The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

KABUKI

MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
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The character of Kamakura Gongoro, a warrior of Old Japan, as presented in Shibaraku! (lit., Wait-a-Moment). A famous actor improvisation, or aragoto play, one of the hereditary eighteen pieces of the Ichikawa Danjuro family. From a painting on silk by Torii Kiyotada, the present head of the Torii School.

KABUKI
THE POPULAR STAGE OF JAPAN

BY
ZOË KINCAID

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON
1925

COPYRIGHT

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

In my study of Kabuki I am deeply indebted to Mr. Seiseiin Ihara, the author of several volumes on the history of the popular stage of Japan. No progress toward an understanding of the development of Kabuki can be made without extensive reference to this valuable work. I wish particularly to acknowledge Mr. Ihara’s investigations into the mass of chronicles of the theatre, his lives of the actors, his painstaking researches into drama, also his collection of facts relating to the interference of the officials with the theatre and persecution of the actors. His Generations of the Ichikawa Family has also proved a record of great assistance.

Mr. Ihara has not only furnished me with data for study, but has been an indefatigable friend. A true lover of the theatre, he is one of the leading dramatic critics of Tokyo, and has not only given generously of his knowledge as a recognised authority on Kabuki, but acted on my behalf to smooth away a misunderstanding or straighten out a difficulty that sometimes arose concerning my attendance at the theatre.

To the late Mr. E. Motono, brother of the late Viscount Motono, I owe many of the first translations that opened up before me a new theatre world. Mr. Eishiro Hori, Professor of English at Keio University, rendered the greatest assistance in translations that gave me an insight into the history and technique of the Nō and Doll-theatre.

I also acknowledge my indebtedness to Mr. Mokuan Sekine for his Engeki Taizen, or Complete Drama, relating to the old customs of Kabuki, and to his Fifty Years of Meiji Kabuki. Another fruitful source of information has been Kabuki Sosho, a collection of old Kabuki records.

I take this opportunity to thank the friends who so often accompanied me to the theatre, and who were unfailing in their help, Mrs. Koto-ko Kuroda, Miss Shige Takenaka, Miss Chiyo-ko Hiraiwa, Mr. Hisashi Fujisawa, and Mr. M. Kinai.

Nor can I fail to acknowledge the kindness of the three leading managers of Tokyo who allowed me free access to their theatres, Mr. K. Yamamoto of the Imperial, the late Nariyoshi Tamura of the Ichimura-za, and later his son and successor, and Mr. Otani, head of the Matsutake Company, which now controls the greatest number of playhouses in Japan.

For twelve years I sat among the critics of the Tokyo stage at the regular performances, and cannot forget the unfailing courtesy of my journalistic associates.

To my good friends among the actors, Nakamura Utayemon of the Kabuki-za; Onoe Baiko and Matsumoto Koshiro of the Imperial; Onoe Kikugoro, the sixth, of the Ichimura-za; Nakamura Kichiyemon of the Kabuki-za, and Nakamura Ganjiro of Osaka; to Mr. Y. Ninomiya, stage producer and playwright of the Imperial; Miss Ritsu-ko Mori, leading actress of the Tokyo stage; Mr. Kiyotada Torii, the theatre artist; Mr. Beisai Kubota, stage designer,—to all the friends of long standing in the theatre, I take this opportunity to express my gratitude for the privilege of their friendship and kind assistance.

ZOË KINCAID.

London, March 2, 1925.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

INTRODUCTION

Interest in the Theatre, and in the arts and crafts which belong to it, is to-day so lively and so general that it is rather surprising how little has been written about the popular theatre in Japan. There have been several books on the Nō, that unique form of drama which rigidly maintains unaltered all the traditions and fine conventions of the medieval period. But this stationary, aristocratic art has never entered into the life of the Japanese people as has the Kabuki theatre, with which the present volume is concerned. In January of this year was opened the new building of the Kabuki-za, rising from the ashes and ruins of the capital. It is a huge building, with a seating capacity of four thousand. The Japanese cannot live without the theatre: it is in a most real sense part of the national life. Through the theatre the least educated become familiar with the heroic past of their country, its legends and its actual history, so abounding in dramatic episodes “where duty and inclination come nobly to the grapple”. It stimulates and sustains their imaginative life; it is a bond of union for all sorts and conditions of men. Such a theatre is worth knowing about; and the art of this theatre is, in all its details, of extraordinary interest. No nation is so thorough as the Japanese in any art they undertake; and the Kabuki theatre exacts the most prolonged and rigorous training from childhood in those who serve it; their art is of the most finished. Technically, also, the devices and conventions of Kabuki scenes—the revolving stage, for instance—offer points of comparison and contrast with the European theatre which we can profitably study, as readers of this book will discover.

The writer of this book has lived for years in Japan, has assiduously frequented the theatre (and not the Kabuki theatre only), and has made herself intimately acquainted with its history. Collectors and students of Japanese colour-prints know how entwined with that popular art is the life of the theatre. Some of the finest designers of those beautiful prints devoted their lives to depicting the actors of the day in their most successful scenes. And print-collectors have long been in want of a book which would tell them about the famous actors, whether of masculine or feminine parts (for women, as on the Elizabethan stage, were played by men), and about the plays in which they appeared. Only quite recently has it been discovered that the actor-prints can very often be dated by the help of theatre-records; and thus we are enabled to distinguish between the different actors of stage-families bearing the same name. (The hereditary character of the actor’s calling is another interesting feature of the Japanese stage.) In this book one’s natural curiosity about the lives and personalities of the successive Danjuros and other great actors is in large measure satisfied: and I am sure that print-collectors will welcome this illuminating aid to their study. But it is to those interested in the theatre as theatre that these pages will appeal above all.

Many of us remember the performances of Sada Yacco and her husband, Mr. Kawakami, in London, now many years ago. They gave us just a glimpse of the fascination of Japanese acting: but they represented an experimental effort—Sada Yacco herself was an actress only by accident—and in the West we have never seen any true representation of the national drama of Japan. I cannot but express the hope, which I am sure will be shared by those who read these pages, that before long Tokyo may be persuaded to send a company to Europe, and at last allow us to enjoy and understand something of the scrupulous and intense dramatic art, so rich in tradition yet so alive to the finger-tips, of the Japanese popular theatre.

LAURENCE BINYON.

KABUKI

CHAPTER I
KABUKI

Solid attention from the close-set heads of the playgoers kneeling on their cushions in the boxes of the pit to the crowded galleries on three sides, and enthusiasm displayed in the tachimi, or standing-to-see place near the ceiling, where patient people remain on their feet for long hours—the keenest critics as well as the warmest supporters of the actors—such is the scene witnessed daily in the theatre of Japan.

The Occidental cannot long withstand the mass psychology of this audience; that is, if he makes an attempt to share its point of view and appreciate the excellent things provided upon the stage. He feels its subtle unity, its amazing cohesiveness; he is carried away by an unseen stream, engrossed, engulfed, and wakes up with a start to find himself an entity again; or else, detaching himself from the atmosphere in which he has been immersed, wonders at this overflowing expression of Japanese life.

Statesmen, publicists, and editors of the Occident wax eloquent about Japan and her problems, but here is something they quite ignore and leave out of consideration, this manifestation of the pure spirit of the people with minds relaxed enjoying the theatre art that pleased their ancestors.

Seekers after mystery will not find it here, for there is nothing that is inscrutable. Merely the people laughing or crying as the play proceeds, spontaneous in their approval of the triumph of right over wrong, absorbed in the clash of evil and good,—the same theatre material that has served to amuse and attract mankind for the last two thousand years.

Just the people, displaying depths of human nature, undisturbed by the questions that vex the politicians, the propagandists, the militarists, and other dread phantoms that cast their dark shadows over a sunny, smiling world.

The creative spirit belongs to no one land or people, and its expression becomes the treasure of all. Kabuki, the popular stage of Japan, is the result of three hundred years of intensive cultivation. Its genius and successful achievements belong to a common sum total, and are a contribution to the world’s theatre. Its actors are members of the same fraternity as those of the West, and claim kinship with them.

Nothing in the entire realm of Japanese life reveals the characteristics of the people so unerringly as Kabuki. It is a store-house of history, and has exercised a moral force upon the whole people. The crowded audiences in the big theatres of Tokyo, Osaka, Kobe, Kyoto, Yokohama, and the countless minor places of amusement, testify to the enjoyment and relaxation afforded by the performances. There are the achievements of the actors, who may easily be recognised as men of the first ability; the frequent attempts of new stage writers, that are worthy of consideration as evidence of Japan’s modern tendencies; the living traditions of the old masterpieces to witness, and the many interesting ceremonies of the theatre. Kabuki represents a whole world of creativeness both past and present, a sphere of theatre activity that remains a terra incognita to the Occident.

There is something poignant in the endeavours of generations of Kabuki players who obeyed the voice within them, asking no acknowledgement, expecting no return, doing their duty as they knew it without the least idea of the vague western hemisphere—completely unknown to their brothers in other lands.

For more than three hundred years these actors have lived and had their being in their own narrow spheres. True to the best theatre instinct within them, they bequeathed their accumulated treasures of style and taste, the purest and most varied of theatre material, to their successors, the modern actors, who, so far as the West is concerned, remain obscure, unvalued, and unappreciated, even as did their ancestors when Japan was isolated and had no relations with outside countries. Yet their art was good, and will one day gain recognition. They have carried on their traditions unswervingly; they are the custodians of all that pertains to the theatre of the present, and the future looms large with possibilities.

There are three separate and distinct theatres in Japan: the Nō, or classic drama, with its masked figures, perfected five hundred years ago; Ningyo-shibai, or the Doll-theatre, where marionettes interpret complicated ballad-dramas; and Kabuki, the popular theatre, in which male players reign supreme. These are the Japanese theatre arts, interwoven into the very fabric of society, the amusements of the people that reflect their psychology, tastes, and aspirations.

The Nō became crystallised into an art at the time of the Shogun Yoshimitsu (1368–1398). Long before Yoshimitsu held sway, the country had been brimful of song, dance, poetry, minstrelsy, and the three theatres of modern Japan may be said to have inherited the accumulated tendencies of a thousand years.

Deeply rooted in the people was the love of theatrical entertainments which were held in connection with the festivals of shrines and temples. From these performances developed companies of players who formed hereditary actor families, the members of which were regarded as belonging to the common people.

When Yoshimitsu saw a performance at a Kyoto temple that pleased him he gave his patronage to the players, and at one bound they were elevated to a new position. It was at this time that the Nō was brought to a state of perfection, and the support and encouragement given by so highly placed a personage resulted in the monopoly of this theatre by the aristocracy, to be reserved henceforward for their own use and entertainment.

During the long Tokugawa regime, the Nō continued under the protection of the Shogun, and was patronised by the various daimyo. When the shogunate fell, the Nō almost went out of existence, but slowly regained its prestige, and within recent years it has attained unprecedented popularity. It is regarded as a means of culture, and is claimed by increasing numbers of intellectuals. Yet it still retains its aloofness from the common theatre, which it continues to disdain as cheap, vulgar, and sensational. In spite of the fact that it has come to a standstill and lives on the past, its influence is very great.

As an expression of the human spirit by means of inanimate figures, the Doll-theatre of Japan is unique. It is a surprise to find this jewel of art in Osaka, the city of smoke-stacks—an art that has been alive in Japan for more than three hundred years, but is at present practically confined to one small theatre, the Bunraku-za.

Other countries have their doll-theatres in more or less flourishing conditions, but few have reached such a state of completeness as that of Japan. For here is a rare combination—inanimate figures instead of actors of flesh and blood; doll-men trained from childhood to acquire the technique to manage the cold and lifeless forms through which flows the creative genius of the handlers; minstrels and musicians who have devoted their lives to the interpretation of the plays; and the best brains of the dramatist employed in order that the dolls may be triumphant and their use fully justified.

Kabuki, the popular stage, was but the assertion of the people to the right of their own form of entertainment, since the Nō had become the exclusive amusement of the higher classes. All the materials for a theatre of the people were abundantly at hand, and it only needed the impetus to start it flowing in the right direction.

Ningyo-shibai, or the Doll-theatre, and Kabuki rose at the same time, both popular theatre arts. Kabuki was destined to be profoundly influenced by the marionettes, and the music of the Doll-theatre owed its inspiration directly to the Nō.

While Japan’s theatre genius has not developed in the same direction as the intellectual drama of the Occident, her actors are the product of severe discipline. Kabuki is one of the most professional stages of the world. The actors are trained from childhood, and keep their place in the ranks until their steps are tottering. There is no opening for the amateur to gain admittance to this well-regulated world with its set standards.

And of the countless plays, but few are known to the West. There are the dramas rich in human nature, as romantic and sentimental as the West could desire, with a realism that rivals that of the Occident. On the other hand, there is a remarkable excursion into the realm of the unreal, and grotesque characters cut out of the cloth of exaggeration form the characteristics of the many quaint plays that have been handed down to posterity by the nine stars of the Ichikawa family, the actor-line that has contributed more than any other to the development of the Japanese theatre. There are, also, the shosagoto, or music-posture pieces, ethereal, graceful, fairylike creations, and associated with these a whole sphere of descriptive dancing.

To attempt to justify the existence of Kabuki by seeking to explain it in the light of the Occidental theatre means to digress, for comparisons are idle until the whole story of the Japanese stage is made known. No doubt when Kabuki becomes more familiar to the West much of a critical nature will be written as to where the two approach or diverge.

The aim of this book is to lay the essential facts of Kabuki before Occidental readers. For it is believed that the way to judge such an institution is to find out first what it signifies to those who have brought it into existence. After which may be considered the value it holds for the West. When an attempt is made to explain Kabuki in Western terms confusion begins. It becomes a much simpler matter if left to explain itself.

In the Nō the actor and playwright were subservient to interpretation, and art was greater than personality; in the Doll-theatre, playwrights, minstrels, doll-handlers—all worked so enthusiastically that they forgot themselves and were absorbed in the marionette,—a truly unselfish theatre co-operation. Much of Kabuki, however, has been of an ephemeral nature. The actors improvised as they saw fit. It was their world and the playwrights were their servants. The whole art of Kabuki evolved by these players of Japan is unconscious, and should be of the greatest interest to lovers of the theatre in all lands, for the reason that the relation of a people to their theatre, the different use of dramatic materials, the development of characteristic customs and conventions reveal by way of comparison and contrast the virtues or defects of the systems that exist elsewhere.

CHAPTER II
KABUKI AUDIENCES

An indescribable din, thoroughly characteristic of the atmosphere of shibai,—that forms part of the pleasure of theatre-going,—is composed of a hubbub of voices, the clatter of tea-cups, the twang of the samisen, the thunder of big drums, the cries of the vendors selling pots of hot tea, rice-cakes, or oranges to customers in the back seats of the gallery, and the metallic click-clack of the hyoshigi, or wooden clappers, that signal the beginning or end of the curtain.

Long before the playgoers begin to arrive, heavy, scattered drum-beats echo through the vacant theatre. This is a reminder of the old days when the drummer stationed in the yagura, or drum-tower, beat his tattoo to announce the opening of shibai, and to hasten the people on their way.

By the time the dekata, or ushers, are bustling about showing the people to their places, the great drum sounds with slow, regular rhythms. A flute begins to shrill, weaving an intricate maze about the deep-toned measures. Next the light, staccato beats of a Nō drum are added to the medley of sounds which, becoming faster and faster, seems to anticipate the thrilling and brilliant scenes that are about to be represented on the stage.

The drummers cease their clamour abruptly, and there succeeds a quiet space broken by the noise of the stage carpenter’s hammer, and the calls of stage hands. Soon the pit is densely packed, the people kneeling down on their cushions in the little square boxes that hold no more than four with comfort. The galleries facing the stage, and to right and left, hung with many lanterns and covered with scarlet cloth, begin to fill.

Increasing the animation of the scene are the changing curtains of rich satins or crepes embroidered or dyed with gay designs, presentation gifts to the actor, symbolising his rank, rôles, or ancestry, that are drawn aside one after the other. The many-coloured kimono and gold and silver obi worn by the fair sex heighten the brightness of the picture.

Deluges of rain do not prevent people from crowding to the theatre, for when ordinary pursuits are interfered with the whole day may be given up to seeing the plays and enjoying the hospitality of shibai.

Should a typhoon be raging, the chaya, or tea-house, presents a lively scene; every second a dozen dripping, two-wheeled kuruma arrive, the short oilskin coats of the pullers streaming with water, their bare legs splashed with mud, as they unbutton the flaps of the hooded vehicles that old, fat dowagers, charming wives, white-haired old gentlemen wearing silk skirts, and geisha, immaculate of toilet, may emerge, only to be succeeded by an endless variety of persons bent on relieving the monotony of the day by a visit to shibai.

Within the chaya, the wide cement entrance floor is quickly covered by a mountain of geta, or clogs, and dripping oiled-paper umbrellas, all thrown together in what seems utter confusion, were it not for the wooden identification tags.

Servants add to the pandemonium by running in all directions calling out loudly as they take the honourable guests’ hats and overcoats, or escort them to their places within the theatre, while crowds of apple-cheeked country maids struggle valiantly to fill innumerable blue and white teapots, disputing with each other as to the destination of these indispensables, arranging them on trays, or filling them by dipping up the boiling water from a huge brass kettle over the charcoal fire let down in the floor.

Outside, the red and white paper lanterns decorating the under-eaves of the tea-house blow about wetly, and a fusillade of vertical rain falls unceasingly upon the grey mud of the street.

From street to seat, and a new world appears, the audience kneeling down on the cushions of the small boxes, packed in like sardines in the narrow confines—faces, faces everywhere, from the patient standing people of the highest gallery to the close-set heads of the first row in the pit. Immediately, the piles of clogs and soggy umbrellas that must be sorted out before the dispersal of the audience, the blustering gale without, even the deafening roar of the unceasing rain upon the roof of the theatre are forgotten, as attention is focussed upon the vivid characters of the Kabuki plays.

Or to leave the dusty, traffic-worn city in the yellow glare of noon, and entering the chaya become lost in Kabuki’s dreamland, is a pleasant sensation. The old world wags. Afternoon gives place to evening, and by the time the playgoer issues forth again into the sphere of actualities, a chorus of thanks from the tea-house attendants for his coming sounding in his ears, the stars are bright in the canopy of darkness.

At the time of O-Kuni, the founder of Kabuki, shibai meant to sit on the grass or earth, and something of its out-of-door origin still remains. The buildings never at any time give the impression that the play is being enacted in some stuffy, mouldy subterranean cavern. Especially in hot weather the audience has a sense of airiness and freedom.

Going to the theatre in midsummer is made agreeable and comfortable. White curtains cover the galleries; the audience is clothed for the most part in cool, white cotton kimono, and the entire auditorium is a-flutter with white fans. The playgoer may look away from the stage and rest his eyes by the sight of a moonlit sky, even bats and moths venturing in from their night resting-places, attracted by the bright interior.

Sunlight slants through the audience and falls on the upturned faces in the pit, and is reflected in the well-oiled and perfectly arranged coiffure of the Japanese woman. Patches of brilliant sunshine stray upon the stage, touching a golden screen or sumptuous costume. The wind blows, moving the fragile paper lanterns suspended from the galleries or in rows over the stage, shibai’s most characteristic decoration. The heads of the kneeling people in the galleries are outlined against an open space of blue sky, trees, and roofs. Afternoon fades, and the background behind the playgoers changes to dark blue velvet imperceptibly melting into the blackness of night as the play proceeds.

For summer audiences suggestions of coolness are made. In a certain scene gold screens will be used, on which are painted pine-clad islands, blue water, and white waves. When that mysterious sea of faces upon which the actor plays is one fluttering mass of paper fans, then the taste inclines to realistic typhoons with thunder and lightning and real rain, that splashes all over the stage, or there is shown an under-the-ocean scene in which fish and mermaids disport themselves. Should a piece with the savour of the sea be given, a curtain is suspended from the galleries showing blue waves on white, and creepy ghost plays are a cooling influence when it is necessary to forget the hot clamminess of the streets.

In winter, however, the near-to-nature aspect of shibai is not conducive to comfort. Then it is necessary to sit on the feet to keep them warm, and the chill air blows through chinks and cracks. The only heat provided is a small porcelain vessel filled with charcoal embers placed in a box that has an aperture in the top, while over the whole is placed a wadded covering—a hand-warmer that theatre-goers could not very well do without.

But if there is signal neglect of creature comforts in the winter shibai, there are compensations. There is no lack of warm food and beverages to suit the taste of the most fastidious. During the intervals between plays the people promenade along the corridors and purchase souvenirs at the stalls, where many tempting wares are displayed to view. An air of enjoyment and pleasure pervades the atmosphere.

April is still, as it was in the old days, the gayest and most attractive month for playgoers. Thousands of provincials flock to Tokyo and Osaka, and the theatres vie with each other to provide the most attractive programmes. Artificial cherry blossoms form the decorations outside the theatres, and the stage shows some special arrangement of these flowers.

Following the old custom, November is the most dignified theatre month in the calendar, when the great actors play their finest rôles to mark the opening of the theatre season. The celebration of the New Year is observed in a special manner, the decorations consisting of pine, bamboo, and plum, and lanterns bearing the names and crests of the leading actors. December is the dullest and most uninteresting theatre month, since the year-end settlement of outstanding accounts makes it necessary to retrench in order to meet all obligations, and because the busy household preparations keep many a matron and maid at home.

Not all the plays on a programme, that lasts from noon to near midnight, are calculated to hold the attention—in some scenes the action, if it can be so called, meanders gently on, the audience manifesting a mild interest. There is a deep undercurrent of repose upon the stage, the actors going about their business leisurely, knowing nothing of the hurry with which Western players cram the events of a lifetime into a short two-hours-and-a-half.

People attend shibai not so much to be startled by sensations, as for relaxation. They take their ease, and feel at home. The dekata waits upon them, attending to their personal needs with a courtesy that makes each individual consider himself an honoured guest.

In the midst of a scene that calls for passive interest, the dekata may be seen balancing in one hand a pile of red or black lacquer boxes full of hot rice and tempting viands with which playgoers are accustomed to regale themselves, or laden down with sake bottles or teapots, moving dexterously from one box to another in the pit.

At such times the doctrine of self-realisation of Asia is best revealed. Contented old men send the smoke from their small, metallic pipes floating towards the ceiling; grandmothers drink tea from cups that hold three mouthfuls. Old cronies discuss the play over sips of hot sake; others read the programmes to acquaint themselves with the forthcoming plays; babies are nursed, dressed, or put to sleep; geisha take out their mirrors and industriously preen and powder; children devour sweets and oranges.

But while each person is enjoying himself according to his own ideas, a hush seems to envelop the entire assembly. There is a sense of unity, an undertow of quietness, that holds the diversified units of the audience firmly together.

As a revelation of human nature there is nothing so illuminating in all Japan as the Kabuki audience. Quick to see the humour of a situation, it is tragedy that it likes and which touches it to the quick.

It is a mistaken idea to suppose that all the people of Japan are samurai to the extent that they never show their feelings. Loyal heroes who die for a cause, victims of the conflict between love and duty, sacrifice of self that others may live, these always bring the tears, and handkerchiefs are pressed to brimming feminine eyes in all parts of the theatre. Nor are men above the softer emotions. They may be seen weeping bitterly in such scenes as that in Chushingura when Enya Hangan commits harakiri and his faithful chief retainer, Yuranosuke, comes just in time to catch his last words. Others mop their heads or cough to keep back the tears. Kabuki audiences seem rather to enjoy a good cry. The sorrow of farewell, mother-love, blindness, death, the common human experiences move them deeply. They may be dazzled by a gorgeous spectacle, excited by a combat, absorbed by the movements of a dancer, but when it comes to the sentiments of everyday life the Kabuki audience responds in a wave of sympathy.

Formerly the audience was composed chiefly of middle or lower class people. Nowadays all classes attend, and a member of the Imperial family, the Prince Regent, witnessed Kabuki performances for the first time when he visited the Imperial Theatre in Tokyo with the Prince of Wales. A distinctive feature of theatre-going are the parties of people who attend regularly in a body, patrons of the leading actors. Firemen, wrestlers, and tradespeople may thus be seen, according to the custom of their ancestors. The geisha are the steadiest patrons of the actors. Sometimes they make a brave show gaily apparelled, occupying the best seats in the gallery. They form an interesting element of the audience, smoking, chatting, weeping over the play, and making up with powder puff to obliterate the traces of tears, the young ones in dazzling kimono and obi, the more sedate in sober garments.

When a popular actor in a piece that has withstood the shocks of time is before the audience interest becomes intense. Familiarity with the play adds to the keenness of the enjoyment. Before a favourite character makes a grand entrance by the hanamichi, every head in the pit is turned to see him come. Shouts of welcome are heard as a beloved hero is about to make his appearance on the scene.

Half of the enjoyment to the playgoers in seeing these old plays is expectancy; not so much in the unfoldment of the plot, for they know the story by heart, and have witnessed the play often, but how the actor will interpret it.

One of the privileges of the audience is to make audible remarks, and they are free and unrestrained in the expression of their admiration or criticism of an actor in a well-known rôle.

“You did very well!” shouts a voice after an actor has portrayed a character to the general satisfaction. If an actor is ill, but refuses to disappoint the audience, a sympathiser calls out: “Take care of yourself!” or “Thank you for coming when you are so ill!” Should a young player, rapidly climbing the ladder of fame, display so much skill as to astonish, there is a surge of great pride throughout the audience, and shouts of “Nippon Ichi!” (“Best in Japan!”) are showered upon him.

When the minstrel and the samisen player, who are to furnish the incidental music of a doll-theatre classic, mount their platform to the right of the stage, there are cries of: “Now do your best!”

Glowing memories of the varied scenes in shibai do not soon fade away; the friendliness of the tea-house mistresses who have remained for long years at their posts; the thrilling experience of meeting an actor off the stage in an upper room of a tea-house looking down on the blaze of oblong lanterns that form the street illuminations; the unfailing attentiveness of the dekata, those servitors of shibai who seem to have wandered into the present from old Yedo; an actor on the hanamichi surrounded by the people, all eyes intent on his movements, or the unrestrained applause when an actor reaches a high level of acting.

Many shibai landmarks are passing, giving place to more advanced ideas. In the leading theatre, chairs have now replaced the cushions laid on the matting as in a Japanese dwelling; steam heat ensures a well-warmed interior in winter; maids in black frocks and white bib and tucker are replacing the dignified, faithful dekata; the time given to the performances is steadily being reduced. Shibai must progress. But in their efforts to be up to date the iconoclasts would throw overboard much of the honest and simple regime that has for so long distinguished Kabuki.

CHAPTER III
CONVENTIONS OF KABUKI

While the development of the popular theatre of Japan has been co-existent with that of England and Europe, and fundamentally it is the same, there are striking differences in the conventions. These are the result of the isolation of Kabuki, due to the seclusion policy of the shogunate which endured for two centuries and a half.

Kabuki conventions appear at first sight so different from our own that it takes time to understand and appreciate them. Familiarity, however, reveals the taste and sincerity of the Kabuki collaborators, who, far from the influence of the theatres of other lands, worked out their own salvation.

One of the most interesting conventions to the Occidental is the hanamichi, or flower-way. It is an extension of the stage proper to form a path through the audience. There are always two hanamichi in a theatre, one on either side of the stage, that on the left being the wider and more important, that on the right smaller and less used.

Some of the most vital principles of Kabuki are at work when the hanamichi is employed. The modern playwrights who ignore it, not only rob the actors of something strongly theatrical, but at the same time take away from the audience the keen delight that comes from close contact with the creations of the stage.

Pageantry and ceremonial claim the hanamichi as their own. Sweeping over it come processions of gay courtesans; priests in stiff brocades chant as they march solemnly to some ornate stage-temple; daimyo trains wind their way with all the pomp of feudal days; the whole theatre becomes a stage and every person in the audience feels his connection with the play and players.

A company of courtesans enter by the hanamichi and fill it with as brilliant a blaze of colour as it is ever possible to see in a theatre that is justly famous in this direction. The grotesque personages of the prints, the taiyu of old Yedo, are reproduced, the glittering robes of gold and bright embroidery, the elaborately decorated headdresses, and heavily padded brocade rolls to their many kimono, making them the most topheavy persons that could ever be imagined, balancing themselves on their stilt-like black geta, or high footgear, as they lean on the shoulders of their male attendants for support. A whole hanamichi of these extraordinary creatures, men bearing large lanterns, and little maids in scarlet, following in the wake, makes a picture that fairly dazzles.

Many priests with an aged abbot at the head pass through the audience in great dignity and enter a golden temple in the gloom of tall trees, the incense, wave on wave, rising into the air and spreading out over the audience. Fighting men in armour suddenly swarm over the two hanamichi, right above the heads of the bewildered people in their small boxes in the pit, and the whole audience is taken by surprise at the number of men rushing towards the stage.

The greatest variety of entrances and exits is made possible by the hanamichi. A hasty messenger chooses this way for entrance; and a slow exit is made by a melancholy lover with downcast head and folded arms, determined to depart this life. There is the splendid, imposing entrance of a shogun, prince or brave warrior, or the striking exit of some masquerading fox or demon, while the actors are fond of slow introductions, standing for a long time in the most conspicuous position on the hanamichi that they may be viewed from every vantage point in the theatre.

Tall autumn grasses on each side of the hanamichi, prepare for the entrance of a hero playing on his flute in the moonlight, an assassin creeping behind him. If the scene upon the stage is that of winter there will be a snowdrift on the hanamichi, and blue and white cotton will transform this narrow audience-path into a stream of water. An umbrella lies carelessly outspread on the hanamichi; it gently moves as though by its own volition, then there is a puff of smoke, and out springs a beautiful maiden, who dances. By the same trap-door issue forth such characters as Nikki Danjo, magician and conspirator, who transforms himself into a rat that he may steal a family document, and then assuming his own form, although still resembling a rat, stands in the midst of the people, and the next moment mysteriously disappears through the hanamichi.

Armour-clad fighters perched high upon velvet stage-horses thrill by their nearness, and long-lost brothers find each other on the hanamichi. With rapture lovers are united; a wounded hero, shot by an arrow in the eye, reels and sinks down with exhaustion, and two comic old females go out talking volubly to the amusement of the audience. Such are the characters, gay or grave, who have been brought into existence by the hanamichi.

As a means to further characters on their way, the hanamichi is most useful. Two actors will leave the stage taking the hanamichi, and cross over by a narrow footpath into the centre of the pit, where they stand and act. Meanwhile a bridge has been pulled off and a red shrine pushed on, and by the time they wander back to the stage proper they have travelled a long way on their journey.

Travellers, servants, court ladies, peasants, and vendors,—they make a motley train as they pass over the hanamichi and are so near the people that they might, if they wished, reach out and touch their garments.

Interpretative music forms part of almost every play. To produce certain moods in the audience, the drummers and samisen players are accustomed to make sounds and rhythms to increase the emotion or picturesque effect of a scene. These men are called hayashikata, or musicians, and perform on a number of instruments, furnishing Kabuki’s incidental music. They are stationed to one side of the stage and concealed from view, but as a concession there is an opening in the painted scenery, or screens, that they may survey the stage and keep in close relation to the action.

To accompany conversation there are irregular notes of the samisen, and when the characters are thus engaged and what they say is of great interest the audience is so hushed that the stray notes of the samisen sound like dripping water in a silent house. At other times this samisen accompaniment to dialogue is more of a hindrance than a help. For people walking or marching the samisen has another rhythm, and certain variations of measures suggest a lonely farm house.

When two noble persons converse together, the flute, sho (an ancient reed instrument), drum, and samisen are played softly. Rippling sounds convey the merriment of a feast, and excited rhythms are heard as a combat takes place.

For battle there is the confusion made of quick beats of the big drum. To increase the sound of the warlike preparations, a metal gong is struck rapidly, there is a clash of cymbals, and the blowing of a conch shell.

To make more solitary a lonely mountain scene, a horse-driver’s song is sung to the jingle of horse-bells, and when an echo is required two small drums answer each other. Gay and lively festival scenes are accompanied by intricate interweaving of light drum-beats. Crazy persons make their appearance to irregular notes of the samisen, while regular rhythms of the big drum suggest wind. Falling snow is made by soft, muffled, regular drum-beats. Waves are suggested by a vigorous stroke on the big drum, and then a quiet tap, in imitation of the ebb and flow of the tide.

At sunset there is the deep boom of a temple-bell, when lovers are parting, or the approach of some tragic dénouement in deserted temple or country cottage. For harakiri scenes the piercingly sad flute and subdued samisen express the regret of the dying, and for tragedy there are sad little ripples of the samisen in a high tone.

Soft samisen measures accompany melancholy moonlit scenes, and the striking of a wooden gong used in Buddhist worship suggests the appearance of something frightful. Light taps of the big drums make known a sinister motive, and the big drum beaten quickly announces impending evil, while the clatter of the geta, or wooden clogs, on the hanamichi, to the thumping of the samisen and the light tattoo of the small drums, conveys an impression of light-heartedness.

Most of the conventions in regard to make-up have been handed down by word of mouth from one Ichikawa Danjuro to the other, and form a complicated subject. Dead white, with broad black eyebrows, and touches of red to eyes and corners of the mouth, has long been the accepted stage mask for samurai, or persons of high degree. White also forms the established make-up for women. Villains are generally made up with red faces, country people are tanned brown by the sun, and comedians paint their faces with red, white, and blue.

In the exaggerated rôles created by the Ichikawa house, the countenances of these imaginative personages give scope for the most daring attempts. This elaborate design for the face is called kumadori (lit., to-make-borders).

Brave men who have fought a good fight and lost, confront their enemies with an expression of retaliation, broad red lines around the eyes, nose, and chin, with red forks over the forehead. Again, such a character is made up with light pink shading out from the red strokes.

Strong and courageous warriors, undismayed although in the hands of their enemies, have chins of grey, red lips bordered by white, broad upward strokes of red from eyes and cheeks to forehead, and raised eyebrows like the antennæ of some black beetle, the whole giving the impression that the hero is bristling with anger; his hair standing on end.

Benkei, the warrior-priest, loyal to his young master, Yoshitsune, is represented with a grey chin, no eyebrows, two curved lines on forehead, outlined in pink.

A villain of wrathful mien is made up according to the Ichikawa convention with the lower part of the face black, a black and white design on the chin for a beard, the upper portion of the face covered with a network of purple veins, and for eyebrows the antlers of a deer in dark blue. A villain of a different description appears with a bright red face, a pink nose and mouth, and thick black elevated eyebrows.

Most of the conventions for the making up of ghosts have been created by the Kikugoro family, their specialty being the weird and ghostly. A Kikugoro ghost has a branching design of blue veins, a red mouth outlined in black, and eyes painted with red and black. Another apparition has an indistinct blue tinge over the face, the features slightly touched with black. The face of a fox in human disguise is white with sharp pink points upward from the bridge of the nose, and slanting black eyebrows. The spirit of a frog has sharp curved lines of dark and light green about eyes, mouth, and forehead.

Not unlike the clown of the Western circus, the Kabuki comedian makes up with a white ground on which lines of red are painted about the nostrils and eyes, while a red circle between the eyes supports a heavy horizontal line intended for eyebrows. The cheeks are decorated with a blue curved design, suggested by a squirming eel, which represents a moustache.

The modern actors are not slaves to the conventions, but depart from them whenever they feel inclined, making up to suit their own ideas of the characters they take. The actor performs this elaborate duty himself, laying on the lines with brush and finger tip. Matsumoto Koshiro, of the Imperial Theatre, is acknowledged the most versatile and original in his making up, always creating something new and astonishing.

Onoe Kikugoro as a brave samurai woman mounted on a white velvet stage steed.

One of the most striking conventions of the Japanese theatre is the Kabuki horse, supported underneath by two minor actors who specialise in supplying legs to make-believe steeds. It waves its mane, kicks and steps about to show its mettle, or jogs along, a patient pack animal. But always it forms a necessary part of the action of a play, as well as an important feature of the stage picture.

This remarkable quadruped with the very human legs and knees occupies a distinct place of its own in the old plays, and its prestige is not dimmed even in the latest productions. Its ancestor may be seen on the Doll-stage, prancing about among the puppets, but the velvet mount of Kabuki is much more dignified, and has advanced a great deal since it ceased to associate with the marionettes.

In a music play, Omori Hikoshichi, by Fukuchi, the horse becomes one of the chief characters. The hero, Omori, while assisting a young woman to cross the ford of a river is suddenly attacked by her. He finds that she is trying to recover her father’s sword, and having it with him, he generously gives it up. To hide his act from his men, he pretends to be overcome by uncanny influences, but this excuse does not satisfy the retainers, and when Omori jumps upon his horse, they pull the bridle this way and that, the restive animal rearing and plunging to the strains of the samisen. At length Omori frees himself and appears in the background on a hill, his war-fan upraised in triumphant attitude, the very intelligent stage-horse pawing the ground, apparently sharing its master’s triumphant emotion.

Acting a horse rôle is not so easy as it may appear, since the fore and back legs must by some stage legerdemain perform in harmony. The front legs take the initiative since to this actor is given the position of look-out. There is a window in the throat of the horse that allows the chief interpreter a partial vision of the stage. The hind legs must follow blindly, and moreover this actor is in a stooping position and apparently has little air for breathing purposes. How the two players enter the outward frame, and how they get along inside, remains a mystery to playgoers, who do not inquire about the matter too closely.

When the young hero, Atsumori, in bright armour, makes his entrance upon the hanamichi riding on a white velvet horse, he has attached to the back of his saddle a series of black lacquered hoops, from which is suspended a long, loose covering of thin orange silk, that streams high above his head and floats like the train of a lady at court far behind the horse. Kumagae, a grizzled warrior, is magnificent on a black horse that tosses its head as though it were truly a fiery steed. He wears gold armour, rides on a black velvet mount, and the streaming silk is of purple. They follow one another into the sea, and the two horsemen are seen in the perspective surrounded by conventional blue and white waves, crossing swords amid the surges. The young hero is overcome. Then the riderless horses, like real runaways, dash along the hanamichi, making a grand exit.

There seems no danger that the Kabuki horse will ever become extinct, for it is employed with too good effect in many of the best plays. A samurai escaping from a battle leans with fatigue on his horse. The enemy are upon him and he must say farewell to his dumb friend, which shows affection for its master by rubbing him with its nose, while the actor without words expresses the sorrow he feels at parting from his faithful companion. Again, the central figure of a dance may be a white horse, with gay trappings of red fringe and brass ornaments.

Some day this interesting quadruped may be considered too antiquated in the pitiless glare of the progressive present, and, ashamed of itself for being a hoax so long, slink away into oblivion.

But it cannot be supplanted by a real one, so long as it forms an important part of the pageantry of the hanamichi, when resplendent daimyo ride in state through the audience in the midst of the little boxes crammed with their human occupants craning their necks to see the passing show.

It would be hard to imagine Kabuki without its devoted kurombo, or property man. Concealed from head to foot in black, the face covered by a flap, which he seldom raises except in an emergency, the kurombo (lit., black-man) serves the stage unselfishly, claiming no recognition, pleased to put his own personality completely in the background; withal he is a most important personage. The variety of his tasks gives him an entire familiarity with the stage. He is a super-actor and stage-manager, entrusted with the smooth running of the performance, responsible for a hundred details, and yet remains the humble menial of the theatre.

A queer profession it seems, to flit about the stage so unobtrusively that the audience is not aware of his presence; yet always engaged in making inanimate objects significant. He holds a piece of silver paper on the end of a long pole and a fish jumps before the eyes of the audience. Hiding behind a thicket of bamboo, he causes the long feathery plumes to sway in a wind storm. The pendant branches of the weeping willow are suddenly agitated by the kurombo in anticipation of some ghostly event, or he squats down behind a clump of grass making it shiver to reveal the concealment place of some desperate character about to come forth.

What magic he effects by means of his long pliable rod! At one time butterflies flutter from the end, or a white moth is suspended over the face of a sleeping man near a white paper lantern, awakening him in time that he may protect himself from danger.

It is the kurombo who causes snakes to glide upon the scene and wriggle in the most realistic manner, while cats, rats, and even crabs make their appearance at the psychological moment at his bidding.

Sometimes he remains so quiet that he appears to be nodding or napping, but the next moment bounds away accomplishing his purpose. Always on the alert, he watches for sliding screens that do not open, or gates that are about to topple over, and holds up a curtain that a dead man may disappear since he is no longer needed on the stage. By a dexterous touch behind, he changes the neutral costume of an actor to one all gold and silver, or gives the right tug that brings the long hair of a distraught heroine all dishevelled about her.

His solicitude for the infants of the footlights is touching. Crouching behind a boy actor, he guides his actions and gives him his cue, waiting to escort him on and off. And when the feet of the old actor become feeble the kurombo is close at hand to assist, knowing his least movement from long association.

Silent observer of the great men, the actors, creeping on all fours behind some gorgeous figure in gold brocade, the kurombo is conscious of the sins and omissions of the players, and he is the humourist of the situation. But he never shows that he is human. The audience seldom if ever catch a glimpse of his face, perhaps only in profile as he takes up some partially exposed position, with book in hand, prompting the actors whose memories are not trustworthy.

The boy kurombo begins to learn the mysteries of the stage at an early age. His father brings him to shibai when he is a mere baby, not more than four years of age, and he may be allowed to go upon the scene and take away a pair of sandals, or other small property, in order that he may begin to learn his life’s duties. Small actors and equally diminutive kurombo thus grow up together.

It is customary for the kurombo in his novitiate to sit at each side of the stage unconsciously taking in every detail. These children soon become accustomed to gaze in a detached way at the audience, which must make a vast impression on their minds, and at the same time they evince a lively interest in all that concerns the stage. Their eyes, round with wonderment, look at a play as though it were a fairy tale unfolding before them,—the ghosts and demons, samurai and peasants of Kabuki passing near. It is small wonder that the kurombo, whose taste for the theatre is bred in the bone, stays with it until old age claims him—always a shadow.

The most perplexing convention of the Japanese theatre to the Occidental, long accustomed to mixed players, is the fact that Kabuki is the possession of actors, and that women characters are in consequence in the hands of males. If this seems a strange business for a man, it must be remembered that Shakespeare’s heroines were played by youthful English actors.

Moreover, it is realised that the peaceful atmosphere and orderly regime behind the stage,—the environment in which the actor lives and works, is in many respects like a man’s club in the West. This freedom to work unhindered by the opposite sex gives the Kabuki actor a greater opportunity to be himself, and the remarkable calm that seems to permeate all that takes place on the stage may be one advantage of the pure male theatre.

Masks and marionettes have had a large part in the shaping of Kabuki conventions. Many of these conventions, that seem so strange and very often absurd upon first acquaintance, become more intelligible in the light of the debt the popular theatre owes to the Doll-stage and to the still older form, the Nō.

Stepping in imaginary waves, washing the feet in water that does not exist; cooking food without fire, drinking tea from empty cups; blows that do not touch; cold steel that does not clash,—all these have come to Kabuki out of the inexhaustible suggestiveness of the Nō. Rhythmic movement to express emotions resulting in symbolic gestures, pantomime and postures of the puppets, were the contribution of the Doll-theatre to the development of Kabuki.

Without these two restraining influences there would have been nothing to prevent Kabuki from following the same realistic route as that of the Western stage.

CHAPTER IV
CRAFTSMANSHIP OF KABUKI

When it comes to a question of what the Japanese Theatre holds for the West, the craftsmanship of Kabuki should be of first importance.

Characteristic simplicity, taste, and style are shown by the men accustomed to handle material for stage pictures. Above all, these workers are free from a worship of things, and do not overcrowd, but concentrate on essentials. In the management of details the producer displays a finish that is near perfection. Things are not allowed to clutter up the stage for their own sake, but are necessary only as a medium to express the underlying motive of the play. In the manner, also, in which trees, flowers, birds, the sea, mountains, waterfalls, lakes, and the seasons are represented, it is apparent that Kabuki is still near to nature, and a product of a non-commercial age.

During the three hundred years of its history, Kabuki experts have been designing scenery and fashioning furniture and properties, unknown to their contemporaries in England and Europe, who were quite as much alive to the adornment and embellishment of their stage productions.

Hasegawa Kampei, the fifteenth, is the leader among Kabuki craftsmen in Tokyo. He considers himself a simple workman, and is busy designing and executing scenes in all the theatres of Tokyo, showing a surprising versatility and creativeness. He has, however, to compete with the flood of westernisation that would destroy the very foundations of the art his ancestors developed.

The first Kampei, the son of a samurai, was a skilled artisan in wood-carving and the decoration of temples, setting up stone gateways and lanterns, and the beautiful wooden gates of approach. His ability in this direction became so well known that he was called in to help in the production of plays.

In 1644, large furniture began to be used at the Ichimura-za in Yedo. And by the time of Kampei, the eleventh, the development of odogu and kodogu, or great and small furniture, was at its height, and his designs are regarded as models at the present.

The greatest improvement in the Yedo stage took place from 1780 to 1800, and the Hasegawa Kampei who presided over the destiny of the stage at that time invented new contrivances, especially in the management of ghosts; causing buildings to rise into the air, and trap-door disappearances. Finally the fashion for realistic furniture became so great that the interior of one of the great halls of the Imperial Palace, Kyoto, was reproduced on the stage. The authorities protested against the extravagance shown in this beautiful conception, and inferior materials were substituted by order.

Although the members of the Hasegawa family were skilled men, the real source of Yedo’s stage scenery progress was due to the creativeness of the Doll-theatre in Osaka. The collaborators for the dolls were fertile in ideas, and developed new stage settings in bewildering rapidity.

If there is one direction in which Kabuki shows the true craftsman more than another it is the pictorial. It is doubtful if on any other stage in the world can be viewed more charming effects achieved by such simple means. A red lacquered bridge over an iris pond, and the characters in picturesque combinations of colours; the soft greys and whites of a snowy scene, and in the centre an ancient cherry tree in full bloom; the lonely camp fire of a beggar in the mountains, a castle moat in the moonlight; a single fantastic pine by the seashore, are some of the familiar Kabuki scenes.

Brighter and more elaborate is a maple picnic under flaming foliage, the leaves falling, the feast spread on a scarlet rug, all the properties of black and gold lacquer, and the rainbow tints of Asia used plentifully in the costumes.

There is a flash of steel in the moonlight as many assailants rush upon a samurai, and the air is filled with fireflies. After the courageous hero has disposed of his enemies he wipes his sword, and to ascertain that it is quite clean lifts up a cage of imprisoned fireflies, by the glow of which he is able to see. Or again, it is old Nihonbashi, the Bridge of Japan, the centre of Yedo and from which all distances were calculated; Mount Fuji in the distance; a band of firemen returning after a conflagration, singing a characteristic song.

Much more elaborate is a cherry-viewing party, come to enjoy the cloud of pink blossoms, grouped on a hill-side, seated on a red carpet, with a gay silk curtain for background, made of stripes of black, yellow, purple, red, green, the masses of drooping flowers arranged with thick red ropes strung with brass bells, white paper lanterns in the greenery, serving-maids in pink kimono, merry masked dancers entertaining the company.

In a Nagasaki play relating to the visit of a Chinese envoy, there is seen a temple interior that could not be simpler and yet suggests grandeur—the background, a wide expanse of gold screens arranged with sliding doors on which are painted gold and black dragons, and in the foreground the actors, a group of daimyo in grey-blue, the bronze-brocade and gold-clad villain receiving the gifts that are to be presented to the emissary from China.

Not all Kabuki’s scenes are simple and serene, and nothing daunts the superior stage carpenters when once, they try their hands.

In a popular play there is a scene depicting a realistic earthquake, and a mansion collapses under repeated shocks. The building sinks down amid stage, according to some secret of the carpenters, and the hero makes his way out of the roof, ruin and desolation around him. When it comes to sensational snowstorms, typhoons, and conflagrations, Kabuki can hold its own with the Western stage.

It is, however, in architecture that the hand of the Kabuki craftsman is shown unmistakably. He has been free from the thraldom of the picture frame of the Western stage, and in following his own devices has worked with a freedom that has produced some satisfactory results.

The producer has taken the main room of a Japanese dwelling for his model—a straw-matted room, sliding screens for background, a severely plain apartment; for its sole decoration, an alcove containing a hanging picture, before which stands a vase of flowers or object of art. It has not been necessary for him to knock out one side of the house in order to allow the audience a view of what is passing within. The Japanese room being open to the outside, forms an admirable setting for the action of the plays.

To this room, which is in reality a platform for the players, he has added adjoining apartments, corridors, bridge-passages, verandahs, and the sloping roof is always present, either in part or as a whole. Completing the picture are gardens and rustic gates, stone water-basins, stepping-stones, wells, bridges, ponds, fences, and stone lanterns, and he has surrounded his buildings with the favourite flowers of Kabuki, lotus, chrysanthemum, peony, iris, and azalea. With a true love of nature he has placed in his scenes cherry and plum trees in full bloom, and has used pine trees and scarlet maples, drooping willows and feathery bamboo.

With a room as scene of action, the Kabuki carpenters have created types for all classes of dwellings the plays require. The background for a room in a great mansion will show a series of sliding panels on which are painted Chinese castles and pagodas, golden clouds, and green misty hills. Silver screens may be decorated with black waves in motion, or blue water, lotus leaves and flowers. The structures to be represented vary from an elaborately constructed mansion in cream wood to the realistic interior of the middle-class home in which the white-papered windows and doors form a pleasing feature. Temples, a hermitage in the midst of a forest, the thatched cottage of a farmer, are all variations of the one theme, which gives the widest latitude for invention and decoration.

Much of the action in Kabuki plays takes place in this room, with only the screens for background, and standing lanterns at each side. But there are more elaborate architectural triumphs, such as the great red entrance gate of Nanzen-ji, a Kyoto temple, carved, decorated, ornate, two-storied, and produced in detail. The bold robber, Ishikawa Goemon, hides in the second story, and comes forth on the railed balcony to smoke. This portion of the gate is first shown, the wall behind him in gold, painted with many-coloured clouds. As he stands there in his black velvet kimono and great overcoat of gold and black, the gate begins slowly to rise until the lower part is completely in view, the chief temple building in perspective within the arch of the gate, and Goemon looking down from his lofty position at his enemy below.

At another time, the Kabuki craftsmen spare no pains in constructing the Yomei gate of the famous Nikko Shrines, one of the best pieces of architecture in Japan, and so perfectly is it reproduced that the workmanship calls for admiration. But when no longer needed, the entire structure, which towers high, slowly turns over on end, and the bottom represents the background for the following action.

From grey dilapidated temples where apparitions make their appearance, or the nobility partaking of ceremonial tea in some landscape garden, the Kabuki craftsman passes to the fashioning of a red pagoda, the under-eaves showing many brilliant colours. He places two stories of the structure in a snowy scene. Warrior-priests in grey with white head coverings rush on the scene armed with long spears. An old dignitary wearing gold armour, over which there is a thin, black, priest’s robe, stands at one side with a torch in his hand. Another figure, in silver brocade and white, poses on the steps leading to the pagoda. The hero in armour—red, green, and gold—appears on the upper gallery. Then ensues a big fight in the whirling snow, the deep boom of a temple bell sounding through the fray.

The revolving stage that plays such an important part in the scenery of Kabuki has a complicated technique of its own. It allows of three, and sometimes four sets of scenes, that may be in the course of preparation while the actors are engaged in front. But as a general rule the carpenters are busy with but one full set, while the play proceeds.

For an extension of the stage picture, the stage is turned to right and left, or revolves half way for some new scene. In addition to the surprises in store for the playgoer in the changes effected by the revolving stage, there are the strange appearances of characters forced up through a large opening in the floor of the stage, like groups of statuary, and devices for the sudden disappearance of characters through walls and steps, the elaborate apparatus for ghosts that emerge through lanterns or vanish into thin air, and for chunori, or air-riding feats, when a character suspended in mid-air moves across the stage.

The kodogu, or small properties of Kabuki, are a study in themselves,—the lantern in all its shapes and sizes, the oil-paper umbrella, vases, and hanging pictures. The articles in use are not made to look beautiful at a distance, but are genuinely so: tall candle-sticks in brass or lacquer, chests, sword-rests, cups, swords, helmets, lacquered tables, tobacco-boxes, bronze utensils for a temple altar, or Buddhist images, they all represent the arts and crafts of the country.

Keen to adopt and adapt new things, Kabuki is now sensitive to European stage influences, and with a characteristic lack of confidence in its own creations, appears to be opening the door too wide in welcoming the ideas of the West.

The thought can hardly be avoided, however, that the achievements of the Kabuki craftsmen are a contribution to the world’s theatre. But what the place and value of their work in comparison with the stage of the West remain for the judgement of the future.

Crest of Onoe Kikugoro
(Two fans).

Crest of Onoe Tamizo
(Stork and plum combined).

Crest of Arashi Kichisaburo
(Combination three characters).

CHAPTER V
KABUKI’S SCHOOL OF ACTING

A high standard of acting is maintained among the actors of Kabuki. It is an hereditary profession; the actors, trained from childhood, are brought up in the atmosphere of the theatre. Tamura Nariyoshi, the theatre manager of Meiji, described the circumstances of the actors’ growth when he once likened them to farmers who plant rice but know nothing of chemistry, watch the plants shooting up yet have no scientific knowledge of the alchemy of water, sun, or fertilisation. In the same manner are the talents of the actors cultivated. They are entirely unconscious of the laws that govern their art, and when they reach a high position among their fellows it is but the flowering of natural genius.

Should an actor be fortunate in having sons of his own, he early apprentices them to the stage. He is a protecting spirit, watching their efforts, disciplining, encouraging. His sons are to inherit his mantle, and therefore he gives abundantly of his experience, seeing that they are given the proper advantages, for although young they are the heirs of to-morrow, and Kabuki is careful of the type.

When an actor has no son, he adopts a successor from among his pupils. He takes a number of youths who wish to study his stage methods, which they learn by constant association with him on and off the stage. As they progress in their work they are advanced, and carry on his traditions when he has passed away.

It is the custom for children of seven, or even younger, to be placed in the care of a leading actor, since Kabuki plays have many child-rôles. A few trials in juvenile characters with which the audience are thoroughly familiar, and it is easy to predict whether the youthful player has a future or not.

The cleverest boy-actor on the Tokyo stage to-day is Nakamura Matagoro, who holds his audience in a surprising manner, his voice, bearing, and face all marking him as a future star. The son of an actor who possessed much talent but never rose to the top, Matagoro, on his father’s death, was taken under the wing of Nakamura Kichiyemon, a young actor of acknowledged ability, whose patronage assures the lad’s career.

Thus the youthful actor begins to associate with his elders in a natural way, and has no opportunity to gain the idea that he is a prodigy. He gazes up into the faces of men who have been acting for half a century, and old age looks benignly down as the small tot speaks his first lines.

Even mediocre talent can grow and expand in an atmosphere of calm confidence. The child is not forced or abused, but grows up in a Montessori fashion. When the youth reaches a state of self-consciousness and its attendant awkwardness, this is taken as a matter of course. The audience tolerate his gaucheries, knowing that he will one day bloom as a full-grown actor. Had the training and discipline of the actors been otherwise, Kabuki might have experienced a different fate.

This is but the education of Old Japan, the apprentice to the arts and crafts growing up from childhood with a master, profiting by his experience, encouraged by his guidance and protection. In contrast there are the doubtful benefits of modern education that does not prevent the tragic waste of the finer forces of human nature; art impulses and aspirations of the souls of the young, thwarted and hampered, untrained, unregarded, until the neglect of their true development makes the world for them a desert rather than a paradise.

Nakamura Matagoro, the leading boy-actor of the Tokyo Stage, in the rôle of a girl-pilgrim, O-Tsuru.

The young actor not only has the daily experience of facing the audience, but he takes part in the busy life behind the stage, and is like a member of a big family. His work does not end in the theatre, for instruction under a dancing master is a necessary part of his education. He visits the dancing teacher’s house daily, and undergoes a training that exercises every part of his body, and gives him that remarkable control which is one of the assets of the Kabuki player. In addition, he must learn many stage accomplishments, especially if he is intended to become an onnagata, or specialist in women’s rôles.

The impersonal East has had much to do with the actor’s power to efface himself, and his lack of concern for self is one of his distinguishing qualities. No doubt the marionette has exercised full sway over him, for in acting in plays written originally for the dolls he is quick to imitate their movements, and sometimes gives the impression that he has made himself into a puppet and is standing behind manipulating the strings.

Again, the exaggerated acting of the imaginative characters of the jidaimono, or historical plays, with the elaborate kimono, covered by striking designs, the peculiar fashion of the hair, and strange mask-like make-up, have proved a perfect disguise for the actor’s personality, leaving him free to emphasise his art and to lay aside personal considerations.

His gestures may be those inherited from the dance, or movements from the Nō; they may have a direct relation to real life or be copied from the marionettes. He has also a wide range in styles of acting. In one piece he is the centre of a music posture dance—masses of men on either side in a straight line, diagonal or curving, or in a pyramidical group. Next he is a lone figure on the stage in a descriptive dance that causes every person in the audience to be absorbed in his least movement.

He may strut bravely as a grotesque character; as a hero, symbol of loyalty, in an historical piece; or as a melancholy lover in a play of the people. His best acting may, however, be in the display of skill in fencing, jujitsu, or swordsmanship, and in the thick of a fight he captures his audience by an equally matched combat, or thrills it by a one-man performance against an overwhelming number. Part of a stage fight is in reality an acrobatic display, but a chief actor always leaves such tactics to the minor players, since it is beneath his dignity to tumble about the stage in mere physical displays.

Perhaps one of the most interesting things in the whole realm of Kabuki acting is the manner in which he holds the audience for long periods without speaking by the power of suggestion, a legacy from the Nō performers.

In Kochiyama, a play by Mokuami, there is a long scene in which the actors utter no words. At night, on the outskirts of Yedo, a samurai lies in wait for a passing palanquin. As it comes into view his sudden rush and gleaming sword frighten the bearers, who make off hastily, leaving their passenger to shift for himself. From the palanquin there is nothing but an awesome silence. The samurai expects to find some one he wants, and cautiously lifting the curtain with his sword he scans the occupant, asleep.

One look within and the would-be assassin sees that the crest on the sleeve does not belong to the man he seeks, and as he withdraws, the slumberer awakened sees the flash of the samurai’s sword and says: “Is that a falling star?” He little dreams that his friend’s overcoat lent to keep him warm has saved his life. One line only is spoken in this wordless drama.

Defeated by a court of justice, a villain is sitting in a dejected mood. A page brings him a cup of tea, and silently leaves a short sword as a sign that the sooner he takes himself away from the world the better for all concerned. The condemned person drinks his tea slowly, then regards the sword, and understands the message conveyed to him. He picks it up, and leaning upon it shows by the expression of his face that he is making up his mind in a very different direction, and intends to use it upon some one else.

Delicate and dainty, a charming heroine assists her warrior husband to don his armour, for he must not lose a moment in preparing for battle. She attempts to lift his helmet, but it is too heavy for her, and placing it with difficulty on the long sleeve of her kimono, she drags it across the stage. The audience is interested in how well and how long the onnagata is able to give the impression of a frail young woman struggling with the ponderous weight of a golden helmet.

Perhaps one of the best uses to which suggestion in acting is put is in the play Sendaihagi, in which Masaoka, the faithful nurse, prepares the food for the little prince in her charge, as his uncle wishes to poison him that he may administer the wealthy fief for his own purpose.

Masaoka unfolds a low screen that discloses a black lacquer table, under which are a gilded rice pot and water jar, and other kitchen utensils for boiling the rice and making tea. Those accustomed to realism will question how real food is to be cooked with such gorgeous and apparently theatrical stage furniture, and then will become lost in admiration, for the actor suggests all the necessary movements without actually resorting to them. The gold water ladle is used to dip up imaginary water, and the uncooked grains of rice are seen as though the water had all been poured off. Masaoka’s task comes to an end. The bubbling of the steam against the lid of the rice pot is imitated behind the scenes, and a black-robed property man is plainly seen to move a screen in such a manner as to place within easy reach of the faithful nurse the food that has taken fully an hour to prepare.

The actor plays many a rôle in his time, but it is given to those of Kabuki to play many rôles in a day. He may act as a humble servant, then as a robber, a resplendent priest, a drunkard, an upright samurai, and terminate his day’s work by appearing in a comic or picturesque dance.

CHAPTER VI
ACTOR CEREMONIALS

The Kabuki actor has long maintained a high regard for the dignity of his calling, and carefully preserves the old ceremonials in connection with elevation in rank, memorial plays in honour of an ancestor, introductions of young actors, succession to the headship of an actor family, and the observances of the anniversaries of actors past and gone.

These are stage events which serve to deepen the personal interest the playgoer takes in the actors, and are links that bind the player to the past, and express his hope in the future.

Kojo, or the announcement ceremony, is the one seen most frequently. The curtain is drawn aside, and there is seen a double line of actors prostrating themselves in the attitude of humility before the audience, their faces resting upon their outstretched hands.

Behind them plain gold screens are arranged, they kneel on a long scarlet rug, and are dressed in the stiff skirts and shoulder-straps that formed the actor’s attire of ceremony in the old days. A little apart is the announcer, generally an elderly man who has been long in the service of the actors, a sort of chief of staff of personal attendants. He calls out in a peculiar voice, asking every one in the audience to pay attention. Then the chief actor raises his head, and addressing the audience with the utmost courtesy draws attention to the young man who has changed his name and is at the threshold of his career, expressing the hope that the audience will pardon his mistakes, and take an interest in his future progress. The father of the actor whose rank is thus raised may also speak a few words in his son’s behalf, and the chief object of interest then raises his face modestly, and asks the patronage of the audience.

ANNOUNCING CEREMONY. Kojo, or announcement ceremony, in which the central figure is Ichikawa Danjuro. The modest actor whose name is to be changed or rank raised bows low, hiding his face from view. (Colour print by Hasegawa Kanpei, the fourteenth, and Torii Kiyosada, father of Kiyotada.)

At other times, the kojo is for an actor well on in years, who declares that he has given his stage name to a son or pupil, and that owing to his age and infirmities he is not able to take an active part, and desires to enter upon a period of semi-retirement.

Something of the close relation between father and son in Kabuki was shown in a kojo given at the Imperial Theatre in connection with the succession to a new name by the son of Onoe Baiko, the chief actor of this theatre. Baiko’s son, who is being carefully trained in the art of the onnagata, became Eizaburo, the seventh, denoting a certain state of progress in the attainment of the Onoe stage standards. The kojo on this occasion was performed with more than customary dignity, seven stars of the Onoe family, including Onoe Kikugoro, the sixth, attending, and each saying a few words of congratulation, strewing flowers, as it were, in the pathway of the young actor.

Similar to the solicitude of a mother in her care and consideration given the début of a daughter into society was that of Baiko for the son who is to follow in his footsteps and inherit the traditions of his art.

As is the custom upon the occasion of a change of name and consequent advancement in rank, a play was given in which Eizaburo took an important rôle, and although he was very young and immature, still in his teens, he had the responsibility of acting in a character, given to perfection by his father, that of Yuki-hime, or the Snow-Princess, the beautiful young heroine who is made a prisoner in Kinkaku-ji, the Golden Pavilion of Kyoto. She is at last bound with ropes and tied to a cherry tree.

Then the doll-stage, from which the play was taken, asserted itself. Eizaburo became a marionette, and was moved by two doll-handlers, who were none other than his father and another member of the Onoe family. Yuki-hime, true to the doll-actors, went through a complicated pantomime to the accompaniment of minstrel and samisen player, descriptive postures that revealed her determination to escape. Drawing the outline of a rat in the fallen petals about her feet by means of her big toe, the real rodents appear by magic, or rather on the ends of pliant black rods held by two property men on each side of her; using their teeth upon the rope, Yuki-hime is soon free.

Onoe Matsusuke, the veteran member of this family, was the announcer, following the custom of the Doll-theatre; the young actor, Morita Kanya, the thirteenth, became rhythm marker, stamping his feet to emphasise the changing beats, while Onoe Baiko and Onoe Kozo were the doll-handlers, who stood behind the erstwhile marionette and moved it according to the requirements of the play.

Dressed in the black costumes of the doll-stage the handlers came to the front of the stage before the piece began, lifted the face flaps of their black hoods and introduced themselves to the audience in their new disguise, then assumed again the black obscurity, and the strange but highly fascinating movements of Yuki-hime began.

It is only the really great, whether among actors or members of other professions, those who have reached the height of their careers, who can descend to such personal effacement as this. Perhaps it is only possible in the East, where there still lingers some instinct for the great truth that mankind has from time to time recognised—that personality is less important than art.

The fifteenth anniversary of the death of Ichikawa Danjuro, the ninth, was celebrated in a fitting manner by the Tokyo stage, and the kojo, or salutation to the audience, was given at the chief theatres, the Imperial and the Kabuki-za. Thirty players, for the most part those associated with Danjuro during his lifetime, and also his two daughters, made up two long lines of bowing actors, recalling the ceremonies of Yedo Kabuki. All were in the terra-cotta kimono bearing the famous crest formed by three squares, worn by the first Ichikawa in the Genroku period, and used by his descendants and pupils ever since.

The last of the Ichikawa family, the grand-daughter of Ichikawa Danjuro, the ninth.

In the kojo given at the Imperial, Matsumoto Koshiro, the most talented pupil of the late Danjuro, acted as master of ceremony. There was one very small figure among the actors, Danjuro’s grand-daughter, bowing before the footlights between her father, Ichikawa Shinsaburo, and her uncle, Ichikawa Sansho. The appearance of this last descendant of the chief actor-house of Kabuki caused the audience to grow enthusiastic in their applause.

An actor’s improvisation at the Kabuki-za to honour the memory of Danjuro was also given. The stage showed the front of a Yedo theatre with a tea-house at one side and a sign announcing the Danjuro anniversary. Nine of the most popular onnagata of the Kabuki-za and Ichimura-za entered as maids of the tea-house and stood waiting for the appearance of otokodate, or chivalrous commoners. These popular characters were taken by fourteen of Tokyo’s best actors, and they came in slowly by the two hanamichi and stood facing each other, talking across the audience, displaying by their voice and manner some characteristic which had endeared them to playgoers in past performances. With the onnagata they made a brave array of actor talent.

Into their midst came the veteran onnagata, Nakamura Utayemon, chief of the Tokyo actors. He made his entrance as the mistress of the tea-house, and addressed the audience on Danjuro and his work for Kabuki.

The Ichikawa crest was conspicuous in the decorations of the theatre within and without, and high over the entrance of the Kabuki-za, where the yagura, or drum tower of the Yedo theatre was accustomed to appear, there shone forth at night a huge Ichikawa crest in electric globes, somehow linking the modern actor of Japan with the fraternity in the West.

Less elaborate is the announcement of a minor actor’s promotion to a grade or so above the rank and file, made during the progress of a play, which is done in various graceful ways.

Two women in the establishment of a daimyo, rivals in the play, enter by the hanamichi with their attendants, and the procession proceeds to the gate of a temple. All enter with the exception of the rivals, and one maid.

For a moment the current of the play is turned aside, and in the gay-patterned costumes of their rôles, the two leading characters kneel down on the stage with the maid between them, each taking turn in explaining how the young man in the female disguise has been a pupil of a stage favourite who has recently died, of his association with him, and that as he has now progressed in his work they crave the patronage of the audience. The maid then returns thanks for the favour of the audience, and all three rising to their feet they take up the lines of the play as though there had been no interpolation,—the maid being admonished to join the others within the temple, as she may be needed.

When the adopted son of Danjuro, the ninth, was fired with ambition to become an actor, since he was a member of so distinguished an actor-house, no teacher seemed ready to volunteer. His father had been a banker, and he was thus not born in the purple. Nakamura Ganjiro of Osaka generously consented to assist him. For years he studied hard and at last made a first bow in a Tokyo theatre. His introduction planned by Ganjiro only serves to show the esteem in which the great Danjuro was held, and that for his sake Ganjiro was willing to assist a member of his family.

The scene selected for the introduction was that of the pine-shaded highway, the Tokaido, Mount Fuji in the background. By way of the hanamichi came a retinue of retainers in bright scarlet, with thin over-garments of white. The son-in-law of the illustrious Danjuro appeared as a splendid daimyo riding on a horse, a white-haired servitor leading the way.

On reaching the stage the rider dismounted, and kneeling in the centre of two long rows of the retainers who bowed low over their outstretched hands, the sponsor, Ganjiro, spoke of Ichikawa Danjuro and expressed the wish that Sansho, his son-in-law, would become a good actor. Sansho, responding, declared that he would do all he could to improve.

No sooner were his words spoken than a white satin curtain descended, having for design a large carp attempting to jump up a waterfall, symbol of the difficulties Sansho must overcome before reaching the heights of the profession.

Sainyu, one of Osaka’s fine old actors, came to say farewell to Tokyo but a short time before his death. The ceremony of retirement was most appropriate. The stage was prepared for a comic dance, and while various performers were attracting the attention of the audience, a large box, such as is used to contain a toy or doll, was carried in and remained to one side while the merriment proceeded. Finally, when curiosity with regard to the box had increased considerably, property men lifted the mysterious object and placed it in the front of the stage, removed the side nearest the audience, and within was disclosed the venerable actor as a marionette. In the many-coloured garments of Sambasso, the humoresque figure of the Nō stage, and manifestation of an ancient Shinto deity, whose semi-religious dance was performed at dawn with the opening of the theatre, he was brought forth limp and lifeless.

Stage attendants attached imaginary wires to his arms and head, and he performed this characteristic dance after the fashion of the dolls. Finally, real wires were attached to his costume and he rose into the air, still making marionette motions with his arms and legs, and disappeared into the regions above stage,—a feat for an actor over seventy years of age.

His love for the ceremonial also causes the actor to cherish the memory of the real persons whose lives have formed the material for drama. When the play of Sakura Sogoro is to be performed, the actors repair to Sogoro’s village, not far away from Tokyo, where stands a shrine sacred to the martyred village head who presented a direct appeal to the Shogun to lessen the heavy burden of taxes imposed upon the farmers, and in consequence forfeited his life. There the actors address his spirit, and during the run of the play a temporary shrine is erected within the theatre before which daily offerings of fruit, vegetables, and wine are made.

In the same manner, whenever Chushingura is performed in Tokyo, the actors who are to take part assemble at Sengaku-ji, the little Buddhist temple where are buried the Forty-seven Ronin, before whose tombs clouds of incense rise unceasingly. Nor do the Osaka actors forget to keep green the deeds of Michizane, the patron saint of Japanese literature, who departed from Osaka on his sad exile, and whose tragic fate inspired Takeda Izumo to write the Village School, and other loyalty scenes, in his famous doll-drama. Whenever a portion of this play is given the actors pay their respects before the spirit that has been deified in one of Osaka’s most popular shrines.

So long as there are actors who delight in changing their names and giving new ones to their sons, and to whom ceremony has a recognised place in the theatre, the fine old Kabuki regime will not soon pass away.

ORIGIN OF KABUKI

CHAPTER VII
O-KUNI OF IZUMO

To a woman, O-Kuni, a ritual dancer attached to the great Shinto Shrine of Izumo, in the “Province of the Gods”, belongs the credit of founding the popular theatre, some time in the year 1596, on the dry bed of the Kamo River in Kyoto.

According to Izumo O-Kuni Den, or The Biography of O-Kuni of Izumo, in the possession of the late Baron Senge, from whose family come the hereditary ritualists of the Shrine, O-Kuni was a miko, or sacred dancer. Her father was called Nakamura Sanyemon, and served the Shrine in the capacity of an artisan. The family name of Nakamura was derived from the district of Nakamura in Kitsuki, where O-Kuni’s family lived, the site of the great Shrine of Izumo then as now.

O-Kuni left Kitsuki on a pilgrimage, so the story goes, wandering through several provinces, performing her dance, and asking for contributions for the repair of the Shrine, and at last reached Kyoto. Evidently the gay capital exerted such a powerful fascination over her, that she felt no inclination to return to her duties in connection with the Shrine. There is no record that tells of O-Kuni’s change of heart, or what eventually prompted her to set up a platform on the banks of the Kamo, where were to be found all the motley train of entertainers who flourished at that time.

Kyoto, the birthplace of the popular theatre, was, when O-Kuni made her appearance, a city of half-a-million inhabitants. Murdoch says in his History of Japan: “It is well to remember that if Japan had no Free Cities, she had what Germany, or indeed any other European country, had not,—a single great city with a population of half-a-million. Such Kyoto was even at one of the lowest ebbs in its prosperity at the date of Xavier’s visit to it in 1551. In 1467 at the outbreak of the war of Odin, it contained 160,000 families, or, perhaps, 900,000 souls. Few cities in contemporary Europe could boast even a tenth of that population.” Captain Francis Brinkley also refers to the splendours of Kyoto palaces and fine residences in the fifteenth century, and says that even men who made medicine or fortune-telling their professions and petty officials such as secretaries had stately residences.

Fenollosa in his Epochs of Chinese and Japanese Art writes about Kyoto civilians, and as to the patrons of the artists, he asks: “Who were Okio’s patrons? Why, the silk weavers, bronze casters, the embroiderers and fine lacquerers, the æsthetic priests of Kyoto temples, the great potters grouped at the foot of Arashiyama, the great merchants who sent their fine wares all over Japan even to the daimyo’s yashiki.”

Such was Kyoto, the political as well as artistic centre of Japan, when O-Kuni gave the impetus that started the movement to establish Kabuki, the people’s stage, that to-day has inherited all the wealth of past materials and is turned resolutely toward the promise of the future.

Her performances were of the simplest character. She has been described as wearing a priest’s robe of black silk, with a small metal Buddhist gong suspended from her neck by a vermilion silk cord, and as she struck the gong with a mallet, she danced and chanted a Buddhist sutra.

Seiseiin Ihara, Kabuki’s leading historian and one of the prominent dramatic critics of Tokyo, who was born in the shadow of the Shrine of Izumo, has taken great pains to gather from the old records the story of O-Kuni. He says that it may seem incredible that a Buddhist dance should have been performed by the miko of Izumo Shrine, but he points out that it was the period when Shinto, or the “Way of the Gods”, the reverence and worship of the ancestors of the race and departed souls who were great in life, and Buddhism, the “Way of Buddha”, or the faith in a universal being and a future state of happiness, lived peacefully together. Buddhist priests were prominent at Izumo, and a bronze image of Buddha was placed in front of the Shrine where incense was burned, and the sutras were recited by eight females who performed to musical instruments used in Buddhist as well as Shinto ceremonies. To-day the combination seems hard to believe, since Shintoism and Buddhism are strictly separated.

It was therefore not unusual that O-Kuni’s Shinto dance should have been modified by Buddhism, and that her performances were later greatly influenced by the sermons of the priests, as an old book about the people of Kyoto records.

But if her dances had remained in a simple and semi-religious state, it is doubtful if O-Kuni would have succeeded in impressing herself so vividly upon her day and generation as she did. Her art was to undergo a sudden transformation. One day she met Nagoya Sansaburo, one of the handsomest and bravest young samurai of Kyoto. They fell in love and married. Sansaburo, who was famous for his military exploits, joined O-Kuni in her public appearances and soon became renowned as an actor. He recognised that her dance was not sufficiently interesting, and set himself to carry out improvements that soon made O-Kuni one of the most popular personages of the time.

Sansaburo’s ancestors had been samurai in the Province of Owari. His father served under the great general Hideyoshi, and was advanced to a post of honour. He was blessed with ten children, Sansaburo being the seventh. And as the father’s income was not sufficient to maintain such a large family, he was sent at an early age to Kennin-ji, a Buddhist temple in Kyoto, to be brought up by the priests.

In 1590, when Hideyoshi attacked the Castle of Odawara, one of his right-hand men was Gamo Ujisato, whom Murdoch, in his history of the early relations between Japan and other countries, characterises as the most brilliant proselyte the Jesuits had made. Gamo Ujisato was one of the bravest captains of the age, and Hideyoshi began to fear his ascendency. He was poisoned at a tea ceremony party by an underling who acted on a hint from Hideyoshi, and so died in his fortieth year.

This Gamo Ujisato held a review of his troops in the neighbourhood of Kyoto previous to the storming of a feudal stronghold. The inhabitants of the city went to see the spectacle, and young Sansaburo clad in a priest’s purple robe was among the curious throng. Ujisato on horseback caught sight of the acolyte and was greatly taken with the handsome boy. Later he asked his father if he might engage Sansaburo as a page. Soon after Ujisato returned to his domain in Izu, and Sansaburo followed in his suite.

At the time that Ujisato undertook one of his most daring military campaigns, Sansaburo followed his master, wearing a garment of pure white silk lined with crimson, and armour woven with variegated colours, and carrying a spear in his hand. His courageous conduct in this campaign formed the theme of a popular song, and his name soon spread to all parts of the country.

After Ujisato’s death, Sansaburo returned to Kyoto with considerable property left him by his lord, and led an extravagant life, passing his time in the pleasures of the capital. It is easy to see that the alluring O-Kuni, who was such a novel amusement to the citizens of Kyoto frequenting the popular entertainment resort on the Kamo River, must have captivated his fancy, for he quickly decided to cast in his lot with hers.

Sansaburo, bred in a military family and having associated with one of the celebrated feudal lords of the period, was in consequence acquainted with the best in literature and art. That he was familiar with the Nō stage, particularly with the Kyogen, or comic pieces given between the Nō plays, is very certain, for he soon changed O-Kuni’s simple Shinto-Buddhist dance into the nature of Kyogen. No doubt he considered that her performances savoured too much of religion to please all and sundry, so he taught her popular songs and also composed pieces for her.

She did not, however, succeed in winning the highest popular favour until she transformed herself into a male, wearing swords and covering her head with a peculiar head-dress. From the time that O-Kuni assumed the outward guise of a man, dancing with two swords thrust through her belt, the people flocked to see her.

For the first time Sansaburo called her performances Kabuki, the name by which the Japanese stage is known at the present day. The word was no new invention. It had been in use for a long period to signify something comic, and gradually came to lose its original meaning and was used to denote the particular kind of theatrical entertainment that had arisen, and from that time forward Kabuki was applied to everything pertaining to the popular stage.

The word for theatre, “shibai”, also came into general use at this time, meaning to sit on the lawn or grass, from the fact that the platform for performances was a temporary affair and the audience sat on the ground.

Still later Sansaburo introduced more and more of the Nō elements, the externals of O-Kuni’s stage being largely borrowed from the aristocratic theatre. And how the present highly complex stage of Japan developed out of O-Kuni’s dance is the story of the rise of Kabuki.

O-Kuni was not only popular with the masses, the nobility patronised her. On one occasion she was invited to the Fushimi Palace, near Kyoto, to entertain Hideyasu. He was the son of Iyeyasu, who was later to found the Tokugawa Shogunate. But Hideyasu had been adopted by Hideyoshi, Japan’s military overlord at this period, and was held as a hostage and guarantee of Iyeyasu’s good faith. When O-Kuni danced before this young prince, she wore around her neck a crystal rosary, which is evidence of the Jesuit influence upon Kyoto, for the Portuguese and Spanish priests at this time went about wearing their long strings of beads to which was attached the cross. In imitation, O-Kuni, when performing, hung one about her own neck, more as a decoration than a declaration of the Christian faith.

This novelty of the day interested Hideyasu, but he considered that it was not good enough for her, and taking some coral ornaments from his armour presented them to her. At parting, O-Kuni conveyed her thanks in a poem which she composed on the spur of the moment. He was so much impressed by her performance that it cast him into a melancholy mood, and he made the comment to one of his retainers that among thousands of women this one had won fame for herself as the greatest dancer, and yet he had not been able to obtain any special distinction.

Hideyasu might well reflect upon O-Kuni’s reputation, for although he distinguished himself for his valour and military genius, he was not chosen from among his many brothers to succeed as the second Tokugawa Shogun.

There is also an account relating how O-Kuni was appreciated at Court; how an Imperial princess held an entertainment in 1601 to which the actress was summoned to dance, and how the younger members of the court imitated her.

In 1607 she went to Yedo, the seat of the shogunate, now Tokyo and the capital of the Empire. She performed on a temporary stage that had been used by Nō actors who had just held Kwanjin Nō, or performances to raise funds for the repairing or building of temples and shrines. In Yedo, these Nō performances were given under the patronage of the Shogun, and were often not so much for religious purposes as to help swell the incomes of the Nō actors. They were generally held within the compound of the Shogun’s palace, the performances taking place on a temporary stage erected for the occasion, to which, as a great concession, thousands of the common people of Yedo were invited. The leading actors of the Kwanze and Komparu Nō schools had just ended their programme, and it was on this stage that O-Kuni appeared.

It is also related that she danced before Oda Nobunaga, one of the foremost military leaders of the time, by whose death Hideyoshi was able to rise to power. And it is said that both Hideyoshi and his chief retainers patronised O-Kuni. There is a story that she was invited by Hideyoshi’s faithful lieutenant, Kato Kiyomasa, to the southern island of Japan, where he held sway as the daimyo of Kumamoto. But it seems impossible to believe that O-Kuni should have been engaged to such an extent, and more probable that some of the great ones recognised her talent, and the story was applied to all the outstanding personalities of her time. For, after all, while the great and noble of the land may have appreciated her, it was to the people that O-Kuni particularly addressed herself.

Kabuki Koto Hajime, or Beginnings of Kabuki, a book written by a Kabuki playwright, Tamenaga Icho, and published in 1762, says that O-Kuni was beautiful, that she was skilled in calligraphy—an important female accomplishment—that she had a sympathetic nature, loved flowers and the moon, and that a snowy evening or a maple scene in the autumn inspired her to poetry. There is an account of O-Kuni written by an author who must have attended her performances, and yet he does not dilate upon her beauty, which must have been an oversight, for judging from the general details known about her she certainly possessed some superior power of attraction.

Both Sansaburo and O-Kuni died while the O-Kuni Kabuki was at its height. The chroniclers do not tell how they parted company, or ended their stage careers, but Sansaburo gave up acting and became a retainer of the lord of Tsuyama, whose wife was his sister. He was killed by the daimyo’s chief retainer during the building of Tsuyama Castle. This man had been long in the service of the daimyo, but Sansaburo aspired to outrival him on account of his relationship, and because of his association with the illustrious Gamo Ujisato. The two had a dispute and fought, and Sansaburo was killed. His friends retaliated by immediately taking the life of the chief retainer, and his two brothers were also punished by self-inflicted death at the command of the daimyo.

When O-Kuni grew old, and had outlived her career on the stage that she had created with Sansaburo, she returned to her old home in Kitsuki, near Izumo Shrine. Here she retired from the world, and lived in a rustic cottage, spent her time in reciting the sutras, writing verse, and died at a ripe old age. This account of O-Kuni’s last days appears to be very reliable, as it is from Izumo O-Kuni Den, or Biography of O-Kuni of Izumo, from records preserved among the Shrine archives. The exact date of her death is not given in this record, and her last resting-place is also unknown.

Seiseiin Ihara, who has made exhaustive researches concerning O-Kuni, finds many conflicting statements in the old books, which were written without much care for accuracy regarding names and dates. Kabuki Koto Hajime, or Beginnings of Kabuki, says that Yoshiteru, one of the last Ashikaga Shoguns, summoned her to dance in his presence several times and praised her. But this is somewhat imaginary, since in such a case she would have appeared in Kyoto many years previous to 1596, in which year, most of the records agree, she began to practise the new art. Kabuki Koto Hajime also says that Sansaburo was in the service of the Shogun Yoshiteru, as was O-Kuni, that they fell in love, were dismissed and became ronin, which is one of the many improbable tales related of the pair.

Another book says O-Kuni went to Sado Island, following the report that gold had been discovered there. This is quite possible, but on the strength of this story some writers state that she was a native of Sado, which is certainly not true. Other writers are so mixed up in their dates, that they make out there was a wide gulf in years between O-Kuni and Sansaburo, and that it was impossible that he should have married a woman so much his senior, while others declare that it was O-Kuni’s daughter that Sansaburo married. In Tokaido Meishoki, or Noted Places of the Tokaido (the great highway between Kyoto and Yedo), O-Kuni is said to have married a Nō Kyogen actor, and there are other misleading and confusing stories.

One of the most interesting of these is attributed to Lafcadio Hearn. He objected to the account of O-Kuni in Things Japanese by Basil Hall Chamberlain, especially to that sentence where it is written that the reputation of O-Kuni and her companions was far from spotless. Hearn’s story is to the effect that O-Kuni was a priestess in the great temple of Kitsuki, and she fell in love with a swashbuckler, Nagoya Sansaburo, and fled to Kyoto with him. On the way her extraordinary beauty caused another soldier of fortune to make love to her; Sansaburo killed him, and the dead man’s face haunted the girl. She supported her lover by giving dances on the bank of the Kamo River, and he became a famous actor. When he died she returned to Kitsuki, becoming a nun, and built a temple that she might pray for the soul of the man who had been killed.

Hearn’s love of the ghostly carried him very far away from the true facts, but nevertheless he felt the romance of the O-Kuni legend strongly enough not to wish to tarnish her name, as the more matter-of-fact Mr. Chamberlain does so lightly.

It was long after O-Kuni’s day, when the second and third O-Kuni were carrying on her traditions, and this woman’s stage employed mixed players, that the laxity of morals set in.

CHAPTER VIII
ONNA KABUKI: THE WOMAN’S STAGE

Companies headed by women were formed in imitation of the O-Kuni Kabuki.

They appeared not only in Kyoto, but made grand tours to distant parts of the country. A feudal lord whose domains were near the present prosperous tea-trade centre, the city of Shidzuoka, invited a Kyoto actress and her company, and when the famous Nagoya castle was completed, the daimyo who had co-operated in the building, celebrated by giving an Onna Kabuki entertainment. Even Date Masamune, lord of Sendai, one of the first daimyo to accept the Christian faith, and who sent an embassy to Rome, asked an actress to perform in his fief.

About this time, the O-Kuni Kabuki had finally settled at Shijo Bridge in Kyoto, the head of which was the third O-Kuni.

The popularity of these players was so widespread, that the women of the gay quarters followed their example, and companies of women performers were recruited from the ranks of the prostitutes. A man called Sadoshima Yosanji taught these women dancing, and erected a theatre. Schools for the training of actresses were established, and talented dancers were developed who competed with each other for the favour of the public. One of these women, Sadoshima Shokichi, gave a performance at the Yoshiwara, in Yedo, and at the time a placard was set up on Nihonbashi, the Bridge of Japan, which was one of the chief landmarks of Yedo, as it is of modern Tokyo. The male musicians who performed at this time were very expert, according to this bridge advertisement, and attention was called to the comic nature of the pieces to be performed.

Although the name Onna Kabuki signified a woman’s theatre, it was not long until the two sexes were playing together indiscriminately, men taking the rôles of women, and the characters of men being assumed by women. Upon one occasion Ikushima, an actress, appeared at Nakabashi in Yedo. When the curtain was drawn, the head actor of the company advanced in most gorgeous attire, wearing swords ornamented with gold. With him was an equally resplendent actress. More than fifty females danced together during the performance. They took the rôles of men and wore swords. The musicians sat on camp stools, and the singers recited to the strains of the samisen.

This is the first mention of the samisen in the theatre, the three-stringed instrument that was in after years to revolutionise Kabuki as well as the Doll-theatre. The instruments in use until the introduction of the samisen were the Nō drums and flute, but the samisen with its strident, irregular rhythms was to be associated from this time onward with the whole gay, frivolous world, far removed from the austerity, dignity, and ritual with which the flute and Nō drums were associated. The samisen had been brought to Japan from the Loo Choo Islands. A similar instrument had long been in use in China, so that it seems probable that it had its origin in China, but was imported into Japan from the islands to the south-west, where Chinese influence had long been uppermost.

When Onna Kabuki was at its height, there were four companies in Kyoto called O-Kuni, Sadoshima, Shinobu, and a company managed by a man named Dansuke. Shinobu removed to Ise province, Dansuke and his company established themselves at Osaka, that was then as it is to-day the leading commercial centre of Japan. The Sadoshima party was divided into two, headed respectively by Takeshima and Sadoshima, both of whom had sons who became noted actors in the first period of the male theatre. They were Takeshima Kyozaemon and Sadoshima Dempachi. The latter was a dokegata, or comic actor. Sadoshima’s grandson wrote Sadoshima Nikki, or the Journal of Sadoshima, which deals with the Kabuki of his time, and is a theatre classic.

Had the women companies remained exemplary in conduct and kept their ranks free from the other sex, the history of the Japanese theatre might have been quite different. But the leading actresses were prostitutes; their art was a means to an end, and they abused their privileges as entertainers. No permanent and self-respecting theatre could have continued to exist on such an immoral foundation. The degradation of the Onna Kabuki was due in no small degree, however, to the playing of men and women together. The public very soon came to look down upon these players, and they were referred to as Kawara Kojiki, or Riverside Beggars, derived from the fact that the first Kabuki players had erected their temporary stages on the dry beds of Kyoto rivers. The term was from this time handed down to besmirch the reputations of generations of honest, legitimate actors that followed.

In 1608 a proclamation by the Shogun’s Government was made limiting the Onna Kabuki to the outskirts of the cities, where its baneful influence might be less of a contamination to society. Several court ladies who had carried on flirtations with the handsome young actors of the Onna Kabuki were exiled, in punishment of their misdemeanours, and Government interference was frequent. In 1626 a notice advertising a performance was ordered to be taken down. In 1628, when a company of actresses played at Takanawa near Shinagawa, in the suburbs of Yedo, the theatre was so crowded that great confusion ensued, and the place was ordered to be closed.

The climax came when the Government of the third Shogun, Iyemitsu, issued a strict order (1629) forbidding female performances of any kind. At one stroke the performances of women dancers, the actresses of the Onna Kabuki, and even the women minstrels who sang to the movements of the marionettes in the puppet show, came to an abrupt end.

Again in 1630 a company of mixed players attempted to give a performance, the actors appearing as women and the actresses as men, but an order was immediately issued excluding all females from the stage. In 1640 a company of male and female players announced they would play together, but their performance was stopped, and in 1645 the proprietor of a theatre was severely punished for employing female players. This was done as an example, for violations were frequent.

In the history of the Doll-theatre, also, there had been companies of women who handled the marionettes while female minstrels sang and recited the ballad-dramas to which the dolls moved, and women accomplished in the samisen accompanied the minstrels. These Doll-theatre companies of women were not long to endure, and soon came to grief.

Somewhere about the time that O-Kuni was beginning to dance on her temporary stage by the riverside in Kyoto, Ono-no-Otsu, a lady-in-waiting in the household of the great general, Oda Nobunaga, had composed a long ballad called Joruri Hime Monogatari, or the Story of Princess Joruri. It had been sung by a minstrel to the accompaniment of the samisen.

This was an improvement on the balladry of the blind musicians, who had recited their stories of love and battle to the mournful minor strings of the biwa. The first tayu, or minstrel, to sing the improved balladry inaugurated by Ono-no-Otsu, was a woman called Rokuji Namuyemon. After her there were both male and female minstrels, but the prohibition of the Onna Kabuki also included the female minstrel. The talent of woman had repeatedly tried to express itself in the realm of the theatre, but now the heavy hand of the puritanic shogunate fell upon her activities, and the result was the suppression of all stage aspiration on the part of females for three hundred years.

Ihara Seiseiin, commenting on this in his History of the Japanese Stage, says that although the Shogun’s Government was under the necessity of maintaining the morals of the people, the prohibition had an ill effect upon the theatre, and the injury has not been completely healed. He thinks that if the Onna Kabuki had been left to develop naturally, it is most probable that there would now exist a different state of affairs, and actresses would have adorned the Japanese theatre as they do in the Occident. But, he continues, it was impossible for the Tokugawa Shogunate to have such foresight with regard to art, and the fact that there are no names of actresses adorning the history of the Japanese stage must be attributed to this initial, stern, prohibitive measure of the shogunate.

These strict laws regarding the appearance of females on the stage were enforced until the last days of the shogunate, when its grip loosened on many of the measures that had been made to regulate the morals of the people and to control their democratic tendencies.

With this relaxation there again came into existence a woman’s theatre, headed by a brilliant actress, Kumehachi, who was a contemporary of Danjuro, the ninth, the great star of Meiji. She took male rôles as did other women of her company. With her death her company disbanded. A successor to Kumehachi exists to-day who also acts men’s characters most successfully, Nakamura Kasen, but she loses much of her prestige by acting with mixed players. The establishment of a school of actresses in connection with the founding of the Imperial Theatre in Tokyo belongs to the modern history of the Japanese stage.

Judging from the conditions that have been brought about by mixed players on the Western stage, it was a fortunate thing that women were excluded, for the actors were able to develop a masculine theatre unhampered by petticoat influence. Whether this is an advantage to the art of the theatre remains to be seen when Kabuki, the unique masculine stage of Japan, will become known outside the land of its origin.

In order that men should reign supreme in the world of make-believe, the creativeness of the Japanese woman in the direction of the theatre has thus been clearly sacrificed. But in the future their talent may be able to find scope for development in a theatre of their own, as an expression of the spirit of women. The tendency of the theatre art in Japan is toward a separation of the sexes, and there is hope that in the future a women’s theatre, free from the immoral influences that caused the downfall of the Onna Kabuki, will coexist with Kabuki, the firmly established masculine stage.

O-Kuni’s prominence began in 1596, when she first met Sansaburo, and she reached the height of her fame in 1601. By 1629 women were strictly prohibited from performing in public. Thus the women’s theatre she had founded came to an abrupt end, after an existence of three decades.

CHAPTER IX
WAKASHU KABUKI: THE YOUNG MEN’S STAGE

The first Kabuki theatre to be founded in Japan in which performances were given by companies composed entirely of men was started in the third year of Genna, 1617, by Dansuke, who seems to have been an enterprising manager. It was Dansuke who formed companies of women from the pleasure quarters of Kyoto, and who was invited by no less a personage than the great daimyo, Date Masamune, to bring his players to his feudal capital, Sendai. Dansuke also established a company of female players in Osaka, but he is known chiefly in the history of Kabuki as the founder of the first male theatre.

The tercentenary of this historical event was not allowed to pass unnoticed, and in December 1917 the establishment of Dansuke’s male theatre and the three hundred years of Kabuki development were celebrated by special performances given at the Minami-za, in Kyoto, where Nakamura Ganjiro, Osaka’s leading actor, and Matsumoto Koshiro of the Imperial Theatre, Tokyo, played together to commemorate the event.