The comparison of the Japanese dramatic performance which bears the name of “Nō” to the miracle-plays of Mediæval Europe is by no means appropriate throughout. Both, indeed, dealt in the manner of a childish faith, and with complete freedom, in affairs belonging to the realm of the invisible, the supernatural, the miraculous; and both availed themselves of dramatic devices for impressing religious truths and religious superstitions upon the minds of the audience. Both also undertook to relieve a protracted seriousness, which might easily become oppressive, by introducing into these performances a saving element of the comic. But in some of its prominent external features, the Japanese drama resembled that of ancient Greece more closely than the plays of Mediæval Europe; while its literary merit, and the histrionic skill displayed upon its stage, were on the whole greatly superior to the Occidental product. In the “Nō,” too, the comic element was kept separate from the religious, and thus was never allowed to disturb or degrade the ethical impressions and teachings of the main dramatic performances.

In the just previous chapter the account of the probable origin of this form of dramatic art in Japan has been briefly given: and a few words as to its later developments will serve to make the following description of some of the performances which I have had the good fortune to witness, in the company of the best of interpreters, more interesting and more intelligible. It has already been pointed out that the Nō was at first performed by Shintō priests in the shrines, and so the acting, or “dancing,” and the music are of a religious or ceremonial origin and style. But the texts of the drama called by this name came from the hands of the Buddhist priests, who were the sources of nearly all the literature of the earlier periods.

The popularity which these ceremonial entertainments attained at the court of the Tokugawa Shōguns received a heavy blow at the time of the Restoration. With all their many faults, the Tokugawas were active and influential patrons of art and of the Buddhist religion. After their overthrow, important material and military interests were so absorbing, and the zeal for making all things new was so excessive, that there was no small danger of every distinctive form of native art suffering a quick and final extinction instead of an intelligent and sympathetic development. Besides, the philosophical and religious ideas of Buddhism, as well as of every form of belief in the reality and value of the invisible and spiritual, were at the time in a deplorable condition of neglect or open contempt. About the fifteenth year of the Era of Meiji, however, an attempt was made to revive these religious dramatic performances. And since this movement has been more and more patronised by the nobility, including even some of the Imperial family, and by the intellectual classes, the equipment, the acting, and the intelligent appreciation of the audiences, have so improved, that it is doubtful whether the “Nō,” during its entire historical development, has ever been so well performed as it is at the present time. According to a pamphlet prepared by a native expert, it is the supreme regard given by the suggestion of spiritual ideals to a trained and sympathetic imagination, which furnishes its controlling artistic principles to this form of the Japanese drama.

“The Nō performance,” says the authority whom I am quoting, “is a very simple kind of dance, whose chief feature is its exclusive connection with ideal beauty, wholly regardless of any decorations on the stage. The old pine-tree we see painted on the back wall of the stage is only meant to suggest to us the time when performances were given on a grass plot under a pine-tree. Sometimes such rudely made things are placed on the stage, but they may be said to represent almost anything, as a mound, a mountain, a house, etc.; their chief aim is accomplished if they can be of any service in calling up even faintly the original to the imagination of the audience. The movements of the performer, in most cases, are likewise simple and entirely dependent upon the flourishes of a folding fan in his hand, for the expression of their natural beauty. Any emotion of the part played is not studiously expressed by external motions and appearances, but carelessly left to the susceptibility of the audience. In short, the Nō performance has to do, first of all, with the interest of a scene, and then with human passion.”

The last sentences in this quoted description are liable to serious misunderstanding; for what the author really means is unfortunately expressed through lack of an accurate knowledge of the value of English words. That anything about this style of dramatic performance is “carelessly left” to the audience, is distinctly contrary to the impression made upon the foreign critical observer of the Japanese Nō. The truth which the writer probably intended to express is the truth of fact; both the ideas and the emotions which are designed for dramatic representation are suggested rather than declaimed or proclaimed by natural gestures; and this is, for the most part, so subtly done and so carefully adapted to conventional rules, that only the most highly instructed of the audience can know surely and perfectly what ideas and emotions it is intended to express.

The regular complement of performers in the Japanese Nō is three in number: these are a principal (Shité), and his assistant (Waki); and a third, who may be attached to, and act under, either of the other two (a so-called Tsuré). In one corner of the stage sits the chorus (Jiutai), whose duties and privileges are singularly like those of the chorus in the ancient Greek drama. They sing, or chant, a considerable portion of the drama, sometimes taking their theme from the scene and sometimes from the action of the play. Sometimes, also, they give voice to the unuttered thoughts or fears, or premonitions of the performer on the stage; and sometimes they even interpret more fully the ideas and intentions of the writer of the drama. They may give advice or warning, may express sympathy and bewail the woes or follies of some one of the actors; or they may point a moral motif or impress a religious truth. At the rear-centre of the stage sits the orchestra, which is regularly composed of four instruments,—a sort of snare-drum at one end and a flute at the other; while in between, seated on low stools, are two players on drums of different sizes, but both shaped like an hour-glass. As to the function of this rather slender, and for the most part lugubrious orchestra, let me quote again from the same expert native authority. “Though closely related to one another and so all learned by every one of the players, the four instruments are specially played by four respective specialists, each of whom strictly adheres to his own assigned duty, and is not allowed in the least to interfere with the others. Now this music is intended to give assistance to the Shité in his performance, by keeping time with the harmonious flow of his song, which is usually made up of double notes, one passage being divided into eight parts. The rule, however, may undergo a little modification according to circumstances. In short, the essential feature of the music is to give an immense interest to the audience, by nicely keeping time with the flow of the Shité’s words, and thus giving life and harmony to them.” More briefly said: The instrumental part of the Japanese performance of Nō punctuates the tempo, emphasises the rhythm of the actor’s chant or recitative, and helps to define and increase the emotional values of the entire performance.

One or two attendants, dressed in ordinary costume and supposed to be invisible, whose office is to attend upon the principal actor, place a seat for him, arrange his costume, and handle the simple stage properties, complete the personnel of the Nō as performed at the present time.

It was customary in the period of the Tokugawa Shōgunate, and still continues to be, that a complete Nō performance should last through an entire long day, and should consist of not fewer than five numbers, each of a different kind. As has already been said, these serious pieces were separated by Kyogen, or comediettas of a burlesque character. The shorter performances, to which tickets may be obtained for a moderate fee, have doubtless been visited by some of my readers. But I doubt whether any of them has ever spent an entire day in attending the regular monthly performances of the rival schools, as they are given for the entertainment and instruction of their patrons among the nobility and literati. It is, perhaps, more doubtful whether they have had the patience to hold out to the end of the day; and altogether unlikely that they have had the benefit of any such an interpretation as that afforded us by the companionship of my friend, Professor U——. For this reason, as well as for the intrinsic interest of the subject, I shall venture to describe with some detail the dramas which I saw performed during two all-day sessions of the actors and patrons of the Nō, in November, 1906.

The first of these performances was at the house of an actor of note who, although ill-health had compelled him to retire from the stage, had built in his own yard a theatre of the most approved conventional pattern, and who conducted there a school for this kind of the dramatic art. The enterprise was supported by a society, who paid the expenses by making yearly subscriptions for their boxes. Two of the boxes had been kindly surrendered to us for the day by one of these patrons.

Although we reached the theatre, after early rising, a hasty breakfast, and a long jinrikisha ride, before nine o’clock, the performance had been going on for a full hour before our arrival. The first play for the day which we witnessed bore the title of “Taira-no-Michimori”; it is one of the most justly celebrated of all the extant Nō dramas, both for its lofty ethical and religious teaching and also for its excellent artistic qualities. The scene is supposed to be near Kobé, on the seashore. A very sketchy representation of a fisherman’s boat was placed at the left of the stage. The chorus of ten men came solemnly in, knelt in two rows on the right of the stage, and laid their closed fans on the floor in front of them. The four musicians and two assistants then placed themselves at the rear-centre of the stage. In addition to the use of their instruments, as already described, they emphasised the performance by the frequent, monotonous emission of a cry which sounds like—“Yo-hé, yo-hé, yo-hé.”

This play opens with the appearance of two characters, who announce themselves as wandering priests, and who proclaim the wonderful results which their intercessory prayers have already achieved. They then relate the fact of the battle on this very spot, in which the hero of the play, Taira-no-Michimori, was slain. So great was the grief of his wife that, when she heard of the death of her husband, she threw herself over the sides of the boat in which she was seated at the time, and was drowned. Since then, the ghosts of the unhappy pair have been condemned to wander to and fro, in the guise of simple fisher-folk. When the priests have finished, they seat themselves at the right-hand corner of the stage; and the chorus take up the story of the battle and its sequent events. First, they describe in poetic language the beauty of the moonlight upon the sea and its shore. But as they enter upon the tale of so great and hopeless a disaster, the chorus and the orchestra become more excited, until—to quote the statement of my learned interpreter—they cease to utter intelligible words, and “the Hayaskikata simply howl.”

But now the ghosts themselves appear at the end of the long raised way on the left, by which they must reach the stage; and with that strange, slow and stately, gliding motion which is characteristic of so much of the acting in this kind of drama, they make their way to the skeleton boat, step softly into it, and stand there perfectly motionless. (It is explained to us that, in Nō “ladies are much respected” and so the wife stands in the boat, in front of her husband,—a thing which she would by no means have done in the real life of the period.)

Standing motionless and speechless in the boat, with their white death-masks fixed upon the audience, the wretched ghosts hear the church-bells ringing the summons to evening prayer, and catch the evening song which is being chanted by the priests within the temple walls. As though to enhance their wretchedness by contrasting with it the delights of earth, the chorus begins again to praise the beauty of the Autumn moonlight scene. The persuasive sounds of the intoning of the Buddhist scriptures, and the prayers of the priests imploring mercy upon the faithful dead, are next heard; and at this, the chorus take up their fans from the floor and begin to extol the saving power of both scriptures and priestly intercession. And now the ghostly forms fall upon their knees, and the woman, as though to propitiate Heaven, magnifies the courage and fidelity of the hero and recites his death-song in the recent battle. At this the chorus break out into loud lamentations that the entire family of so famous a hero has perished and that no soul is left alive to pray for the souls departed. After a period of kneeling, with their hands covering their faces in an attitude of hopeless mourning, the ghosts rise and slowly move off the stage; and the first act of the drama comes to an end.

Between the acts, a man appears and recites in the popular language what has already been told by the chorus and the actors in the more archaic language of the drama itself. The priests ask for a detailed narrative of the character and life of the two noble dead; and in response to this request, the reciter seats himself at the centre of the stage and narrates at length the story of the love of Itichi-no-Tami (the hero’s personal name) for his wife Koshaisho; of his knightly character; and of her great devotion to her husband. When the priests confess themselves puzzled by the sudden disappearance of the fisherman and his wife, the reciter explains that their prayers have prevailed, and that the ghosts of Itichi-no-Tami and Koshaisho will now be permitted to resume their proper shape.

During this popular explanation, the audience, who, being for the most part composed of learned persons, might be supposed not to stand in need of it, engaged freely in conversation, and availed themselves of the opportunity to take their luncheons; while through the window at the end of the “bridge” the ghosts might be seen changing their costumes and their wigs, with the assistance of several “green-room” dressers.

In the second act of the drama, the ghost of the hero appears in his proper form, gorgeously dressed as a prince, and is joined by his wife upon the stage. He performs a very elaborate dance, and recalls his parting from his wife, the different events of the battle, his wounding and defeat, and the wretched conditions that followed. These recollections work him into a state of fury; the passion for revenge lays hold of, and so powerfully masters him, that all which has already been done for his salvation is in danger of being lost. And now begins a terrible spiritual conflict between the forces for good and the forces for evil, over a human soul. The priests pray ever more fervently, and rub their beads ever more vigorously, in their efforts to exorcise the evil spirits. The beating of the drums and the “yo-hés” become more frequent and louder. But at last the prayers of the priests prevail; the soul of the doughty warrior is reduced to a state of penitence and submission; and Itichi-no-Tami and Koshaisho enter Paradise together.

No intelligent and sympathetic witness of this dramatic performance could easily fail to be impressed with the belief that its influence, in its own days, must have been powerful, and on the whole salutary. For in spite of its appeal to superstitious fears, it taught the significant moral truth that knightly courage and loyalty in battle—important virtues as they are (and nowhere, so far as I am aware, is there any teaching in the Nō performances which depreciates them)—are not the only important virtues; nor do they alone fit the human soul for a happy exit from this life or for a happy reception into the life eternal. And as to the doctrine of the efficacy of prayers for the dead: Has not this doctrine been made orthodox by the Roman-Catholic Church; and is it not taught by the Church of England prayer-book and believed by not a few in other Protestant churches?

The next of the Nō performances which we saw the same day was less interesting and less pronouncedly a matter of religious dogma. It bore the title of Hana-ga-Tami, or “The Flower Token.” This drama tells the story of a royal personage who lived one thousand years ago in the country near Nara. For his mistress he had a lovely and devoted country maiden. Although he had not expected ever to become Emperor, the reigning monarch dying suddenly, the young man is selected for the succession, and is summoned in great haste from his home to ascend the vacant throne. So great, indeed, was his haste that he could not say farewell to his lady-love, who had gone on a visit to her parents; but he leaves a letter and a flower for her as a token of his undiminished affection. Overcome by gratitude for his goodness and by loneliness in her abandoned condition, the girl at last decides to follow him to Nara,—at that time the Capital of the country. She takes with her only one maid and the precious flower-token. After many frights—for travelling at that time was very dangerous—by following the birds migrating southward, she at last reaches Nara. Being poor, and without retinue, she cannot secure entrance to the Palace; but she manages to intercept a royal procession. When one of the Imperial followers reprimands her and attempts to strike from her hand the flower-token, to which she is trying to call the Emperor’s attention, she becomes indignant and performs a dance that wins for itself the title of the “mad dance.” In the procession the part of the Emperor is taken by a young boy; since to have such a part performed by an adult man would be too realistic to be consistent with the Imperial dignity. The attention of the Emperor being attracted by this strange performance, he expresses a wish to see the “unknown” in her “mad dance.” But when she appears, dressed in bridal robes of white and red, and tells the story of her life in a long song accompanied by expressive movements, and finally sends her love to His Majesty, who “is like the moon,” so far above a poor girl like her, and like the reflection of the “moon in the water,” so unobtainable; the Emperor recognises her by the flower-token and gives orders to admit her to the Palace. She then exhibits her joy in another song and dance, which ends with the fan “full-open,” to denote happiness complete and unalloyed and admitting of “no more beyond.”

The last of this day’s Nō performances dealt again with the power of the prayer of the minister of religion to exorcise evil spirits. Two itinerant Buddhist priests find themselves at nightfall in the midst of a dense forest. They send a servant to discover a place for them, where they may spend the night. The servant returns to tell them of a near-by hut, in which an old woman lives alone. They go to the hut, boasting by the way that their prayers can even bring down a bird on the wing; but when they reach the hut and ask for shelter, its occupant at first declines to receive them, on the ground that her dwelling is too poor and small to shelter them. At last they persuade her; whereupon she comes out of the bamboo cage, which represents her hut, and opens an imaginary gate for them. The priests show much interest in her spinning-wheel. But she appears sadly disturbed in mind at their presence; and finally announces that, as the night is so cold, she will go out and gather a supply of firewood. With an air of mystery she requires from them a promise not to enter her sleeping-room while she is absent; and having obtained their promise, she takes her leave.

The aged servant of the priests, however, becomes suspicious of something wrong, and begs permission of his masters to enter the forbidden room, since he has himself taken no part in their promise; but as a point of honour they refuse his earnest request. The servant, in spite of their refusal, feigns sleep for a time, and then when his masters have fallen into a sound slumber, he steals away to the bedroom of the old woman. On the first two or three attempts, he makes so much noise as to waken the priests; but finally he succeeds in entering the room which, to his horror, he finds filled with human bones,—all carefully classified! He then rushes to his masters and wakens them with the information that their hostess is really a cannibal witch, and that they must escape for their lives. This advice he at once puts into practice by making good his own escape. But the flight of the priests is only symbolised by their standing perfectly motionless in one corner of the stage, while the chorus eloquently recites these blood-curdling experiences.

When the witch, in her demon-like form, overtakes the ministers of the Buddhist religion, the two spiritual forces represented by the actors then on the stage enter into the same kind of conflict as that which has already been described. The demon rages furiously; the priests pray fervently, and rub their rosaries with ever-increasing vigour; for the contest is over a human soul. But at the last the evil spirit is subdued, becomes penitent, and humbly begs their prayers that so she, too, may enter Paradise in peace.

It was just three weeks later than this that I received an invitation to attend the monthly all-day performance of another and rival school of Nō. The invitation came from one of the principal patrons of this school, Baron M——, the gentleman who introduced the modern postal system into Japan; it was accompanied by the offer of his box for the day, and by a messenger from the “Nō-Kwai,” who was to explain the differences of the rival schools. The interest of this occasion was enhanced by the presence of a native artist, who was making studies for a future picture, and who kindly presented us with several sketches of the leading actors in the dramas of that day.

It seemed that this Society is more “militant” than the other; and it is consequently more patronised by men in the army. General Noghi and Admiral Togo were mentioned as conspicuous examples of this claim. The patrons wished me to understand that these and many other examples of the Samurai spirit (the so-called “Bushidō”) had been greatly influenced by the Nō. I must confess that the explanation seemed, from the foreign and novitiate point of view, to be somewhat mystical; the influence alleged, more or less mythical. But such was the claim of the school, “Nō-Kwai.” The Nō-dance,—so they held—by its deliberate and almost motionless posturing, followed by swift and decisive action, expresses the very essence of the Samurai temper and habit. Doubtless these traits of the Samurai are given dramatic representation by the Nō, where its motif and plot are connected with some story of the ancient heroes. But whether this is proof of the Samurai spirit influencing the Nō, or rather of the Nō influencing the Samurai men, I was not able to decide. Indeed, it may easily have been one of those cases of influences which work both ways at the same time. Certainly, Japan played the great tragedy of the war with Russia, as influenced largely by this temper and spirit.

The first performance of this day bore the title of “Kusanagi,”—the name of the sword worn by the Imperial Prince, Yamatotaké-no-Mikoto. This prince was one of the most famous of those who fought against the Ainus, or wild indigenous people which, at this time, were still dwelling in the neighbourhood of Tokyo. While crossing an inlet of the sea in a storm, the wife of the hero had thrown herself into the water, believing that the sea-god would not be appeased without a human sacrifice. This deed of self-sacrifice, she, therefore, did for the sake of her husband and the Imperial family. And, in fact, according to the tradition, the sea at once became miraculously calm.

The drama opens with the usual wandering Buddhist priest, who, after introducing himself to the audience, takes his seat at the right of the stage. Soon after, the spirits of the Prince and his wife appear—he with very fierce countenance and long hair; and the wife seats herself beside the priest. But the Prince, seated in the centre of the stage, relates at length in a dramatic song the story of his battles with the Ainus. The savages fought so fiercely that it was with the greatest difficulty that the princely warrior could finally subdue them. When they set fire to the underbrush and tall grasses, it was only with the help of Kusanagi, the “sword of the gods,” that he was able to cut his way out to a place of safety. After dancing a wild dance, descriptive of the battle, the fire, and his escape, the first act of this drama comes to an end.

During the interval between the acts, the priest repeats prayers for the repose of the souls of the hero and his wife; and when, finally, they return to the stage in their true forms, they are informed that his prayers have availed, their souls are saved, and that they can enter Paradise.

It is scarcely worth while to describe the example of the Kyogen, or comedietta, which followed this drama; it had for its theme that trial of wits between the scapegrace son and the doting father, which has furnished fun for so many generations of play-goers, among many nations, from the comedies of ancient Greece and Rome down to the present time.

The hero of the second drama of this all-day’s Nō performance was Yorimasa, a general of the Minamoto family, who was the first to raise arms against the Tairas; but as he struck too soon, he was defeated on the wooded bank of the river between Nara and Kyoto. After he fell in battle, Yoritomo and Yoshitsuné defeated the Taira family. When the priest who introduces the performance comes upon the stage, he first describes his journey from Nara to Kyoto. On reaching the river Uji he dwells particularly on the exceeding beauty of the scenery. But now the wailing of a lost spirit is heard, and the ghost of Yorimasa appears in the guise of an old farmer. The priest addresses him and begins to inquire into the details of the event so celebrated in history; but the ghost replies that, since he is only a poor and ignorant peasant, he cannot be expected to know anything of such matters.

Soon, however, priest and peasant join in praises of the beautiful scenery, and speak together of the temple, whose sweet-sounding bell is heard in the distance. When reference is made to a peculiar kind of grass growing near by, the priest recites the story of how Yorimasa sat upon this fan-shaped grass and committed suicide, after his defeat in battle. The temple, whose bell has just sounded, was built in his memory. The farmer then recalls the fact that this is the anniversary of Yorimasa’s death; he is also moved to tell once more the story of the battle and to illustrate it by a dance. While the priest prays for the spirit of the dead hero, the old farmer suddenly vanishes, leaving his intercessor with Heaven alone upon the stage. The musical accompaniment, which has grown unusually weird and sweet, continues for some time, but finally dies away.

The popular reciter, or so-called “farce man,” now appears and narrates the story of Yorimasa’s exploits and death, in the language of the common folk, while conversing with the priest. During this recital, the drums are laid upon the floor, and the musicians face each other rather than the audience, in attitudes of repose. At the close of the conversation, the priest speaks of his encounter with the aged farmer, of his sudden disappearance, and of his own rising suspicion that this seeming of a mere peasant might have been indeed the spirit of the departed hero.

And now the orchestra begin again. The drums beat time and the flute wails in company with the weird cry of “Yo-hé” from the drummers. Soon the spirit of Yorimasa appears upon the stage; but no longer in the guise of an aged peasant; he is gorgeously arrayed in garments of gold brocade, with a general’s sword and fan; and in an elaborate dance he gives his version of the story of the battle. On being questioned by the priest, the spirit reveals himself as indeed Yorimasa, and humbly begs for the religious man’s intercessory prayers. The priest assures the warrior that his soul can be saved by these prayers. Comforted by this promise, the hero then resumes the story of the battle,—how valiantly he fought on the bridge over the river Uji; how the enemy succeeded in crossing the river and overcoming him. Seating himself on the stump of a broken tree, he mourns his defeat and wasted life in a touching poem, the translation of which is something like this:

The drama ends when the warrior, overcome by the memory of his own sorrows and by grief for those slain with him in battle, throws down his sword and weeps,—spreading out his fan before him.

The intervening farce represented the exploits of three blind men who had stolen a Biwa, and of a friend of the owner who tried to get it back. Then followed a slightly different version of the drama called “Hana-ga-Tami,” or “The Flower Token,” which we had already seen at the other theatre. And this was followed, in turn, by a farce which made fun of the attempted frauds of three sellers of patent medicines.

The last Nō performance of the day bore the tide of “Akogi,” the name of a sea-side place near Ise. A fisherman has committed the awful crime of fishing in forbidden waters,—in fact, in waters no less sacred than those of the fish-pond of the Imperial shrines at Ise. For this unpardonable sin he has been executed. But he has not stopped at the crime of poaching on the preserves of the most inviolable of all the temples. He has killed the fish which he caught, and has thus sinned against one of the most sacred of the tenets of Buddhism. When, then, his ghost expresses the utmost contrition and begs a travelling priest to intercede for its salvation, he begs in vain. For he is told that his sin is against both Heaven and the Heaven-descended Emperor, and is therefore beyond all possible forgiveness. At this the lost spirit goes through a wild dance, which gives a pantomimic representation of his secret crime, and of the throwing of his headless body into the sea; where “the waves of water are changed for him into waves of fire.” Any severe foreign criticism of the astonishing disproportion between this poor fellow’s crime and the punishment it brought upon him, might easily be modified by reminder of the old-time game-laws in England and other European countries; as well as of the comparatively trivial causes which have led certain Christian sects to consign their fellow men to hopeless perdition.

The most painstaking observation and subsequent reflection did not enable me to decide in my own mind between these rival schools of Nō, on the ground of their relative æsthetical merits. I had valid reasons, therefore, besides, the reasonable caution of politeness, for declining to render any decision. It was not difficult to see, however, that the Ho-sho-kwai, or more “militant” of the two schools, dealt with more discretion,—not to say timorousness,—with the religious value of the Bushidō, and with the future fate of those who, without the faith of Buddhism, are governed by its moral code. With regard to influence, in general, of this form of the art of dramatic representation, upon the æsthetical and moral development of the Japanese people, on the whole, I have no doubt of its salutary character. Like the old Greek drama, but unlike anything which we have, or at present seem likely to have, in this country, the Nō has both expressed and cultivated much of what has been artistically and ethically best of the life characteristic of the national development.