriorated. The people were no longer eager patrons of
the theatres, and the actors were lukewarm.
Kanya did not sit down and wait for prosperity; he made it. He
was quick to understand the trend of the times, and that it was fatal
to repine at the decline of Kabuki, and thought it should keep pace
with the rapid development of the nation in this remarkable period of
transition.
His new theatre was opened in 1872 in Shintomi-cho, not far from the
residential quarter of Tokyo set apart for foreigners. He made many
changes, doing away with some of the long-established customs, which
greatly astonished the good people of that day. His efforts were
crowned with success, and he soon secured as supporters some of the
most important men in the realm.
It was characteristic of Kanya that he should have cast aside his old
friends for new. The fish-market was one of the strongest guilds in
the town, and its members were a power when it came to the theatre.
For years the fish dealers were among the staunchest supporters of
the Morita-za, and Kanya had been in the habit of consulting these
independent spirits on important occasions. But now he found they would
be a clog on his actions. He knew he would lose their sympathy and
support, but decided to sever relations with them.
To Kanya’s credit, he had early recognised the genius of the ninth
Danjuro, having known and observed him from his youth, and with good
judgement he invited Danjuro to become the head actor of his new
theatre. Danjuro owed much to the fish-market people, since they had
long been patrons of his family. The actor stood between two fires, and
at last was obliged to leave the manager.
Danjuro then acted in a minor theatre with but poor success, for it
soon had to close on account of financial losses, and he became a
strolling player in the country. When he returned he was in a desperate
plight, and was glad to accept an offer from Kanya to play in his
theatre, the name of which, on account of debt, he had changed from
Morita-za to Shintomi-za, after the name of the cho, or street, in
which the theatre was built.
One of Kanya’s innovations was to light the theatre with gas.
This created a great sensation at the time, although extraordinary
Western innovations of all sorts were now common. He then gave special
performances, sending out invitations to ministers of state, army and
navy officers, and members of the diplomatic corps. The ushers on this
occasion all wore frock coats, and the event was a great success.
As might have been expected, the plays Kanya selected did not please
the regular patrons of shibai. Men of letters and returned travellers
offered advice, and the Governor of Tokyo prefecture, with well-known
scholars of the day, attended rehearsals. The reformers objected to
Kabuki conventions. They wished to do away with the onnagata, the
revolving stage, the hanamichi, and raise the moral tone of the plays.
Kanya even entertained the idea that a theatre would one day be built
under the patronage of the Imperial Household. He also tried what he
called a night shibai, in imitation of the Western theatre, but this
the playgoers did not like, and considered they had been cheated,
having been so accustomed to the long, peaceful, all-day regime.
In consequence of Kanya’s strenuous efforts, Kabuki was elevated with a
vengeance, and the actors were no longer looked down upon, and referred
to as “riverside beggars”. This was largely due to the discovery that
the actors of other lands enjoyed a much higher place in society than
those of Japan, and the sudden change of front with regard to the
theatre was but a phase of westernisation.
Mokuami, the chief playwright of the Meiji era, wrote a play based on
a novel by Bulwer Lytton. Thirty-three Dutch residents of Yokohama
presented a green curtain to Kanya, who was very much pleased, and
later when he extended an invitation to the foreigners in Yokohama to
attend a performance, the programmes were printed in English.
The first distinguished visitor from overseas to be invited to Kanya’s
theatre was a German prince. Such dignitaries as princes of
the blood, ministers of state, and the plenipotentiaries of foreign
countries, were among Kanya’s guests. Later on a British official from
Hong-Kong was entertained, and the Shintomi-za became, truly, a social
centre.
General Grant, former President of the United States, visited the
Shintomi-za during his stay in Japan in 1879. It was a proud moment
for Kanya when, attired in the new Japanese badge of respectability, a
frock coat, and accompanied by Danjuro similarly clad, they stepped out
before the curtain and thanked Grant for honouring the theatre with his
presence, and for the gift of a red curtain that he had presented to
the manager.
But the height of Kanya’s Western intoxication was reached when he
invited a Frenchwoman to sing, and English and American actors to play
in the Shintomi-za.
In this Kanya showed little insight, for the audience could not
understand the Western entertainers, and the venture ended in a serious
loss to the theatre. Hence Kanya’s enthusiasm for reform cooled, and he
turned to Danjuro, Kikugoro, and Sadanji as his only hope.
Kanya had been at the head of theatre affairs in Tokyo for so long that
he received a shock when he heard of a project to launch a new theatre,
the Kabuki-za, which was to be the largest and finest ever built in
Japan. He started an opposition movement, concluded an alliance of four
Tokyo theatres, and bound the chief actors to stay with him.
The greatest theatre in Japan was the plan of Fukuchi, who ranked with
Mokuami as a playwright. When the theatre was completed, Fukuchi went
to Danjuro and Kikugoro, to invite them to play in the Kabuki-za, but
they refused, as they had pledged themselves to Kanya. Fukuchi was
surprised at the tactics of the Shintomi-za manager, but pretended not
to be disappointed, joked, and said he would have to paint his face
and dance in their stead. But the best theatre and the best actors
could not long remain apart. The shrewd Kanya, seeing an advantage to
himself, at last consented to lend the three stars provided he
was given a certain large sum. This was agreed upon, and his actors
appeared at the opening performances of the Kabuki-za, which were a
pronounced success from the start, while Kanya was enabled to pay off
his pressing debts.
Morita Kanya, the twelfth, died in 1897, after a strenuous life spent
in trying to improve the theatre, leaving behind him nothing but a
legacy of bankruptcy to his three young sons.
He has been described as a man of extremes, proud one minute, humble
the next. Sometimes he treated the actors as though they were his
own children, and again regarded them as his enemies. Prosperity and
failure were his portions. A newspaper writer, commenting upon Kanya,
likened him to a long-tailed pheasant pleased with its plumes that
stood beside a river looking at its reflection, and at last fell in and
was drowned.
His two actor sons, however, have made up for their father’s
delinquencies. They suffered poverty while young, Danjuro, Kikugoro,
and other friends of Kanya providing a sum for their living and
education. Both received their stage discipline under Tamura Nariyoshi,
the beloved theatre manager and contemporary of Kanya, who, until his
death a few years ago, was the acknowledged Kabuki authority in Tokyo.
Bando Mitsugoro, the elder son of Kanya, is one of the best dancers of
the Tokyo stage, excelling in the music-drama. His face and voice do
not fit him for the rôle of a chief actor, but his remarkable skill as
a dancer makes up for this. Morita Kanya, the thirteenth, the younger
son of the Meiji manager, is one of the most brilliant young actors in
Tokyo, handsome, versatile, eager, as was his father, for new things.
He has won a distinct place in the affections of theatre-goers, and is
but on the threshold of his career.
In the autumn of 1921 the Kabuki-za was burned down; the actors of this
theatre were obliged to play at the Shintomi-za, and Kanya was avenged.
Later his two sons, Mitsugoro and Kanya, for the first time played
together in special plays in the parental theatre in memory of their
father, the progressive manager of Meiji.
IV
Rise and Fall of Shimpa
A by-product of Kabuki in the form of Shimpa, or New School, was one
of the most striking developments of Meiji. A second O-Kuni and Nagoya
Sansaburo, in the persons of the beautiful geisha, Sada Yakko, and her
political-agitator husband, Kawakami Otojiro, started this form of
entertainment. But unlike the founders of Kabuki, their efforts were
resultless. Shimpa consisted chiefly of crude melodrama, and while it
reached a certain standard, it has now outlived its usefulness, and is
practically extinct.
The idea of setting up an opposition to Kabuki grew out of the
activities of one Sudo in Osaka. He had been a samurai, but fled from
home without his father’s consent, earned his living in Tokyo while
studying, and went to Osaka where he spent his time in arguments about
popular freedom. He began to lecture in public places, airing his views
about the rights of the people, and at last wrote a political novel,
which he sought to dramatise the better to spread his doctrines. In
front of the theatre where the piece was given there was a large arch
erected by the Asahi Shimbun, a newspaper that had made its influence
felt at this date, 1881.
A spectator of this performance was Kawakami Otojiro. The idea of a
students’ theatre, where all the burning questions of the day could be
preached to the people, seized hold of him, and he never rested until
he had formed a company for this purpose.
Kawakami was one of a large family living in a village, and they had
a hard struggle for existence. At the age of 19 he was a policeman,
but this did not satisfy the ambitious youth. With his sword for
protection, his feet roughly shod with straw sandals, he came to Tokyo
seeking his fortune. He had dreams of becoming a minister of state in
the future, and when he arrived at the railway station in the capital,
we are told he was surprised to find it all so different from the
village life he knew.
Kawakami did not have sufficient money in his pocket to take a lodging
at an inn, and he slept under the stars. At times he took refuge in
the shade of a temple. He found employment by serving a priest of
Zojo-ji, the great Shiba temple in Tokyo, and later became a servant to
Fukuzawa, the founder of Keio University and great liberal educator of
Meiji.
Joining the ranks of the soshi, or turbulent agitators, Kawakami began
to make political speeches, and was repeatedly put in prison because
of the freedom of his remarks. But the more he was arrested, the more
eloquent he became. To earn a living, and at the same time spread
the ferment of new ideas, he became a story-teller in a yose, or
entertainment hall. This was a temporary expedient, and he soon began
to interest himself in the starting of a theatre of his own.
He was regarded as a dangerous character and followed about by
detectives, and therefore his theatrical debut was not striking. Both
he and his wife were poorly clad, and the members of the company
were in a miserable condition. In comparison with the performances
of Danjuro, Kikugoro, and Sadanji, this new attempt was indeed very
insignificant. Something had to be done to attract attention, and a
piece was produced about Count Itagaki, the liberal statesman, who was
represented as a radical and attacked by political assailants. Just at
the moment when the hero was about to be killed, a number of policemen
appeared on the hanamichi. There was great confusion in the audience,
for the idea prevailed that the officers of the law had really visited
the theatre. Kawakami explained they belonged to the play. The scheme
worked well, and the theatre was crowded daily. Danjuro and
Kikugoro came to see what it was all about, and the newly established
actor felt greatly encouraged.
With ideas of political success still in his mind, he tried to run for
parliament, but was unsuccessful, gave up his ambition in this regard,
and settled down in earnest to acting.
Then a plan to go to America took possession of him, and he started off
to conquer the new world in a small boat, accompanied by Sada Yakko,
her little niece, and a dog. They set sail from Omori, a suburb of
Tokyo, on the shore of Tokyo Bay. They lost their bearings and drifted
into Yokosuka, where the authorities were on the point of arresting the
couple for thus entering a naval port.
This bad beginning did not deter them, and having disposed of the
supercargo, the niece and the dog, a new start was made, but the wind
was high, the boat began to fill, and they regretted their temerity
and resigned their fate to providence. Their situation at one time
became so dangerous that Kawakami invoked the aid of Buddha. He rowed,
and Sada Yakko tried to stop the inrush of water that came into the
boat quicker than she could bail it out. Shipwrecked near a fishing
village, they were rescued, well treated, and stayed in this place
for some time. The gossips of Tokyo said that Kawakami wished to gain
notoriety, the better to increase his popularity as an actor, and that
this was the reason the modern O-Kuni and Sansaburo had undertaken such
a hazardous trip.
Nothing daunted, Kawakami and Sada Yakko again started off for America
with a company of players. This time they took passage on an ocean
liner, and upon reaching San Francisco were so poor they had no money
with which to buy food, and were obliged to ask one of their countrymen
to give them some rice which they boiled themselves. However, they
appeared in a theatre and obtained the wherewithal to go on to New
York, where they had little to eat for days. But Kawakami was a man of
resource, and dressing his company in the variegated armour of
Old Japan, part of his theatrical equipment, and Sada Yakko attired in
a gay kimono, they walked through the streets of New York. All were
so hungry that little walking was done, but this unusual Oriental
procession attracted attention, people flocked to see them, and within
a few days they had made a considerable sum.
Two other trips abroad were taken by the intrepid Kawakami and the
attractive Sada Yakko. They played before King Edward and Queen
Alexandra, and the President of France. The Tsar of Russia presented
Kawakami with a gold watch.
Thus Kawakami did much to delay a true recognition of Kabuki and the
fine actors of Japan. He was nothing more than an adventurer in the
realm of the theatre; his performances were in no sense characteristic;
in fact, he was an outsider and an amateur who ignored all that had
gone before, building a structure on the sands that collapsed after his
death. His countrymen who saw his hybrid plays in England and France
and America hung their heads, ashamed at the bold effrontery of the
man thus strutting upon the Western stage as a representative actor of
Japan. The poor impression he gave of Japan’s theatre art has not been
erased, since no leading Kabuki actor has yet been seen in the West to
show what is sincere and true on the Japanese stage.
One of Kawakami’s announcements was as follows: “Our national drama is
very vulgar, and only fitted to please ignorant and common people, and
is not for great men or sages. Some people wish to improve it, but this
is of no use. Therefore, I am going to do away with the old style and
have a shibai with men and women players, and abolish Joruri. The chief
idea of our improvement lies in the spirit of the actors. We do not lay
stress on the outward appearances of the actors.”
When Kawakami returned from Europe he produced _Hamlet_, but the stage
entrance of the Dane was made on a bicycle. _Othello_ and other
Western masterpieces were similarly misrepresented.
The Sino-Japanese War was a good opportunity for Kawakami, and he made
the best of it. He gave the people plays dealing with current events,
filling the stage with soldiers. Long-winded speeches, sensation,
lack of concentration were the features of the hastily written pieces
of Shimpa. Yet Kawakami and his company soon became popular, and his
theatres were packed. Ii Yoho and Kawai Takeo, two members of the
company, were soon favourites, Ii had first studied medicine, and later
entered a bank, before he joined Kawakami. Kawai missed his calling
when he did not become a Kabuki onnagata, for he is the one genius
Shimpa has produced,—a clever impersonator of women. Takada, Fujisawa,
and Kawamura were also stars of the company.
The themes of the Shimpa plays were politics, the law courts, war,
love, and murder,—just the strong theatrical fare the people wanted.
When such material was not at hand, serial stories in the newspapers
were dramatised, or European novels or plays were adapted.
Kawakami was more of an opportunist than a creator, and his school
reached a certain standard and then stood still. The taste of the
people demanded something better than his poorly constructed,
blood-and-thunder pieces. The Shimpa could not reach the level the
public demanded, and interest in it began steadily to decline. Ii and
Kawai for a number of years carried on after Kawakami’s death, but
at present they have separated, and the Shimpa school is practically
non-existent.
When Shimpa was at its height, Kawakami’s company was largely composed
of men, but Sada Yakko, who had a prominent rôle in most of the
plays, was a brilliant exception. There is no doubt her beauty and
attractiveness had much to do with Kawakami’s success. Training in
dancing and other female accomplishments she had secured as a geisha,
but preparation for stage work she had none, and was just pushed
before the footlights at a moment’s notice to do the best she could.
She appeared in a transient period, and the proper circumstances for
the development of her grace and talent were lacking. She is but
another example of the ruthlessness of Japan towards women of talent,
there being scant recognition of their right to express themselves.
[Illustration: Ritsu-Ko Mori: The leading actress of the Tokyo Stage.]
With a true understanding of her own handicap in the matter of stage
education, she founded a school for actresses, and this was taken over
by the Imperial Theatre, when it established a department to train
young women. In 1919, seven years after the death of her husband,
having failed to secure financial support to carry on the theatre
Kawakami had founded in Osaka, she retired from active stage life,
playing a farewell in a piece founded on the opera Aida as translated
by Matsui Shoyo. On the occasion of a banquet given to celebrate the
ten years’ activity of the Imperial Theatre actresses, Sada Yakko sat
beside the star of this woman’s company, Ritsu-ko Mori, and it was felt
that this second O-Kuni, three hundred years after the founding of
Kabuki and the monopoly of the theatre by males, had once more given
the impetus for a woman’s stage.
V
Reforms of Meiji
Meiji Kabuki is less a record of achievement than a reign of
amateurs,—well-meaning outsiders acting under the illusion that Kabuki
was flat, stale, and unprofitable, and that its only hope lay in
abandoning its old-fashioned conventions for the realism of the Western
stage.
At the beginning of the forty-five years of the Meiji period, reform
was the idea uppermost in men’s minds, and Kabuki, like some family
heirloom that has been relegated to the garret, was dragged out into
the full glare of new criticism. Those who were loudest in their
denunciation were officials and scholars who had returned from
abroad and regarded their own stage as an inferior product. Everything
was wrong; the plays were termed immoral, obscene, barbarous. The
gentlemen of the aristocratic classes who suddenly turned their
attention to Kabuki wished to make the stage refined and elegant. They
objected to the artificial stage voice, the imaginative costumes and
make-up, the symbolic gestures; the onnagata was an absurdity, and the
revolving stage, the inconsistencies of the plots, the vulgarity of
language, all came in for censure.
For three centuries the upper classes had held themselves aloof from
the people’s theatre, and officialdom had wellnigh regulated it out
of existence; now the leaders among intellectual circles wished to
“improve” Kabuki, aiming to confine the Oriental temperament within
Western stage conventions.
This fever to reform Kabuki was based on the belief that Kabuki’s
exploitation of the unrealities was wrong, while the realism of the
Western theatre was right.
It was, moreover, a conflict between those who put their trust in the
idea that the aim and end of the theatre is to be literary, and those
for whom the whole purpose of the theatre is to be theatrical.
A Dramatic Reform Association was established by Viscount Suyematsu,
son-in-law of the great Prince Ito, with Marquis Inouye, Baron Kikuchi,
Baron Shibusawa, and other men of importance as leaders. This society
encouraged Danjuro to act in new historical plays based on accuracy of
fact, correct settings, and appropriate costumes. Danjuro called this
new form of play Katsureki, or Living History.
But the people soon lost interest in such offerings. Weak in dramatic
values, the whole emphasis in these pieces was placed on the dialogue,
which, however, had little significance. These imitations of the
talking play of the West were quite opposed to the forms of Kabuki,
whose whole worth lay in the unity of the theatre arts,—colour,
movement, music, and acting. Danjuro was criticised on all sides
for his proud attitude and noble bearing, and he was advised to come
down to the people and perform something they could understand and
appreciate.
In consequence Danjuro returned to the masterpieces of his family,
pleasing the audience with aragoto and jidaimono, the very theatrical
play-forms the reformers had decried; Kikugoro was popular in sewamono,
depicting the life of Yedo as written by Mokuami. All was well with
Kabuki again, and the people forgot that the decadence of their stage
had set in, and that it had become inert and lifeless, according to the
higher criticism of the time.
Literary men discussed the theatre in magazines and the press,
and societies were formed to produce imported plays. Scholars and
professors were arrayed on one side, the people who liked Kabuki
undiluted shouted on the other. It was clear that the new ideas were in
direct conflict with the popular taste.
The sudden interest in the actors was due largely to the realisation
they had not been fairly treated in the past. This awakened
consciousness with regard to the actors had been caused in part by the
attitude of Occidentals towards shibai.
In 1887 the Italian Minister to Tokyo, Signor Martino, who was a great
admirer of Danjuro, invited him to the Legation to dine with some of
the greatest dignitaries in the land, the late Prince Ito, Prince Mori,
and others, who must have been not a little surprised to find one
of the “riverside beggars” asked to share the same board. On this
occasion the Minister, in making a toast to Danjuro, said it was much
easier to become a minister of state than the first actor of a land.
There was also General Grant’s visit to the Shintomi-za, and his warm
appreciation of the entertainment, and later the appearance of Danjuro,
Kikugoro, and Sadanji before the Emperor in the garden of Marquis
Inouye.
Aid yet, in spite of the fact that the yakusha was coming into his own,
he was regarded as far too vulgar, uneducated, and unliterary to
understand the imported dramas that were being translated in such great
numbers.
Blindly the advocates of reform continued to pour new wine into old
bottles. The Shimpa school, yielding to the desire for novelties,
produced plays depicting Western manners and customs. But currents
of life and thought so much opposed could not flow together, and
the attempt to blend them upon the stage produced something that
was neither of Occident nor of Orient, something strange and almost
repulsive. The vivid colours of carpets, and wallpaper, and the
atrocious furniture which represented to the audience Western interiors
cannot be recalled without a shudder. Nor can be forgotten the costumes
so nearly nightmares,—fashions that have never existed in any part of
the world—and the hats worn by male actors of the Shimpa school when
impersonating foreign females, headgear which might have adorned the
inmates of an insane asylum, and other crude details conveying totally
erroneous impressions.
The reformers, quick to see the absurdities of Shimpa, set themselves
up as advocates of Western masterpieces which were to be so produced
as to elevate the drama in Japan. Associations were formed in quick
succession, all with the same aim, to see new actors in the newest
European plays and to forget for a time the crying need of Japanese
drama. Imported plays were produced one after the other on the Tokyo
stage, always with more perfection of detail,—clever imitations.
The most ambitious attempt to reform the drama by means of imported
masterpieces was made by Dr. Yuzo Tsubouchi, who formed the Bungei
Kyokai, or Literary and Art Association, in 1906. It was a Waseda
University movement, with the late Marquis Okuma at the head. Dr.
Tsubouchi, one of the founders of Waseda, dean of the department of
literature of this University, and known for his translations of
Shakespeare, was the guiding spirit.
Dr. Tsubouchi believed that society in Japan did not appreciate
the importance of the drama as an art, but regarded the theatre as mere
pastime. Even among the educated classes there were many who could
not understand a man of Dr. Tsubouchi’s standing wasting his time in
such an attempt. One gentleman is reported to have said that he did
not see why well-known scholars should devote themselves to the work
of improving the drama, for the drama was not a bit superior to a
geisha performance. A military officer advised Dr. Tsubouchi to devote
his energies to the moral education of the people rather than the
improvement of the drama, which was not of urgent necessity.
Notwithstanding these protests, a small theatre was erected in the
garden of Dr. Tsubouchi’s residence, and a group of amateurs gathered
together to study how to act in Western masterpieces. The leader
considered that the Kabuki yakusha were hampered by their conventions,
and he could not find among them the education and culture necessary
to understand Shakespeare. He then began to train actors for the task
he had before him. The first play given was _The Merchant of Venice_;
the following year _Hamlet_ was presented, but both were unsuccessful.
Profiting by these failures the society worked patiently for several
years without performing in public, and finally a revival of _Hamlet_
was regarded as quite a triumph for the Bungei Kyokai. Matsui Suma-ko,
a young woman quite new to the stage, developed into a leading lady,
and Mr. Togi and Mr. Doi became the chief actors. Then followed the
_Doll’s House_, _Magda_, _The Man of Destiny_, _You Never Can Tell_,
_The Merchant of Venice_, etc. The last performance the society gave
before dissolution was _Julius Cæsar_.
Born under the happiest of circumstances, the society came to an
abrupt end. One of the staunch supporters of the movement was
Shimamura Hogetsu. He had been a student under Dr. Tsubouchi, studied
literature and the drama in England and France at the expense of Waseda
University, and was Dr. Tsubouchi’s right-hand man in the management of
the Bungei Kyokai.
But the serenity of the undertaking was greatly disturbed.
Professor Shimamura left his wife and children for the fascinating
leading lady, Suma-ko, broke off friendly relations with Dr. Tsubouchi,
and was asked to resign from Waseda.
Soon afterwards he started a company of his own to star Miss Matsui.
Their partnership did not continue long, as death suddenly overtook
Professor Shimamura, and soon after Suma-ko killed herself by hanging.
Doi Shunsho, who had taken the chief rôles, suffered a nervous
breakdown and died, and the remaining members of the company drifted
apart, leaving the model theatre deserted. The one member of this
society who has remained faithful to its ideals is Togi Tatsuteki, who
has taken leading rôles in Dr. Tsubouchi’s new drama.
A rival to the Bungei Kyokai was the Jiyu Gekijo, or Liberal Theatre
Society, whose leader was Mr. K. Osanai, a graduate of the department
of literature of the Imperial University, and a pupil of the late
Lafcadio Hearn. This society gave Ibsen, Gorky, Maeterlinck, and
Hauptmann. Likewise, half-a-dozen such societies arose, only to be
doomed to early death.
Tamura Nariyoshi, the influential theatre manager of Meiji, a
contemporary of Morita Kanya, once said that new actors could not
grow up like mushrooms, but they must be thoroughly imbued with the
atmosphere of Kabuki and understand all that had taken place in the
past before trying to produce new things. Contrary to this view the
reformers did not think it necessary to build on institutions already
existing, and their efforts were misguided and misdirected. Tamura
Nariyoshi for half a century fought for all that was best in Kabuki,
carefully preserving the traditions amidst the welter of new movements,
managing and producing for Kikugoro, the fifth, and his son, the sixth,
at the Ichimura-za.
Towards the close of Meiji, in 1910, the height of the reform was
reached in the building of the Imperial, Japan’s premier theatre.
Erected according to a French model, it has a beautiful European
interior with all modern equipment and comforts. In connection with
the Imperial a school for actresses was established. Signor G. V.
Rossi, an Italian ballet-master from London theatres, was engaged, and
opera was produced for some years, but like all other Western methods
of improvement, interest in it died away, in spite of Signor Rossi’s
earnest endeavours. The lack of singers was the chief obstacle. It
was during this opera vogue that Madame Miura, who has been so well
received on the Western stage as Madame Butterfly, made her debut.
The Imperial Theatre, under its capable manager, Mr. K. Yamamoto,
continues to be the centre of the conflict of old and new ideas. Here
modern playwrights are encouraged, the Kabuki actors create new things,
or act in the old plays of which the audience never seems to grow
tired, while the actors, musicians, and dancers of England, America,
and Europe, and even the stars of the Peking and Moscow stages, are
warmly welcomed.
VI
Actresses of Meiji
One of the striking developments of the theatre in Meiji was the
appearance of various types of actresses for the first time since the
prohibition of the women’s stage in 1629. Returned travellers told
tales of the prominent place the actresses held in the Occident. The
female player had not been seen with the actor for centuries in Japan.
She was a feature of the Western stage, then why not of the stage in
Japan?
Danjuro, eager to try new experiments, and believing that women should
have an equal chance with men in the theatre, decided to introduce his
two daughters on the stage. The uproar and confusion that ensued among
the theatre folk because of this petticoat invasion of the male sphere
of influence caused them to withdraw. Danjuro also acted with a
French actress to show that he was not bound by the conventions of
Kabuki.
Among Danjuro’s pupils was a remarkable woman, Ichikawa Kumehachi. She
began life as a dancing-mistress, studied under Danjuro, and formed a
woman’s company of her own. So successful were these players that in
the early days of Meiji they were allowed entrance to the houses of the
nobility, when the actors could not be admitted on account of their low
position in society.
On Kumehachi’s stage only women appeared, and the manly rôles were so
well taken by women that it was difficult to penetrate the outward
guise that concealed the feminine personality. All the stage duties,
including those of carpenters, were performed by women.
Kumehachi had the hands of a dancing-mistress; they were long, narrow,
and flexible, and her bright eyes were full of life and intelligence.
She passed away in 1913 at the age of 70. A few days before her death
she was playing in her small theatre, and so died in harness.
Danjuro once said of her: “If she had been a man her acting would
have surpassed mine.” At one time she was called the “Woman Danjuro”,
her acting so closely resembled that of her master. But such was the
handicap of sex in Meiji that Kumehachi was not given the freedom
to develop that would have proved her genius, and although she was
undeniably popular with the people, the fact that she was a woman
proved a stumbling-block to her advance. In its craze for new things
and desire to imitate the Western theatre, Tokyo overlooked Kumehachi,
and she died obscure and neglected, the company she had formed
disbanding for want of leadership.
Nor did the attractive Sada Yakko ever succeed in reaping but a small
measure of success from her barren Shimpa environment. She was a
dimming star when towards the end of Meiji she founded a school for
actresses that was to form a new departure of the progressive Imperial
Theatre.
At the beginning of the craze for imported plays men attempted
to portray the rôles of women. Their manner of walking—a sort of hop,
skip, and jump—was as true to the habits and customs of Occidentals as
the mincing stage gait of Orientals affected by Western players. Men
were seen to be an impossibility as the heroines of the intellectual
drama of the West, and a demand for young women for such rôles
increased the number of stage-struck damsels in all parts of the
country. Many a would-be actress strutted her brief hour upon the stage
as Juliet or Ophelia, and then was heard of no more.
The career of Matsui Suma-ko clearly represents a certain undesirable
phase of westernisation, a sort of frenzy for imported drama that took
hold of the theatre reformers. At the time she entered Dr. Tsubouchi’s
Bungei Kyokai, or Literary and Art Society, that was to reform stagnant
Kabuki by producing Western drama, the novelty of the actresses was
at its height, in Osaka as well as Tokyo. Dr. Tsubouchi sought to
create intellectual actresses removed from all immoral influences.
Matsui Suma-ko was the most promising aspirant for the newly created
position, and she became the star of the society. At the age of 18 she
had married an innkeeper in a fishing village. Later she was divorced,
and came to live with her brother, who kept a cake shop in Tokyo. She
waited on customers until she found another husband who was interested
in the new drama, and with him she joined Tsubouchi’s company.
It is an unpleasant story how she parted from her second husband,
fascinated Shimamura Hogetsu, Dr. Tsubouchi’s chief supporter and stage
manager, causing him to resign as professor of Waseda Daigaku and to
abandon his wife and children. Together they formed a company called
the Art-Theatre. It was as Tolstoy’s heroine in _Resurrection_ that
Miss Matsui made her greatest success, and with this and other Western
plays she toured the country, the novelty of her venture and the
boldness of her character bringing her a fair measure of success.
When Shimamura died in 1919, her position was greatly changed.
He had been almost wholly responsible for her success. She did not
possess the mental or spiritual capacity to go on alone, without his
assistance. He had been conspicuous among Japanese literary men for
his study of Western literature, and was the recognised leader of the
naturalistic school. She had no reserve of education or experience to
draw upon. Furthermore, after his death voices in the audience called
out tauntingly, and some of the minor Kabuki actors who had been asked
to play with her in an effort to maintain her popularity refused to do
so. Things had come to an end, and she could go no further in plays
that were not indigenous to Japanese soil. The only way out of the many
difficulties she had created for herself was to make a grand exit, and
this she did some weeks after the burial of her leader, Shimamura,
by hanging herself in the building that had been erected as the
headquarters for the new stage naturalism.
Matsui Suma-ko, a daughter of the rice fields, essayed to play the
whole repertoire made famous by Ellen Terry, Mrs. Patrick Campbell,
Sarah Bernhardt, Julia Marlow, and Mrs. Leslie Carter. It was an
impossibility. There was no natural growth from within, only unhealthy
camouflage. She attempted to produce, but always failed, because what
she could impersonate never sprang spontaneously from her own soul. All
her efforts aimed not to construct, but to dazzle for the moment,—time
and strength wasted in a vain endeavour.
By way of contrast there is Nakamura Kasen, a natural successor to
Kumehachi, whose influence and popularity were very great. She owned
a little theatre in Tokyo, and it was always crowded. She had the
temerity to imitate the Kabuki actors, and was never so popular as when
in a male rôle. She began her stage work at the age of 13, and was
practically self-taught, never having come under the instruction of an
actor, but studying Kabuki plays and players from the vantage of the
audience. Much of her success was due to the fact that she was true to
herself and the traditions of Kabuki. She created her own sphere,
and was regarded as a woman-ronin of the Tokyo stage, but has now
retired.
With the opening of the Imperial Theatre in 1911 came the introduction
of actresses into the sacred fold of Kabuki, following the custom of
the mixed players of the Western stage. The new recruits, having no
art of their own, were obliged to imitate that of the long-established
male stage, and as no copy is ever equal to the original, it has
gradually become recognised that they are unable to compete with the
actors. During the first years of the new experiment the actresses
played freely and frequently with the actors, but now there is a
separation, the female company performing at stated periods during
the year, supported by several of the young, progressive actors, and
occasionally honoured by the assistance of one of the stars of first
magnitude. The audiences prefer to see the actors performing in their
own masterpieces, and the actresses in new pieces. From this it appears
that mixing men and women players is not the success in Japan it was
thought it would be.
Ritsu-ko Mori, who stands as the head of the actresses, was the first
woman of good family to take up the stage as a career. She was educated
in one of the exclusive young ladies’ schools of Tokyo, and her father
was a member of the Imperial Diet. It was an unheard-of thing for a
woman so educated to go upon the stage, and she was quite prepared to
meet opposition in the domestic circle and from society. After a course
of three years’ discipline she made her first appearance with the
opening of the Imperial. Miss Mori excels in comedy, but has been seen
in many rôles. She has undoubtedly earned for herself a first place
among this new class of professional women, both for her hard work and
her correct standard of life.
Associated with Miss Mori during the past ten years have been her
close rivals, Murata Kaku-ko, Hatsuse Nami-ko, Kawamura Kikuye, and
Fujima Fusa-ko—a member of the Fujima family, the leading dancing
school of the Tokyo stage. In addition, a large number of actresses and
skilled dancers, graduates of the Imperial Theatre, are now available,
and there is every reason to believe that the actress is a permanent
institution. But as she is such a new acquisition time alone can tell
whether she will prove to be an important factor in the Japanese
theatre.
VII
Playwrights of Meiji and Taisho
Kawataki Mokuami was not only the representative playwright of Meiji,
he was the last of the Kabuki sakusha. After him theatre conditions
changed rapidly, the good relations between sakusha and yakusha that
had so long endured were destroyed, and peace and harmony between them
have not yet been restored.
To such an extent does the modern stage owe allegiance to Mokuami that
there is hardly a month that does not see a production of one of his
plays in Tokyo, and as he wrote some three hundred plays, there seems
no danger that the supply will run out for some time to come.
He was essentially a Yedoko, for he came of five generations of a Yedo
family which lived in Nihonbashi, the centre of the metropolis, and
the headquarters of the national domestic trade. His plays show wide
familiarity with the lower and middle classes of Yedo, and are a mirror
of his times. He was a precocious youth, and early started to indulge
in dissipation. As he seemed disinclined to stop his irregular life,
his father disinherited him—a younger brother succeeding as head of the
family. Mokuami had little education, and began to associate early with
the people of shibai, becoming an apprentice to drama at the age of 20,
and dying in the middle of the Meiji period at 78.
When the seventh Danjuro returned to Yedo after his long exile, Mokuami
wrote the piece played by this member of the Ichikawa family as a
sign of his thankfulness that he had been able to return to the Yedo
stage. For Danjuro, the ninth, Mokuami also wrote some of his best
plays. He saw Yedo change to Tokyo; composed realistic Yedo plays for
Kodanji, who was active in the early years of Meiji; and in his old age
collaborated with Fukuchi in the writing of _Botan Doro_, or The Peony
Lantern, one of Kabuki’s best ghost plays.
So repeatedly did Mokuami choose highwaymen and thieves for the
characters of his plays that he was sometimes called the dorobo, or
robber, playwright. He was also fond of priests, and the scenes of his
plays pass from robbers’ dens, reminiscent of Oliver Twist, to temples
and lonely graveyards. Through the whole series runs the contrast
between the richly clad priest and the sinister robber. The night side
of Tokyo life was often his theme, but frequently he portrayed the
lower classes in their struggle against injustice and oppression. His
zampatsumono, or cropped-hair plays, are a study of the disordered
times when the impact of the West upon Japan caused the two swords as
well as the queue to be discarded, and show the comic as well as tragic
side of life in this transitional period.
Among his numerous works may be mentioned _Kochiyama_, a play dealing
with an historical personage, the daimyo of Matsue, who was noted in
his day for his profligacy. It is interesting to know that the loyal
retainer of this feudal lord, who committed harakiri because his master
would not listen to his advice and mend his ways, was the grandfather
of the widow of Lafcadio Hearn. Some seventy years ago, this dramatic
happening was written for the stage, but the daimyo of Matsue stopped
its production by paying a large sum of money. Danjuro, Kikugoro, and
Sadanji acted together in this play, and it has been revived many times.
Fukuchi Genichiro, known better under his pen name, Ochi Kochi, “Here
and There”, was a man of varied talents. He was in the Government
service, and might have risen high in official circles but for his
predilection for drama. He distinguished himself during the days of the
Restoration and travelled abroad in the suite of the late Prince Ito.
Few men of his time were better versed in English literature. For a
time he entered journalism, but it is as a playwright that he will best
be remembered. Fukuchi was one of the promoters of the Kabuki-za, and
wrote almost exclusively for Danjuro.
One of his best pieces is the music-drama, _Omori Hikoshichi_, a
favourite play of Matsumoto Koshiro, the seventh, in which a warrior,
Omori Hikoshichi, meets a seductive-looking maiden on a country road
and volunteers to help her across a river. He is performing this kindly
deed when she draws a short sword and attacks him. He is in possession
of her father’s precious blade, and she is determined to recover it.
Instead of retaliation, as she had expected, he generously presents
the much-desired weapon to her and behaves in so chivalrous a manner
that she goes on her way rejoicing, while he feigns to be overcome by
enchantment in order to distract the attention of his companions, and
mounting his black velvet stage-steed rides off triumphantly.
Fukuchi lived through an unprofitable period of the theatre, tried to
conform to the demand of the time by writing “living-history” pieces
for Danjuro, and the interest of the public cooling, he was pushed
aside, and passed away forgotten and neglected. Many of his plays are
more appreciated to-day than they were in his lifetime, especially
_Kasuga no Tsubone_, or The Lady Kasuga.
A pioneer among the literary playwrights of Meiji, Dr. Tsubouchi wrote
several elaborate dramas, showing the influence of his Shakespearean
studies. The most ambitious of his works are _Kirihitoha_, A Leaf of
the Kiri-tree, and _Maki-no-Kata_, The Lady Maki. The first is a play
in seven acts and many scenes, and has for theme the overthrow of Osaka
Castle by Iyeyasu, when Hideyori, the son of the great Hideyoshi,
perished in the flames.
The climax of Oriental stage splendour is reached in the
production of this long play. There is such an elaboration of detail,
extravagance of gold screen, and prodigality of colour forming the
stage pictures that is at once sumptuous and overpowering. The play
would become nothing more than a series of tableaux vivants were it
not for the characters of Yodogimi and Katagiri. Yodogimi, the mother
of Hideyori, mistress of Hideyoshi, drawn from history, goes insane as
Iyeyasu’s forces gain entrance through the gates of the castle and the
watch-towers are seen in flames. Katagiri, a faithful old retainer of
Hideyoshi, bowed with age and infirmity, gives proof of his loyalty as
he watches the burning castle.
Among Dr. Tsubouchi’s music-posture pieces there is _O-Natsu Kyoran_,
or Mad O-Natsu, a maiden all forlorn seeking her lost lover, and
mistaking a stupid country bumpkin of a horse-driver as the hero of her
dreams. In 1920 his _Honan_, or Religious Persecution, was produced.
This centred about the founder of the Hokke sect of Buddhism, and shows
the martyrdom of Nichiren and his followers. It created a storm of
discussion by press and public, a play with a religious theme being
somewhat of a novelty in Tokyo. The appointment of Dr. Tsubouchi as
an adviser to the Imperial Theatre comes after a lifetime spent in
literary work, translations, playwriting, and endeavours to reform the
stage. It is with his lectures and translations of Shakespeare that his
name is largely identified. Waseda University was founded in 1882, and
since that year Shakespeare has continued the favourite study of the
department of English Literature, of which for many years Dr. Tsubouchi
was the head. Collegiate interest in Shakespeare, however, dates
back to 1877, with the creation of the literary department of Tokyo
University, now the Imperial University of Tokyo.
During the middle part of Meiji, Okamoto Kido began to write for the
Tokyo stage, and is regarded as the representative modern playwright,
both for the number and variety of his successes. He is a most
indefatigable worker, and several of his new pieces are produced
yearly. One of his favourite themes is the persecution of the early
Christian converts in Japan,—and he has written a number of plays
concerning these martyrs.
An Okamoto play that is often repeated, and is certainly one of his
best, is _The Mask-Maker_, showing the high regard in which the
artisans of Old Japan held their work. It expresses Kabuki’s love of
the Spartan spirit, when the daughter of the mask-maker returns home in
a dying condition, after attempting to protect the Shogun from attack,
and her face inspires her father to execute a masterpiece.
Attached to the Kabuki-za during Meiji was the late Enomoto Torahiko.
He started his career on the newspaper _Yamato Shimbun_, then studied
under Fukuchi, and after Fukuchi’s death succeeded as head sakusha of
the Kabuki-za. He was a deep student of French drama, and his plays
were influenced strongly by the literature he so greatly admired. One
of his most popular plays is _Meiko Sakaido Kakiyemon_, or Kakiyemon,
the Potter. This tells how Kakiyemon devoted himself to making a rich
red-glaze porcelain. A wealthy neighbour wished to gain the secret that
he might profit thereby, and withheld aid from the old man until he was
so reduced he could not buy wood to keep his kilns going. A good scene
in this piece is that of the kilns in the moonlight, the red glow of
the fires, the smoke rising into the air, while in the background is
the glare of a conflagration—the city of Nagasaki on fire.
An Osaka playwright who has given Kabuki several fine plays is Takayasu
Gekko. His father was known as one of the leading physicians of Osaka,
and he was expected to take up the same profession, but preferred to
devote himself to literature and the stage. _Sakura Shigure_, or The
Cherry Shower, is regarded as his best play. An old man angry with his
son for an affair with a belle of the gay quarter expels him from home.
Shifting for himself, the son and the woman he loves begin life
together in a cottage. The father happens to pass that way one day,
and is caught in a shower. He seeks shelter within the humble cottage,
but does not know that he is accepting the hospitality of his despised
daughter-in-law. She prepares ceremonial tea for him, he is struck with
her accomplishments and good manners, and when he discovers that she is
the wife of his son, a reconciliation is effected.
Dr. Ogai Mori worked persistently during Meiji in the translation of
German literature and drama. Osanai Kaoru translated from the French
and German, and has produced a number of his own plays. Matsui Shoyu
was tireless in his efforts in the translation of English drama,
and is known as an adapter rather than an original playwright. The
late Miigita Torahiko, attached to the Imperial Theatre, produced
a number of excellent plays. Masuda Taro, a clever writer of light
society pieces and farce, has composed chiefly for Miss Mori and the
actresses of the Imperial. One of his successes was _Noroi_, or The
Curse, with an imaginary Damascus of a thousand years ago as setting.
After a week’s run it was noticed that the wicked princess who causes
all the trouble, and who must die in the end in order that the good
shall triumph over evil, according to the eternal convention of the
fairy-tale, did not tumble down at the fateful dagger thrust, but
remained erect, standing in a very commanding pose upon the throne with
the final curtain. The police authorities who censor plays had objected
to the death by such means of so exalted a personage. It was not proper
in their minds to kill the princess, although she richly deserved it,
and the whole point of the play was lost.
Among the playwrights of Taisho, some of the best known are Oka
Onitaro, Yoshii Isamu, Kume Masao, Yamamoto Arizo, Osada Hideo,
Yamamoto Yuzo, Yamazaki Shiko, Ikeda Taigo, Nakamura Kichizo, Nagai
Kafu, Dr. Rohan Koda, Roppuku Nukada, Mushakoji Saneatsu (brother of
Viscount Mushakoji), and Juichiro Tanizaki, whose plays have been
much discussed and criticised. During 1921 the best play to be produced
by an aspiring playwright was _Tojuro no Koi_, or The Love of Tojuro,
and concerned an incident in the life of Sakata Tojuro, the great actor
of the Genroku period. It was by Kikuchi Kan, of whom much is expected
in the future. He also wrote _Okujiyo no Kyojin_, or The Mad Man on the
Roof, which was a success at the Imperial. Miss Chiyo-ko Hasegawa and
Mrs. Kayo-ko Omura are among the women who have written plays for the
Tokyo stage.
Not in their wildest dreams could the stage folk of fifty years ago
have predicted the remarkable development of Kabuki in the years
1918–1920. Ten years before this the chief playhouses of Tokyo were
almost deserted, and at best they were never more than half full. But
the audiences increased to such an extent that standing room in the
topmost gallery was at a premium.
This overflowing of the theatre was due to the general prosperity of
the country as a result of the Great War. Faith in the West was rudely
shattered, and the people swung back to their own institutions with a
new zest and enthusiasm.
For lack of stimulus Kabuki had been at a standstill for half-a-century
before the Restoration; then came the flood-tide of Western influence.
Unconscious of the value of its art, Kabuki remained powerless to
proceed, and led the superficial observer to believe that it was unable
to create and on the downward path to oblivion. But the forces within
were gaining strength, and during the height of national prosperity
brought about by the European War, the existence of Kabuki was
justified as never before in its three hundred years of history.
KABUKI TO-DAY
CHAPTER XXIX
CONTEMPORARY KABUKI
The present condition of Kabuki is like that of an old temple within
a walled garden, around which flows the modern life of a great city,
where rages a conflict between two civilisations, that of Asia, and the
other, largely commercial, imported from the West. Reformers believe
that the temple is all out of date, and are seeking with conscious
effort how best they can change the style of architecture.
Some there are who go boldly within the sacred precincts with pots
of paint in order that the fading hues of the pictures beneath the
curving roofs may be covered by a new design. It is not in their
thoughts to restore the tarnished colours, but to destroy and make
anew. Still others climb upon the walls and look with scorn upon the
priests, calling them lazy, indifferent, and ignorant. And now and then
some learned gentleman from the West enters with the worshippers on a
festival day, and declares that he wonders what it is all about, while
others, even more learned, proclaim in solemn tones that the temple is
in decay, and in a few years it will fall with a crash, and so give way
for a Western edifice to be built upon the ruins.
In spite of these dire pronouncements,—the rushing modern life
outside, the ill-advised observers on the walls, the reformers who
seek to destroy,—Kabuki still has its priests, the actors, and goes
triumphantly on its way. Heedless of the critics they carry on,
performing the old ceremonies, preserving the ancient traditions and
conventions with all fidelity, yet turning their faces resolutely
toward the future.
Three groups of actors now control the destiny of Tokyo Kabuki,—the
companies attached to the Imperial Theatre, Kabuki-za, and Ichimura-za.
With the opening of the Imperial Theatre in 1911 a new force began to
work in this shibai world. Not only did the Imperial draw audiences
from the most representative citizens of the capital, but it became a
centre for the entertainment of distinguished guests from overseas.
Here, also, have been welcomed the musicians, actors, and dancers of
many lands.
American and British touring companies have appeared at the Imperial.
Prince Arthur of Connaught witnessed a play here, and the Prince of
Wales, as the guest of the Mayor of Tokyo, attended performances with
the Prince Regent. Enthusiastic audiences have applauded a score of
Western musical celebrities at this theatre. Russian singers, dancers,
and actors have been warmly received from time to time, and Madame
Pavlova and her company performed for two weeks with great success.
Here, also, the people of Tokyo have had the opportunity to listen to
a repertoire of Italian grand opera. Mei Ran-fan, the popular actor
of the Peking stage, also filled two engagements at the Imperial.
Shakespeare’s plays have been performed by Japanese players, while new
plays influenced by England and Europe are frequently presented.
Onoe Baiko, the sixth, is the head actor of the Imperial. His specialty
is that of the onnagata, as is that of Nakamura Utayemon, the chief
actor of the Kabuki-za. This is the first time in the history of
Kabuki for two actors devoting themselves to female rôles to take such
commanding places. In the old days the onnagata with becoming modesty
was content with a lesser position among the yakusha.
[Illustration: The Imperial Theatre of Tokyo, completed in 1911. The
building withstood the earthquake shocks of the great disaster of
1923, but the interior was destroyed by fire. It has now been entirely
restored. The Imperial is becoming an international theatre centre,
and has welcomed actors, musicians and dancers from England, America,
Russia, Italy and China.]
Mansfield once wrote: “But who shall say when this generation has
passed away how Yorick played?” In Japan, however, how Yorick played is
known, for every actor of genius leaves his mark upon the son or
pupil who succeeds him, and his style and type are handed down. Both
Onoe Baiko and Nakamura Utayemon have sons who give evidence that they
are worthy to preserve the type. Eisaburo, who serves as an understudy
to Baiko, already closely resembles his father, while Nakamura
Fukusuke seems to have inherited the elegance and grace of his parent
and teacher, Utayemon. These two young men are the leaders among the
younger onnagata and will no doubt uphold the honour of this specialty
at a not distant period.
Baiko, following the traditions of the Onoe family, for he is the
grandson of the third Kikugoro, and was adopted by the fifth, is clever
in the weird, and never pleases so much as when he plays an unearthly
woman, ghost, or demon. He is particularly successful as a woman of
the people, but it is as a dancer that he has endeared himself to all
Tokyo. The grace of his movements, the power of suggestion in his
descriptive dances, fill all who witness them with admiration.
Next to Baiko comes the versatile Matsumoto Koshiro, the seventh.
Without doubt Koshiro is the best-equipped yakusha in Japan. He is both
a good actor and an accomplished dancer. Born in a provincial town,
his father was a builder and contractor, and he might have missed his
calling had not Fujima Kanyemon, the furitsuke, or dancing master of
the Tokyo stage, taken such an interest in the child that he adopted
him as his heir and successor.
Danjuro, the ninth, saw that the boy was better fitted to become an
actor than to be an exponent of dancing, and early took him under his
protection. Of all Danjuro’s followers, Koshiro is the best qualified
to carry on the Ichikawa traditions. Unfortunately, Koshiro was
indiscreet in his youthful escapades, and so angered his master that he
was expelled by Danjuro from the theatre, and for a time it seemed that
he might never return.
When the Imperial was opened, Koshiro became attached to this
theatre, and was quickly reinstated in the favour of the public.
Danjuro’s widow, however, never forgot the injunction of her husband
that Koshiro was not to succeed him, and while this actor is in every
respect an Ichikawa, the great name of the tenth is still going begging.
In the Ichikawa aragoto rôles Koshiro is the best in Japan. Thoroughly
trained in the Fujima school of dancing, he is a creative dancer,
always producing new modes of expression. As a realistic actor he has
few equals, and shows much cleverness in new plays. It is in making up,
however, that he greatly excels, and can transform his countenance by
means of strange, imaginative designs, or become a rogue, policeman,
statesman, doctor, or lawyer in modern plays with surprising success.
The seventh Sawamura Sojuro is also one of the Imperial Theatre stars.
He acts so well with Baiko and Koshiro that they form a perfect trio,
and when there is a break in this stage comradeship, Tokyo will be
conscious of a blank like that which was experienced when the three
great actors of Meiji passed away one after the other.
Sojuro is at his best in samurai and aristocratic rôles, He also
makes a fascinating woman, and his ability in the dance, while not so
striking as that of Baiko and Koshiro, is still very great. Acting with
Sojuro are his four sons, and a nephew, Sawamura Chojuro. A few months
after the earthquake disaster of 1923, Sawamura Sonosuke, also a nephew
of Sojuro, one of the best onnagata of the Tokyo stage, passed away.
During a performance in a small theatre that had escaped the general
ruin of the city he fell from a height on the stage and died a few
hours later.
[Illustration: Onoe Baiko, leading actor of the Imperial Theatre in an
onnagata rôle.]
Morita Kanya, the thirteenth, among the most promising young actors
of the Imperial, is a name to conjure with in Tokyo. The son of the
theatre manager of the same name who became intoxicated with Western
ideas and experimented in the new only to return to the sanity of
Kabuki in the end, Kanya has a deep hold upon the affections of
Tokyo playgoers, not only because of his long lineage and the
association of his family with the city, but for the reason of his
handsome appearance and unquestioned ability.
He has become so popular in modern plays dealing with the problems
of the young man of to-day that he is forgetful of tradition. Like
his father, however, he is original and eager to seek out new paths.
His brother, Bando Mitsugoro, is one of the chief exponents of the
shosagoto school in Tokyo, and a dancer of whom Tokyo is proud.
Associated with these players is Onoe Matsusuke, the fourth, the oldest
actor on the Tokyo stage. He played with Danjuro, but old age has no
terrors for him, and he is never absent from the footlights. Although
Matsusuke is benevolent and fatherly in appearance, he delights in
acting villains, and when he takes old men’s rôles he is such a
complete success that it will be very difficult to fill his place after
he is gone.
For twenty years the acknowledged leader of the Tokyo actors has been
Nakamura Utayemon, the fifth. The most finished onnagata in Japan,
having played with the three stars of Meiji—Danjuro, Kikugoro, and
Sadanji—he is still active at the end of a long career, playing maidens
of sixteen, though he is approaching the sober judgement of the sixties.
At the Kabuki-za, Nakamura Utayemon still holds his own. His audiences
notice the signs of advancing age, yet their attitude is one of great
loyalty. The chief Tokyo yakusha has a world of meaning for the patrons
of shibai, as it signifies the actor has obtained the highest rank
possible. He is proud and something of a martinet in the theatre, but
on the stage Utayemon’s fair women are a study in themselves. His
elegance will be remembered long after he is no more.
Nephew to Kikugoro, the fifth, Ichimura Uzaemon, the thirteenth, has
inherited a name that adorns the history of Kabuki, the first Uzaemon
being the owner of the Ichimura-za, for long years one of Yedo’s
chief shibai. He is brilliant, showy, sentimental, an actor of many
accomplishments, accustomed to play lover, brother, or father to
Utayemon’s heroines.
Follower of Danjuro, the ninth, Ichikawa Chusha is an actor who enjoys
much popularity. His restrained manner and well-modulated voice,
and cleverness in the realm of the unreal have marked him as a true
disciple of the Ichikawa family. He manages to make his villains more
thoroughly wicked than those of any other player.
Belonging to Utayemon’s generation is Kataoka Nizaemon, the eleventh.
Only two actor lines have come down from Genroku unbroken, those of
Ichikawa and Kataoka, the one uppermost in Yedo, the other the first
family of Osaka. The present Nizaemon, discouraged, perhaps, because
of the overwhelming popularity of Nakamura Ganjiro, with no background
of family, but who has captured all before him, has made Tokyo his
headquarters for the past fifteen years. When Ganjiro comes at long
intervals to play in Tokyo, Nizaemon leaves for Osaka, a deep rivalry
existing between them. Something in Nizaemon’s temperament has made
open competition with Ganjiro impossible, although in certain rôles no
one can approach him.
Nakamura Kichiyemon, a member of the Kabuki-za company, is a
meteor-like actor, having risen rapidly and by sheer ability, for he
has little ancestral prestige to enhance his reputation. He has no
pretensions to boast of as a dancer, but in the loyalty characters
of the Kabuki masterpieces, in creating afresh the rôles left by
Chikamatsu Monzaemon, Takeda Izumo, and Chikamatsu Hanji, he is
unsurpassed. His brother, Nakamura Tokizo, is one of the young onnagata
of whom much is expected.
The youngest actor of the Tokyo stage is Nakamura Matagoro, aged 12.
His actor father died a few years ago, and Kichiyemon took the lad
under his protection. It is no exaggeration to call Matagoro’s acting
remarkable. Something of Kabuki’s Montessori methods are clearly shown
in this boy’s performances, but personality counts also. He seems
to the manner born, and it is felt that he will develop into a future
leader of Kabuki.
Bando Shucho of the Kabuki-za is like an old-fashioned onnagata in
type, and his son resembles him very closely. There seems no danger
that this specialty will become extinct, although the Tokyo stage has
lost within recent years four of its most talented impersonators of
women.
Onoe Kikugoro, the sixth, son of the popular Kikugoro of the Meiji
period, is at the head of the Ichimura-za company of players. He
follows his father in acting men of the people, yet has never been able
to equal the parental standard. In shosagoto and the descriptive dance,
however, he is a genius, original, picturesque, a master of movement.
Possessed of energy, creativeness, and eager for new ideas, Kikugoro is
one of the most interesting personalities on the Tokyo stage.
Ichikawa Sadanji, the fifth, son of the Meiji actor, and one of Tokyo’s
most popular players, is at the head of his own company, has travelled
abroad, and is more favourably inclined to new ventures than the
revival of the old plays.
Nakamura Ganjiro bears the same relation to the Osaka stage as Utayemon
does to Tokyo. He follows the natural school founded by Sakata Tojuro
of Kyoto, and like this Genroku actor, one of his favourite rôles is
that of Izaemon, the lover of Yugiri, in the Chikamatsu drama. Born the
son of an actor, but unfortunate in his family circumstances, he is
self-made, and by many is considered the first actor of Japan. He is
the last of the fine old yakusha; in the Meiji period he had already
won a high place for himself, appearing with the three Tokyo stars,
Ichikawa Danjuro, Ichikawa Sadanji, and Onoe Kikugoro, and to-day he
dominates the Dotombori, the theatre quarter of Osaka.
An onnagata who baffles description, since he is so subtle, is Nakamura
Fukusuke, of Osaka, there being two actors of the same name at present.
Some years older than the Tokyo Fukusuke, the Osaka actor plays many
types of women, each creation appearing better than that which has
gone before.
After Ganjiro in Osaka, there is Jitsukawa Enjaku, an actor of the
first quality, who for some reason known only to the profession is
rarely seen in Tokyo. Gado, of Osaka, is a nephew of Nizaemon, and
spends his time between the two cities. Nakamura Jakuyemon, the third,
an Osaka onnagata, frequently plays in Tokyo. He differs from all the
other actors because he has persistently and consistently patterned
after the marionettes, and seems to have associated with the dolls in
such a familiar way as to belong to the sphere of elfs and fairies
rather than to the ordinary characters of drama.
The effect of the earthquake disaster of September i, 1923, upon the
Tokyo stage can hardly be estimated. By this catastrophe the leading
theatres of the city were demolished, with the exception of the
Imperial and the Kabuki-za, which remained damaged and gaunt reminders
amid the general devastation. The Imperial withstood the earthquake
shocks, but fire destroyed the interior. It has, however, been restored
and reopened. The Kabuki-za, burned down in 1921, was being rebuilt on
an elaborate scale, and its outer shell of concrete by some miracle was
left intact in a region of the city that was levelled to the ground.
The work of construction, however, went forward as soon as conditions
would allow, and was completed in time for the opening performances in
January 1925. The solid Occidental structure has been combined with
some of the most ornate Japanese architectural features, and the new
Kabuki-za is one of the most gorgeous buildings to be found throughout
the East.
Poverty, suffering, hardship, followed in the wake of the unprecedented
earthquake disaster, and it will take many years before the scars are
healed and the theatre once more reflects the restored prosperity of
the people. Whether this chastening will be a benefit or lasting injury
remains to be seen.
[Illustration:
(1) THE NEW KABUKI-ZA.
(2) ENTRANCE HALL OF THE NEW KABUKI-ZA.
The new Kabuki-za, with a seating capacity of 4000, which was
opened on January 6, 1925. Under construction at the time of the
earthquake disaster, September 1, 1923, the concrete structure remained
intact. Japanese architectural features have been used throughout the
Kabuki-za, and, rising out of the ruins of the city, it is one of the
most imposing buildings in Tokyo.]
Kabuki, always acquisitive, standing between the idealism of the Nō and
the realism of the Doll-theatre, is no longer self-centred, but has
become, like Kim, the friend of all the world, and is ever ready to
learn from London, New York, Paris, or Berlin.
On the other hand, to cause the inner consciousness of the Japanese
people to speak to that of the West through the medium of what is
genuine in Kabuki—this is the large untried experiment of the future.
The Western Theatre, possessing the traditions of the Greeks and of
Shakespeare, has yet to discover the Eastern Theatre, a sphere of
human endeavour that remains unexplored and unexploited. Out of the
theatrical wisdom of the East may come a force to produce a new era
of creativeness in the West. By the recognition and appreciation of
Kabuki, the Western Theatre would not only greatly enrich itself, but
stimulate the actors of Asia to higher things.
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Chiyoda no Oku, Harem of Yedo Castle.
Tokaido Meishoki, Noted Places of the Tokaido.
Izumo O-Kuni Den, Biography of O-Kuni of Izumo.
Kawataki Mokuami, Biography of Mokuami. Kawataki Shiyetoshi (published
Taisho 3).
Kokugeiki Shoshi, Short History of Japanese Drama. Dr. Yuzo Tsubouchi.
Geki to Bungaku, Drama and Literature. Dr. Yuzo Tsubouchi (published
Meiji 44).
Ichikawa Ko Hiden Kumadori Zukan. The making-up book of the Ichikawa
family.
Butai no Omokage, Stage Face Shadows. Abe Utaka. Biographies of the
modern actors (published Taisho 8).
Notes on Japanese Drama, in the Transactions of the Asiatic Society of
Japan. Rev. Arthur Lloyd.
Far East Magazine, 1871.
Japan, its History, Arts, and Literature. Captain F. Brinkley.
History of Japan. James Murdock.
Things Japanese. Basil Hall Chamberlain.
Epochs of Chinese and Japanese Art. Ernest Fenollosa.
INDEX
Actor customs, 174, 175, 176, 177, 227, 230
„ earnings, 112
„ lines, 102, 107
„ ranks, 78
„ superstitions, 135, 158, 297
Adzuma Sampachi, 241
_Aida_, 347
Alexandra, Queen, 345
Anekawa Shinshiro, 118
Araki Yojibei, 76, 233
Arashi Kanjuro, 155
„ Kichisaburo, 3rd, 142
„ Rikaku, 325
„ Sangoro, 158
„ Sanyemon, 76, 99, 150
„ „ 2nd, 101
„ „ 3rd, 119
„ Seisaburo, 242
Archer, William, 298
Art Theatre, 355
Asada Icho, 263
Asahi Shimbun, 342
Asakusa firemen, 336
_Asamagatake_, 103
Asao Tamejuro, 122
Ashigoroye, 174
Asiatic Society of Japan, 165
_Ataka_, 95
Baiko, _see_ Onoe Baiko
Bando Hikosaburo, 116
„ „ 3rd, 246
„ „ 4th, 326
„ „ 5th, 326, 329
„ Matakuro, 83
„ Mitsugoro, 274
„ „ 4th, 130, 341, 342, 370
„ Shucho, 373
_Banzuiin Chobei_, 243, 300
Banzuke, 178
Basho, 160
_Battle of Kokusenya_, see _Kokusenya Kassen_
Biwa, 194
Bon Festival, 173
_Botan Doro_, 296, 359
Brinkley, Captain F., 50, 165
Bungei Kyokai, 350, 351, 352, 355
Bungo-bushi, 196, 197
Bunraku-za, 6, 152
Bunsaburo, 150
Chamberlain, B. H., 57
Chikamatsu Hanji, 239, 257, 292, 298, 372
„ Monzaemon, 76, 88, 91, 113, 148, 150, 151, 195, 232, 234,
235, 236, 237, 238, 239, 242, 255, 261, 302, 303, 312,
314, 372
Chinese influence, 185, 186
„ zodiac, 231
Christian influence, 184, 187
Christianity proscribed, 184
_Chushingura_, 14, 46, 100, 115, 150, 172, 211, 217, 219, 284, 285,
324
Connaught, Prince Arthur of, 368
Dekata, 180, 181
Doi Shunsho, 351, 352
_Dojo-ji_, 307
Dokegata, 234
_Doll’s House_, 351
Dramatic Reform Association, 348
Dramatisation of popular fiction, 245
Ebiso, 92, 324
Ebisuya Kichirobei, 135
Edicts against Europeans, 184
Edward, King, 345
Eizaburo, 7th, 41, 369
Ejimaya Kiseki, 81
Encho, 296
English factory, 184
Enomoto Torahiko, 362
Epochs of Chinese and Japanese Art, 50
Ervine, St. John, 276
European costume, 187, 350
„ influence, 183
Fenollosa, E., 50, 166, 185
Foreign influence on Kabuki, 184, 186
Forty-seven Ronin, see _Chushingura_
France, President of, 346
Fujii, Dr. Oto, 238
Fujima family, 274
„ Fusa-ko, 357
„ Kangoro, 275
„ Kanjiro, 129
„ Kanyemon, 275, 369
„ school, 370
Fujisawa, 346
Fujita Koheiji, 76, 233
Fukuchi Genichiro, 23, 227, 296, 340, 359, 362
Fukui Yagozaemon, 76, 232
Fukuoka Yagoshiro, 137, 240
Fukuzawa, 342
Furigoto, _see_ Shosagoto
Furitsuke-shi, 273
Gado, 374
Gagaku, 193
Ganjiro, _see_ Nakamura Ganjiro
Genji Monogatari, 79
Gidayu Joruri, origin, 197
Gorky, 352
Grant, General U., 340, 349
Hachimonjiya, 79, 81
„ Yisho, 81
Hakuin, 161
_Hamlet_, 345, 351
Hanabusa Ichi, 160
Hanakasa Rosuke, 247
Hanamichi, conventions, 17, 18, 19
„ origin, 220
Hasegawa, Miss Chiyo-ko, 363
„ Kampei, 28, 29
„ Senshi, 239
Hatsuse Nami-ko, 357
Hauptmann, 352
Hayakawa Dengoro, 241
Hayashikata, 230
Hearn, Lafcadio, 57, 352
_Hinin no Adauchi_, 77
History of Japan, 50
Hojo Danshin, 80, 81
_Honan_, 361
Horikoshi, 92
„ Nisanji, 244, 245
Ibaraki, 307
Ibsen, 352
Ichikawa Chusha, 336, 372
„ Danjuro, 1st, 21, 43, 84, 87, 91, 93, 97, 99, 102, 136, 157,
159, 185, 186, 239, 240, 241, 254
„ „ 2nd, 111, 114, 151, 159, 160, 218, 228, 242
„ „ 4th, 113, 117, 124, 158, 243
„ „ 5th, 125, 245, 269
„ „ 6th, 219
„ „ 7th, 125, 127, 128, 229, 247, 248, 249, 324, 330,
331, 358
„ „ 8th, 128, 249, 335, 338, 331
„ „ 9th, 42, 44, 45, 62, 126, 128, 227, 273, 323, 328,
329, 330, 332, 333, 334, 336, 337, 338, 340, 344,
348, 349, 353, 358, 360, 369, 371
„ Dannosuke, 142
„ Danshiro, 105, 157, 336
„ Danzo, 117
„ „ 4th, 142
„ „ 5th, 129
„ Ebizo, 219
„ Kodanji, 3rd, 129, 359
„ „ 4th, 325, 326
„ „ 5th, 326
„ Kumehachi, 62, 354
„ Monosuke, 5th, 129, 329
„ Sadanji, 328, 329, 336
„ Sainyu, 45
„ Sansho, 43, 335, 336
„ Shinjuro, 336
„ Shinsaburo, 43, 335, 336
„ Yaoza, 211
Ichimura Takenojo, 157, 233, 373
„ Uzaemon, 1st, 157, 233
„ „ 8th, 117
„ „ 12th, 126, 328
„ „ 13th, 82, 371
Ichimura-za, 43, 81, 82, 96, 125, 180, 204, 211, 212, 216, 219, 229,
231, 233, 324, 325, 329, 368, 371, 373
Ihara Saikaku, 80, 81, 88, 135, 136
„ Seiseiin, 50, 56, 62, 72, 80, 97, 188, 206, 213
Ii Yoho, 346
Ikeda Taigo, 363
Ikushima, 59
„ Shingoro, 100, 103, 107, 112, 163, 206, 207, 208, 216
_Imagawa Shinobi Guruma_, 233
_Imoseyama_, 122
Imperial Household, 339
„ Theatre, _see_ Teigeki
„ University, 352
Inouye, Count, 332, 349
„ Harima, 148
Issen, 246
Itagaki, Count, 343
Ito Hirobumi, Prince, 332, 349, 360
„ Kodayu, 136
Itoyori Gensaburo, 134
Iwai Hanshiro, 109, 117, 209
„ „ 4th, 129
„ „ 5th, 245
„ „ 7th, 329
„ „ 8th, 326, 328, 329
Izumi Dayu, 147, 148
Jakuyemon, 3rd, 374
Japan, Dowager Empress of, 333
„ Emperor of, 333, 349
„ Empress of, 333
„ Prince Regent of, 15, 333, 368
Jesuit influence, 52, 54, 184
Jidaimono, 37, 253
Jitsukawa Enjaku, 374
Jiyu Gekijo, 352
Joruri-hime, 145, 194
Juhachiban, 93
_Julius Cæsar_, 351
Kabuki audiences, 180
„ horse, 23, 24
Kabuki-za, 43, 143, 333, 340, 341, 360, 362, 368, 371, 373, 374
Kaburagi Kiyokata, 330
_Kagami-yama_, 319
_Kagekiyo_, 270
_Kakiyemon the Potter_, see _Meiko Sakaido Kakiyemon_
Kamban, 178
Kaneko Kichizaburo, 88, 90
„ Kichizaemon, 233, 234, 235
„ Rokuyemon, 233
_Kanjincho_, 95, 240, 249, 265, 333
Kanya, _see_ Morita Kanya
Kappore, 185
_Kasuga no Tsubone_, 360
Kataoka Nizaemon, 1st, 101, 102, 150, 16
„ „ 3rd, 102
„ „ 7th, 125
Kataoka Nizaemon, 11th, 372
Katsureki, 348, 360
Kawai Takeo, 346
Kawakami Otojiro, 342, 344, 345, 346
Kawamura, 346
„ Kikuye, 357
Kawara Kojiki, 60, 68, 164, 176, 339
Kawarazaki Gonnosuke, 70, 83, 240, 331
Kawarazaki-za, 81, 83, 178, 212, 229, 332, 337
Kawataki Shinkichi, _see_ Mokuami
_Kesa Gozen_, 105
_Keisei Asamagatake_
„ _Awa no Naruto_, 91
Kichiyemon, _see_ Nakamura Kichiyemon
Kikaku, 160
Kikuchi, Baron, 348
„ Kan, 363
Kikugoro, _see_ Onoe Kikugoro
„ family, 328
Kineya family, 196, 198
„ Kangoro, 70, 195
„ Kisaburo, 70, 123, 195
„ Rokuzaemon, 195
Kinkaku-ji, 41
Kino Kaion, 151, 238, 239, 304
Kintoki, 92
_Kirihitoha_, 360
Kirinoya Gonjuro, 163, 176
Kiri-za, 142
Kiyomoto, origin, 197
Kiyonobu, 178
_Kochiyama_, 38, 359
Koda, Dr. Rohan, 363
Kojo, 40, 174
_Kokoro no Nazo Tokete-Iro Ito_, 188
_Kokusenya Kassen_, 113, 151, 242, 261
Korin, 160
Koshiro, _see_ Matsumoto Koshiro
Kosogawa Juyemon, 109
Kumadori, 21
Kumehachi, _see_ Ichikawa Kumehachi
Kume Masao, 363
Kurombo, 25
Kyoto Onnagata, 143
Lloyd, Rev. Arthur, 165, 186
Lytton, Bulwer, 339
Macaulay, Lord, 276
Madame Butterfly, 353
Maeterlinck, 352
_Magda_, 351
Maki-no-Kata, 360
_Man of Destiny_, 351
Mansfield, Richard, 368
Martino, Sig., 349
Masanobu, 218
Masuda Taro, 363
Matsu Kanshi, 282
Matsuda Wakichi, 239
Matsue, Daimyo of, 359
Matsui Shoyo, 347
„ Suma-ko, 351, 352, 355, 356
Matsumoto Koshiro, 1st, 109
„ „ 4th, 124, 245
„ „ 5th, 126, 244
„ „ 7th, 22, 43, 64, 109, 273, 335, 336, 360, 369, 370
Matsusuke, _see_ Onoe Matsusuke
_Meiko Sakaido Kakiyemon_, 362
Mei Ran-fan, 136, 368
Menukiya Chosaburo, 145
_Merchant of Venice_, 351
Midzuke Yatsunosuke, 138, 150
Midzushima Shirobei, 240
Miigata Torahiko, 363
Mimasuya Hyogo, 241
„ Nisoji, 248
Ming Dynasty, 185
Miura, Madame, 353
Miyako Dennai, 65, 70, 232, 233, 240
„ Mandayu-za, 88, 99, 234, 237
Miyako-za, 204
Miyakoji Bungojo, 196, 197
Miyasaki Denkichi, 105, 158, 240
Miyoshi Shoraku, 285, 298
_Miyuki no Asojiro_, 291
Mizuno, Lord of Echizen, 212, 213
_Modoro Bashi_, 305
Mojidayu, 197
Mokuami, 38, 227, 250, 293, 296, 305, 307, 325, 326, 329, 339, 340,
349, 358
Mori, Dr. Ogai, 362
„ Prince, 349
„ Ritsu-ko, 347, 357, 363
Morita Kanya, 2nd, 83
„ „ 12th, 332, 337, 338, 339, 340, 341, 352
„ „ 13th, 42, 83, 341, 342, 370
„ Tarobei, 82
Morita-za, 81, 82, 229, 337, 338
Mount Fuji, 30, 176
Murasaki Shikibu, 79
Murata Kaku-ko, 357
Murayama Matahei, 70, 72, 82
„ Matasaburo, 65, 70, 82, 135
„ Sakon, 134
Murayama-za, 82, 134, 215, 216
Murdock, James, 50, 52, 162, 183, 202
Mushakoji Saneatsu, 363
Nagai Kafu, 363
Nagasaki, 30, 185
Nagawa Kamesuke, 243
„ Seisuke, 246
„ Shimesuke, 245
„ Takusuke, 246
Nagoya Sansaburo, 51, 52, 53, 55, 56, 57, 63, 70, 178, 193, 221
Nakajima, Hiroyemon, 106
„ Kanzaemon, 107
Nakamura Akashi, 15th, 68
„ Ake, 263
„ Daikichi, 143
„ Denkichi, 242
„ Denkuro, 69, 103, 104, 242
„ Fukusuke (Tokyo), 369
„ „ (Osaka), 373
„ Ganjiro, 44, 45, 64, 87, 91, 232, 372, 373, 374
„ Hichisaburo, 102, 104, 240, 241, 242
„ Jiyemon, 67
„ Juzo, 118
„ Kangoro, 195
„ Kansaburo, 219, 230, 242
„ Karoku, 142
„ Kasen, 62, 356
„ Kazuma, 136
„ Kichiyemon, 36, 372
„ Kichizo, 363
„ Matagoro, 36, 372
„ Nakazo, 122, 125, 159, 161, 210, 245
„ Sanyemon, 49
„ Seigoro, 109, 208, 242
„ Senya, 139
„ Shikan, 326
„ Tokizo, 372
„ Tomijuro, 141, 327
„ Utayemon, 1st, 43, 122, 155, 246
„ „ 3rd, 129, 187, 210, 246
„ „ 4th, 129, 210, 248, 273, 324, 368, 369
„ „ 5th, 130, 143, 371, 373
Nakamura-za, 81, 83, 175, 176, 204, 211, 212, 218, 219, 231, 240, 324
Nakayama Nishi, 142
„ Shinkuro, 118
Namaki Gohei, 243, 244
„ „ 2nd, 249
„ Shozo, 243
„ Sosuke, 239, 243
Namiki Senryu, 285
Naritaya, 94
Nezumi-kido, 230
_Nijushiko_, 292
Nikko shrines, 32
Nishikawa Senzo, 274
Nishimura Shigenaga, 219
Nishizawa Ippu, 239, 249
Norikomi, 182
_Noroi_, 363
Notes on Japanese Drama, 186
_Nozaki-mura_, 257
Nukada Roppoku, 363
Ochi Kochi, _see_ Fukuchi Genichiro
Odori, 271
Ogino Sawanojo, 136, 137
„ Yayegiri, 139
Okamoto Kido, 361
Oka Onitaro, 363
_Okujiyo no Kyojin_, 363
Okuma, Marquis, 201, 202, 214, 350
O-Kuni, 11, 49, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 63, 66, 144, 145, 178,
183, 186, 193, 194, 221
O-Kuni, 3rd, 58, 132
„ Kabuki, 178, 195, 216, 217
Omezo, 330
_Omi Genji_, 298
_Omori Hikoshichi_, 23, 360
Omura, Mrs. Kayo-ko, 363
_O-Natsu Kyoran_, 361
Onnagata line, 139, 140
Onna Kabuki, 58, 59, 216
Onoe Baiko, 41, 143, 329
„ „ 6th, 368, 369, 370
„ Kikugoro, 1st, 41, 246
„ „ 3rd, 126, 130, 248, 324
„ „ 5th, 126, 326, 328, 329, 352
„ Kozo, 42
„ Matsusuke, 42, 210, 246, 371
Ono-no-Otsu, 61, 145
Osada Hideo, 363
Osaka Kaomise, 174
Osanai Kaoru, 352, 362
Oshiai Yunidan, 241
Otani Hirotsugi, 116, 218
_Othello_, 346
Oyama, 138
Pavlova, Madame, 368
_Peony Lantern_, see _Botan Doro_
Police censors, 230
Prince of Wales, 15, 96, 333, 368
Princess Joruri, _see_ Joruri-hime
Redesdale, Lord, 170
_Resurrection_, 355
Revolving stage, 33
„ „ origin, 220, 221
Riverside Beggars, _see_ Kawara Kojiki
Rokuji Namuyemon, 61, 145
_Romeo and Juliet_, 188
Rossi, Sig. G. V., 353
Russia, Tsar of, 346
_Ryujo Sanjuniso_, 242
Sada Yakko, 342, 344, 345, 346, 347, 354
Sadoshima Chogoro, 77, 112, 119, 158
„ Denbei, 77
„ Denpachi, 60, 77, 119
„ Saburozaemon, 240
„ Shokichi, 58
„ Yosanji, 58
Sakai-machi, 204, 205, 216
Sakakiyama Koshiro, 119
Sakakuyama Kanpachi, 240
Sakata Tojuro, 84, 87, 88, 99, 102, 136, 138, 150, 157, 234, 235, 239,
255, 363, 373
_Sakura Shigure_, 362
Sakura Sogoro, 46, 301
Sakurada Jisuke, 245, 250
Sakurai Tamba, 147
Sambasso, 45
Samisen, origin, 192, 199
Samon Yoshitaka, 145
Saruwaka Kansaburo, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 72, 82, 103, 163, 175, 195,
240, 332
Saruwaka-cho, 213, 324, 328, 337
Saruwaka-za, 82, 135, 195, 240
Satsuma Kogenda, 163
Sawamura Chojuro, 1st, 100, 106, 114
„ „ 2nd, 107
„ „ 3rd, 107, 370
„ Kodenji, 139
„ Sojuro, 1st, 114, 150, 160, 219
„ „ 3rd, 142, 243, 244
„ „ 4th, 244
„ „ 5th, 130
„ „ 6th, 328
„ „ 7th, 370
„ Sonosuke, 370
„ Tannosuke, 2nd, 142, 328
_Sayo Shigure Tenno Amijima_, 303
School for actresses, 353
Schools of dancing, 275
Segawa Joko, 249
Segawa Kikugoro, 141
„ Kikunojo, 141, 210, 218
Sekai-sadame, 227
Sekine Mokuan, 225
_Sekinoto_, 317
_Sembonzakura_, 122
Sendaihagi, 39, 282
Sengaku-ji, 46, 288
Senge, Baron, 49
Sewamono, 253
Shakespeare translations, 350
Shibai advertisements, 177
„ chaya, 179
_Shibaraku_, 355
Shibazaki Rinzaemon, 109
Shibusawa, Baron, 348
Shimamura Hogetsu, Prof., 351, 352, 355
_Shimbochi’s Drum_, 69
Shimpa, 342, 350
Shintomi-za, 332, 338, 340, 341
Shosagoto, 353
Sodesaki Karyu, 138
_Soga no Goro_, 96
Stage costumes, 209
Statue of Danjuro, 9th, 335
Sudo, 342
_Sugawara Denju Tenarai Kagami_, 277
Sugimori Nobunori, _see_ Chikamatsu
Suyematsu, Viscount, 348
Taiyu, 18
Takada, 346
Takano, 204
_Takasago_, 172
Takayasu Gekko, 362
Takeda Izumo, 46, 100, 115, 150, 151, 172, 219, 238, 239, 277, 279,
284, 333, 372
Takemoto Gidayu, 148, 195, 199, 237
„ Saburobei, 304
Takemoto-za, 148, 195, 238, 239, 242
Takeshima Kyozaemon, 60, 99, 100
Taki Sansaburo, 135
Tamagawa Sennojo, 135
„ Shujen, 135
Tamamura Kichiya, 135, 136
_Tamba Yosaku_, 150
Tamenaga Icho, 55
Tamura Nariyoshi, 35, 271, 341, 352
Tanaka Senryu, 239
Tanizaki Juichiro, 363
Tatsumatsu Hachirobei, 148
Tatsuoka Mansaku, 243
Teigeki, 22, 83, 136, 143, 195, 329, 333, 335, 347, 352, 353, 357,
358, 361, 368, 369, 374
_Terakoya_, 277, 333
Tofu-ya, 90
Togi Tetsuteki, 351
Tojuro-no-koi, 363
Tokaido, 44
Tokiwazu, origin, 197
Tokugawa Government and Theatre, 162, 202, 203, 204, 213
Tokyo, Mayor of, 333, 336, 368
„ Kabuki, 368
Tokyo-fu, Governor of, 332, 339
Tominaga Heibei, 233, 234
Torii family, 177, 178
„ Kiyomitsu, 178
„ Kiyonaga, 175
„ Kiyotada, 178
Toyama, 212
Toyokuni, 155, 219
Toyotaki-za, 148, 239
Travel abroad prohibited, 184
Tsubouchi Yuzo, Dr., 164, 264, 350, 351, 352, 355, 360, 361
_Tsuchigumo_, 317
Tsuruya Namboku, 187, 188, 191, 226, 246, 294
Tsuuchi Jihei, 242
Ukon Genzaemon, 134
_Usuyuki no Sanyemon_, 290
Utagawa Kuniyoshi, 178
Utagawa Toyohara, 219
Utayemon, _see_ Nakamura Utayemon
Uyeno Park, 302
Vega, Lope de, 86
Waseda Daigaku, 350, 355
Western books interdicted, 184
„ theatre influence, 219, 222, 275
Wood-cut illustrations, 234
Xavier, S. Francis, 184
Yagura, origin, 221
Yamamoto Arizo, 363
„ Kyusaburo, 353
„ Yuzo, 363
Yamamura Chodayu, 107, 208
„ Kobei, 65, 70
Yamamura-za, 83, 108, 207, 209, 212
Yamanaka Heikuro, 106
Yamashita Kinsaku, 4th, 143
„ Kyoyemon, 99, 100, 157, 234, 240
„ „ 2nd, 100
Yamato Dansuke, 59, 64, 65, 100
„ Shimbun, 362
Yamatoya Imbei, 157
Yamazaki Shiko, 363
_Yanone_, 218
_Yaoya O-Hichi_, 241
Yasuda Abun, 239
Yedo costumes, 336
„ Kabuki, 42, 111, 175, 195, 212, 219, 240
„ Kamban, 178
„ Nagauta, 196
„ Norikomi, 182
„ Shibai, 209, 216, 217
Yenoshima, Lady, 108, 163, 206, 207, 208, 216
Yorizome, origin, 230
Yosehajime, 175
Yoshii Isamu, 363
_Yoshitsune Sembonzakura_, 279
Yoshiwara, 305
Yoshizawa Ayame, 1st, 70, 100, 137, 138, 141, 150, 155
„ „ 4th, 141, 240
_Yotsuya Kaidan_, 246, 295
_You Never Can Tell_, 351
_Yugiri of Awa in Naruto_, 150
_Yuki Onna Gomai Hagoita_, 150
Za, 83
THE END
_Printed in Great Britain by_ R. & R. Clark, Limited, _Edinburgh_.
Transcriber’s Notes
Word hyphenation has not been standardised.
Words between underscores were originally italicised in the printed
book.
Illustrations are indicated with “[Illustration]”. In most cases the
caption text has been re-formatted to a nominal 72 character page width
to match the rest of the text.
Thought breaks (an extra space between paragraphs) is represented
with “* * * * *”.
Other changes:
Page 384: “Uyeno Park, 332” changed to “Uyeno Park, 302”
Page 384: “Vega, Lope de, 86” changed to “Vega, Lope de, 186”
In several cases the spelling of Japanese names in the index differ
from those in the text. These differences have been retained. A few
are noted below:
Sadoshima Denpachi in index but Sadoshima Dempachi in text
Miigata Torahiko in index but Miigita Torahiko in text
Ichikawa Monosuke in index but sometimes Ichikawa Monnosuke in text
Namaki Gohei in index but sometimes Namiki Gohei in text
Namaki Shozo in index but Namiki Shozo in text
Nukada Roppoku in index but Roppuku Nukada in text
Sakakiyama Koshiro in index but Sakiyama Koshiro in text
Sekinoto in index but Seikinoto in text
Matsui Shoyo in index but sometimes Matsui Shoyu in text
Nagawa Takusuke in index but Nagawa Tokusuke in text
Togi Tetsuteki in index but Togi Tatsuteki in text
Utagawa Toyohara in index but sometimes Utagawa Toyoharu in text
Sada Yakko in index but sometimes Sada Yacco in text
Ichikawa Yaoza in index but Ichikawa Yaozo in text
Midzuke Yatsunosuke in index but Midzuke Tatsunosuke in text
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Kabuki : The popular stage of Japan" ***
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