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JAPAN
OTHER BEAUTIFUL BOOKS ON JAPAN
EACH CONTAINING FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR
* * * * *
ANCIENT TALES AND FOLK-LORE OF JAPAN
BY R. GORDON SMITH, F.R.G.S.
57 ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAPANESE ARTISTS
* * * * *
THE FLOWERS AND GARDENS OF JAPAN
DESCRIBED BY FLORENCE DU CANE
50 ILLUSTRATIONS BY ELLA DU CANE
* * * * *
"JAPAN"
In the "Peeps at Many Lands and Cities" Series
BY JOHN FINNEMORE
12 ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR
* * * * *
PEEPS AT THE HISTORY OF JAPAN
BY JOHN FINNEMORE
8 ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR AND
NUMEROUS LINE DRAWINGS IN THE TEXT
PUBLISHED BY
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, 4, 5 AND 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.
[Illustration: MISS POMEGRANATE]
JAPAN . A RECORD IN
COLOUR BY MORTIMER
MENPES . TRANSCRIBED
BY DOROTHY MENPES .
PUBLISHED BY ADAM &
CHARLES BLACK . SOHO
SQUARE . LONDON . W.
_Published December 1901
Reprinted May 1902, January 1903, January 1904
January 1905_
TO MY FRIEND
THE LADY EDWARD CECIL
TO WHOSE ENTHUSIASTIC SYMPATHY
MY WORK IN JAPAN
OWES SO MUCH OF THE SUCCESS
IT HAS ATTAINED
Note
In this book I endeavour to present, with whatever skill of penmanship I
may possess, my father's impressions of Japan. I trust that they will
not lose in force and vigour in that they are closely intermingled with
my own impressions, which were none the less vivid because they were
those of a child,--for it was as a child, keenly interested in and
enjoying all I saw, that I passed, four or five years ago, through that
lovely flower-land of the Far East, which my father has here so
charmingly memorialised in colour.
DOROTHY MENPES
_November 1901._
Contents
CHAPTER I PAGE
ART AND THE DRAMA 1
CHAPTER II
THE LIVING ART 29
CHAPTER III
PAINTERS AND THEIR METHODS 49
CHAPTER IV
PLACING 75
CHAPTER V
ART IN PRACTICAL LIFE 91
CHAPTER VI
THE GARDENS 105
CHAPTER VII
FLOWER ARRANGEMENT 113
CHAPTER VIII
THE GEISHA 123
CHAPTER IX
CHILDREN 135
CHAPTER X
WORKERS 151
CHAPTER XI
CHARACTERISTICS 199
List of Illustrations
1. Miss Pomegranate _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
2. An Actor 2
3. Watching the Play 4
4. The Bill of the Play 6
5. A Garden 8
6. The Road to the Temple 10
7. The Street with the Gallery 12
8. Sun and Lanterns 14
9. Summer Afternoon 16
10. Apricot-Blossom Street 18
11. Outside Kioto 20
12. A Blond Day 22
13. A Blind Beggar 24
14. The Giant Lantern 26
15. Sun and Lanterns 32
16. The Scarlet Umbrella 36
17. Leading to the Temple 38
18. By the Light of the Lanterns 40
19. "News" 42
20. A Sunny Temple 44
21. On the Great Canal, Osaka 46
22. After the Festival 52
23. The Lemon Bridge 54
24. Bearing a Burden 58
25. The End of the Day and the End of the Festival 60
26. In Front of the Stall 62
27. The Stall by the Bridge 64
28. Archers 68
29. Reflections 72
30. The Red Curtain 78
31. Flower of the Tea 80
32. A Street in Kioto 82
33. Heavy-laden 84
34. Peach-Blossom 88
35. The Tea-house of the Slender Tree 94
36. Blossom of the Glen 96
37. A Family Group 100
38. The Venice of Japan 102
39. An Iris Garden 108
40. A Sunny Garden 110
41. Iris Garden 112
42. A Wistaria Garden 116
43. Flower-placing 118
44. Wistaria 120
45. Butterflies 126
46. Daughters of the Sun 128
47. By the Light of the Lantern 130
48. A Street Scene, Kioto 132
49. Baby and Baby 138
50. A Jap in Plum-colour 140
51. Sugar-water Stall 142
52. Advance Japan 144
53. Chums 146
54. A Sunny Stroll 148
55. The Child and the Umbrella 150
56. A Little Jap 154
57. A By-canal 156
58. Swinging along in the Sun 158
59. A Metal-worker 160
60. Bronze-workers 162
61. In Theatre Street 164
62. The Carpenter 166
63. Making up Accounts 168
64. Finishing Touches 170
65. A Back Canal, Osaka 172
66. Stencil-makers 174
67. A Sign-painter's 178
68. A Cloisonne Worker 180
69. A Toy-shop 182
70. A Sweet-stuff Stall 184
71. A Canal in Osaka 188
72. Umbrellas and Commerce 190
73. Playfellows 194
74. Youth and Age 202
75. Lookers-on 204
ART AND THE DRAMA
[Illustration: AN ACTOR]
CHAPTER I
ART AND THE DRAMA
I always agree with that man who said, "Let me make the nation's songs
and I care not who frames her laws," or words to that effect, for, in my
opinion, nothing so well indicates national character or so keenly
accentuates the difference between individuals and nations as the way in
which they spend their leisure hours; and the theatres of Japan are
thoroughly typical of the people's character. It would be utterly
impossible for the Japanese to keep art out of their lives. It creeps
into everything, and is as the very air they breathe. Art with them is
not only a conscious effort to achieve the beautiful, but also an
instinctive expression of inherited taste. It beautifies their homes and
pervades their gardens; and perhaps one never realises this
all-dominating power more fully than when in a Japanese theatre, which
is, invariably, a veritable temple of art. But here with us in the West
it is different. We have no art, and our methods merely lead us to
deception, while we do not begin to understand those few great truths
which form the basis of oriental philosophy, and without which
perfection in the dramatic art is impossible. For example, the
philosophy of balance, of which the Japanese are past masters, is to us
unknown. The fact that Nature is commonplace, thereby forming a
background, as it were, for Tragedy and the spirit of life to work, has
never occurred to us; while the background of our Western play is not by
any means a plan created by a true artist upon which to display the
dramatic picture as it is in Japan, but simply a background to advertise
the stage-manager's imitative talent. The result is, of course, that the
acting and the environment are at variance instead of being in harmonic
unity. But we in the West have not time to think of vague things, such
as balance and breadth and the creating of pictures. What we want is
realism; we want a sky to look like a real sky, and the moon in it to
look like a real moon, even if it travels by clock-work, as it has been
known to do occasionally. And so real is this clock-work moon that we
are deceived into imagining that it is the moon, the actual moon. But
the deception is not pleasant; in fact, it almost gives you indigestion
to see a moon, and such a moon, careering over the whole sky in half an
hour. In Japan they would not occupy themselves with making you believe
that a moon on the stage was a real one--they would consider such false
realism as a bit of gross degradation--but they would take the greatest
possible pains as to the proper placing of that palpably pasteboard moon
of theirs, even if they had to hold it up in the sky by the aid of a
broom-stick.
[Illustration: WATCHING THE PLAY]
In Japan the scenic work of a play is handled by one man alone, and that
man is the dramatic author, who is almost invariably a great artist. To
him the stage is a huge canvas upon which he is to paint his picture,
and of which each actor forms a component part. This picture of his has
to be thought out in every detail; he has to think of his figures in
relation to his background, just as a Japanese architect when building a
house or a temple takes into consideration the surrounding scenery, and
even the trees and the hills, in order to form a complete picture,
perfect in balance and in form. When a dramatic author places his drama
upon the stage, he arranges the colour and setting of it in obedience to
his ideas of fitness, which are partly intuitive and partly traditional.
It is probably necessary that his background should be a monotone, or
arranged in broad masses of colour, in order to balance the brilliancy
of the action, and against which the moving figures are sharply defined.
And it is only in Japan that you see such brilliant luminous effects on
the stage, for the Japs alone seem to have the courage to handle very
vivid colours in a masterly way--glorious sweeps of gold and of
blue--vivid, positive colour. No low-toned plush curtains and what we
call rich, sombre colour, with overdressed, shifted-calved flunkeys,
stepping silently about on velvet carpets, shod in list slippers, and
looking for all the world like a lot of burglars, only needing a couple
of dark lanterns to complete their stealthy appearance.
Then, there are no Morris-papered anterooms and corridors in Japan, as
we have here--sad bottlegreens and browns leading to a stage that is
still sadder in colour--only a sadness lit up by a fierce glare of
electric light.
The true artistic spirit is wanting in the West. We are too timid to
deal in masses for effect, and we have such a craving for realism that
we become simply technical imitators like the counterfeiters of
banknotes. Our great and all-prevailing idea is to cram as much of what
we call realism and detail into a scene as possible; the richer the
company, and the more money they have to handle, the more hopeless the
work becomes, for the degradation of it is still more forcibly
emphasised. Consequently, we always create spotty pictures; in fact, one
rarely ever sees a well-balanced scene in a Western theatre, and simply
because we do not realise the breadth and simplicity of Nature. There
are not the violent contrasts in Nature that our artists are so
continually depicting: Nature plays well within her range, and you
seldom see her going to extremes. In a sunlit garden the deepest shadow
and the brightest light come very near together, so broad and so subtle
are her harmonies. We do not realise this, and we sacrifice breadth in
the vain endeavour to gain what we propose to call strength--strength is
sharp; but breadth is quiet and full of reserve. None understands this
simple truth so well as the Japanese. It forms the very basis of
oriental philosophy, and through the true perception of it they have
attained to those ideas of balance which are so eminent a characteristic
of Japanese art.
[Illustration: THE BILL OF THE PLAY]
When you have balanced force you have reached perfection, and this is of
course the true criterion of dramatic art. But here in the West we must
be realistic, and if a manager succeeds in producing upon the stage an
exact representation of a room in Belgrave Square he is perfectly
content, and looks upon his work as a triumph. There is to be no choice:
he does not choose his room from the decorative standpoint--such a thing
would never occur to him for a moment--but simply grabs at this
particular room that he happens to know in Belgrave Square, nicknacks
and all, and plants it upon the stage. His wife, he imagines, has a
taste for dress, and she dresses the people that are to sit about in
this room, probably playing a game of "Bridge," just as you might see it
played any day in Belgrave Square. I remember once, when a play of this
nature was being acted at one of our leading theatres, hearing a
disgusted exclamation from a man at my side--"Well! if that's all," he
growled, "we might go and see a game of Bridge played any night"; and it
occurred to me as I heard him that the managers will suffer for this
foolish realism, the public will soon tire of it, for they, almost
unconsciously, want something altogether bigger and finer--let us hope
they want art.
The Japanese are not led away by this struggle to be realistic, and this
is one of the chief reasons why the stage of Japan is so far ahead of
our stage. If a horse is introduced into a scene he will be by no means
a real horse, but a very wooden one, with wooden joints, just like a
nursery rocking-horse; yet this decorative animal will be certain to
take its proper place in the composition of the picture. But when
realism has its artistic value, the Japs will use it to the full. If a
scene is to be the interior of a house, it will be an interior, complete
in every detail down to the exquisite bowl of flowers which almost
invariably forms the chief decoration of a Japanese room. But suppose
they want a garden: they do not proceed, as we do, to take one special
garden and copy it literally; that garden has to be created and thought
out to form a perfect whole; even the lines of the tiny trees and the
shape of the hills in the distance have to be considered in relation to
the figures of the actors who are to tell their story there. This is
true art. Then, when you go to a theatre in Japan, you are made to feel
that you are actually living in the atmosphere of the play: the body of
the theatre and the stage are linked together, and the spectator feels
that he is contained in the picture itself, that he is looking on at a
scene which is taking place in real life just before his very eyes. And
it is the great aim of every ambitious dramatic author to make you feel
this. To gain this end, if the scene is situated by the seashore, he
will cause the sea, which is represented by that decorative design
called the wave pattern, to be swept right round the theatre, embracing
both audience and stage and dragging you into the very heart of his
picture.
[Illustration: A GARDEN]
For this same reason, a Japanese theatre is always built with two broad
passages, called Hanamichi (or flower-paths), leading through the
audience to the stage, up which you can watch a Daimio and his
gorgeous retinue sweep on his royal way to visit perhaps another Daimio
whose house is represented on the stage. This is very dramatic, and
greatly forwards the author's scheme of bringing you into touch with the
stage. But we in our Western theatres need not trouble ourselves with
all this, for we frame our scenes in a vulgar gilt frame; we hem them in
and cut them off from the rest of the house. When we go to a theatre
here, we go to view a picture hung up on a wall, and generally a very
foolish inartistic picture it is too. And even taking our stage from the
point of view of a picture, it is wrong, for in a work of art the frame
should never have an independent value as an achievement, but be
subordinate to, and part of, the whole. All idea of framing the stage
must be done away with; else we are in danger of going to the other
extreme, as some artists have done, and cause our picture to overlap and
spread itself upon the frame. An artist in a realistic mood has been
known, when painting a picture of the seaside, to so crave after texture
as to sprinkle sand upon the foreground, and becoming more and more
enthusiastic he has at last ended in an exuberance of realism by
clapping some real shells on to the frame and gilding them over. Thus
the picture appeared to pour out on to its frame. This is all very
terrible and inartistic; yet it is but an instance of the kind of
mistake that we let ourselves in for by the ridiculous method of
stage-setting which we practise.
Now, built as the Japanese theatres are, with their flower-paths
leading from the stage, there is no fear of such a disaster; yet
Westerners, who have never been to Japan, on hearing of the construction
of a Japanese theatre, are rather inclined to conjure up to their
fancies visions of the low comedian who springs through trap-doors, and
of the clown who leaves the ring of the circus to seat himself between
two maiden ladies in the audience; but if these people were to go to
Japan and see a really fine production at a properly conducted theatre,
such an idea would never occur to them at all.
[Illustration: THE ROAD TO THE TEMPLE]
Here and there, however, the unthinking globe-trotter, with more or less
the vulgar mind, will be inclined to laugh as he sees a richly-clothed
actor sweep majestically through the audience to the stage; he will
point out the prompter who never attempts to conceal himself, and the
little black-robed supers who career about the stage arranging dresses,
slipping stools under actors, and bearing away any little article that
they don't happen to want. "How funny and elementary it all is!" they
will remark; but there is nothing elementary about it at all; these
little supers who appear to them so amusing are perfect little artists,
and are absolutely necessary to ensure the success of a scene. Suppose
Danjuro, the greatest actor in Japan, appears upon the stage dressed in
a most gorgeous costume, and takes up a position before a screen which
he will probably have to retain for half an hour: these little people
must be there to see that the sweep of his dress is correct in relation
to the lines of the screen. The placing of this drapery is
elaborately rehearsed by the supers, and when they step back from their
work even the globe-trotter is bound to admit that the picture created
by Danjuro and the screen is a perfectly beautiful one, and a picture
which could not have been brought about by merely walking up and
stopping short, or by the backward kick that a leading lady gives to her
skirt. These little supers may go, come, and drift about on the stage;
they may slip props under the actors and illuminate their faces with
torches; yet the refined Japanese gentleman (and he is always an artist)
is utterly unconscious of their presence. They are dressed in black:
therefore it would be considered as the height of vulgarity in him to
see them. Indeed, the audience are in honour bound not to notice these
people, and it would be deemed in their eyes just as vulgar for you to
point out a super in the act of arranging a bit of drapery, as to enter
a temple and smell the incense there. No Japanese ever smells incense:
he is merely conscious of it. Incense is full of divine and beautiful
suggestion; but the moment you begin to vulgarise it by talking, or even
thinking, of its smell, all beauty and significance is destroyed.
Everything connected with the stage in Japan is reduced to a fine art:
the actor's walk--the dignity of it!--you would never see a man walk in
the street as he would on the stage. And then the tone of voice,
bearing, and attitude--everything about the man is changed. I remember
once in Tokio being introduced to the manager of a local theatre, whose
performance so much pleased me that I begged the privilege of making a
few studies before the play began, hinting at the same time that I
should very much like one or two of the actors to pose for me. Then this
little gentleman began to think and frown and pucker his brow, secretly
proud that an artist should want to paint his work, and also not
unwilling to make a little money. At last, after much deliberation, he
decided that I was to have the run of his theatre and ten actors for the
afternoon, charging three dollars and a half for the whole concern. This
seemed to me to be fairly reasonable; I did not know of any London
theatre that I could have hired for three dollars and a half, or even as
many pounds, and then the company consisted of ten actors who were all
artists, all loving their work as only true artists can. To be sure, it
was a suburban theatre, and the acting was not of the finest; probably
also there was a great deal of exaggeration in the poses; but still it
lent itself to decorative work, and answered my purpose to perfection.
They did not act, but merely posed to form a series of pictures, and
some of the expressions of the actors were extraordinarily grotesque,
just like a Japanese picture-book. But what struck me most of all was
the absolute autocracy of the little manager, or whatever he called
himself--the Czar of Russia or General Booth was not in it with him for
power! He threw his actors about on the stage just as an artist would
fling pigment on to a canvas; and his violent whisking of a bit of
vermilion and apple-green in against a wave was too dexterous and
masterly for anything, and called forth my unfeigned admiration.
[Illustration: THE STREET WITH THE GALLERY]
The greatest living actor at the present moment in Japan is Danjuro--in
fact, I should say that he is one of the greatest actors in the whole
world; and in order to give a true insight into the many beauties of the
Japanese drama, it seems to me that I cannot do better than describe a
day that I once spent with this great master.
I was taken to see him by Fukuchi, Japan's most eminent dramatist and
the greatest of living writers. We were shown into a small room with
spotless mats to await Danjuro's arrival, and my attention was at once
attracted towards an exquisite kakemono that hung on the wall, which was
the only decoration the room possessed. It was a picture, a masterpiece,
that seemed to suggest one of the early Italian masters; it impressed me
tremendously, and I told Fukuchi so. "Ah, I am glad!" he exclaimed, "for
Danjuro, the great master, when I told him you were coming and that you
were a painter, asked me many questions about you. He took much pains to
discover the quality of art that appealed to you, and the side of Nature
that you liked the best. He also wished to know your favourite flower,
and which kind of blossom you loved the most--whether you preferred, as
he did, the single cherry-blossom, or the double. This Danjuro was
unable to find out; if he had known he would have chosen a kakemono of
flowers for you. But I am glad you like the picture." I was amazed at
the kindness of this man Danjuro. There was no accident about this
picture that I admired so vastly: it had been chosen for a definite
reason--to give me pleasure. And I afterwards learnt that there is no
end to the amount of trouble a Japanese gentleman will take in the
choosing of the picture that is to hang in the room where you are being
entertained.
When you enter a house in Japan, the first and one idea is to give you
pleasure, and the people of the house will take elaborate pains, almost
the care that a detective will take in detecting a crime, to find out,
as delicately as possible, your taste in regard to this picture. They
will send their servant round to your hotel to find out what flower you
have expressly asked to have placed on your table, and that will be the
flower that you will find adorning either a kakemono or a vase when
entering the house of your friend.
[Illustration: SUN AND LANTERNS]
This room where Fukuchi and I were waiting looked out upon the garden--a
miniature garden, no bigger than an ordinary dining-room, yet perfectly
balanced, one that held infinite joys: there were the miniature bridges,
lakes, and gold-fish, the mountains, the valleys, and the ancient
turtles--all correct as to colour and marked by that exquisite taste
which only a Japanese landscape-gardener can display. It was a bright
sunlit day, and looking from this room with its perfect masterpiece to
the little jewel of a garden, you felt that you were living in another
world. And it was all so pure and so "right" that I began to feel
hopelessly "wrong." It seemed that I was the only blot in these perfect
surroundings. And at last I became so shy that I really didn't know what
to do with myself, and I felt that the only thing left for me was to
take off my clothes and dig a hole in the ground, and then be ashamed
that I had left my clothes behind me. However, I controlled my emotions
and waited on with Fukuchi until the sliding doors dividing us from the
adjoining room were quietly opened and Danjuro appeared. So unlike an
actor!--no moving of the eyebrows, no stroking of the hair, but just a
simple dignified gentleman, and an old gentleman, quite old. He was a
slim, spare man, very refined, with the look of a picture of Buddha by
Botticelli. The face was thin and narrow and keen; bright eyes glanced
at me from under heavy eyebrows; his manner was magnetic; and I felt at
once that he was a great artist. The way his servants saluted him! You
could see that they loved him, and yet by the reverence they showed him
he might have been a cardinal. I was at once offered exquisite
delicacies in little lacquer cups, and we all sat down, on the floor of
course, and Danjuro began to talk. One of the first things he said to
me, through Fukuchi, who spoke English perfectly, was, "I am told that I
have many qualities like your great actor Sir Henry Irving," and even as
he spoke I could trace a distinct facial likeness between the two men.
His voice was rich and powerful and his enunciation deliberate; he used
his hands quietly, and the expression varied very little except when he
was anxious to emphasise, and then the change was extraordinary, while
the expression and poses were so admirable that I could almost
understand what the man was saying.
I instinctively felt that the right thing to do was to first talk of the
kakemono, and Danjuro, seeing my genuine enthusiasm, smiled and said,
without a touch of false modesty, "Yes; it is a great masterpiece!" and
then he began to tell me about this picture, and I felt at once that
this dignified little gentleman was a true artist.
[Illustration: SUMMER AFTERNOON]
From the picture we drifted to the Drama, and Danjuro was very curious
to know something of our work in London, and now and then, as he plied
me with pertinent questions, I thought I detected a glimmer of fun
behind his inscrutable demeanour. At last the questions rained around me
so rapidly, and were so terribly to the point, that I felt thoroughly
ashamed and did not know how to answer him. I knew that he was an
artist, looking at his work from purely the artistic standpoint, and as
an artist I knew that it would be utterly impossible for him to
appreciate our Western methods: so I deftly turned the conversation by
returning the fire of questions. I had seen Danjuro in one or two scenes
in which I was greatly struck with the remarkable changes of his facial
expression. There was one scene in which Danjuro faced the audience, and
in a minute, by the complete alteration of his face, changed himself
into an entirely different man. This feat was really so remarkable
that I was anxious to know how it was done, and suggested that it might
have been accomplished by a clever make-up. "No, no!" he exclaimed. "It
is a rule of mine to use 'make-up' very rarely. For change of expression
we actors have to depend much on the muscles of our faces"; and Danjuro,
to illustrate this, quickly changed his face until it was totally
different, even to the face markings, and I should have defied Sherlock
Holmes himself to have known him to be the same man. Then I saw him act
the part of a drunken man. I have seen drunken men on the stage over and
over again, and there has always been a touch of vulgarity about them;
but this drunken man of Danjuro's was an exquisite triumph of art. I was
curious to know how he had perfected this role, and suggested that it
had perhaps been brought about through a careful study of the habits and
actions of a drunkard, using him as a model, as it were. But this
Danjuro firmly denied. "No, no, never!" he exclaimed. "I might just as
well take a drunken man and stick him on the stage, just as he is, as to
imitate any one man. That is not art: it is not a creation. I have seen
drunken men all my life, and the drunken man I represented was the
aggregate of all the drunkenness I have ever seen. Suppose by chance I
had come across a drunken man while I was developing the character, I
should perhaps have been tempted to follow that particular man too
closely, and the result would have been necessarily inartistic." And
Danjuro made it quite clear to me that when creating the character of
either a drunken man or a madman, he invariably keeps as far away from
Nature as possible. He would not proceed as some of our actors do, to
hunt about in the slums until he had found a man sufficiently drunk for
his purpose, and then copy him exactly; or, yet again, he would not have
attempted to imitate a death-bed scene by watching one particular person
die. Such a thing would appear to him as a great degradation.
Almost imperceptibly the conversation swerved round again to English
acting, and Danjuro gave me a rather humorous, though humiliating,
description of a play he had seen in Yokohama. The language was
gibberish to him, and all he could do was to study the poses of the
players, which struck him as being extremely awkward. "They suggested to
me badly modelled statues," he explained; "they never seemed to move
gracefully, and their actions were always violent and exaggerated."
This, from a Japanese, was frank criticism, for he made it quite clear
to me that he had little or no sympathy with our methods. He felt that
he was talking to an artist and that he could afford to be natural; but
after this very candid opinion there was a slight pause, which I
hastened to break by putting a question on the subject of his own drama.
[Illustration: APRICOT-BLOSSOM STREET]
The drama of Japan, he told me, was greatly improving; the actors
nowadays have chances which in the early days they had not, and it is
easier for them to create fine scenic effects. They have the chance of
studying great masterpieces at museums; they may copy costumes there,
and, above all, they have the superb opportunity of studying colour and
form. Then, many of the great Japanese actors possess collections of
very fine pictures, while the actors of early times could only study
from badly printed woodblocks which were nearly all inaccurate. Schools
for actors have been occupying his attention, and he hopes that some day
they will be established all over Japan. Actors, in his opinion, should
be taught when they are quite young the science of deportment and of
graceful movement, to be artists as well as actors, and above all to
avoid exaggeration.
Danjuro prefers as an audience the middle classes. "They are more
sympathetic," he said; "the diplomats and politicians who have come in
touch with the West, and are dressed in European dress, seem somehow to
lose sympathy with us, and are not helpful as an audience. Perhaps it is
that they can never entirely divest themselves of the sense of their own
importance."
After considering Danjuro's views concerning the Japanese drama, I was
interested to hear the views of the dramatic author, and Fukuchi and I
spent many delightful afternoons together discussing this all-absorbing
topic. "What do you claim to be the chief advantages of Japanese as
compared with European theatres?" I asked him on one occasion. "Well,"
replied Fukuchi without a moment's hesitation, "before everything else I
should place the Hanamichi (flower-paths). This is absolutely
indispensable to the Japanese stage, and allows of endless
possibilities. With it we have far greater scope for fine work, and
dramatically it is of tremendous advantage. Then there is the revolving
stage, which is a great improvement on Western mechanism, for while one
scene is being acted, another can be prepared."
On this particular afternoon the dramatist and I were sitting in Mr.
Fukuchi's own room overlooking the river with a distant view of the sea.
Books, all Japanese, were heaped up in an alcove, while the only
furniture the room possessed was a very fine kakemono and a little
narrow table. While we were talking, one of Fukuchi's little children, a
boy of eight, entered, carrying with him his collection of butterflies,
which, he thought, might chance to interest me. He showed me a catalogue
which he was preparing for them. It was so admirably compiled that it
would have been good enough for a special work on the subject.
[Illustration: OUTSIDE KIOTO]
Fukuchi's ideal actor is Danjuro, and during the conversation he was
constantly referring to him. "Of all the actors I like Danjuro the
best," he said, "because he is an artist and understands colour, besides
having a keen appreciation for harmony in the general arrangements." He
told me that Danjuro is the one actor in Japan who can take the part of
a woman to perfection. Many actors on the stage can keep the figure of a
woman for five minutes at a time, but rarely longer, so painful are the
poses, owing to the throwing back of the shoulders and the turning in
of the knees. But Danjuro can go on and on indefinitely in this role,
and so remarkable is he that even a Japanese woman is unable to detect
one false move. On one occasion, when taking this part at a theatre in
Yokohama before an audience composed chiefly of women, he happened to
make a slip and by some slight error proved himself the man. In an
instant the whole audience felt it, and the effect produced on them was
simply astounding! For once they nearly laughed, an unheard-of thing
with a Japanese audience: to see a woman turn so suddenly into a man was
too much for their equanimity.
Danjuro's finest and most artistic bit of acting is in Japan's greatest
tragedy, _The Chushingura_, in the part of Goto, who, returning to his
lord intoxicated, falls asleep by the wayside. His master, finding him,
fires off a gun close to his ear. "Most actors," said Mr. Fukuchi,
"would fall asleep with their backs to the audience, and when waking
depend upon 'make-up' for an altered expression. Danjuro sleeps with his
face to the audience, and on the gun firing wakes up with an entirely
altered expression through the contraction of the facial muscles."
I was curious to know from Fukuchi what were the duties of the
stage-manager in Japan. For some time he looked thoughtful, as though
unable to grasp my meaning. "We have no managers in Japan," he said at
length: "the play has to do with the dramatic author: it is for him to
arrange everything. He must first think out every detail, and then
consult with the chief actor and proprietor. If these disagree, the play
is not produced." Mr. Fukuchi maintained that the dramatic author must
be absolute master of the situation, interfered with by none. It would
be impossible for an actor or manager to have any conception of the
picture as a whole; therefore the dramatist must be supreme. If an actor
or an actress were permitted a choice as to the colour or form of
costumes, the work would of necessity be ruined. There is no such thing
as the leading lady insisting upon wearing a puce dress, as she does in
England or anywhere on the Continent. The manager does not know what
"puce" means, nor, probably, does the lady; but he sees no reason why
she should not wear puce if it pleases her. Accordingly puce is worn,
irrespective of scene harmony, and the lady is content. In Japan such an
occurrence would be out of the question; but our Western stage is
already such a jumble that any little eccentricity on the part of the
leading lady in favour of puce or anything else she fancies would be
scarcely noticeable.
[Illustration: A BLOND DAY]
"They tell me," put in Mr. Fukuchi, "that there are dramatic authors in
England who are not artists--that they do not all understand colour
harmonies and line. Can this be true?" I had to tell him that such men
were not uncommon with us. Fukuchi looked serious, and was silent for a
long while, meditating as to how it would be possible for a dramatic
author to produce a play without a scientific knowledge of art and
drawing. "I fail to understand this," he said after some minutes'
thought; "I cannot understand. When I have finished writing my play, and
when I have talked with the chief actor, I make my drawings myself. I
must make the pictures, and I must give careful directions to the
costumiers and the carpenters. I cannot understand how your dramatic
author does this." And the little man was genuinely perturbed.
The pictorial side of a Japanese dramatist's work interested me keenly,
and I begged Fukuchi to tell me how he, as an author, prepared his
drawings for the costumier, stage-painter, and carpenter. "Well, if you
like I will show you," he said; "I am now writing a historical play, the
scenes of which will be like this," and to my great amazement Fukuchi at
once began to draw in a rapid masterly manner the scene of a gentleman's
house and garden. No detail, however trivial, was overlooked, and the
infinite pains and care with which he executed these delightful little
drawings both astonished and charmed me. I could see at once the utter
impossibility of any one attempting to interfere with this man, who had
a complete grasp of his subject not only from the literary standpoint,
but also from the pictorial.
To give any idea of the exquisite delicacy and precision with which
these sketches of Fukuchi's were carried out, I must describe one or two
of the scenes. First of all there was the garden; this was to have on
its right a bamboo fence, a pine-tree, and a grass plot. On the left was
placed a willow-tree, and stepping-stones leading from the house to the
gate. Then the gentleman's house was to be considered. Mr. Fukuchi
decided that this was to be thatched and have a projecting floor, while
in front he placed a bamboo fence, a well, and a cluster of
chrysanthemums. "Now at the back of the house I must have a range of
mountains with autumnal tints," said Fukuchi; and no sooner said than
done--in a few minutes there stood the range of mountains with their
autumnal tints, ranging from orange to brown, noted in the margin, with
directions as to the quality of cotton cloth to be used for their
construction. Every detail in this garden scene was exact, and no one
could have altered so much as a leaf without ruining the picture. Next
Fukuchi proceeded to make for the costumier a drawing of a girl. By the
dressing of her hair the girl was shown to be not over nineteen years of
age, the ornaments being one of red and the other silver. She was to
hold a fan, and Fukuchi even decided on the colour of the fan and the
way the girl should hold it. It was to have a gold ground with a silvery
moon, light and black grass growing in white water. The lady's kimono
was of dark purple at the bottom and light purple at the top; this was
arranged purely for decorative reasons in order to harmonise with the
obi, which was black. As a rule the colours in a dress graduate from the
top downwards; but the obi looked best against the light purple, and
custom was sacrificed to art. The figures on the kimono were to be all
white with silver strings, and a delicate white wave pattern.
[Illustration: A BLIND BEGGAR]
Mr. Fukuchi next proceeded to consider the handling of historical
colour. The scene was that of a lord and his wife, the lord just setting
out for the wars and the wife seeking to detain him, holding on to his
armour. The armour is red and the clothes are indigo. These colours
being fixed historically, it was for the artist to arrange backgrounds
that should harmonise with these. In the lady alone were his artistic
tastes allowed to expand. He would have her dressed in white, with large
chrysanthemums in red, yellow, and purple tones.
These exquisitely clothed figures were to be placed before a screen,
having sea-rocks and an eagle painted on it with black ink. Yet again
another screen was to be of light brown, with glittering birds
delicately traced upon it, in order that they should not interfere with
the breadth of the whole.
"Now, Mr. Fukuchi," I said, "I can quite see that you are an artist, and
that your handling of a play from the decorative standpoint is quite
perfect. But now tell me something of your literary methods."
Then Fukuchi began by telling me that in writing a novel he wrote it as
a poem, and when writing a play he thought of it as a picture. But there
are periods in writing a novel when it in a way gets the better of him,
and develops unconsciously into a drama. Then he told me of one or two
stories he had recently published, one of which began as a novel and
ended as a play. He said he could not understand the habits of some
authors of taking down scraps of conversation, and using them for their
finished works. He himself spends his whole life listening to
conversations and studying the poses of people; but to take notes of
what they were saying would be hopeless; the notes could never be used
for fine artistic work. In planning a play he sees it as a whole, as a
series of pictures, before beginning to pen a line.
[Illustration: THE GIANT LANTERN]
I was talking to Fukuchi about realism on the stage, and he told me of
the horror they have in Japan of bringing live animals into a play; such
a thing has been attempted on one or two occasions, but always with
disastrous results. One enterprising actor, he told me, spent much time
in training a horse to take part in a very fine production at one of the
principal theatres. The horse was trained to perfection, and on the
first night that it appeared, being a novelty, it was loudly applauded;
but the lights and the confusion so terrified the poor animal that it
sat down on the stage and refused to move. Yet again another actor,
determined to outdo this former performance in originality, trained a
live monkey to take the place of the decorative pasteboard monkey which
had always been used on the stage. This animal, unlike the horse, was
trained to know the stage as well as his master's room, and grew quite
accustomed to the lights and the people surrounding him. So thoroughly
at home was this monkey that on its first appearance it swept the stage
of all the actors, caused confusion and distress among the audience--in
short, it behaved abominably, and did everything but that which it had
been so carefully trained to do. After this the pasteboard monkey
reigned supreme.
Mr. Fukuchi, although he is a brilliant English scholar and has an
intense admiration for Shakspeare's works, thoroughly realises how
impossible it would be to attempt to put Hamlet on the Japanese stage:
it would suit neither the actors nor the public.
THE LIVING ART