Rare days in Japan

by George Trumbull Ladd

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 for this sort of behaviour the 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 the even 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 “marvellous agility 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 fashionable theatre 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 the motifs and 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 this effort. 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 the other 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 poetical description 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 Japanese army, 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.