Chapter XXVIII: Meiji Kabuki (1)

I

Yakusha of Meiji

Ichikawa Danjuro, the ninth, was the torch-bearer of Kabuki during the long reign of the Emperor Mutsuhito, known as the Meiji era, which endured for forty-five years (1868–1912).

There were barren years for the theatre previous to the Restoration, and the stagnant condition of the people showed itself in the lack of Kabuki creativeness. When the long-shut gates of Japan were suddenly thrown wide open to the dazzling wonders of the West, men did not have time to spend in shibai, and their thoughts were engrossed by the rapid changes that took place in politics, industry, education, and religion. The whole course of Kabuki could not be changed overnight, and in consequence remained stationary. The theatres almost went out of existence, and women and children formed the audiences. It took some years for Kabuki to pull itself together, for Western influences were inundating the country, and neither the players, the playgoers, nor the playwriters were able to “find themselves”. If it had not been for the greatest member of the Ichikawa family, the actors might have become like lost sheep and strayed from the fold, separating themselves from their past, and worshipping all the new and confusing tendencies of the day.

Danjuro, the ninth, was the bridge that spanned the sudden gulf which yawned between the traditional past and the uncertain and changing modern world. He may be regarded as the saviour of Kabuki during a period when it might have suffered shipwreck, had there not been a man of genius at the helm to guide the craft through the troubled waters.

In the last days of the shogunate and the early years of Meiji, there were a number of yakusha who shone even in these troubled times. The theatres were still grouped together in Saruwaka-cho, Asakusa, when the Emperor, travelling in state from Kyoto, reached his new capital. Commodore Perry, who knocked at the door of Japan at a most opportune moment, could have witnessed a performance at the Ichimura-za or Nakamura-za in this quarter of Yedo, had he been so minded.

For thirty years three men had held the centre of Kabuki in the days of the fast-decaying shogunate. They were Onoe Kikugoro, the third; the seventh Ichikawa Danjuro, and the fourth Nakamura Utayemon.

Danjuro, the seventh, became the chief actor of the Ichimura-za at the age of 23. His extravagances both on and off the stage came to the attention of the authorities, and he was suddenly summoned to appear before the district officials, and there sentenced to exile from Yedo on the ground of unwarranted indulgence in luxury.

“Ebizo, Kabuki actor”, so the sentence read, “we have long warned the above person that he is not allowed to build an extravagant residence and to use fine furniture”, and continued to enumerate his lapses from grace, particularly mentioning the fact that he wore on the stage a suit of real armour which belonged to a military officer.

Although a petition asking for a pardon was presented by his relatives and friends, the hard-hearted officials were unrelenting, and he was obliged to wander about the country for seven years, playing for the most part in Osaka, where he was most popular. In 1849 was allowed to return to Yedo, and gave special performances to express his thankfulness that his years of exile were at an end.

On the way out of his dressing-room to the stage, he complained of illness, and was advised not to appear, but persisted. While acting his speech failed, and he made a sign with his hand, when the curtain was drawn. He was carried off the stage, and died soon after.

His eldest son succeeded as Ichikawa Danjuro, the eighth. He became chief actor of the Ichimura-za at the age of 16, repairing to a temple every day to pray for success. The Government had no opportunity to reprove him,—on the contrary, he was given a reward for filial piety. To his exiled father he sent money, repaid the debts of his family, was kind to his numerous brothers, left the theatre between acts to inquire about his mother, and assisted the family pupils when old age overtook them.

Reports of his high character were spread, and he was worshipped by the Yedo people. In spite of his genius and probity, his father’s marital adventures (for the seventh had three wives and many concubines) must have weighed heavily upon his mind. He went to play in Osaka, but the audiences were studiously cold, there being the old jealousy of the Yedo stage, and the eighth Danjuro was treated slightingly. This was more than the sensitive young actor could endure, and he committed suicide at an inn in Osaka, dying unmarried at the age of 32.

During the first years of Meiji there was one actor who attracted great attention,—Ichikawa Kodanji, a pupil of the seventh Danjuro. He was the son of a man who kept a stall selling fireworks at the Ichimura-za. On one occasion he was detained by illness, and was late in taking his cue. His superior, Arashi Rikaku, chastised him for the offence by striking him with a zori, or straw sandal, which caused him to fall down a stairway behind the scenes. He never forgot this incident, and later, when he had become successful and was playing with Rikaku, he cleverly inserted a reference to the zori incident into his lines.

It is Kodanji’s association with Kawataki Mokuami, the leading playwright of Meiji, that makes him of interest in the history of early Meiji Kabuki. The two formed a close partnership, Mokuami writing the realistic plays of the plain citizens that showed Kodanji’s talents off to the best advantage. His son became the fifth Kodanji, a veteran of the Tokyo stage who continued to act until within the last year of his life, dying in 1922.

After the Kodanji of early Meiji had passed away there was no one to take his place, and Kabuki was almost derelict.

The actors upon whom the responsibility of Kabuki rested were Nakamura Shikan, Bando Hikosaburo, Onoe Kikugoro, the fifth, the eighth Iwai Hanshiro, last of this long onnagata family, and the young actor who was to succeed as head of the Ichikawa line.

By far the most capable actor of the time was Bando Hikosaburo, the fifth. His father was a carpenter attached to the Goddess of Mercy Temple in Asakusa, but as soon as he was born he was adopted by the fourth Hikosaburo as his stage heir. After performing in Osaka for some time, he returned to Tokyo, bringing with him a geisha called Ichiryu (One-Dragon), a young person with whom he had become enamoured. For the sake of his new love he caused his wife O-Yei to be divorced. O-Yei was a sister of the fifth Kikugoro, and one of the latter’s pupils stole into Hikosaburo’s house and attempted to injure the fascinating One-Dragon. Such a sudden lapse from grace on Hikosaburo’s part started all tongues wagging, especially as he had been strict in his behaviour, and most modest and decorous in his demeanour. His popularity was lessened for a time, but as his acting continued to improve, people forgot all about his morals.

Next to Hikosaburo in ability, and a close rival, was Nakamura Shikan. He was the son of a minor actor, but adopted by Nakamura Utayemon. With such a stage sponsor, Shikan was trained in dancing and greatly excelled in this Kabuki art. Utayemon presided at the kojo, or announcement ceremony, when the young actor took one of the Nakamura family names, that of Fukusuke. But soon after this he was given a sum of money and returned to his own home. The gossips of the day said that he had fainted several times on the stage and was physically unsound; others contended that he had become involved in a love affair displeasing to his adopted father. He had been playing in Osaka with Utayemon, but suddenly returned to Yedo alone. Two years later Utayemon died in Osaka and a wealthy patron provided the funeral expenses in the divorced son’s name, as though nothing had happened to sever their relations. There were two funerals, one in Osaka and one in Yedo, and Shikan gained a great deal of sympathy, having posed as most filial to an unkind parent.

Shikan was, however, a worthy successor to Utayemon, as was evidenced when he acted at the Ichimura-za in company with Nakamura Tomijuro, one of the first onnagata of Osaka. Later on, to announce his increased fame and reputation, he took another name of the Nakamura family, Shikan, but the public regarded this as an unwarranted procedure, for had he lived Utayemon would certainly not have bestowed it upon him.

So nearly matched in ability were Shikan and Hikosaburo, with but two years’ difference in their ages, that they were pitted against each other, and their patrons often indulged in fights over them. During a performance, when these actors were playing together, they came through the audience by way of the two hanamichi, the one to the right of the stage a mere footpath, that to the left a platform that was in reality a continuation of the stage proper. They quarrelled as to who should take the main hanamichi, and the dispute waxed so hot that they finally drew lots to settle the matter. Shikan’s mother was a person of influence in shibai circles, and she was so zealous on her son’s behalf that she caused considerable trouble.

Even in his old age Shikan’s light was not dimmed, and he continued to act until death claimed him. Hikosaburo was also an actor of fine parts—handsome in appearance, possessed of a rich voice, and clever in making-up. He was generous-minded, proud of the position he had gained, but always lacked in good taste and refinement.

An actor of the first ability was Sawamura Tannosuke, the second son of Sawamura Sojuro, the sixth. In the first year of Meiji, he was playing at the three chief theatres in Saruwaka-cho. At the age of 16, he began to act in leading onnagata rôles, and was a genius in the delineation of women’s characters. A tragic fate overtook him, and his loss to the Tokyo stage was very great. Suffering an injury to his feet, gangrene set in. Everything was done to save him, and he was taken to Yokohama, where an American medical missionary was consulted. Both feet, however, were amputated in the third year of Meiji. In spite of this great physical disability, Tannosuke continued to appear on the stage, supported by several black-robed property-men, and so great was his popularity that the people crowded to see him. His wife was unfaithful to him, and was on intimate terms with one of his pupils, and this added to his hopeless condition, filling the remaining days of this unfortunate onnagata star with unhappiness. The young actors who followed afterwards in Tannosuke’s specialty were deprived of the stimulus and high standard he had set, and a lack of good onnagata was characteristic of the greater part of the long Meiji era.

The three stars of the Meiji era were Ichikawa Danjuro, the ninth, known in his early career as Kawarazaki Gonnosuke, the fifth Onoe Kikugoro, and Ichikawa Sadanji. Associated with them was Iwai Hanshiro, the eighth, the last of this talented onnagata line.

Twenty years elapsed after the death of the eighth Danjuro before the succession of the ninth. Onoe Kikugoro, the fifth, was the second son of Ichikawa Uzaemon, the twelfth, and his mother was the daughter of the third Kikugoro. He succeeded to the headship of the Kikugoro family, ranked with the ninth Danjuro, and in some respects surpassed him. It was in drama of everyday life that Kikugoro most excelled, the sentimental and realistic having the greatest appeal for him in contrast to the unreal proclivities of Danjuro, the ninth, who was a faithful exponent of the traditional style of his family.

The fifth Kikugoro left behind him three sons. He adopted his nephew, Onoe Baiko, now the leading actor of the Imperial Theatre; and two sons were born to him in middle age, Kikugoro, the sixth, and Bando Hikosaburo, of the present Tokyo stage.

Ichikawa Sadanji was born in Osaka, studied under several actors, finally becoming a disciple of the Ichikawa family. At first he was a poor actor, and gave no sign of a promising career. Mokuami, the playwright, assisted him greatly by providing him with new plays and furnishing him with advice, and so great was his advancement that he was able to hold his own with Danjuro and Kikugoro, the three stars playing together until death separated them. The eighth Hanshiro who appeared with these actors was the son of the seventh, and was born in Osaka. He was extremely effeminate in manner, a true onnagata of the old school, and was known for his good deeds, always assisting his pupils, and kindly disposed to his servants and the menials of the theatre. An award of merit was given him by the Government, as an example to others of a good citizen and loyal subject.

On his deathbed the characteristics of this actor were not subdued. He exercised his talent for verse-making as a parting gift to life. “Hakitate no waraji”, he wrote, “tsumetaki Haru no Yuki”, the “Waraji I am accustomed to wear are cold in the spring snow.” Thus he made the suggestion that life was like a pair of waraji, or coarse straw sandals worn on a long journey, and that they suddenly felt cold as in a spring snow.

Still another onnagata was Ichikawa Monnosuke, the fifth. Born the son of a Yedo restaurant proprietor, he served his apprenticeship to the stage in Osaka. His son was one of the most popular onnagata in the latter part of Meiji, and a brilliant young grandson, Omezo, is an adornment of the Tokyo stage to-day.

One after another the three stars, Kikugoro, Danjuro, and Sadanji, passed away, and gloom settled down upon the Tokyo stage. It was years before the people took an active interest in shibai, and an equally long time before the actors regained confidence in themselves. The three stars had been the centre of attraction, and a considerable period had to elapse for the new growth and development that was to culminate in the flourishing theatre condition of the present.

II

The Ninth Ichikawa Danjuro

From the point of view both of character and of art Danjuro, the ninth, is considered the greatest actor that Japan has produced.

Kaburagi Kiyokata, one of Tokyo’s leading artists, describing Danjuro, said that he could only be painted with broad lines, for upon the stage he presented such beautiful figures as could only be seen in old sculptures. And such was his ability in portraying historical characters that the people thought of past heroes only in the light of Danjuro’s creations.

Although he upheld the treasured anti-real style of the Ichikawa line, he threw himself with enthusiasm into the portrayal of rôles in a new type of play called katsureki, or living history, in which he painted his characters with accuracy of detail, showing the influence of Western drama, and also his revolt from the inconsistencies of the jidaimono, or historical pieces of the Doll-theatre. An actor of such great parts was never seen before in Japan, and his like may not appear again for generations to come.

The ninth Danjuro (born 1838, died 1903) was the son of the seventh Danjuro. His mother was not the legal wife of his father, and was the daughter of a restaurant proprietor. She had in addition to Danjuro, the ninth, three sons and a daughter.

The hereditary owner of the Kawarazaki-za, Kawarazaki Gonnosuke, had made a promise to the seventh Danjuro that he would adopt one of his numerous brood, and the fifth son was selected to become the head of this family. Gonnosuke was an influential shibai proprietor, and the boy was regarded as a young aristocrat of the theatre. At the time of his adoption Gonnosuke was not married, and his mother undertook the task of bringing up the coming Danjuro in the way he should go.

From his fifth year there were but few pleasures in store for the boy. He was carried to the house of his dancing master on the back of his nurse. Once, when the seventh Danjuro visited Gonnosuke, the latter remonstrated, and said the boy would certainly be killed by his severe training. To this the grandmother sarcastically rejoined that Danjuro’s children were all dipped in tubs of sugar, but that there was some pepper mixed with it. Evidently she had no faith in the manner the Ichikawa children were managed, and time has shown the correctness of her view-point, for the boy in the care of Gonnosuke’s mother was the only one of the family to attain success. Certainly Danjuro, the ninth, appreciated the interest shown in his welfare by this old woman, for in his later years he never failed to express his appreciation of the training he received in his youth.

Afterwards Gonnosuke took a wife, and she had a son and a daughter. It was a severe disappointment when the daughter died young, for it was planned that she should marry the adopted son. Thereafter Danjuro did not get on well with his adopted mother.

A whole series of misfortunes overtook Danjuro. First, his father was ordered out of Tokyo, and his own mother accompanied him into exile. At the age of fifteen he took the name of Kawarazaki Gonnosuke. Danjuro, the eighth, committed suicide in Osaka, and this family tragedy was followed by the death of a younger and promising brother. Still another brother was unable to become an actor, as his face was marred by smallpox, and a brother adopted by Matsumoto Koshiro was not a success. Then came the destructive earthquake of 1855, and the Kawarazaki-za was entirely demolished, as was the city. There was trouble in securing a license for the reconstruction of the Kawarazaki-za; it ceased to be, and the young Gonnosuke faced a barren inheritance. In addition to all this, his adopted father was attacked and killed by robbers.

The various vicissitudes through which he passed did not prevent him from becoming an actor, and he made rapid progress in his profession. At 34 he married Masu, whom his adopted mother had chosen for him. Hard times followed, and he was obliged to travel in the provinces, but even when acting in country shibai, his Tokyo creditors followed and attempted to take the receipts. When they returned to Tokyo he and his wife had no home to go to, and took temporary shelter in the abode of one of Danjuro’s patrons.

The construction of a new playhouse, the Shintomi-za, by the energetic theatre manager, Morita Kanya, started Danjuro on a new and prosperous career. Kanya was more than willing to produce novelties that would startle Tokyo, and Danjuro set to work to make improvements in Kabuki. In this he was greatly encouraged by the famous statesman Prince Ito, and Matsuda Michiyuki, a Governor of Tokyo prefecture, who became an enthusiastic supporter of the Shintomi-za.

Morita Kanya’s innovations were often failures in that they went over the heads of the people, and the finances of the Shintomi-za were far from satisfactory. Danjuro played in a minor theatre, but ill-luck followed him, and during one of the performances fire broke out and destroyed this shibai. He escaped wearing his stage wig and costume, to the great astonishment of his family on his return home.

A signal honour was given Danjuro in 1887. He was commanded by Count Inouye to play before the Emperor. His Majesty had consented to visit the Inouye residence, and would witness a Kabuki entertainment for the first time. Not since the days of Saruwaka Kansaburo, who had danced before the Emperor in Kyoto, had there been such recognition of the officially despised play-folk.

In the beautiful Inouye garden a temporary stage was set up, and facing it a throne before which hung a thin bamboo curtain. From this elevated position the late Emperor watched the plays and expressed deep interest. The first piece was _Kanjincho_. The same piece was selected for presentation when the Mayor of Tokyo entertained the Prince of Wales at the Imperial Theatre in April 1922, and on this occasion the Prince Regent entered the portals of a theatre of his own land for the first time.

The Danjuro performances lasted for three days, the Emperor witnessing the plays on the first day, the Empress on the following day, and the Emperor’s mother on the last day. Takeda Izumo’s _Terakoya_, or The Village School, was presented before the Empress, and her sympathy and feelings were so stirred that those near Her Majesty saw tears in her eyes, and were perplexed, thinking that the play had better be stopped. The tears of an Empress over the sacrifice of Matsuomaru’s son that the heir to Michizane might live, and the loyalty of Genzo, the village schoolmaster! These were red-letter days, indeed, for the whole yakusha fraternity.

With the building of the Kabuki-za, Danjuro enjoyed his greatest prosperity. Here one success followed the other; and Tokyo showered its approval upon the great actor. Later in life Danjuro was persuaded to go to Osaka. He had refused repeatedly to accept an engagement since the eighth Danjuro had committed suicide there; the treatment meted out to his brother by the audience was an insult to the Ichikawa name that had never been wiped out.

Contrary to his expectations, Osaka received the distinguished Ichikawa like a conquering hero, and he reaped a golden harvest, the largest sum of money ever given an actor in the history of Japan,—something like 50,000 yen for forty days. Throngs of people came to see him upon his arrival, but he carefully avoided the crowds as he did not care to ride through the streets to make a show of himself.

Some delay was caused in the stage arrangements on the opening day, and the audience became impatient, causing a great uproar. This so troubled Danjuro that he told his wife that he was quite prepared to leave Osaka should the audience make disagreeable remarks. He had purposely excluded Ichikawa plays from the programme, for should the audience prove unfriendly the affront to his ancestors could not be endured. With the noise out in front increasing, the dutiful wife was told to make preparations for a hasty departure, and left for the railway station, where she awaited her husband’s messenger. It turned out to be good news that he brought, however, for Osaka had behaved well, and welcomed the Tokyo star with every sign of respect and admiration.

Towards the end of his life he took great pleasure in the building of a beautiful country home on the sea-coast not far from Yokohama, and here he retired when his health began to fail, exhausted with his long stage service. He planned to give a farewell performance, and selected Takeda Izumo’s _Chushingura_ in which all his pupils were to appear. But this plan could not be carried out, for he became steadily weaker. Like other yakusha he had his gods to whom he prayed, and there were two god-shrines placed in his garden where he paid his respects every morning.

When he knew his end was near, he requested that his hands and mouth be washed with water, and turning in the direction of the garden shrines he clasped his hands together in worship, and recited a sutra. After that he never spoke again, the members of his family each in turn taking part in the last Buddhist rite for the dying, wetting his lips with a piece of paper dipped in water, during which he was conscious. He passed away in the early morning. His funeral was more imposing than that for a minister of state, and it seemed that all Tokyo mourned his passing.

Danjuro left behind him no son to assume his mantle. His elder daughter married the son of a banker, and this young man became the head of the private family, and has never been able to succeed to the illustrious name and become Danjuro, the tenth, although he has spent years in the study of acting in Osaka. Ichikawa Sansho, as he is known, will never be able to follow in the footsteps of his father-in-law.

Danjuro’s younger daughter married a minor actor, Ichikawa Shinsaburo, and they have a daughter, who is thus the last representative of the family. Danjuro left behind him a number of talented pupils. The best among them is the present Matsumoto Koshiro, the seventh, of the Imperial Theatre. Because of a youthful escapade, Danjuro declared that Koshiro should not succeed him, which seems a severe penalty, for Koshiro is the one Tokyo actor capable of carrying on the Ichikawa traditions. In consequence, not until Danjuro’s grand daughter grows up and marries and her offspring show traces of the Ichikawa genius, will there be seen again a worthy successor to this illustrious actor line.

No greater proof of the strong affection of the people for Danjuro could have been witnessed than the unveiling of a bronze statue to his memory in June 1919, in the compound of the great temple sacred to the Goddess of Mercy in Asakusa, that crowded district of modern Tokyo where lived the ronin father of the first Ichikawa Danjuro.

The statue is of Danjuro in the character of a warrior of the Kamakura age, Gongoro, in the play _Shibaraku_, or Wait a Moment, one of the eighteen Ichikawa pieces. Perpetuated in bronze are the grotesque costume, the strange wig, the two great curved swords thrust through the belt, and a fan raised in one hand—a pose that delighted lovers of the aragoto style when Danjuro was seen on the stage in this piece.

All those who had enjoyed any relation to Danjuro during his life were invited to be present, which meant the attendance of the entire theatre fraternity,—actors and managers, playwrights, critics, journalists, artists, as well as representatives of official life. A band of Asakusa firemen in their old-time picturesque Yedo costumes were prominent, and all classes of theatre folk, musicians, property men, ushers, dancing teachers, pupils and servants of the actors, were assembled together. It might have been a scene of a hundred years ago in Yedo, but for an occasional frock-coated dignitary, and the presence of the monotonous straw hat of the West.

Speeches were made by the Mayor of Tokyo, and other men of weight and importance. It was when Danjuro’s best followers stood up to view, four of the most popular actors in Tokyo, that the applause broke forth. They were Matsumoto Koshiro, Ichikawa Chusha, Ichikawa Danshiro, who died in 1922, and Ichikawa Sadanji, son of Sadanji, the star of Meiji.

There was, however, one moving spirit in the proceedings, an informal master of ceremony, and this was Ichikawa Shinjuro, long associated with Danjuro and as loyal a retainer as ever served a feudal lord. Shinjuro was accustomed to assist Danjuro in his preparations to go on the stage, and no one was so eager as he to do honour to his late master on the occasion. Danjuro’s widow and her two daughters, and their husbands, Ichikawa Sansho and Ichikawa Shinsaburo, stood at the base of the stone pedestal. Danjuro’s little grand daughter pulled the string, and the late actor as Kamakura Gongoro, symbol of bravery and courage, was revealed.

The curtain that had hidden the statue had scarcely touched the ground when the faithful Shinjuro scaled the stone base. A black lacquer stand was handed up to him and next a large silver bowl filled with sake. Quickly they were placed at the base of the statue. In the brief space of time in which Shinjuro made the offering before the statue of the ninth Danjuro, it seemed that his spirit was present and animated the lifeless bronze.

The sudden sight of the characteristic aragoto posture of the statue also recalled the peculiar position the Ichikawa family have maintained in the Japanese theatre for the past two hundred and fifty years.

III

A Theatre Manager of Meiji

The foremost and most progressive theatre manager of Meiji was Morita Kanya. He laboured hard to improve shibai and elevate the status of the actors. Unquestionably he was a benefactor, and if he erred in following after false gods, and was under the impression that the superior theatre of the Occident should be his pattern, he was no more astray than hundreds of others who allowed themselves to be swayed by the worship of the West.

At the age of 18, Morita Kanya, the twelfth, started to manage the hereditary theatre of his family, the Morita-za. In the early days of Kabuki the Morita-za was one of the important shibai of Yedo, but later became amalgamated with the Kawarazaki-za. In time the Kawarazaki-za gained the ascendancy, and for a long time the Morita-za was non-existent. When the Kawarazaki-za was destroyed by an earthquake, a suit was brought against its owners for the re-establishment of the Morita-za, and a licence was granted the latter shibai. No sooner was the victory won than the elder Morita Kanya died, and the son was left with large responsibilities.

The first step of Kanya was to obtain permission to move the Morita-za to the centre of Tokyo. The theatres grouped together in Saruwaka-cho were too far removed, and so close together that competition was harmful. If the theatres had been left in this condition, they would have speedily deteriorated. The people were no longer eager patrons of the theatres, and the actors were lukewarm.

Kanya did not sit down and wait for prosperity; he made it. He was quick to understand the trend of the times, and that it was fatal to repine at the decline of Kabuki, and thought it should keep pace with the rapid development of the nation in this remarkable period of transition.

His new theatre was opened in 1872 in Shintomi-cho, not far from the residential quarter of Tokyo set apart for foreigners. He made many changes, doing away with some of the long-established customs, which greatly astonished the good people of that day. His efforts were crowned with success, and he soon secured as supporters some of the most important men in the realm.

It was characteristic of Kanya that he should have cast aside his old friends for new. The fish-market was one of the strongest guilds in the town, and its members were a power when it came to the theatre. For years the fish dealers were among the staunchest supporters of the Morita-za, and Kanya had been in the habit of consulting these independent spirits on important occasions. But now he found they would be a clog on his actions. He knew he would lose their sympathy and support, but decided to sever relations with them.

To Kanya’s credit, he had early recognised the genius of the ninth Danjuro, having known and observed him from his youth, and with good judgement he invited Danjuro to become the head actor of his new theatre. Danjuro owed much to the fish-market people, since they had long been patrons of his family. The actor stood between two fires, and at last was obliged to leave the manager.

Danjuro then acted in a minor theatre with but poor success, for it soon had to close on account of financial losses, and he became a strolling player in the country. When he returned he was in a desperate plight, and was glad to accept an offer from Kanya to play in his theatre, the name of which, on account of debt, he had changed from Morita-za to Shintomi-za, after the name of the cho, or street, in which the theatre was built.

One of Kanya’s innovations was to light the theatre with gas. This created a great sensation at the time, although extraordinary Western innovations of all sorts were now common. He then gave special performances, sending out invitations to ministers of state, army and navy officers, and members of the diplomatic corps. The ushers on this occasion all wore frock coats, and the event was a great success.

As might have been expected, the plays Kanya selected did not please the regular patrons of shibai. Men of letters and returned travellers offered advice, and the Governor of Tokyo prefecture, with well-known scholars of the day, attended rehearsals. The reformers objected to Kabuki conventions. They wished to do away with the onnagata, the revolving stage, the hanamichi, and raise the moral tone of the plays. Kanya even entertained the idea that a theatre would one day be built under the patronage of the Imperial Household. He also tried what he called a night shibai, in imitation of the Western theatre, but this the playgoers did not like, and considered they had been cheated, having been so accustomed to the long, peaceful, all-day regime.

In consequence of Kanya’s strenuous efforts, Kabuki was elevated with a vengeance, and the actors were no longer looked down upon, and referred to as “riverside beggars”. This was largely due to the discovery that the actors of other lands enjoyed a much higher place in society than those of Japan, and the sudden change of front with regard to the theatre was but a phase of westernisation.

Mokuami, the chief playwright of the Meiji era, wrote a play based on a novel by Bulwer Lytton. Thirty-three Dutch residents of Yokohama presented a green curtain to Kanya, who was very much pleased, and later when he extended an invitation to the foreigners in Yokohama to attend a performance, the programmes were printed in English.

The first distinguished visitor from overseas to be invited to Kanya’s theatre was a German prince. Such dignitaries as princes of the blood, ministers of state, and the plenipotentiaries of foreign countries, were among Kanya’s guests. Later on a British official from Hong-Kong was entertained, and the Shintomi-za became, truly, a social centre.

General Grant, former President of the United States, visited the Shintomi-za during his stay in Japan in 1879. It was a proud moment for Kanya when, attired in the new Japanese badge of respectability, a frock coat, and accompanied by Danjuro similarly clad, they stepped out before the curtain and thanked Grant for honouring the theatre with his presence, and for the gift of a red curtain that he had presented to the manager.

But the height of Kanya’s Western intoxication was reached when he invited a Frenchwoman to sing, and English and American actors to play in the Shintomi-za.

In this Kanya showed little insight, for the audience could not understand the Western entertainers, and the venture ended in a serious loss to the theatre. Hence Kanya’s enthusiasm for reform cooled, and he turned to Danjuro, Kikugoro, and Sadanji as his only hope.

Kanya had been at the head of theatre affairs in Tokyo for so long that he received a shock when he heard of a project to launch a new theatre, the Kabuki-za, which was to be the largest and finest ever built in Japan. He started an opposition movement, concluded an alliance of four Tokyo theatres, and bound the chief actors to stay with him.

The greatest theatre in Japan was the plan of Fukuchi, who ranked with Mokuami as a playwright. When the theatre was completed, Fukuchi went to Danjuro and Kikugoro, to invite them to play in the Kabuki-za, but they refused, as they had pledged themselves to Kanya. Fukuchi was surprised at the tactics of the Shintomi-za manager, but pretended not to be disappointed, joked, and said he would have to paint his face and dance in their stead. But the best theatre and the best actors could not long remain apart. The shrewd Kanya, seeing an advantage to himself, at last consented to lend the three stars provided he was given a certain large sum. This was agreed upon, and his actors appeared at the opening performances of the Kabuki-za, which were a pronounced success from the start, while Kanya was enabled to pay off his pressing debts.

Morita Kanya, the twelfth, died in 1897, after a strenuous life spent in trying to improve the theatre, leaving behind him nothing but a legacy of bankruptcy to his three young sons.

He has been described as a man of extremes, proud one minute, humble the next. Sometimes he treated the actors as though they were his own children, and again regarded them as his enemies. Prosperity and failure were his portions. A newspaper writer, commenting upon Kanya, likened him to a long-tailed pheasant pleased with its plumes that stood beside a river looking at its reflection, and at last fell in and was drowned.

His two actor sons, however, have made up for their father’s delinquencies. They suffered poverty while young, Danjuro, Kikugoro, and other friends of Kanya providing a sum for their living and education. Both received their stage discipline under Tamura Nariyoshi, the beloved theatre manager and contemporary of Kanya, who, until his death a few years ago, was the acknowledged Kabuki authority in Tokyo. Bando Mitsugoro, the elder son of Kanya, is one of the best dancers of the Tokyo stage, excelling in the music-drama. His face and voice do not fit him for the rôle of a chief actor, but his remarkable skill as a dancer makes up for this. Morita Kanya, the thirteenth, the younger son of the Meiji manager, is one of the most brilliant young actors in Tokyo, handsome, versatile, eager, as was his father, for new things. He has won a distinct place in the affections of theatre-goers, and is but on the threshold of his career.

In the autumn of 1921 the Kabuki-za was burned down; the actors of this theatre were obliged to play at the Shintomi-za, and Kanya was avenged. Later his two sons, Mitsugoro and Kanya, for the first time played together in special plays in the parental theatre in memory of their father, the progressive manager of Meiji.

IV

Rise and Fall of Shimpa

A by-product of Kabuki in the form of Shimpa, or New School, was one of the most striking developments of Meiji. A second O-Kuni and Nagoya Sansaburo, in the persons of the beautiful geisha, Sada Yakko, and her political-agitator husband, Kawakami Otojiro, started this form of entertainment. But unlike the founders of Kabuki, their efforts were resultless. Shimpa consisted chiefly of crude melodrama, and while it reached a certain standard, it has now outlived its usefulness, and is practically extinct.

The idea of setting up an opposition to Kabuki grew out of the activities of one Sudo in Osaka. He had been a samurai, but fled from home without his father’s consent, earned his living in Tokyo while studying, and went to Osaka where he spent his time in arguments about popular freedom. He began to lecture in public places, airing his views about the rights of the people, and at last wrote a political novel, which he sought to dramatise the better to spread his doctrines. In front of the theatre where the piece was given there was a large arch erected by the Asahi Shimbun, a newspaper that had made its influence felt at this date, 1881.

A spectator of this performance was Kawakami Otojiro. The idea of a students’ theatre, where all the burning questions of the day could be preached to the people, seized hold of him, and he never rested until he had formed a company for this purpose.

Kawakami was one of a large family living in a village, and they had a hard struggle for existence. At the age of 19 he was a policeman, but this did not satisfy the ambitious youth. With his sword for protection, his feet roughly shod with straw sandals, he came to Tokyo seeking his fortune. He had dreams of becoming a minister of state in the future, and when he arrived at the railway station in the capital, we are told he was surprised to find it all so different from the village life he knew.

Kawakami did not have sufficient money in his pocket to take a lodging at an inn, and he slept under the stars. At times he took refuge in the shade of a temple. He found employment by serving a priest of Zojo-ji, the great Shiba temple in Tokyo, and later became a servant to Fukuzawa, the founder of Keio University and great liberal educator of Meiji.

Joining the ranks of the soshi, or turbulent agitators, Kawakami began to make political speeches, and was repeatedly put in prison because of the freedom of his remarks. But the more he was arrested, the more eloquent he became. To earn a living, and at the same time spread the ferment of new ideas, he became a story-teller in a yose, or entertainment hall. This was a temporary expedient, and he soon began to interest himself in the starting of a theatre of his own.

He was regarded as a dangerous character and followed about by detectives, and therefore his theatrical debut was not striking. Both he and his wife were poorly clad, and the members of the company were in a miserable condition. In comparison with the performances of Danjuro, Kikugoro, and Sadanji, this new attempt was indeed very insignificant. Something had to be done to attract attention, and a piece was produced about Count Itagaki, the liberal statesman, who was represented as a radical and attacked by political assailants. Just at the moment when the hero was about to be killed, a number of policemen appeared on the hanamichi. There was great confusion in the audience, for the idea prevailed that the officers of the law had really visited the theatre. Kawakami explained they belonged to the play. The scheme worked well, and the theatre was crowded daily. Danjuro and Kikugoro came to see what it was all about, and the newly established actor felt greatly encouraged.

With ideas of political success still in his mind, he tried to run for parliament, but was unsuccessful, gave up his ambition in this regard, and settled down in earnest to acting.

Then a plan to go to America took possession of him, and he started off to conquer the new world in a small boat, accompanied by Sada Yakko, her little niece, and a dog. They set sail from Omori, a suburb of Tokyo, on the shore of Tokyo Bay. They lost their bearings and drifted into Yokosuka, where the authorities were on the point of arresting the couple for thus entering a naval port.

This bad beginning did not deter them, and having disposed of the supercargo, the niece and the dog, a new start was made, but the wind was high, the boat began to fill, and they regretted their temerity and resigned their fate to providence. Their situation at one time became so dangerous that Kawakami invoked the aid of Buddha. He rowed, and Sada Yakko tried to stop the inrush of water that came into the boat quicker than she could bail it out. Shipwrecked near a fishing village, they were rescued, well treated, and stayed in this place for some time. The gossips of Tokyo said that Kawakami wished to gain notoriety, the better to increase his popularity as an actor, and that this was the reason the modern O-Kuni and Sansaburo had undertaken such a hazardous trip.

Nothing daunted, Kawakami and Sada Yakko again started off for America with a company of players. This time they took passage on an ocean liner, and upon reaching San Francisco were so poor they had no money with which to buy food, and were obliged to ask one of their countrymen to give them some rice which they boiled themselves. However, they appeared in a theatre and obtained the wherewithal to go on to New York, where they had little to eat for days. But Kawakami was a man of resource, and dressing his company in the variegated armour of Old Japan, part of his theatrical equipment, and Sada Yakko attired in a gay kimono, they walked through the streets of New York. All were so hungry that little walking was done, but this unusual Oriental procession attracted attention, people flocked to see them, and within a few days they had made a considerable sum.

Two other trips abroad were taken by the intrepid Kawakami and the attractive Sada Yakko. They played before King Edward and Queen Alexandra, and the President of France. The Tsar of Russia presented Kawakami with a gold watch.

Thus Kawakami did much to delay a true recognition of Kabuki and the fine actors of Japan. He was nothing more than an adventurer in the realm of the theatre; his performances were in no sense characteristic; in fact, he was an outsider and an amateur who ignored all that had gone before, building a structure on the sands that collapsed after his death. His countrymen who saw his hybrid plays in England and France and America hung their heads, ashamed at the bold effrontery of the man thus strutting upon the Western stage as a representative actor of Japan. The poor impression he gave of Japan’s theatre art has not been erased, since no leading Kabuki actor has yet been seen in the West to show what is sincere and true on the Japanese stage.

One of Kawakami’s announcements was as follows: “Our national drama is very vulgar, and only fitted to please ignorant and common people, and is not for great men or sages. Some people wish to improve it, but this is of no use. Therefore, I am going to do away with the old style and have a shibai with men and women players, and abolish Joruri. The chief idea of our improvement lies in the spirit of the actors. We do not lay stress on the outward appearances of the actors.”

When Kawakami returned from Europe he produced _Hamlet_, but the stage entrance of the Dane was made on a bicycle. _Othello_ and other Western masterpieces were similarly misrepresented.

The Sino-Japanese War was a good opportunity for Kawakami, and he made the best of it. He gave the people plays dealing with current events, filling the stage with soldiers. Long-winded speeches, sensation, lack of concentration were the features of the hastily written pieces of Shimpa. Yet Kawakami and his company soon became popular, and his theatres were packed. Ii Yoho and Kawai Takeo, two members of the company, were soon favourites, Ii had first studied medicine, and later entered a bank, before he joined Kawakami. Kawai missed his calling when he did not become a Kabuki onnagata, for he is the one genius Shimpa has produced,—a clever impersonator of women. Takada, Fujisawa, and Kawamura were also stars of the company.

The themes of the Shimpa plays were politics, the law courts, war, love, and murder,—just the strong theatrical fare the people wanted. When such material was not at hand, serial stories in the newspapers were dramatised, or European novels or plays were adapted.

Kawakami was more of an opportunist than a creator, and his school reached a certain standard and then stood still. The taste of the people demanded something better than his poorly constructed, blood-and-thunder pieces. The Shimpa could not reach the level the public demanded, and interest in it began steadily to decline. Ii and Kawai for a number of years carried on after Kawakami’s death, but at present they have separated, and the Shimpa school is practically non-existent.

When Shimpa was at its height, Kawakami’s company was largely composed of men, but Sada Yakko, who had a prominent rôle in most of the plays, was a brilliant exception. There is no doubt her beauty and attractiveness had much to do with Kawakami’s success. Training in dancing and other female accomplishments she had secured as a geisha, but preparation for stage work she had none, and was just pushed before the footlights at a moment’s notice to do the best she could. She appeared in a transient period, and the proper circumstances for the development of her grace and talent were lacking. She is but another example of the ruthlessness of Japan towards women of talent, there being scant recognition of their right to express themselves.

With a true understanding of her own handicap in the matter of stage education, she founded a school for actresses, and this was taken over by the Imperial Theatre, when it established a department to train young women. In 1919, seven years after the death of her husband, having failed to secure financial support to carry on the theatre Kawakami had founded in Osaka, she retired from active stage life, playing a farewell in a piece founded on the opera Aida as translated by Matsui Shoyo. On the occasion of a banquet given to celebrate the ten years’ activity of the Imperial Theatre actresses, Sada Yakko sat beside the star of this woman’s company, Ritsu-ko Mori, and it was felt that this second O-Kuni, three hundred years after the founding of Kabuki and the monopoly of the theatre by males, had once more given the impetus for a woman’s stage.

V

Reforms of Meiji

Meiji Kabuki is less a record of achievement than a reign of amateurs,—well-meaning outsiders acting under the illusion that Kabuki was flat, stale, and unprofitable, and that its only hope lay in abandoning its old-fashioned conventions for the realism of the Western stage.

At the beginning of the forty-five years of the Meiji period, reform was the idea uppermost in men’s minds, and Kabuki, like some family heirloom that has been relegated to the garret, was dragged out into the full glare of new criticism. Those who were loudest in their denunciation were officials and scholars who had returned from abroad and regarded their own stage as an inferior product. Everything was wrong; the plays were termed immoral, obscene, barbarous. The gentlemen of the aristocratic classes who suddenly turned their attention to Kabuki wished to make the stage refined and elegant. They objected to the artificial stage voice, the imaginative costumes and make-up, the symbolic gestures; the onnagata was an absurdity, and the revolving stage, the inconsistencies of the plots, the vulgarity of language, all came in for censure.

For three centuries the upper classes had held themselves aloof from the people’s theatre, and officialdom had wellnigh regulated it out of existence; now the leaders among intellectual circles wished to “improve” Kabuki, aiming to confine the Oriental temperament within Western stage conventions.

This fever to reform Kabuki was based on the belief that Kabuki’s exploitation of the unrealities was wrong, while the realism of the Western theatre was right.

It was, moreover, a conflict between those who put their trust in the idea that the aim and end of the theatre is to be literary, and those for whom the whole purpose of the theatre is to be theatrical.

A Dramatic Reform Association was established by Viscount Suyematsu, son-in-law of the great Prince Ito, with Marquis Inouye, Baron Kikuchi, Baron Shibusawa, and other men of importance as leaders. This society encouraged Danjuro to act in new historical plays based on accuracy of fact, correct settings, and appropriate costumes. Danjuro called this new form of play Katsureki, or Living History.

But the people soon lost interest in such offerings. Weak in dramatic values, the whole emphasis in these pieces was placed on the dialogue, which, however, had little significance. These imitations of the talking play of the West were quite opposed to the forms of Kabuki, whose whole worth lay in the unity of the theatre arts,—colour, movement, music, and acting. Danjuro was criticised on all sides for his proud attitude and noble bearing, and he was advised to come down to the people and perform something they could understand and appreciate.

In consequence Danjuro returned to the masterpieces of his family, pleasing the audience with aragoto and jidaimono, the very theatrical play-forms the reformers had decried; Kikugoro was popular in sewamono, depicting the life of Yedo as written by Mokuami. All was well with Kabuki again, and the people forgot that the decadence of their stage had set in, and that it had become inert and lifeless, according to the higher criticism of the time.

Literary men discussed the theatre in magazines and the press, and societies were formed to produce imported plays. Scholars and professors were arrayed on one side, the people who liked Kabuki undiluted shouted on the other. It was clear that the new ideas were in direct conflict with the popular taste.

The sudden interest in the actors was due largely to the realisation they had not been fairly treated in the past. This awakened consciousness with regard to the actors had been caused in part by the attitude of Occidentals towards shibai.

In 1887 the Italian Minister to Tokyo, Signor Martino, who was a great admirer of Danjuro, invited him to the Legation to dine with some of the greatest dignitaries in the land, the late Prince Ito, Prince Mori, and others, who must have been not a little surprised to find one of the “riverside beggars” asked to share the same board. On this occasion the Minister, in making a toast to Danjuro, said it was much easier to become a minister of state than the first actor of a land. There was also General Grant’s visit to the Shintomi-za, and his warm appreciation of the entertainment, and later the appearance of Danjuro, Kikugoro, and Sadanji before the Emperor in the garden of Marquis Inouye.