you wish to make an appointment----”
“Can he speak English?”
“No, madam, but I shall be pleased to put my services at your
disposal, if I can be of any use. Personally my responsibility is
limited to the English column, whereas----”
“I know, I know. Well, just tell your reporter that my husband’s
real mad about this, and he don’t intend to let it drop. Likely as
not, he’ll be round here with a horse-whip, if your editor don’t
make some kind of apology or explanation. Good-day to you.”
The apparition disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived. I looked
reproachfully at Kishimoto. “Personal paragraphs?” I asked. “Are
you trying to attack Americans with their own weapons? And why
don’t you leave ladies alone?” He explained that Mrs. Kurumaya,
the pride of Idaho, was married to a Japanese professor, and had
recently come to Tōkyō with her husband. As there happened to be a
German from Idaho in the same hotel, the materials of a _ménage à
trois_ were too tempting to be neglected by a sharp penny-a-liner.
Hence the paragraph, the scandal, and the apparition. “And what
next?” I asked. “The editor will censure his informant, insert an
apology, and banish the matter from his readers’ memories by fresh
paragraphs of a similar character.”
Ten minutes after we had forgotten Mrs. Kurumaya and her
grievances, for Kishimoto had invited me to visit his quarter
of Hongō, and on the way thither we engaged in a vain effort to
find the grave of the painter Hokusai. Yet the indications given
by Professor Revon in his careful monograph seemed exact. We
discovered the little monastery of Sekioji (divine promises) near
Asakusa, and, having traversed the short avenue of cherry-trees
which leads to the temple door, began our search among the black,
lichen-stained tombs. In the third row we should have found a stone
bearing on one side the words--
“Hokusai, of Shimōsa Province,
Famous Genius, Sincere Man,
Died May 10, 1849.”
and on the other a poem, which the old man of eighty composed on
his death-bed, one summer evening half a century before--
“Lightly a man’s soul,
Lightly a fire-fly,
Passes in summer
Over the plains.”
But though a young priest came to our assistance, the neglected row
of undecipherable inscriptions guarded their secret, and we were
obliged to give up the search.
Kishimoto could not understand the foreigner’s admiration for
Hokusai, and regarded it with the same tolerant contempt as most
Germans exhibited thirty years ago towards admirers of Wagner.
“There is nothing noble,” he cried, “in his pictures, nothing
sublime. He simply reproduced the vulgar street scenes in which he
lived. Even his drawings of Fuji, the holy mountain, are defiled by
grinning carpenters and ostlers.” He promised to show me specimens
of what his countrymen considered far higher art when we should
reach his father’s house, and in effect, when we were seated in a
pretty tea-room, overlooking a large garden, he unrolled for me
some fine _kakemono_ by Sesshu, Yeitoku, and Kiyonaga, which his
family cherished with intense veneration. But nothing could arouse
in me the enthusiasm which he evidently felt for three or four
pieces of Chinese calligraphy. There was, of course, no colour
in such masterpieces, no historic or anecdotic interest, for he
assured me that the words themselves had no particular depth or
beauty. Their sole charm consisted in the divine sureness of touch,
which had traced the intricate flying characters through a maze of
stroke and curve, and it seemed to my untrained intelligence that
to appreciate them properly one must be a brush rather than a man.
From _kakemono_ we turned to masks, of which he had a splendid
collection. Students of Japanese demonology could have told me many
weird stories of the cruel, leering monsters, whose faces reflected
so vividly the devilish imagination of their makers. But Kishimoto
only knew one story, and that rather a pretty one, concerning
Kijin, whose rank in the diabolic hierarchy I have not been able to
ascertain. He had it from a Buddhist nun, his aunt, and it bears
every mark of having been invented _pour les jeunes filles_.
THE STORY OF KIJIN AND O KAMMA SAN.
“When her mother died O Kamma was so overcome with grief that she
lost for a time all interest in living. Every day she laid flowers
on the grave and every night she cried herself to sleep. But, when
a month had passed, her father, who was of a gay disposition,
loving music and _saké_, scolded the girl severely, saying, that
since it was the will of Heaven that his _sezénnin_, or faithful
housewife, had left the world of tears, it was undutiful to make
the survivors miserable by perpetual Ah-ing, and impious as well.
So O Kamma kept a bright face while she went about her household
duties, and contrived every evening to slip up the hill to the
temple of Kiyomizu-dera, where she prayed to the Most Compassionate
One, the goddess Kwannon, whose countenance was gentle as her
mother’s had been. But when this habit had brought her into a peace
of mind which was not remote from happiness, her father took a wife
from among the geisha of Shimabara, whose jealousy and cruelty
soon made her stepdaughter’s life unbearable. She discovered that
the girl’s chief pleasure was her nightly visit to Kiyomizu, and,
as she did not dare to forbid her openly to go to the temple,
she would set her long tasks, saying, ‘You must not leave the
house until you have mended all the _shōji_,’ or ‘First finish
embroidering this _kimono_.’ But O Kamma worked twice as hard as
before, and never once missed her evening prayer to the goddess.
Then the wicked stepmother tried to frighten her out of going. One
night she hid herself behind a pillar of the temple, and when the
girl entered darted upon her wearing the fearful mask of Kijin,
whose teeth glittered fiercely in the twilight. But O Kamma said,
‘Bite me if you will, O Kijin Sama; I shall still say my prayers.’
And then the tables were turned. For a scream of terror came from
the geisha’s lips, and when Kamma rose from her knees she saw
that the devil’s mask was so tightly fixed that it could not be
removed from her stepmother’s features. The latter, in an agony
of fright, cried out to the girl to pray for the help of the Most
Compassionate One. So Kamma interceded with Kwannon, and the demon
let go of the wicked woman’s face; but from that time she lost all
beauty and lightness of heart, nor did she interfere any more with
the filial piety of O Kamma San.”
Having shown me his private treasures, Kishimoto very kindly
proposed taking me to some exhibitions, which would at least be
strange, if not beautiful. We drove first to the Chrysanthemum Show
at Dango-zaka, where my friend pointed out to me more kinds of
blossom than I can remember; but some, by reason of their fanciful
names, it would be impossible to forget. There were “White Dragon”
and “Sleepy Head,” a heavy disc with towzled petals; “Fisher’s
Lantern,” of which the dark lustre showed like velvet beside the
blushing pink-and-white complexion of “Robe of Feathers”; “Starlit
Night,” resembling frost-flowers; and, most marvellous of all, a
galaxy of various sorts and colours, radiating by the grafter’s
patient skill from a single stem. Fearful of outraging his refined
taste by such vulgar curiosity, I persuaded the sub-editor to wait
for me in the tea-house which faces the river, while I followed
some gaping women and children into twopenny shows which delight
and instruct the simple. There, trained over trellis-work or
encasing figures of wood and wax, the docile chrysanthemum evokes
familiar scenes from legend or play. Chrysanthemum warriors pursue
chrysanthemum maidens; chrysanthemum Danjuro dances the cryptic
measure of Jiraiya before a chrysanthemum frog; chrysanthemum
elephants, castles, warships, monkeys, and demons compose a
fantastic universe in which the flowers seem turned to magic
serpents, which simulate and strangle all other creatures.
“What do you think of them?” asked Kishimoto, when I rejoined him.
“Have you ever seen such monstrosities before?” “No,” I answered;
“they suggest to me a collaboration between Madame Tussaud and
the author of the ‘Arabian Nights.’” “Well,” he said, “since you
mention the ‘Arabian Nights,’ how would you like to hear one of our
professional story-tellers? Shall we dine at Asakusa and go to a
_yosé_ afterwards?” “You anticipate my heart’s desire, and lay up
for yourself undying gratitude. Let us go to a _yosé_.”
At the Isemon Restaurant delicious shrimp-cutlets and delightful
geisha made of dinner a rather protracted ceremony. When we
arrived at Tsurusé, near the Nihon-Bashi, only a few seats at
the back of the room were unoccupied. We had paid 30 _sen_
(about sevenpence-halfpenny) at the door, and the _nakauri_, a
daintily-dressed waiting-maid, charged only twopence for tea,
cushion, and tobacco-box. On the curtained platform at the opposite
end of the hall a _zenza_, or _débutant_, was relating a comic
anecdote, which greatly amused his auditors. Like so much Tōkyō
humour, the laughter was calculated to flatter the townsman’s
shrewdness at the countryman’s expense. A farmer, whose son
had gone to make a living in the capital, received a telegram
asking for a pair of new shoes, stout and solid, such as only the
provinces can produce. Proud of his telegram, the first which
had been received in those parts, and believing the mischievous
information of a neighbour who saw his way to an excellent joke,
the father had the shoes made and hung them on the telegraph-wires,
never doubting that they would at once be transported to Tōkyō.
Soon after the crafty neighbour took down the shoes and substituted
an old pair of his own. When the farmer happened to pass by in
the evening, he was astounded by the excellence and promptness of
telegraphic communication. “Look, my friends,” said he; “in half a
day I can send my son a pair of new shoes and receive his old ones
in return.”
[Illustration: A Professional Story-teller.]
The _zenza_ was followed by a _tezuma_, or conjurer, whose tricks,
though exceedingly deft and graceful, were such as I had seen
before. Then came a mimic, whose impersonations of popular actors
provoked much applause. At last, after a musical performance which
served as interlude, the famous _raconteur_, Sukeroku, continued
his elaborate historical romance, dealing with a Japanese Perkin
Warbeck, whose pretensions to the Shōgunate had caused much
dissension among the adherents of the Tokugawa dynasty. Evidently
the frequenters of the _yosé_, like the bulk of playgoers, prefer
mediæval to modern topics. As the venerable author tapped with
his fan on a little wooden slab to emphasise his points, and
passed with rich elocution from incident to incident, the audience
followed with rapt attention. Abruptly, as it seemed, he arrested
his narrative, and the formula “To be continued in our next”
was legible in the half-expectant, half-disappointed looks of
his hearers. Before leaving I gathered a few particulars about
the profession of a _hanashika_ or story-teller. An established
artist, or _shinuchi_, will receive 100 _yen_ (about £10) a month
(during half of which period one tale will continue from night
to night), or perhaps 60 per cent. of the takings. He may receive
this sum from three or four _yosé_, since the _hanashika_ form a
corporation and have branch-houses in all the chief towns. Many of
the more famous, like Hakuen and Encho, publish their stories after
they have been delivered orally. I was not able to hear the English
story-teller, Mr. Black, whose knowledge of Western literature and
Japanese speech enables him to draw on a larger _répertoire_ than
his colleagues. Foreigners who desire to accustom their ears to the
sound of the language will find the _yosé_ infinitely more useful
than the theatre, for the style is less literary and the diction
less artificial.
V
I was dazzled by Jiraiya. He bewildered my senses with sleight of
hand and foot; he soothed my conscience with bold sophistries.
For two _rin_ I would have caught up an uncouth pike, assumed
outrageous armour, and followed that robber-chief unhesitatingly
to glory or to death. Vaguely I could remember being stirred in
boyhood by the prowess of Robin Hood, by the fortunes of Aladdin,
but here was a magnificent being who rivalled and surpassed both
heroes in his own person. Like the outlaw of Sherwood Forest, he
defied the powerful and helped the humble; judges and soldiers
trembled at his name, which was breathed with blessings by the poor
but grateful receivers of stolen goods. When the Government at last
put forth its strength to crush him (and here his superiority was
incontestable), instead of calling on his men in green to empty
their trusty quivers, he had merely to summon his attendant sprite,
a green frog, which could be trusted to spout fire until the last
representative of futile authority should be utterly consumed. I
had seen him dancing on the back of an awful dragon, which the
frog vanquished before the beast had time to swing its tail; I had
seen him dancing defiantly on a mountain covered with snow, while
his whirling spear threatened a score of enemies dancing round the
base: suddenly the mountain changed to a fire-spitting frog, and
the enemies danced no more. Perhaps it was this decorative fashion
of dancing in battle which reconciled me to the wholesale slaughter
of so many brave men. At the moment I merely felt that they were
hostile to Jiraiya and well deserved their doom. Similarly, it
seemed no more than the deserts of my loyal enthusiasm when a
courteous attendant, bowing to the ground, brought a message to my
box to the effect that Jiraiya would be pleased to see me in his
dressing-room when the curtain fell.
I followed the attendant down winding passages, and was shown into
a small wooden compartment, which contained grease-paint, brushes,
dresses, and in the corner a dignified old man, with eyes as sharp
as Ibsen’s and the gravity of an archbishop. In his expression was
no hint of robbery, dancing, or witchcraft. I looked round for
the green frog, but the only other occupants of the room were two
young ladies in sky-blue _kimono_, whom I afterwards discovered to
be the actor’s daughters. They never miss one of their father’s
performances. Presenting the letter which Mr. Fukuchi had kindly
indited, I begged permission to interview Jiraiya at length on
several phases of his complex personality. Ichikawa Danjuro (how
well the stately syllables suited his demeanour) replied that he
would be pleased to receive me any afternoon in the following
week at his own house, where he would be resting between two
engagements. But I knew that a magician (and, above all, a Japanese
magician) held time to be of no more consequence than life or
death, so I specifically demanded Wednesday as my share of his
timeless immortality. The request was granted: the applicant
retired.
I have known actors so devoted to their art that they treat every
incident, however trivial, as a matter of theatrical importance,
and impose on every acquaintance the _rôle_ of a spectator. They
grasp your hand with that fervour which warms the heart of the
gallery, and take leave of a lady with glances such as melt the
stalls. This exaggerated consciousness of his calling is utterly
absent from Mr. Danjuro, who, off the boards, becomes less of an
actor and more of an archbishop in proportion as he realises every
year the growing prestige and veneration attached by the bulk of
his compatriots to the chief of the Japanese stage. To them he is
a great deal more than the successful acquirer of fame and money:
he is the inheritor and transmitter of a great tradition, a living
link with that pictorial old Japan which, beaten back by modern
innovation outside the theatre, holds its own gallantly in the
unstormed fortress of national drama. His habitation is in complete
accord with the honourable position held by its proprietor. Good
taste and simplicity conceal all traces of the wealth which is
his. Opposite the reception-room is a small lake, decorated with
trees and huge ornamental stones such as the Japanese æsthete
loves, since they recall, as far as may be, the freaks which
Nature loves to play with forest and mountain. The rooms are of
white wood, beautifully planed, and the only objects which suggest
the theatre are _fuda_, or long laths, hung with wreaths and
bands of silk, on which are inscribed tributes of admiration from
tea-houses, geisha-houses, and guilds of various kinds. When the
master entered, wearing a quiet-coloured _kimono_ of grey cotton,
he greeted his visitors (my friend Kishimoto had volunteered his
services as interpreter) with grave cordiality, and, having ordered
a servant to bring in coffee and cakes, proceeded to answer my
questions with imperturbable kindness.
“My family,” he said, “have been actors for nine generations.
My earliest recollection of the stage dates from 1840, when I
was carried on in my father’s arms, an infant of three, for
introduction to the public. As you may know, the fashion of
adoption plays a considerable part in all our confraternities.
Great names are never allowed to die out. Thus, at the age of
eighteen, I took the name of Gonjuro, being adopted by the manager
of the old Tōkyō theatre, and it was not until my father’s death
in 1874 that I became Danjuro the Seventh, so styled. Danjuro the
First made his _début_ in the year 1673.”
“And which is your favourite part, Mr. Danjuro?”
“I prefer historical plays, which revive old ideals and present
noble figures for the emulation of posterity. In my opinion
the best plays are those which stimulate patriotism. Perhaps
‘Kajincho,’ in which Benkei, disguised as a priest, enables
Yoshitsune to cross the bridge and become master of Kyōto, is the
_rôle_ I like best.”
I had long since made the acquaintance of Benkei, the Devil Youth,
and the feats both of mind and body which he achieved for the sake
of his youthful victor, ever since the latter had defeated him
in single combat on Gojō bridge, were familiar to me both from
coloured prints and the representation of “Funa Benkei,” by members
of a _Nō_ troupe. It was evident that the star actor had a weakness
for “sympathetic” parts, and no doubt his mien and manner were
admirably adapted to the impersonation of majestic priests.
“Have many of your actors the intellectual power to conceive and
render historical heroes?”
“No; I fear it must be admitted that the great fault of too many
actors is illiteracy. But in my young days we were scarcely to
blame for this. The Government actually forbade us to receive any
other than a theatrical education, which, as then understood,
sufficiently taxed our time and strength. We were obliged to learn
and reproduce exactly the traditional tones, gestures, and actions
associated with any particular part.”
“What is your opinion of foreign methods of acting?”
“I have only seen a few amateurs at the Legations, and cannot form
an opinion. But when Mr. Fukuchi and Mr. Osada wrote a little
piece in one act, half in French and half in Japanese, in which
I had the honour of appearing with Madame Théo, I found it most
difficult to sustain my part, since the lady’s words and by-play
were alike mysterious.” A grim smile accompanied this souvenir of
that comedietta, “The Green-eyed Monster.”
“I suppose you have improved in many ways on the old-fashioned
style of acting?”
This widely cast question invited such a shoal of answers that the
conscientious examinee paused to consider.
“I will try to mention a few of the changes which I have done
my best to bring about. The first thing I aimed at was greater
freedom of interpretation. Tradition weighed like a millstone
on the actor’s neck. Instead of painfully and slavishly copying
a predecessor, I set the example, as soon as I felt influential
enough, of forming and putting into action my own conception of a
character. But it was a hard task. Then I tried to introduce more
natural diction. Ranting and hollow declamation were the rule. Even
now one is compelled to pitch the voice very high on account of the
music, which some actors find an aid to delivery.”
“But isn’t that most fatiguing for the voice?”
“Not in well-built theatres, like the Kabuki-za, where the vaulted
roof leaves nothing acoustically to be desired.”
“And your famous facial expression?”
“Ah! that, I think, was a real reform. The old actors’ faces were
barred with red and blue stripes to make them look ferocious, and,
though they may have terrified the audience, they could not impress
it in any other way, for variety of expression was impossible. Now,
without discarding paint altogether, we aim at conveying all the
emotions by play of feature, leaving sometimes to the musicians the
task of rendering them into words.”
In this respect I was able to confirm the actor’s words by
personal observation. Nothing had struck me as more peculiarly
characteristic of a Japanese audience than its delight in
histrionic grimace. The loudest applause, the frenetic shouts of
“Hi-ya! Hi-ya!” had been evoked in my hearing, not by repartee or
tirade, but always by convulsive contortions of visage in moments
of supreme misery or rage. The word _grimace_ connotes, I am
afraid, that contempt, allied with coarseness of sensibility, which
the stoical Anglo-Saxon is apt to entertain towards more gesticular
and sensitive races. But some of Sara Bernhardt’s death-scenes
would be appreciated at their full value by the acute, minute
observers of Tōkyō, just as all Paris was thrilled and captivated
by Sada Yacco’s realistic dying.
“Is the social status of the actor higher than it used to be, Mr.
Danjuro?”
“I think it is. Speaking for myself, many of our nobles and one of
our princes have done me the honour of inviting me to their houses,
but such invitations are by no means common. The illiteracy of
actors, to which I alluded just now, is a barrier to their social
advancement.”
“If I may broach a delicate question, will you tell me if the
paragraphs circulated in the Japanese Press are correct? They state
that your season of four weeks last April in Ōsaka brought you in a
sum of 50,000 _yen_ (nearly £5000), and that out of this amount you
gave away in presents something like 20,000 _yen_ (£2000).”
The old man smiled, less grimly. “It is quite true,” he said. “But
the presents are imposed by etiquette, and such customs are more or
less reciprocal. The total receipts of the theatre, as certified by
the Government auditor, after the tax had been deducted, amounted
to 130,000 _yen_ (£13,000).”
“How is it you have avoided the master-passion of our London actors
to become an actor-manager?”
“I think a manager must be sorely tempted to put money first and
art second. I often advise authors to make certain alterations in
the plays for which I am engaged, but the responsibility of entire
management would distract me from the purely artistic aspect of
representation.”
A mischievous recollection of Delobelle’s “Je n’ai pas le droit
de renoncer à mon art” occurred to me, and I cynically wondered
whether management might not diminish (it could hardly increase)
the lion’s share of the receipts.
“Will you ask Mr. Danjuro,” I said, “if he will like to put any
questions to me about European actors and acting? I shall be most
delighted to give him information on the subject.”
The answer was a blank negative. For the patriotic actor no stage
existed but his own. He had never been abroad; his interest in
foreign things was limited to the flattering curiosity of foreign
admirers.