A Fantasy of Far Japan; Or, Summer Dream Dialogues

by Kencho Suematsu

—'That explains the matter very well,' said she. 'I am sure you will be like one of those, especially as you will have so much to do for your country, perhaps in some busy office in the Government.'

—'You are quite right in the first part of your observation. I have no reputation for being a good correspondent. Perhaps you know that the great Marlborough always felt much difficulty in writing letters. He used to say that he would sooner fight a great battle, and with more ease, than write a letter of fifteen lines to his wife, so you will see I have some consolation, because even amongst the English there are those who are not particularly fond of writing letters. As to the second part of your observation, you are wrong. I have no desire to seek office. I do not care for the hustle and bustle of the world. I prefer to spend my time calmly and quietly in the midst of nature, and therefore, after my return to Japan, you will hear of me no more. If you ever happen to hear of me, it will only be when some grave and exceptional circumstance of my country requires my service, whereby I may be obliged to sacrifice my own inclination. But I must now say "exit."'

So saying, I left the group. On my way back home, I dropped into the coffee-room of an hotel and met there accidentally a rich young Scandinavian artist, whom I had met before, when once staying at that hotel. He was with two ladies, an operatic singer and her mother, both of whom were American by birth. From their appearance, and from what I have since heard, they belonged to a well-to-do family. She had taken to her present profession rather on account of a natural gift for singing than from any necessity. Her mother had come over to Paris for a short time to visit her daughter and was staying at the hotel. Through the Scandinavian we soon came to know each other, and as we took coffee together we had some conversation, which naturally turned on the Japanese stage. In the course of the conversation, I furnished them with a number of details in connection with the subject in answer to their questions:

'On our stage some actors act female parts, as was the case with the European stage from the Greeks down to recent centuries in Modern Europe. With us, however, unlike your ancient stage, grown-up actors, not necessarily youths, act all important female parts, and yet they imitate real females so well, that it is regarded as almost a marvel. They have a peculiar method of making use of certain muscles and bones which make their movements resemble those of women. It requires much training from boyhood, and that is the reason why the female characters of the new school, of which I shall speak presently, are not so realistic as those of the old school. Our best actors are those who can act well both male and female characters, but naturally there are some who are more fitted than others for acting female parts. Shikwan is one of the best actors at this moment. I read recently a letter written by a New York lady, while on a visit to Japan, who is reputed a great patron of the stage. It was addressed to Shikwan, and sent, together with a bouquet. In it she says that it was almost amazing to her to have seen him acting the part of a great warrior and soon after the part of a delicate and noble lady, and that she considered him the first actor in the world. I think there is a great deal of truth in her remarks. Most foreigners who first visit our theatre can hardly be made to believe that the female characters are actually acted by males. The architectural peculiarities of our stage are:—First, the greater part of it is a large, round, movable platform on pivots, and is used to great advantage for "decorative properties" as well as for the acting. Secondly, we have the so-called "flower ways" on both sides of the stalls. They can also be used with great effectiveness for some kinds of acting, though it would be rather difficult to have them in the European style of stage building. It is, however, a very common mistake of most Europeans to think we have no actresses. We have actresses as well as actors, only they form different and separate companies, and it is only seldom and of recent date that they act together. Danjiuro was the greatest actor we have had in recent centuries. Kikugoro and then Sadanji came next They were regarded as "the trio," but all three have died within the last few years. We do not think we shall have the same talent again for many years to come. A Garrick, a Henry Irving, or a Sarah Bernhardt is not a production of every generation. Danjiuro in particular was accounted, even by Occidental visitors, among the few of the greatest actors of the world. Curiously enough there was much resemblance between the personal character and style of acting of Danjiuro and Sir Henry Irving. The forte of Danjiuro was historical representations, and so it was with Irving. Danjiuro acted more in spirit, that is to say, with as little action and rhetoric as possible, but with more suppressed but visible emotion. When he began this style of acting in his younger days, he was not popular at first: people thought he lacked theatrical display, but he soon succeeded in manifesting his great ability. Not only did he work out his own way, but he elevated the public taste. He also much improved the social and moral tone of his profession by the force of his character. In all these respects, I think there was much resemblance between him and Sir Henry Irving. The old stage, however, is hampered by much conventionality which is not entirely suited to modern taste. This has brought forward the new school. Oto Kawakami, the husband of Sada-Yakko, was the pioneer of that school. Sada-Yakko, who is known very well to the Occidentals, and is highly appreciated by them, is no more than a gifted amateur, who joined her husband's company through his influence. In Japan it is called the "student plays," because actors belonging to that school are mostly students. In the early days of that school, plays acted by its actors were little else than mere charades, of the most comical nature, even when the meaning was grave. As time went on, they have become more and more skilful, so that eventually something has been produced worth seeing, more especially because they are not hampered by any old conventionality or tradition. They can produce on the stage any incident which they deem worth showing, and they can introduce any innovation which the old school would not dare to do. Besides, these actors being students themselves, they have one advantage of having more educational intelligence than the greater number of the actors belonging to the old school. There is, therefore, much hope for the future in the new school, and it is making rapid progress, so much so, that its influence is being reflected on the old school.'

During the conversation, I was asked by the gentleman to witness the young singer's performance, in which request the ladies joined. I had no other course than to accept. Time in Dreamland flies fast, and I soon found myself at one of the Operas together with the Scandinavian gentleman; and there, to my surprise, I found the young singer was a prima donna. The act was Maritana; she acted the male part of Don Cæsar. The performance went on splendidly, and Act II. was reached. I happened to know the following declamation by Don Cæsar, and when she sang it I was thrilled, because each word sounded as though uttered by our own heroes of times gone by:

'Ah! per pietà, signor, non raddoppiate
L'aspro mio duol! Almen mi fosse dato
Per grazia di morir come un soldato!
Come sul campo il milite
Pugnando suol morir,
Concedi a me da libero
Soldato i di finir!
Tosto l'acciar fulmineo
Decida omai di me!
Dirà ciascuno, il misero
Da prode morto egli è,
Dirà ciascuno, il misero
Da prode morto egli è
Da prode morto egli è.
Se di mia stirpe l'ultimo,
Rampollo in me sen'va,
Degli avi degno il povero
Don Cesare morrà.
Se freddo avel marmoreo
Non si concede a me,
Mi basta sol che dicano:
"Da prode morto egli è."'
'Ah! spare, oh spare my ancient name
From such foul disgrace—one boon,
It is the last I shall ask thee,
'Tis to die, e'en like a soldier.
Yes! let me like a soldier fall,
Upon some open plain,
This breast expanding for the ball
To blot out ev'ry stain.
Brave manly hearts confer my doom,
That gentler ones may tell,
Howe'er forgot, unknown my tomb,
I like a soldier fell,
Howe'er forgot, unknown my tomb,
I like a soldier fell,
I like a soldier fell.
I only ask of that proud race,
Which ends its blaze in me,
To die the last, and not disgrace
Its ancient chivalry.
Tho' o'er my clay no banner wave,
Nor trumpet requiem swell,
Enough, they murmur o'er my grave,
"He like a soldier fell."'

The curtain fell: my companion asked me if I would like to see the stage room of the singer. I assented, we passed through the Green Room, and entered her room, where she was sitting on a chair, her mother with her. After an exchange of a few words, she plucked a few blossoms from a branch of orchids in a vase on the table near her, and put them into my button-hole, saying, 'Allow me,' and then, plucking some more, similarly favoured my companion. At that moment the stage-bell rang, and as I thought we were dashing out of the room and down the stairs, I awoke, and saw my young secretary standing before me. He said: 'The dinner-bell has rung; you have slept very long.'

FINIS