Danjuro prefers as an audience the middle classes. “They are more sympathetic,” he said; “the diplomats and politicians who have come in touch with the West, and are dressed in European dress, seem somehow to lose sympathy with us, and are not helpful as an audience. Perhaps it is that they can never entirely divest themselves of the sense of their own importance.”
After considering Danjuro’s views concerning the Japanese drama, I was interested to hear the views of the dramatic author, and Fukuchi and I spent many delightful afternoons together discussing this all-absorbing topic. “What do you claim to be the chief advantages of Japanese as compared with European theatres?” I asked him on one occasion. “Well,” replied Fukuchi without a moment’s hesitation, “before everything else I should place the Hanamichi (flower-paths). This is absolutely indispensable to the Japanese stage, and allows of endless possibilities. With it we have far greater scope for fine work, and dramatically it is of tremendous advantage. Then there is the revolving stage, which is a great improvement on Western mechanism, for while one scene is being acted, another can be prepared.”
On this particular afternoon the dramatist and I were sitting in Mr. Fukuchi’s own room overlooking the river with a distant view of the sea. Books, all Japanese, were heaped up in an alcove, while the only furniture the room possessed was a very fine kakemono and a little narrow table. While we were talking, one of Fukuchi’s little children, a boy of eight, entered, carrying with him his collection of butterflies, which, he thought, might chance to interest me. He showed me a catalogue which he was preparing for them. It was so admirably compiled that it would have been good enough for a special work on the subject.
OUTSIDE KIOTO
Fukuchi’s ideal actor is Danjuro, and during the conversation he was constantly referring to him. “Of all the actors I like Danjuro the best,” he said, “because he is an artist and understands colour, besides having a keen appreciation for harmony in the general arrangements.” He told me that Danjuro is the one actor in Japan who can take the part of a woman to perfection. Many actors on the stage can keep the figure of a woman for five minutes at a time, but rarely longer, so painful are the poses, owing to the throwing back of the shoulders and the turning in of the knees. But Danjuro can go on and on indefinitely in this rôle, and so remarkable is he that even a Japanese woman is unable to detect one false move. On one occasion, when taking this part at a theatre in Yokohama before an audience composed chiefly of women, he happened to make a slip and by some slight error proved himself the man. In an instant the whole audience felt it, and the effect produced on them was simply astounding! For once they nearly laughed, an unheard-of thing with a Japanese audience: to see a woman turn so suddenly into a man was too much for their equanimity.
Danjuro’s finest and most artistic bit of acting is in Japan’s greatest tragedy, The Chushingura, in the part of Goto, who, returning to his lord intoxicated, falls asleep by the wayside. His master, finding him, fires off a gun close to his ear. “Most actors,” said Mr. Fukuchi, “would fall asleep with their backs to the audience, and when waking depend upon ‘make-up’ for an altered expression. Danjuro sleeps with his face to the audience, and on the gun firing wakes up with an entirely altered expression through the contraction of the facial muscles.”
I was curious to know from Fukuchi what were the duties of the stage-manager in Japan. For some time he looked thoughtful, as though unable to grasp my meaning. “We have no managers in Japan,” he said at length: “the play has to do with the dramatic author: it is for him to arrange everything. He must first think out every detail, and then consult with the chief actor and proprietor. If these disagree, the play is not produced.” Mr. Fukuchi maintained that the dramatic author must be absolute master of the situation, interfered with by none. It would be impossible for an actor or manager to have any conception of the picture as a whole; therefore the dramatist must be supreme. If an actor or an actress were permitted a choice as to the colour or form of costumes, the work would of necessity be ruined. There is no such thing as the leading lady insisting upon wearing a puce dress, as she does in England or anywhere on the Continent. The manager does not know what “puce” means, nor, probably, does the lady; but he sees no reason why she should not wear puce if it pleases her. Accordingly puce is worn, irrespective of scene harmony, and the lady is content. In Japan such an occurrence would be out of the question; but our Western stage is already such a jumble that any little eccentricity on the part of the leading lady in favour of puce or anything else she fancies would be scarcely noticeable.
A BLOND DAY