“If I may broach a delicate question, will you tell me if the paragraphs circulated in the Japanese Press are correct? They state that your season of four weeks last April in Ōsaka brought you in a sum of 50,000 yen (nearly £5000), and that out of this amount you gave away in presents something like 20,000 yen (£2000).”
The old man smiled, less grimly. “It is quite true,” he said. “But the presents are imposed by etiquette, and such customs are more or less reciprocal. The total receipts of the theatre, as certified by the Government auditor, after the tax had been deducted, amounted to 130,000 yen (£13,000).”
“How is it you have avoided the master-passion of our London actors to become an actor-manager?”
“I think a manager must be sorely tempted to put money first and art second. I often advise authors to make certain alterations in the plays for which I am engaged, but the responsibility of entire management would distract me from the purely artistic aspect of representation.”
A mischievous recollection of Delobelle’s “Je n’ai pas le droit de renoncer à mon art” occurred to me, and I cynically wondered whether management might not diminish (it could hardly increase) the lion’s share of the receipts.
“Will you ask Mr. Danjuro,” I said, “if he will like to put any questions to me about European actors and acting? I shall be most delighted to give him information on the subject.”
The answer was a blank negative. For the patriotic actor no stage existed but his own. He had never been abroad; his interest in foreign things was limited to the flattering curiosity of foreign admirers.
The interview had already lasted an hour, for the translation of question and answer from concise English into more elaborate Japanese, and vice versâ, was a rather slow process. I therefore begged the invaluable Kishimoto to say that I could not think of trespassing any longer on Mr. Danjuro’s leisure, and would spare him one or two other interrogations which had suggested themselves. Thanking him in my best Japanese, I was rising to go, but our unwearied host would not hear of it, and insisted on my continuing to the bitter end.
“Well, since you are so kind, I should much like to hear your opinion of the sōshi shibai.”
Knowing that the sōshi-theatre must appear to a conservative actor as red a rag as the Independent Theatre to Mr. Clement Scott or the Théâtre de l’Œuvre to the late M. Sarcey, I awaited the reply with interest. But the gallant attempt to destroy feudal spectacular drama with ammunition drawn from French and English arsenals had failed so miserably, that the patriot could afford to be generous. His eyes twinkled as he answered: “Certainly some of the sōshi had great talent, but it was all of the theoretic kind. They had splendid theories about reforming the stage and bringing it into harmony with progress, with the spirit of the age, and other fine things. But, when they had to translate their theories into practice, the result fell very far short of their aims. Their writers were amateurs, their actors were amateurs; they knew nothing of stage-craft. The public, excited by the promises, were willing enough to give them a trial, but, as they did not know how to interest the public——”