Seven hundred years ago the Soga brothers, Goro and Juro, revenged themselves upon Kudo, the slayer of their father, and since that time, like the story of how Horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old, the tale has been sung and acted, there being hundreds of Kabuki plays with Goro and Juro as characters; their story inspired the playwrights of the Doll-theatre and formed the theme of several Nō dramas. The mother desires the eldest son to do the fatal deed, hoping to save the two younger. They are all anxious to take part in the killing of the man who treacherously put their father to death when they were children. Goro pleads that Juro be allowed to accompany him, and the mother reluctantly consents. The blind brother who has become a priest is denied, and so takes his own life.
They wear straw raincoats and rough straw sandals and the wide hat of the farmer; they start off to the foot of Mount Fuji, where Kudo has gone on a hunting expedition. Goro’s costume is black with a gay design of butterflies, white plovers on the wing adorning that of Juro. They creep into the hunting-lodge where Kudo is sleeping, and accomplish their end. Soon the youths are surrounded, put up a brave fight, but forfeit their lives.
Few plays reflect the national characteristics more than the Soga Brothers’ Revenge,—the impersonal emotions of Goro, Juro, and the mother; the deeply implanted desire for revenge in Old Japan for wrong done; the allegiance to the dead rather than the living. The Soga brothers did not think at all of leaving their mother; they were consumed with loyalty to the spirit of their departed father.
Stammering Matabei—how many fine actors have essayed this rôle created by Chikamatsu Monzaemon! In history he was the founder of colour prints in Japan, but in this play he is an artist who desires his master to recognise his ability by giving him the great name of Tosa. His teacher, however, is not willing to acknowledge his genius. Tongue-tied, he cannot reveal his mind to the master, and his voluble wife, who makes up for his loss of speech, only complicates matters. Suddenly, a number of farmers run through the audience armed with hoes and other agricultural implements announcing that there is a tiger in the neighbourhood. Matabei stutters that there are no tigers in Japan, and that it must be the creation of some artist come to life. Scarcely are the words uttered than a tawny tiger emerges from a bamboo thicket and wags its head. A younger and more favourite pupil takes a brush and draws an outline of a tiger in the air, and in this is sufficient magic to drive the ferocious animal away.
Then Matabei and his wife out of disappointment plan to die together, and the artist decides to paint a farewell picture. He chooses a square stone water-basin, and gazes into the water to catch the reflection of his face, for he wishes to draw his own portrait. He selects the side away from the audience and begins to work when, on the opposite side, facing the audience, appears the picture he is drawing. His art is so wonderful that the picture has penetrated the stone, and when the teacher sees the miracle he relents and allows Matabei to take the coveted name.
How a common robber may become so picturesque that all his faults are forgiven is to be seen in the rôle of Ishikawa Goemon. He had a Chinese father and a Japanese mother, and in punishment for his highway robberies he was finally boiled in oil. Goemon took up his quarters in the second story of the great red gate of Nanzen-ji, a Kyoto temple, and made his depredations by night. In a huge black velvet costume, a loose outer garment of gold brocade, and the conventional wig of a villain, hair that stands on end like a chestnut bur, Goemon emerges from his place of concealment to the gallery above the entrance gate and surveys the scene, smoking his pipe peacefully. Then the man searching for him appears out of the nether region of the stage, catches the reflection of the robber’s face on the surface of the water in a bronze temple-urn, and exclaims that so long as there is sand on the seashore there will be robbers in the world.
Bad characters transformed into heroes—these rôles appealed to Kabuki audiences. Such was Gonta, a vagabond, a braggart, and a bully, and yet he proves to have a heart of gold. He was ready to bluff a samurai out of his money, swagger boldly, yet shows tenderness for his child, and does not hesitate to sacrifice both wife and offspring when he responds to the clarion call of loyalty.
An uncompromising villain is Kosai, the octogenarian keeper of a house of ill-repute, a revelation of selfishness and indifference to the suffering and anguish caused by his slave traffic. A red tam-o’-shanter worn by ancients in Japan covers his head, beneath which is the aged, seared, hardened face. His kimono is of large brown and yellow checks, over which is thrown an upper garment of dark green, and he leans on a tall red-lacquered staff,—a harsh and fantastic figure. His is a personality so deeply sunk in crime that even those actors who specialise in katakiyaku, or villain’s rôles, scarcely ever act such a despicable character. It seems a thankless task to play such a monster, and yet the very strength of his wickedness is sufficient to stir up lethargic citizens who allow such persons as Kosai to flourish like green bay-trees. He meets his just deserts, but hanging seems too good for him.
Fortitude in the face of suffering and death gives the Kabuki actor the opportunity to perform some of his best rôles. Such a Spartan rôle is that of Sato Masakiyo; poisoned by his enemies and with but a short time to live, he is seen with his beautiful young daughter-in-law seated in an ornate red pleasure-craft on Lake Biwa. A small boat comes near with a messenger from the enemy to see if the poison has taken effect, and he is surprised at the hero’s complacency. Next a gift of armour is presented, but Sato strikes his sword against the chest, and the would-be assassin concealed within turns a somersault over the side of the vessel. A temple bell booms out, a sailor’s song is heard in the distance, and the ship points out over the audience. Sato, who has shown admirable control in the face of physical suffering, reels to the prow, and there calmly surveys the scene, remarking that it is a fine day, while the stage-blood which oozes from the corner of his mouth falls down upon his white neckcloth.
In the Kabuki actor’s large repertoire of weird rôles there are few to equal the frightful monster, Tsuchigumo, or The Earth Spider, a popular version of a Nō drama. This creature weaves its spell round a warrior who suffers from some mysterious illness. The spider visits him in the disguise of a priest and throws the web that enmeshes him. It is like day fireworks, made of thousands of strands of compressed paper, that when released fly forth like a fine-spun web, spraying far out over the footlights and above the heads of the people. Again, the spider is tracked to its den and comes forth to fight, shooting the fragile strands of its web into the boxes of the pit. Old and young reach out eagerly for the filmy stuff that wanders gossamer-like from stageland, and the intimate relation between the audience and the players is fully established.