KABUKI AUDIENCES
An indescribable din, thoroughly characteristic of the atmosphere of
shibai,—that forms part of the pleasure of theatre-going,—is composed
of a hubbub of voices, the clatter of tea-cups, the twang of the
samisen, the thunder of big drums, the cries of the vendors selling
pots of hot tea, rice-cakes, or oranges to customers in the back seats
of the gallery, and the metallic click-clack of the hyoshigi, or wooden
clappers, that signal the beginning or end of the curtain.
Long before the playgoers begin to arrive, heavy, scattered drum-beats
echo through the vacant theatre. This is a reminder of the old days
when the drummer stationed in the yagura, or drum-tower, beat his
tattoo to announce the opening of shibai, and to hasten the people on
their way.
By the time the dekata, or ushers, are bustling about showing the
people to their places, the great drum sounds with slow, regular
rhythms. A flute begins to shrill, weaving an intricate maze about the
deep-toned measures. Next the light, staccato beats of a Nō drum are
added to the medley of sounds which, becoming faster and faster, seems
to anticipate the thrilling and brilliant scenes that are about to be
represented on the stage.
The drummers cease their clamour abruptly, and there succeeds a quiet
space broken by the noise of the stage carpenter’s hammer, and the
calls of stage hands. Soon the pit is densely packed, the people
kneeling down on their cushions in the little square boxes that
hold no more than four with comfort. The galleries facing the stage,
and to right and left, hung with many lanterns and covered with scarlet
cloth, begin to fill.
Increasing the animation of the scene are the changing curtains of rich
satins or crepes embroidered or dyed with gay designs, presentation
gifts to the actor, symbolising his rank, rôles, or ancestry, that are
drawn aside one after the other. The many-coloured kimono and gold and
silver obi worn by the fair sex heighten the brightness of the picture.
Deluges of rain do not prevent people from crowding to the theatre, for
when ordinary pursuits are interfered with the whole day may be given
up to seeing the plays and enjoying the hospitality of shibai.
Should a typhoon be raging, the chaya, or tea-house, presents a lively
scene; every second a dozen dripping, two-wheeled kuruma arrive, the
short oilskin coats of the pullers streaming with water, their bare
legs splashed with mud, as they unbutton the flaps of the hooded
vehicles that old, fat dowagers, charming wives, white-haired old
gentlemen wearing silk skirts, and geisha, immaculate of toilet, may
emerge, only to be succeeded by an endless variety of persons bent on
relieving the monotony of the day by a visit to shibai.
Within the chaya, the wide cement entrance floor is quickly covered
by a mountain of geta, or clogs, and dripping oiled-paper umbrellas,
all thrown together in what seems utter confusion, were it not for the
wooden identification tags.
Servants add to the pandemonium by running in all directions calling
out loudly as they take the honourable guests’ hats and overcoats,
or escort them to their places within the theatre, while crowds of
apple-cheeked country maids struggle valiantly to fill innumerable blue
and white teapots, disputing with each other as to the destination of
these indispensables, arranging them on trays, or filling them by
dipping up the boiling water from a huge brass kettle over the charcoal
fire let down in the floor.
Outside, the red and white paper lanterns decorating the under-eaves of
the tea-house blow about wetly, and a fusillade of vertical rain falls
unceasingly upon the grey mud of the street.
From street to seat, and a new world appears, the audience kneeling
down on the cushions of the small boxes, packed in like sardines in
the narrow confines—faces, faces everywhere, from the patient standing
people of the highest gallery to the close-set heads of the first row
in the pit. Immediately, the piles of clogs and soggy umbrellas that
must be sorted out before the dispersal of the audience, the blustering
gale without, even the deafening roar of the unceasing rain upon the
roof of the theatre are forgotten, as attention is focussed upon the
vivid characters of the Kabuki plays.
Or to leave the dusty, traffic-worn city in the yellow glare of noon,
and entering the chaya become lost in Kabuki’s dreamland, is a pleasant
sensation. The old world wags. Afternoon gives place to evening,
and by the time the playgoer issues forth again into the sphere of
actualities, a chorus of thanks from the tea-house attendants for his
coming sounding in his ears, the stars are bright in the canopy of
darkness.
At the time of O-Kuni, the founder of Kabuki, shibai meant to sit on
the grass or earth, and something of its out-of-door origin still
remains. The buildings never at any time give the impression that the
play is being enacted in some stuffy, mouldy subterranean cavern.
Especially in hot weather the audience has a sense of airiness and
freedom.
Going to the theatre in midsummer is made agreeable and comfortable.
White curtains cover the galleries; the audience is clothed for the
most part in cool, white cotton kimono, and the entire auditorium is
a-flutter with white fans. The playgoer may look away from the stage
and rest his eyes by the sight of a moonlit sky, even bats and
moths venturing in from their night resting-places, attracted by the
bright interior.
Sunlight slants through the audience and falls on the upturned faces
in the pit, and is reflected in the well-oiled and perfectly arranged
coiffure of the Japanese woman. Patches of brilliant sunshine stray
upon the stage, touching a golden screen or sumptuous costume. The wind
blows, moving the fragile paper lanterns suspended from the galleries
or in rows over the stage, shibai’s most characteristic decoration.
The heads of the kneeling people in the galleries are outlined against
an open space of blue sky, trees, and roofs. Afternoon fades, and
the background behind the playgoers changes to dark blue velvet
imperceptibly melting into the blackness of night as the play proceeds.
For summer audiences suggestions of coolness are made. In a certain
scene gold screens will be used, on which are painted pine-clad
islands, blue water, and white waves. When that mysterious sea of faces
upon which the actor plays is one fluttering mass of paper fans, then
the taste inclines to realistic typhoons with thunder and lightning
and real rain, that splashes all over the stage, or there is shown an
under-the-ocean scene in which fish and mermaids disport themselves.
Should a piece with the savour of the sea be given, a curtain is
suspended from the galleries showing blue waves on white, and creepy
ghost plays are a cooling influence when it is necessary to forget the
hot clamminess of the streets.
In winter, however, the near-to-nature aspect of shibai is not
conducive to comfort. Then it is necessary to sit on the feet to keep
them warm, and the chill air blows through chinks and cracks. The only
heat provided is a small porcelain vessel filled with charcoal embers
placed in a box that has an aperture in the top, while over the whole
is placed a wadded covering—a hand-warmer that theatre-goers could not
very well do without.
But if there is signal neglect of creature comforts in the
winter shibai, there are compensations. There is no lack of warm
food and beverages to suit the taste of the most fastidious. During
the intervals between plays the people promenade along the corridors
and purchase souvenirs at the stalls, where many tempting wares are
displayed to view. An air of enjoyment and pleasure pervades the
atmosphere.
April is still, as it was in the old days, the gayest and most
attractive month for playgoers. Thousands of provincials flock to Tokyo
and Osaka, and the theatres vie with each other to provide the most
attractive programmes. Artificial cherry blossoms form the decorations
outside the theatres, and the stage shows some special arrangement of
these flowers.
Following the old custom, November is the most dignified theatre month
in the calendar, when the great actors play their finest rôles to mark
the opening of the theatre season. The celebration of the New Year
is observed in a special manner, the decorations consisting of pine,
bamboo, and plum, and lanterns bearing the names and crests of the
leading actors. December is the dullest and most uninteresting theatre
month, since the year-end settlement of outstanding accounts makes it
necessary to retrench in order to meet all obligations, and because the
busy household preparations keep many a matron and maid at home.
Not all the plays on a programme, that lasts from noon to near
midnight, are calculated to hold the attention—in some scenes the
action, if it can be so called, meanders gently on, the audience
manifesting a mild interest. There is a deep undercurrent of repose
upon the stage, the actors going about their business leisurely,
knowing nothing of the hurry with which Western players cram the events
of a lifetime into a short two-hours-and-a-half.
People attend shibai not so much to be startled by sensations, as for
relaxation. They take their ease, and feel at home. The dekata
waits upon them, attending to their personal needs with a courtesy that
makes each individual consider himself an honoured guest.
In the midst of a scene that calls for passive interest, the dekata may
be seen balancing in one hand a pile of red or black lacquer boxes full
of hot rice and tempting viands with which playgoers are accustomed to
regale themselves, or laden down with sake bottles or teapots, moving
dexterously from one box to another in the pit.
At such times the doctrine of self-realisation of Asia is best
revealed. Contented old men send the smoke from their small, metallic
pipes floating towards the ceiling; grandmothers drink tea from cups
that hold three mouthfuls. Old cronies discuss the play over sips of
hot sake; others read the programmes to acquaint themselves with the
forthcoming plays; babies are nursed, dressed, or put to sleep; geisha
take out their mirrors and industriously preen and powder; children
devour sweets and oranges.
But while each person is enjoying himself according to his own ideas, a
hush seems to envelop the entire assembly. There is a sense of unity,
an undertow of quietness, that holds the diversified units of the
audience firmly together.
As a revelation of human nature there is nothing so illuminating in all
Japan as the Kabuki audience. Quick to see the humour of a situation,
it is tragedy that it likes and which touches it to the quick.
It is a mistaken idea to suppose that all the people of Japan are
samurai to the extent that they never show their feelings. Loyal heroes
who die for a cause, victims of the conflict between love and duty,
sacrifice of self that others may live, these always bring the tears,
and handkerchiefs are pressed to brimming feminine eyes in all parts of
the theatre. Nor are men above the softer emotions. They may be seen
weeping bitterly in such scenes as that in _Chushingura_ when Enya
Hangan commits harakiri and his faithful chief retainer, Yuranosuke,
comes just in time to catch his last words. Others mop their heads or
cough to keep back the tears. Kabuki audiences seem rather to enjoy
a good cry. The sorrow of farewell, mother-love, blindness, death, the
common human experiences move them deeply. They may be dazzled by a
gorgeous spectacle, excited by a combat, absorbed by the movements of a
dancer, but when it comes to the sentiments of everyday life the Kabuki
audience responds in a wave of sympathy.
Formerly the audience was composed chiefly of middle or lower class
people. Nowadays all classes attend, and a member of the Imperial
family, the Prince Regent, witnessed Kabuki performances for the first
time when he visited the Imperial Theatre in Tokyo with the Prince of
Wales. A distinctive feature of theatre-going are the parties of people
who attend regularly in a body, patrons of the leading actors. Firemen,
wrestlers, and tradespeople may thus be seen, according to the custom
of their ancestors. The geisha are the steadiest patrons of the actors.
Sometimes they make a brave show gaily apparelled, occupying the best
seats in the gallery. They form an interesting element of the audience,
smoking, chatting, weeping over the play, and making up with powder
puff to obliterate the traces of tears, the young ones in dazzling
kimono and obi, the more sedate in sober garments.
When a popular actor in a piece that has withstood the shocks of time
is before the audience interest becomes intense. Familiarity with
the play adds to the keenness of the enjoyment. Before a favourite
character makes a grand entrance by the hanamichi, every head in the
pit is turned to see him come. Shouts of welcome are heard as a beloved
hero is about to make his appearance on the scene.
Half of the enjoyment to the playgoers in seeing these old plays is
expectancy; not so much in the unfoldment of the plot, for they know
the story by heart, and have witnessed the play often, but how the
actor will interpret it.
One of the privileges of the audience is to make audible remarks,
and they are free and unrestrained in the expression of their
admiration or criticism of an actor in a well-known rôle.
“You did very well!” shouts a voice after an actor has portrayed a
character to the general satisfaction. If an actor is ill, but refuses
to disappoint the audience, a sympathiser calls out: “Take care of
yourself!” or “Thank you for coming when you are so ill!” Should a
young player, rapidly climbing the ladder of fame, display so much
skill as to astonish, there is a surge of great pride throughout the
audience, and shouts of “Nippon Ichi!” (“Best in Japan!”) are showered
upon him.
When the minstrel and the samisen player, who are to furnish the
incidental music of a doll-theatre classic, mount their platform to the
right of the stage, there are cries of: “Now do your best!”
Glowing memories of the varied scenes in shibai do not soon fade away;
the friendliness of the tea-house mistresses who have remained for long
years at their posts; the thrilling experience of meeting an actor off
the stage in an upper room of a tea-house looking down on the blaze
of oblong lanterns that form the street illuminations; the unfailing
attentiveness of the dekata, those servitors of shibai who seem to have
wandered into the present from old Yedo; an actor on the hanamichi
surrounded by the people, all eyes intent on his movements, or the
unrestrained applause when an actor reaches a high level of acting.
Many shibai landmarks are passing, giving place to more advanced ideas.
In the leading theatre, chairs have now replaced the cushions laid on
the matting as in a Japanese dwelling; steam heat ensures a well-warmed
interior in winter; maids in black frocks and white bib and tucker
are replacing the dignified, faithful dekata; the time given to the
performances is steadily being reduced. Shibai must progress. But in
their efforts to be up to date the iconoclasts would throw overboard
much of the honest and simple regime that has for so long distinguished
Kabuki.