Rare days in Japan

by George Trumbull Ladd

But now the ghosts themselves appear at the end of the long raised way on the left, by which they must reach the stage; and with that strange, slow and stately, gliding motion which is characteristic of so much of the acting in this kind of drama, they make their way to the skeleton boat, step softly into it, and stand there perfectly motionless. (It is explained to us that, in Nō “ladies are much respected” and so the wife stands in the boat, in front of her husband,—a thing which she would by no means have done in the real life of the period.)

Standing motionless and speechless in the boat, with their white death-masks fixed upon the audience, the wretched ghosts hear the church-bells ringing the summons to evening prayer, and catch the evening song which is being chanted by the priests within the temple walls. As though to enhance their wretchedness by contrasting with it the delights of earth, the chorus begins again to praise the beauty of the Autumn moonlight scene. The persuasive sounds of the intoning of the Buddhist scriptures, and the prayers of the priests imploring mercy upon the faithful dead, are next heard; and at this, the chorus take up their fans from the floor and begin to extol the saving power of both scriptures and priestly intercession. And now the ghostly forms fall upon their knees, and the woman, as though to propitiate Heaven, magnifies the courage and fidelity of the hero and recites his death-song in the recent battle. At this the chorus break out into loud lamentations that the entire family of so famous a hero has perished and that no soul is left alive to pray for the souls departed. After a period of kneeling, with their hands covering their faces in an attitude of hopeless mourning, the ghosts rise and slowly move off the stage; and the first act of the drama comes to an end.

Between the acts, a man appears and recites in the popular language what has already been told by the chorus and the actors in the more archaic language of the drama itself. The priests ask for a detailed narrative of the character and life of the two noble dead; and in response to this request, the reciter seats himself at the centre of the stage and narrates at length the story of the love of Itichi-no-Tami (the hero’s personal name) for his wife Koshaisho; of his knightly character; and of her great devotion to her husband. When the priests confess themselves puzzled by the sudden disappearance of the fisherman and his wife, the reciter explains that their prayers have prevailed, and that the ghosts of Itichi-no-Tami and Koshaisho will now be permitted to resume their proper shape.

During this popular explanation, the audience, who, being for the most part composed of learned persons, might be supposed not to stand in need of it, engaged freely in conversation, and availed themselves of the opportunity to take their luncheons; while through the window at the end of the “bridge” the ghosts might be seen changing their costumes and their wigs, with the assistance of several “green-room” dressers.

In the second act of the drama, the ghost of the hero appears in his proper form, gorgeously dressed as a prince, and is joined by his wife upon the stage. He performs a very elaborate dance, and recalls his parting from his wife, the different events of the battle, his wounding and defeat, and the wretched conditions that followed. These recollections work him into a state of fury; the passion for revenge lays hold of, and so powerfully masters him, that all which has already been done for his salvation is in danger of being lost. And now begins a terrible spiritual conflict between the forces for good and the forces for evil, over a human soul. The priests pray ever more fervently, and rub their beads ever more vigorously, in their efforts to exorcise the evil spirits. The beating of the drums and the “yo-hés” become more frequent and louder. But at last the prayers of the priests prevail; the soul of the doughty warrior is reduced to a state of penitence and submission; and Itichi-no-Tami and Koshaisho enter Paradise together.

No intelligent and sympathetic witness of this dramatic performance could easily fail to be impressed with the belief that its influence, in its own days, must have been powerful, and on the whole salutary. For in spite of its appeal to superstitious fears, it taught the significant moral truth that knightly courage and loyalty in battle—important virtues as they are (and nowhere, so far as I am aware, is there any teaching in the Nō performances which depreciates them)—are not the only important virtues; nor do they alone fit the human soul for a happy exit from this life or for a happy reception into the life eternal. And as to the doctrine of the efficacy of prayers for the dead: Has not this doctrine been made orthodox by the Roman-Catholic Church; and is it not taught by the Church of England prayer-book and believed by not a few in other Protestant churches?

The next of the Nō performances which we saw the same day was less interesting and less pronouncedly a matter of religious dogma. It bore the title of Hana-ga-Tami, or “The Flower Token.” This drama tells the story of a royal personage who lived one thousand years ago in the country near Nara. For his mistress he had a lovely and devoted country maiden. Although he had not expected ever to become Emperor, the reigning monarch dying suddenly, the young man is selected for the succession, and is summoned in great haste from his home to ascend the vacant throne. So great, indeed, was his haste that he could not say farewell to his lady-love, who had gone on a visit to her parents; but he leaves a letter and a flower for her as a token of his undiminished affection. Overcome by gratitude for his goodness and by loneliness in her abandoned condition, the girl at last decides to follow him to Nara,—at that time the Capital of the country. She takes with her only one maid and the precious flower-token. After many frights—for travelling at that time was very dangerous—by following the birds migrating southward, she at last reaches Nara. Being poor, and without retinue, she cannot secure entrance to the Palace; but she manages to intercept a royal procession. When one of the Imperial followers reprimands her and attempts to strike from her hand the flower-token, to which she is trying to call the Emperor’s attention, she becomes indignant and performs a dance that wins for itself the title of the “mad dance.” In the procession the part of the Emperor is taken by a young boy; since to have such a part performed by an adult man would be too realistic to be consistent with the Imperial dignity. The attention of the Emperor being attracted by this strange performance, he expresses a wish to see the “unknown” in her “mad dance.” But when she appears, dressed in bridal robes of white and red, and tells the story of her life in a long song accompanied by expressive movements, and finally sends her love to His Majesty, who “is like the moon,” so far above a poor girl like her, and like the reflection of the “moon in the water,” so unobtainable; the Emperor recognises her by the flower-token and gives orders to admit her to the Palace. She then exhibits her joy in another song and dance, which ends with the fan “full-open,” to denote happiness complete and unalloyed and admitting of “no more beyond.”

The last of this day’s Nō performances dealt again with the power of the prayer of the minister of religion to exorcise evil spirits. Two itinerant Buddhist priests find themselves at nightfall in the midst of a dense forest. They send a servant to discover a place for them, where they may spend the night. The servant returns to tell them of a near-by hut, in which an old woman lives alone. They go to the hut, boasting by the way that their prayers can even bring down a bird on the wing; but when they reach the hut and ask for shelter, its occupant at first declines to receive them, on the ground that her dwelling is too poor and small to shelter them. At last they persuade her; whereupon she comes out of the bamboo cage, which represents her hut, and opens an imaginary gate for them. The priests show much interest in her spinning-wheel. But she appears sadly disturbed in mind at their presence; and finally announces that, as the night is so cold, she will go out and gather a supply of firewood. With an air of mystery she requires from them a promise not to enter her sleeping-room while she is absent; and having obtained their promise, she takes her leave.

The aged servant of the priests, however, becomes suspicious of something wrong, and begs permission of his masters to enter the forbidden room, since he has himself taken no part in their promise; but as a point of honour they refuse his earnest request. The servant, in spite of their refusal, feigns sleep for a time, and then when his masters have fallen into a sound slumber, he steals away to the bedroom of the old woman. On the first two or three attempts, he makes so much noise as to waken the priests; but finally he succeeds in entering the room which, to his horror, he finds filled with human bones,—all carefully classified! He then rushes to his masters and wakens them with the information that their hostess is really a cannibal witch, and that they must escape for their lives. This advice he at once puts into practice by making good his own escape. But the flight of the priests is only symbolised by their standing perfectly motionless in one corner of the stage, while the chorus eloquently recites these blood-curdling experiences.

When the witch, in her demon-like form, overtakes the ministers of the Buddhist religion, the two spiritual forces represented by the actors then on the stage enter into the same kind of conflict as that which has already been described. The demon rages furiously; the priests pray fervently, and rub their rosaries with ever-increasing vigour; for the contest is over a human soul. But at the last the evil spirit is subdued, becomes penitent, and humbly begs their prayers that so she, too, may enter Paradise in peace.