Kabuki

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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