Kabuki

I

One overwhelming motive is to be found in the plays of the Doll-theatre and Kabuki—loyalty and self-sacrifice. These were the popular themes that stirred the people to the depths.

It is the conflict of giri (sense of justice, duty, obligation) and ninjo (humanity, sentiment, feeling) which forms the backbone of all the drama produced before the Restoration of the Emperor in 1868. Lord Macaulay has said somewhere that we may safely conclude that the feelings and opinions which pervade the whole dramatic literature of a generation are feelings and opinions of which the men of that generation partook.

This is true in a particular sense of the loyalty tragedies enacted by the marionettes and played by the Kabuki yakusha, for not only did these representations inculcate in the masses a passion for service and self-abnegation, but in them are faithfully mirrored the life of Japan’s feudal age.

If, as Mr. St. John Ervine has said, “the supreme test of a nation’s health is its capacity to produce and to appreciate tragedy”, then these old tragedies, full of the devotion of man for master, the filial duty of children, the faithfulness of wives, and readiness to lay down life for a cause, are revelations of the peculiar virtues and strength of soul that have characterised the humbler people of Japan for the past two hundred years.

Of the many loyalty pieces that come to mind, few are more typical than the long, complicated play concerning the exiled Michizane, the patron saint of Japanese literature, Sugawara Denju Tenarai Kagami (lit., Sugawara-Family-instruction-hand-writing-mirror). To Takeda Izumo, the Doll-theatre playwright, Kabuki owes a debt of gratitude for this loyalty masterpiece that is the test of the modern actor’s ability. It has even found its way in mutilated form to the London stage as The Pine Tree, and has been performed on the New York stage as Bushido.

Terakoya, or The Village School, is but one of many fine scenes in this long drama dealing with Sugawara Michizane, an historical character who lived a thousand years ago, suffered exile because of a court intrigue, and is venerated to-day as the patron saint of literature. The loyalty of Michizane’s servants, the triplets, called after the plum, cherry, and pine trees, or Umeomaru, Sakuramaru, and Matsuomaru, forms the complicated strands of the drama. Genzo, who has been in the service of the high dignitary and learned writing and letters under him, attempts to hide the heir to the Sugawara family, whom the unrelenting enemy wishes to destroy. Hoping to evade the searching eyes of the villain, Genzo starts a school in a distant village.

There is the familiar opening, the village children busy at their desks writing in their very much-used copy-books, the little son of Michizane, although in disguise, distinguished from the others by his aristocratic bearing. The fat dunce is punished by Genzo’s wife, and stands on his desk with a lighted incense stick in his hand, admonished not to stir until it is burned down.

Matsuomaru’s wife comes to place her son Kotaru in the school, but in reality to give him as a willing sacrifice that he may become a substitute for the princely heir whom the enemy seeks to kill.

Genzo’s entrance by way of the hanamichi focusses all attention upon him. He walks slowly and sadly, with folded arms. For he is faced with a situation which will test his loyalty to the fullest extent. He must save his master’s son. Entering the school the children bow respectfully. He calls two of the boys by name and they answer, raising their heads. But they are country-bred, and cannot be substituted for the prince.

The dejected schoolmaster sinks down deep in meditation, when his wife introduces the new pupil, the son of the faithful Matsuomaru. He does not look at the child at first, but when he does he gives a start, for the handsome boy is a veritable solution of his difficulties. He gazes steadfastly into his face, showing his determination. If the worst should happen, he will be obliged to kill the newcomer as the only means of saving the little prince.

A gorgeous red-faced official arrives to receive the head of the prince, and Matsuomaru accompanies him for purposes of identification, while the fathers of the pupils prostrate themselves humbly on the hanamichi, waiting to take their precious children home, afraid of the peril that awaits one of the pupils in Genzo’s school.

The examination by the pompous official of the school children must always remain a classic of the Japanese stage, as one by one they are called, the official placing his fan under their chins to look into their upturned faces, Matsuomaru shaking his head as the country bumpkins pass before him,—a comic relief from the tenseness created by the coming tragedy.

Not finding the prince, the official and his numerous attendants, or country policemen, file into the school and take possession. Matsuomaru says that not even an ant can escape, as a warning to Genzo, and the impatient official demands that the head may be cut off without delay.

Genzo hesitates; the head-box the official has brought is under his arm. Then he goes to an inner room, and the sound of the blow of a sword is heard. Genzo returns and the box with its gory trophy is placed before Matsuomaru for final judgement. The actor taking the rôle of Matsuomaru suggests without words Matsuomaru’s anxiety. The face of Michizane’s heir may confront him, or he may be obliged to look upon the face of his own child, and this forms one of the most dramatic situations in the scene.

“Good!” he says at last. “There is no mistake! It is the real head!”—and he covers it up quickly, since he cannot bear the sight of Kotaru’s face.

Genzo, who has been watching closely, ready to strike Matsuomaru down with his sword should he disclaim the head, exchanges an amazed but relieved glance with his wife. The tension is over.

Then comes the explanation, Matsuomaru asking how Kotaru behaved knowing that he had to die for the prince; the regrets of Genzo and his wife; the meeting of the little prince with his mother. Of all the countless loyalty scenes of the Japanese stage, Terakoya for construction, pathos, and swiftness of movement cannot be surpassed.

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Another scene that stands out vividly among the loyalty plays is also by Takeda Izumo, and it would be difficult to judge which displays the better workmanship, Terakoya, The Village School, or the Sushi-ya scene from Yoshitsune Sembonzakura. Yoshitsune is the name of that legendary hero of Japan whose adventures form the plots for many a Kabuki play, and Sembonzakura signifies ten thousand cherry trees, suggesting something of the lustre and fame of Yoshitsune’s name.

Sushi-ya is a humble shop where rice sandwiches stuffed with vegetables or fish are sold. It was in this sushi-ya that a Heike prince lived in disguise.

The interior of the sushi-ya is shown, wooden buckets arranged in neat rows. The young man of the shop, who is in reality the Heike prince, enters with a small tub slung over his shoulder, as he has been about the business of the shop. O-Sato, daughter of the proprietor, loves the effeminate youth, and is seen making overtures to him, which he does not particularly relish. Gonta, the prodigal son of the family, returns home.

This character has the bushy hair which Kabuki has conventionalised to identify robbers and bold, bad men. His large black-and-white-checked kimono is in striking contrast to his bare skin and the inky blackness of his wig. He has come after money, and knows well how to play upon the feelings of his mother. She is inclined to scold him at first, but he relates a tale of woe with such telling force that she is instantly won over to his side.

When Gonta turns his face towards his fond parent his countenance expresses all degrees of contrition and misery, but when he takes the audience into his confidence he swiftly changes to the prodigal again, crafty and watchful, lest his good acting in the rôle of a much-abused person may fail to secure him the advantage he desires.

The mother goes to open a chest of drawers to give him some money, but she cannot unlock it. Gonta, who really belongs to the light-fingered gentry, easily picks the lock and helps himself generously. Some one is heard approaching, and to hide his newly acquired riches he places the money in one of the sushi tubs standing on the verandah, and disappears behind the blue and white curtain that separates the shop from the dwelling.

By way of the hanamichi, the old keeper of the sushi-ya returns home in a state of agitation, with some object concealed under his arm wrapped in a kimono, and when the prince, in the capacity of a servant of the place, comes to welcome him, the master sends him on an errand, and when alone unwraps a human head and slips it for concealment into a tub standing next to that in which Gonta has deposited his ill-gotten gains.

Disclosing his secret to the prince, the old man tells him how his enemies are searching for him, but that he accidentally came upon the body of a samurai who had been killed in a fray and with whose head he intends to mislead the enemy.

Shortly after, Gonta comes forth, seizes the tub with the head and makes a hurried exit by the hanamichi. Then the wife and child of the prince appear. O-Sato, who has been sleeping behind a low screen, awakens at the sound of their voices and realises the high degree of her supposed lover. Her love-dream over, she is weepingly respectful to the fine lady.

For safety’s sake, the Heike prince and his family leave the house, and have barely escaped before a resplendent warrior walks with stately tread through the audience, accompanied by a retinue of attendants. He is dressed in black and white, with a wonderful head-dress, the decorations of which are like the golden antennae of an insect, glittering in the mellow glow of the lights carried by the torch-bearers.

In terror the sushi-ya runs to meet the train and peers up into their faces, but they pay little attention. The old man, at the command of the grandee, places the sushi tub which he thinks contains the head in front of the examiner, who orders that the ghastly object be brought forth. The mother has seen her erring son, Gonta, place the money in that very tub, and she objects to the examination of the contents since she knows what a disappointment awaits her husband.

While they struggle over the tub, Gonta strides bravely along the hanamichi, full of importance, the sushi tub containing the head under his arm. This he offers for the examiner’s inspection, and so saves the day!

But the parents think that he has proved disloyal and taken the head of the prince for the sake of the reward, and their belief is strengthened when they see that he has with him the supposed wife and child of the prince, gagged and bound, whom he treats in the most insulting manner.

The pompous official then demands the head. The torch-bearers draw near that he may view it the better. He unfolds his gold fan and continues to gaze for a long time, conveying to the audience without words that he is satisfied it is the head of Prince Koremori, and prepares to depart. Gonta watches his every movement, fearful that something may happen at the last moment to upset his carefully made plans. Before the official departs he presents Gonta with a gift in the shape of a kimono.

No sooner has the examiner left, than the sushi-ya, overcome at the idea of his son’s lack of loyalty in giving up the prince and his family to the enemy, falls on Gonta with his sword and pierces him to the heart.

With his remaining strength, poor, misjudged Gonta places a whistle to his mouth, and the true prince, with his wife and child, come at the call from their hiding-place. It is Gonta’s own wife and child who have been sacrificed. The parents realise too late what has happened, and are overwhelmed with grief, and the prince examining the garment given to Gonta discovers that part of a priest’s robe has been hidden within its folds. He takes the suggestion and puts it on, realising that the official was well aware that the head placed in front of him was not that of Koremori, and had sent this hint to the Heike prince to retire to a monastery.

The dying Gonta surrounded by the now priest-prince and his wife and child, his own parents and sister, breathes his last as the curtain is drawn amid the noise of the loud clapping of two pieces of wood, which in Kabuki always signifies the end of the play.

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Another scene from a loyalty play, Sendaihagi (Sendai referring to former generations, and hagi, a flowering shrub), written by Matsu Kanshi for the Doll-theatre in 1784, has withstood the shocks of time so well that it may be seen many times a year on the modern stages of the three cities, Tokyo, Osaka, and Kyoto.

It concerns a young daimyo, one of the wealthiest among the feudal lords, who led a dissolute life. The lord’s excesses were encouraged by a relative, who intrigued to have him removed from the headship of the family that he might manage the domain to his own benefit. There was a small heir, Tsurukiyo, in the way of the final completion of this dark design, and Masaoka, his faithful nurse, was ever watchful in her protection of him.

The finest scene in Sendaihagi is that in which Masaoka prepares the food for Tsurukiyo, for she knows that his enemies will attempt to poison him. The splendid room of a great daimyo’s ancestral mansion is a strong contrast to the meagre fare the faithful nurse prepares.

At all costs she must cook the meal herself, for enemies lurk in all parts of the house, and have been given orders to kill the boy who stands in the way of the coveted inheritance.

Masaoka unfolds a low gold screen, disclosing the utensils used in the tea ceremony, and slowly begins to make the meal for the little prince and her son Semmatsu, who is his playmate. The children ask when the rice will be cooked, as they are very hungry, and trying to forget the pangs of hunger they engage in play. Masaoka, busy at her work, is overcome with emotion, as she alone realises the desperate situation, and the peril which threatens Tsurukiyo.

With this fear at her heart, she does not go about her task happily or briskly, but pauses now and then to weep.

When Tsurukiyo comes to take a look at the boiling pot, inquiring how long it will be before the meal is ready, he surprises his nurse in a tearful mood. But she regains her composure, and announces that the rice will soon be boiled. A flock of sparrows fly near the verandah, and Tsurukiyo throws them some uncooked grains of rice. After the sparrows have disappeared, the children realise their hunger again and make a fresh appeal. Semmatsu, who is patience itself, understands that he must amuse the prince and begins to sing a song and clap his hands, in which pastime Tsurukiyo joins.

This does not divert for long, and Tsurukiyo becomes angry at repeated delays and murmurs discontentedly, his small companion shedding tears because he is unable to console him. Finally Tsurukiyo says that even the sparrows are fed, but that they have nothing to eat.

After the children have partaken of Masaoka’s frugal repast of plain boiled rice, the action is rapid. An aged relative of the family enters clad in gold brocade, her white hair flowing down her back, guided over the hanamichi by maids bearing lanterns, and an accomplice carrying the box of poisoned cakes, a gift for Tsurukiyo.

As his fare has been of the scantiest, Tsurukiyo looks longingly at this box, but a whispered word from Masaoka warns him in time. Semmatsu is mistaken for Tsurukiyo, and the wicked woman who has been commissioned to kill him performs her task in a cruel fashion, Masaoka sacrificing the life of her son in order to save that of the little lord.

II

The working out of the ends of justice, the righting of wrongs, the trailing of a murderer for years by the entire members of a family, such were the plots that appealed to the audiences of Old Japan, and the writers of plays knew well how to serve their desires.

As the secret map describing a lost gold mine, or parchment hidden in the head of a bronze idol relating to a buried treasure starts the interminable, harrowing incidents of a modern cinematograph serial, the subject of revenge for wrong done held together the many scenes and acts of the Doll-theatre and Kabuki plays.

The greatest revenge play of Japan is Chushingura (lit., Loyal Retainers’ Storehouse), or the story of the faithful Forty-seven Ronin, who waited an opportunity to slay the miserable old villain who had caused their lord, Hangan, to commit harakiri, and when they had accomplished their end died as one man by their own hands.

Produced in 1748, Chushingura was written by Takeda Izumo in collaboration with Namiki Senryu and Miyoshi Shoraku.

If the final test of drama be character, then the claim of Chushingura to a first place among the plays of Japan is thoroughly justified.

First and foremost, there is Yuranosuke, the leader of the loyal Forty-seven. Both his entrance upon the harakiri scene to catch the dying request of his feudal lord, Enya Hangan, and his exit sternly resolved to avenge the death of his master, are things to remember, not only because they show the true dramatic situations born of a good dramatist, but also because the actor suggests so powerfully Yuranosuke’s emotions.

Hangan must carry out the severe decree in the presence of the officials who have announced the penalty for his offence committed within the Shogun’s palace. He hesitates, since he is anxious to see his chief retainer before he bids farewell to the world.

Yuranosuke, who has been sent for, hastening on his way from Hangan’s fief in the provinces, has not yet reached the Yedo mansion of his lord. The audience, feeling the suspense, watches the hanamichi. At the very last moment he comes along the narrow way above the heads of the playgoers without noise or clatter, dropping down on his knees humbly before he reaches the stage proper. Sorrow, anxiety, respect—all are mingled in his manner.

Not a moment too soon, he catches Hangan’s last words, and gives him the consolation he needs so sorely. Yuranosuke takes the dirk from the lifeless hand, pays the last marks of respect to the body, and places it within the palanquin to be carried to the temple for the burial service.

And what a situation it is for a good actor, as Yuranosuke with composure, yet regretfully, performs his duties in a mansion that is to know his master no longer! Grouped about are the retainers who have served the lord since childhood, and whose fathers and forefathers were employed in like capacity under the lord’s ancestors, suddenly made ronin, unattached samurai, set adrift, to wander about the land! Castle and lands confiscated, wives and children turned out-of-doors, men ready to unsheathe their swords in their lord’s defence, depending on him for their living and well-being, all to be scattered to the winds to lead poverty-stricken existences. Rough justice the men would have immediately, but the superior-minded Yuranosuke begs them to wait for a better opportunity.

Left alone outside the red gate of his master’s yashiki, Yuranosuke suggests his future plan, as drawing forth the bloodstained dirk he gazes upon it, there being no doubt that he is prepared to sacrifice his life in the cause of righting the great wrong inflicted upon the house and all its dependents.

For contrast in character there is the self-controlled, well-bred Hangan, trying his best to behave himself as becomes his rank and station, and the unscrupulous old official Moronao, hardened in the school of intrigue. If only Hangan’s men had taken the precaution to bribe the crafty Moronao as had the representative of Wakasanosuke, Hangan’s friend! But then there would have been no play. Unconscious that he is expected to stoop so low, Hangan keeps watch over himself, as Moronao by taunt and insult tries to make him take the offensive that is to cost him so dearly.

In the fourth act, again comes the clash of good and evil. The disloyal Sadakuro in the midst of the faithful has turned highwayman, seeking his livelihood by waylaying travellers. A colour-print actor come to life, he seems to be,—his whitened legs, arms, and chest vivid against the black kimono that is tucked into his belt; the black, bushy robber’s wig against the white face,—a picture in black and white.

As though quite accustomed to put wayfarers out of commission, Sadakuro halts old Yoichibei, slays him with a sword and throws the body over the hillside, then wrings out his wet clothes. How much suggestion plays its part in Kabuki acting may be seen throughout Chushingura, but nothing is more interesting than Sadakuro’s wordless play, as he wrings the rain from his kimono and wipes the imaginary drops from his face, bringing before our eyes his wild life in the lonely places, showing the high courage of the samurai, yet the hardened soul of the criminal.

No doubt the dramatist created him to make the deeds of the loyal retainers shine forth all the more brightly. And so he stands, counting with satisfaction his booty, when a stray shot from Kanpei’s gun strikes him in the chest, dyeing him red, an evildoer gone to his just deserts.

There is, again, the erring Kanpei, Hangan’s servant, loitering about with O-Karu, a maidservant of his mistress, when he should have been attending to his duties by waiting at the Shogun’s gate. He returns to find the uproar caused by Hangan’s attack upon Moronao. Fearing that he will be censured for his neglect, he runs off with O-Karu to the home of her father, Yoichibei, in the country, hoping to return to the service of his lord when they are both pardoned.

Yoichibei, glad to aid Kanpei in his endeavour to raise funds that he may contribute towards the cause, sells O-Karu to a house in Kyoto, and is returning home with the money when struck down by Sadakuro. Kanpei, out hunting, runs after a wild boar, but finds he has killed a man instead, and takes the purse he finds on Sadakuro, reaching home to discover that O-Karu is on the point of leaving for Kyoto, and that the purse he has secreted within the folds of his kimono must be that of Yoichibei, and in consequence that he has killed his father-in-law.

When Yoichibei’s body is brought into the cottage the old widow believes Kanpei to have committed the crime. He cannot save his wife, O-Karu; he believes himself guilty, and when two of the ronin arrive, sent by Yuranosuke to return a sum of money already sent by Kanpei, as he has not yet been reinstated in the good favour of the band, Kanpei can stand it no longer and commits harakiri. Before he expires he is cleared, for Yoichibei’s wound was not made by Kanpei’s gun but Sadakuro’s sword. Ghastly and realistic is Kanpei’s end, but he is not forgotten, and is regarded henceforth as one of the band.

There is, also, that gay scene in the Kyoto tea-house where Yuranosuke leads a dissipated life in order to put the spies of Moronao off the scent, and the sadness of farewell when the leader of the Forty-seven takes leave of his wife and home, and finally the gathering together on a snowy day, and the storming of the great red gate that guards the entrance to the residence of the enemy. Swarming within they return in triumph with the head of the villain. Later they commit harakiri, and are buried together with their lord in the compound of Senkaku-ji, the Buddhist temple in Tokyo, where before their tombs the incense is still kept burning.

III

Those who believe that Kabuki has no love scenes might be enlightened after witnessing some of the tender passages in plays that have pleased audiences for two centuries, and are yet able to hold the attention, as modern pieces scarcely ever do.

Miuranosuke, the brave young hero, comes home wounded from the battle because he has heard his mother is ill. He serves the great Lord Yoriye, of Sakamoto Castle, on Lake Biwa, who has declared war upon Hojo Tokimasa of Kamakura. Toki-hime, his betrothed, is the daughter of Tokimasa, and Miuranosuke finds that his future wife is the daughter of the sworn enemy, and that she is taking care of his mother in a poor country cottage, where they have taken shelter.

Toki-hime in her long scarlet robe, into which is woven a pattern of golden winding water and flowers, and wearing a silver head-dress that forms a frame to her face—dainty, appealing, the very spirit of youth and devotion,—shines forth in her splendour, the shabby cottage interior as a setting.

Miuranosuke makes a young warrior to suit the taste of the most carping of critics. Staggering through the audience, clad in sky-blue brocade and scarlet armour, the heads of the people in the boxes on a level with the hanamichi turn to see his entrance. He reaches the gate of the cottage and then sinks down from exhaustion. Toki-hime quickly restores him, and they express their devotion for each other in postures that instead of tearing the affections to tatters, as is the way with realism, suggest the depth of their feeling, the minstrel singing and describing, and the samisen player beating the rhythms.

The hero’s aged mother, lying ill in bed, opens the shoji of her sick-room only to upbraid him for leaving the battle; she threatens to sever their relationship as mother and son unless he returns.

Then follows one of the best scenes in the province of onnagata acting. Toki-hime tries to aid Miuranosuke to attire himself in his armour, and her grace and delicacy are emphasised by the efforts she makes to carry the heavy helmet, which at last she is obliged to drag across the floor of the cottage.

Later Toki-hime is seen standing alone in quiet meditation by a dim oil light. Here is the eternal conflict in the female breast in all ages and all countries, the struggle between love and duty. Will she kill Miuranosuke’s mother as her father has commanded, giving her a sword for this express purpose, or will she be faithful to her love?

In the midst of her quandary a queer personage enters, dressed in the unmistakable costume of the Kabuki comedian: a bright yellow kimono with broad black stripes running from shoulder to shoulder, short baggy trousers made of horizontal stripes of brown and fawn, and the sleeves bound with broad bands of scarlet. To the overtures of the fool she turns a deaf ear.

When Toki-hime is just about to kill herself as the only way out of the difficulties that beset her, Miuranosuke stops her and says his doubts regarding her loyalty to him are at an end. He begs her to live a little longer in order to dispatch her father, his enemy, and as he intends to die in battle, pleads with her to join him in death, when they can be married in another world.

The playwright thus strains the love-loyalty and filial piety themes to the utmost.

Rather poor consolation for Toki-hime this, but her love for him conquers and she consents. Then the spies come and say that they have overheard all, and the arch-spy robed in black hastens on his way to inform her father, when there issues out of the well in the garden a deadly spear-thrust, and he is killed on the spot. An imposing personage clambers out of the well. He is Sasaki, staunch supporter of Miuranosuke, who has been masquerading as the comedian, and in that capacity tested Toki-hime’s fidelity.

There is a sound of battle, the clash of cymbals and the thunder of big drums, Miuranosuke and Sasaki must away to the fray. Toki-hime, winsome and wistful, watches their departure.

Word comes to Toki-hime at Kamakura that Miuranosuke has died on the battlefield. She is overwhelmed by sorrow. One day she gives Sasaki the opportunity to strike down her father, but when he examines the head that he has taken as a trophy, he finds to his bitter regret it is that of Toki-hime.

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Usuyuki, or Thin-Snow, and her lover, Sonobei Sayemon, are the youthful figures in a love idyll of the Doll-theatre of which Kabuki players never seem to tire.

They meet in cherry-blossom time at Kiyomizu, that fine old Buddhist temple built up on the steep hillside commanding a view of Kyoto nestling in its wide valley. This is always an appropriate play for the cherry season, and these flowers are used as a pendent curtain across the stage, while trees in full bloom are placed on either side, and in the centre there is an ornate red-lacquered temple structure.

In addition to its romance, the play of Usuyuki and Sayemon is one of the most famous sword pieces of the Japanese stage. Sayemon presents the gift of a sword to the temple, but an evil swordsmith damages it in order that Sayemon may be punished, jealousy prompting the villain to come between the lovers.

Usuyuki and Sayemon have just been married, when messengers arrive bearing accusations against Sayemon on account of the tampered sword. The affectionate, innocent young couple are parted. Usuyuki is taken into the custody of her husband’s father, and Sayemon entrusted to the keeping of his wife’s father.

Love laughs at barriers, however, and they secretly escape together. The fathers commit suicide that their children may be cleared of all doubts and suspicions, and Usuyuki and her husband return to enjoy an uninterrupted life of peace and happiness.

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Miyuki and Asojiro are household names in Japan, the chief figures in a romance that started one summer evening in Kyoto, when at a fire-fly festival on the river their boats came together, and they fell in love at first sight, exchanging fans on which they had written extemporaneous verse. They plighted their troth, but stern samurai business kept Asojiro in another part of the country, and Miyuki, neglected and forlorn, wept so much that she became blind, and started to wander about the country with her nurse trying to find her faithless lover.

The finest scene is that in which the blind girl plays the koto, or long harp-like instrument, at an inn where her lover is stopping. Asojiro and an elderly samurai are on a special mission, and his companion thinks only of his duty, and allows for no delinquency or soft-heartedness on the part of Asojiro, who is overcome when he finds the blind koto player, brought in by the innkeeper to amuse them, is no other than his own Miyuki.

All he can do is to give her some remembrance and a sum of money which he leaves with the innkeeper. By these tokens Miyuki knows that she has been in the presence of Asojiro, and half distracted she runs to the river to overtake her fleeing lover, who has been obliged by his taskmaster of a travelling companion to hasten on his way. The river has risen, and the ferrymen will not take any more passengers across. There are many wet eyes in the audience, for the parting of young lovers never fails to appeal to the tender-hearted in all countries the sun shines upon.

The playwright knew that his audience would be disappointed were the lovers never to meet again, and the sympathetic innkeeper makes a gash in his body in order that he may provide the blind maid with a liberal portion of his blood, whereby her eyesight is miraculously restored. Later she is united with Asojiro, and all ends well.

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No mention of the lovers in Japanese plays would be complete without the names of Yayegaki-hime and Katsuyori, characters in a Doll-theatre jidaimono by Chikamatsu Hanji, called Nijushiko (lit., Twenty-four Filial Persons), after a book of Chinese tales regarding the filial deeds of this exact number of personages.

This long play relates the rivalry between the heads of two clans, which is settled by the betrothal of the daughter of one great daimyo to the son of the other. But Yayegaki-hime’s father has in his keeping a much-treasured helmet belonging to Katsuyori’s family, and the young man dressed as a gardener secretly visits the house of his betrothed that he may secure the helmet.

Yayegaki-hime soon penetrates his disguise and in spite of his cold demeanour she wears her heart on her sleeve. They are in the midst of an exchange of affection when the eavesdropping father breaks in and spoils it all. He hands Katsuyori a letter enclosed in a lacquered box with the request that it be delivered at once. Then two villainous retainers are sent after, with intent to waylay and kill Katsuyori.

Meanwhile the faithful heroine decides to steal the helmet and carry it to Katsuyori. Fox fires are seen burning in the garden, and aided by the magic of foxes she becomes possessed of supernatural strength, and bearing the helmet aloft steals out of the house. Servants rushing in to prevent her escape are overcome by enchantment, and she flees along the hanamichi, the minstrel explaining that she traces her way across frozen Lake Suwa by the footmarks the accommodating and sympathetic foxes have left in the snow to guide her to her lover.

IV

Kabuki ghosts are more artistic than matters for psychical research. Supernatural visitors are dearly loved by playgoers in Japan, and as material for stage treatment the ghostly is handled with great skill.

Tall autumn grasses waving silvery plumes, a lonely deserted cottage that gives one a creepy sensation, a rising moon casting a melancholy effulgence, the distant booming of a temple bell—and ghostly Japan is well represented.

In such a play, a travelling silk-dealer neglects his wife and wanders far afield, experiencing many adventures. At last his steps turn homeward. His wife appears, but he does not know that she is a visitant from another world, although the audience is in the secret, the delicate suggestions of ghosthood preparing them for the supernatural. She tells him her sad story, he falls asleep, and she disappears in a truly ghost-like fashion, sinking down slowly behind the stone which marks her burial-place. The stage is darkened and with the light there is seen the reality—the dwelling in ruins and decay, tall weeds growing through the broken floor, and a pale moon throwing its white light over the deserted scene.

In a play by Mokuami, Sogoro, a fish-dealer, of a low type but chivalrous, comes to right the wrong done to his sister O-Tsuta, a maid in the residence of a daimyo. She has been tortured and put to death at the instigation of a man-servant in the lord’s service whose overtures she had spurned. Sogoro appears brandishing a sake tub, from which he has imbibed too freely. He is finally calmed by a gift of money for the girl’s funeral expenses, and the news that the plotter against his innocent sister has gone the way of all stage villains.

O-Tsuta, who has been sent to her untimely end under such wrongful circumstance, returns as an apparition. Her body has been thrown into the garden well and issues forth in a puff of smoke, a haggard, grey, emaciated spirit with uncanny movements appearing as a shadow on the shoji, or white paper window.

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Kasane is another ghostly heroine popular with Kabuki audiences. She is disfigured and deformed, and has been transformed from a pretty woman into one unpleasant to behold. Kasane has married Kinugawa, her dead sister’s husband, and, all unknowing, she is the victim of ghostly jealousy.

Her husband keeps her blissfully unaware of her facial defects, as he has forbidden her to look in a mirror. She does so, is overcome by horror, fights with Kinugawa and is killed. Her ghost rises out of the river, long, wan, grey, tapering, like a shadow that moves upward through no power of its own, to disappear in a similar strange fashion behind a bridge.

Once more the wraith appears calling Kinugawa to come, and he is just about to sink under the enchantment of the ghostly Kasane, when he thinks of a spell to break the chains of death that seem binding him and is released just as morning dawns. A black drop curtain falls revealing a sunny morning, people passing over the bridge, among them a charming young maiden, the very actor who impersonated the unfortunate Kasane but a moment before.

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Of all the ghostly heroines of Kabuki, O-Iwa is certainly the most tragic. She is the creation of Namboku Tsuruya in his play Yotsuya Kaidan, The Ghost of Yotsuya, the latter a thriving quarter of modern Tokyo.

Iyemon, oil-paper umbrella maker, one-time samurai, then ronin in hard luck, has a pretty young wife, O-Iwa, who has just borne him a child. His indifference to her is remarkable. The daughter of a well-to-do neighbour is in love with Iyemon, and her family conspire to put the wife out of the way by sending her a gift of medicine which is a powerful poison that will disfigure her face. The poor creature, weak and ill, unsuspecting the dark design, thankfully drinks the fatal cup. An old masseur takes pity on the unfortunate O-Iwa, and is thoroughly solicitous, a character that saves the play from becoming too sordid.

O-Iwa changed by the poison presents a hideous aspect, and the actor taking this rôle plays directly upon his audience.

The following scene shows Iyemon feasting at the neighbour’s house, where he is asked to put away his wife and marry their daughter. He consents, but his hesitation is the one redeeming quality to his credit. Then he returns home with set purpose to treat O-Iwa so shamefully that she will leave the abode of her own accord.

He refuses to give her money, even takes her clothing and the mosquito net, which he pretends to pawn. O-Iwa, shocked by her altered looks, overcome by her husband’s inhumanity, no longer desires to live, and kills herself with a sword.

Iyemon returns home once more to find her dead body, and at the same time discovers Kohei, the servant, whom Iyemon had gagged and imprisoned in the cupboard in a previous scene. Kohei is a witness to O-Iwa’s misery, and so Iyemon puts him out of the way. The two corpses are no sooner bundled out of sight by Iyemon’s ruffians than the bride arrives in state and there is a scramble to prepare for her. When Iyemon approaches his new wife she is still in her wedding robe. He takes off the white veil that covers her head and discovers the frightful visage of O-Iwa. Making a plunge with his sword he cuts off the head of his bride. In haste he runs to tell her father, when he encounters the ghost of Kohei, and using his weapon again he severs the head of his father-in-law.

The scene which follows, however, quite outdoes anything in the supernatural in which Kabuki is wont to specialise. Iyemon fishing in the river discovers the door to which the bodies of the two victims were tied when they were thrown into the water. O-Iwa raises her head and speaks in sepulchral tones, and the door turning over, Kohei’s ghost repeats its tragic phrase: “Master, medicine, please!” For these were the words Kohei used when interceding on O-Iwa’s behalf. The same actor takes the rôles of both ghosts, and the lightning change from wife to servant is left to the imagination of the spectators, and only the stage mechanics beneath the blue and white cotton waves know how the transformation is effected.

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Without doubt Botan Doro, The Peony Lantern, takes first place among the ghost plays of Kabuki. A Chinese tale retold by the professional story-teller, Encho, and dramatised by Mokuami and Fukuchi, the two outstanding playwrights of the Meiji era, it is always performed in midsummer. Ghosts are a cooling influence for theatre-goers surfeited with the sights and sounds of the hot thoroughfares, and shades from another world clad in grey, with wan, indistinct faces, seen vaguely behind weeping willow branches, seem appropriate stage characters in summer weather.

The chief characters in Botan Doro are O-Tsuyu, a beautiful maiden in love with Hagiwara Shinsaburo. There is also the young lady’s maid, and a picturesque evildoer, Tomozo.

O-Tsuya meeting secretly with her lover is suddenly surprised, and they are rudely parted. In despair, she commits suicide with her maid, and the ghostly shapes visit Shinsaburo nightly. A priest gives him a small golden image of the Goddess of Mercy to ward off her nocturnal visits, and puts up a charm to keep O-Tsuya away.

Tomozo, the hero’s faithless servant, steals the image and tells his wife that the ghost of O-Tsuya will appear and pay him a sum of money for hiding it, the influence of which prevents her from entering her lover’s house. He is firmly convinced the ghost will appear, and his look-out for the apparition is so full of surprise and contrast, and the suspense so well sustained, that the audience is thoroughly keyed up in anticipation. Tomozo and his wife talk so much of the ghost that every moment they think she has come, and soon are trembling with fear, the frightened wife taking refuge under the large green mosquito net suspended over her bed.

O-Tsuya and her maid are suddenly seen to float behind the drooping branches of a willow tree, seemingly suspended in air, the maid carrying the ghostly lantern, shaped like a pink peony, that gives out a dim and intermittent glow.

The transaction over between O-Tsuya and Tomozo, the ghosts make their way towards Shinsaburo’s house, but they cannot enter unless the Buddhist charm above the doorway is removed. This Tomozo accomplishes, and immediately as the two weird shapes vanish, a peony lantern is seen to rise mysteriously from mid-stage and without the aid of hands, sail through the air and enter an open space over the door. Shinsaburo is now left to the mercy of the ghosts, who claim him as their own and take him away from the land of the living.

There is a superstition concerning The Peony Lantern to the effect that actors who play the ghosts’ rôles soon pass away. This was brought home when the play was presented at the Imperial Theatre in August 1919. During the performances two of the most promising young actors of Tokyo, taking the rôles of mistress and maid, took ill and died within a week of each other. Nightly they had been seen, pale-faced, the hair worn long and dishevelled, the maid with the ghostly lantern in hand, moving behind the willow tree. Soon they were to become like the shades they impersonated, no longer of the earth, earthy.

V

The frequency with which heads—the variety that Salome bore on a charger when she danced before King Herod—enter into Kabuki plays would seem to bear out the pronouncement made by the late William Archer that the Japanese drama was “barbaric and insensate”. This was the impression made upon a Western critic on first contact with Kabuki during a brief visit to Japan. Considering, however, the wide range of Kabuki plays, this sweeping statement revealed but half-knowledge.

Even as the unnatural crimes in Shakespeare’s plays pleased the Elizabethans, so the playwrights of Old Japan provided strong fare for their feudal audiences. Unless the abstract motive of loyalty is recognised, the significance of a head symbol as a stage accessory is lost.

One of the best of many such loyalty pieces is Omi Genji, by Chikamatsu Hanji and Miyoshi Shoraku. Two brothers, Moritsuna and Takatsuna, descendants of the Genji clan, live near the lake of Omi. They are on different sides, one for the Shogun, the other a rebel. Moritsuna holds his brother’s son, Koshiro, as a hostage and tells his venerable mother to instruct the lad to commit harakiri that Takatsuna may be influenced to take an honourable course of action.

The boy is disinclined to listen to his grandmother, the more so as he sees his mother approaching the gate. His grandmother tries in vain to carry out the execution, but her love for her grandchild renders her powerless to act. Messengers arrive and relate in descriptive posture dances how the battle went and that Takatsuna has been killed. A representative of the Shogun comes with Takatsuna’s head in order that Moritsuna may identify it. He is Tokimasa, a dignified old warrior in gold armour, his white hair bound with a silver band, and comes through the audience followed by his retainers in armour, one carrying the head-box, another a chest of armour.

The head-box is placed in the centre of the stage and the ceremonial of examination proceeds. Moritsuna slowly seats himself in front of the box. With eyes that do not see, he carefully takes off the long upper portion and lifts up the shallow lower portion of the box on which rests the head, placing it on top of the cover which makes a stand for it, the face looking out toward the audience.

Koshiro, peering forth to see the head, disturbs the august assembly by leaping down from an upper room and committing harakiri, Moritsuna taking no notice of the tragic deed further than to upbraid him for his impolite behaviour in the presence of the exalted guest. He continues his silent examination of the head. The audience is so hushed that the stray notes of the samisen sound like drops of water echoing through a vacant house. It seems an endless time before he lowers his eyes, and the longer he evades looking the more the actor hypnotises the audience. At last Moritsuna’s brotherly affection overcomes his strong self-control, and conflicting emotions are seen upon his face.

Slowly his gaze travels down. It is the moment the audience have been awaiting. There is a slight start when his eyes rest full upon the face, an imperceptible surprise, and then a smile of relief. It is not the head of Takatsuna. His brother is still alive.

But even while smiling he makes up his mind to resort to subterfuge to deceive Tokimasa, and to hide the truth from this worthy person.

Moritsuna takes the head in his arms, addresses a lament to it, places it before the dignitary and declares it to be the true head of his brother. Here is revealed the psychology of the Oriental audience, for Moritsuna’s camouflage is mightily approved, and shows itself as something essentially Eastern.

Tokimasa retires and Moritsuna gives vent to sorrow that Koshiro should have sacrificed himself. The boy, realising that the head was not that of his father, and hoping to lead Tokimasa into the belief that it was, takes his own life—another species of Eastern camouflage. There is not a dry eye in the audience when the dying boy says farewell to all the members of the family, and breathing his last as a spy, hidden within the chest of armour, is discovered and killed.

The Occidental will say: What an unpleasant and disagreeable play with a gory head for chief object of interest! Yes, so it seems to Westerners accustomed to regard things, externals, as of more importance than the inner but more potent expression. To the Kabuki audience the head is not repugnant, nor suggestive of a corpse or bloodshed; it is merely the medium for the expression of Moritsuna’s emotion, and the whole interest centres not in the inanimate object, but in the art of the actor.

VI

Socialistic tendencies, dissatisfaction with the oppression of the governing class, often found expression in Kabuki plays. A favourite piece of this kind has the champion of the downtrodden, Banzuiin Chobei, for hero.

Chobei is at the head of a business that supplies men to feudal lords, kago bearers, attendants to travel in the long trains that escorted the daimyo in their goings and comings to and from the capital. His men are loyal to him and fearless, and when they encounter the samurai of a hatamoto, or direct retainer of the Shogun, called Mizuno, an evil character, there is a skirmish and Chobei’s side is victorious.

Mizuno and Chobei happen to meet in the theatre, the Murayama-za, one of Yedo’s first shibai. The play is progressing on the old-fashioned stage, when a drunkard bursts in through the audience and causes a disturbance. Chobei springs out of a box in the pit to help straighten things out. At this juncture Mizuno appears in an upper box reserved for the gentry to the left of the stage, and they exchange words. From this time onward Chobei is a marked man.

Mizuno’s messenger comes to Chobei’s dwelling, and delivers an invitation to dinner. Chobei’s wife does not wish him to accept, but he cannot refuse, as he would be taken for a coward. He says farewell to his wife and little son, gives his men last instructions, and sets forth.

Within Mizuno’s residence, Chobei is received with every sign of hospitality. He is unafraid, and behaves with the courtesy of manner that belongs to a man accustomed to stand up for what is just and right. An attendant purposely spills sake over his clothing, and then recommends that he take a bath. The maid leads him to the bath-room. The steam is issuing forth from the big tub. He is just about to enter when he is attacked. Chobei, with only his fists to defend himself, lays about him, and five men are stretched on the floor, the stage bath-room being considerably larger than that in real life.

The host then attacks, and even he is no match for the alert Chobei. Left alone he might have fought off his enemies, but one of the men strikes him from behind, and so he dies,—a victim to the treachery of that day.

Mizuno was afterwards ordered by the Government to commit harakiri to atone for this and other crimes. So says history, but Chobei’s memory is kept fresh by generations of actors.

Still another play of the people is that of Sakura Sogoro. He was the headman of a village not far from Tokyo. The people were oppressed by the feudal lord, and groaned under the taxes imposed until famine and destitution stared them in the face.

Sogoro decides to go to Yedo to present a petition to the Shogun, knowing that his life will be forfeit for this act of insubordination. When he returns, his wife and four sons are executed at the command of the daimyo.

He bids good-bye to his wife on a snowy evening, and tries to induce her to accept a divorce, and so escape the punishment that is bound to overtake the family. But this she refuses to do, preferring to share his fate. Sogoro trudging through the snow-drifts, with his eldest son clinging to him, and his wife and little ones looking forth from the open shoji, is a typical Kabuki farewell scene.

He knocks at the rude hut, where an old watchman is trying to sleep beside a few embers of charcoal, and guarding the boat that is chained to a stake just below on the marshy lagoon—or blue and white cotton cloth which represents the historical watercourse that bore Sogoro away on his desperate mission. Sogoro is recognised with joy by the watchman, who tries his best to dissuade him from going, but at last agrees to row him on his way, and breaks the chain, thus defying the law of the daimyo.

The direct appeal is made when the Shogun, after a hawking expedition, stops to rest at the shrine sacred to his ancestors in what is now known as Uyeno Park (Tokyo). The retinue is passing over a bridge connecting two red-lacquered buildings. Sogoro throws his petition, which a sympathetic follower of the Shogun secretes in his sleeve, and the procession passes on, leaving Sogoro bound, a martyr to the cause of the suffering country people.

Whenever this play is produced in Tokyo, the actors taking part repair to the district of Sakura where Sogoro lived and pay their respects to his shrine, likewise a little shrine is erected within the theatre where offerings of sake, fruit, and vegetables are made before the spirit of the man who died that the wrongs of the people might be righted.

VII

Love tragedies were in high favour, as may be seen by the number of plays produced that have for motive shinju, or the double suicide of unfortunate lovers who hope by departing this life to obliterate their sins and omissions and to be united in the after-world. Invariably the settings of these romances were the immoral quarters.

Chikamatsu Monzaemon wrote several pieces of this character, and they were so popular that they had a great deal to do with the encouragement of young people to become partners in the shuffling-off of this mortal coil.

If Chikamatsu had written little else, his characters Jihei and Koharu would save his name from oblivion. This piece, Sayo Shigure Tenno Amijima (lit., Evening-shower-heaven-net-island), was first staged in 1720 in the Osaka Doll-theatre, when Chikamatsu was in the sixties. He had taken an excursion to the ancient Shinto Shrine of Sumiyoshi, near Osaka, when the news reached him of the double suicide of a couple called Jihei and Koharu. He ordered his palanquin-bearers to carry him home as quickly as they could, and within his dwelling seized paper and writing brush and elaborated the ideas that had come to his mind, scarcely stopping to take breath until the play was finished.

Koharu is a belle of the Kinokuniya, a house in the Osaka pleasure quarters, and Jihei conducts a prosperous paper shop, and has a wife, O-San, and two children. His wife has been bestowed upon him by his parents, and as she is not his own choice, his wandering fancy is captivated by Koharu. He forgets everything in his infatuation, and is on the brink of ruin when O-San writes to Koharu asking her to give up Jihei. This Koharu consents to do after a struggle between her apparent duty and her love for the young man. Jihei, unacquainted with the facts, believes her false and mercenary.

Jihei cannot settle down to the domestic routine, and his thoughts will turn to Koharu. His peace of mind is further disturbed, for he learns that he has a rich rival who intends to purchase Koharu’s freedom and who has invented various belittling tales about his desertion of Koharu.

When O-San hears how things are, she declares that Koharu would die rather than submit to her new patron, and that Jihei must buy her out without delay. Her treasured kimono are given to Jihei, and, sobbing, the loyal wife says that although she and the children may have no clothing, reputation is dear to a man, and that the wealthy person who wishes to take possession of Koharu must be defeated at all costs.

O-San’s father then arrives on the scene, declaring that he has come to take her home, and that they must consider themselves divorced.

Beset on every side, Jihei and Koharu decide to die together. Jihei leaves the Kinokuniya after paying his account. Then he stands by the side of the house waiting for Koharu. His elder brother, Magoyemon, who fears that Jihei may do something rash, comes to inquire about him, and is told that Jihei has returned home and Koharu is sleeping. It is late at night, and Magoyemon has Jihei’s little son on his back to whom he says: “I hope you won’t take cold. You are unfortunate to have such a father”, which remark Jihei overhears as he hides in the shadow.

The night-watch strikes his two pieces of wood as a signal that all is well, and the sound echoes in the deserted street. Then Koharu keeps the tryst, and they run as fast as they can to the river-bank, where their bodies are found together in a clump of bamboo the next morning.

Equally familiar are Wankyu and Matsuyama in a drama of the gay quarters by Kino Kaion; while Hanshichi and Sankatsu in a long play by Takemoto Saburobei are stage characters known the length and breadth of Japan. Hanshichi, a victim of the marriage system, becomes enamoured of Sankatsu, which brings so many complications around them, they are obliged to commit shinju, Hanshichi’s long-suffering wife O-Sono adopting their daughter as her own.

Almost all the playwrights of this period pandered to the popular taste, and wrote long plays with the gay world as background, but there is a marked difference in the compositions of the Osaka and Yedo writers, since the tastes of the audiences of these two towns were so unlike. The tragic heroines of the Yedo Yoshiwara did not resort to shinju to the same alarming extent as did the members of the frail sisterhood in Osaka.

Ihara Seiseiin, explaining the close connection between the gay world and shibai, says: “Foreigners sometimes ridicule the intimate relations between the plays and the Yoshiwara. This was not the fault of Kabuki, but rather must be attributed to the state of society at that time. Just as priests and temples had ruled the spirit of the people during the Hojo and Ashikaga periods, so during the Tokugawa age it was the courtesans’ quarters which influenced the customs and spirit of the people. The leading characters of the Nō plays were priests, while the plays of the people related to heroines of the gay world.”

The patronage of these quarters and interest in plays dealing with the inmates was largely a protest against the official desire to make of society one drab, colourless pattern. The immoral quarters were almost the only places where men could assemble for relaxation and amusement. Peace continued for more than two centuries, and the samurai had nothing to do. The country was shut off from intercourse with the outside world, the atmosphere grew stagnant, and men resorted to the pleasure-quarters as a relief from boredom. In consequence, gossip of prostitutes, their love stories and tragedies, formed the chief topics of the day, and these were faithfully reflected in the works of the Doll-theatre and Kabuki playwrights.

VIII

A partiality for the weird is one of the most pronounced tastes of Kabuki.

Modori Bashi, a shosagoto, by Mokuami, has for hero Watanabe Tsuna, who meets a beautiful woman and discovers she is a supernatural creature. He pursues her into the air, fights with her, and at last as a climax cuts off her arm, after which he drops down upon the roof of a temple. The play is full of demon lore.

The time of Modori Bashi is a thousand years ago, and the place the Modori bridge of Kyoto by moonlight. Watanabe wears one of those exaggerated costumes so characteristic of shosagoto, and looks cautiously at the bridge which is supposed to be enchanted. The long branches of a willow tree move as though a ghostly wind was blowing, although the curious-minded wonder how many stage assistants are pulling the strings down below, and the quick beating of a drum announces the approach of something uncanny.

The female demon is in the guise of a beautiful maiden brilliantly arrayed, and she immediately makes advances to the warrior, who does not seem to be very anxious to accept the amorous overtures. The attitude of the two is exactly opposite to the conventional love scenes on the Western stage, where the maiden refuses and is hard-hearted, while the lover tries to gain her favour. The demon uses all her arts, but the warrior cannot easily be won over.

Watanabe’s flirtation with the devil woman in disguise continues until he leads her upon the bridge, and then looking down into the water he catches the reflection of her face and knows that she is not a human maid, but that she is his enemy and would lure him to destruction. The gradual change from a charming woman into a terrible devil is effected by changes in face, voice, and posture, a transformation that gives an actor with the weird for specialty a good opportunity.

While the hero and the uncanny creature attack each other in a posture dance, the bridge disappears, drawn off by invisible hands behind the scenes, and a red-lacquered shrine is pushed partly into view and completes the very striking stage picture.

The dance between the two becomes wilder and more intense, reaching a climax as the maiden darts behind the scene. Almost immediately she returns in her true shape, wearing a grotesque mask, while her mane is light brown, with a white stripe down the middle and so long it trails over the stage. She dances wildly about in a fight with warriors, whose swords glint in the semi-darkness of the stage; storm clouds hurry across the sky as though scurrying before a cyclone.

A curtain of gauze representing clouds shuts off the view. The warrior and the creature he pursues are in mid-air struggling together right over the roof of a temple. He cuts off one of her arms, and clutches it wildly in triumphant posture while the mutilated devil woman disappears into the aerial regions.

As companion piece to Modori Bashi there is Ibaraki, by the same playwright, which shows the very highest and best development of the music-posture play.

Watanabe Tsuna, after capturing the arm of the devil woman, guards the box in which it is kept, as he is certain she will return to claim her severed member. Disguised as a venerable old lady, refined, peaceful, and altogether attractive, the weird monster appears and desires to enter Watanabe’s abode, but is refused admittance.

Much disappointed, she is leaving, when Watanabe calls her back under the impression that she is one of his relatives, and she is taken within and a feast spread, before her.

When Watanabe’s adventures are related, she expresses a wish to see the arm. At sight of it there is a sudden transformation of her face from that of a placid, kindly old woman to something hateful and sinister. Unable to disguise her true nature, she snatches up the arm and makes off, followed by Watanabe.

When she returns in full fiendish regalia, with long flowing white mane, wearing a terrifying horned mask with staring gold eyeballs, there is a clever fight in the nature of a posture dance, and the strange, picturesque creature suddenly breaks away from the struggle and jumps into the air, where she is poised for a moment—the triumphant posture of all the characters at the end satisfying the audience that the devil woman has been overcome.

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Among the many weird shosagoto, few equal Dojo-ji in beauty and interest. Taken from a Nō drama of the same name, Dojo-ji, The Temple of Dojo, it is concerned with that old tale of a beautiful princess who, loving a priest, pursues him, and changing herself into a serpent and twining around the bell in which he is hiding, melts it in her jealous rage. A new bell is hung and she returns to vent her spite upon it.

The temple atmosphere is created when the action begins, the hanamichi swarming with priests and overflowing upon the stage. The Nagauta singers and musicians sit motionless in the background, while a great verdigris-hued temple-bell suspended by a red and white twisted rope swings high among pendent cherry flowers, making a gay scene.

The priests in their quiet black and white costumes are a foil for the radiant princess who, upon her entrance, becomes the centre of the picture, and by her changing movements absorbs all the attention. As soon as the kimono of her serpent highness vanishes like magic under the deft touch of the black-robed stage attendant, the lady with the hidden snake-like nature undergoes a series of rapid costume-transformations, one exquisite creation following the other.

Now she dances with a little gilt drum, small rounds of silver, or bewilders with a sudden display of scarlet and gold disks, one on her head, and one in each hand, that give place to a succession of others, or simply waves a wand of cherry blossoms. As a relief to the movements of the snake in disguise, a large number of theatrical priests dance, motley fellows in yellow, black, grey, and red, adding to the rhythm which is felt as the compelling undercurrent of the whole piece.

When the serpent-princess feels her diabolical self getting the best of her, she seeks safety in the big bell swinging high overhead. It descends, and she disappears within. Then the priests work hard trying to exorcise the evil spirit, all to no purpose. Their movements about the big bell add to the picturesqueness of the scene.

Soon the hanamichi is again filled with strong men, clad in white and silver kimono, who come to use their force against the princess-serpent, for the priests cannot prevail. With one accord and uttering a long cry in unison, they take hold of the bell-rope and begin to haul.

By degrees the great bell swings upward, and a weird figure is seen crouching under a blue-green silk scarf. To the thunder of big drums, the serpent begins a fighting-dance which makes a strong stage movement and prepares for the entrance of a hero resplendent in vivid green, bright red, shining gold and black, armed with a huge piece of green bamboo. He comes to subdue the creature of evil that, entirely surrounded, climbs upon the top of the bell, and crouches there, a frightful figure in silver brocade, black flowing mane, and face terrible to behold. The priests in fear and trembling wrap themselves about the bell as in a human cord, and the valiant man stands triumphant.

After it is all over and the curtain is drawn, the inquisitive theatre-goer wonders how it was possible for the beautiful princess to completely change into the garments and make-up of the uncanny creature within the limited space underneath the bell. But that is a stage secret, and does not concern the audience.