Rare days in Japan

by George Trumbull Ladd

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 understand or 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 nations have 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 the close 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 of two players upon the Koto (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 three Samisens, 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 very large 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 a larger 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 from him. 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 attending an 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, and at 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.