When I first saw the Japanese players I suddenly discovered the meaning
of Japanese art, so far as it represents human beings. You know the
scarcely human oval which represents a woman's face, with the help of a
few thin curves for eyelids and mouth. Well, that convention, as I had
always supposed it to be, that geometrical symbol of a face, turns out
to be precisely the face of the Japanese woman when she is made up. So
the monstrous entanglements of men fighting, which one sees in the
pictures, the circling of the two-handed sword, the violence of feet in
combat, are seen to be after all the natural manner of Japanese warfare.
This unrestrained energy of body comes out in the expression of every
motion. Men spit and sneeze and snuffle, without consciousness of
dignity or hardly of humanity, under the influence of fear, anger, or
astonishment. When the merchant is awaiting Shylock's knife he trembles
convulsively, continuously, from head to feet, unconscious of everything
but death. When Shylock has been thwarted, he stands puckering his face
into a thousand grimaces, like a child who has swallowed medicine. It is
the emotion of children, naked sensation, not yet clothed by
civilisation. Only the body speaks in it, the mind is absent; and the
body abandons itself completely to the animal force of its instincts.
With a great artist like Sada Yacco in the death scene of "The Geisha
and the Knight," the effect is overwhelming; the whole woman dies before
one's sight, life ebbs visibly out of cheeks and eyes and lips; it is
death as not even Sarah Bernhardt has shown us death. There are moments,
at other times and with other performers, when it is difficult not to
laugh at some cat-like or ape-like trick of these painted puppets who
talk a toneless language, breathing through their words as they whisper
or chant them. They are swathed like barbaric idols, in splendid robes
without grace; they dance with fans, with fingers, running, hopping,
lifting their feet, if they lift them, with the heavy delicacy of the
elephant; they sing in discords, striking or plucking a few hoarse notes
on stringed instruments, and beating on untuned drums. Neither they nor
their clothes have beauty, to the limited Western taste; they have
strangeness, the charm of something which seems to us capricious, almost
outside Nature. In our ignorance of their words, of what they mean to
one another, of the very way in which they see one another, we shall
best appreciate their rarity by looking on them frankly as pictures,
which we can see with all the imperfections of a Western
misunderstanding.