This essay was originally going to be part of my book They Saw Danjūrō: Foreign Theatregoers at Meiji Kabuki, a collection of Meiji period writings in English about kabuki, but it was cut when I decided to include only writing by non-Japanese contributors. Although deficient in certain respects, it was one of the more thorough and knowledgeable essays at a time when foreigners writing about kabuki knew little about the form and there were no quality reference sources in English to study in advance. With its commentary and notes, it should give a good idea of how the 62 essays in the book, many of them necessarily condensed, are treated. SLL
“The Theatres of Japan”[1]
(1890)
T.J. Nakagawa
T.J. Nakagawa, like Anna
D’Almeida, is someone about whom no easily discernible traces remain. Although
a native Japanese, his fluent English writing suggests he may have been
educated abroad. Certainly, his use of the initials T.J. in his name reflects a
strong Western influence. And the sole other example of his writing I could
find, an article about “Journalism in Japan,” published in the May 1900 issue
of Forum
is, perhaps, a sign that journalism was his
field.
Nakagawa offers our only indigenous perspective,
providing a capsulized, although generally accurate, version of kabuki history,
beginning with a brief look at its predecessor, nō, which influenced it, through its broadest
developments up to the late nineteenth century. He reminds us of the low status
actors previously had; notes why women were banned from the stage; touches on
the artistic evolution of dramatic content; and points out, importantly, that,
prior to the Meiji period, Osaka, not Edo was Japan’s theatre center.
This
last is often overlooked by modern admirers of kabuki and its colorful past.
Nakagawa states, though, that with the ascendance in Meiji of Tokyo’s
theatrical power, its stars only rarely visited their provincial brothers, but
this was not quite the case. Tokyo actors often toured to Osaka and Kyoto (and
elsewhere), although the very top actors did so less frequently than their
colleagues, and there was an active interchange between east (Tokyo) and west,
especially once railway connections were installed in the early 1870s.
Nakajima offers a surprisingly negative assessment of
kabuki scenography, both artistically and technically, which contradicts the
reports of foreigners who often, if not always, tended to highly praise Japanese
sets. While some influential Japanese thought features like the hanamichi
inconsistent with the stage’s progress
into modernity, others, and not simply because they were conservative,
recognized the theatrical value of such elements and fought to protect them
from overeager reformers.
Reform was the watchword of the day, and Nakagawa notes
the activity of new societies seeking to raise kabuki to a level of
international respect. The mid-1880s witnessed an eruption of reformism in all
cultural fields. Both Osaka and Tokyo inaugurated Theatre Reform Societies (Engeki
Kairyō Kai), of which there were several
follow-up groups into the 1890s. Under the influence of the West, they sought
improvements in playwriting, social status, and theatrical architecture. Even Western-style
oil painters began, occasionally, to design sets. Nakagawa, however, recognized
the danger of the reformers throwing the baby out with the bathwater.
Nakagawa cites a production exploiting a number of
naturalistic effects, although, as elsewhere, he fails to mention the title.
His clues include it being a play about Dutch-scholar martyrs, starring
Danjūrō, performed at the Shintomi-za “several months” earlier. Neither the
titles nor the plots of plays performed at the Shintomi-za in the months prior
to his article of June 1890 suggest anything about scholar martyrs. However, as
Professor Hioki Takayuki of Meiji University informs me,[3] if we go back four years, to May
1886, we can find a candidate in Yume Monogatari Rosei no
Sugata-e, listed in some sources by the
name of one of its heroes, the historical figure Watanabe Kazan.[4] This is the play we are looking for.
Watanabe
Kazan (1793-1841), the role played by Danjūrō, was a scholar and painter. As
Seichi Iwao writes, he “became interested in Dutch learning—that is, the study
of European science and civilization as it was conveyed to Japan through Dutch
teachers and textbooks.”[5] The physician referenced by Nakagawa
would have been another major character, Takano Chōei (1804-1850), played by
Ichikawa Sadanji I. They and other scholars formed a society called the
Shōshikai, focused on studying European culture and contemporary political
issues in Japan. Kazan and Chōei were critical of the shogunate’s hardline
stance on foreign ships that approached Japan. That is why, in 1839, they and
other members of their group were sentenced to life imprisonment, which is why
Nakagawa calls them “martyrs.” For various reasons, neither served out their
time, but, as the play discloses, both ended up committing suicide.
Nakagawa’s
next reference, to a play in which a realistic earthquake occurs, is also
vague. It was probably Jishin Katō, whose title means The Earthquake and Katō (a reference to the historical samurai, Katō Kiyomasa [1562-1611]); it
was done at the Shintomi-za in February 1887. And the subsequent comment on
Kikugorō V’s performance as a cormorant fisher has to have been Ukai no
Kagoribi, meaning The Cormorant
Fisher’s Basket Fire, which premiered at
the Shintomi-za in May 1887, with Kikugorō as both a geisha and a fisherman.[6]
Nakagawa
moves on to discuss kabuki’s revolving stage (mawari
butai) and hanamichi, offering this volume’s most comprehensive
and comprehending account of these unique devices. However, for all his
admiration, he is disappointed that kabuki has not done even more to take advantage
of their possibilities. He also explains why the revolving stage was not
available in the West, which he blames on the stage space it requires.
Nevertheless, it would be introduced in Munich in 1896, at a time when things
Japanese were trending abroad. A decade later, Austrian director Max Reinhardt
(1873-1943) would make such innovative use of it that it became increasingly
popular in Europe and America.[7]
Today it is one of the most common
methods of shifting scenes.
Nakagawa
follows up with an interesting overview of the beauty, authenticity, and
expense of kabuki costumes. Kabuki costumes were typically anachronistic and
often far more fanciful than what was actually worn offstage. Danjūrō was
concerned about this and wanted to reform costuming. As Nakagawa explains, not
all his costars were on board. Allow me to expand on his account of the famous
dispute between Danjūrō (whom he refers to by his guild name, or yagō, Naritaya), and Nakamura Sōjūrō.
Danjūrō was a fanatic advocate of historical realism, like
Charles Kean (1811-1868) in England a bit earlier. He either had the playwright
Kawatake Shinshichi II (Mokuami) write what were dubbed “living history” (katsureki) plays, or adapt existing history plays to
eliminate many of their fabrications in the name of authenticity. That was the
case with the June 1881 Shintomi-za production of Youchi no Soga, which Nakagawa calls The Two Brothers
of the House of Soga.[9] In it Danjūrō used a new way of costuming
Soga no Gorō. It was traditional for him to wear a costume with only a
butterfly and plover design but he changed this to authentic armor, with a
belly band, gauntlets, shin guards, samurai sandals, and leather tabi, all
straight from a Kamakura-period picture scroll. In contrast, the Soga no Jurō
of visiting Osaka actor Nakamura Sōjūrō wore the traditional costume of bare
feet, suō robe, and hakama, with his feet wrapped in straw—the pure
Edo-period style.
So
the Soga brothers were thoroughly mismatched, throwing the production off
balance, earning sharp criticism, and forcing the management to try to persuade
them to change, with no effect on either. As a result, it was said, “The
younger brother was prepared for a fire, the older brother for a flood,”[10] or “the older brother is going to do
his laundry in the river, the younger brother is going to collect firewood in
the mountains.”[11] Tokyo’s governor, Matsuda Michiyuki,
was brought in to arbitrate, but Sōjūrō refused to compromise. Disgruntled, he
walked out after a single performance, and his role was taken by Ichimura
Kakitsu (later Ichimura Uzaemon XIV; 1847-1893).
Following
his discussion of costuming, Nakagawa turns to a story famous in kabuki annals
about the actor Nakamura Nakazō I (1736-1790).The story is another one about
how scrupulously kabuki actors of the past were in making their roles as
realistic as possible within the limits of the form’s conventions. The unnamed
play is Chūshingura, in
whose nearly wordless Act V the villainous young rōnin Sadakurō, his face painted deadly white, and his simple black kimono
hitched up to reveal his similarly white legs, kills a passerby on a dark and
lonely road. As he examines the man’s purse, saying but a single line, with
obvious satisfaction, “Gojū ryō” (“Fifty
gold pieces”), he, in turn, is shot by someone else. In one of kabuki’s most
memorable moments, bright red blood trickles from his mouth onto his exposed
white thigh, and he collapses, dead.
This
simple scene was perfected by Nakazō in 1766 at the Ichimura-za. Originally,
Sadakurō wore the garb of a mountain priest (yamabushi), but Nakazō changed it to the black kimono
he made famous, with a wig showing the hair on his normally shaved scalp half
grown in. Brief though his appearance is, Sadakurō’s mimic possibilities make
the role one many actors long to play.
Nakagawa
moves on to further discuss the extreme methods actors went to in their quest
for believability, and the measures their masters used to inspire such performances.
The example given, involving instructional methods, while far from the internal
approach taken by adherents of the Stanislavsky system, is reminiscent of the
anecdotes associated with the great American playwright-director, David Belasco
(1853-1931). For example, Belasco would smash a supposedly expensive watch—it
was a fake—to show his exasperation as a means to rouse his actors’ passions.
And
the incident Nakagawa cites regarding Ichikawa Ichizō III’s playing a villain
with so much truthfulness that it angered a spectator enough to seek to harm
him reminds us of anecdotes about American frontier theatres where audience
members are reported to have shot their pistols at pretend assassins. The
Ichizō incident happened in the second month of 1857, when Ichizō was at the
Morita-za, playing Tenjiku Tokubei in Irifune Soga Nihon no
Torikaji. The story has been covered in
various sources.[12]
Eventually,
Nakagawa’s commentary on acting realism leads him to men playing women, kabuki’s
famed onnagata. He
praises the high degree of simulation they bring to their art, notes that they
no longer specialize in narrow female types, says that even actors specializing
in male roles have expanded to include females, and comments interestingly on
the then declining custom of onnagata living
their daily lives as much like women as possible. No judgment is passed on the
long-established practice, now vanished.
He
brings up the subject of actresses to replace the onnagata, something of great concern to those
reformists anxious to abandon the old tradition. Nakagawa realizes how
difficult this will be, and points out the training it will require. In fact,
training schools for actresses began to appear not long after the turn of the
century. Regulations against women acting in public were loosened in 1890. The
next year, 1891, saw the appearance of the short-lived but revolutionary
amateur troupe called the Seibikan, in which a mixed company of men and women
performed, actress Chitose Beiha (1855-1918) doing the path-breaking. The
Seibikan was a pioneer in the new genre later called shinpa.
However,
the earliest example of modern mainstream kabuki using women was at the
Kabuki-za in 1893. This happened when Danjūrō cast his two young daughters, Horikoshi
Jitsuko (1881-1943) and Horikoshi Fukiko (1883-1947),[13] alluded to by Nakagawa, as the
butterflies in Dōjōji.
There
follows a compelling passage about kabuki’s naughty past and the low status it
and its actors were confined to in the pre-Meiji years. Nakagawa introduces the
topic of the theatre’s employment as a place of both moral education and social
value, describing the institution of a necessary censorship to assure things
remain that way. Late Meiji Japan was, he reminds us, more concerned about
propriety, especially in romantic matters, than the West, and he did not wish
to see such standards weakened by foreign influence.
He
forecasts the construction of a new theatre that will bring Japan into the
modern world, confesses that it will contain actresses as well, and predicts
reforms to playwriting that will soon transpire.[14] This leads to a discussion of a play
Erwin Baelz enjoyed in Chapter 15, Bulwer-Lytton’s 1840 British comedy, Money, the first modern foreign play to be
adapted into a Japanese context. He is afraid that the conventions of such
plays, so unlike those to which audiences are accustomed, may be harmful to the
familiar conventions. As it turned out, the Japanese theatre was flexible
enough to allow for such incursions, while adjusting its old traditions to the
demands and interests of the new world.
I.
[Nakagawa opens by
depicting the origins of kabuki, which grew out of sarugaku, the predecessor of nō, which he briefly describes. He tells the
familiar story of Okuni, the dancer who, after arriving in Kyoto in 1603,
created the popular form that came to be known as kabuki. She originally
performed in the dry river bed of the Kamo River, giving rise to the pejorative
name for actors “kawaramono” or “riverbed
beggars.”
He details kabuki’s early development, the official
pressure it faced from its perceived immorality, the banning of women, and the
consequent rise of male specialists in female roles (onnagata). This sparked the form’s maturity as a
dramatic, rather than revue-like entertainment.]
At the end of the eighteenth century Osaka
had become the recognized home of the national drama. This city was the
rendezvous to which all ambitious aspirants were drawn, and no actor could rise
prominently in his vocation unless it were known that he had been trained upon
its stages, and in accordance with its peculiar artistic principles. The
ascendency of Osaka continued undisputed until the restoration of the imperial
government, in 1868. Upon the removal of the court and the seat of
administration from that part of the country to Tokyo, three hundred miles
away, the supremacy of the theatres was likewise transferred, and during the
past twenty years no energy has been spared by the managers and players of the
Eastern capital to elevate their art to the highest grade of perfection. There
are still companies of great merit at Osaka, and in some particulars their
performances are said to surpass those of their successful rivals. But the
taste of connoisseurs has declared itself overwhelmingly in approval of the
Tokyo school. In the majority of the provincial theatres, including at present
those of Kyoto, nothing better can be seen than extravagant and gaudy
reproductions of plays once worthily applauded, but now represented by troops
of wandering players of no standing whatever. It is only on rare and
exceptional occasions that actors of metropolitan repute can be persuaded to
leave their own sphere and participate in entertainments elsewhere. I shall therefore
confine myself, in describing the present condition of the Japanese stage, to a
review of what the leading theatres of Tokyo now provide.
II
It
will first be convenient to speak of scenic and mechanical effects, although it
must be admitted, at the outset, that these are unquestionably defective in
Japan. We have as yet no proper estimate of the importance of pictorial and
structural accessories. The mimic views of landscape, architecture, and
interiors are never intrusted [sic] to really capable hands, but are almost
invariably executed by painters and machinists of mediocre talent. Elaborate
settings, for the purpose of increasing the illusion, are almost unknown.
Gradations of light and shade are rarely attempted, and colored illuminations
were experimentally introduced for the first time only about a year ago, in the
Shintomi Theatre, and then without sufficient care or dexterity to produce a
satisfactory impression.[15]
It is difficult to supply an explanation for the various imperfections in this
department of the theatre. No sustained effort at amendment appears to have
been made in the last fifty years. But occasional indications have latterly
been given of a willingness to introduce practical reforms. A movement has been
set on foot by travelled Japanese who have made themselves familiar with the
theatrical processes of Europe and America, the object of which is to compel
the attention of managers to the required improvements. Societies have been
formed, not alone for the purpose of making good the superficial deficiencies
of the stage, but also to enhance its influence as an instrument of popular
education. If their endeavors have thus far been unproductive of large results,
it is probably because the innovations proposed are of too radical a nature.
The advocates of foreign methods and applicances [sic] had known little or nothing of the Japanese drama before they
went abroad, for the theatre of their own land was in many cases so degraded by
evil repute that the better class of society was reluctant to patronize it.
Without sufficient investigation, they are eager rather to destroy utterly, and
build anew, than to graft the advantages of Western growth upon the native
foundation. It is unfortunate that they are frequently found recommending a
degree of change which cannot for the present possibly be tolerated by the
community. If the entire system should be remodeled according to their plan,
the theatre would inevitably lose much of its national character, and become in
many respects an imperfect and spiritless exponent of uncongenial principles.
Nevertheless, their exertions have had the beneficial end of directing the
minds of all concerned to the importance of casting off the old-time
conventionalities and traditions, which are utterly inconsistent with a proper
respect for art. Of the immediate consequences of their proceedings a few
examples may be given.
Several months ago, at the Shintomi
Theatre, a new piece was produced, upon the subject of the martyrdom of the
early Dutch scholars. The supposed time of year was the end of November, when
the leaves turn yellow and are blown off the trees by the least breath of wind.
This also is the season of continuous misty rain. It is evening. The scene
reveals a physician’s study, which opens on a small garden entirely exposed to
the weather. At the request of Danjiuro [Danjūrō], the actor who assumed the
principal character, machinery was contrived by which rain was made to fall,
and leaves were shaken from the trees as if by the breeze. The slender branches
of the willows were seen vibrating to and fro; the fragile bamboo fence swayed
from side to side; the wind was heard moaning and wailing, and the raindrops
pattered against the walls of the house and into the pools that had collected
upon the ground. It was a perfectly realistic representation, so far as
external effects were concerned. Unluckily, it had the result of entirely
diverting the attention of the audience from the action of the play. The
performer was not, however, deterred from making further experiments. His next
appearance was in a historical drama, one of the incidents in which was a
destructive earthquake. For the first time in Japanese theatrical history, a
house was built upon the stage in fragments, and was thrown to the ground with a
violence and a disorder which startled the beholders into the belief that an
actual convulsion was in progress.
During the same season the
celebrated actor Kikugoro, our foremost representative of pathetic characters,
was cast in the part of a cormorant fisherman supposed to be living on the
eastern shore of the Bay of Yedo. In order to acquaint himself with the habits
of life and occupation of this humble class, he took up his abode in the very
neighborhood, and practiced fishing with cormorants until he became an adept in
the pursuit. Toward the end of his rural sojourn he sent for the manager and
the scene-painters of his theatre, in order that an exact likeness of the
locality might be presented to the public. In this instance the result was so
satisfactory that the experiment was soon after repeated on a more extensive
scale. Kikugoro was charged with the preparation of a romantic drama
illustrating the adventurous career of a notorious bandit[16]
who was for years the terror of the district surrounding the famous temples of
Nikko. The natural beauties of this region, as well as the picturesque and
majestic shrines erected in memory of the early Shoguns, are well known to
great numbers of Japanese; and the actor added largely to his reputation for
faithfulness of scenic reproduction by visiting the temples as a pilgrim, in
company with artists and machinists, and securing models of the edifices in and
around which the action of the play was understood to take place. He went so
far as to join, with his associates, in one of the great religious festivals
for which Nikko is celebrated, and was thus enabled to represent the various
ceremonies, processions, etc., with a spirit and a precision which excited the
most unbounded popular enthusiasm.
The indifference to ingenious
mechanical devices appears the more remarkable when it is considered that the
Japanese stage has one peculiarity of construction which fits it for effects
that can nowhere else be produced. This is the revolving stage (mawari-butai), which in any other
country would probably have suggested and [sic]
infinite variety of interesting and surprising illusions. The greater part of
the stage, in our playhouses, consists of a large circle which can be turned
around so that separate divisions are successively presented to the eyes of the
spectators. Only one-half of this circles [sic],
at most, is disclosed at any one time. It is customary, while a scene is in
progress before the audience, to prepare the following scene upon the hidden
part of the movable platform. A change of view can thus be effected without
abruptly interrupting a dialogue, or disturbing the continuity of action. In
the favorite play of “Chiushingura,” an adaptation of the historical record of
the famous “Forty-Seven Ronins,” this contrivance is turned to excellent
account. The last scene but one of the chivalrous drama represents the devoted
band of avengers about to break into the fortified mansion of their dead master’s
enemy. It is a chilly December night, and the snow is falling. The assailants’
first endeavor to gain admission by stratagem, but finding the gate strongly
blockaded, they throw aside all artifice and attack the defences with axes and
heavy battering rams. Having forced the barrier and made a sufficient opening,
some of the party rush to the interior, while others scale the walls by means
of rope-ladders or by climbing upon one another’s shoulders. Meanwhile, the
stage turns and the inner court-yard of the edifice comes into view. The ronins are seen in fierce combat with
the ill-prepared and terrified inmates. In no other manner could so stirring
and impressive a picture of assault and conquest be realized in theatrical
representation. The objection to employing this device in European or American
cities is that twice the ordinary space behind the scenes would be required.
Fully one-half of the Japanese stage is never visible from the front. I have
described only the effect produced by dividing the revolving platform into two
parts; but additional subdivisions can be made whenever required. In the
theatres of Osaka, especially, four and even six views are sometimes presented
before the stage completes its circuit.
Another striking characteristic of
our theatres is the hana-michi,
literally, “flower-path.” This is an open passage extending from the front of
the stage to the extreme rear of the auditorium, at the left of the pit or
parterre. It is about six feet in breadth, and is elevated two feet above the
flooring of the pit, to the level of the shoulders of those who sit in that
part of the house. Under certain circumstances this passage is utilized for the
entrances and exits of actors. If the character is imagined to have come from a
great distance, or if his approach is hurried or precipitate, he proceeds to
his position on the stage directly through the audience, and his arrival is
thus made to appear much more vivid and life-like than if he made his way from
the side. The use of the hana-michi
is, of course, a severe trial even to the most experienced and self-possessed
performers. It is only by the exercise of great discretion, and by a complete
abandonment to the spirit of the part, that the illusion can be preserved. But
the real masters of the stage have proved that the danger of close contact with
spectators is only fanciful, and that by exposing themselves, as it were, to
the very touch of the public they are enabled to exercise a magnetic influence
which can be asserted under no other conditions. When a perfect sympathy is
established between artist and audience, this daring expedient is sometimes
carried to startling extremes. After a scene of great distress and sorrow, the
retiring actors will linger until the surrounding multitude is utterly subdued
by the pathos of his spell. On the other hand, a bold and impetuous advance, in
the execution of some desperate errand, or in obedience to a necessitous appeal
for help, will frequently kindle the wildest excitement. At the close of the
above-mentioned drama, “Chiushingura,” the friends and allies of the besieged
noblemen are made to swarm upon the stage from various directions, with a
remarkable and thrilling increase to the effect of confusion and and [sic] strife. For most purposes the hana-michi I have described as running
through the left side of the pit is considered sufficient, but a corresponding
passage exists at the opposite side, of somewhat smaller proportions, which is
opened whenever required for more elaborate evolutions.
III.
As
regards the accuracy and taste of its wardrobe, the Japanese stage is second to
none in the world. No representation is considered worthy of the public in
which the minutest and most patient attention has not been given to every
detail of personal attire. Audiences may always safely reckon upon seeing a
literal and faultless presentment of the dresses of any age or locality
selected for dramatic illustration. In satisfying the requirements of this
department the question of expense is rarely considered. Managers are always
ready to provide the costliest materials and to engage the most skilful workmen
for fashioning the garments selected by the leading actors. It is understood
that the players are in the first place responsible for the choice and style of
raiment, the managers being content to follow their instructions implicitly,
and to be guided entirely by their practiced judgment. Sometimes this blind
faith leads to awkward misunderstandings. A few years ago an old historical
drama entitled “The Two Brothers of the House of Soga” was revived with
exceptional splendor, the leading parts being confided to the distinguished
tragedians Sojiuro and Naritaya,[17]
both of whom are recognized as unimpeachable authorities in matters of costume.
On this occasion their views as to the appropriate garb of the two brothers
were totally antagonistic. Each claimed to have discovered the precise mode of
attire in the period set forth, and each professed to be abundantly supplied
with evidence in support of his pretensions. Neither was willing to yield, and the
play was finally brought out with dresses of undoubted brilliancy and
sumptuousness, but which could not be made to harmonize by any reference to
history or tradition. Theatrical circles were greatly agitated by the conflict
of discussion that ensued, but the question whether Naritaya or Sojiuro were
entitled to greater confidence was never satisfactorily decided.
As an example of the diligence with
which apt and suggestive effects of costume are sought, I may mention an
incident in the career of an actor who identified himself with the wild and
lawless heroes of the stage. In his youth he was cast for the part of a ronin named Sadakuro—the subordinate
vassal of a nobleman who, having been expelled from his master’s service, took
to highway robbery for a livelihood. The conventional dress provided for this
role, which had long been familiar to the public, failed to satisfy the
performer’s conception of what was suitable for a person in the situation of
the discarded retainer. It occurred to him that if he could invent a new and
more appropriate costume, the effect of his impersonation would be greatly
increased. For many weeks, he dwelt upon this subject until it became the
absorbing occupation of his mind. The day of performance approached, but no
satisfactory design presented itself to his imagination. Returning home from
rehearsal one afternoon, he passed the imposing Buddhist temple of Zojo,[18]
in Shiba, in which stood the image of Kuwan-on,[19]
to which many of the populace were in the habit of praying for the realization
of their dearest hopes. Impelled by the thought that he might obtain aid from
this source, the actor entered the shrine and devoutly appealed for guidance in
his dire emergency. For seven successive days he repeated his adjuration in vain;
but on the last day, as he turned away dejected, and was about to descend the
gilded steps of the temple, he was restrained by a sudden downfall of rain.
Having no umbrella or overcoat with him, he stood awhile under the shelter of
the broad, projecting roof. He was presently joined by a young man, apparently
a profligate outcast from some family of rank, who had given himself up to the
most dissolute habits of life. He wore a stained and threadbare robe, which was
caught up to the knees with slovenly carelessness. He had no outer garment; his
feet were bare; he carried in his right hand a torn and broken paper umbrella,
and a pair of swords in tarnished lacquer sheaths were negligently stuck
through his soiled silken sash.
At
first the actor did not notice the new-comer, but his attention was gradually
attracted, and as he became aware of what was before him his heart beat with
joy and gratitude at the revelation which had been miraculously vouchsafed.
Speeding homeward, he summoned his wife and servants, and impressed upon them
the necessity of imitating with scrupulous minuteness the costume and the
properties which had happily fallen under his observation. The dress was
hastily made ready for the opening performance, and the result of the bold
departure from habitual usage was awaited with lively interest and anxiety. The
secret had been carefully guarded. Upon the first appearance of the ruined ronin the audience stared in
astonishment, and for a moment appeared undecided whether to accept or reject
the unlooked-for novelty. But the spirit of truthfulness and propriety soon
prevailed. A tumult of applause testified to the appreciative recognition of
the actor’s intentions, and from that time the costume and general “make-up” of
the character of Sadakuro has been in accordance with the precedent established
by the inspired votary of Kuwan-on.
IV.
Although
the theory of dramatic art in Japan excuses, and even encourages, indifference
to many superficial and external accessories, it is extremely severe in demanding
the closest attention to the illustration of feeling and emotion. Audiences are
accustomed to the most subtle and delicate analysis of character and are
mercilessly critical in all that relates to the portrayal of human life and
nature. An artist is forgiven many shortcomings if he shows evidence of a
determination to identify himself personally with the ideal creation he
endeavors to embody. The method of study adopted in the fulfilment of this
purpose may be exemplified by incidents in the career of those who have
successfully produced it.
Two years ago the tragedian Otowaya[20]
was called upon to personate a merchant who had been driven insane by financial
disasters and still heavier domestic calamities. For several days previous to
the general rehearsal this actor began to accustom himself to the conditions of
his part by a complete change in his habits of personal life. He dressed
negligently, selecting the oldest and most worthless of his garments; partook
of indifferent and ill-prepared food; omitted his daily bath, which is a
unheard-of deviation from Japanese usage; became moody and irritable, and
seemed resolved to simulate, in every particular, the actions and demeanor of
lunacy. To such an extent was this carried that those nearest to him became
alarmed, and without his knowledge took counsel with the family physician,
apprehending that his excessive devotion to artistic principle would seriously
endanger his health.
In the training of their apprentices
our leading actors are none the less solicitous to inculcate the importance of
the extremist fidelity in depicting strong emotions. The same Otowaya was once
endeavoring to explain to a follower what was required to give appropriate
effect to a hasty and excited entrances upon the stage. A messenger was
supposed to be bringing intelligence of the highest moment to his lord. Many
times the desperate rush of more than a hundred feet along the hana-michi was repeated, without meeting
the approbation of the exacting teacher. Stung by the ridicule of his
associates, and looking upon himself as the object of some inexplicable spite,
the youthful actor determined to renounce his calling if again subjected to
reproach, rather than persevere in what he believed to be a hopeless task. He
came to rehearsal prepared to resent the affront which he anticipated, and to
break away from his connection in a storm of rage. Bursting in upon the group
surrounding Otowaya in his character of feudal chieftain, he endeavored to
announce his determination with angry vehemence; but his agitation was so great
that he could not utter an intelligible word. While he stood gasping for breath
his instructor rose, and approaching him with a smile, said: “At last you have
done well; continue thus and your success is assured.”
It is my genuine conviction that the
Japanese actors are fully entitled to the credit they receive for the
delineation of sentiment and passion. Few spectators, however hardened by
experience, could witness unmoved the masterly exhibition of fortitude under
suffering, filial devotion, conjugal tenderness, and patriotic ardor which are
constantly presented for the admiration of the theatre-going multitude. In the
season of 1857, Ichikawa Ichizo was playing the part of a pirate chief who
treats his father with great cruelty and exposes him to shame as well as grief.
The performance was one day interrupted by a samurai from a distant province, who suddenly sprang upon the stage
and attached Ichikawa with a dagger, inflicting several wounds before he could
be seized and disarmed. He had been so carried away by the actor’s truthfulness
that he attributed to the man himself, and not to the ideal character, the acts
of filial impiety.
The brilliant romantic actor Yebizo[21]
was once engaged in representing a treacherous fencing-master, who first
assassinates a rival swordsman and afterward murders, under circumstances of
unpatriotic atrocity, the two sons of his victim. During this latter scene of
inhuman slaughter a spectator in the pit flung a heavy tobacco box at the actor’s
head, severely bruising him, and for a short time suspending the progress of
the play. Immediately after the curtain was drawn, at the close of the act,
Yebizo presented himself before the audience, with the tobacco box fastened
upon his head in place of the cap he had worn during the performance. In a few
lively but emphatic words he declared himself grateful for so unmistakable a
proof of appreciation, notwithstanding the extraordinary manner in which it had
been manifested, and professed his determination to make himself worthy,
forever after, of a testimonial the sincerity of which was beyond suspicion.
V.
In
recent years I have had frequent occasion to visit our theatres in company with
foreigners. It was for a long time difficult to make them believe that the
women of the stage were in all cases represented by men. To such perfection
have feminine impersonations been brought, that even those who are familiar
with every artifice of disguise are unable to detect the slightest difference
between the imitation and the reality. This is the result of a method of
training which was once so laborious and painstaking that the actors who
followed it were compelled to renounce all the natural occupations and pursuits
of the male sex, and devote themselves to a life of perpetual mimicry. Not only
in the exercise of their vocation, but in the privacy of their homes, they were
accustomed to wear a modified form of feminine dress, to arrange their hair
after the fashion of women, and to habituate themselves to the use of those
household articles which are ordinarily manipulated by wives and daughters.
Their style of living was like that of ladies of high degree. Their theatrical
dressing-rooms have been compared, though with considerable exaggeration, to
the boudoirs of feudal noblewomen. The lines of study were so carefully
subdivided that one class would devote themselves to the imitation of fair
damsels, while another would assume the guise of matrons, and a third would
deport themselves like aged dames. These fine distinctions are not at the
present day so strictly observed as in preceding generations; and though there
are still numbers who address themselves chiefly to the impersonation of women,
as their special branch, there appears to be growing disposition to enlarge
their sphere so as to include the assumption of male as well as female
characters. One of the proposals of the theatrical reformers before alluded to
is to abolish the custom of assigning feminine roles to men, and to introduce
actresses in accordance with the system of Western theatres. Their arguments
have not yet been sufficient to convince the public that the change is
necessary, and I confess to grave doubts myself, whether it would prove truly
advantageous and wise. There would certainly be great obstacles for some time
to come. Theatrical companies composed entirely of women do already exist in
Japan, and their performances are witnessed with more or less curiosity by
those who seek variety at the expense of artistic refinement. They are popular
to a certain extent among the vulgar, but they can never hope to entertain
cultivated amateurs. Thus far no attempts have been made to unite the two
classes of performers, and it is probable that, before this can be successfully
done, a special training school for actresses must be instituted, and a course
of theatrical education be applied from early childhood until the time when
they are fitted for the difficult duties of their profession. Our first
tragedian, Danjiuro, is said to be rearing two of his daughters with this
object in view. These young ladies are now six and eight years old,
respectively. The inquiry when they will be ready for admission to their
arduous career has often been made, but yet remains unanswered.
VI.
It
has long been a contested question whether the theatre in Japan can or cannot
be regarded as an aid to the moral education of the people. I doubt that it has
ever served this desirable purpose; on the contrary, its agency appears to me
to have hitherto been injurious. It was to contravene its pernicious tendencies
that actors were bound by severe restrictions under the government of the
Shogun. They were not allowed to mingle freely with citizens in general, and
were required, when walking in the streets, to wear a peculiar helmet[22]
made of straw, the visor of which completely hid their features. Until fifty or
sixty years ago regulations were posted in all green-rooms giving notice that
actors were forbidden to wear garments of silk; that they must reside in a
quarter especially set apart for them by the authorities; that a particular
license must be procured to enable them to go more than three blocks from their
dwellings; that gambling by them would be punished more stringently than the
same offence committed by other parties; that the incident of suicide from
disappointed love must never by represented on the stage, and much more to the
same effect. These ordinances, however, were by no means implicitly obeyed, and
the influence of the theatre grew to be so deleterious that it was universally
considered a dark blot upon public morality.[23]
After the restoration of the imperial government, some twenty years ago,
energetic efforts were made to improve the character of the performances and to
elevate the condition of the actors. These projects were sanctioned by official
authority, and in some cases the schemes of reform were laid out by responsible
attaches of government. Some of the methods adopted for counteracting the evils
of the playhouses, and purifying the associations of those connected therewith,
were certainly calculated to startle the conservative sense of the community.
Several actors of distinction were invested with the rank and dignity of
preacher of the Shinto faith—the established state religion of Japan. The celebrated
and popular Naritaya, the two Narikomas, father and son, [24]
and numerous others still hold those places and occasionally perform the
functions of their sacred office. It may be mentioned, incidentally, that the
services conducted by them are largely attended by young daughters of rather
indulgent parents, and it would probably be difficult to trace any substantial
improvement in social manners or habits directly to this cause.
A regular theatrical censorship has
been instituted by the present government, and every piece intended for
performance in the capital has now to be submitted to the inspection of
officers of the metropolitan police. Delegates from this bureau attend all
representations, partly to preserve order, but also to see that the rules forbidding
offences against propriety are not infringed. Their interference is very rarely
called for. It has come to be understood, in late years, that the indecencies
of a former period must necessarily be banished, in order to secure the
countenance and patronage of the respectable class. Twenty-five years ago no
ladies, and comparatively few gentlemen of position, could be induced to attend
the theatres. Now the families of daimios
and the attachés of the Court are frequent occupants of the boxes, and there is
as little fear that their sensibilities will be shocked as in the most
prudently conducted houses of Europe or America. The question of the limit to
which the relations between the sexes may be illustrated has been discussed in
newspapers and debating clubs, at various times, with a good deal of vigor.
Some extreme purists, like the classical scholar Yoda,[25]
have gone to the length of asserting that all love-scenes should be rigorously
excluded, and only historical or religious episodes be permitted. It is true
that the latitude of love-making which is recognized as natural and becoming in
Western countries would not be legitimately possible with us in real life, as
Japanese society is now constituted. Young people are not permitted to meet and
converse unreservedly, and the growth of affection is never sanctioned until
after a formal betrothal. More commonly it is kept in restraint until the
actual ceremony of marriage is performed. Ardent and passionate demonstrations
would therefore either have no meaning, or would be suggestive of a licentious
disregard of social laws. The tender attachments of husband and wife; the
boundless devotion of children to parents; the fervent and self-sacrificing
loyalty of the servant to his master—all these may be depicted with the utmost
intensity of feeling; but it is only in the illustration of loose intrigue or
illicit intercourse that amatory scenes are represented.
It is to be expected that the
gradual adoption of Western ideas and principles will make itself apparent in
the theatre as in other institutions of Japan, but not, I trust, to the extent
of interfering with its thoroughly national characteristics. Its value as a
popular recreation would be greatly impaired by confining it too rigidly to a
purely aesthetic purpose. According to time-honored custom, a visit to the
playhouse is an affair not of a few hours, but of the entire day. Families or
parties of friends take their places early in the morning and remain until
nightfall, partaking of refreshments which are served between the acts from
neighboring restaurants. Among the projects contemplated by the reformers to
whom I have once or twice alluded, there is one which threatens destruction to
these easy and comfortable habits of indulgence. A building is to be
constructed with accommodations for spectators like those provided abroad, and
with a stage admitting of the most elaborate foreign effects. The performances,
in which women will take part as well as men, are to be given only in the
evening, and the several acts are to follow one another in rapid succession. If
the existing dramatic libraries do not furnish pieces that are suited to these
innovations, a new repertory will be created to meet every requirement.
Adaptations of exotic plays may be found desirable, and a few preliminary
attempts in this direction have already been made.
Bulwer’s comedy of “Money” has been
submitted to the audiences of Tokyo, but not, it must be acknowledged, with the
most convincing results. It will be a difficult task, in my opinion, to set
aside the forms and methods of amusement which have become endeared to the
public by long and happy association, and to secure the acceptance of strange
and novel features, however meritorious in themselves, in place of the
cherished drama of history, adventure, or domestic romance, with its continuous
and measured development, and its protracted course of action relieved by
interludes of brilliant dancing and pantomime (shiosa).[26]
But I am bound to say that the societies which have taken upon themselves the
work of elevating and improving the stage are entitled to respect for the
honesty and uprightness with which they prosecute their plan, and as they have
secured the co-operation of many eminent actors, and declared themselves ready
to be guided by practical counsel in matters in which they are inexperienced,
it is not unlikely that their efforts will at least prepare the way for future
benefits. If they can broaden and strengthen the edifice of dramatic art
without weakening its foundations, they will deserve the gratitude of the
theatre-loving community throughout Japan.
***
From T.J. Nakagawa, “The Theatres
of Japan” Scribner’s Magazine, 7:5
(May 1890): 603-620. Reprinted as pamphlet (n.d.) from which this chapter is
taken.
I use the male
pronoun as a convenience, not a certainty.
Jitsuko later
became Ichikawa Suisen II, while Fukiko became Ichikawa Kyokubai II. Although
known as kabuki-style dancers and actresses in shinpa, they never achieved kabuki acting careers. On the other
hand, a female Danjūrō disciple, Ichikawa Kumehachi (1846-1913), previously
mentioned, gained a respectable reputation as a kabuki actress or onna yakusha, as explained in Chapter
11. See, also, Loren Edelson, “Revisiting the Female Danjūrō: The Acting Career
of Ichikawa Kumehachi,” The Journal of
Japanese Studies 34:1 (Winter 2008): 69-98.
