MOTIVES OF KABUKI PLAYS
I
One overwhelming motive is to be found in the plays of the Doll-theatre
and Kabuki—loyalty and self-sacrifice. These were the popular themes
that stirred the people to the depths.
It is the conflict of giri (sense of justice, duty, obligation) and
ninjo (humanity, sentiment, feeling) which forms the backbone of all
the drama produced before the Restoration of the Emperor in 1868.
Lord Macaulay has said somewhere that we may safely conclude that the
feelings and opinions which pervade the whole dramatic literature
of a generation are feelings and opinions of which the men of that
generation partook.
This is true in a particular sense of the loyalty tragedies enacted
by the marionettes and played by the Kabuki yakusha, for not only did
these representations inculcate in the masses a passion for service
and self-abnegation, but in them are faithfully mirrored the life of
Japan’s feudal age.
If, as Mr. St. John Ervine has said, “the supreme test of a nation’s
health is its capacity to produce and to appreciate tragedy”, then
these old tragedies, full of the devotion of man for master, the filial
duty of children, the faithfulness of wives, and readiness to lay down
life for a cause, are revelations of the peculiar virtues and strength
of soul that have characterised the humbler people of Japan for the
past two hundred years.
Of the many loyalty pieces that come to mind, few are more typical
than the long, complicated play concerning the exiled Michizane, the
patron saint of Japanese literature, _Sugawara Denju Tenarai Kagami_
(lit., Sugawara-Family-instruction-hand-writing-mirror). To Takeda
Izumo, the Doll-theatre playwright, Kabuki owes a debt of gratitude
for this loyalty masterpiece that is the test of the modern actor’s
ability. It has even found its way in mutilated form to the London
stage as The Pine Tree, and has been performed on the New York stage as
Bushido.
_Terakoya_, or The Village School, is but one of many fine scenes
in this long drama dealing with Sugawara Michizane, an historical
character who lived a thousand years ago, suffered exile because of
a court intrigue, and is venerated to-day as the patron saint of
literature. The loyalty of Michizane’s servants, the triplets, called
after the plum, cherry, and pine trees, or Umeomaru, Sakuramaru, and
Matsuomaru, forms the complicated strands of the drama. Genzo, who
has been in the service of the high dignitary and learned writing and
letters under him, attempts to hide the heir to the Sugawara family,
whom the unrelenting enemy wishes to destroy. Hoping to evade the
searching eyes of the villain, Genzo starts a school in a distant
village.
There is the familiar opening, the village children busy at their
desks writing in their very much-used copy-books, the little son of
Michizane, although in disguise, distinguished from the others by his
aristocratic bearing. The fat dunce is punished by Genzo’s wife, and
stands on his desk with a lighted incense stick in his hand, admonished
not to stir until it is burned down.
Matsuomaru’s wife comes to place her son Kotaru in the school, but
in reality to give him as a willing sacrifice that he may become a
substitute for the princely heir whom the enemy seeks to kill.
Genzo’s entrance by way of the hanamichi focusses all attention upon
him. He walks slowly and sadly, with folded arms. For he is faced with
a situation which will test his loyalty to the fullest extent.
He must save his master’s son. Entering the school the children bow
respectfully. He calls two of the boys by name and they answer, raising
their heads. But they are country-bred, and cannot be substituted for
the prince.
The dejected schoolmaster sinks down deep in meditation, when his wife
introduces the new pupil, the son of the faithful Matsuomaru. He does
not look at the child at first, but when he does he gives a start, for
the handsome boy is a veritable solution of his difficulties. He gazes
steadfastly into his face, showing his determination. If the worst
should happen, he will be obliged to kill the newcomer as the only
means of saving the little prince.
A gorgeous red-faced official arrives to receive the head of the
prince, and Matsuomaru accompanies him for purposes of identification,
while the fathers of the pupils prostrate themselves humbly on the
hanamichi, waiting to take their precious children home, afraid of the
peril that awaits one of the pupils in Genzo’s school.
The examination by the pompous official of the school children must
always remain a classic of the Japanese stage, as one by one they
are called, the official placing his fan under their chins to look
into their upturned faces, Matsuomaru shaking his head as the country
bumpkins pass before him,—a comic relief from the tenseness created by
the coming tragedy.
Not finding the prince, the official and his numerous attendants, or
country policemen, file into the school and take possession. Matsuomaru
says that not even an ant can escape, as a warning to Genzo, and the
impatient official demands that the head may be cut off without delay.
[Illustration: Nakamura Ganjiro of Osaka as Genzo, the village
schoolmaster in Terakoya, or the Village School, by Takeda Izumo.]
Genzo hesitates; the head-box the official has brought is under his
arm. Then he goes to an inner room, and the sound of the blow of a
sword is heard. Genzo returns and the box with its gory trophy is
placed before Matsuomaru for final judgement. The actor taking the rôle
of Matsuomaru suggests without words Matsuomaru’s anxiety. The
face of Michizane’s heir may confront him, or he may be obliged to look
upon the face of his own child, and this forms one of the most dramatic
situations in the scene.
“Good!” he says at last. “There is no mistake! It is the real
head!”—and he covers it up quickly, since he cannot bear the sight of
Kotaru’s face.
Genzo, who has been watching closely, ready to strike Matsuomaru down
with his sword should he disclaim the head, exchanges an amazed but
relieved glance with his wife. The tension is over.
Then comes the explanation, Matsuomaru asking how Kotaru behaved
knowing that he had to die for the prince; the regrets of Genzo and
his wife; the meeting of the little prince with his mother. Of all
the countless loyalty scenes of the Japanese stage, _Terakoya_ for
construction, pathos, and swiftness of movement cannot be surpassed.
[Illustration: Ichikawa Chusha as Matsuomaru in Terakoya (The Village
School), who sacrifices the life of his son that the Michizane heir may
survive.]
* * * * *
Another scene that stands out vividly among the loyalty plays is also
by Takeda Izumo, and it would be difficult to judge which displays the
better workmanship, _Terakoya_, The Village School, or the Sushi-ya
scene from _Yoshitsune Sembonzakura_. Yoshitsune is the name of that
legendary hero of Japan whose adventures form the plots for many a
Kabuki play, and _Sembonzakura_ signifies ten thousand cherry trees,
suggesting something of the lustre and fame of Yoshitsune’s name.
Sushi-ya is a humble shop where rice sandwiches stuffed with vegetables
or fish are sold. It was in this sushi-ya that a Heike prince lived in
disguise.
The interior of the sushi-ya is shown, wooden buckets arranged in neat
rows. The young man of the shop, who is in reality the Heike prince,
enters with a small tub slung over his shoulder, as he has been about
the business of the shop. O-Sato, daughter of the proprietor, loves the
effeminate youth, and is seen making overtures to him, which he
does not particularly relish. Gonta, the prodigal son of the family,
returns home.
This character has the bushy hair which Kabuki has conventionalised to
identify robbers and bold, bad men. His large black-and-white-checked
kimono is in striking contrast to his bare skin and the inky blackness
of his wig. He has come after money, and knows well how to play upon
the feelings of his mother. She is inclined to scold him at first, but
he relates a tale of woe with such telling force that she is instantly
won over to his side.
When Gonta turns his face towards his fond parent his countenance
expresses all degrees of contrition and misery, but when he takes the
audience into his confidence he swiftly changes to the prodigal again,
crafty and watchful, lest his good acting in the rôle of a much-abused
person may fail to secure him the advantage he desires.
The mother goes to open a chest of drawers to give him some money, but
she cannot unlock it. Gonta, who really belongs to the light-fingered
gentry, easily picks the lock and helps himself generously. Some one is
heard approaching, and to hide his newly acquired riches he places the
money in one of the sushi tubs standing on the verandah, and disappears
behind the blue and white curtain that separates the shop from the
dwelling.
By way of the hanamichi, the old keeper of the sushi-ya returns home in
a state of agitation, with some object concealed under his arm wrapped
in a kimono, and when the prince, in the capacity of a servant of the
place, comes to welcome him, the master sends him on an errand, and
when alone unwraps a human head and slips it for concealment into a tub
standing next to that in which Gonta has deposited his ill-gotten gains.
Disclosing his secret to the prince, the old man tells him how his
enemies are searching for him, but that he accidentally came upon the
body of a samurai who had been killed in a fray and with whose head he
intends to mislead the enemy.
Shortly after, Gonta comes forth, seizes the tub with the head
and makes a hurried exit by the hanamichi. Then the wife and child of
the prince appear. O-Sato, who has been sleeping behind a low screen,
awakens at the sound of their voices and realises the high degree of
her supposed lover. Her love-dream over, she is weepingly respectful to
the fine lady.
For safety’s sake, the Heike prince and his family leave the house,
and have barely escaped before a resplendent warrior walks with
stately tread through the audience, accompanied by a retinue of
attendants. He is dressed in black and white, with a wonderful
head-dress, the decorations of which are like the golden antennae of
an insect, glittering in the mellow glow of the lights carried by the
torch-bearers.
In terror the sushi-ya runs to meet the train and peers up into their
faces, but they pay little attention. The old man, at the command of
the grandee, places the sushi tub which he thinks contains the head in
front of the examiner, who orders that the ghastly object be brought
forth. The mother has seen her erring son, Gonta, place the money in
that very tub, and she objects to the examination of the contents since
she knows what a disappointment awaits her husband.
While they struggle over the tub, Gonta strides bravely along the
hanamichi, full of importance, the sushi tub containing the head under
his arm. This he offers for the examiner’s inspection, and so saves the
day!
But the parents think that he has proved disloyal and taken the head of
the prince for the sake of the reward, and their belief is strengthened
when they see that he has with him the supposed wife and child of the
prince, gagged and bound, whom he treats in the most insulting manner.
The pompous official then demands the head. The torch-bearers draw near
that he may view it the better. He unfolds his gold fan and continues
to gaze for a long time, conveying to the audience without words that
he is satisfied it is the head of Prince Koremori, and prepares to
depart. Gonta watches his every movement, fearful that something may
happen at the last moment to upset his carefully made plans. Before the
official departs he presents Gonta with a gift in the shape of a kimono.
No sooner has the examiner left, than the sushi-ya, overcome at the
idea of his son’s lack of loyalty in giving up the prince and his
family to the enemy, falls on Gonta with his sword and pierces him to
the heart.
With his remaining strength, poor, misjudged Gonta places a whistle to
his mouth, and the true prince, with his wife and child, come at the
call from their hiding-place. It is Gonta’s own wife and child who have
been sacrificed. The parents realise too late what has happened, and
are overwhelmed with grief, and the prince examining the garment given
to Gonta discovers that part of a priest’s robe has been hidden within
its folds. He takes the suggestion and puts it on, realising that the
official was well aware that the head placed in front of him was not
that of Koremori, and had sent this hint to the Heike prince to retire
to a monastery.
The dying Gonta surrounded by the now priest-prince and his wife and
child, his own parents and sister, breathes his last as the curtain is
drawn amid the noise of the loud clapping of two pieces of wood, which
in Kabuki always signifies the end of the play.
[Illustration: Jitsukawa Enjaku of Osaka as Gonta in the sacrifice
play, Sembonzakura, by Takeda Izumo.]
* * * * *
Another scene from a loyalty play, _Sendaihagi_ (Sendai referring to
former generations, and hagi, a flowering shrub), written by Matsu
Kanshi for the Doll-theatre in 1784, has withstood the shocks of time
so well that it may be seen many times a year on the modern stages of
the three cities, Tokyo, Osaka, and Kyoto.
It concerns a young daimyo, one of the wealthiest among the feudal
lords, who led a dissolute life. The lord’s excesses were encouraged by
a relative, who intrigued to have him removed from the headship of the
family that he might manage the domain to his own benefit. There
was a small heir, Tsurukiyo, in the way of the final completion of this
dark design, and Masaoka, his faithful nurse, was ever watchful in her
protection of him.
The finest scene in _Sendaihagi_ is that in which Masaoka prepares the
food for Tsurukiyo, for she knows that his enemies will attempt to
poison him. The splendid room of a great daimyo’s ancestral mansion is
a strong contrast to the meagre fare the faithful nurse prepares.
At all costs she must cook the meal herself, for enemies lurk in all
parts of the house, and have been given orders to kill the boy who
stands in the way of the coveted inheritance.
Masaoka unfolds a low gold screen, disclosing the utensils used in the
tea ceremony, and slowly begins to make the meal for the little prince
and her son Semmatsu, who is his playmate. The children ask when the
rice will be cooked, as they are very hungry, and trying to forget the
pangs of hunger they engage in play. Masaoka, busy at her work, is
overcome with emotion, as she alone realises the desperate situation,
and the peril which threatens Tsurukiyo.
With this fear at her heart, she does not go about her task happily or
briskly, but pauses now and then to weep.
When Tsurukiyo comes to take a look at the boiling pot, inquiring how
long it will be before the meal is ready, he surprises his nurse in a
tearful mood. But she regains her composure, and announces that the
rice will soon be boiled. A flock of sparrows fly near the verandah,
and Tsurukiyo throws them some uncooked grains of rice. After the
sparrows have disappeared, the children realise their hunger again and
make a fresh appeal. Semmatsu, who is patience itself, understands that
he must amuse the prince and begins to sing a song and clap his hands,
in which pastime Tsurukiyo joins.
This does not divert for long, and Tsurukiyo becomes angry at
repeated delays and murmurs discontentedly, his small companion
shedding tears because he is unable to console him. Finally Tsurukiyo
says that even the sparrows are fed, but that they have nothing to eat.
After the children have partaken of Masaoka’s frugal repast of plain
boiled rice, the action is rapid. An aged relative of the family enters
clad in gold brocade, her white hair flowing down her back, guided over
the hanamichi by maids bearing lanterns, and an accomplice carrying the
box of poisoned cakes, a gift for Tsurukiyo.
As his fare has been of the scantiest, Tsurukiyo looks longingly
at this box, but a whispered word from Masaoka warns him in time.
Semmatsu is mistaken for Tsurukiyo, and the wicked woman who has been
commissioned to kill him performs her task in a cruel fashion, Masaoka
sacrificing the life of her son in order to save that of the little
lord.
II
The working out of the ends of justice, the righting of wrongs, the
trailing of a murderer for years by the entire members of a family,
such were the plots that appealed to the audiences of Old Japan, and
the writers of plays knew well how to serve their desires.
As the secret map describing a lost gold mine, or parchment hidden in
the head of a bronze idol relating to a buried treasure starts the
interminable, harrowing incidents of a modern cinematograph serial, the
subject of revenge for wrong done held together the many scenes and
acts of the Doll-theatre and Kabuki plays.
The greatest revenge play of Japan is _Chushingura_ (lit., Loyal
Retainers’ Storehouse), or the story of the faithful Forty-seven
Ronin, who waited an opportunity to slay the miserable old villain who
had caused their lord, Hangan, to commit harakiri, and when they had
accomplished their end died as one man by their own hands.
Produced in 1748, _Chushingura_ was written by Takeda Izumo in
collaboration with Namiki Senryu and Miyoshi Shoraku.
[Illustration: Ichikawa Sadanji as Sadakura, the highwayman, in the
play Chushingura.]
If the final test of drama be character, then the claim of
_Chushingura_ to a first place among the plays of Japan is thoroughly
justified.
First and foremost, there is Yuranosuke, the leader of the loyal
Forty-seven. Both his entrance upon the harakiri scene to catch the
dying request of his feudal lord, Enya Hangan, and his exit sternly
resolved to avenge the death of his master, are things to remember,
not only because they show the true dramatic situations born of a
good dramatist, but also because the actor suggests so powerfully
Yuranosuke’s emotions.
Hangan must carry out the severe decree in the presence of the
officials who have announced the penalty for his offence committed
within the Shogun’s palace. He hesitates, since he is anxious to see
his chief retainer before he bids farewell to the world.
Yuranosuke, who has been sent for, hastening on his way from Hangan’s
fief in the provinces, has not yet reached the Yedo mansion of his
lord. The audience, feeling the suspense, watches the hanamichi. At the
very last moment he comes along the narrow way above the heads of the
playgoers without noise or clatter, dropping down on his knees humbly
before he reaches the stage proper. Sorrow, anxiety, respect—all are
mingled in his manner.
Not a moment too soon, he catches Hangan’s last words, and gives him
the consolation he needs so sorely. Yuranosuke takes the dirk from the
lifeless hand, pays the last marks of respect to the body, and places
it within the palanquin to be carried to the temple for the burial
service.
And what a situation it is for a good actor, as Yuranosuke with
composure, yet regretfully, performs his duties in a mansion that is
to know his master no longer! Grouped about are the retainers who have
served the lord since childhood, and whose fathers and forefathers
were employed in like capacity under the lord’s ancestors, suddenly
made ronin, unattached samurai, set adrift, to wander about
the land! Castle and lands confiscated, wives and children turned
out-of-doors, men ready to unsheathe their swords in their lord’s
defence, depending on him for their living and well-being, all to be
scattered to the winds to lead poverty-stricken existences. Rough
justice the men would have immediately, but the superior-minded
Yuranosuke begs them to wait for a better opportunity.
[Illustration: The Harakiri Scene from Chushingura.]
Left alone outside the red gate of his master’s yashiki, Yuranosuke
suggests his future plan, as drawing forth the bloodstained dirk he
gazes upon it, there being no doubt that he is prepared to sacrifice
his life in the cause of righting the great wrong inflicted upon the
house and all its dependents.
For contrast in character there is the self-controlled, well-bred
Hangan, trying his best to behave himself as becomes his rank and
station, and the unscrupulous old official Moronao, hardened in the
school of intrigue. If only Hangan’s men had taken the precaution to
bribe the crafty Moronao as had the representative of Wakasanosuke,
Hangan’s friend! But then there would have been no play. Unconscious
that he is expected to stoop so low, Hangan keeps watch over himself,
as Moronao by taunt and insult tries to make him take the offensive
that is to cost him so dearly.
In the fourth act, again comes the clash of good and evil. The disloyal
Sadakuro in the midst of the faithful has turned highwayman, seeking
his livelihood by waylaying travellers. A colour-print actor come
to life, he seems to be,—his whitened legs, arms, and chest vivid
against the black kimono that is tucked into his belt; the black, bushy
robber’s wig against the white face,—a picture in black and white.
As though quite accustomed to put wayfarers out of commission, Sadakuro
halts old Yoichibei, slays him with a sword and throws the body over
the hillside, then wrings out his wet clothes. How much suggestion
plays its part in Kabuki acting may be seen throughout _Chushingura_,
but nothing is more interesting than Sadakuro’s wordless play, as he
wrings the rain from his kimono and wipes the imaginary drops from his
face, bringing before our eyes his wild life in the lonely places,
showing the high courage of the samurai, yet the hardened soul of the
criminal.
No doubt the dramatist created him to make the deeds of the loyal
retainers shine forth all the more brightly. And so he stands, counting
with satisfaction his booty, when a stray shot from Kanpei’s gun
strikes him in the chest, dyeing him red, an evildoer gone to his just
deserts.
There is, again, the erring Kanpei, Hangan’s servant, loitering about
with O-Karu, a maidservant of his mistress, when he should have been
attending to his duties by waiting at the Shogun’s gate. He returns to
find the uproar caused by Hangan’s attack upon Moronao. Fearing that
he will be censured for his neglect, he runs off with O-Karu to the
home of her father, Yoichibei, in the country, hoping to return to the
service of his lord when they are both pardoned.
Yoichibei, glad to aid Kanpei in his endeavour to raise funds that he
may contribute towards the cause, sells O-Karu to a house in Kyoto, and
is returning home with the money when struck down by Sadakuro. Kanpei,
out hunting, runs after a wild boar, but finds he has killed a man
instead, and takes the purse he finds on Sadakuro, reaching home to
discover that O-Karu is on the point of leaving for Kyoto, and that the
purse he has secreted within the folds of his kimono must be that of
Yoichibei, and in consequence that he has killed his father-in-law.
When Yoichibei’s body is brought into the cottage the old widow
believes Kanpei to have committed the crime. He cannot save his wife,
O-Karu; he believes himself guilty, and when two of the ronin arrive,
sent by Yuranosuke to return a sum of money already sent by Kanpei, as
he has not yet been reinstated in the good favour of the band, Kanpei
can stand it no longer and commits harakiri. Before he expires he is
cleared, for Yoichibei’s wound was not made by Kanpei’s gun but
Sadakuro’s sword. Ghastly and realistic is Kanpei’s end, but he is not
forgotten, and is regarded henceforth as one of the band.
There is, also, that gay scene in the Kyoto tea-house where Yuranosuke
leads a dissipated life in order to put the spies of Moronao off the
scent, and the sadness of farewell when the leader of the Forty-seven
takes leave of his wife and home, and finally the gathering together
on a snowy day, and the storming of the great red gate that guards the
entrance to the residence of the enemy. Swarming within they return in
triumph with the head of the villain. Later they commit harakiri, and
are buried together with their lord in the compound of Senkaku-ji, the
Buddhist temple in Tokyo, where before their tombs the incense is still
kept burning.
III
Those who believe that Kabuki has no love scenes might be enlightened
after witnessing some of the tender passages in plays that have pleased
audiences for two centuries, and are yet able to hold the attention, as
modern pieces scarcely ever do.
Miuranosuke, the brave young hero, comes home wounded from the battle
because he has heard his mother is ill. He serves the great Lord
Yoriye, of Sakamoto Castle, on Lake Biwa, who has declared war upon
Hojo Tokimasa of Kamakura. Toki-hime, his betrothed, is the daughter of
Tokimasa, and Miuranosuke finds that his future wife is the daughter of
the sworn enemy, and that she is taking care of his mother in a poor
country cottage, where they have taken shelter.
Toki-hime in her long scarlet robe, into which is woven a pattern of
golden winding water and flowers, and wearing a silver head-dress
that forms a frame to her face—dainty, appealing, the very spirit of
youth and devotion,—shines forth in her splendour, the shabby cottage
interior as a setting.
Miuranosuke makes a young warrior to suit the taste of the most
carping of critics. Staggering through the audience, clad in sky-blue
brocade and scarlet armour, the heads of the people in the boxes on
a level with the hanamichi turn to see his entrance. He reaches the
gate of the cottage and then sinks down from exhaustion. Toki-hime
quickly restores him, and they express their devotion for each other
in postures that instead of tearing the affections to tatters, as is
the way with realism, suggest the depth of their feeling, the minstrel
singing and describing, and the samisen player beating the rhythms.
The hero’s aged mother, lying ill in bed, opens the shoji of her
sick-room only to upbraid him for leaving the battle; she threatens to
sever their relationship as mother and son unless he returns.
Then follows one of the best scenes in the province of onnagata acting.
Toki-hime tries to aid Miuranosuke to attire himself in his armour, and
her grace and delicacy are emphasised by the efforts she makes to carry
the heavy helmet, which at last she is obliged to drag across the floor
of the cottage.
Later Toki-hime is seen standing alone in quiet meditation by a dim oil
light. Here is the eternal conflict in the female breast in all ages
and all countries, the struggle between love and duty. Will she kill
Miuranosuke’s mother as her father has commanded, giving her a sword
for this express purpose, or will she be faithful to her love?
In the midst of her quandary a queer personage enters, dressed in the
unmistakable costume of the Kabuki comedian: a bright yellow kimono
with broad black stripes running from shoulder to shoulder, short baggy
trousers made of horizontal stripes of brown and fawn, and the sleeves
bound with broad bands of scarlet. To the overtures of the fool she
turns a deaf ear.
When Toki-hime is just about to kill herself as the only way out of the
difficulties that beset her, Miuranosuke stops her and says his doubts
regarding her loyalty to him are at an end. He begs her to live
a little longer in order to dispatch her father, his enemy, and as he
intends to die in battle, pleads with her to join him in death, when
they can be married in another world.
The playwright thus strains the love-loyalty and filial piety themes to
the utmost.
Rather poor consolation for Toki-hime this, but her love for him
conquers and she consents. Then the spies come and say that they have
overheard all, and the arch-spy robed in black hastens on his way to
inform her father, when there issues out of the well in the garden
a deadly spear-thrust, and he is killed on the spot. An imposing
personage clambers out of the well. He is Sasaki, staunch supporter of
Miuranosuke, who has been masquerading as the comedian, and in that
capacity tested Toki-hime’s fidelity.
There is a sound of battle, the clash of cymbals and the thunder of big
drums, Miuranosuke and Sasaki must away to the fray. Toki-hime, winsome
and wistful, watches their departure.
Word comes to Toki-hime at Kamakura that Miuranosuke has died on the
battlefield. She is overwhelmed by sorrow. One day she gives Sasaki the
opportunity to strike down her father, but when he examines the head
that he has taken as a trophy, he finds to his bitter regret it is that
of Toki-hime.
* * * * *
Usuyuki, or Thin-Snow, and her lover, Sonobei Sayemon, are the youthful
figures in a love idyll of the Doll-theatre of which Kabuki players
never seem to tire.
They meet in cherry-blossom time at Kiyomizu, that fine old Buddhist
temple built up on the steep hillside commanding a view of Kyoto
nestling in its wide valley. This is always an appropriate play for the
cherry season, and these flowers are used as a pendent curtain across
the stage, while trees in full bloom are placed on either side, and in
the centre there is an ornate red-lacquered temple structure.
In addition to its romance, the play of Usuyuki and Sayemon is one
of the most famous sword pieces of the Japanese stage. Sayemon presents
the gift of a sword to the temple, but an evil swordsmith damages it in
order that Sayemon may be punished, jealousy prompting the villain to
come between the lovers.
Usuyuki and Sayemon have just been married, when messengers arrive
bearing accusations against Sayemon on account of the tampered sword.
The affectionate, innocent young couple are parted. Usuyuki is taken
into the custody of her husband’s father, and Sayemon entrusted to the
keeping of his wife’s father.
Love laughs at barriers, however, and they secretly escape together.
The fathers commit suicide that their children may be cleared of all
doubts and suspicions, and Usuyuki and her husband return to enjoy an
uninterrupted life of peace and happiness.
* * * * *
Miyuki and Asojiro are household names in Japan, the chief figures
in a romance that started one summer evening in Kyoto, when at a
fire-fly festival on the river their boats came together, and they
fell in love at first sight, exchanging fans on which they had written
extemporaneous verse. They plighted their troth, but stern samurai
business kept Asojiro in another part of the country, and Miyuki,
neglected and forlorn, wept so much that she became blind, and started
to wander about the country with her nurse trying to find her faithless
lover.
The finest scene is that in which the blind girl plays the koto, or
long harp-like instrument, at an inn where her lover is stopping.
Asojiro and an elderly samurai are on a special mission, and his
companion thinks only of his duty, and allows for no delinquency or
soft-heartedness on the part of Asojiro, who is overcome when he finds
the blind koto player, brought in by the innkeeper to amuse them, is no
other than his own Miyuki.
All he can do is to give her some remembrance and a sum of money which
he leaves with the innkeeper. By these tokens Miyuki knows that
she has been in the presence of Asojiro, and half distracted she runs
to the river to overtake her fleeing lover, who has been obliged by his
taskmaster of a travelling companion to hasten on his way. The river
has risen, and the ferrymen will not take any more passengers across.
There are many wet eyes in the audience, for the parting of young
lovers never fails to appeal to the tender-hearted in all countries the
sun shines upon.
The playwright knew that his audience would be disappointed were the
lovers never to meet again, and the sympathetic innkeeper makes a gash
in his body in order that he may provide the blind maid with a liberal
portion of his blood, whereby her eyesight is miraculously restored.
Later she is united with Asojiro, and all ends well.
* * * * *
No mention of the lovers in Japanese plays would be complete without
the names of Yayegaki-hime and Katsuyori, characters in a Doll-theatre
jidaimono by Chikamatsu Hanji, called _Nijushiko_ (lit., Twenty-four
Filial Persons), after a book of Chinese tales regarding the filial
deeds of this exact number of personages.
This long play relates the rivalry between the heads of two clans,
which is settled by the betrothal of the daughter of one great daimyo
to the son of the other. But Yayegaki-hime’s father has in his keeping
a much-treasured helmet belonging to Katsuyori’s family, and the young
man dressed as a gardener secretly visits the house of his betrothed
that he may secure the helmet.
Yayegaki-hime soon penetrates his disguise and in spite of his cold
demeanour she wears her heart on her sleeve. They are in the midst of
an exchange of affection when the eavesdropping father breaks in and
spoils it all. He hands Katsuyori a letter enclosed in a lacquered box
with the request that it be delivered at once. Then two villainous
retainers are sent after, with intent to waylay and kill Katsuyori.
Meanwhile the faithful heroine decides to steal the helmet and
carry it to Katsuyori. Fox fires are seen burning in the garden, and
aided by the magic of foxes she becomes possessed of supernatural
strength, and bearing the helmet aloft steals out of the house.
Servants rushing in to prevent her escape are overcome by enchantment,
and she flees along the hanamichi, the minstrel explaining that
she traces her way across frozen Lake Suwa by the footmarks the
accommodating and sympathetic foxes have left in the snow to guide her
to her lover.
IV
Kabuki ghosts are more artistic than matters for psychical research.
Supernatural visitors are dearly loved by playgoers in Japan, and as
material for stage treatment the ghostly is handled with great skill.
Tall autumn grasses waving silvery plumes, a lonely deserted cottage
that gives one a creepy sensation, a rising moon casting a melancholy
effulgence, the distant booming of a temple bell—and ghostly Japan is
well represented.
In such a play, a travelling silk-dealer neglects his wife and wanders
far afield, experiencing many adventures. At last his steps turn
homeward. His wife appears, but he does not know that she is a visitant
from another world, although the audience is in the secret, the
delicate suggestions of ghosthood preparing them for the supernatural.
She tells him her sad story, he falls asleep, and she disappears in a
truly ghost-like fashion, sinking down slowly behind the stone which
marks her burial-place. The stage is darkened and with the light there
is seen the reality—the dwelling in ruins and decay, tall weeds growing
through the broken floor, and a pale moon throwing its white light over
the deserted scene.
In a play by Mokuami, Sogoro, a fish-dealer, of a low type but
chivalrous, comes to right the wrong done to his sister O-Tsuta, a maid
in the residence of a daimyo. She has been tortured and put to death
at the instigation of a man-servant in the lord’s service whose
overtures she had spurned. Sogoro appears brandishing a sake tub, from
which he has imbibed too freely. He is finally calmed by a gift of
money for the girl’s funeral expenses, and the news that the plotter
against his innocent sister has gone the way of all stage villains.
O-Tsuta, who has been sent to her untimely end under such wrongful
circumstance, returns as an apparition. Her body has been thrown into
the garden well and issues forth in a puff of smoke, a haggard, grey,
emaciated spirit with uncanny movements appearing as a shadow on the
shoji, or white paper window.
* * * * *
Kasane is another ghostly heroine popular with Kabuki audiences. She is
disfigured and deformed, and has been transformed from a pretty woman
into one unpleasant to behold. Kasane has married Kinugawa, her dead
sister’s husband, and, all unknowing, she is the victim of ghostly
jealousy.
Her husband keeps her blissfully unaware of her facial defects, as he
has forbidden her to look in a mirror. She does so, is overcome by
horror, fights with Kinugawa and is killed. Her ghost rises out of
the river, long, wan, grey, tapering, like a shadow that moves upward
through no power of its own, to disappear in a similar strange fashion
behind a bridge.
Once more the wraith appears calling Kinugawa to come, and he is just
about to sink under the enchantment of the ghostly Kasane, when he
thinks of a spell to break the chains of death that seem binding him
and is released just as morning dawns. A black drop curtain falls
revealing a sunny morning, people passing over the bridge, among them a
charming young maiden, the very actor who impersonated the unfortunate
Kasane but a moment before.
* * * * *
Of all the ghostly heroines of Kabuki, O-Iwa is certainly the most
tragic. She is the creation of Namboku Tsuruya in his play
_Yotsuya Kaidan_, The Ghost of Yotsuya, the latter a thriving quarter
of modern Tokyo.
[Illustration: Scene from Yotsuya Kaidan, or The Ghost of Yotsuya, by
Namboku Tsuruya. Onoe Baiko is seen as the disfigured O-Iwa, and Onoe
Matsusuke the kind old masseur who holds up the mirror that she may
learn the truth.]
Iyemon, oil-paper umbrella maker, one-time samurai, then ronin in hard
luck, has a pretty young wife, O-Iwa, who has just borne him a child.
His indifference to her is remarkable. The daughter of a well-to-do
neighbour is in love with Iyemon, and her family conspire to put the
wife out of the way by sending her a gift of medicine which is a
powerful poison that will disfigure her face. The poor creature, weak
and ill, unsuspecting the dark design, thankfully drinks the fatal cup.
An old masseur takes pity on the unfortunate O-Iwa, and is thoroughly
solicitous, a character that saves the play from becoming too sordid.
O-Iwa changed by the poison presents a hideous aspect, and the actor
taking this rôle plays directly upon his audience.
The following scene shows Iyemon feasting at the neighbour’s house,
where he is asked to put away his wife and marry their daughter. He
consents, but his hesitation is the one redeeming quality to his
credit. Then he returns home with set purpose to treat O-Iwa so
shamefully that she will leave the abode of her own accord.
He refuses to give her money, even takes her clothing and the mosquito
net, which he pretends to pawn. O-Iwa, shocked by her altered looks,
overcome by her husband’s inhumanity, no longer desires to live, and
kills herself with a sword.
Iyemon returns home once more to find her dead body, and at the
same time discovers Kohei, the servant, whom Iyemon had gagged and
imprisoned in the cupboard in a previous scene. Kohei is a witness
to O-Iwa’s misery, and so Iyemon puts him out of the way. The two
corpses are no sooner bundled out of sight by Iyemon’s ruffians than
the bride arrives in state and there is a scramble to prepare for her.
When Iyemon approaches his new wife she is still in her wedding robe.
He takes off the white veil that covers her head and discovers the
frightful visage of O-Iwa. Making a plunge with his sword he cuts off
the head of his bride. In haste he runs to tell her father, when
he encounters the ghost of Kohei, and using his weapon again he severs
the head of his father-in-law.
The scene which follows, however, quite outdoes anything in the
supernatural in which Kabuki is wont to specialise. Iyemon fishing in
the river discovers the door to which the bodies of the two victims
were tied when they were thrown into the water. O-Iwa raises her head
and speaks in sepulchral tones, and the door turning over, Kohei’s
ghost repeats its tragic phrase: “Master, medicine, please!” For these
were the words Kohei used when interceding on O-Iwa’s behalf. The same
actor takes the rôles of both ghosts, and the lightning change from
wife to servant is left to the imagination of the spectators, and only
the stage mechanics beneath the blue and white cotton waves know how
the transformation is effected.
* * * * *
Without doubt _Botan Doro_, The Peony Lantern, takes first place among
the ghost plays of Kabuki. A Chinese tale retold by the professional
story-teller, Encho, and dramatised by Mokuami and Fukuchi, the two
outstanding playwrights of the Meiji era, it is always performed in
midsummer. Ghosts are a cooling influence for theatre-goers surfeited
with the sights and sounds of the hot thoroughfares, and shades from
another world clad in grey, with wan, indistinct faces, seen vaguely
behind weeping willow branches, seem appropriate stage characters in
summer weather.
The chief characters in _Botan Doro_ are O-Tsuyu, a beautiful maiden in
love with Hagiwara Shinsaburo. There is also the young lady’s maid, and
a picturesque evildoer, Tomozo.
O-Tsuya meeting secretly with her lover is suddenly surprised, and they
are rudely parted. In despair, she commits suicide with her maid, and
the ghostly shapes visit Shinsaburo nightly. A priest gives him a small
golden image of the Goddess of Mercy to ward off her nocturnal visits,
and puts up a charm to keep O-Tsuya away.
Tomozo, the hero’s faithless servant, steals the image and tells
his wife that the ghost of O-Tsuya will appear and pay him a sum of
money for hiding it, the influence of which prevents her from entering
her lover’s house. He is firmly convinced the ghost will appear, and
his look-out for the apparition is so full of surprise and contrast,
and the suspense so well sustained, that the audience is thoroughly
keyed up in anticipation. Tomozo and his wife talk so much of the ghost
that every moment they think she has come, and soon are trembling with
fear, the frightened wife taking refuge under the large green mosquito
net suspended over her bed.
O-Tsuya and her maid are suddenly seen to float behind the drooping
branches of a willow tree, seemingly suspended in air, the maid
carrying the ghostly lantern, shaped like a pink peony, that gives out
a dim and intermittent glow.
The transaction over between O-Tsuya and Tomozo, the ghosts make their
way towards Shinsaburo’s house, but they cannot enter unless the
Buddhist charm above the doorway is removed. This Tomozo accomplishes,
and immediately as the two weird shapes vanish, a peony lantern is seen
to rise mysteriously from mid-stage and without the aid of hands, sail
through the air and enter an open space over the door. Shinsaburo is
now left to the mercy of the ghosts, who claim him as their own and
take him away from the land of the living.
There is a superstition concerning The Peony Lantern to the effect that
actors who play the ghosts’ rôles soon pass away. This was brought
home when the play was presented at the Imperial Theatre in August
1919. During the performances two of the most promising young actors of
Tokyo, taking the rôles of mistress and maid, took ill and died within
a week of each other. Nightly they had been seen, pale-faced, the hair
worn long and dishevelled, the maid with the ghostly lantern in hand,
moving behind the willow tree. Soon they were to become like the shades
they impersonated, no longer of the earth, earthy.
V
The frequency with which heads—the variety that Salome bore on a
charger when she danced before King Herod—enter into Kabuki plays would
seem to bear out the pronouncement made by the late William Archer
that the Japanese drama was “barbaric and insensate”. This was the
impression made upon a Western critic on first contact with Kabuki
during a brief visit to Japan. Considering, however, the wide range of
Kabuki plays, this sweeping statement revealed but half-knowledge.
Even as the unnatural crimes in Shakespeare’s plays pleased the
Elizabethans, so the playwrights of Old Japan provided strong fare
for their feudal audiences. Unless the abstract motive of loyalty is
recognised, the significance of a head symbol as a stage accessory is
lost.
One of the best of many such loyalty pieces is Omi Genji, by Chikamatsu
Hanji and Miyoshi Shoraku. Two brothers, Moritsuna and Takatsuna,
descendants of the Genji clan, live near the lake of Omi. They are on
different sides, one for the Shogun, the other a rebel. Moritsuna holds
his brother’s son, Koshiro, as a hostage and tells his venerable mother
to instruct the lad to commit harakiri that Takatsuna may be influenced
to take an honourable course of action.
The boy is disinclined to listen to his grandmother, the more so as he
sees his mother approaching the gate. His grandmother tries in vain to
carry out the execution, but her love for her grandchild renders her
powerless to act. Messengers arrive and relate in descriptive posture
dances how the battle went and that Takatsuna has been killed. A
representative of the Shogun comes with Takatsuna’s head in order that
Moritsuna may identify it. He is Tokimasa, a dignified old warrior in
gold armour, his white hair bound with a silver band, and comes through
the audience followed by his retainers in armour, one carrying the
head-box, another a chest of armour.
The head-box is placed in the centre of the stage and the
ceremonial of examination proceeds. Moritsuna slowly seats himself in
front of the box. With eyes that do not see, he carefully takes off the
long upper portion and lifts up the shallow lower portion of the box
on which rests the head, placing it on top of the cover which makes a
stand for it, the face looking out toward the audience.
Koshiro, peering forth to see the head, disturbs the august assembly
by leaping down from an upper room and committing harakiri, Moritsuna
taking no notice of the tragic deed further than to upbraid him for his
impolite behaviour in the presence of the exalted guest. He continues
his silent examination of the head. The audience is so hushed that the
stray notes of the samisen sound like drops of water echoing through
a vacant house. It seems an endless time before he lowers his eyes,
and the longer he evades looking the more the actor hypnotises the
audience. At last Moritsuna’s brotherly affection overcomes his strong
self-control, and conflicting emotions are seen upon his face.
Slowly his gaze travels down. It is the moment the audience have been
awaiting. There is a slight start when his eyes rest full upon the
face, an imperceptible surprise, and then a smile of relief. It is not
the head of Takatsuna. His brother is still alive.
But even while smiling he makes up his mind to resort to subterfuge to
deceive Tokimasa, and to hide the truth from this worthy person.
Moritsuna takes the head in his arms, addresses a lament to it, places
it before the dignitary and declares it to be the true head of his
brother. Here is revealed the psychology of the Oriental audience,
for Moritsuna’s camouflage is mightily approved, and shows itself as
something essentially Eastern.
Tokimasa retires and Moritsuna gives vent to sorrow that Koshiro should
have sacrificed himself. The boy, realising that the head was not that
of his father, and hoping to lead Tokimasa into the belief that it was,
takes his own life—another species of Eastern camouflage. There
is not a dry eye in the audience when the dying boy says farewell to
all the members of the family, and breathing his last as a spy, hidden
within the chest of armour, is discovered and killed.
The Occidental will say: What an unpleasant and disagreeable play
with a gory head for chief object of interest! Yes, so it seems
to Westerners accustomed to regard things, externals, as of more
importance than the inner but more potent expression. To the Kabuki
audience the head is not repugnant, nor suggestive of a corpse or
bloodshed; it is merely the medium for the expression of Moritsuna’s
emotion, and the whole interest centres not in the inanimate object,
but in the art of the actor.
VI
Socialistic tendencies, dissatisfaction with the oppression of the
governing class, often found expression in Kabuki plays. A favourite
piece of this kind has the champion of the downtrodden, Banzuiin
Chobei, for hero.
Chobei is at the head of a business that supplies men to feudal lords,
kago bearers, attendants to travel in the long trains that escorted the
daimyo in their goings and comings to and from the capital. His men
are loyal to him and fearless, and when they encounter the samurai of
a hatamoto, or direct retainer of the Shogun, called Mizuno, an evil
character, there is a skirmish and Chobei’s side is victorious.
Mizuno and Chobei happen to meet in the theatre, the Murayama-za, one
of Yedo’s first shibai. The play is progressing on the old-fashioned
stage, when a drunkard bursts in through the audience and causes a
disturbance. Chobei springs out of a box in the pit to help straighten
things out. At this juncture Mizuno appears in an upper box reserved
for the gentry to the left of the stage, and they exchange words. From
this time onward Chobei is a marked man.
[Illustration: Banzuiin Chobei, a man of the people, rôle by Matsumoto
Koshiro.]
Mizuno’s messenger comes to Chobei’s dwelling, and delivers an
invitation to dinner. Chobei’s wife does not wish him to accept, but
he cannot refuse, as he would be taken for a coward. He says farewell
to his wife and little son, gives his men last instructions, and sets
forth.
Within Mizuno’s residence, Chobei is received with every sign of
hospitality. He is unafraid, and behaves with the courtesy of manner
that belongs to a man accustomed to stand up for what is just and
right. An attendant purposely spills sake over his clothing, and then
recommends that he take a bath. The maid leads him to the bath-room.
The steam is issuing forth from the big tub. He is just about to enter
when he is attacked. Chobei, with only his fists to defend himself,
lays about him, and five men are stretched on the floor, the stage
bath-room being considerably larger than that in real life.
The host then attacks, and even he is no match for the alert Chobei.
Left alone he might have fought off his enemies, but one of the men
strikes him from behind, and so he dies,—a victim to the treachery of
that day.
Mizuno was afterwards ordered by the Government to commit harakiri to
atone for this and other crimes. So says history, but Chobei’s memory
is kept fresh by generations of actors.
Still another play of the people is that of Sakura Sogoro. He was the
headman of a village not far from Tokyo. The people were oppressed by
the feudal lord, and groaned under the taxes imposed until famine and
destitution stared them in the face.
Sogoro decides to go to Yedo to present a petition to the Shogun,
knowing that his life will be forfeit for this act of insubordination.
When he returns, his wife and four sons are executed at the command of
the daimyo.
He bids good-bye to his wife on a snowy evening, and tries to induce
her to accept a divorce, and so escape the punishment that is bound to
overtake the family. But this she refuses to do, preferring to share
his fate. Sogoro trudging through the snow-drifts, with his eldest
son clinging to him, and his wife and little ones looking forth from
the open shoji, is a typical Kabuki farewell scene.
He knocks at the rude hut, where an old watchman is trying to sleep
beside a few embers of charcoal, and guarding the boat that is chained
to a stake just below on the marshy lagoon—or blue and white cotton
cloth which represents the historical watercourse that bore Sogoro
away on his desperate mission. Sogoro is recognised with joy by the
watchman, who tries his best to dissuade him from going, but at last
agrees to row him on his way, and breaks the chain, thus defying the
law of the daimyo.
The direct appeal is made when the Shogun, after a hawking expedition,
stops to rest at the shrine sacred to his ancestors in what is now
known as Uyeno Park (Tokyo). The retinue is passing over a bridge
connecting two red-lacquered buildings. Sogoro throws his petition,
which a sympathetic follower of the Shogun secretes in his sleeve, and
the procession passes on, leaving Sogoro bound, a martyr to the cause
of the suffering country people.
Whenever this play is produced in Tokyo, the actors taking part repair
to the district of Sakura where Sogoro lived and pay their respects
to his shrine, likewise a little shrine is erected within the theatre
where offerings of sake, fruit, and vegetables are made before the
spirit of the man who died that the wrongs of the people might be
righted.
[Illustration: Nakamura Kichiyemon as Sakura Sogoro, the Village Head
who sacrificed his life for the good of the people.]
VII
Love tragedies were in high favour, as may be seen by the number of
plays produced that have for motive shinju, or the double suicide of
unfortunate lovers who hope by departing this life to obliterate their
sins and omissions and to be united in the after-world. Invariably the
settings of these romances were the immoral quarters.
Chikamatsu Monzaemon wrote several pieces of this character, and
they were so popular that they had a great deal to do with the
encouragement of young people to become partners in the shuffling-off
of this mortal coil.
If Chikamatsu had written little else, his characters Jihei and Koharu
would save his name from oblivion. This piece, _Sayo Shigure Tenno
Amijima_ (lit., Evening-shower-heaven-net-island), was first staged in
1720 in the Osaka Doll-theatre, when Chikamatsu was in the sixties.
He had taken an excursion to the ancient Shinto Shrine of Sumiyoshi,
near Osaka, when the news reached him of the double suicide of a couple
called Jihei and Koharu. He ordered his palanquin-bearers to carry him
home as quickly as they could, and within his dwelling seized paper
and writing brush and elaborated the ideas that had come to his mind,
scarcely stopping to take breath until the play was finished.
Koharu is a belle of the Kinokuniya, a house in the Osaka pleasure
quarters, and Jihei conducts a prosperous paper shop, and has a wife,
O-San, and two children. His wife has been bestowed upon him by his
parents, and as she is not his own choice, his wandering fancy is
captivated by Koharu. He forgets everything in his infatuation, and is
on the brink of ruin when O-San writes to Koharu asking her to give up
Jihei. This Koharu consents to do after a struggle between her apparent
duty and her love for the young man. Jihei, unacquainted with the
facts, believes her false and mercenary.
Jihei cannot settle down to the domestic routine, and his thoughts will
turn to Koharu. His peace of mind is further disturbed, for he learns
that he has a rich rival who intends to purchase Koharu’s freedom and
who has invented various belittling tales about his desertion of Koharu.
When O-San hears how things are, she declares that Koharu would die
rather than submit to her new patron, and that Jihei must buy her out
without delay. Her treasured kimono are given to Jihei, and, sobbing,
the loyal wife says that although she and the children may have no
clothing, reputation is dear to a man, and that the wealthy person
who wishes to take possession of Koharu must be defeated at all costs.
O-San’s father then arrives on the scene, declaring that he has come to
take her home, and that they must consider themselves divorced.
Beset on every side, Jihei and Koharu decide to die together. Jihei
leaves the Kinokuniya after paying his account. Then he stands by the
side of the house waiting for Koharu. His elder brother, Magoyemon, who
fears that Jihei may do something rash, comes to inquire about him, and
is told that Jihei has returned home and Koharu is sleeping. It is late
at night, and Magoyemon has Jihei’s little son on his back to whom he
says: “I hope you won’t take cold. You are unfortunate to have such a
father”, which remark Jihei overhears as he hides in the shadow.
The night-watch strikes his two pieces of wood as a signal that all is
well, and the sound echoes in the deserted street. Then Koharu keeps
the tryst, and they run as fast as they can to the river-bank, where
their bodies are found together in a clump of bamboo the next morning.
[Illustration: Nakamura Fukusuke of Osaka as a belle of the gay
quarters. Letters are made as long as possible to produce the better
effect.]
Equally familiar are Wankyu and Matsuyama in a drama of the gay
quarters by Kino Kaion; while Hanshichi and Sankatsu in a long play by
Takemoto Saburobei are stage characters known the length and breadth of
Japan. Hanshichi, a victim of the marriage system, becomes enamoured
of Sankatsu, which brings so many complications around them, they
are obliged to commit shinju, Hanshichi’s long-suffering wife O-Sono
adopting their daughter as her own.
Almost all the playwrights of this period pandered to the popular
taste, and wrote long plays with the gay world as background, but
there is a marked difference in the compositions of the Osaka and Yedo
writers, since the tastes of the audiences of these two towns were so
unlike. The tragic heroines of the Yedo Yoshiwara did not resort to
shinju to the same alarming extent as did the members of the frail
sisterhood in Osaka.
Ihara Seiseiin, explaining the close connection between the gay
world and shibai, says: “Foreigners sometimes ridicule the intimate
relations between the plays and the Yoshiwara. This was not the fault
of Kabuki, but rather must be attributed to the state of society at
that time. Just as priests and temples had ruled the spirit of the
people during the Hojo and Ashikaga periods, so during the Tokugawa age
it was the courtesans’ quarters which influenced the customs and spirit
of the people. The leading characters of the Nō plays were priests,
while the plays of the people related to heroines of the gay world.”
The patronage of these quarters and interest in plays dealing with
the inmates was largely a protest against the official desire to make
of society one drab, colourless pattern. The immoral quarters were
almost the only places where men could assemble for relaxation and
amusement. Peace continued for more than two centuries, and the samurai
had nothing to do. The country was shut off from intercourse with the
outside world, the atmosphere grew stagnant, and men resorted to the
pleasure-quarters as a relief from boredom. In consequence, gossip of
prostitutes, their love stories and tragedies, formed the chief topics
of the day, and these were faithfully reflected in the works of the
Doll-theatre and Kabuki playwrights.
VIII
A partiality for the weird is one of the most pronounced tastes of
Kabuki.
_Modori Bashi_, a shosagoto, by Mokuami, has for hero Watanabe Tsuna,
who meets a beautiful woman and discovers she is a supernatural
creature. He pursues her into the air, fights with her, and at last as
a climax cuts off her arm, after which he drops down upon the roof of a
temple. The play is full of demon lore.
The time of _Modori Bashi_ is a thousand years ago, and the place
the Modori bridge of Kyoto by moonlight. Watanabe wears one of those
exaggerated costumes so characteristic of shosagoto, and looks
cautiously at the bridge which is supposed to be enchanted. The
long branches of a willow tree move as though a ghostly wind was
blowing, although the curious-minded wonder how many stage assistants
are pulling the strings down below, and the quick beating of a drum
announces the approach of something uncanny.
The female demon is in the guise of a beautiful maiden brilliantly
arrayed, and she immediately makes advances to the warrior, who does
not seem to be very anxious to accept the amorous overtures. The
attitude of the two is exactly opposite to the conventional love scenes
on the Western stage, where the maiden refuses and is hard-hearted,
while the lover tries to gain her favour. The demon uses all her arts,
but the warrior cannot easily be won over.
Watanabe’s flirtation with the devil woman in disguise continues until
he leads her upon the bridge, and then looking down into the water he
catches the reflection of her face and knows that she is not a human
maid, but that she is his enemy and would lure him to destruction. The
gradual change from a charming woman into a terrible devil is effected
by changes in face, voice, and posture, a transformation that gives an
actor with the weird for specialty a good opportunity.
While the hero and the uncanny creature attack each other in a posture
dance, the bridge disappears, drawn off by invisible hands behind the
scenes, and a red-lacquered shrine is pushed partly into view and
completes the very striking stage picture.
The dance between the two becomes wilder and more intense, reaching a
climax as the maiden darts behind the scene. Almost immediately she
returns in her true shape, wearing a grotesque mask, while her mane is
light brown, with a white stripe down the middle and so long it trails
over the stage. She dances wildly about in a fight with warriors, whose
swords glint in the semi-darkness of the stage; storm clouds hurry
across the sky as though scurrying before a cyclone.
A curtain of gauze representing clouds shuts off the view. The
warrior and the creature he pursues are in mid-air struggling together
right over the roof of a temple. He cuts off one of her arms, and
clutches it wildly in triumphant posture while the mutilated devil
woman disappears into the aerial regions.
[Illustration: Onoe Baiko as the demon woman in Ibaraki, escaping with
her severed arm.]
As companion piece to _Modori Bashi_ there is _Ibaraki_, by the same
playwright, which shows the very highest and best development of the
music-posture play.
Watanabe Tsuna, after capturing the arm of the devil woman, guards the
box in which it is kept, as he is certain she will return to claim her
severed member. Disguised as a venerable old lady, refined, peaceful,
and altogether attractive, the weird monster appears and desires to
enter Watanabe’s abode, but is refused admittance.
Much disappointed, she is leaving, when Watanabe calls her back under
the impression that she is one of his relatives, and she is taken
within and a feast spread, before her.
When Watanabe’s adventures are related, she expresses a wish to see the
arm. At sight of it there is a sudden transformation of her face from
that of a placid, kindly old woman to something hateful and sinister.
Unable to disguise her true nature, she snatches up the arm and makes
off, followed by Watanabe.
When she returns in full fiendish regalia, with long flowing white
mane, wearing a terrifying horned mask with staring gold eyeballs,
there is a clever fight in the nature of a posture dance, and the
strange, picturesque creature suddenly breaks away from the struggle
and jumps into the air, where she is poised for a moment—the triumphant
posture of all the characters at the end satisfying the audience that
the devil woman has been overcome.
* * * * *
Among the many weird shosagoto, few equal _Dojo-ji_ in beauty and
interest. Taken from a Nō drama of the same name, _Dojo-ji_, The
Temple of Dojo, it is concerned with that old tale of a beautiful
princess who, loving a priest, pursues him, and changing herself into a
serpent and twining around the bell in which he is hiding, melts it in
her jealous rage. A new bell is hung and she returns to vent her spite
upon it.
The temple atmosphere is created when the action begins, the hanamichi
swarming with priests and overflowing upon the stage. The Nagauta
singers and musicians sit motionless in the background, while a great
verdigris-hued temple-bell suspended by a red and white twisted rope
swings high among pendent cherry flowers, making a gay scene.
The priests in their quiet black and white costumes are a foil for
the radiant princess who, upon her entrance, becomes the centre of
the picture, and by her changing movements absorbs all the attention.
As soon as the kimono of her serpent highness vanishes like magic
under the deft touch of the black-robed stage attendant, the lady
with the hidden snake-like nature undergoes a series of rapid
costume-transformations, one exquisite creation following the other.
Now she dances with a little gilt drum, small rounds of silver, or
bewilders with a sudden display of scarlet and gold disks, one on her
head, and one in each hand, that give place to a succession of others,
or simply waves a wand of cherry blossoms. As a relief to the movements
of the snake in disguise, a large number of theatrical priests dance,
motley fellows in yellow, black, grey, and red, adding to the rhythm
which is felt as the compelling undercurrent of the whole piece.
When the serpent-princess feels her diabolical self getting the best
of her, she seeks safety in the big bell swinging high overhead. It
descends, and she disappears within. Then the priests work hard trying
to exorcise the evil spirit, all to no purpose. Their movements about
the big bell add to the picturesqueness of the scene.
Soon the hanamichi is again filled with strong men, clad in white
and silver kimono, who come to use their force against the
princess-serpent, for the priests cannot prevail. With one accord and
uttering a long cry in unison, they take hold of the bell-rope and
begin to haul.
By degrees the great bell swings upward, and a weird figure is seen
crouching under a blue-green silk scarf. To the thunder of big drums,
the serpent begins a fighting-dance which makes a strong stage
movement and prepares for the entrance of a hero resplendent in vivid
green, bright red, shining gold and black, armed with a huge piece of
green bamboo. He comes to subdue the creature of evil that, entirely
surrounded, climbs upon the top of the bell, and crouches there, a
frightful figure in silver brocade, black flowing mane, and face
terrible to behold. The priests in fear and trembling wrap themselves
about the bell as in a human cord, and the valiant man stands
triumphant.
After it is all over and the curtain is drawn, the inquisitive
theatre-goer wonders how it was possible for the beautiful princess to
completely change into the garments and make-up of the uncanny creature
within the limited space underneath the bell. But that is a stage
secret, and does not concern the audience.