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