Rare days in Japan

by George Trumbull Ladd

“[LEADING ACTORS IN THE DRAMAS OF THAT DAY]”

It was just three weeks later than this that I received an invitation to attend the monthly all-day performance of another and rival school of Nō. The invitation came from one of the principal patrons of this school, Baron M——, the gentleman who introduced the modern postal system into Japan; it was accompanied by the offer of his box for the day, and by a messenger from the “Nō-Kwai,” who was to explain the differences of the rival schools. The interest of this occasion was enhanced by the presence of a native artist, who was making studies for a future picture, and who kindly presented us with several sketches of the [leading actors in the dramas of that day].

It seemed that this Society is more “militant” than the other; and it is consequently more patronised by men in the army. General Noghi and Admiral Togo were mentioned as conspicuous examples of this claim. The patrons wished me to understand that these and many other examples of the Samurai spirit (the so-called “Bushidō”) had been greatly influenced by the Nō. I must confess that the explanation seemed, from the foreign and novitiate point of view, to be somewhat mystical; the influence alleged, more or less mythical. But such was the claim of the school, “Nō-Kwai.” The Nō-dance,—so they held—by its deliberate and almost motionless posturing, followed by swift and decisive action, expresses the very essence of the Samurai temper and habit. Doubtless these traits of the Samurai are given dramatic representation by the Nō, where its motif and plot are connected with some story of the ancient heroes. But whether this is proof of the Samurai spirit influencing the Nō, or rather of the Nō influencing the Samurai men, I was not able to decide. Indeed, it may easily have been one of those cases of influences which work both ways at the same time. Certainly, Japan played the great tragedy of the war with Russia, as influenced largely by this temper and spirit.

The first performance of this day bore the title of “Kusanagi,”—the name of the sword worn by the Imperial Prince, Yamatotaké-no-Mikoto. This prince was one of the most famous of those who fought against the Ainus, or wild indigenous people which, at this time, were still dwelling in the neighbourhood of Tokyo. While crossing an inlet of the sea in a storm, the wife of the hero had thrown herself into the water, believing that the sea-god would not be appeased without a human sacrifice. This deed of self-sacrifice, she, therefore, did for the sake of her husband and the Imperial family. And, in fact, according to the tradition, the sea at once became miraculously calm.

The drama opens with the usual wandering Buddhist priest, who, after introducing himself to the audience, takes his seat at the right of the stage. Soon after, the spirits of the Prince and his wife appear—he with very fierce countenance and long hair; and the wife seats herself beside the priest. But the Prince, seated in the centre of the stage, relates at length in a dramatic song the story of his battles with the Ainus. The savages fought so fiercely that it was with the greatest difficulty that the princely warrior could finally subdue them. When they set fire to the underbrush and tall grasses, it was only with the help of Kusanagi, the “sword of the gods,” that he was able to cut his way out to a place of safety. After dancing a wild dance, descriptive of the battle, the fire, and his escape, the first act of this drama comes to an end.

During the interval between the acts, the priest repeats prayers for the repose of the souls of the hero and his wife; and when, finally, they return to the stage in their true forms, they are informed that his prayers have availed, their souls are saved, and that they can enter Paradise.

It is scarcely worth while to describe the example of the Kyogen, or comedietta, which followed this drama; it had for its theme that trial of wits between the scapegrace son and the doting father, which has furnished fun for so many generations of play-goers, among many nations, from the comedies of ancient Greece and Rome down to the present time.

The hero of the second drama of this all-day’s Nō performance was Yorimasa, a general of the Minamoto family, who was the first to raise arms against the Tairas; but as he struck too soon, he was defeated on the wooded bank of the river between Nara and Kyoto. After he fell in battle, Yoritomo and Yoshitsuné defeated the Taira family. When the priest who introduces the performance comes upon the stage, he first describes his journey from Nara to Kyoto. On reaching the river Uji he dwells particularly on the exceeding beauty of the scenery. But now the wailing of a lost spirit is heard, and the ghost of Yorimasa appears in the guise of an old farmer. The priest addresses him and begins to inquire into the details of the event so celebrated in history; but the ghost replies that, since he is only a poor and ignorant peasant, he cannot be expected to know anything of such matters.

Soon, however, priest and peasant join in praises of the beautiful scenery, and speak together of the temple, whose sweet-sounding bell is heard in the distance. When reference is made to a peculiar kind of grass growing near by, the priest recites the story of how Yorimasa sat upon this fan-shaped grass and committed suicide, after his defeat in battle. The temple, whose bell has just sounded, was built in his memory. The farmer then recalls the fact that this is the anniversary of Yorimasa’s death; he is also moved to tell once more the story of the battle and to illustrate it by a dance. While the priest prays for the spirit of the dead hero, the old farmer suddenly vanishes, leaving his intercessor with Heaven alone upon the stage. The musical accompaniment, which has grown unusually weird and sweet, continues for some time, but finally dies away.