In Japan, as in most other highly civilised nations, the origin
and earliest developments of the art of dramatic representation
are involved in much obscurity. But, according to Baron Suyematsu,
theatrical performances began to assume their present style about three
hundred years ago. Centuries before this time, however, there were
dances accompanied by singing and instrumental music, which were for
the most part performed in the Shintō shrines. The differences between
the two principal kinds which characterised the Nara period (709-784 A.
D.) were only slight; one of them being somewhat more inclined toward
the comic and the humorous than the other. It was the elaboration
of the poetic compositions, which were adapted for accompaniments
with the Biwa, and the introduction of historical narratives, which
chiefly determined the style of the later theatrical performances. In
the Ashikaga era these dramatic performances became very popular with
the upper classes, and were patronised by the Shōgun himself. There
then not only arose a class of professional actors, but the gentry
themselves began to learn to sing and even to take pride in displaying
their dramatic talents as amateurs, in the presence of their friends.
By the more knightly of the samurai and daimyos, however, this was
justly regarded as a mark of degeneracy. But as compared with similar
epochs in other forms of the evolution of this art, there are three
things which are greatly to the credit of the Japanese. In the first
place, among the several hundred extant specimens of these ancient
plays, there is scarcely to be found, either in words or in the action,
the slightest taint of immoral suggestion; secondly, women were not
tolerated on the stage, in combined action with men. And whatever we
may think about the position of the professional actor, whether from
the moral or the social point of view, and as viewed under conditions
existing at the present time, it cannot be denied that it was to the
ethical advantage of the Feudal Era in Japan to have professional
actors excluded from so-called “good society.”
As to the literary character of the so-called Yokyoku, or written
narrative to be chanted or sung in these dramatic performances, of
which about three hundred are extant belonging to the Ashikaga period,
I am quoting the authority of Baron Suyematsu; although the numerous
examples which I have myself witnessed fully bear out his high estimate
of their literary merit. “They are not so long as are the Greek or
Roman dramas; although their construction has some similarity, for the
words uttered by the actors are not limited to dialogues but contain
descriptive parts as well. Thus when the actor representing a certain
character appears on the stage, he generally announces who he is, why
he has come there, where he is going to, and such like things. The
method of playing has a certain similarity to the modern European
opera, for the words uttered by the characters are sung and not spoken
all through. The general features of the play show that these works
were greatly influenced by Buddhism. This is due, in the first place,
to the fact that this religion exercised much influence over the mind
of the people at large; and in the second place to the fact that the
playwrights were mostly priests. From the scholastic point of view, the
sentences in these plays are not free from defects, but they are strong
in the poetical element; and some parts of these works cannot be too
highly praised. The Yokyoku and Nō” (or the acting, which was in every
minutest detail adapted to the words and strictly, even inexorably
prescribed) “may be called the classical drama of Japan. They enjoy the
favour of the upper classes even to this day, in the same manner as the
opera flourishes side by side with the ordinary theatre.”
As respects the _motif_ and the moral and religious significance and
influence of both the acting and the words, the dramas called by the
name “Nō” much more resembled the miracle plays of Mediæval Europe than
the operas of the present day. The literary merit and artistic skill in
acting of the Japanese form of the art is, however, far superior. The
Nō performances of the present day are, therefore, well deserving of
the separate consideration which they will receive in another chapter.
From the dramas composed by the Buddhist priests in times when the
philosophical and religious conceptions of Buddhism were profound,
powerful, and effective, to the Shibai or Kabuki theatres of the common
people of Japan, the descent is in every respect considerable. The
origin of these theatres was of a distinctly lower order. The Kabuki
is said to have originated in the dancing and singing of a woman
named Kuni, performed among other shows on a rude stage on the river
side at Kyoto. While, then, the actors in Nō often commanded a high
personal regard and were admitted into the houses of the nobility, the
actors in the popular theatres were held in very low esteem and were
ostracised on both moral and social grounds. In the earlier period
of its development, the actors in the Kabuki were chiefly women, who
played the male as well as the female characters. Afterwards boys and
even grown-up men were introduced; but the social evil resulting was,
as is almost sure to be the case among all peoples and at all times, so
extreme, that the Government intervened and the practice was forbidden
by law. From that period onward the profession of acting became
confined almost exclusively to men; although, as time went on, women
began to act again, but only in companies formed of their own sex.
The so-called Shibai was a marionette performance, a kind of dramatic
art in which the Japanese attained a high degree of skill. It is,
indeed, well worth the time of the modern tourist, if he can secure
the sight of some of the best-class of these puppet-shows. Even the
inferior ones may afford the intelligent foreign observer no little
insight into certain characteristics of the Japanese populace. “In
the beginning,” says Baron Suyematsu, “there were no professional
playwrights. Plays were chiefly written by actors or some one who took
an interest in the matter; and further, plays were even devised by the
actors impromptu and not written at all. Later on, the stage began to
have professional playwrights attached to each theatre. Unlike the
drama in Europe, these plays were never printed for public circulation,
but used only for acting at the time, and were often written more to
suit the performers than for literary excellence. And again when an
old play was acted, it was often subjected to alteration for similar
purposes; in other words, the _dramatis personæ_ are often reduced or
increased in number, to suit the number or ability of the actors. And,
therefore, the texts of the Kabuki have not much literary merit. Though
it may look somewhat strange, it is in the plays of the marionette
theatres that we must seek the equivalent of the European drama. The
marionette performance originated about the same time as the Kabuki.
Previously, there had been a particular kind of chanted narrative, the
Jōruri, which name is said to have come into use in a long chanting
song consisting of twelve sections, and telling of a love story
between Yoshitsune and a maiden named Jorurihime. This was written
by a lady and was entitled ‘Jorurihime.’ Subsequently, many works
of similar nature were written. And the introduction of the Samisen
(a three-stringed musical instrument) gave much impulse to their
development. To the chanting of these songs the marionette performances
were added. Various styles of chanting were also gradually introduced.”
In a word, the dramatic performances of Japan have come to be divided
largely according to the distinction of classes. Or, to quote the
distinguished authority of Professor Tsubuchi: “The characteristics of
these forms of entertainment may be summed up by saying that, while the
Nō is refined, but monotonous and unexciting, the _Joruri_ and _Kabuki_
are coarse and vulgar, but rich in incident and passion.”
The didactic and moral elements, which were, together with the
historical narratives and incidents that embodied and illustrated
them, the principal factors in the development of the Japanese drama,
are derived from the native form taken by the ethical and political
doctrines of Confucianism. The central and dominant principle of these
doctrines is the virtue of fidelity, or loyalty. So overpowering has
been the influence of this principle upon the popular drama in Japan,
and through the drama upon the opinions and practices of the people
at large, that it is difficult for the foreigner to understand or
to appreciate the Japanese without some acquaintance with this form
of their artistic development. In the actual working out of this
principle, there have been, as might reasonably be expected, some
good as well as some evil results. There can be little doubt of the
truthfulness of the opinion of my missionary friend, Doctor De F----,
that the popular theatre exercised a very powerful influence on the
preparation of the nation for the Russo-Japanese war, by way of
inspiring the lower orders of the people with that spirit of unstinted
and unquestioning loyalty, which was one of the chief elements
contributing to their success. It should also be said that, although
the Japanese stage treats the relations of the sexes, both legitimate
and illicit, with a frankness which would scarcely be tolerated in the
most “corrupt” of our modern cities among the Western nations, from
the native point of view this treatment is quite free from any obscene
reference or salacious tendency. Indeed, the old-fashioned Confucian
ethics did not make the relations of the sexes a matter of much moral
concernment, except where these relations came under the dominant
principle of loyalty. I have already said that the dramatic art of
Nō is absolutely pure in this regard. It seems to me, therefore,
that, on the whole, the popular theatre in Japan, in spite of much
vulgarity and even obscenity, has been appreciably superior to the
theatre in Europe and America, with respect to its influence upon
the lowering of the standard of sexual purity, both in theory and in
practice. The same praise cannot, however, be given to it in certain
other important respects. For the moral principle of loyalty itself has
been so narrowly conceived, and so intensely and passionately put into
unreasoning practice, as to obscure in thought and confuse or destroy
in conduct, other equally important and sacred virtues and duties of
our mixed human life.
The development of the popular drama, under the influences just
cited, has been going on for several centuries. And now, even the
Japanese Kabuki theatres are usually well provided with stage scenery
and properties of all the various kinds in use in our theatres. One
arrangement in which they excel our theatres is the revolving centre
to the stage,--a contrivance which allows the stage management to
carry away an entire scene at once--actors, scenery, and all--and to
replace it with something entirely new, without a moment’s waiting.
Various modifications derived from the form of the dramas and the
theatres of Western nations have also been introduced into some
of the dramatic art and dramatic performances of the New Japan. At
my last visit, there was even a proposal maturing to build a large
theatre in Tokyo of thoroughly foreign construction, and presumably
for acting plays composed by Japanese authors largely in the foreign
style. But I choose to abide with the hope expressed by Mr. Basil
Hall Chamberlain, “that the Japanese stage may remain what it now
is,--a mirror, the only mirror, of Old Japan.” And it is because I
have myself looked into that mirror, through eyes that were friendly
and intelligent by reason of long and intimate acquaintance with the
mental and moral characteristics and inner life of the people, and have
had the advantage of intelligent and sympathetic, but unprejudiced
interpretation by native friends, on the spot, that I venture with
considerable confidence to add some narrative of personal experiences
to illustrate and enforce what has been already said in a more general
way. At some time in my several visits, I have, I believe, had the
opportunity to study every one of the principal existing styles of
Japanese dramatic art.
The first opportunity afforded me to see a specimen of Japanese
dramatic representation was at the close of my lectures at Doshisha,
in the summer of 1892. The entertainment was the accompaniment and
the sequel to a dinner given to me by the President, Trustees, and
Professors of the Institution, in recognition of the service which
had been rendered to it. Everything was arranged and conducted in
purely native style. By taking down the paper partitions, the entire
second story of one of the largest native hotels had been thrown
into one apartment. The ladies and gentlemen greeted each other by
repeated bowing as they hitched themselves along the matted floor,
nearer and nearer to each other. The placing of the guests was
carefully ordered, with the principal guest in the centre of one end
of the hall and the others, in accordance with their varied claims
to distinction, on either side of him along the end and part way
down the sides of the apartment. Thus all were seated on the floor,
in the form of three sides of a hollow square. At the other end were
two or three screens, behind which the actors could retire for the
necessary changes of apparel or for resting between the several short
plays which they performed during the evening. There was no scenery,
except such as the descriptions of the actors led the audience to
create in imagination. The orchestra consisted of two players upon
the _Koto_ (a sort of lyre or weak horizontal harp, which was evolved
from Chinese models and perfected in the first half of the seventeenth
century, and which is the most highly esteemed of the Japanese musical
instruments); and three _Samisens_, or banjos,--an instrument now much
favoured by the singing girls and by the lower classes generally. The
players, with one exception, were girls; and all but one of them were
blind. Acting, costumes, language, music, and all, were in the most
old-fashioned style; and, indeed, the most learned of my friends among
the professional staff had no small difficulty in understanding for
themselves, not to speak of interpreting for another, what the actors
said. In a word the entire entertainment was as nearly a faithful
reproduction of a similar function in the castle of a Daimyō of three
hundred years ago as the surroundings of a modern native tea-house made
it possible to procure.
A word as to the characteristics of the native music, such as I first
heard on this occasion but have frequently heard since, will assist to
a better understanding of the Japanese dramatic art, in connection with
which it is used either as interlude or accompaniment;--or perhaps,
more often, as an essential factor. In its origin, it is plainly, to a
very large extent, imitative of natural sounds. And since the native
scale is pentatonic, and handled with the greatest freedom by the
performer, who feels under no sort of obligation to keep strictly to
it, the whole effect is wonderfully well adapted for awakening those
vague and unclassifiable sentiments which correspond to some of the
more obvious of natural phenomena. For this reason the more celebrated
of the older musical compositions bear names descriptive of processes
or events in nature which are adapted to appeal to the more common, if
the weaker and less sublimely worthy, of the emotions of man that are
sympathetic with external nature. One of the compositions played at
this time was descriptive of the four seasons, beginning with Winter.
Subsequently, while being entertained at luncheon by Count Matsudaira,
we heard played in the best native style, a piece entitled “The Flight
of the Cranes,” and a sort of musical lament or dirge over “A Pine
Tree, Uprooted and Fallen in a Storm.” Still other instances will be
referred to in another connection. At this first visit, and even after
I had attended the annual Exhibition of The Imperial School of Music,
I was in despair over the ability of the Japanese to learn the art of
music as it has developed so wonderfully in modern Europe; until I
attended the services of the Greek Cathedral in Tokyo, and listened to
the superb chanting of the Japanese men as they had been trained by the
Russian priests. And at my last visit I found how great progress the
nation has been making in the art of music as a development all the
more glorious and uplifting to the spirit of man, when set free from
its ancient partnership with the dramatic art.
The pieces acted on this occasion were selections from the Kyogen, or
comediettas, which were interspersed between the serious pieces of the
Nō, as a foil to their severity. The fun of these plays is entirely
free from any vulgarity or taint of lasciviousness; but it is so
broad and simple as often to seem childish to the mind of the modern
foreigner. To appreciate them it is necessary to remember that they
were composed for the common apprehension, as mild jokes or satires
upon the foibles of the different classes represented on the stage in
the earlier period of its development. The language in which they are
delivered is old-fashioned colloquial.
To give a few examples: In an interview between a Daimyō and his
confidential helper, or steward, the former is complaining that he
can get nothing properly done; and that, therefore, it is absolutely
necessary for him to be provided with a larger number of servants. He
suggests about one thousand as the requisite number; but the steward
succeeds in getting his master to reduce the number to fifty. The
first applicant for service is a so-called “musquito-devil,” who is
thrown into violent convulsions by the offer to employ him to water the
garden! On being questioned as to what he can do, he responds that he
can wrestle. When the steward declines to wrestle with the new servant,
and the master is not satisfied to employ him to “wrestle alone,” the
master himself undertakes a match with the musquito-devil; and he is
easily worsted. He then consults apart with his steward, who tells him
that musquitoes cannot bear the wind, and that he himself will stand
ready to assist his master with a fan. At the next bout, accordingly,
the musquito-devil is sent whirling off the stage, behind the screens,
by the blasts of the steward’s fan.
Another of these comediettas represented an old woman and her nephew
in angry conversation. She is scolding him for his idle, spendthrift
ways; and he is accusing her of a mean penuriousness in not allowing
him enough spending money. As a result of the quarrel, he goes off,
leaving her with a warning that an ugly devil has been seen in the
neighbourhood and that she may receive a visit from him. After the
departure of the nephew, the old woman locks the house carefully and
retires. There soon comes a rap on the door,--and “Who is there?” The
voice of the nephew replies, asking to be let into the house; but when
the door is opened, a devil enters with his features concealed behind a
horrible mask. The old woman pleads piteously for mercy, but is finally
induced to surrender the key of the store-room where the saké is kept.
She then draws aside to bury her face in her hands and to pray,--being
assured that if she once looks up, she will be struck dead with the
look. Whereupon the scamp of a nephew proceeds to get drunk; and being
discovered and recognised in this helpless condition, he receives from
his outraged aunt the beating which he so richly deserves.
Still another of these childish comedies represented two rival quacks,
who were boasting the merits of their sticking-plaster. One of these
plasters would draw iron, and the other would draw horses. Then
followed various contests between the two rivals, with “straight pull,”
“sideways pull,” “screw pull,” etc.
My next experience with the Japanese theatre was of a quite different
order, but equally interesting and equally instructive. It was gained
by attending an all-day performance in one of the Kabuki theatres in
Tokyo, where a play designed to celebrate the old-fashioned Samurai
virtue of fidelity was having a great run, in spite of the extreme heat
of a hot July. The audiences were composed of the middle and lower
artisan, and other socially similar classes. It was not to be expected,
therefore, that the version of Bushidō which appealed to them, and
which won their enthusiastic applause, would correspond throughout
to the admirable description of this “spirit of the knight” as given
in the book of Professor Nitobé on this subject. And, in fact, the
play gave a representation of this most highly prized of the Japanese
virtues corresponding, in its substantial delineation and literary
style, to that which would be given of the most distinctive virtues of
our so-called Christian civilisation, on the stage of any one of the
theatres of the “Bowery” in New York City.
The theatre was a large barn-like structure; and it was filled with
an audience who sat in its boxes, or small, square divisions marked
off by narrow boards, where they arranged themselves for the most part
as they were assorted by domestic or friendly ties. Although they
obviously kept fully aware of what was going on upon the stage, and
at times seemed to look and to listen intently, or to break forth into
irrepressible applause, the most exciting scenes did not appear greatly
to interrupt their incessant smoking and indulgence in various kinds of
cheap drinks and eatables. Incessant tea-drinking went on as a matter
of course.
The principal play on this occasion celebrated the daring and
unflinching loyalty of a confidential servant to his Samurai master.
The purposes of the master were by no means wholly honourable as
judged by our Western standards of morals; and the means contrived
by the servant for carrying out these purposes were distinctly less
so. Especially was this true of the heartless and base way in which
the servant, in furtherance of his master’s interests, treated the
daughter of his master’s enemy, who had trusted him with her love and
her honour. I am sure that for _this sort of behaviour_ the rascal
would have been hissed off the stage of even the lowest of the Bowery
theatres. But when he was detected and caught by the father of the
girl, the servant who was so despicably base toward others, remained
still so splendidly loyal to his master, that the climax of the entire
drama was reached and successfully passed in a way to astonish and
disgust the average audience in Western and Christian lands. For he
cheerfully bares his neck and, kneeling, stretches it out to catch
fully the blow of the father’s sword,--protesting that he esteems it
an honour and a joy to die in this honourable manner for his lord and
master. So impressed, however, is the would-be executioner with the
rascal’s splendid exhibition of the noblest of all the virtues, that
he raises the betrayer of his daughter from his knees, pardons him,
praises him unstintedly for his honourable excellence, makes peace
with the servant’s master, and gladly bestows upon the servant his own
beloved daughter in honourable marriage.
As I have already said, it was undoubtedly the influence of such
dramas which helped to keep alive the extreme and distorted views
of the supreme excellence of loyalty as a virtue, in the narrower
significance of the terms, that went far toward securing the remarkable
character for self-sacrificing courage and endurance of the Japanese
private soldier during the late war with Russia. It would not be
fair, however, to infer from this, or other similar experiences, the
inferiority of the Japanese as a race in either ethical maxims or moral
practice. For, has not an extravagant and perverted conception of the
Christian virtue of “love” served in Occidental lands to obscure and
overshadow the even more fundamental virtues of courage, endurance,
and a certain necessary and divine sternness of justice? And, with all
its restrictions and deficiencies, the Japanese Bushidō has hitherto
resisted the temptations to avarice and a selfish indulgence in luxury,
on the whole, rather better than anything which these Western nations
have been able to make effective in its stead. But when Japan gets as
far away from the Knightly spirit of Feudalism as we have for a long
time been, its moral doctrines and practices of the older period are
likely to undergo changes equally notable with those which have taken
place in Europe since feudal times prevailed there.
It was not until my second visit, in 1899, that I enjoyed the
opportunity of seeing Japan’s then most celebrated actor, Ichikawa
Danjuro. “Danjuro” is the name of a family that has been eminent in the
line of histrionic ability for nine or ten generations. Ichikawa, of
that name, was especially remarkable for combining the several kinds of
excellence demanded of the actor by Japanese dramatic art. He had very
uncommon histrionic power; even down to his old age he was able almost
equally well to take all kinds of parts, including those of women and
boys; and he had “marvellous agility as a dancer.” As respects his
ideals and characteristic style--making due allowance for the wide
differences in language and in the traditions and requirements of the
stage in the two countries--Danjuro has been called “The Irving of
Japan,” not altogether unaptly.
On this occasion I had not my usual good fortune of being in the
company of an intelligent and ready interpreter, who could follow
faithfully and sympathetically, but critically, every detail of the
scenery and the wording of the plays, as well as of the performance of
the actors. But the two of the three plays in which Danjuro took part,
between the rising of the curtain at eleven o’clock and our departure
from the theatre at about four in the afternoon, were quite sufficient
to impress me with the high quality of his acting. I need scarcely say
that he gave me that impression of reserve power and of naturalness
which only the greatest of artists can make. But, indeed, _reserve_,
and the suggestiveness which goes with it and is so greatly intensified
by it, is a chief characteristic of all the best works of every kind of
Oriental art.
It was a still different exhibition of Japanese histrionic skill which
I witnessed on the afternoon and evening of October 15, 1906. In the
most fashionable theatre of Tokyo a Japanese paraphrase of Sardou’s
“La Patrie” was being given by native actors. It was in every way a
most ambitious and even daring attempt to adopt outright rather than
to adapt, foreign dramatic models, in all their elaborate details. How
far would it be--indeed, how far could it be--successful? I could see
and judge for myself; since I was to have the best of interpreters.
The advertised time for the rising of the curtain was five o’clock;
but the actual time was a full half-hour later. The entire performance
lasted for somewhat more than five hours. The scenery and stage
settings were excellent. The scene of the meeting of the Prince of
Orange and the Count of Flanders in the woods by moonlight was as
artistically charming and beautiful a picture as could be set upon
the stage anywhere in the world. Much of the acting, considering the
difficulty of translating the _motifs_ and the language, was fairly
creditable; but the Japanese have yet a great deal to learn before they
can acquire the best Western and modern style of the dramatic art.
Indeed, why should they try? The stilted stage-manners of their own
actors in the past, and the extravagance of posturing and gesturing for
the expression of strong emotions, still hamper them greatly in this
effort. Why then should they spend time and money on the attempt at
this reproduction of foreign models, rather than in the reproduction
and development of the best of their own dramatic art? Certainly,
artistic success in such an endeavour, even if it could easily be
attained, could not have the same influence upon the conservation of
the national virtues which have distinguished their past that might
reasonably be hoped for by a more strictly conservative course. As a
piece of acting the attempt to reproduce the French play was a failure.
The performance of the drama was followed by a very clever farce called
“The Modern Othello,” which was written by a business man of Tokyo, a
friend of our host on this occasion.
For witnessing the latest developments of the highest-class dramatic
art of Japan, it was a rare opportunity which was afforded by a series
of performances lasting through an entire fortnight in November
of 1906. The occasion was a “Memorial,” or “Actor’s Benefit,”
commemorative of the life-work of Kan-ya Morita, who, in a manner
similar to the late John Augustin Daly, had devoted himself to the
improvement and elevation of the theatre. All the best actors in Tokyo,
including the two sons of Morita, took part in these performances,
which consisted of selected portions of the very best style of the
dramas of Old Japan. I cannot, therefore, give a more graphic picture
of what this art actually is, and what it effects by way of influence
upon the audience, than to recite with some detail our experiences as
members of a theatre party for one of these all-day performances.
A former pupil of mine and his wife were the hosts, and the other
guests, besides my wife and myself, were Minister and Madam U----,
and Professor and Mrs. U----. Since we were the only foreigners among
the members of the party, our hostess came to conduct us to the
tea-house, through which, according to the established custom, all
the arrangements for tickets, reserved seats, cushions, hibachis,
refreshments, and attendance, had been made. There we met the husband,
who had come from his place of business; and after having tea together,
we left our wraps and shoes at the tea-house, and, being provided
with sandals, we shuffled in them across the street into the theatre.
Four of the best boxes in the gallery, from which a better view
of the stage can be obtained than from the floor, had been thrown
into one by removing the partitions of boards; and every possible
provision had been made for the comfort of the foreigners, who find
it much more difficult than do those to the manner born to sit all
day upon the floor with their legs curled up beneath them. The native
audience--and only a very few foreigners were present--was obviously
of the highest class, and was in general thoroughly acquainted with
the myths, traditions, and histories, which were to be given dramatic
representation. As the event abundantly showed, they were prepared to
respond freely with the appropriate expressions of sentiment. It is an
interesting fact that Japanese gentlemen and ladies, whom no amount
of personal grief or loss could move to tears or other expressions of
suffering in public, are not ashamed to be seen at the theatre weeping
copiously over the misfortunes and sorrows of the mythical divinities,
or the heroes of their own nation’s past history.
The curtain rose at about eleven o’clock; and the first play was a
scene from an old Chinese novel, and bore the name “zakwan-ji.” It
represented three strong men who, meeting in the night, begin to fight
with one another. Snow falls, while the battle grows more fierce.
Two of the men are defeated; and the victor, in his arrogance, then
attacks the door of a shrine near by. But the spirit of the enshrined
hero appears and engages the victor of the other men in combat. Of
course, the mere mortal is easily overcome by his supernatural foe;
but when he yields, all parties speedily become friends. The acting
was very spirited and impressionistic; but no words were spoken by the
actors. The story was, however, sung by a “chorus” consisting of a
single very fat man, who sat in a box above the stage; but the language
was so archaic that even our learned friend, the professor, could not
understand much of it.
The second play was a version of the celebrated story of the Giant
Benkei and the warrior Yoshitsune. It differed materially from the
version given by Captain Brinkley in his admirable work on Japan. In
this scene, when Yoshitsune and Benkei have arrived at the “barrier,”
disguised as travelling priests, and are discussing the best means
of procedure, three country children appear with baskets and rakes
to gather pine leaves. On seeing the priests, the children warn them
that yesterday and the day before two parties of priests have been
killed by the soldiers at the barrier, on suspicion of their being
Yoshitsune and his followers in disguise. Benkei then comes forward
and asks of the boys the road the travellers ought to take. In very
graceful dances and songs the children give a poetical description of
this road. Benkei then takes an affectionate leave of his master, and
goes up to the gate to ask for passports of its guardian. It is agreed
that the signal for danger shall be one sound of Benkei’s horn; but
that if the horn is sounded three times, it shall mean “good news.”
Soon the horn is sounded once, and Yoshitsune rushes to the rescue of
his faithful attendant. At this point the stage revolves, and the next
scene presents the guardian of the gate seated in his house, while in
the foreground Benkei is being tortured to make him confess. Yoshitsune
attempts to rescue Benkei, but the latter prevents his master from
disclosing his identity. The guardian, however, suspects the truth; but
since he is secretly in favour of Yoshitsune, he releases Benkei, and
after some hesitation grants the coveted passports and sends the whole
party on their way.
The third play, like the first, was also Chinese; it was, however,
much more elaborate. A Tartar General, while in Japan, has married a
beautiful Japanese girl, and has taken her back with him to live in
China. After a great battle the General returns to his home, and an old
woman among the captives is introduced upon the stage to plead for the
release of her son, a Captain in the Japanese army, who had also been
taken captive. The old woman proves to be the step-mother of the young
wife and the Japanese Captain is her brother. When the wife recognises
her mother, she is much overcome, and joins in pleading for the life
of both the captives. The husband becomes very angry and threatens to
kill both mother and daughter; but the mother, although her arms are
bound, throws herself before him and saves her daughter. The daughter
then goes to her room, and according to a prearranged signal with her
brother, opens a vein and pours the blood into a small stream that runs
below. The brother, who is in waiting on a bridge over the stream,
sees the signal and hurries to the rescue of his sister. He reaches
the palace and compels the men on guard to carry his sword within; it
requires eight men to accomplish this stupendous task, so exceedingly
strong is the swordsman! He overcomes the Tartar General and gets
himself crowned Emperor; but he comes out of the palace in time to see
his sister die of her self-inflicted wound. The aged mother, thinking
it would be dishonourable to allow her step-daughter to make the only
great sacrifice, stabs herself and dies to the sound of doleful music
long drawn-out.
During the intermission which followed this impressive but crudely
conceived and childish tragedy, we enjoyed an excellent Japanese
luncheon in the tea-house near by.
When the curtain rose for the next performance, it disclosed a row
of ten or twelve actors clothed in sombre Japanese dress, all on
their knees, who proceeded to deliver short speeches eulogistic of
the deceased actor in whose memory this series of plays was being
performed. The next play represented Tametomo, one of the twenty-three
sons of a famous Minamoto warrior, who with his concubine, three
sons, his confidential servant, and some other followers, had been
banished to an island off the coast of Japan. The astrologers had
prophesied that he and his oldest son would die; but that his second
son would become the head of a large and powerful family. Not wishing
his future heir to grow up on the barren island, he manages to get a
letter to a powerful friend on the mainland, who promises that if the
boy is sent to him, he will treat him as his own son and educate him
for the important position which he is destined to fill in the world.
But the father does not wish to disclose his plan to the rest of the
family. He therefore bids the two older boys make a very large and
strong kite; and when it is finished and brought with great pride to
show to the father, he praises the workmanship of both, but calls the
younger of the two into the house and presents him with a flute. The
child is much pleased with the gift and at once runs away to show it
to his brother, but stumbles and falls at the foot of the steps and
breaks the flute. This is considered a very ill omen, and Tametomo
pretends to be very angry and threatens to kill his son. The mother,
the old servant, and the other children plead for the life of the boy;
and at last the father says that he will spare his son, but since he
can no longer remain with the rest of the family, he will bind him to
the kite and send him to the mainland. A handkerchief is then tied
over the boy’s mouth and he is bound to the huge kite and carried by
several men to the seashore. Then follows a highly emotional scene,
in which the mother and brothers bewail the fate of the boy and
rebuke the hard-hearted father. The wind is strong, and all watch the
kite eagerly; while the father reveals his true motive for sending
away his son, and the youngest of the brothers, a babe of four years
old, engages in prayer to the gods for the saving of his brother.
The servant announces that the kite has reached the shore; and soon
the signal fire is seen to tell that the boy is safe. Tametomo then
assures his wife that the lives of the family are in danger from the
enemy, whose boats are seen approaching the island. At this the wife
bids farewell to her husband and takes the two children away to kill
them, with herself, before they fall into the hands of the enemy.
Tametomo shoots an arrow at one of the boats, which kills its man; but
the others press forward, and just as they are about to disembark on
the island the curtain falls.
On this lengthy and diversified programme there follows next a
selection of some of the most celebrated of dramatic dances. The first
of these was “The Red and White Lion Dance.” Two dancers with lion
masks and huge red and white manes trailing behind them on the floor,
went through a wild dance to represent the fury of these beasts. The
platforms on which they rested were decorated with red and white
tree-peonies; for lions and peonies are always associated ideas in the
minds of the Japanese. Another graceful dance followed, in which the
dancers, instead of wearing large masks, carried small lion heads with
trailing hair, over the right hand. The masks of these dancers had
small bells, which, as they danced, tinkled and blended their sound
with the music of the chorus. Then came a comic dance, in which two
priests of rival sects exhibited their skill,--one of them beating a
small drum, while his rival emphasised his chant by striking a metal
gong.
The seventh number on the programme was very tragic, and drew tears and
sobbing from the larger part of the audience, so intensely inspired
was it with the “Bushidō,” and so pathetically did it set forth this
spirit. Tokishime, a daughter of the Hōjō Shōgun, is betrothed to
Miura-no-Suké. The young woman goes to stay with the aged mother of
her lover, while he is away in battle. The mother is very ill, and
the son, after being wounded, returns home to see his mother once
more before she dies. The mother from her room hears her son’s return
and denounces his disloyal act in leaving the field of battle even to
bid her farewell; she also sternly forbids him to enter her room to
speak to her. The young man, much overcome, turns to leave, when his
_fiancée_ discovers that his helmet is filled with precious incense,
in preparation for death. She implores him to return to his home for
the night only, pleading that so short a time can make no difference.
When they reach the house, a messenger from her father in Kamakura
presents her with a short sword and with her father’s orders to use
it in killing her lover’s mother, who is the suspected cause of the
son’s treachery. Then ensues one of those struggles which, among all
morally developed peoples, and in all eras of the world’s history,
furnish the essentials of the highest forms of human tragedy. Such was
the moral conflict which Sophocles set forth in so moving form in his
immortal tragedy of “Antigone.” The poor girl suffers all the tortures
of a fierce contention between loyalty and the duty of obedience to her
father and her love for her betrothed husband; who, when he learns of
the message, demands in turn that the girl go and kill her own father.
The daughter, knowing her father to be a tyrant and the enemy of his
country, at last decides in favour of her lover, and resolves to go to
Kamakura and commit the awful crime of fratricide. After which she will
expiate it by suicide.
The closing performance of the entire day was a spectacle rather
than a play. It represented the ancient myth of the Sun-goddess, who
became angry and shut herself up in a cave, leaving the whole world in
darkness and in sorrow. All the lesser gods and their priests assembled
before the closed mouth of the cave and sang enticing songs and danced,
in the hope of inducing the enraged goddess to come forth. But all
their efforts were in vain. At last, by means of the magic mirror and
a most extraordinarily beautiful dance, as the cock crows, the cave is
opened by the power of the strong god, _Tajikara-o-no-miko-to_; and the
goddess once more sheds her light upon the world.
At the close of this entire day of rarely instructive entertainment
it remained only to pick at a delicious supper of fried eels and rice
before retiring,--well spent indeed, but the better informed as to the
national spirit which framed the dramatic art of the Old Japan. It is
in the hope that the reader’s impressions may in some respect resemble
my own that I have described with so much detail this experience at a
Japanese theatre of the highest class.