The Kabuki playwright, or sakusha (lit., to-make-man), was part and parcel of the theatre. He served the theatre because it was in him to do so, but the smallness of his remuneration and the inferior position assigned to him greatly restricted the scope of his activities and retarded his development. He degenerated finally into a mere drudge of the actors, a menial to carry out their commands. The actors enjoyed the right of way, and while the ideas of the playwright were eagerly seized upon, the sakusha continued to be crushed to the wall. There were no literary men aloof from the theatre to form a higher court of appeal and dictate in the matter of plays.

A glimpse of the dignity of the old sakusha and the theatre gatherings in which he figured, as well as some of his customs, is afforded in Engeki Taizen, or Complete-Account-of-Drama, by Sekine Mokuan, one of the leading modern writers upon the theatre.

The sakusha were divided into different classes, and assigned to various duties in the theatre. The tate sakusha, or leading playwrights, were also called the tate tsukuri, while the second ranked as nimaime, and the third were called the sanmaime. Under these were the kyogen sakusha, or kyogen kata, and there were still a lower class whose duty it was to act as secretaries and to write out the plays by hand. Another function of these supernumeraries was to write the announcement of the plays in big characters on the boards in front of the theatre, and they were responsible for the synopsis of the play, provided for the enlightenment of the audience. They also attended to the correspondence of the theatre folk. The different rôles in a new play were given to the clerical sakusha to be transcribed for the actors.

Since the performances began early in the morning and continued all day, it was a task to provide a long programme with many acts and scenes. In the writing of these lengthy plays an inferior sakusha was always allotted the opening scenes, which merely prepared the minds of the audience for what was about to happen, fixing a few landmarks by way of introduction. The secondary sakusha was held responsible for the act that followed, but the most important act of a piece was always reserved for the best writer. This is the reason why so many of the strongest scenes in a play have survived when the work done by the less gifted writers is now sunk in oblivion. The composition of the poor writers merely served to make known the characters of a play to the audience and generally had very little merits.

In the old days the first and second playwrights were obliged to attend the theatre every day before the second act, and to stay until the performances were over. It is therefore not surprising to find that they practically spent their lives in the theatre. When the good old customs began to relax, the chief writers took turns in visiting the theatre, and if there was no special place for their use, they sat themselves down in the space reserved for the superintendent, or disciplinarian of the busy world back of the stage. Later on a room was assigned to them.

The wages given to these men were very small. The head sakusha received a lump sum, and this he had to divide among the others. If a sakusha displayed some particular talent and the play went well, then he received a gift in money direct from the management.

Tsuruya Namboku was considered to have received quite an unusually high payment, for he was given 50 to 60 ryo for the run of one of his plays, and a certain small sum for every day of the performances. The ordinary sakusha was paid a sum very much less than this, and when he divided among the smaller fry there was precious little left for himself. Mokuami and Fukuchi, the two star playwrights of Meiji era, received as remuneration from 150 to 200 yen for their new plays in which Danjuro, the ninth, appeared. This was handsome treatment compared to the meagre compensation considered sufficient for the old sakusha. On the other hand, Danjuro reaped thousands of yen—a fortune compared to the pittance doled out to the men who had provided him with a vehicle for his talents and the means of stage success. The recognition of the talent of the yakusha was out of all proportion to that accorded the sakusha, and this still holds true of modern Kabuki.

In the early days of the Kabuki playwriters, it was the custom for a theatre to employ a first-class sakusha, and after he had written his piece, he would decide what actors were to take the different characters, and the play was planned according to the qualifications of the actors. But as time went on the actors came to decide themselves what should be performed, and the playwrights were invited to assist in the carrying out of the actors’ ideas. There were also the suggestions of the theatre proprietors to be considered, for they had an eye to the main chance, and the freedom of the writer of plays was continually curtailed, his dignity impaired, and his originality hampered.

One Kabuki ceremonial, however, allowed the leading sakusha to take a prominent part, and this was the announcement of a new play. It was called sekai-sadame, or world-decision, meaning the selection by the sakusha of certain material from the interesting world at large.

After the playwriter had received the approval of the chief actors, consulted with the theatre proprietor, and arranged the minor rôles with the players of lesser rank, he then began to write his play. He received a sum of money in advance, settled on a lucky day, and started to work. Paper and ink were supplied. Generally when the sakusha knelt before his small low table to begin he was provided with five bundles of the very best paper, and five bundles of a lesser quality, five pairs of fude, or writing brushes, and five tablets of concentrated ink, called sumi, which after being moistened and rubbed against the stone in the ink-box produces the jet-black fluid into which the brush is dipped before making the beautiful characters of the Japanese written language.

Those privileged to attend the “world-decision” were the leading playwright, chief actors, the proprietor and manager. After the time of the second Ichikawa Danjuro, second-class playwrights were allowed to be present and two or three onnagata. Originally it was a most dignified meeting, but the good old customs degenerated and it became less significant.

On the day of the announcement of a new play, towards sunset, long, narrow, gaily-coloured lanterns were hung above the entrance to the theatre, and the innumerable tea-houses also displayed their lanterns in honour of the occasion. The theatre streets were ablaze with paper spheres, and the whole district felt the importance of the ceremony. Those especially invited attended clad in their best, a silk skirt or hakama, and a black silk overcoat, or haori, on the sleeves of which was to be seen the family crest, in white, of the wearer.

Behind the stage in a room reserved for the purpose was the place of meeting. A series of folding screens were arranged about the chief participants, outside of which were grouped the various theatre folk and attendants. The number of persons within the screened space was limited, as the details of the new play were to be kept secret, and news concerning it was not allowed to leak out too quickly to rival theatres.

There is one instance on record when the privilege of being invited to the ceremonial of the play announcement was granted to an outsider. It was when Danjuro, the seventh, was actor-manager of the Kawarasaki-za in Yedo, and Sawamura Toshi, who was very popular, was taken to the meeting, but there was much discussion and a great fuss made over this innovation.

When the dignitaries of the theatre had taken their places the stage manager would formally address the leading playwright as follows:

“I hope that you will give us your support this year as before. It would be a very auspicious thing if we could learn what choice you have made of a play.”

Then the chief sakusha stood up, holding a folded paper in his hand, and read forth the name of the play and its characters, also the names of four or five of the leading actors who were to take the chief rôles.

At this juncture there might be some disagreement between the stage manager and the sakusha, and if so the point was decided by lottery, but afterwards when all details of the play were decided beforehand this part of the ceremony became a mere formality.

The sakusha holding the paper, symbol of the play, tied with red and white cords, handed it first to the stage manager and afterwards to the actors, and when this was over all present clapped their hands with regular beats, as is the custom at gatherings in Japan, as a sign of congratulation. Then the much-handled paper was given to the chief actor, and the stage manager said to him:

“May it please the spirit of the god in your house to keep this paper”, to which the actor would make answer:

“I will take it home and keep it until to-morrow, and congratulate myself on having this play.”

Then all present again clapped their hands, and the meeting came to an end.

The matter of the refreshments served at such times differed in each theatre. At the Morita-za, manju, a bean-paste cake, was given to the people within the screen, while at the Ichimura-za a dinner with sake was served generously.

This old custom gradually lost its significance, and in later years it was not observed in the same dignified manner. Sometimes the new play meeting was held at the house of a sakusha, and later the manager of the theatre invited those concerned to his house. The play had to be endorsed by the manager first, and the position of the sakusha gradually changed for the worse.

When the play-deciding meeting was over, the sakusha wrote out the actors’ rôles, and when everything was settled a draft of the piece was sent to the police authorities, a practice that exists even at present. The police censors examined the new play before permission to stage it was granted.

Another event of importance to the sakusha in Yedo’s theatrical world was the first rehearsal held every year on October 17th, when the general plan of new plays was announced and the actors assembled for rehearsal. This was called yorizome, or first gathering, and was held on this particular date because it happened to be the annual festival of the Goddess-of-Mercy temple in Asakusa. This particular day was selected by Nakamura Kansaburo, since he had such a strong faith in Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy. The temple sacred to this Buddhist divinity was the centre of worshippers from all parts of Yedo, as it still remains to-day in teeming Tokyo.

It was a gathering attended by the playwrights, the actors, with the exception of the lowest ranks, and officials of the theatre. The head of the musicians, or hayashikata, was also present. This was a festive occasion in the theatre quarter, and the streets were bright with lanterns. After a general exchange of dinner parties, these people of the theatre gathered together in front of the shibai right under the yagura, or drum-tower, and entered by the small door called the nezumi-kido, or rat door, so called because it was so low that people had to bend their bodies almost double to go through. When they came to the stage they clapped their hands in unison, and passed on. Upon arrival at the place of meeting, which was generally held in a room on the third floor behind the stage, the company again clapped their hands.

The meeting was conducted with such a rigid regard for details, that even the sitting position assigned to the respective persons was minutely arranged beforehand.

The theatre manager addressed the proprietor, saying that he deemed it a great favour to be able to hold the meeting this year, to which the proprietor answered: “May all the years to come be as auspicious as this”. Short songs were then sung, after which the chief sakusha turned his body towards the theatre shrine, where a symbol of the animal of the year was placed—the years being called after the tiger, rat, horse, cow, monkey, dragon, etc., according to the twelve signs of the Chinese zodiac.

Since the sakusha was obliged to read the play before the actors delivering the lines, according to the distinction between old and young, hero and villain, men and women, it is easy to imagine that when he faced the shrine and declared the title of the new play it must have been given with a sonorousness and a flavour of the theatre that impressed itself upon those who were to take part in it, and shows a reverence for the ideas that emanated from the sakusha’s brain, even if these worthies of the theatre were never placed on an equality with the actors.

After the title of the play had been announced with all due ceremony, a repast followed. At the Nakamura-za, the front of the theatre was adorned with an arrangement of artificial pink and white plum blossoms, and various refreshments were served, while at the Ichimura-za Japan’s diminutive oranges were thrown about from one person to another to increase the merriment.