KABUKI PLAY FORMS
I
The four characteristic play forms of Kabuki may be classified as
follows: sewamono, plays of everyday life; jidaimono, historical
drama; shosagoto, music-posture drama; and aragoto, highly imaginary
improvisations. Closely allied with these forms is odori, the
descriptive dance, which forms the very foundation of the actor’s art,
as it is known and practised in Japan.
Sewamono are plays in which human nature holds sway, the playwright
selecting for his material the joys and sorrows of the people around
him. Those composed for the Doll-theatre partake of the nature of
balladry, the marionettes moving to music, song, and recitative, while
those written for Kabuki are more akin to the drama of the West.
Jidaimono, historical drama, are pieces that have heroes and heroines
taken from the pages of history for central characters.
But since the playwright was forbidden by the authorities to represent
the real events of history, his only recourse was to take famous
personages and set them in the midst of a wholly imaginary and
irrelevant plot. As he was unable to confine himself to truth, he
allowed his imagination to run riot in the painting of characters and
scenes as far removed from the realities of life as possible.
Shosagoto, also called furigoto, the music-posture drama, provide the
most characteristic Kabuki pieces. Largely influenced by the Nō,
the shosagoto combine all the Kabuki arts—plot, music, scenery, acting,
movement, and colour, and represent the most sincere collaboration of
the Kabuki specialists.
Even more detached from life than the jidaimono is the fourth variety
of Kabuki play, the aragoto (lit., rough acting). Originated by the
first Ichikawa Danjuro, these pieces cannot be classified as drama, for
they scarcely possess any form, and are the result of improvisation on
the part of the different members of the Ichikawa family, who added or
altered, improved or patched up, producing the traditional eighteen
pieces of this house.
The essence of aragoto is exaggeration, and this applies to every
detail, gesture, posture, movement, costume, and acting. The flimsy
material that serves to unite all these strange ingredients is
generally an abstraction, and the expressions and words used are
largely symbolic. The entire emphasis is placed on the art of acting,
and the playwright is left a long distance behind.
Modern stage-writers have made signal departures from these
time-honoured forms, and melodrama, as well as translations and
adaptations of Western plays, are now frequent. In the weaving of their
patterns, however, the modern playwrights appear to wish to throw
overboard as much lumber of the past as possible, but without great
success. Out of the fusion of East and West that is going on upon the
Japanese stage at present, much of interest is to be expected in the
future.
On account of the long hours through which the performances extended,
it was necessary to spread a veritable theatrical feast to sustain the
interest of the audience and keep its attention from wandering. The
programmes were so planned as to include all types of Kabuki pieces,
and this holds equally true of the entertainments afforded by the
modern stage.
In the old days the arrangement of the programme was fixed and
unchangeable, and although at present changes are made now and
then, the sequence of the pieces remains practically the same.
Ichibamme, or the first piece, is a selection of three acts from a
jidaimono, or historical drama. Then comes the naka-maku, or middle
curtain. This is a short shosagoto, but occasionally a one-act aragoto
offering is presented. Sometimes two short pieces are given, and
nowadays this is the position assigned to any attempt by a new writer.
Next comes the nibamme, or second piece. This is a sewamono, or play
depicting the life of the people. For conclusion there is a gay dance
in which the young actors are generally to be seen. This is called the
hane-maku, or end curtain.
Although the Kabuki play forms fall into these four categories, actors,
playwriters, dancing masters, musicians, and others responsible for
the productions never allowed themselves to follow rigidly the special
forms that had been evolved. These stage workers were like a painter
who dips his brush into the colours on his palette as they are needed.
Similarly the Kabuki experts combined the real with the unreal;
introduced dance, pantomime, and, music, even feats of acrobats as they
saw fit, and worked freely, unconscious of limitation.
II
Chikamatsu Monzaemon was one of the first dramatists to discover the
value of human nature as material for his plays, and his contemporaries
and successors also sought inspiration in the domestic life about them,
producing the type of drama called sewamono, or plays of the people.
That “All the world loves a lover” is as true of Chikamatsu’s Izaemon
as of Shakespeare’s Romeo. Originally acted by Sakata Tojuro of
Kyoto in the Genroku age, Izaemon is one of the oldest rôles on the
Japanese stage, and never loses its freshness. Animated, sentimental,
full of the eternal dreams and joys of youth, Izaemon makes his
appearance on the hanamichi eager to see his love Yugiri, an inmate
of a house called Ogiya in Shimmachi, the gay quarter of Osaka. Here
at a tea-house where he is well known he buys a wide straw hat that
hides his face, it being the custom at the time for frequenters of the
quarters to go about with their faces hidden. Izaemon selects one that
has a red cord on the top, so that Yugiri shall know him. Yugiri, the
centre of a courtesan train, makes a brilliant show upon the hanamichi,
and within her domain Izaemon is seen as a petted, gilded youth,
accustomed to the luxury of the day, as became the son of a prosperous
business-house in Kyoto, the Fujiya.
Then is seen the abode of Izaemon’s business-like mother, who, left a
widow, has carried on the house in a capable manner. She sorrowfully
disinherits Izaemon because of his prodigality as Yugiri’s lover.
Izaemon alone, on a snowy day, in a room of his home looking out on
the garden, dreams of Yugiri; asking himself what she is doing at
that moment, regretting he cannot go to Osaka since his mother has
declared he must find a livelihood for himself. Anxious, yet happy in
his dreams, his mother appears, and presents him with a poor kimono
made of paper, that his father was obliged to wear when working hard to
lay the foundation of the family fortune. This is given the youth as a
symbol that he must leave the house on account of his extravagance and
likewise must build up his own career. Poor and unsuccessful, tired
with wandering about, Izaemon returns to see Yugiri as he has heard
that she is ill. A deep straw basket-shaped hat covers his face, his
kimono is weather-stained and patched, a forlorn figure, as he stands
at the door of the Ogiya. Servants of the place take him for a beggar,
and attempt to drive him away, but the proprietor recognises his former
wealthy patron, and warmly invites him within.
[Illustration: Nakamura Ganjiro of Osaka in his favourite rôle, that of
Izaemon, the lover of Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s drama, and played for two
centuries by the Kabuki actors.]
Izaemon next learns that although Yugiri has been ill she has
recovered, that a samurai, Hiraoka of Awa, is interested in her,
and that the son born to Yugiri and himself has been adopted by Hiraoka.
Believing Yugiri faithless to him, and overcome by jealousy, he enters
her room and awaits her coming, pretending to be asleep. When she
succeeds in arousing him he feigns coldness and indifference, but
finally he can no longer suppress his true feelings, and they give
expression to the sufferings they have both undergone during the
separation. It is one of the best love idylls of the Japanese stage.
The conversation between the youthful lovers is interrupted by the
abrupt entrance of a stranger dressed as a samurai, wearing a sword.
Taking off the cloth wrapped about the head, the newcomer reveals the
coiffure of a woman, adorned with beautiful combs and hair-pins. It is
O-Yuki, the wife of Hiraoka, who, disguised as a man, has sought an
interview with her rival. She has come to ask Yugiri to relinquish all
claim to the child, wishing to adopt him as heir of the Hiraoka family.
There is a pathetic scene when Yugiri journeys to the home of the
samurai that she may see her son for the last time, and Izaemon, in
order to obtain one glimpse of the boy, goes disguised as a kago, or
palanquin bearer.
The path of true love never did run smooth. Yugiri becomes ill. The
plight of Yugiri and Izaemon appears hopeless. O-Yuki, overcome with
pity, sends money to ransom Yugiri from the Ogiya, and at the same
time Izaemon’s mother, softened by her son’s sufferings, sends a still
larger amount to buy Yugiri’s freedom. Her child is also restored to
her, and with her loved ones she goes forth to freedom, all to be
happily united with Izaemon’s mother in Kyoto.
* * * * *
In one of the best sewamono, _Nozaki-mura_, or The Village of Nozaki,
by Chikamatsu Hanji, is seen the eternal triangle composed of
Hisamatsu, O-Some, and O-Mitsu.
Hisamatsu, employed in the establishment of a well-to-do
pawnbroker of Osaka, fell in love with the daughter of the house,
O-Some. They were apparently made for each other, and the parents of
O-Some would have gladly given their consent to the marriage, had not
the villain of the play, an elderly, dissipated clerk of the pawnshop,
cast covetous eyes on his master’s daughter, and, jealous of the
growing friendliness between Hisamatsu and O-Some, spread scandal about
them.
There is another obstacle, however, for Hisamatsu has already been
betrothed to O-Mitsu. He has been selected by O-Mitsu’s father,
according to the prerogative of parents in Japan to choose life
companions for their children. O-Mitsu lives with the old man in the
country, anxiously awaiting the day when she will become the bride of
Hisamatsu, they having been brought up like sister and brother.
One of the best scenes in this long domestic tragedy is the meeting of
the three youthful characters. There is something so genuinely homely
and human about O-Mitsu, as she is seen busying herself in preparation
for her marriage to Hisamatsu, all unaware that her future husband
has already given his heart elsewhere. The drab interior of a humble
farmhouse seems to have been transformed, and to reflect something
of the girl’s radiance as she poses to the rhythm of the samisen,
the minstrel on his rostrum to the right of the stage explaining her
movements.
Those long acquainted with the play know that O-Mitsu will cut slices
from daikon, the long, white, radish-like vegetable, in readiness for
the wedding feast, but how she does it is watched with fascination.
Every one, too, knows that she will make her toilet before the
round metal mirror, full of bashful happiness at the thought of her
approaching marriage.
Even while O-Mitsu is deep in thoughts of herself as a bride, her
rival, O-Some, of whom she has never even dreamed, appears on the
hanamichi in the midst of the audience. She is the very acme of good
taste and style, the daughter of an Osaka family that does not
lack in this world’s goods. She is clad in a resplendent purple kimono.
O-Mitsu can never hope to compete with this beautiful creature, who
comes knocking at the cottage entrance.
Looking within her mirror O-Mitsu sees the reflection of the visitor,
a vision of beauty, in contrast to her own rustic simplicity, and the
flame of jealousy begins to bum. In her confusion she pays no attention
to O-Some, overturns her mirror, and chops up the daikon recklessly
into small pieces.
Still hostile to the visitor, who remains waiting for admittance,
O-Mitsu is joined by Hisamatsu and the father, who are not yet aware of
a stranger’s presence, although O-Mitsu puts her head out of the door
in anything but a hospitable manner, making exclamations of scorn and
anger expressive of her hostile state of mind as she pushes her rival
away, closes the latticed door, and to make sure that it is secured
against O-Some’s invasion, places against it a bundle of dried twigs
gathered for fuel.
Very human, too, is the application of moxa, a burning medicine,
to the legs of the old farmer, who writhes with pain at each fresh
ministration by his daughter. Hisamatsu, taking part in this operation
by massaging the old man’s shoulders, is surprised to find O-Some at
the entrance and motions her to go away. He has not yet had time to
break the news of his relations to the Osaka maiden, and is at a loss
what to do. O-Mitsu also continues to show her displeasure, but the
unwelcome visitor cannot be driven away. The farmer, at last viewing
the newcomer, realises the situation, and drags the unwilling O-Mitsu
out of the room, leaving the lovers together.
After a sorrowful love scene between Hisamatsu and O-Some, O-Mitsu
returns, but they are astonished to find that she has cut off her hair
and wears the garb of a nun. She has decided that Hisamatsu and O-Some
belong to each other, and so sacrifices herself that they may have no
regrets on her account. O-Some is full of gratitude, and Hisamatsu
is overcome by her sacrifice. O-Some’s mother next appears to take her
daughter home.
The stage then revolves showing the side of the cottage, a stream of
water, a boat landing, and a boatman waiting for his passengers to the
left, while on the right two palanquin men are ready to take Hisamatsu
away.
Quickly the hanamichi is spread with a blue and white cotton cloth to
represent water. Mother and daughter prepare to embark in the boat. The
shoji, or white paper windows of the cottage, are pushed aside, and
O-Mitsu gazes out sadly.
To the rippling, merry rhythms of the samisen, and a spring song in
praise of the plum blossom sung in a rollicking way by the palanquin
bearers, they take their departure; Hisamatsu carried in a palanquin
on one hanamichi looking across the heads of the audience at O-Some,
and again with regret at O-Mitsu; O-Some and her mother borne over the
cotton waves spread out along the main hanamichi, the boatman working
so hard at the task of plying the oar that he has to take off his coat
to cool himself, the blue and white robed property men really doing all
the pushing and pulling of the craft so that it moves smoothly through
the audience. O-Mitsu and the old father stand together outside the
cottage, lonely figures, bearing the brunt of the sorrow of farewell;
the whole theatre becomes a stage, and each and every person in the
audience feels his or her connection with the play and with the actors.
Hisamatsu and O-Some were not destined to enjoy life. Believing that
they could never clear themselves of the aspersions cast upon their
characters by the slanders of the evil clerk, they seek a happier world
where their spirits may be united. In the gloomy storehouse, erected as
a mark of congratulation when O-Some was born, the bodies of the lovers
are found together.
III
For the exploitation of the unreal we must turn to the jidaimono. The
audiences of Old Japan did not bother their heads if the plot of a
play was so complex that they really could not remember where it began
and how it ended, to judge from _Kokusenya Kassen_, or the Battle of
Kokusenya, a jidaimono by Chikamatsu Monzaemon that enjoyed unbounded
popularity when first produced in 1710, and continues to hold its own,
proving its lasting qualities.
Like Tennyson’s Brook, the complicated characters in this piece come
and go, and the play goes on for ever; in consequence, modern audiences
must witness it piecemeal, since it is only the doll-actors that are
able to give the play in its entirety, and even they must be active
from morning until late afternoon if they are to act all the scenes in
this queer old Chikamatsu drama.
Fashioned out of the cloth of exaggeration, Chikamatsu’s hero, Watonai,
has no kinship with human beings; his fierce countenance showing broad
red and black markings, the bushy hair, the outer costume of purple
covered over with a design of twisted rope in white, the inner garment
of scarlet studded with brass buttons, the huge curved sword—Watonai
might as well belong to the theatre of the moon, since he has nothing
in common with ordinary mortals.
Watonai’s father was a faithful minister of a deposed Ming Emperor, who
took refuge in Japan, and married a woman of Kyushu. Their son, fired
with enthusiasm to go to his father’s country in an attempt to restore
the Ming dynasty, reaches the castle of Kanki, a Chinese general
married to Watonai’s half-sister, who had been left behind when her
father was obliged to flee to Japan.
Arrived at the Lion Castle, Watonai allows his Japanese mother to enter
as a hostage, and his Chinese sister, Kinsho, whom he has never seen,
declares she will try to win her husband to Watonai’s cause. If he is
favourable, she will pour white face powder into the stream beneath her
window, and should the answer be in the negative, a quantity of
rouge will dye the water. But the general does not favour his unknown
brother-in-law from Japan, and Kinsho stabs herself in the breast, her
blood dyeing the rivulet that flows into the Hoang-ho.
Watonai, standing on a stone bridge, watches for a sign from his
sister, understands the answer is unfavourable (a property man
dexterously turning over a flap in the blue stage river to show the
necessary red colour). Amid much stage agony Watonai’s mother and
sister die, and Kanki consents to aid the hero.
When the bridge on which Watonai stands, gazing anxiously into the
river searching for a sign from his sister, is slowly forced up from
below the stage, the hero is seen shading his face with a wide straw
hat, and holding a flaming torch,—the audience little realises the
amount of preparation that has been necessary for this impressive
entrance.
Nor can the trouble the actor takes to make up according to the
Ichikawa traditions be fully realised, unless a close inspection of
this remarkable personage is made behind the stage.
The actor who takes the rôle of Watonai must transform his everyday
countenance into a theatrical mask, that might be an apparition from
the planet Saturn. The face is first painted dead white, and on this
ground he draws red lines with a writing brush. Beginning with the
bridge of his nose, two lines curve out over his forehead suggesting
a lobster’s claws, the sweeping lines on cheeks and about the mouth
forming spaces of white that are shaped like peony petals. Touches
of black about the eyes and mouth are made to make them large and
aggressive. Then the terrifying wig is put in place—large, bristling,
the hair standing on end, signifying the daring courage of a character
half Chinese and half Japanese with intent to conquer China.
After seeing Chikamatsu’s Watonai, it is realised that Japanese actors
take even more pains to be unreal than Occidental actors endeavour to
be lifelike.
[Illustration: Matsumoto Koshiro, the seventh, as Watonai, the
grotesque hero of Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s drama, Kokusenya Kassen, or
the Battle of Kokusenya. The inner garment is bright red studded with
brass, the lower purple with a design of twisted white rope.]
Kinkaku-ji, or the Golden Pavilion, built by the Shogun Yoshimitsu
in the fourteenth century, still stands for the public admiration in
Kyoto, an historical sight in the old capital. This forms the setting
for a popular scene in a fantastic doll-theatre play that is one of the
best examples of jidaimono.
In this long complicated drama by Nakamura Ake and Asada Icho, the
chief character is the villain, Matsunaga Daizen, who has usurped the
Shogun’s power, and taken up his residence at the Golden Pavilion,
where he leads a dissolute life. A beautiful young woman, Yuki-hime,
daughter of a famous painter, is confined in Kinkaku-ji, this mansion
of romance being reproduced in a realistic manner by the scenic
craftsmen of Kabuki.
Tokichi, a loyal retainer of the Shogun, enters upon the scene, and his
battle of wits with Daizen over a game of go, the Japanese chess, is
a familiar and favourite scene with playgoers. Outplayed by Tokichi,
Daizen in his anger overturns the go table and throws a lacquered
counter-box into a well in the garden, ordering Tokichi to pick it out
without wetting his hand.
Not to be outdone, Tokichi immediately overcomes the difficulty by
placing a hollow bamboo pole to the waterfall that forms part of the
painted scenery of the background, and the water in the well rising he
lifts out the counter-box with his fan, and places it on the upturned
table which he holds outstretched in one hand, his postures signifying
triumph over the tyrant.
Yuki-hime, left alone with Daizen, is commanded to paint a picture of a
dragon, which she declares she cannot do without having seen one. Very
conveniently a silver dragon jumps up the painted waterfall aided by
the indefatigable property men, and Daizen holds out his flashing sword
that she may catch the reflection of the dragon.
But she sees much more, for the blade is that once owned by her father,
and she knows that Daizen is her father’s enemy. Without more ado
Yuki-hime’s arms are bound about with rope and she is tied to a
cherry tree. She struggles to free herself, but as this is all in vain,
she calls magic to her aid. Rats rush to the rescue and gnaw the rope,
setting Yuki-hime free from Daizen’s clutches.
Tokichi once more enters, searching for the Shogun’s mother, who has
remained immured in the Golden Pavilion and invisible. He climbs a
tree to reach the upper story, and, rolling up a curtain, the hostage
is seen sitting calmly within. It is an unusual and picturesque scene
worthy of the jidaimono tenets.
After entering into the doings of all these queer stage-folk, it is a
pleasure to find that Daizen, like most theatrical villains, is finally
defeated by Tokichi’s superior strategy.
IV
In contrast to the realistic plays with their snow-storms and
earthquakes, fighting bouts and harakiri scenes, there are the
shosagoto, or music-posture dramas. Dr. Yuzo Tsubouchi once
characterised these pieces as phantasmagoria. To the stage workers
in the Occident, groping their way to find a new method to unite the
independent arts of the theatre, this Kabuki form would come as a
delightful surprise.
The shosagoto consists of a slight plot, simple dialogue, descriptive
dances, symbolic movement, descriptions sung by a chorus,—welded
together by the rhythm of drum, flute, and samisen. For the shosagoto
the three different styles of stage music are used, Nagauta, Tokiwazu,
and Kiyomoto, that originated in Yedo and are as typical of Yedo Kabuki
as the Joruri, or balladry of the Doll-theatre, is of Osaka.
Both as to plot and music, the shosagoto owe their inspiration to
the older music-drama of the Nō, and the best pieces are adaptations
of Nō plays. A partiality for the weird is pronounced in shosagoto.
No doubt the fantastic characters of the Nō had much to do with the
cultivation of this taste in the people, and the craftsmen of
Kabuki have become master-hands in the staging of such plays.
[Illustration: Matsumoto Koshiro, the seventh, as Benkei, the
warrior-priest in Kanjincho He performed in this rôle when the Prince
of Wales visited the Imperial Theatre.]
_Kanjincho_, a scroll on which are written the names of those
contributing to a fund for the erection or repair of a temple, is an
acknowledged Kabuki masterpiece.
The play had its origin, far back in the past, in the classical Nō
drama, but for 200 years has been produced on the popular stage.
Preserving much of the Nō tradition as well as Buddhist atmosphere,
it gives an impression of dignity, but even more of unity of plot and
treatment, of speech and chorus, of posture and costume, centring in
the motive of loyalty of man to master.
The setting represents the Nō convention—a wide-spreading pine tree
painted on the background, bamboo decorated walls to right and left.
Singers and samisen players of the Nagauta orchestra are clad in the
terra-cotta ceremonial kimono of the Ichikawa actor family, to whom the
piece belongs by inheritance. Below the red dais of the Nagauta, the Nō
drum beaters sit on stools, the flute player and round-drum performer
kneeling at the sides. The movement, straight forward to the climax and
_dénouement_, is built upon the ever-complex and conflicting rhythms
of drum and flute. The colour and design of the costumes lend a larger
beauty to the harmony of their postures, gestures, and dances.
Benkei, a warrior priest, is the principal personage in the play, and
he holds the centre of the stage for an hour. As the drama opens,
the drums begin to beat, and voice and flute are added. Togashi, the
keeper of the mountain barrier, makes his appearance from the left,
where the black, green, and red curtain is held on high to let him
enter, according to the Nō tradition. He makes an impressive entrance,
accompanied by a page bearing a sword, and advances to the front of
the stage, where he announces that he has heard there is trouble
between Yoritomo, the lord of Kamakura, and military dictator of the
country, and his brother Yoshitsune, and that the latter, with his
attendants, has started from Mutsu in the disguise of a yamabushi, or
mountain priest. He has received orders to prevent them from passing
the barrier.
Yoshitsune presently appears on the hanamichi, a wide hat and a staff
in his hand, with a Buddhist box upon his back to carry the sacred
sutras, or other religious writings.
When the yamabushi with Yoshitsune are standing in a line in the midst
of the audience, Benkei comes last, a striking figure in his brocaded
skirt and black upper robe adorned with gold characters related to the
doctrines of the yamabushi. He carries a rosary with vermilion tassels.
He is the hero of many adventures, and has sworn faithfulness to his
young lord, Yoshitsune.
Togashi, on guard, bars the way. Benkei declares that they are on a
mission to collect funds to rebuild the temple of the great Buddha at
Nara, but the ever-watchful Togashi announces that if the yamabushi are
upon such a mission, they must have a subscription list, and he will
listen while Benkei reads it.
Benkei must pass this test. Slowly he takes out of his box the
Kanjincho, a scroll containing the names of donors to the temple fund,
and pretends to read the contents. Togashi doubts him as he unwinds the
scroll, and creeps up quietly to have a look. Benkei snatches it away
and Togashi starts back. The dramatic value of the situation is greatly
intensified by the exaggerated costumes of the two principal figures,
whose postures bring storms of applause from the audience.
Then comes one of the most interesting moments of _Kanjincho_, the
questions and answers. Togashi says that he does not doubt that they
are genuine yamabushi, but still he would like to ask Benkei some
questions, and he puts the warrior-priest through a cross-examination;
why he dresses in such a warlike costume when his life is devoted to
Buddha, why he wears a sword, being a priest of Buddha. Benkei has a
quick answer for all the questions that Togashi hurls at him, and
at length the party are permitted to proceed on their way, the keeper
of the pass admiring Benkei’s faithfulness to his master.
[Illustration: Sawamura Sojuro, the seventh, of the Imperial Theatre,
as Togashi, the keeper of the barrier, in Kanjincho, Kabuki’s
music-drama masterpiece.]
Benkei leaves by the hanamichi, the yamabushi follow, and Yoshitsune
is left behind on the stage. One of Togashi’s men whispers in his
ear. He thinks he has discovered Yoshitsune among the yamabushi. To
throw him off the scent Togashi calls them back. The little company is
proceeding quickly along the hanamichi when the abrupt order causes
them to halt in dramatic attitude. To allay all suspicion, Benkei
takes an unpardonable liberty and strikes Yoshitsune with his staff.
After Togashi and his men have retired, Benkei seeks Yoshitsune’s
forgiveness for his rash act, and weeps because of his offence, but
Yoshitsune signifies his approval of Benkei’s strategy, which has saved
their lives. The delighted retainer jumps back, bows his head to the
stage, and then expresses in a dance the emotions he has gone through.
Yoshitsune and the yamabushi pass out by way of the audience path to
the beating of drums and light ripples of the samisen.
Left all alone, the faithful Benkei takes up once more the yamabushi
box, slips it on his back, and starts by way of the hanamichi. The
curtain is drawn, the attendant holding back one end as Benkei pauses
before making his wonderful exit. He takes three jumps on one foot and
then leaps forward, whirling his staff in air, and repeating this,
clears the hanamichi in three great bounds, giving expression to his
triumphant mood and the strength of his loyalty to his master, amid
the thunder of big drums, the shrilling of the flute, and the steady
metallic clapping of the hyoshigi, that announce the end of the piece.
V
For the same reason that the music of shibai, depending as it does on
unfamiliar groupings of sound and intricate and ever-changing rhythms,
does not appeal immediately to Occidental ears, so the aragoto
plays of Kabuki are equally incomprehensible. They are largely the
improvisations of actors, have little plot, and sometimes are quite
meaningless. Unliterary they are to a degree. But their whole value
lies in the remarkable stage treatment they display, how it is done
apparently being of much greater importance than what it is about.
These strange plays do not appeal to the intellect, nor are they
planned to stir the emotions. They are not intended to be anything in
particular, simply the unconscious theatre instinct at work creating a
feast of colour and movement to spread before the eyes.
The eighteen pieces of the Danjuro family are for the most part
aragoto, in which acting and posture are the chief features.
_Sukeroku_ is among the best of these quaint Ichikawa pieces. The
scene is the outside of a house in the gay quarters, the entire front
vermilion-coloured and barred, the usual show place for the inmates
according to the old custom. Several gorgeous processions pass over
the hanamichi to the stage, and then comes the villain, a venerable
white-haired old gentleman, in bronze brocade, the very person the
hero, Sukeroku, seeks.
Sukeroku makes an unusual entrance, running in through the audience,
his head bowed low and covered from sight by a half-shut oiled-paper
umbrella. He makes a striking theatrical figure, for he wears a black
kimono lined with pale blue and edged with scarlet, while his belt,
or obi, is of green brocade bearing for design in gold the familiar
three-rice-measure crest of the first Danjuro. A red neckcloth sets off
the white mask-like face with the broad red outlines about the eyes,
true to the make-up traditions of the Ichikawa house. A purple band is
tied around his head and falls in folds at one side.
In his postures on the hanamichi with his black and white umbrella,
Sukeroku every second assumes a new pose, that causes him to appear
like a piece of statuary in a bewildering number of aspects, as he
shadows forth the meaning of the character he represents,—the
bravery and fighting spirit of an otokodate, or man of the people,
always ready to defend the weak. He also suggests that Sukeroku is in
reality Goro, one of the Soga brothers, and that he is disguised as
Sukeroku, and is searching for a lost sword.
[Illustration: Morita Kanya, the thirteenth, son of the aggressive
theatre manager of Meiji, as Yoshitsune, the young hero of the
music-drama Kanjincho.]
Thus the actors who created the character in the time of the fifth
Danjuro knew what they were about, for the Soga brothers, otokodate,
chivalrous commoners and searchers after swords, were prime favourites
with Yedo audiences, and they were combined for greater effect in the
character of Sukeroku.
Seeking for a quarrel in the pleasure quarters, brave Sukeroku is no
respecter of persons, for his only aim is to make men draw their swords
that he may find the one of his quest.
His taunting of the stately old villain in the attempt to arouse his
ire, and the intimidation of a samurai whom he causes to throw down his
swords and then crawl on all fours between his outstretched legs, are
full of humour.
As a last attempt to make the venerable miscreant show his sword
Sukeroku, championed by Agimaki, the gorgeous belle of the quarter,
suddenly jumps forth from his hiding-place behind Agimaki’s ample
robes, and assaults the brocade-clad dignitary, who involuntarily draws
his blade. At sight of it Sukeroku immediately recognises that it is
the precious weapon of his search.
Later he kills the villain and takes the sword, when a new danger
threatens him as the men of the enemy are about to surround him. He
looks about to find a place of concealment, and as a last resort jumps
into a big water tank used on the occasion of a fire. Throwing aside
a pyramid of small tubs, that are used as ornaments across the top of
the same, he knocks the bottom out of one and placing it over his head
allows it to float on the surface of the water.
The searching party look everywhere to find him. They even climb
to the roof of the house, but Sukeroku and his stolen sword are safe
under the water.
When he emerges real water splashes all over the stage and comes as a
surprise in a play so entirely artificial and unreal. Perhaps on that
very account it has the intended effect, for the audience is quite
startled by the audacity and bravery of this highly imaginary hero.
* * * * *
Kagekiyo, a legendary character, the hero of several Nō dramas, is the
central figure in an aragoto piece in the possession of the Ichikawa
family. It represents the actors’ impress upon theatre material,
nebulous, without the concentration that comes from a literary mind.
Yet to lovers of the unreal it is full of attraction.
Certainly very little of the world of reality clings about the material
or movement of this one-act species of drama which has for motive the
valour and strength of Kagekiyo, a general of the Heike clan, whose
cause has been defeated and who is confined in a cavern.
His appearance is dramatic in the extreme, when the guards allow him to
gaze forth from a square opening in the bars of his prison-cave. His
face is heavily lined with broad red lines, his fierce and threatening
top-knot of hair that stands straight on end is accentuated by peculiar
side wings of lacquered wood suggesting strands of hair that form a
frame for the ferocious countenance. His costume of glittering gold
brocade, with vivid touches of green and red, is in keeping with the
strange visage of the dauntless warrior.
That he may taste all the bitterness of defeat, his wife and daughter
are led in bound with rope, and he is brought forth to speak with them,
his arms tied behind him in the most approved manner of the modern
serial moving picture.
When everything seems against the outlandish hero, he is freed from
his fetters and allowed to sit on a huge boulder in the centre of the
stage, where he postures as he relates the misfortunes of his clan
and declares his loyalty—an active figure whose every gesture is
all the more conspicuous because of the groupings of the immovable
personages on either side.
Kagekiyo shows some traces of human emotion, and is overcome at the
treatment meted out to his wife and daughter, yet still keeps a stout
heart, even when his son is placed within the gloomy cavern.
He scorns the Genji generals who gaze on his captivity, by refusing
their offerings of food, kicking it unceremoniously away, and bellows
in the extravagant style that is so typical of aragoto. At length his
outraged feeling getting the best of him he lifts up the great stone
on which he has been sitting and uses it as a missile to throw at the
Genji followers, who, driven hither and thither, are finally routed.
Kagekiyo, fighting to a finish, reaches a climax of grotesqueness as he
poses in triumphant attitude brandishing a large beam of wood which has
been his weapon of defence.
VI
Odori is closely allied to the Kabuki arts, and forms an essential part
of a great variety of pieces. Since without it no theatre programme
would be considered complete, odori becomes one of the most important
Kabuki forms.
Tamura Nariyoshi, a theatre manager with a long experience of Kabuki
behind him, a genius of the Meiji period, who died a few years ago,
once said that the mere movement of the limbs was not dancing. Should
a dancer wish to suggest that he was looking at Mount Fuji, gazing at
the sea, or watching a shadow, the three ideas must be expressed in
different ways. Dancing, like acting, he said, should have a meaning,
and the performer must keep steadfastly to the central idea, otherwise
interest would be lost.
This is the clue to the understanding of odori. The least gesture made
by the dancer has significance, and nothing is left to chance. The
training in dancing the yakusha undergoes gives him control over all
parts of his body. He uses his head and shoulders equally with the
eyes and face; the arms, hands, and fingers are all expressive, while
the waist and feet play no small part in the presentation of the idea
of the dance. Pantomime is first cousin to odori, and rhythm and song
next of kin.
Of the many material objects the Kabuki dancers have chosen as media of
expression, the chief is the fan. For a thousand years this has been
a symbol of the dance, and its technique has come about through the
desire of centuries of dancers to convey emotion through the movements
of the dance.
What magic this fragile object is able to create is clearly visible
when some dancer of long training who has acquired a mastery of
movement, opens and shuts his fan, causing flowers to bloom, and rain
to fall; or waving it outstretched, butterflies flutter and a boat
tosses on the waves. He closes it and traces the outline of a mountain
and points to the stars; or opens it sweepingly in imitation of the
frolic of the wind.
What a world of romance the fan discloses, suggesting shyness,
affection, disapproval, consent! How the widespread silver fan beckons
to some enchanted moonlit garden; upraised, reveals a triumphant mood;
or the dancer, with a stamp of feet and swift motion of the body and
fan thrown about from hand to hand, describes some merry festival under
the falling petals of the cherry trees.
In connection with odori there is an important Kabuki expert, the
furitsuke-shi (lit., movement-to-make master), who is largely
responsible for the charm of the descriptive dance, but who has
received scant recognition for his work. The furitsuke-shi has trained
the actors, assisted in the production of the music-posture dramas and
innumerable short dances, and when given an opportunity to create has
left behind him pieces that are still the stock-in-trade of the actors.
Since the early Kabuki performances largely consisted of dances, the
players were accustomed to manage according to their own ideas and
tastes. With the rapid development of Kabuki a dance specialist was
necessary.
[Illustration: Onoe Baiko, as the Wistaria Maiden, in a descriptive
dance.]
Pantomime as an element of dancing had long been old on the Nō stage,
but it came afresh to Kabuki from the Doll-theatre, where the movements
of the marionettes were so remarkable in the sphere of the dance that
the actors were obliged to imitate them. Gradually there came into
existence experts who devoted their time and talents to the teaching of
this art to the actors.
The furitsuke-shi was an obscure profession, but nevertheless very
important for the stage. The sakusha furnished the libretto for the
odori, or shosagoto, while the furitsuke-shi planned the movements,
studied the relation of the dancers to each other, calculated the
picturesque groups, and produced the ensemble so characteristic of
these Kabuki forms.
The furitsuke-shi were the repository of the complicated dancing
technique of their day, yet they were quite subordinate to the actors,
and when they wished to carry out an idea they were obliged to consult
their superiors, and in consequence worked under great difficulties.
Apartments were assigned to the stage dignitaries as became their
rank in the shibai world, but such was the position of the humble
dancing-master that he generally fraternised with the men who furnished
the incidental music for the plays, and who were considered far beneath
the regular musicians performing out in front, the Nagauta, Tokiwazu,
and Gidayu performers. The furitsuke-shi were regarded as merely
hangers-on behind the stage.
It often happened, however, that these men became actors. The fourth
Nakamura Utayemon was the son of a furitsuke-shi. A modern instance of
this is Matsumoto Koshiro, the seventh, the most versatile actor of the
Tokyo stage, who was adopted when a child to become the head of the
Fujima school of dancing, but later was taken under the patronage of
the ninth Danjuro Ichikawa, and is the master’s most brilliant follower.
On the other hand, actors who were good in dancing but failures
on the stage, often followed this profession. Bando Mitsugoro, one of
the best dancers of the Tokyo stage to-day, has practically given up
acting, appearing only in dancing pieces. He gives his time largely to
the instruction of young actors.
At present the Fujima house of dancing is the most flourishing in
Tokyo. The founder of this family was a Nō Kyogen actor called Kambei,
who hailed from a village named Fujima. He migrated to Yedo and taught
dancing, and was succeeded by his son. The third Kambei, however, was
one of the most original exponents of this school, and how he came to
inherit the headship of the family forms an interesting story.
He was employed as a boy of all work in the fish market, that
stronghold of independent Yedo citizens, and was sent by his employer
to escort his little daughter to and from her dancing lessons. Having
to wait in the entrance of the house, the boy soon came to take a vivid
interest in the proceedings, and by dint of peeping within he learned
the dances much quicker than the legitimate pupils. The second Kambei
recognised the lad’s ability, and not only took him under his wing, but
eventually married him to his daughter, and made over to him the Fujima
school.
Kambei, the third, died under strange circumstances. It was found out
that he had carried on a love affair with the mistress of a daimyo
who was one of his patronesses. The lord is supposed to have had him
secretly dispatched, and then sent his body home with the explanation
that he had suddenly expired. It was thought by his wife and pupils
that he had been poisoned, but the mystery was never solved.
His wife carried on the teaching but, being a woman, she had no
relation with the theatre. Among the third Kambei’s pupils was
Nishikawa Senzo, who became a star of the Nishikawa school.
[Illustration: Onoe Kikugoro, the sixth, as the transformation of a
maid into a white fox, in a descriptive dance, Kagami Shishi, or the
Mirror-Lion.]
After the third Kambei’s time the Fujima house had two branches
founded by his pupils; one was called Fujima Kangoro, and the other
Fujima Kanyemon. As the Kangoro line has always had a woman at its
head, it has not been employed by the theatre. That carried on by
Kanyemon is now the first school of Tokyo, with Hanayanagi second.
Nishikawa maintains its prestige in Nagoya; Kyoto possesses the
Katayama school, while the leading schools of Osaka are the Umemoto and
Yamamura.
[Illustration: Crest of Nakamura Denkuro (Metal cross).]
[Illustration: Crest of Sawamura Sojuro (Alphabetical character
repeated).]