Part 7

Rather more than ten years ago, when enthusiasm for Western things was at its height, a species of independent theatre, calling itself the Sōshi-Shibai, was started with a loud flourish of trumpets in Tōkyō. The promoters were _sōshi_ (ex-students), who, as actors or authors, or both, proclaimed their intention of revolutionising the stage and informing it with nineteenth-century culture. They began, as such societies generally begin, with translations, and by dramatising the romances of the elder Dumas succeeded for a time in attracting. “The Three Musketeers” and “Monte Cristo” were spectacular enough to please. But when it came to producing original work, their will was found to exceed their capacity. Without enough money or experience to make a sustained effort, they kindled a flame which soon flickered out. Mr. Kawakami, as I have already stated, won a great success by dramatising the more striking incidents of the war with China. He visited Port Arthur and supplied himself with photographs of many varieties, so that, at any rate, his play was realistically mounted. How far its structure was in advance of less up-to-date pieces I cannot say. If it at all resembled his adaptation of “Round the World in Eighty Days,” I fear it was no more than a series of tableaux. But no production on strictly European lines could command an intelligent, much less a sympathetic, reception from playgoers unacquainted with European life. In the summer of 1898 Mr. Osada, whose models are Parisian, presented his compatriots with a version of “Le monde où l’on s’ennuie.” It will be remembered that the climax of that amusing comedy is reached when a young diplomat is discovered kissing his wife in a dark conservatory by the scandalised guests, at a French château. Now, the Tōkyō tradesman has never kissed anybody, and would not incommode his wife with sentimental attention. He was merely mystified by this queer illustration of barbarian habit, and returned with relief to the contemplation of his politely blood-stained ancestors.

The most promising path of improvement would seem to be that pursued by Mr. Tsuboüchi and Mr. Fukuchi, who continue to write plays on episodes in their own history, but strive to avoid the extravagance and unreality of their predecessors. Mr. Tsuboüchi, who was well known as a critic and novelist before he turned playwright, invented the term _mugen-gekki_ or “dream-play” in ridicule of such wildly improbable incidents as disfigure “The Tale of the Sapling of Ichi-no-tani.” I have not seen his own drama, the “Maki no Kati” (1897), which deals with the turbulent thirteenth century, but Mr. Aston discerns in it “careful workmanship and gratifying freedom from extravagance,” in spite of “several murders and two _hara-kiri_ by women.” Of Mr. Fukuchi’s work I can write with some confidence, having been privileged on many occasions to discuss it with him. He is recognised as the leading Japanese playwright, and has produced about thirty plays during the last ten years. He has been engaged for some time on translations of “Hamlet” and “Othello,” but has no idea of staging them, for reasons which will be presently explained. Though anxious to modernise the drama by introducing less bloodshed and more careful study of character, he finds modern Japan unsuited to dramatic treatment. The typical advocate of progress, who dresses and talks like a foreigner, takes little interest in his own arts and antiquities, being absorbed in politics or money-making. He has neither the picturesque nor heroic qualities which a dramatist postulates, and is therefore rejected by Mr. Fukuchi in his search for material. A serious obstacle to reform lies in the ignorance of actors and the indifference of the upper classes. While the former too often lack the erudition to appreciate and interpret a scholarly reproduction of antique habit and speech, the latter are only beginning to discard their aristocratic prejudice against the theatre, compelling the author to write down to the level of his middle and lower class audience. But better education and more democratic ideals are beginning to tell. The reception of “Kasuga-no-Tsubone” (“The Lady-in-Waiting of Kasuga”)--one of Mr. Fukuchi’s finest plays--marked a most creditable advance in public judgment.

Here was a piece entirely devoid of sensational incident, depending on neither love nor death nor abnormal sacrifice for its appeal, but narrating the discharge of public duty by a high-spirited woman in the face of ceaseless intrigue and danger. It brings out the noblest side of Japanese statesmanship, the far-seeing wisdom and patience of the ruler, together with the perseverance and devotion of the ruled. The political and personal strands of interest are so cleverly combined, that for once the grey fabric of governmental policy is sufficiently embroidered with a pattern in gold of intersecting character: the scarlet thread is scarcely missed. Briefly this is the tale. Iyeyasu, having completed his work of equipping Japan with a durable constitution, retired to Suruga, and, leaving the shōgunate in Hidetada’s hands, continued to take private measures for the future welfare of the State. One of these was the education of his grandson, Taketiyo (better known as Iyemitsu), whom he wished to be trained in the severest school of military discipline. For this purpose he chose the Lady of Kasuga, whose husband, Inaba Sado-no-Kami, was a _rōnin_, having been dispossessed of title and estates by Hideyoshi. The task was beset with difficulty. First the wife of Hidetada, and then that Shōgun himself, lost no occasion of thwarting her efforts and of putting forward Kunityo, a younger prince, whose gentler and more refined manner gained him many partisans at Court. In despair of winning her cause, the Lady of Kasuga fled to Suruga in the garb of a pilgrim and begged Iyeyasu to decide between the rival candidates. The old man thereupon returned to Yedo and subjected the brothers to searching tests of both intellectual and physical capacity. In all these the more Spartan pupil of the _samurai’s_ wife proved victorious. Up to this point the plot does not differ very materially from ordinary histories of disputed succession, but the last act is peculiarly illustrative of woman’s status during the Tokugawa _régime_. Asked to choose her own reward for service so admirably rendered, the preceptress of Iyemitsu solicits the restoration to her husband of his rank and estates; but he, regarding such a proposal as wounding to his honour, proceeds to divorce her. Iyeyasu then offers to make the wife a daimyō, but she refuses, on the ground that to accept would be to still further dishonour her husband. In the end Inaba is reinstated for having exhibited a proper spirit of pride and independence, while the Lady of Kasuga resumes her place at his side.

On the lines of this play, in which conflict of scheming interests is substituted for hand-to-hand fighting, while a clearly developed story replaces the old _olla podrida_ of loosely connected scenes, there is great hope of raising popular drama from a somewhat crude condition to the level of serious art. It has never aimed at merely amusing the populace; it has always professed to instruct them. In the hands of Mr. Fukuchi and men of his stamp its patriotic bias need not be weakened, while its artistic worth will be much increased. But it is by no means likely that European drama will affect its substance, however largely it may influence the form. On this point Mr. Fukuchi is as emphatic as Mr. Danjuro. Shakespeare is impossible. His teaching would be at least as pernicious in its effect on feminine morals and the structure of society as that of Ibsen is considered by conservative moralists in this country. We have seen that the restriction of woman’s sphere to loving and serving does not necessarily rob her of courage or resolution. Many foreigners resident in Japan have not hesitated to declare their conviction that the “childish, confiding, sweet Japanese girl” is superior to the “calculating, penetrating, diamond-hard American woman,” the consequence and nemesis of masculine idolatry. A little reflection will show how shocking the heroines of Shakespeare must seem to admirers of the former type. You have Rosalind, swaggering shamelessly in male attire; Beatrice, cutting such coarse quips as Benedick himself would scarcely venture upon to-day in a London club; Portia, masquerading in cap and gown, and exposing her lover to dishonour by snatching his betrothal-ring; Juliet and Jessica, selfishly disregardful of their parents’ wishes; and Katherine the shrew, whose violent vulgarity fortunately could not be translated into so polite a language as Japanese. As for “The Merry Wives of Windsor,” should the Sōshi-Shibai ever dare to present it, I feel sure that the Tōkyō counterpart of Mr. Clement Scott would denounce their action in such terms as these:

“This disgusting representation of the most loathsome of all Shakespeare’s plays was unutterably offensive. So foul a concoction ought never to have been allowed to disgrace the boards of a Japanese theatre. The lewd maunderings of Sir John Falstaff, the licentious jesting of Mistress Ford, Mistress Page, and Mistress Quickly must excite reprobation in all but those lovers of prurience and dabblers in impropriety who are eager to gratify their illicit tastes under the pretence of art. Ninety-seven per cent. of the people who laughed to see the fat knight smothered in a basket of dirty linen are nasty-minded people. Outside a silly clique there is not the slightest interest in the Elizabethan humbug or all his works.”

II

Many foreigners, unable to catch the meaning of what is to them a rather tedious dumb-show, pay short and perfunctory visits to the theatre. But this is not wise, for, even should the play lie outside their comprehension, the native playgoers are both affable to accost and interesting to study. They are seated in lidless boxes lined with matting, in parties of four and five, on the ground, on slightly elevated seats at the side, or in a long gallery surrounding the house. A box in the first position will cost about eight shillings, in the second about nine, in the last eleven. The higher you climb the more you pay, except in the _Oikomi_ (“driven-in-place”), where the “gods” are crowded together in a grated pen, from which little can be seen or heard; but then the price is no more than sixpence, or a penny an act if they cannot afford to witness the whole performance. This will consist of two long plays lasting about four hours each, with an intermediary tableau, which is generally the most beautifully mounted of all. During the day every one eats and drinks and smokes. The women take tea, the men _saké_, while the babies loudly and numerously imbibe milk. Between the acts, when the handsome curtains (often gifts from admiring associations to a popular artist) descend, the audience strolls about the _undoba_, a large enclosure surrounding the theatre, in which the stall-keepers sell refreshments, photographs, toys, and all kinds of ornamental knick-knacks. You escape the headache engendered by the gas and close atmosphere of a Western play-house, for the sliding shutters that form the outer walls of the upper storey can be opened at will to admit currents of cool air. The best day to go is Monday, for that is the pay-day of the geisha, whom you will see in almost as many costumes as the actor, since she loves to return to an adjacent tea-house at frequent intervals for the purpose of renewing her charms of apparel and complexion.

Tea-houses surround a theatre as jackals a lion; their co-operation is indispensable to the success of an indoor picnic. Besides, it is not considered genteel to apply for seats at the door. Your only chance of a good place is to secure the kind offices of a tea-house proprietor, who will provide attendance and refreshments, besides taking charge of your watch, purse, and any other article of value. The Tōkyō pickpocket is very adroit, and a constant patron of dramatic art. Formerly the entertainment began at dawn, but the Government, which exercises paternal supervision over popular amusements, has now limited its length to eight or nine hours, so that, if you arrive at half-past ten, you may be sure of seeing the programme played out until seven or eight in the evening. Having left your shoes at the tea-house in exchange for a wooden check and sandals, you will be conducted to a box and presented by a polite attendant with cushion, programme, tobacco-box, tea, and sweet cakes, with luncheon to follow. Now, at last, you are at liberty to observe the antics of the actors.

As you cannot understand what they say, you notice more particularly how they say it. At first their elocution will seem both painful and artificial: the tones are too shrill or too gruff, equally removed from the diapason of natural speech. But that is because the traditional _samisen_, a three-stringed guitar, follows the performer like a curse from start to finish. Unless he pitched his voice above or below its notes, he could not be heard. Even so, the author complains that his words receive inadequate attention from either player or playgoer, for the former relies chiefly on pose and facial expression to score his points, while the latter obediently admires the methods of acting to which he has always been accustomed. It cannot be denied that these methods are effective. I have seen the feminine part of the audience infected with such violent emotion by the agonised play of mobile features as to rush for relief to the “Tear-Room,” where they can cry to heart’s content without inconveniencing more stoical neighbours.

Though the actor’s tone is disagreeably unnatural, his articulation is both clean-cut and sonorous. The syllables crack on the ear like pistol-shots, sharply distinct. I imagine that he is seldom inaudible. It is a great pity that convention, if not law, still forbids the appearance of men and women on the same stage, since the mimicry of one sex by the other, triumphantly deceptive in other particulars, breaks down at the point of vocal imitation. The eye is tricked, but not the ear. Yet peculiar attention is given to the training and discipline of _onnagata_, or impersonators of female parts. Formerly they were not only given the outward semblance of women by every contrivance which the costumier and coiffeur could supply, but were required to spend their lives from childhood in feminine costume and society, that their masculine proclivities might be as far as possible obliterated. Even now their names stand first on the programme, their dressing-rooms are locked on the inside, their influence is paramount in the Actors’ Guild. The supremacy of Mr. Danjuro is due in no small degree to his ability to play both male and female characters with equal _éclat_. Notwithstanding every precaution and privilege, the actor cannot acquire the intonation of an actress. His reedy falsetto is a poor parody of the musical tones in which Japanese women converse, and the loss to a public which has never been caressed by Sara Bernhardt’s golden voice or thrilled by Mrs. Patrick Campbell’s may be sympathetically imagined. But, though Tōkyō has no actresses, the Women’s Theatre in Kyōto, in which are no actors, might seem a partial set-off to this deficiency. In fact, however, though the women are extremely clever in simulating the gait and gestures of men--if I had not been taken behind the scenes, I should have believed myself in the wrong theatre--they are hopelessly handicapped by physical weakness. The stage is so enormous, and the performance so long, that an artist may reckon on walking ten miles in the course of the day, while the voice is severely taxed by the prolonged stridency of declamation.

While the stage-woman, adroitly personated, is often tolerable, the stage-child is an intolerable infliction. Convention has decreed that it shall shriek all its lines on one high monotonous note, and shriek it does. There is no attempt at variety of tone or naturalness of expression. When a steam-launch emits similar sounds, we condone in a machine what we resent in a human being. It is simply an ear-splitting automaton. One turns with relief to watch the children in the audience, who are evidently the spoiled darlings of their relations. But, indeed, the child seems never snubbed or thwarted in Japan. At the termination of every act, while the curtains fall or are drawn together, there is a scurry of tiny feet up and down the parallel _hana-michi_ (the flower-walks which divide the auditorium), and, if some audacious little intruders rush upon the stage itself, they are greeted with indulgent laughter.

Perhaps the chief obstacle to illusion, and the one most easily remedied as regards scenic accessories, is the enormous area of the stage. It is far too large to be enclosed between “wings” and “flies,” while the custom of exit and entry along the flower-walks transgresses our cardinal principle of separating those who act from those who look on. As a rule, the supposed locality of the piece, be it palace or temple or battle-field, is a wood-and-cardboard island in a sea of bare boards, of which the circumference nearly corresponds with that of a revolving section of the stage, twenty or thirty feet in diameter, which turns on lignum-vitæ wheels. While one scene is being enacted, a second is being prepared behind, and at a given signal the _eccyclema_ is whirled round, carrying away one set of actors and bringing on their successors. Do not suppose, however, that realistic effects are outside the range of the Meiji-za or Kabuki-za management. I remember a melodrama, written by a lieutenant in the Japanese navy, in which the hero, though encumbered by a heavy piece of ordnance hoisted on his shoulders, cut down eight assailants in turn in spite of a terrific storm, which drenched the company with real rain and blew down real trees, planted that afternoon!

The actor is a more important personage than the author in most people’s eyes. Until this relation shall be reversed, the Thespian cart is not likely to leave the rut in which it moves. Meanwhile, a glance at their respective positions may fitly conclude this essay. Before Meiji, the present era of enlightenment, the mummer was treated as a rogue and vagabond. He was regarded with contempt as a _koyamono_, or “occupant of a hut,” and placed on a par with mendicants. In public places he was obliged to wear a _mebakari-zukin_ or hood, which covered head and face all but the eyes, and was only allowed to frequent particular restaurants. Unless he belonged to one of the half-dozen theatrical families who ruled the stage with oligarchic exclusiveness, monopolising the secrets of the profession, the power to admit novices, and the right to play particular parts, his progress was slow. Beginning with the horse’s leg (_uma no ashi_), a limb of the pantomimic charger, which was indispensable to historic drama, he was obliged to buy or insinuate his way by adoption to more important parts before he could earn either fame or fortune. Nowadays all that is changed. Free competition rules. The public is his only patron. Without training or payment of fees to the Ichikawa, the Onoye, or the Nakamura, a successful _débutant_ can march by his own merits into wealth and popularity. As he treads the flower-walks, fans, purses, embroidered pouches will be showered at his feet; to his dressing-room will come love-letters innumerable, for the Japanese “matinée girl” is very susceptible; in public he will be pointed out, the idol of the masses; his crest will be on the tortoise-shell or ivory pin, which adorns the high coiffure of the stage-struck _musumé_; finally, should he ever reach the head of his profession, he may hope to make as much as £5000 in four weeks, far surpassing the modest income of a prime minister or an archbishop.

But the author, instead of ruling the kingdom which he creates, is in most cases no more than a theatrical _employé_. In fact, the term “create” can only be used with much qualification, for the genesis of a play is curiously and multifariously planned. First, the manager sends for the author, and indicates the subject and period which he desires to form the bases of a drama; the author prepares and submits two or three drafts, from which the best is selected; then the cast is appointed, and the chief actors are consulted about their parts, which of course are modified to suit their suggestions; then the composer is called in, and, if the musical setting should lead to new alterations in the libretto, the author has no choice but to submit. When plays have to be constructed in this way, you cannot expect them to have any more artistic value than a London pantomime or “musical comedy.” Nor has the author the satisfaction of salving the wounds to “artistic conscience” with consolatory gold. On the first run of a piece (the season is never longer than four or five weeks at a time) he may receive £20; a revival may bring him in £10 more, a provincial tour yet another £10. On the whole, he will be lucky to make £50, while the leading actor makes £5000. But then the audiences do not pay their money for the opportunity of solving historical problems or appreciating intellectual artistry: their object is simply to feast eyes and ears on a sensational pageant, in which to them the actor is king. They do not bestow a thought on the power behind the throne, chained there by ignorance and convention. Plays are sometimes published, but their sale is insignificant. The aristocracy, both of birth and intellect, hold too much aloof from a plebeian amusement, which under higher conditions might become a fruitful and immortal art. When I think of Mr. Fukuchi, fettered by public taste, that stupidest of Jupiters, to the Caucasus of picturesque melodrama, while vulturine actors peck at his brains, I wish that a chorus of Oceanides, winged ideas and ideals from Paris, from London, and Christiania--could cross the seas to Tōkyō and liberate Prometheus.

GEISHA AND CHERRY-BLOSSOM

GEISHA AND CHERRY-BLOSSOM