A Japanese Boy
the main sources of light; the foot-lights are a row of innumerable
wax-candles; and when an actor is on the stage, men in black veils
attend him with lighted candles stuck on a contrivance like a
long-handled contribution box. Wherever he goes, there go with him these
walking candlesticks. When he exerts himself briskly, as in a combat,
with what funny jerks and fanciful motions do these mysterious lights
fly round, often flickering themselves out! In the era of gas and
electric light what a bungling machinery all this is!
The orchestra does not sit at the foot of the stage; it occupies a box
on one side. It consists of the samisen, a big heavy bell, a drum, a
flute, a conch shell and occasional singing. Over the orchestra-box is a
compartment hung with a curtain woven with fine split bamboos, wherein
sit two men--one with a book on a stand, the other with a stout samisen.
The former explains in a harsh-voiced recital the situation of the
affairs now acted before the audience, the latter keeps time with the
instrument.
The dramas are mostly historical; we have no opera. In Japanese plays
the passion of love takes but a subordinate rank, the paramount
importance being accorded to loyalty, the spirit of retaliation and
devotion to parents. Harakiri, or the cutting open of one's own abdomen
in way of manly death, so time-honored and deeply believed in among the
ancient samurai (soldier) class, is acted in connection with certain
plays. It is an impressive, solemn scene. The valiant unfortunate stabs
himself with a poniard, measuring exactly nine inches and a half,
struggles with agony, shows manifold changes of expression, makes his
will in a faltering voice, and leaves injunctions to the weeping
relatives and faithful servants gathered round him; writhing in
distress, yet undaunted in presence of cool, examining deputies, he ends
his mortal life by the final act of driving the blood-stained iron into
the throat.
One strange fact respecting the theatrical profession in our country is
the anomaly that men act women's parts. We have few or no actresses. The
taste of the people took a curious turn in its development; they
consider those actors perfect who can deceive them most dexterously in
female outfits. Acting has been from ages past regarded as a profession
exclusively for men; their wives travel with them as a sort of slave in
assisting their masters and husbands in painting and dressing behind the
scene. Therefore, once when a company of women went about giving
entertainments there was a considerable stir over the novelty: they soon
became known as the "female theatre." In this party there were few or no
men, the women assuming male characters. These actresses established
fame on their wonderfully natural delineations of masculine traits.
We have known a young actor, whose boyhood was spent in Imabari, make a
mark in representing female characters. He copied the grace and
deportment of the fair sex archly. We took great interest in him, for
he was a good, quiet, sensible fellow, and his parents had formerly
dwelt near and befriended us. But my friends were wont to comment that
his neck was a jot too full for that of a female. He could not help
that; the corpulency of that member was a freak of nature; he was not at
all responsible for it. Discreetly he tried none of your fooleries with
dieting to reduce it; some females, you know, are not very
slender-necked either; he might have taken comfort in that. At any rate,
his manners were thoroughly feminine, and his womanly way of speaking a
woman herself could not imitate. Our friend is now gone to a metropolis,
where he is winning his way into the hearts of the millions. Prosperity
and success to his name!
When the "female theatre" troupe was in Imabari, through somebody's
introduction we got acquainted with certain of their number. We asked
them to call at our house. They did so. We observed no trace of
forwardness in them; instead, they, all of them, seemed quite reticent.
I remember a dear little creature, Kosei (Little Purity) by name, among
them. She was perfectly at ease in playing a rollicking little rogue
before the crowd, but now hung her head timidly and lifted stealthily
her big round eyes to us. She had a sweet, pretty little mouth. Where
can that poor, mischievous, pretty waif be knocking about in the wide
world now-a-days? Perhaps she is grown up and uninteresting, if yet
living.
I can recall even what we gave them that evening with which to refresh
themselves. We ordered the zenzai or its ally, the shiruko, at the
establishment round the corner. The shiruko seems like hot, thick
chocolate, with bits of toast in it. The chocolate part is prepared of
red beans, and the toast is the browned mochi (rice-cake). To provide
for any among them that did not love sweet things we had the soba or the
udon brought to us by their vender. The soba is a sort of vermicelli
made of buckwheat, and the udon a kind of macaroni, solid and not in
tubes. The warm katsuwo sauce is plentifully poured over them, and they
are eaten with chopsticks. The katsuwo sauce is prepared of the
katsuwobushi and the shoyu. The first named article is a hard substance
shaped somewhat like the horn of an ox, and manufactured of the flesh of
certain fish, whose vernacular name is katsuwo. A family cannot get
along without it. In preparing the sauce, the katsuwobushi is simply
chipped and simmered in a mixture of water and the shoyu. The shoyu is a
sauce by itself and brewed of wheat, beans and salt. As its use in
domestic cookery is very wide, the demand for it is correspondingly
great; and the shoyu brewing is as big a business as the saké
manufacturing.
CHAPTER VII.
Our family cared but little for the wrestling exhibition; some people
have a great liking for it. It takes place on an extensive open lot. In
the middle of the field is raised a large, square mound, from the
corners of which rise four posts decorated with red and white cloths,
looking like a barber's sign. They support an awning. The spectators,
too, are shielded from the sun with cheap mats strapped together. On the
mound is described a circle, within which the matches take place. The
two opposite parties are called East and West respectively. The umpire
in kamishimo (ceremonial garb) calls out a champion from each side by
his professional name so loudly as to be heard all over the place. The
names are derived from the mighty objects in nature, such as mountain,
river, ocean, storm, wind, thunder, lightning, forest, crag, etc. The
two naked, gigantic, muscular fellows slowly ascend the arena, drink a
little water from ladles, take pinches of common salt from small baskets
hanging on two of the posts and, looking up reverently to a paper god
fastened to the awning, throw the salt around. It is an act of
purification, and while doing it each prays secretly for his own
success. Then they stamp heavily on the ground, with their hands on
their bent knees and their hips lowered, in order to get the muscles
ready for action. Now they face each other in a low sitting posture like
that of a frog; at the word of signal from the umpire they instantly
spring up, and each tries to throw the other or push him out of the
circular arena. There are many professional tricks that they deal out in
the struggle for supremacy. As soon as the point is decided the umpire
indicates the victors side with his Chinese fan. Then follows the
demonstration of joy among the patrons of the successful almost as
boisterous and enthusiastic as that of the young American collegians at
their grand athletic contests. The thousands sitting hitherto well
behaved on the matted ground rise up at once and make endless tumult;
cups, bottles, empty lacquered boxes fly into the arena from every
direction. Not infrequently a spirited controversy follows a
questionable decision of the umpire. Between the matches gifts from the
patrons are publicly announced and sometimes displayed.
The people sit on the ground, spread with mats, in the open air, and eat
and drink, while they watch the collision of the two mountains of flesh
and its momentous issue. The exhibition cannot very well take place on
rainy days. At the end of a day's performance, all the wrestlers in
gorgeous aprons march to the arena as the umpire claps two blocks of
hard wood, and go through a simple ceremony of stretching the arms in
various directions formally. I never inquired what it was for, my
childish fancy having been turned toward the aprons, which were
oriental gold embroidery-work in relief on velvet, plush and other kinds
of cloth. On the way home the spectators notice on the fences the
announcement of the matches for the morrow. At the close of a series of
the contests, which continue about three days, the favorite wrestlers go
the round of their patrons in tint silk garments.
We were fond of listening to story-tellers. The entertainment takes
place at night in a public hall. A company of story-tellers travel
together under the name of their leader. In the early part of the
evening the unskillful members come out in turn, and serve to kill time
and practice on the audience. On the platform there is nothing to be
seen but a low table and a candle burning on each side of it. A narrator
appears from behind the curtain on the back of the platform, and sits at
the table on a cushion and makes a profound bow. Then he takes a sip of
tea, stops the samisen playing by banging upon the table with two fans
wrapped in leather; he murmurs a courteous welcome to the audience, bows
repeatedly, and, after snuffing the candles, proceeds with a story. The
stories are chiefly humorous or witty until toward the end of the
evening, when the abler men make their appearance and the tenor of the
narrative insensibly takes on a serious aspect and a tragic interest.
The comic stories invariably terminate with sprightly puns, the tragic
in a spectacular representation of ghosts and spirits. An awful tale of
murder, let us suppose, has been told in an impressive manner; and while
the imaginary murderer and the actual listeners are seeing strange
sights in fancy, the narrator unobserved turns down the lights and
tumbles off the platform. In the following darkness the ghosts stalk in
a ray of pale light; they are the story-tellers themselves in masks, and
they sometimes walk down the aisles to the terror of those that believe
in them. I could not bear the roving apparitions,--I was small
indeed,--and took refuge in the lap of my elder companion, much as
certain birds hide their heads, and think themselves safe. No doubt such
sights as these worked in my infant imagination, and roused in me that
dread of darkness which is so common with the children of Japan.
On fine days in spring our neighborhood went out _en masse_ on excursion
parties. They roamed about the warm green fields at will and gathered in
hand-baskets, half dallying with the sunbeams, various kinds of wild
herbs which are tender and edible, or they feasted in a charming nook
underneath the canopy of cherry blossoms. The pink petals of the full
blown flowers, fanned by a gentle breath of wind, visited the
merry-makers like snow-flakes; a single flake occasionally happening to
fall in the tiny earthen cup of saké, held up by one who stopped and
talked or laughed just as he was putting it to his lips. The party was
wonderfully pleased at that; if they were a poetical club or artistic
coterie such little accidents perhaps elicited short rhythmical
effusions from them, which they would pen on beautiful variegated cards
expressly cut for the purpose. These would be tied to the drooping
branches, that the next party might pause to share in the sentiment of
the present instance. More frequently, however, this is done to leave