_Translated from a native book called the "Yedo Hanjôki," or Guide to
the prosperous City of Yedo, and other sources._
Asakusa is the most bustling place in all Yedo. It is famous for the
Temple Sensôji, on the hill of Kinriu, or the Golden Dragon, which
from morning till night is thronged with visitors, rich and poor, old
and young, flocking in sleeve to sleeve. The origin of the temple was
as follows:--In the days of the Emperor Suiko, who reigned in the
thirteenth century A.D., a certain noble, named Hashi no Nakatomo,
fell into disgrace and left the Court; and having become a Rônin, or
masterless man, he took up his abode on the Golden Dragon Hill, with
two retainers, being brothers, named Hinokuma Hamanari and Hinokuma
Takénari. These three men being reduced to great straits, and without
means of earning their living, became fishermen. Now it happened that
on the 6th day of the 3rd month of the 36th year of the reign of the
Emperor Suiko (A.D. 1241), they went down in the morning to the
Asakusa River to ply their trade; and having cast their nets took no
fish, but at every throw they pulled up a figure of the Buddhist god
Kwannon, which they threw into the river again. They sculled their
boat away to another spot, but the same luck followed them, and
nothing came to their nets save the figure of Kwannon. Struck by the
miracle, they carried home the image, and, after fervent prayer, built
a temple on the Golden Dragon Hill, in which they enshrined it. The
temple thus founded was enriched by the benefactions of wealthy and
pious persons, whose care raised its buildings to the dignity of the
first temple in Yedo. Tradition says that the figure of Kwannon which
was fished up in the net was one inch and eight-tenths in height.
The main hall of the temple is sixty feet square, and is adorned with
much curious workmanship of gilding and of silvering, so that no place
can be more excellently beautiful. There are two gates in front of it.
The first is called the Gate of the Spirits of the Wind and of the
Thunder, and is adorned with figures of those two gods. The Wind-god,
whose likeness is that of a devil, carries the wind-bag; and the
Thunder-god, who is also shaped like a devil, carries a drum and a
drumstick.[33] The second gate is called the Gate of the gods Niô, or
the Two Princes, whose colossal statues, painted red, and hideous to
look upon, stand on either side of it. Between the gates is an
approach four hundred yards in length, which is occupied by the stalls
of hucksters, who sell toys and trifles for women and children, and by
foul and loathsome beggars. Passing through the gate of the gods Niô,
the main hall of the temple strikes the eye. Countless niches and
shrines of the gods stand outside it, and an old woman earns her
livelihood at a tank filled with water, to which the votaries of the
gods come and wash themselves that they may pray with clean hands.
Inside are the images of the gods, lanterns, incense-burners,
candlesticks, a huge moneybox, into which the offerings of the pious
are thrown, and votive tablets[34] representing the famous gods and
goddesses, heroes and heroines, of old. Behind the chief building is a
broad space called the _okuyama_, where young and pretty waitresses,
well dressed and painted, invite the weary pilgrims and holiday-makers
to refresh themselves with tea and sweetmeats. Here, too, are all
sorts of sights to be seen, such as wild beasts, performing monkeys,
automata, conjurers, wooden and paper figures, which take the place of
the waxworks of the West, acrobats, and jesters for the amusement of
women and children. Altogether it is a lively and a joyous scene;
there is not its equal in the city.
[Footnote 33: This gate was destroyed by fire a few years since.]
[Footnote 34: Sir Rutherford Alcock, in his book upon Japan, states
that the portraits of the most famous courtesans of Yedo are yearly
hung up in the temple at Asakusa. No such pictures are to be seen now,
and no Japanese of whom I have made inquiries have heard of such a
custom. The priests of the temple deny that their fane was ever so
polluted, and it is probable that the statement is but one of the many
strange mistakes into which an imperfect knowledge of the language led
the earlier travellers in Japan. In spite of all that has been said by
persons who have had no opportunity of associating and exchanging
ideas with the educated men of Japan, I maintain that in no country is
the public harlot more abhorred and looked down upon.]
At Asakusa, as indeed all over Yedo, are to be found fortunetellers,
who prey upon the folly of the superstitious. With a treatise on
physiognomy laid on a desk before them, they call out to this man that
he has an ill-omened forehead, and to that man that the space between
his nose and his lips is unlucky. Their tongues wag like flowing water
until the passers-by are attracted to their stalls. If the seer finds
a customer, he closes his eyes, and, lifting the divining-sticks
reverently to his forehead, mutters incantations between his teeth.
Then, suddenly parting the sticks in two bundles, he prophesies good
or evil, according to the number in each. With a magnifying-glass he
examines his dupe's face and the palms of his hands. By the fashion of
his clothes and his general manner the prophet sees whether he is a
countryman or from the city. "I am afraid, sir," says he, "you have
not been altogether fortunate in life, but I foresee that great luck
awaits you in two or three months;" or, like a clumsy doctor who makes
his diagnosis according to his patient's fancies, if he sees his
customer frowning and anxious, he adds, "Alas! in seven or eight
months you must beware of great misfortune. But I cannot tell you all
about it for a slight fee:" with a long sigh he lays down the
divining-sticks on the desk, and the frightened boor pays a further
fee to hear the sum of the misfortune which threatens him, until, with
three feet of bamboo slips and three inches of tongue, the clever
rascal has made the poor fool turn his purse inside out.
The class of diviners called _Ichiko_ profess to give tidings of the
dead, or of those who have gone to distant countries. The Ichiko
exactly corresponds to the spirit medium of the West. The trade is
followed by women, of from fifteen or sixteen to some fifty years of
age, who walk about the streets, carrying on their backs a
divining-box about a foot square; they have no shop or stall, but
wander about, and are invited into their customers' houses. The
ceremony of divination is very simple. A porcelain bowl filled with
water is placed upon a tray, and the customer, having written the name
of the person with whom he wishes to hold communion on a long slip of
paper, rolls it into a spill, which he dips into the water, and thrice
sprinkles the Ichiko, or medium. She, resting her elbow upon her
divining-box, and leaning her head upon her hand, mutters prayers and
incantations until she has summoned the soul of the dead or absent
person, which takes possession of her, and answers questions through
her mouth. The prophecies which the Ichiko utters during her trance
are held in high esteem by the superstitious and vulgar.
Hard by Asakusa is the theatre street. The theatres are called
_Shiba-i_,[35] "turf places," from the fact that the first theatrical
performances were held on a turf plot. The origin of the drama in
Japan, as elsewhere, was religious. In the reign of the Emperor Heijô
(A.D. 805), there was a sudden volcanic depression of the earth close
by a pond called Sarusawa, or the Monkey's Marsh, at Nara, in the
province of Yamato, and a poisonous smoke issuing from the cavity
struck down with sickness all those who came within its baneful
influence; so the people brought quantities of firewood, which they
burnt in order that the poisonous vapour might be dispelled. The fire,
being the male influence, would assimilate with and act as an antidote
upon the mephitic smoke, which was a female influence.[36] Besides
this, as a further charm to exorcise the portent, the dance called
Sambasô, which is still performed as a prelude to theatrical
exhibitions by an actor dressed up as a venerable old man, emblematic
of long life and felicity, was danced on a plot of turf in front of
the Temple Kofukuji. By these means the smoke was dispelled, and the
drama was originated. The story is to be found in the _Zoku Nihon Ki_,
or supplementary history of Japan.
[Footnote 35: In Dr. Hepburn's Dictionary of the Japanese language,
the Chinese characters given for the word _Shiba-i_ are _chi chang_
(_keih chang_, Morrison's Dictionary), "theatrical arena." The
characters which are usually written, and which are etymologically
correct, are _chih chü_ (_che keu_, Morrison), "the place of plants or
turf plot."]
[Footnote 36: This refers to the Chinese doctrine of the Yang and Yin,
the male and female influences pervading all creation.]
Three centuries later, during the reign of the Emperor Toba (A.D.
1108), there lived a woman called Iso no Zenji, who is looked upon as
the mother of the Japanese drama. Her performances, however, seem only
to have consisted in dancing or posturing dressed up in the costume of
the nobles of the Court, from which fact her dance was called
Otoko-mai, or the man's dance. Her name is only worth mentioning on
account of the respect in which her memory is held by actors.
It was not until the year A.D. 1624 that a man named Saruwaka
Kanzaburô, at the command of the Shogun, opened the first theatre in
Yedo in the Nakabashi, or Middle Bridge Street, where it remained
until eight years later, when it was removed to the Ningiyô, or Doll
Street. The company of this theatre was formed by two families named
Miako and Ichimura, who did not long enjoy their monopoly, for in the
year 1644 we find a third family, that of Yamamura, setting up a rival
theatre in the Kobiki, or Sawyer Street.
In the year 1651, the Asiatic prejudice in favour of keeping persons
of one calling in one place exhibited itself by the removal of the
playhouses to their present site, and the street was called the
Saruwaka Street, after Saruwaka Kanzaburô, the founder of the drama in
Yedo.
Theatrical performances go on from six in the morning until six in the
evening. Just as the day is about to dawn in the east, the sound of
the drum is heard, and the dance Sambasô is danced as a prelude, and
after this follow the dances of the famous actors of old; these are
called the extra performances (_waki kiyôgen_).
The dance of Nakamura represents the demon Shudendôji, an ogre who was
destroyed by the hero Yorimitsu according to the following legend:--At
the beginning of the eleventh century, when Ichijô the Second was
Emperor, lived the hero Yorimitsu. Now it came to pass that in those
days the people of Kiôto were sorely troubled by an evil spirit, which
took up its abode near the Rashô gate. One night, as Yorimitsu was
making merry with his retainers, he said, "Who dares go and defy the
demon of the Rashô gate, and set up a token that he has been there?"
"That dare I," answered Tsuna, who, having donned his coat of mail,
mounted his horse, and rode out through the dark bleak night to the
Rashô gate. Having written his name upon the gate, he was about to
turn homewards when his horse began to shiver with fear, and a huge
hand coming forth from the gate seized the back of the knight's
helmet. Tsuna, nothing daunted, struggled to get free, but in vain, so
drawing his sword he cut off the demon's arm, and the spirit with a
howl fled into the night. But Tsuna carried home the arm in triumph,
and locked it up in a box. One night the demon, having taken the shape
of Tsuna's aunt, came to him and said, "I pray thee show me the arm of
the fiend." Tsuna answered, "I have shown it to no man, and yet to
thee I will show it." So he brought forth the box and opened it, when
suddenly a black cloud shrouded the figure of the supposed aunt, and
the demon, having regained its arm, disappeared. From that time forth
the people were more than ever troubled by the demon, who carried off
to the hills all the fairest virgins of Kiôto, whom he ravished and
ate, so that there was scarce a beautiful damsel left in the city.
Then was the Emperor very sorrowful, and he commanded Yorimitsu to
destroy the monster; and the hero, having made ready, went forth with
four trusty knights and another great captain to search among the
hidden places of the mountains. One day as they were journeying far
from the haunts of men, they fell in with an old man, who, having
bidden them to enter his dwelling, treated them kindly, and set before
them wine to drink; and when they went away, and took their leave of
him, he gave them a present of more wine to take away with them. Now
this old man was a mountain god. As they went on their way they met a
beautiful lady, who was washing blood-stained clothes in the waters of
the valley, weeping bitterly the while. When they asked her why she
shed tears, she answered, "Sirs, I am a woman from Kiôto, whom the
demon has carried off; he makes me wash his clothes, and when he is
weary of me, he will kill and eat me. I pray your lordships to save
me." Then the six heroes bade the woman lead them to the ogre's cave,
where a hundred devils were mounting guard and waiting upon him. The
woman, having gone in first, told the fiend of their coming; and he,
thinking to slay and eat them, called them to him; so they entered the
cave, which reeked with the smell of the flesh and blood of men, and
they saw Shudendôji, a huge monster with the face of a little child.
The six men offered him the wine which they had received from the
mountain god, and he, laughing in his heart, drank and made merry, so
that little by little the fumes of the wine got into his head, and he
fell asleep. The heroes, themselves feigning sleep, watched for a
moment when the devils were all off their guard to put on their armour
and steal one by one into the demon's chamber. Then Yorimitsu, seeing
that all was still, drew his sword, and cut off Shudendôji's head,
which sprung up and bit at his head; luckily, however, Yorimitsu had
put on two helmets, the one over the other, so he was not hurt. When
all the devils had been slain, the heroes and the woman returned to
Kiôto carrying with them the head of Shudendôji, which was laid before
the Emperor; and the fame of their action was spread abroad under
heaven.
This Shudendôji is the ogre represented in the Nakamura dance. The
Ichimura dance represents the seven gods of wealth; and the Morita
dance represents a large ape, and is emblematical of drinking wine.
As soon as the sun begins to rise in the heaven, sign-boards all
glistening with paintings and gold are displayed, and the playgoers
flock in crowds to the theatre. The farmers and country-folk hurry
over their breakfast, and the women and children, who have got up in
the middle of the night to paint and adorn themselves, come from all
the points of the compass to throng the gallery, which 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
swallow. 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 taught, and a practical sermon
preached in every play.
The subjects of the pieces are chiefly historical, feigned names being
substituted for those of the real heroes. Indeed, it is in the popular
tragedies that we must seek for an account of many of the events of
the last two hundred and fifty years; for only one very bald
history[37] of those times has been published, of which but a limited
number of copies were struck off from copper plates, and its
circulation was strictly forbidden by the Shogun's Government. The
stories are rendered with great minuteness and detail, so much so,
that it sometimes takes a series of representations to act out one
piece in its entirety. The Japanese are far in advance of the Chinese
in their scenery and properties, and their pieces are sometimes
capitally got up: a revolving stage enables them to shift from one
scene to another with great rapidity. First-rate actors receive as
much as a thousand riyos (about £300) as their yearly salary. This,
however, is a high rate of pay, and many a man has to strut before the
public for little more than his daily rice; to a clever young actor it
is almost enough reward to be allowed to enter a company in which
there is a famous star. The salary of the actor, however, may depend
upon the success of the theatre; for dramatic exhibitions are often
undertaken as speculations by wealthy persons, who pay their company
in proportion to their own profit. Besides his regular pay, a popular
Japanese actor has a small mine of wealth in his patrons, who open
their purses freely for the privilege of frequenting the greenroom.,
The women's parts are all taken by men, as they used to be with us in
ancient days. Touching the popularity of plays, it is related that in
the year 1833, when two actors called Bandô Shuka and Segawa Rokô,
both famous players of women's parts, died at the same time, the
people of Yedo mourned to heaven and to earth; and if a million riyos
could have brought back their lives, the money would have been
forthcoming. Thousands flocked to their funeral, and the richness of
their coffins and of the clothes laid upon them was admired by all.
[Footnote 37: I allude to the _Tai Hei Nem-piyô,_ or Annals of the
Great Peace, a very rare work, only two or three copies of which have
found their way into the libraries of foreigners.]
"When I heard this," says Terakado Seiken, the author of the _Yedo
Hanjôki_, "I lifted my eyes to heaven and heaved a great sigh. When my
friend Saitô Shimei, a learned and good man, died, there was barely
enough money to bury him; his needy pupils and friends subscribed to
give him a humble coffin. Alas! alas! here was a teacher who from his
youth up had honoured his parents, and whose heart know no guile: if
his friends were in need, he ministered to their wants; he grudged no
pains to teach his fellow-men; his good-will and charity were beyond
praise; under the blue sky and bright day he never did a shameful
deed. His merits were as those of the sages of old; but because he
lacked the cunning of a fox or badger he received no patronage from
the wealthy, and, remaining poor to the day of his death, never had an
opportunity of making his worth known. Alas! alas!"
The drama is exclusively the amusement of the middle and lower
classes. Etiquette, sternest of tyrants, forbids the Japanese of high
rank to be seen at any public exhibition, wrestling-matches alone
excepted. Actors are, however, occasionally engaged to play in private
for the edification of my lord and his ladies; and there is a kind of
classical opera, called Nô, which is performed on stages specially
built for the purpose in the palaces of the principal nobles. These
Nô represent the entertainments by which the Sun Goddess was lured out
of the cave in which she had hidden, a fable said to be based upon an
eclipse. In the reign of the Emperor Yômei (A.D. 586-593), Hada
Kawakatsu, a man born in Japan, but of Chinese extraction, was
commanded by the Emperor to arrange an entertainment for the
propitiation of the gods and the prosperity of the country. Kawakatsu
wrote thirty-three plays, introducing fragments of Japanese poetry
with accompaniments of musical instruments. Two performers, named
Takéta and Hattori, having especially distinguished themselves in
these entertainments, were ordered to prepare other similar plays, and
their productions remain to the present day. The pious intention of
the Nô being to pray for the prosperity of the country, they are held
in the highest esteem by the nobles of the Court, the Daimios, and the
military class: in old days they alone performed in these plays, but
now ordinary actors take part in them.
The Nô are played in sets. The first of the set is specially dedicated
to the propitiation of the gods; the second is performed in full
armour, and is designed to terrify evil spirits, and to insure the
punishment of malefactors; the third is of a gentler intention, and
its special object is the representation of all that is beautiful and
fragrant and delightful. The performers wear hideous wigs and masks,
not unlike those of ancient Greece, and gorgeous brocade dresses. The
masks, which belong to what was the private company of the Shogun, are
many centuries old, and have been carefully preserved as heirlooms
from generation to generation; being made of very thin wood lacquered
over, and kept each in a silken bag, they have been uninjured by the
lapse of time.
During the Duke of Edinburgh's stay in Yedo, this company was engaged
to give a performance in the Yashiki of the Prince of Kishiu, which
has the reputation of being the handsomest palace in all Yedo. So far
as I know, such an exhibition had never before been witnessed by
foreigners, and it may be interesting to give an account of it.
Opposite the principal reception-room, where his Royal Highness sat,
and separated from it by a narrow courtyard, was a covered stage,
approached from the greenroom by a long gallery at an angle of
forty-five degrees. Half-a-dozen musicians, clothed in dresses of
ceremony, marched slowly down the gallery, and, having squatted down
on the stage, bowed gravely. The performances then began. There was no
scenery, nor stage appliances; the descriptions of the chorus or of
the actors took their place. The dialogue and choruses are given in a
nasal recitative, accompanied by the mouth-organ, flute, drum, and
other classical instruments, and are utterly unintelligible. The
ancient poetry is full of puns and plays upon words, and it was with
no little difficulty that, with the assistance of a man of letters, I
prepared beforehand the arguments of the different pieces.
The first play was entitled _Hachiman of the Bow_. Hachiman is the
name under which the Emperor Ojin (A.C. 270-312) was deified as the
God of War. He is specially worshipped on account of his miraculous
birth; his mother, the Empress Jingo, having, by the virtue of a magic
stone which she wore at her girdle, borne him in her womb for three
years, during which she made war upon and conquered the Coreans. The
time of the plot is laid in the reign of the Emperor Uda the Second
(A.D. 1275-1289). In the second month of the year pilgrims are
flocking to the temple of Hachiman at Mount Otoko, between Osaka and
Kiôto. All this is explained by the chorus. A worshipper steps forth,
sent by the Emperor, and delivers a congratulatory oration upon the
peace and prosperity of the land. The chorus follows in the same
strain: they sing the praises of Hachiman and of the reigning Emperor.
An old man enters, bearing something which appears to be a bow in a
brocade bag. On being asked who he is, the old man answers that he is
an aged servant of the shrine, and that he wishes to present his
mulberry-wood bow to the Emperor; being too humble to draw near to his
Majesty he has waited for this festival, hoping that an opportunity
might present itself. He explains that with this bow, and with certain
arrows made of the Artemisia, the heavenly gods pacified the world. On
being asked to show his bow, he refuses; it is a mystic protector of
the country, which in old days was overshadowed by the mulberry-tree.
The peace which prevails in the land is likened to a calm at sea. The
Emperor is the ship, and his subjects the water. The old man dwells
upon the ancient worship of Hachiman, and relates how his mother, the
Empress Jingo, sacrificed to the gods before invading Corea, and how
the present prosperity of the country is to be attributed to the
acceptance of those sacrifices. After having revealed himself as the
god Hachiman in disguise, the old man disappears. The worshipper,
awe-struck, declares that he must return to Kiôto and tell the Emperor
what he has seen. The chorus announces that sweet music and fragrant
perfumes issue from the mountain, and the piece ends with
felicitations upon the visible favour of the gods, and especially of
Hachiman.
The second piece was _Tsunémasa_. Tsunémasa was a hero of the twelfth
century, who died in the civil wars; he was famous for his skill in
playing on the _biwa_, a sort of four-stringed lute.
A priest enters, and announces that his name is Giyôkei, and that
before he retired from the world he held high rank at Court. He
relates how Tsunémasa, in his childhood the favourite of the Emperor,
died in the wars by the western seas. During his lifetime the Emperor
gave him a lute, called Sei-zan, "the Azure Mountain"; this lute at
his death was placed in a shrine erected to his honour, and at his
funeral music and plays were performed during seven days within the
palace, by the special grace of the Emperor. The scene is laid at the
shrine. The lonely and awesome appearance of the spot is described.
Although the sky is clear, the wind rustles through the trees like the
sound of falling rain; and although it is now summer-time, the
moonlight on the sand looks like hoar-frost. All nature is sad and
downcast. The ghost appears, and sings that it is the spirit of
Tsunémasa, and has come to thank those who have piously celebrated his
obsequies. No one answers him, and the spirit vanishes, its voice
becoming fainter and fainter, an unreal and illusory vision haunting
the scenes amid which its life was spent. The priest muses on the
portent. Is it a dream or a reality? Marvellous! The ghost, returning,
speaks of former days, when it lived as a child in the palace, and
received the Azure Mountain lute from the Emperor--that lute with the
four strings of which its hand was once so familiar, and the
attraction of which now draws it from the grave. The chorus recites
the virtues of Tsunémasa--his benevolence, justice, humanity,
talents, and truth; his love of poetry and music; the trees, the
flowers, the birds, the breezes, the moon--all had a charm for him.
The ghost begins to play upon the Azure Mountain lute, and the sounds
produced from the magical instrument are so delicate, that all think
it is a shower falling from heaven. The priest declares that it is not
rain, but the sound of the enchanted lute. The sound of the first and
second strings is as the sound of gentle rain, or of the wind stirring
the pine-trees; and the sound of the third and fourth strings is as
the song of birds and pheasants calling to their young. A rhapsody in
praise of music follows. Would that such strains could last for ever!
The ghost bewails its fate that it cannot remain to play on, but must
return whence it came. The priest addresses the ghost, and asks
whether the vision is indeed the spirit of Tsunémasa. Upon this the
ghost calls out in an agony of sorrow and terror at having been seen
by mortal eyes, and bids that the lamps be put out: on its return to
the abode of the dead it will suffer for having shown itself: it
describes the fiery torments which will be its lot. Poor fool! it has
been lured to its destruction, like the insect of summer that flies
into the flame. Summoning the winds to its aid, it puts out the
lights, and disappears.
_The Suit of Feathers_ is the title of a very pretty conceit which
followed. A fisherman enters, and in a long recitative describes the
scenery at the sea-shore of Miwo, in the province of Suruga, at the
foot of Fuji-Yama, the Peerless Mountain. The waves are still, and
there is a great calm; the fishermen are all out plying their trade.
The speaker's name is Hakuriyô, a fisherman living in the pine-grove
of Miwo. The rains are now over, and the sky is serene; the sun rises
bright and red over the pine-trees and rippling sea; while last
night's moon is yet seen faintly in the heaven. Even he, humble fisher
though he be, is softened by the beauty of the nature which surrounds
him. A breeze springs up, the weather will change; clouds and waves
will succeed sunshine and calm; the fishermen must get them home
again. No; it is but the gentle breath of spring, after all; it
scarcely stirs the stout fir-trees, and the waves are hardly heard to
break upon the shore. The men may go forth in safety. The fisherman
then relates how, while he was wondering at the view, flowers began to
rain from the sky, and sweet music filled the air, which was perfumed
by a mystic fragrance. Looking up, he saw hanging on a pine-tree a
fairy's suit of feathers, which he took home, and showed to a friend,
intending to keep it as a relic in his house. A heavenly fairy makes
her appearance, and claims the suit of feathers; but the fisherman
holds to his treasure trove. She urges the impiety of his act--a
mortal has no right to take that which belongs to the fairies. He
declares that he will hand down the feather suit to posterity as one
of the treasures of the country. The fairy bewails her lot; without
her wings how can she return to heaven? She recalls the familiar joys
of heaven, now closed to her; she sees the wild geese and the gulls
flying to the skies, and longs for their power of flight; the tide has
its ebb and its flow, and the sea-breezes blow whither they list: for
her alone there is no power of motion, she must remain on earth. At
last, touched by her plaint, the fisherman consents to return the
feather suit, on condition that the fairy shall dance and play
heavenly music for him. She consents, but must first obtain the
feather suit, without which she cannot dance. The fisherman refuses
to give it up, lest she should fly away to heaven without redeeming
her pledge. The fairy reproaches him for his want of faith: how should
a heavenly being be capable of falsehood? He is ashamed, and gives her
the feather suit, which she dons, and begins to dance, singing of the
delights of heaven, where she is one of the fifteen attendants who
minister to the moon. The fisherman is so transported with joy, that
he fancies himself in heaven, and wishes to detain the fairy to dwell
with him for ever. A song follows in praise of the scenery and of the
Peerless Mountain capped with the snows of spring. When her dance is
concluded, the fairy, wafted away by the sea-breeze, floats past the
pine-grove to Ukishima and Mount Ashidaka, over Mount Fuji, till she
is seen dimly like a cloud in the distant sky, and vanishes into thin
air.
The last of the Nô was _The Little Smith_, the scene of which is laid
in the reign of the Emperor Ichijô (A.D. 987--1011). A noble of the
court enters, and proclaims himself to be Tachibana Michinari. He has
been commanded by the Emperor, who has seen a dream of good omen on
the previous night, to order a sword of the smith Munéchika of Sanjô.
He calls Munéchika, who comes out, and, after receiving the order,
expresses the difficulty he is in, having at that time no fitting mate
to help him; he cannot forge a blade alone. The excuse is not
admitted; the smith pleads hard to be saved from the shame of a
failure. Driven to a compliance, there is nothing left for it but to
appeal to the gods for aid. He prays to the patron god of his family,
Inari Sama.[38] A man suddenly appears, and calls the smith; this man
is the god Inari Sama in disguise. The smith asks who is his visitor,
and how does he know him by name. The stranger answers, "Thou hast
been ordered to make a blade for the Emperor." "This is passing
strange," says the smith. "I received the order but a moment since;
how comest thou to know of it?" "Heaven has a voice which is heard upon
the earth. Walls have ears, and stones tell tales.[39] There are no
secrets in the world. The flash of the blade ordered by him who is
above the clouds (the Emperor) is quickly seen. By the grace of the
Emperor the sword shall be quickly made." Here follows the praise of
certain famous blades, and an account of the part they played in
history, with special reference to the sword which forms one of the
regalia. The sword which the Emperor has sent for shall be inferior to
none of these; the smith may set his heart at rest. The smith,
awe-struck, expresses his wonder, and asks again who is addressing
him. He is bidden to go and deck out his anvil, and a supernatural
power will help him. The visitor disappears in a cloud. The smith
prepares his anvil, at the four corners of which he places images of
the gods, while above it he stretches the straw rope and paper
pendants hung up in temples to shut out foul or ill-omened influences.
He prays for strength to make the blade, not for his own glory, but
for the honour of the Emperor. A young man, a fox in disguise,
appears, and helps Munéchika to forge the steel. The noise of the
anvil resounds to heaven and over the earth. The chorus announces that
the blade is finished; on one side is the mark of Munéchika, on the
other is graven "The Little Fox" in clear characters.
[Footnote 38: The note at the end of the Story of the Grateful Foxes
contains an account of Inari Sama, and explains how the foxes minister
to him.]
[Footnote 39: This is a literal translation of a Japanese proverb.]
The subjects of the Nô are all taken from old legends of the country;
a shrine at Miwo, by the sea-shore, marks the spot where the suit of
feathers was found, and the miraculously forged sword is supposed to
be in the armoury of the Emperor to this day. The beauty of the
poetry--and it is very beautiful--is marred by the want of scenery and
by the grotesque dresses and make-up. In the _Suit of Feathers_, for
instance, the fairy wears a hideous mask and a wig of scarlet elf
locks: the suit of feathers itself is left entirely to the
imagination; and the heavenly dance is a series of whirls, stamps, and
jumps, accompanied by unearthly yells and shrieks; while the vanishing
into thin air is represented by pirouettes something like the motion
of a dancing dervish. The intoning of the recitative is unnatural and
unintelligible, so much so that not even a highly educated Japanese
could understand what is going on unless he were previously acquainted
with the piece. This, however, is supposing that which is not, for the
Nô are as familiarly known as the masterpieces of our own dramatists.
The classical severity of the Nô is relieved by the introduction
between the pieces of light farces called Kiyôgen. The whole
entertainment having a religious intention, the Kiyôgen stand to the
Nô in the same relation as the small shrines to the main temple; they,
too, are played for the propitiation of the gods, and for the
softening of men's hearts. The farces are acted without wigs or masks;
the dialogue is in the common spoken language, and there being no
musical accompaniment it is quite easy to follow. The plots of the two
farces which were played before the Duke of Edinburgh are as
follows:--
In the _Ink Smearing_ the hero is a man from a distant part of the
country, who, having a petition to prefer, comes to the capital, where
he is detained for a long while. His suit being at last successful, he
communicates the joyful news to his servant, Tarôkaja (the
conventional name of the Leporello of these farces). The two
congratulate one another. To while away his idle hours during his
sojourn at the capital the master has entered into a flirtation with a
certain young lady: master and servant now hold a consultation as to
whether the former should not go and take leave of her. Tarôkaja is of
opinion that as she is of a very jealous nature, his master ought to
go. Accordingly the two set out to visit her, the servant leading the
way. Arrived at her house, the gentleman goes straight in without the
knowledge of the lady, who, coming out and meeting Tarôkaja, asks
after his master. He replies that his master is inside the house. She
refuses to believe him, and complains that, for some time past, his
visits have been few and far between. Why should he come now? Surely
Tarôkaja is hoaxing her. The servant protests that he is telling the
truth, and that his master really has entered the house. She, only
half persuaded, goes in, and finds that my lord is indeed there. She
welcomes him, and in the same breath upbraids him. Some other lady has
surely found favour in his eyes. What fair wind has wafted him back to
her? He replies that business alone has kept him from her; he hopes
that all is well with her. With her, indeed, all is well, and there is
no change; but she fears that his heart is changed. Surely, surely he
has found mountains upon mountains of joy elsewhere, even now,
perhaps, he is only calling on his way homeward from some haunt of
pleasure. What pleasure can there be away from her? answers he.
Indeed, his time has not been his own, else he would have come sooner.
Why, then, did he not send his servant to explain? Tarôkaja here puts
in his oar, and protests that, between running on errands and dancing
attendance upon his lord, he has not had a moment to himself. "At any
rate," says the master, "I must ask for your congratulations; for my
suit, which was so important, has prospered." The lady expresses her
happiness, and the gentleman then bids his servant tell her the object
of their visit. Tarôkaja objects to this; his lord had better tell his
own story. While the two are disputing as to who shall speak, the
lady's curiosity is aroused. "What terrible tale is this that neither
of you dare tell? Pray let one or other of you speak." At last the
master explains that he has come to take leave of her, as he must
forthwith return to his own province. The girl begins to weep, and the
gentleman following suit, the two shed tears in concert. She uses all
her art to cajole him, and secretly produces from her sleeve a cup of
water, with which she smears her eyes to imitate tears. He, deceived
by the trick, tries to console her, and swears that as soon as he
reaches his own country he will send a messenger to fetch her; but she
pretends to weep all the more, and goes on rubbing her face with
water. Tarôkaja, in the meanwhile, detects the trick, and, calling his
master on one side, tells him what she is doing. The gentleman,
however, refuses to believe him, and scolds him right roundly for
telling lies. The lady calls my lord to her, and weeping more bitterly
than ever, tries to coax him to remain. Tarôkaja slyly fills another
cup, with ink and water, and substitutes it for the cup of clear
water. She, all unconcerned, goes on smearing her face. At last she
lifts her face, and her lover, seeing it all black and sooty, gives a
start. What can be the matter with the girl's face? Tarôkaja, in an
aside, explains what he has done. They determine to put her to shame.
The lover, producing from his bosom a box containing a mirror, gives
it to the girl, who, thinking that it is a parting gift, at first
declines to receive it. It is pressed upon her; she opens the box and
sees the reflection of her dirty face. Master and man burst out
laughing. Furious, she smears Tarôkaja's face with the ink; he
protests that he is not the author of the trick, and the girl flies at
her lover and rubs his face too. Both master and servant run off,
pursued by the girl.
The second farce was shorter than the first, and was called _The Theft
of the Sword_. A certain gentleman calls his servant Tarôkaja, and
tells him that he is going out for a little diversion. Bidding
Tarôkaja follow him, he sets out. On their way they meet another
gentleman, carrying a handsome sword in his hand, and going to worship
at the Kitano shrine at Kiôto. Tarôkaja points out the beauty of the
sword to his master, and says what a fine thing it would be if they
could manage to obtain possession of it. Tarôkaja borrows his master's
sword, and goes up to the stranger, whose attention is taken up by
looking at the wares set out for sale in a shop. Tarôkaja lays his
hand on the guard of the stranger's sword; and the latter, drawing it,
turns round, and tries to cut the thief down. Tarôkaja takes to his
heels, praying hard that his life may be spared. The stranger takes
away the sword which Tarôkaja has borrowed from his master, and goes
on his way to the shrine, carrying the two swords. Tarôkaja draws a
long breath of relief when he sees that his life is not forfeited; but
what account is he to give of his master's sword which he has lost.
There is no help for it, he must go back and make a clean breast of
it. His master is very angry; and the two, after consulting together,
await the stranger's return from the shrine. The latter makes his
appearance and announces that he is going home. Tarôkaja's master
falls upon the stranger from behind, and pinions him, ordering
Tarôkaja to fetch a rope and bind him. The knave brings the cord; but,
while he is getting it ready, the stranger knocks him over with his
sword. His master calls out to him to get up quickly and bind the
gentleman from behind, and not from before. Tarôkaja runs behind the
struggling pair, but is so clumsy that he slips the noose over his
master's head by mistake, and drags him down. The stranger, seeing
this, runs away laughing with the two swords. Tarôkaja, frightened at
his blunder, runs off too, his master pursuing him off the stage. A
general run off, be it observed, something like the "spill-and-pelt"
scene in an English pantomime, is the legitimate and invariable
termination of the Kiyôgen.