At the Isemon Restaurant delicious shrimp-cutlets and delightful geisha made of dinner a rather protracted ceremony. When we arrived at Tsurusé, near the Nihon-Bashi, only a few seats at the back of the room were unoccupied. We had paid 30 sen (about sevenpence-halfpenny) at the door, and the nakauri, a daintily-dressed waiting-maid, charged only twopence for tea, cushion, and tobacco-box. On the curtained platform at the opposite end of the hall a zenza, or débutant, was relating a comic anecdote, which greatly amused his auditors. Like so much Tōkyō humour, the laughter was calculated to flatter the townsman’s shrewdness at the countryman’s expense. A farmer, whose son had gone to make a living in the capital, received a telegram asking for a pair of new shoes, stout and solid, such as only the provinces can produce. Proud of his telegram, the first which had been received in those parts, and believing the mischievous information of a neighbour who saw his way to an excellent joke, the father had the shoes made and hung them on the telegraph-wires, never doubting that they would at once be transported to Tōkyō. Soon after the crafty neighbour took down the shoes and substituted an old pair of his own. When the farmer happened to pass by in the evening, he was astounded by the excellence and promptness of telegraphic communication. “Look, my friends,” said he; “in half a day I can send my son a pair of new shoes and receive his old ones in return.”
A Professional Story-teller.
The zenza was followed by a tezuma, or conjurer, whose tricks, though exceedingly deft and graceful, were such as I had seen before. Then came a mimic, whose impersonations of popular actors provoked much applause. At last, after a musical performance which served as interlude, the famous raconteur, Sukeroku, continued his elaborate historical romance, dealing with a Japanese Perkin Warbeck, whose pretensions to the Shōgunate had caused much dissension among the adherents of the Tokugawa dynasty. Evidently the frequenters of the yosé, like the bulk of playgoers, prefer mediæval to modern topics. As the venerable author tapped with his fan on a little wooden slab to emphasise his points, and passed with rich elocution from incident to incident, the audience followed with rapt attention. Abruptly, as it seemed, he arrested his narrative, and the formula “To be continued in our next” was legible in the half-expectant, half-disappointed looks of his hearers. Before leaving I gathered a few particulars about the profession of a hanashika or story-teller. An established artist, or shinuchi, will receive 100 yen (about £10) a month (during half of which period one tale will continue from night to night), or perhaps 60 per cent. of the takings. He may receive this sum from three or four yosé, since the hanashika form a corporation and have branch-houses in all the chief towns. Many of the more famous, like Hakuen and Encho, publish their stories after they have been delivered orally. I was not able to hear the English story-teller, Mr. Black, whose knowledge of Western literature and Japanese speech enables him to draw on a larger répertoire than his colleagues. Foreigners who desire to accustom their ears to the sound of the language will find the yosé infinitely more useful than the theatre, for the style is less literary and the diction less artificial.
V
I was dazzled by Jiraiya. He bewildered my senses with sleight of hand and foot; he soothed my conscience with bold sophistries. For two rin I would have caught up an uncouth pike, assumed outrageous armour, and followed that robber-chief unhesitatingly to glory or to death. Vaguely I could remember being stirred in boyhood by the prowess of Robin Hood, by the fortunes of Aladdin, but here was a magnificent being who rivalled and surpassed both heroes in his own person. Like the outlaw of Sherwood Forest, he defied the powerful and helped the humble; judges and soldiers trembled at his name, which was breathed with blessings by the poor but grateful receivers of stolen goods. When the Government at last put forth its strength to crush him (and here his superiority was incontestable), instead of calling on his men in green to empty their trusty quivers, he had merely to summon his attendant sprite, a green frog, which could be trusted to spout fire until the last representative of futile authority should be utterly consumed. I had seen him dancing on the back of an awful dragon, which the frog vanquished before the beast had time to swing its tail; I had seen him dancing defiantly on a mountain covered with snow, while his whirling spear threatened a score of enemies dancing round the base: suddenly the mountain changed to a fire-spitting frog, and the enemies danced no more. Perhaps it was this decorative fashion of dancing in battle which reconciled me to the wholesale slaughter of so many brave men. At the moment I merely felt that they were hostile to Jiraiya and well deserved their doom. Similarly, it seemed no more than the deserts of my loyal enthusiasm when a courteous attendant, bowing to the ground, brought a message to my box to the effect that Jiraiya would be pleased to see me in his dressing-room when the curtain fell.
I followed the attendant down winding passages, and was shown into a small wooden compartment, which contained grease-paint, brushes, dresses, and in the corner a dignified old man, with eyes as sharp as Ibsen’s and the gravity of an archbishop. In his expression was no hint of robbery, dancing, or witchcraft. I looked round for the green frog, but the only other occupants of the room were two young ladies in sky-blue kimono, whom I afterwards discovered to be the actor’s daughters. They never miss one of their father’s performances. Presenting the letter which Mr. Fukuchi had kindly indited, I begged permission to interview Jiraiya at length on several phases of his complex personality. Ichikawa Danjuro (how well the stately syllables suited his demeanour) replied that he would be pleased to receive me any afternoon in the following week at his own house, where he would be resting between two engagements. But I knew that a magician (and, above all, a Japanese magician) held time to be of no more consequence than life or death, so I specifically demanded Wednesday as my share of his timeless immortality. The request was granted: the applicant retired.
I have known actors so devoted to their art that they treat every incident, however trivial, as a matter of theatrical importance, and impose on every acquaintance the rôle of a spectator. They grasp your hand with that fervour which warms the heart of the gallery, and take leave of a lady with glances such as melt the stalls. This exaggerated consciousness of his calling is utterly absent from Mr. Danjuro, who, off the boards, becomes less of an actor and more of an archbishop in proportion as he realises every year the growing prestige and veneration attached by the bulk of his compatriots to the chief of the Japanese stage. To them he is a great deal more than the successful acquirer of fame and money: he is the inheritor and transmitter of a great tradition, a living link with that pictorial old Japan which, beaten back by modern innovation outside the theatre, holds its own gallantly in the unstormed fortress of national drama. His habitation is in complete accord with the honourable position held by its proprietor. Good taste and simplicity conceal all traces of the wealth which is his. Opposite the reception-room is a small lake, decorated with trees and huge ornamental stones such as the Japanese æsthete loves, since they recall, as far as may be, the freaks which Nature loves to play with forest and mountain. The rooms are of white wood, beautifully planed, and the only objects which suggest the theatre are fuda, or long laths, hung with wreaths and bands of silk, on which are inscribed tributes of admiration from tea-houses, geisha-houses, and guilds of various kinds. When the master entered, wearing a quiet-coloured kimono of grey cotton, he greeted his visitors (my friend Kishimoto had volunteered his services as interpreter) with grave cordiality, and, having ordered a servant to bring in coffee and cakes, proceeded to answer my questions with imperturbable kindness.