Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. The Peony Lantern on the Storyteller's Platform

When speaking of Meiji-era rakugo performers in broad terms, even among the shin'uchi headliners, there were two distinct types: those who excelled at so-called punchline stories and those renowned for sentimental tales.
The former category included performers like Sanyūtei En'yū, Sanyūtei Yūsan, and Kingorō Kosan, while the latter comprised figures such as Sanyūtei Enchō, Ryūtei Enshi, and Shunkintei Ryūō; however, the former group had little connection to theater.
What I will discuss here is the latter school of sentimental storytellers.

In the field of sentimental stories, the aforementioned Sanyūtei Enchō, Ryūtei Enshi, and Shunkintei Ryūō are recognized as representative rakugo artists.
It is a well-known fact that Sanyūtei Enchō in particular is acclaimed as a modern master.
Sanyūtei Enchō passed away in August of Meiji 33 at sixty-two years of age; therefore, I am well acquainted with this man from his performances on the storyteller platform.
I have also heard his famous performances of *The Peony Lantern*, *Kasane Swamp*, and *Shiohara Tasuke*.
Until I was seventeen or eighteen years old—that is, until around Meiji 21–22—most yose theaters charged an admission fee of three or three and a half sen (we didn’t call it an admission fee), but the venues where Sanyūtei Enchō performed took four sen.
It was only a difference of half a sen, but people would say, “Sanyūtei Enchō is remarkable—he takes a four-sen admission fee.”

Now, turning to these artistic discussions—discussing the art of rakugo artists proved even more challenging than discussing that of stage actors. While it was said that actors' skills vanished in an instant, their stage presence could be somewhat evoked through photographs of their costumes and such, but when it came to rakugo artists, there was nothing one could do. Therefore, while it was impossible to fully explain here, to put it simply, Enchō’s delivery was of a gentle, somber nature—a so-called "tightening grip" approach. If sentimental stories were to be considered a type of rakugo, Enchō’s delivery might have seemed somewhat misplaced; yet his ability to naturally captivate audiences and consistently maintain hour-long performances undeniably stemmed from the marvel of his storytelling technique.

I do not know Enchō's younger days, but during the Edo period he apparently excelled at theatrical stories requiring props, fluttering the sleeves of his red underkimono to captivate women and children—a rather dandyish performer of sorts.
Moreover, after the Meiji era, he abandoned theatrical stories to specialize in sentimental tales, coming to have his artistry recognized not only by general audiences but also among the intellectual class.
Unlike most yose performers of his time, he possessed literary and artistic cultivation, presented a dignified appearance, and demonstrated a gentle yet steadfast character—qualities that earned him reverence as a master storyteller even among his peers.

I recalled it being around the 17th or 18th year of Meiji.
As shorthand techniques gradually came into practice，Sanyūtei Enchō’s oral performance and Wakabayashi Kanzō’s shorthand transcription of Ghost Story: *The Peony Lantern* was published.
Later various bindings were produced，but what first appeared was a woodblock-printed volume—provisionally stitched with about ten sheets of hanshi paper per booklet—that required serializing over ten installments to complete.
This was thought to be the pioneering work of shorthand books for kōdan and rakugo; being a rarity at the time，it became immensely popular.
This further elevated Enchō’s reputation，made *The Peony Lantern* famous，and widely introduced shorthand techniques to society.

I borrowed the shorthand book of *The Peony Lantern* from a neighbor and read it.
At that time, I was thirteen or fourteen years old, but even when reading the ghost story section that was the centerpiece of *The Peony Lantern*, I did not find it particularly frightening.
I even found it somewhat strange why this story was so famous.
About half a year later, when Enchō was to perform that very *Peony Lantern* at a nearby yose called Manchōtei in Kōjimachi Ward’s Yamamotochō, I chose the night of the ghost story to go and listen.
It may seem contrived, but that very night saw an early autumn rain continuing since daytime, making it an evening perfectly suited for ghost stories.

“Are you going to listen to a ghost story?” Mother said threateningly.

“What? I’m not scared of something like The Peony Lantern.”

Having underestimated it through the woodblock-printed shorthand book, I swaggered out nonchalantly.
But it was no good.
When Enchō finally appeared on the storyteller’s platform and began narrating that ghost story before the candelabrum, I gradually began sensing an eerie atmosphere.
The entire audience held their breath in rapt attention.
As Tomozō and his wife’s dialogue progressed, a strange chill crept around my neck.
Though surrounded by a tightly packed crowd, I felt myself sitting alone in the dim old Nezu house where the story unfolded—compelled to hear this ghost tale in solitude—making me glance sideways repeatedly.
Unlike today’s venues, those yose theaters had dim lamp lighting.
The platform’s candle flames burned faintly.
Outside, rain pattered steadily.

All these elements must have combined to create the perfect conditions for an eerie mood, but regardless, it remains a fact that this ghost story terrified me. The seats were dismissed around ten o'clock, and the rain was still pouring down.
I returned home along the dark night road as if fleeing.

At this moment, I came to fully comprehend the wonder of Enchō's storytelling technique.
A ghost story that felt neither particularly intense nor frightening when experienced through shorthand print took on such terrifying power when brought to the platform and voiced by Enchō that it made people tremble—I was truly awestruck by this remarkable phenomenon.
This was the zenith of Europeanization, when the so-called winds of civilization and enlightenment swept through society.
Students attending schools were of course being taught not to believe in ghost stories.
That in such an era this ghost story became the main attraction and captured nearly all of Tokyo's popularity—though one might attribute this to humanity's instinctive curiosity about frightening things—I remain convinced even now was due entirely to Enchō's artistry.

Within Haruchōdō’s published Complete Works of Enchō is included a work titled *Notes on the Ghost Story The Peony Lantern*. This was said to be a plot outline that Enchō himself personally wrote as a memorandum when first creating this story. Being his personal notes, it amounted to no more than a simple synopsis, yet even this revealed Enchō’s possession of considerable literary talent. When crafting *Shiohara Tasuke*, Enchō had traveled to Jōshū Numata and other locales to investigate historical records, composing a travelogue titled *The Record of the Roads of Ueno and Shimotsuke*—a work rendered particularly engaging through its incorporation of kyōka comic verse and haiku. It stands as a truly splendid travelogue.

While everyone knows *The Peony Lantern* originates from “The Peony Lantern Record” in *Jiandeng Xinhua*, when viewed in its entirety, its ghost story constitutes merely one component—appearing to combine Iijima's retainer Tadakazu’s vengeance with the misdeeds of Hagiwara’s servant Tomozō.
The episode concerning the Iijima household directly incorporated factual events that occurred at Edo-period hatamoto Toda Heizaemon’s residence, linking them to *The Peony Lantern* ghost story.
Only Tomozō’s subplot seems to be Enchō’s original creation, though even this might have drawn from existing source material.
In any case, by skillfully combining these diverse elements and ensuring each night’s performance built to a climactic moment that kept audiences engaged, one could say he was indeed an exceptional creator in this regard.

As stated before, I cannot expound here on the subtleties of storytelling technique, but take for instance that episode where Takasu attempted to stab Okuni—his master’s mistress—and her secret lover Genjirō, only to mistakenly injure his master Iijima Heizaemon, then fled the residence to rush to the home of Aikawa Shingobei, his prospective father-in-law, and plead his case. The first half, being tonight’s climactic moment, was undoubtedly engaging, but the latter half at Aikawa’s residence merely advanced the plot without being particularly interesting.
If read in shorthand books and such, these parts would be easily overlooked.
However, when made to listen to it on the storyteller’s platform, it became so breathlessly enthralling.
Upon hearing the story of Takasu mistakenly stabbing his master, Shingobei ground his teeth and scolded, “Why didn’t you call out ‘Genjirō…’ before striking?!”
In written form, it was but a single line; yet within that one phrase, three distinct meanings emerged clearly—astonishment at the grave incident, reproach for Takasu’s carelessness, and an underlying affection for him—vividly bringing to life the visage of old warrior Shingobei. The masterful breath control in that delivery still lingers in my ears.
Danjūrō was skilled; Kikugorō was skilled too.
Moreover, actors performed while wearing appropriate costumes and standing on stages suited to the scene; however, Enchō, using nothing more than a single fan, brought such vividness to the scenes that it could truly be said he mastered the wonders of storytelling technique.
The master is to be revered.

What comes to mind is this: if a figure like Enchō were still alive today, what would become of yose theaters?
Would general audiences be captivated by Master Enchō, allowing yose theaters to persist in their former state?
Even the great Enchō would prove unable to resist the tides of change, and yose theaters would still become stages for comic storytelling and manzai acts.
I surmise it would likely be the latter.
Enchō emerged when Enchō was meant to emerge, and Enchō does not emerge when Enchō is not meant to emerge.
Even if Enchō were to appear, Enchō would end up not being permitted to demonstrate his skills as Enchō.

Venerable Tamura Nariyoshi’s *Zokuzoku Kabuki Nendaiki* (Continued Kabuki Chronicles) inexplicably omits all entries concerning Harukiza Theater from Meiji 20 (1887), but according to my recollection, the first theatrical adaptation of *The Peony Lantern* was staged during Harukiza’s August 1887 production run.
Harukiza was the predecessor of Hongōza.
The play was *The Peony Lantern* performed in its entirety, with Ichikawa Kuzō (later Danzō) appearing in the middle act *The Chronicles of Kamakura’s Three Generations* to perform the role of Sasaki Takatsuna. The rest of the cast belonged to a troupe of Osaka actors colloquially called the Torikuma no Shibai troupe, with roles including Hagiwara Shinzaburō (Nakamura Chikuzaburō), Iijima’s daughter Otsuyu (Ōtani Tomokichi), Iijima’s maid Okome, Miyanobe Genjirō (Nakamura Shikaku), Iijima Heizaemon (Arashi Rinshō), Iijima’s concubine Okuni (Ichikawa Fukunojō), Iijima’s manservant Takasu, Yamamoto Shijō (Nakamura Komanosuke), Tomozō (Ichikawa Komazaburō), and Tomozō’s wife Omine (Nakamura Umetarō).
To add further note, the aforementioned Nakamura Shikaku later became Dennojūrō and is the father of the current Shikaku.
Ichikawa Fukunojō later became Kadonosuke and is the father of Danjōzō.
Ichikawa Komazaburō later entered the school of Danjūrō and renamed himself Sōsaburō.
Nakamura Umetarō later became Tomijūrō and is the father of the current Ichikawa Dan'emon.
I did not know who had adapted this full-length play, but later learned it was written by Sahashi Goko, a Kamigata playwright attached to the theater.

At that time, I was sixteen years old; since August was the school’s summer break, I couldn’t wait for opening day and went to see a performance at Harukiza.
At four in the morning on that first day, clutching the loaf of bread I had bought and kept from the previous night, I left my house in Kōjimachi.

II. The Stage Version of The Peony Lantern

Regarding the Torikuma plays being performed at Harukiza Theater during that period—having written about them elsewhere before, I shall refrain from detailed explanation here—but suffice it to say that the grand theater where even Danjūrō performed had opened nearly all areas as general admission except for about three sections: the box seats, elevated floor section, and flat floor section.
The admission fee was six sen, and those who entered by 7 a.m. were given half-price tickets.
If you brought that half-price ticket, you could see next month’s play for three sen.
For poor students like us, this was truly a blessing.

The play was scheduled to begin at 8 a.m., so the theater entrance became packed with spectators before dawn had even broken.
If one didn’t arrive by around 5 a.m., securing a good seat proved impossible.
As for me, I customarily left my home in Kōjimachi around four o'clock.
Summer posed no trouble, but winter brought some hardship.
At Ochanomizu’s embankment, dawn frost lay whitely gleaming while somewhere a fox cried.
Reflecting now, it all seems utterly unreal.

However, since this performance of *The Peony Lantern* took place in early August during the height of summer, the atmosphere was electric with anticipation. Taking advantage of the morning coolness people spoke of, I went clattering along in my magnolia-wood geta. As a sixteen-year-old boy carrying only about thirty sen in my drawstring purse, I felt no fear of thieves whatsoever but found myself troubled by dogs encircling me in the darkness. In those days, since stray dog extermination wasn't enforced as strictly as today, entire packs roamed freely through deserted areas. When attending Harukiza Theater, I always carried a bamboo stick or tree branch when leaving home. The very idea of going armed to see a play would likely astonish modern audiences. I distinctly remember battling stray dogs two or three times along the route that morning.

Setting aside digressions and returning to the play itself—Harukiza Theater's *The Peony Lantern* proved engaging. It adhered closely to the original work, with the opening act meticulously depicting Iijima Heizaemon cutting down Kurokawa Takasu's father. Presenting this prologue made the play's narrative more comprehensible to general audiences. The lantern scene itself was not without merit, yet it lacked the visceral intensity one experienced when hearing Enchō perform it on the storyteller's platform. Once again, I found myself marveling at Enchō's consummate skill. Given that the troupe consisted of Kamigata actors, their dialogue inevitably sounded stiff and unnatural in this Edo-period domestic drama—Komazaburō and Umetarō's portrayal of the Tomozō couple proved particularly jarring. While the middle act *The Chronicles of Three Generations* featured Komanosuke as Miura, Umetarō as Tokihime, and Kuzō as Sasaki, on balance the full-length *The Peony Lantern* remained more compelling than this interlude.

Since I had brought last month’s half-price ticket, the admission fee was three sen.
Lunch consisted of bread brought from home costing two sen; on the return trip, a cup of shaved ice from an ice shop near Suidobashi for one sen.
With a total expense of six sen, I watched the day’s theater from 8 a.m. until around 5 p.m.
The value of money differs between past and present, but even so, I think it was remarkably inexpensive.

After that, I do not know whether *The Peony Lantern* was performed in some minor theater, but its staging at a major theater came five years after the Torikuma production at Harukiza—specifically, in July of Meiji 25 (1892) at the Kabukiza Theater.
At Kabukiza Theater, during that year’s New Year run, Kikugorō performed another Enchō work, *The Life Story of Shiohara Tasuke*, which drew an extraordinary full house; therefore, it was decided to also stage Enchō’s *The Peony Lantern* during the Bon festival run that same year.
The playwright was Venerable Fukuchi Ōchi; however, as he was not skilled in such domestic plays, third-generation Kawatake Shinshichi and Takeshiba Kisui supplemented the script to craft it into a full-day play.
In terms of premiere dates, Harukiza Theater’s production was five years earlier, but this has already been forgotten, and when speaking of *The Peony Lantern* as a play, it has come to be generally recognized that Kabukiza Theater’s production was the premiere.

The cast for Kabukiza Theater’s premiere included Miyanobe Genjirō (Ichikawa Yaozō, later Nakashima), Hagiwara Shinzaburō (Onoe Kikunosuke), Iijima’s daughter Otsuyu (Onoe Eizaburō, later Umejaku), Iijima Heizaemon, Yamamoto Shijō (Onoe Matsusuke), Iijima’s concubine Okuni, Tomozō’s wife Omine (Bandō Shūchō), the young retainer Takasu, Tomozō of Nezu, and Iijima’s maid Okome (Onoe Kikugorō). While this adaptation largely followed the original work, Takasu’s role—which had been a manservant in the original—was changed to a young retainer because a manservant seemed too lowly.
There were criticisms questioning why a mansion employing even young retainers showed no stewards or other staff, but this was unavoidable as the original work itself contained such implausibilities.
They are merely labeled as *hatamoto* retainers without clarifying their status—seemingly high-ranking yet appearing low-ranking, ambiguously crafted to suit the narrative’s needs.
Venerable Fukuchi Ōchi and his colleagues must have naturally been aware of this, but they likely prepared it in a manner convenient for the play’s purposes.

Needless to say, the stage production's success was incomparable to that of Harukiza Theater.
The casting also placed the right actors in the right roles.
Though Yaozō should have rather been assigned Heizaemon's role, casting considerations gave him Genjirō's part instead. While this meant he did not quite fit the mold of a hatamoto's dissolute second son, the actor being at his peak popularity at the time resulted in the performance ultimately escaping any significant criticism.
There had been doubts about Matsusuke's Heizaemon, but unexpectedly it was well-received, praised for his dignified demeanor that truly resembled a hatamoto lord.

What impressed me at this time was how the scene where Kikugorō's Tomozō recounted *The Peony Lantern* ghost story to Shūchō's wife evoked a distinctively eerie quality—different in flavor from Enchō's platform performances yet equally chilling in its own way.
The art of the platform and the art of the stage each possessed their own distinct flavors, yet when reaching their subtle excellence, they naturally shared common points.
"So this is what masters share between them," I realized as if discovering it anew.
Shūchō was of the previous generation; as an onnagata, he had poor looks and poor delivery, but he was strangely skillful in such roles.

During the Harukiza production, they had also displayed peony lanterns related to this play, but those were limited to the theater’s vicinity and entrance area.
During the Kabukiza production, they attempted an unprecedented publicity campaign for that era, having lanterns hung not only around the theater’s vicinity but also at various ice shops throughout Tokyo.
They were large mouse-gray Bon festival lanterns adorned with artificial peonies, their curtains inscribed with "Kabukiza" and *The Peony Lantern*.
Since it was a Bon festival run, on both the 15th and 16th, they distributed uchiwa fans painted with peony lanterns to holiday audiences.
On the 23rd of the same month during the river-opening ceremony, two thousand peony lanterns were floated down the Ōkawa River.
These advertisements proved effective, and this performance drew a full house to great acclaim; regardless of whether people saw the play or not, the name *The Peony Lantern* was widely publicized throughout Tokyo.
In this day and age, no matter how full-house a play may be, they cannot achieve such great acclaim.

When considering the causes, the primary one was likely that society had become busier and more complex than in those days. The second reason was likely that Tokyo had expanded. The third reason was likely that theaters had increased their number of performances. The Kabukiza Theater of Meiji 25 (1892), which staged this production of *The Peony Lantern*, held only six performances that year—in January, March, May, July, September, and October. In contrast, today there are twelve performances per year. For instance, works such as Mokuami’s *Izayoi Seishin* and *Benten Kozō*—though performed only once during the Edo period—remained known to society until well into the Meiji era. In this day and age, even last year’s plays are mostly forgotten by this year. Driven busily by monthly non-stop performances, the audience’s capacity for appreciation and memory must surely become paralyzed.

Not only the theaters themselves, but society too had changed remarkably.
In the Meiji period, up until around the time of those aforementioned performances of *The Peony Lantern*, theater was frequently discussed in gathering spots throughout the city such as ice shops, bathhouses, and barbershops.
Because so many customers engaged in such talk, bathhouse proprietors and barbershop masters kept themselves informed about theater reviews in newspapers and public opinion for business reasons, actively fostering theater-related conversations with their patrons.
Thus these "bathhouse and barbershop rumors" exerted both direct and indirect influences on theatrical success, though such phenomena have nearly vanished today.
Even when customers discuss baseball, movies, or sumo in bathhouses or barbershops nowadays, those who speak of theater remain exceedingly rare.
As for the proprietors and masters who might participate in such conversations, unless personally passionate about theater themselves, none will broach the subject.

When I went to barbershops in New York or London—perhaps because I was Japanese and there was little else to discuss—they invariably asked whether I had seen any theater productions. In foreign countries, those "bathhouse and barbershop rumors" appeared equally prevalent. Paris even had establishments bearing witty names like Bain-Théâtre (theater bathhouse).

III. Enchō’s Travel Diary

Next is *The Life Story of Shiohara Tasuke*.
Though this work too is celebrated as Enchō's creation, according to his own testimony regarding its genesis, his original conception had not been to craft Tasuke's tale of perseverance, but rather to compose another ghost story following the pattern of *The Peony Lantern*.
This metamorphosis from spectral tale to inspirational narrative proves fascinating.
The course of this transformation unfolded thus.

Enchō had conceived a lifelong plan to create one hundred ghost stories and was eagerly collecting material when his close friend, the painter Master Shibata Shinsai, told him a tale concerning a charcoal shop in Honjo Aioicho 2-chōme. This was a ghost story involving the household of the second-generation Shiohara Tasuke—an incident where both the second and third masters died maddened deaths, ultimately driving even their formidable landlord to abandon the property.

Finding this sufficiently intriguing, he resolved to craft a ghost story from this material; however, at that time Enchō possessed no prior knowledge about it. He did not even recognize the name Shiohara Tasuke. He first visited Aioicho 2-chōme to question local elders about the Shiohara family, but given the passage of time, they knew nothing. After considerable effort, he traced the Shiohara family grave to Tōyōji Temple in Asakusa Takahara-chō. Upon visiting the temple, he indeed found the grave there, but even the temple staff lacked detailed information.

While conversing with the head priest, Enchō noticed a fan from the Umenoya teahouse in Nihonbashi Hasegawa-chō displayed on the premises. When he asked whether Umenoya maintained parishioner ties with the temple, the priest answered that while not formal parishioners, Umenoya alone made offerings to this temple regarding the Shiohara grave.

Being acquainted with Umenoya himself, Enchō proceeded there for further inquiry. The elderly proprietress turned out to be a Shiohara relative, though she too claimed ignorance of distant past matters. Crucially, from her words Enchō learned that the first Tasuke had come to Edo from Joshu Numata—prompting his immediate departure for that region the following day.

It was August 29, Meiji 9 (1876).

The subsequent travelogue is detailed in *The Record of the Ueno and Shimotsuke Roads* (上野下野道の記).
Enchō departed from Senju, passed through Takenotsuka and Koshigaya, and on the first night stayed at an inn called Tamaya in Ōsawa-chō.
As this was an era when steam trains had yet to reach this region, the journey did not progress smoothly.
That night’s lodging was at a locally renowned old established family’s residence, but the travelogue notes: "Besieged by fleas and mosquitoes, I found myself unable to sleep as I had hoped."
On the 30th, he passed through Kasukabe and Matsudo, entered Satte Station, and stayed at an inn called Kamabayashi.
It was truly a long-suffering journey.

For this journey, Enchō did not bring any disciples, taking only a single rickshaw man named Denkichi as his sole companion; the road seems to have been quite tedious.
To make matters worse, that night’s lodgings also seemed unsatisfactory, for his travelogue states: “Contrary to my hopes for a good night’s sleep despite the rain, the numerous fleas made slumber impossible; I rose at five o’clock and made preparations to depart.”
It was pitiable how he was plagued by fleas and mosquitoes at every destination.
Enchō certainly did not stay in low-class inns, yet every night ended up like this.
One cannot help but imagine the hardships of travel in the olden days.

On the 31st, he crossed the Tone River crossing and passed through Nakada Station.
The travelogue states: “Rows of brothel eaves lined both sides of the road, with glimpses of plump round faces peering out beneath patchy white makeup.” There, he composed the haiku: *“Adashino fields—where horsetails devour maidenflowers.”*
While each detail cannot be enumerated individually, the travelogue’s exhaustive documentation proves truly astonishing in its scope—shrines and temples, geographical features and local customs, inns, roadside tea houses, eateries, various observations, and commodity prices all meticulously recorded.
He likely preserved this for future reference; but then, for a rakugo artist of Enchō’s caliber, even when crafting a single sentimental story, such extensive preparation was to be expected.
It was by no mere coincidence that he came to be known as a once-in-a-generation master.

That night, they stayed at the former honjin's Aoki residence in Mamada Station.
The travelogue states, "This inn had clean mosquito nets and bedding, allowing one to lie down comfortably." From this, it appears Enchō finally found respite that night.
Even when reading this, one can't help but breathe a sigh of relief.
On September 1, they crossed the Handa River and rested at Iizuka Station. When attempting to depart for Koganei Station afterward, they lost their way.
After much struggling through mountainous terrain spanning some twenty chō, they finally arrived at Koganei Station around two in the afternoon, having grown desperately hungry.
After eating there and setting out, they encountered an evening shower and thunder along the way; that night, they stayed at the former honjin Izawa residence in Ishibashi Station and ventured into town to observe the Bon festival dance.
The travelogue states: "Until last year, even prostitutes participated in the dances; however, after a proclamation was issued requiring each person to pay 2 ryō and 2 bu of gold per night as tax, this year none came out, having learned their lesson."

On the second day, they passed through Suzumenomiya and arrived in Utsunomiya.
The journey had taken five days from Tokyo.
There, they stayed at Tezukaya around eleven in the morning.
When they heard that Toyotake Wakunidayu was performing there and visited the inn, Wakunidayu welcomed them joyfully, and both shed tears at their unexpected reunion.
The travelogue states: "The fidelity between friends truly is a thing that words can scarcely convey."
Thus it describes the scene of that time.
That Enchō was a man of deep sensibility becomes evident here.

On the following third day, he departed Utsunomiya and embarked upon the Nikko Highway.
After taking a short rest in Kamimatsuri Village, the travelogue states, "Jūrōga Mine, which I used for the revenge plot in my story *The Peony Lantern*, can be seen northwest from here." From this, it becomes clear that *The Peony Lantern* was created prior to this time.
When he rested at Kushidaya in Imaichi Station, he encountered the son of a fellow practitioner, Mimasuya Katsujirō.
Unlike Wakunidayu, he perceived that the son had endured considerable hardship during his long journey; after giving him some alms and parting ways, they encountered heavy rains and thunderclaps along the way, arriving drenched at Noguchiya in Nikko.
The fourth day was fine weather, and he toured Nikko.
This was recorded in detail using his signature style, taking on almost the form of a guidebook to Nikko.
That night, he returned to Noguchiya and stayed there.
On the fifth day, he climbed the mountain and stayed at Yoshimiya in Yunohana Onsen.
In the depths of Nikko, nights grew cold—there exists a verse: "A lone fly in the desolate night chill by the paper lantern."

On the morning of the sixth day, as they were finally set to descend to Numata and requested a mountain guide, the innkeeper bellowed, “Isonojō! Isonojō!”
The travelogue records: “Just as I was worrying that a mountain guide ought to be a robust fellow, and that Isonojō might instead prove some delicate, fawning weakling, a man entered from the front—aged about forty-one or forty-two, standing five shaku four or five sun tall, with a black beard spreading across his cheeks, thick muscles, and a stature so imposing one had to look up at him. He wore a striped cotton lined kimono tied with a narrow Kokura sash, a fox-pelt pouch at his waist (containing small firearms), a carrying pole for the guest’s luggage fastened with a thin cord, a hatchet-style sword at his side, and handwoven straw sandals hitched high to expose shins wrapped in cloth up to his hairy calves—a figure utterly unlike what one would imagine of Isonojō.”
When he grew uneasy upon hearing the name Isonojō, the appearance of a bear-like giant put him greatly at ease—an amusing turn of events.
Particularly when seeing the detailed descriptions of Isonojō’s character and attire, one cannot help but admire Enchō’s powers of observation.
It appears that this Isonojō had greatly impressed Enchō, for he was incorporated as-is into the story of Shiohara Tasuke.

Not only was this mountain crossing extremely arduous, but according to Isonojō's account, bears appeared and wild boars appeared.
Particularly as giant serpents were said to appear, Dengoro, his attendant, became startled and frightened, proposing to turn back midway; but Enchō urged courage and pressed onward.
The travelogue states: "In every profession, one must stake one’s life"—thus he steeled his resolve.
As for my profession, I am prepared to stake my entire being on it.
The more one reads this travelogue, the more aspects compel admiration.

They did not reach the place called Ogawamura, staying at a hot spring inn along the way.
Here too existed a detailed description of the mountain hot spring inn's scenery.
The hot spring was an open-air bath in the riverbed; discovering a snake that had crawled in to warm itself, they jumped up in surprise.
That night, while sitting around the hearth with fellow lodgers and meticulously recording every sight and sound in his journal, they were mistaken for police investigators and consequently received exceptionally courteous treatment—an episode recounted in the travelogue.

On the morning of the seventh, they parted with Isonojō, passed through the village, crossed the mountains, walked nine ri, and arrived at their destination, Numata Town. The inn was Ōtakeya. He promptly called the innkeeper and asked where Shiohara Tasuke's main family resided. The innkeeper replied that an oil merchant named Shiohara existed in Haramachi and would arrange to summon him the next day regardless. The following morning on the eighth day, the innkeeper's wife came guiding a man named Shiohara Kin'emon from Haramachi. He appeared sixty-two or sixty-three years old, his bearing not unrefined. Enchō grew somewhat discomposed by the man's excessively polite greeting. The travelogue states: "I introduced myself as a relative from Umenoya in Hasegawa-chō, Tokyo. Placing my diary notebook at my knees, I inquired deeply whether traces of the first Tasuke's birthplace remained. Though the old man initially seemed suspicious, he respectfully explained that the former Shiohara residence lay over three ri northward in Shimoshinden Village. I then learned he himself—Kin'emon, nephew to the first Tasuke—had left Shimoshinden and now ran an oil shop in Haramachi of this station. Thus I came to fully grasp the circumstances."

Then they departed and stayed that night at Shiroiya in Maebashi Station.
On the ninth day, he visited his sister Oto, who ran a restaurant in Kon'ya-chō of the same station, and there was a long-awaited reunion between the siblings, where Enchō was once again moved to tears.
That night, they stayed there and departed on their return journey early on the tenth.
As was his custom, he meticulously documented the return journey in his diary. That day, they arrived at Ōta Station, paid their respects at Nitten-ji Temple dedicated to Nonnyū Shōnin, and stayed overnight at Haseo-ya.
On the eleventh day, they arrived in Ashikaga and stayed overnight at the residence of Harada Yozaemon.
On the twelfth day, they boarded a boat from the Sarutagawa riverside and arrived at Kurihashi; then, changing boats at the Sakaigawa riverside, they spent that night aboard.
The travelogue notes that they were troubled by the abundance of mosquitoes.
On the thirteenth day, they passed through Nagareyama and Noda, arriving at Ōgibashi in Fukagawa, Tokyo.
This was a sixteen-day journey beginning on August 29.

Upon hearing the account from Umenoya’s landlady, his departure the very next day might seem rather hasty, but it was customary at the time for theaters, yose venues, and all other entertainments to observe a summer recess throughout August.
Because the lingering summer heat in September remained intense, esteemed performers such as Enchō would customarily take respite during the first half of the month.
It may be surmised that he utilized this period of professional inactivity to plan the journey.
In this region—devoid entirely of steam trains—one had no recourse but to depend on rickshaws or boats; with most travel conducted on foot, Enchō, being unaccustomed to extended journeys, must assuredly have been wearied.

For this reason, what had initially been planned as ghost stories about the second and third generations of the Shiohara family was changed midway to become an inspirational tale of the founding generation instead.
The reason for this change was not separately explained, but it was likely that after obtaining some hint from the landlady of Umenoya and then hearing old tales from the Shiohara family's descendants in Numata, he instead came to feel an interest in the founding generation's biography.
It remains factual that Shiohara Tasuke I went to Edo, sold measured portions of powdered charcoal for seven or nine mon each, and thereby amassed a great fortune—indeed, his grave exists within Tōyō-ji Temple in Asakusa Takahara-chō—though the detailed biography appears unclear, and it is said that *The Biography of Shiohara Tasuke* consists almost entirely of Enchō's invention, largely modeled after *Echigo Zenkichi* from *Ōoka Seidan* as its source material.
I too presume this to be largely true.

If that is indeed the case, I must say that the famous "Parting of the Horse" episode is quite masterfully crafted.
Of course, it is not without its template in Mokuami’s *Parting of the Horse of Saitō Umanosuke*, but Tasuke’s version overflows with human warmth and was designed to bring audiences to tears.
Unfortunately, I never heard "Parting of the Horse" from Enchō's storyteller's platform.
What I did hear was the scene where Haratanji and Okame, a married couple, shared lodgings at Old Woman Kakuba’s hermitage.

What struck me regarding this was that Enchō proved remarkably skilled at naming characters. While names like Matatabi no O-Kaku seemed rather ordinary at first glance, creations such as her child Sesame Ash Comrade Kodaira and their counterpart Relay Station Nisuke were all masterfully crafted. In both rakugo and theater, names might appear to function as mere cryptic code, but they were never simply that. Hearing a designation like Comrade Kodaira of the Journey inevitably conjured visions of Sesame Ash from the roadside - that lurking figure with baleful eyes gleaming as they watched travelers pass. To such details too, it seemed Enchō had devoted considerable effort.

Even if there were Echigo Zenkichi or Saitō Umanosuke, a fifteen-part sentimental story could not have been crafted from such source material alone.
For every installment, they had to craft distinct climaxes that dragged last night’s audience into tonight’s performance and tonight’s audience into tomorrow’s.
In this respect, it resembled newspaper serials—but newspapers were delivered daily and forced upon readers whether they liked it or not.
Because yose audiences made the effort to come from their homes each night, unless the performance proved truly captivating, they wouldn’t keep returning night after night.
Therein lay immense painstaking effort.
Were Enchō alive today, I believe his creativity and literary talent would have secured him considerable standing even as what we call a popular writer.

This journey took place in the autumn when he was thirty-eight years old.

4. Shiohara Tasuke and Others

The first staging of Enchō's *Shiohara Tasuke* on the theatrical stage, like that of *The Peony Lantern*, was also at Harukiza Theatre.
The play was titled *Shiohara Tasuke Keizai Kagami* (The Economic Mirror of Shiohara Tasuke), but as I did not attend that production, I cannot speak to its details.
In any case, it was Harukiza Theatre that first staged *The Peony Lantern* and *Shiohara Tasuke*, with Kabukiza Theatre following later.

The first staging of *Shiohara Tasuke* at Kabukiza Theatre occurred during its January program of Meiji 25 [1892], under the official title *The Biography of Shiohara Tasuke* faithful to the original work. The principal roles were Haratanji; Shiohara Kakuzōemon (played by Yakōzō, later Nakasha); Kakuzōemon's wife O-Sei; Shiohara's widow Okame (Shūchō); Haratan Saburō (Kikunosuke); his daughter O-Ei (Eizaburō); itinerant traveler O-Kaku; Akataru Kai Kyūhachi (Matsusuke); Shiohara Tasuke; and Michizure Kodaira (Kikugorō). In Enchō's original work, scenes where Tasuke and Kodaira frequently meet occurred often; however, due to Kikugorō performing both roles, staging their encounters became impossible, resulting in nearly all of Kodaira's active scenes being omitted. While this was somewhat regrettable, every role received acclaim—particularly the famous *"Parting of the Horse,"* which became so renowned that ever since, mentioning Shiohara Tasuke immediately evokes memories of *"Parting of the Horse."*

At that time, among the so-called theater aficionados, there was a view that Enchō’s storytelling remained more compelling than Kikugorō’s play.
On the storyteller's platform, Enchō voiced every character himself, but on stage, Kikugorō could not possibly perform all roles.
Since actors below Kikugorō’s stature typically filled these parts, it was said the dramatic impact diminished proportionally.
Yet the general audience remained oblivious to such nuances, making this production an overwhelming success.
Sanyūtei Enchō himself attended in high spirits, leading dozens of his San'yū school rakugo disciples to witness the performance.

Incidentally, the interlude at this time was *Hakoneyama Soga Hatsuyume*, following the plot of Kudō Suketsune worshipping at Hakone Gongen Shrine and meeting Hakōmaru—Gorō's son—at the administrator's quarters, leading to their fateful encounter. However, the setting had been changed to a brothel called Hachiman-ya in Karuizawa, Shinano Province, where behind a folding screen lay Michizure Kodaira, the first traveling companion. Suketsune and Kodaira were both played by Kikugorō through rapid role changes. When Oasa—Eisaburō's courtesan—appeared, Kodaira addressed her with a comic routine referencing the Soga tale through improvised banter. Naturally, this device bore no relation to *Shiohara Tasuke*'s main plot, but such theatrical contrivances delighted audiences of that period. Both the main play and interlude were creations of Kawatake Shinshichi III. Though this third Shinshichi never equaled his predecessor Mokuami, being the master's foremost disciple, he had thoroughly absorbed his teacher's stylistic approach.

Due to *Shiohara Tasuke* becoming a major hit, it was decided that *The Peony Lantern* would be staged as the Bon season play.
That too had been well-received, as I mentioned earlier.
Both theater management and actors, emboldened by this success, staged *The Three Cups of Ansei* at Kabukiza Theatre in January of Meiji 26 (1893).
This was based on Matsubayashi Haku'en's kōdan storytelling, and riding on the popularity of sentimental tales, they extended their adaptations to kōdan-derived works.
Just as films are adapted into plays today, that era saw yose storytelling works being dramatized for the stage.

This kōdan featured Suzuki Tōkichirō, an inspector at the magistrate’s office, as its protagonist, along with Sugita Ōkura, a temple samurai from Ueno, and Kosome, a geisha from Yanagibashi. The title *The Three Cups* referred to these three individuals.
Kikugorō performed the dual roles of Tōkichirō and Kōkichi the groom, Iekitsu (Uzaemon's father) played Ōkura, and Fukusuke (Utaemon) portrayed Kosome—all roles that garnered favorable reviews.
Particularly for Kikugorō, his dual role as Kōkichi the groom proved more acclaimed than his portrayal of protagonist Tōkichirō. The scene in Act V at Komurai Umeyashiki—where Kōkichi, intimidated and coaxed by his master Atsukai (Matsusuke), inadvertently divulged Tōkichirō’s secret—became a resounding success alongside Matsusuke’s performance as Atsukai.
However, this play too was first staged at Harukiza Theatre, with Kabukiza Theatre following later.

*The Three Cups* was also authored by Kawatake Shinshichi III, but during the same program, the jōruri play *Kodako* was performed.
This jōruri play was Mokuami's final work.

For Kikugorō's performance as Kodako, the theater management devised promotional methods surpassing last year's *The Peony Lantern*, releasing hundreds of kites stamped with Kabukiza Theatre's seal from three locations—Ryōunkaku in Asakusa, Egi's Tower in Shinbashi, and Atagokan at Shiba Atagoyama—on both days of January 6th and 7th, deciding to grant free admission to those who retrieved them.

Shiohara Tasuke was a hit, followed by *The Peony Lantern*, and then *The Three Cups*; thus, it became customary to limit yose readings to Bon and New Year seasons, leading Kabukiza Theatre that July to stage Enchō’s Yasunaka Sōzō once again. The playwright was Kawatake Shinshichi III, the official title being *Haruna Umekō Uchiwa-e*; the principal roles were Tsunekawa Hansaburō (Sadanji), Myōgi Shirōzō (Matsusuke), Yasunaka Sōzō, Mizorogi Kōkichi (Kikugorō), and Hitokuchō no Oka (Eizaburō). For this production, Danjūrō also appeared, with the interlude *Ranru no Nishiki*...

For *Daianji Tsutsumi*, Ichikawa Danjūrō played Harutōjirō Uemon, Sadanji played Kamura Udaemon, and Kikugorō played Takai Takeemon; in the lower interlude *Suikoden Setsuchō*, Danjūrō took the role of Kyūmonryū Shishin while Sadanji portrayed Hanaōshō Rō Chishin. Particularly for *Daianji Tsutsumi*, the gathering of the Dan-Kiku-Sa trio had generated considerable anticipation before opening night; however, when the premiere arrived, audience turnout proved disappointing, and with the full-length play *Yasunaka Sōzō* being criticized as less engaging than conventional Enchō adaptations, this production ended in complete failure. Apparently having learned their lesson from that failure, Kabukiza Theatre did not include any yose storytelling works in their January program of Meiji 27.

Moreover, it seemed an inseparable bond had been forged between Kikugorō and Enchō’s works, for in January of Meiji 28 (1895), Shintomi-za Theatre once again staged Enchō’s *Awataguchi*.
The official title was *"Awataguchi Kantei Origami"* (Awataguchi Appraisal Certificate).
The principal roles were Komori Shinnojō; servant Yosuke (Kikugorō); Ōno Sōbei (Ichizō); porter Senta (Ennosuke); Inagaki Kozaemon; Yagiri Village’s Oshino (Matsusuke); Inagaki Kosaburō (Kikunosuke); and Kosaburō’s wife Omiyo (Eizaburō), among others, with the killing of Jōsuke in Yagiri Village serving as the dramatic highlight.
Inagaki’s servant Jōsuke, having been persuaded by villains to bring ruin upon his master, stopped by his family home in Yagiri Village feigning ignorance—whereupon his mother Oshino, already privy to the secret, wore an expression of one deceived by her own child before suddenly plunging a dagger into Jōsuke’s flank.
The plot follows Jōsuke, who, after being wounded, regained his true self, repented his misdeeds, and met his downfall—though Enchō’s original work had already drawn upon Gonta from *Senbonzakura* as its model, Kikugorō’s portrayal ultimately transformed the character into Gonta himself.
Even so, combined with Matsusuke’s Oshino, they presented such a breathlessly thrilling play.
At this time, the interlude play *Kamakura Sandai-ki* was staged, featuring Kikugorō as Miura, Fukusuke as Tokihime, and Shikan as Sasaki—a lineup that itself became a major draw, resulting in quite successful box office returns.

Therefore, Shintomi-za Theatre decided to stage Enchō’s *Meijin Nagatsuji* once again in that year’s October program.

In any era, this holds true: once something succeeds, the theater world tends to chase after it—such is the way of the craft. Among Enchō’s sequel stories existed several foreign adaptations; this one being an adaptation of Maupassant’s *The Murder of a Parent*, it proved less compelling as Enchō’s work, and his repertoire appeared gradually depleted. The play was titled *The Master Joiner Nagatsuji*, with principal roles including Sakakuraya Sukehachi; Nagatsuji’s apprentice Kanematsu (Matsusuke); Sakakuraya’s daughter Oshima (Fukusuke); Kikkōya Kōbei (Ichizō); Kōbei’s wife Oriu (Shūchō); and master joiner Nagatsuji (Kikugorō). However, being a play without notable dramatic highlights, it failed to leave a mark.

In November of Meiji 30 (1897), Kikugorō restaged *Shiohara Tasuke* at Ichimura-za Theatre.
Unlike today, repeating the same play over five or six years required it to be nothing short of a major success.
One can imagine how popular Onoe Kikugorō’s portrayal of Shiohara Tasuke had become.
However, being the second staging, they did not present it as a full-length play but placed it first on the program; Kikugorō performed only the role of Tasuke and omitted the scenes involving Michizure Kodaira.

As Enchō's works gained traction, small theaters across various locations began staging them in significant numbers.
In September of Meiji 30 (1897), *Chichibue Enoki* was performed at Nakasu’s Masago-za Theatre, followed by *The True View of Kasane Swamp* at the same venue in February of Meiji 31 (1898).
All were new works by resident playwrights, and I recall that Takebaya Manji served as the author.
The former was a type of ghost story rumored for production with Yanagawa Shigenobu (Kikugorō), his wife Okiwa (Shūchō), Isogai Namie (Yakōzō), and manservant Shōsuke (Matsusuke); however, due to both the scarcity of roles for younger actors and the generally sparse plot, it ultimately lost its chance to be staged.
The latter was recently performed by the sixth Kikugorō, with Baikō as Toyoshige and Kikugorō as Shinkichi—both roles earning high praise.

In December of the 32nd year of Meiji (1899), *Kagamigaike Ayatsuri Matsukage* was staged at Kabukiza Theatre.
This too was one of Enchō’s works—the *Eijimaya Sōdō*.
The principal roles were Eijimaya Jiemon (Kanijūrō), Samehē (Iekitsu), clerk Kanbei (Matsusuke), widow Otose (Yakōzō), Jihē’s wife Oki (Fukusuke), and bride Ori (Eisaburō). The scene where clerk Kanbei came to widow Otose’s home—she who was cursing Eijimaya—became the day’s dramatic highlight. However, the rest merely moved the plot along with few truly theatrical moments, and combined with it being year-end and featuring mid-tier actors, the production ultimately ended in unpopular failure.

The following year, in August of the 33rd year [of Meiji], Enchō passed away.
In November of that year, Enchō’s work *The Miraculous Vengeance at the Pilgrimage Temple* was staged at Harukiza Theatre.
The principal roles were Mizukami Mataichi (Ichizō), Shiratori Yamahira (Inemaru), Oyama [female impersonator] (Mushirojo), Otsugi (Kunyohachi), among others, but this too failed to make an impact.
In addition to these, among Enchō's works that gained prominence were *Maiōgi Urami no Yaiba* ("The Dancing Fan's Blade of Resentment"), *Narihira Bunji Hyōryū Kitan* ("The Drifting Strange Tale of Narihira and Bunji"), *Ryokurinmon Matsutake* ("The Green Grove Gate's Pine and Bamboo"), and several others—though I shall not enumerate every minor theater production here.

Despite such frequent dramatizations of Enchō's works having been performed, following his death they ceased to be staged altogether.
Was it because their commercial value diminished with the storyteller having disappeared from this world?
After that person had departed, was it because their sequel stories too came to be naturally forgotten?
In reality, Enchō's stories were largely forgotten, with only his representative works such as *Shiohara Tasuke*, *The Peony Lantern*, and *The True View of Kasane Swamp* being repeatedly staged and remaining in the memory of the general public.

V. Danjūrō’s Enchō Adaptations

According to the above enumeration, the staging of Enchō’s works at major theaters was virtually the exclusive domain of the fifth Onoe Kikugorō.

This was due to sentimental stories' inherent nature—all being structured as contemporary domestic plays—making them ill-suited to Danjūrō and Sadanji's productions. Another reason lay in how Danjūrō and his circle, unlike Kikugorō, showed little enthusiasm for adapting such sentimental narratives.

However, Danjūrō and his associates did not entirely refrain from working on Enchō’s works either.
As previously mentioned, Sadanji performed the role of Tsunekawa Hansaburō while accompanying Kikugorō’s Yasunaka Sōzō.
Even prior to that—that is, before Kikugorō had staged works like *Shiohara Tasuke* and *The Peony Lantern*—Danjūrō and Sadanji had already performed Enchō’s adaptations during the January program of Meiji 19 (1886) at Shintomi-za Theatre.
That was *Seiyōbanashi Nihon Utsushie* (Western Tales: Japanese Depictions), a full-length work in six acts and fifteen scenes written by Mokuami at seventy-two years old.
Of course, it was not solely Mokuami’s pen that produced this work—his disciples Shinshichi and Sonami likely assisted—but considering that he created this at seventy-two years old and subsequently published lengthy works such as *Kaga Tobi*, *Watanabe Kazan*, and *Hanaoi Oume* in succession, one cannot help but marvel at his enduring vitality in old age.
Setting aside foreign examples for now—whether it be Chikamatsu, Nanboku, or Mokuami in Japan—each displayed unparalleled vigor when taking up the brush in their advanced years; truly awe-inspiring.

This *Seiyōbanashi* was a dramatization of Enchō’s *The British Filial Piety Tale*, with the original work—like *The Peony Lantern*—having been published as a shorthand edition by Wakabayashi Kanzō in stitched Japanese paper booklets released in installments. Therefore, even within the playbill’s description, it was recorded as “a new play structured from Wakabayashi Kanzō’s picture book transcribed through shorthand technique, serving as material for the first performance.” In this era, the very term “shorthand technique” still struck people as novel. A British novel had been orally transmitted by Fukuchi Ōchi Koji to Enchō, who adapted it into a story set in the Meiji period—a natural choice given its foreign origins. The protagonist John Smith—the filial son—was performed by Ichikawa Kodanji IV under the name Shimizu Jūjirō. Kodanji did not fare well in his later years, but at that time he was a star of Shintomi-za Theatre.

The other roles were Harumi Jōsuke (Danjūrō), Iōmori Matasaku, Yaneya Kiyotsugu (Sadanji), Jōsuke’s daughter Oisa (Gennosuke), and Jūjirō’s sister Omaki (Shūchō), with Danjūrō’s Jōsuke being the chief retainer of Kawagoe Domain. After the Meiji Restoration, he moved to Tokyo and opened an inn, but his samurai business practices proved unsuccessful. When Sukeemon, a farmer from their former domain, came to Tokyo carrying 3,000 yen for some purchases and stayed at Jōsuke’s inn through old domain connections, Jōsuke bludgeoned Sukeemon to death, stole the 3,000 yen, and entrusted his friend Matasaku Iōmori with disposing of the corpse. Given that it was a role played by Danjūrō, even among impoverished samurai, he wasn’t as dreary as someone like Kōbei the brush seller. He aggressively killed people one after another, embezzled what was then considered a fortune of three thousand yen, and maintained a nonchalant demeanor.

His friend Matasaku, also an impoverished samurai, declared he would take on any job for money; he packed Sukeemon’s corpse into a trunk, loaded it onto a rickshaw, and dumped it into a river in Joshu Numata.
When the rickshaw driver who had pulled that cart grew suspicious and tried to extort him, Matasaku, unfazed, took the footboard from the rickshaw, bludgeoned the driver to death, and departed.
The fact that every element was executed with such brisk precision proved characteristic of Danjūrō and Sadanji’s productions—devoid of even a trace of sentimentality, each aspect was thoroughly realized.
Using this as leverage, Matasaku began frequently visiting Jōsuke’s home to demand money, until Jōsuke, finding it a nuisance, ended up killing him as well.

With stories like these, one might call them not so much sentimental tales as unfeeling ones—yet there existed the arduous quest of Omaki and Jūjirō, the daughter and son of the murdered Sukeemon, to avenge their father. In the end, Jōsuke repented his past misdeeds through ritual suicide, concluding matters with an “all’s well that ends well.”
I do not know the circumstances that led to Shintomi-za staging such a work, but with Enchō’s shorthand editions being in vogue, they likely conceived of adapting them.
However, since works like *The Peony Lantern* and *Shiohara Tasuke* were ill-suited to this troupe, it appears that *Seiyōbanashi* ("Western Tales") was selected based on what Danjūrō and Sadanji could perform.

Since the previous year, Shintomi-za Theatre had been struggling with poor attendance, so Danjūrō took on the roles of Ishikawa Goemon in the first piece, Kato in the middle act *Hachijin*, and Jōsuke in the second piece *Seiyōbanashi*, and even performed *Kappore* in the grand jōruri performance—a tremendous effort that initially yielded considerable success, but the second piece—the Enchō adaptation—was not well-received.
Nevertheless, ten years later in November of Meiji 29 (1896), it was restaged at Meiji-za Theatre.
The roles were Iōmori Matasaku, Yaneya Kiyotsugu (Sadanji), Harumi Jōsuke (Gonjūrō), daughter Oisa (Mushirojo), Shimizu Jūjirō (Yonezō), and elder sister Omaki (Shūchō). This play seems to have been selected because Sadanji and Shūchō had maintained their signature roles since the premiere, but as no major theaters subsequently staged it again, it became one of the forgotten works among Enchō's adaptations.

I may have spoken too much about Enchō, but after all, he was the foremost figure in Meiji-era rakugo and had the deepest connections to theater—thus it could not be helped. Now turning to discuss the relationship with stage adaptations of other rakugo and kōdan storytelling, this becomes an extremely broad subject. During the Edo period, an unwritten rule had existed between novelists and playwrights: excepting novels that achieved extraordinary popularity, it was customary not to adapt novels into plays. This appears to have been a mutual understanding against encroaching on each other's domains. Moreover, after the Tenpō era [1830-1844], that convention gradually began to decline. At the same time, dramatizing kōdan historical narratives and sentimental stories also became popular. When Mokuami was the second Shinshichi, he once went to Fukiyachō yose together with Kanagaki Robun. At that moment, Tamaya Eiji—who styled himself as the second Kyōkuntei—ascended the storyteller’s platform and addressed the audience thus.

“When you listen to our stories, it is not merely for amusement—there are various ways in which they may benefit you.”
“In fact, even tonight, the renowned playwright Kawatake Sonami—Mokuami’s *haimyō*—and Master Donten Robun, a rising gesaku writer, are in attendance.”
“These esteemed masters too listen to our stories to gather material for their own works…”

He said this while looking toward where Mokuami and Robun were seated, causing the rest of the audience to turn toward the two in unison—whereupon Robun smirked.
Mokuami glowered, rose to his feet, and departed.
Here too, Robun and Mokuami's personalities reveal themselves with particular clarity.
Though such overt self-promotion from the storyteller's platform was hardly proper, Eiji had not spoken groundless words.
Indeed, it remained an undeniable fact that playwrights and gesaku writers of that time drew diverse materials from yose platforms.
When adapting sentimental stories and kōdan narratives into novels or plays, how much original creativity could be infused depended wholly on the writer's skill.
Works by Mokuami and others frequently contained substantial creative additions of their own.
Thus, were one to trace every contemporary domestic play from late Edo through early Meiji back to yose platforms, their sheer quantity would likely overwhelm.

6. Ryūō and Enshi

Among Kawatake Mokuami’s works, one contemporary domestic play that has been frequently restaged is *Kamiyui Shinzaburō* (The Barber Shinzaburō).
The fifth Onoe Kikugorō established it as a hit play since its premiere, and the sixth revived it on stage numerous times.
The newly written work premiered in June of Meiji 6 (1873) at Nakamura-za Theatre under the official title *The Rainy Season Kosode: An Eighteen-foot Long Tale of Old*.
The original work consisted of four acts and eleven scenes, but elements like the magistrate’s office scene in the grand finale remained exclusive to the premiere and never returned to the stage.

As everyone knows, the highlight of this play lay in its second act at Shinzaburō’s residence in Fukagawa Tomigichō, where Kikugorō’s Shinzaburō and Nakamura Nakazō’s landlord Chōbei earned tremendous acclaim. As a work, it stands among Mokuami’s most celebrated masterpieces—yet this was no original creation of his, but rather a tale transplanted from yose stages: Shunkintei Ryūō’s sentimental narrative.

I seem to recall Ryūō’s personal name was Ryūsō. A master storyteller of sentimental tales spanning late Edo through mid-Meiji eras, he never matched Enchō’s dazzling fame yet upheld Edo’s authentic narrative traditions through his grounded delivery. Thus dismissed by some as antiquated, works like his *Yotsuya Kaidan* carried a chilling potency distinct from Enchō’s style. *Kamiyui Shinzaburō* too ranked among Ryūō’s signature pieces. Having heard his performance at Manchōtei in Kōjimachi myself, I found that famed scene dividing the bonito fillet indistinguishable from its theatrical counterpart—a revelation suggesting Mokuami transcribed Ryūō’s oral rendition verbatim here without creative embellishment. Not Enchō alone but all master-class rakugo artists of yore must have wielded such formidable craft.

As I was born in Meiji 5 (1872), I naturally have no knowledge of the premiere of *Kamiyui Shinzaburō*.
The first time I saw the fifth Onoe Kikugorō's Shinzaburō was in May of Meiji 26 at Kabukiza Theatre.
In the newly written play, Nakazō performed dual roles as Chōbei and Yatagorō Genshichi, but on this occasion, first-generation Sadanji played Genshichi while Matsusuke played Chōbei.
Sadanji's Genshichi was poorly received, but Matsusuke's landlord was praised as surpassing even Nakazō's performance, making Shinzaburō's residence in Tomigichō once again the main attraction.
Yet despite its acclaim, I found this scene unremarkable.
Perhaps due to prior exposure, I couldn't help feeling Shunkintei Ryūō's version heard at yose theaters remained more compelling.
When it came to rhythmic exchanges like the bonito dialogue between Shinzaburō and the landlord, Ryūō undeniably excelled.
In saying this, I risk appearing critical of Mokuami's work and by extension Kikugorō and Matsusuke's artistry—yet I must emphasize this hit play would never have existed without rakugo master Shunkintei Ryūō.
The rakugo artist Ryūō spent his final days in dimly lit yose theaters, his name now scarcely remembered.
Mokuami, Kikugorō, Matsusuke—all secured their places as masters for posterity.
Faced with this contrast, I cannot help but feel profound poignancy.

Among the Ōoka Seidan stories, the most famous is likely *Ten'ichibō*.
This too is still frequently restaged through Kawatake Mokuami’s *Ōgino Ne Ne Ōoka Seidan*, but its original source was Kanda Hakuzan’s kōdan narrative.
Hakuzan had struggled greatly in crafting this kōdan narrative, and it is said he particularly racked his brains over the episode where Shiraishi Jiemon and Yoshida Sangorō arrived in haste just as Lord Echizen prepared to commit seppuku—the hundred-day deadline nearly expired after retainers dispatched to investigate Kishū failed to return.
Even when performed on stage, this remains the day’s climactic scene.

I have never heard Hakuzan’s *Ten'ichibō* performed at a yose, so I cannot speak to the differences between its storyteller’s platform and stage versions; however, given the nature of the material, I surmised this differed from contemporary domestic plays like *Kamiyui Shinzaburō* in being even more dramatized than the original.

At the time of this play's premiere, a conflict arose between Bando Hikosaburo, who played Lord Echizen, and playwright Mokuami. When Mokuami attempted to reclaim the script and leave, theater manager Morita Kanya and others mediated to resolve the matter peacefully.
This occurred because Hikosaburo, relying on his position as leading actor and popularity, had arbitrarily insisted on altering the script.
Even Hikosaburo could not rival Mokuami.
They ultimately yielded and performed it according to the original script, but given the play's extraordinary acclaim, Hikosaburo must have conceded completely.
Mokuami must have felt profound gratification.
This premiere took place in January 1875 at Shintomi-za Theatre, with principal roles being Ōoka Echizen-no-kami (Bando Hikosaburo) as Ten'ichibō, Shiraishi Jiemon (Onoe Kikugorō) as Yamauchi Iganosuke, and Yoshida Sangorō (Ichikawa Sadanji), among others.

Among Kawatake Mokuami's post-Meiji works, the most well-known is *Kōchiyama*. While its March 1881 premiere at Shintomi-za Theatre carried the official title *Ten'i Magire Ueno no Hatsuhana* (The Tangled Celestial Robe: First Blossoms of Ueno), Mokuami had already addressed this same subject matter under the title *Kumo Ueno San'ei Sakusen* (Three Robes' Strategy at Cloudy Ueno) during an October 1874 production at Kawarazaki-za Theatre. In essence, *Ueno no Hatsuhana* was a reworking of *Kumo Ueno*. Though originating from Matsubayashi Hakuen's kōdan narrative, the stage version diverged so dramatically from yose storytelling traditions—retaining only character names and plot outlines—that it could nearly be called Mokuami's original creation. Frequently revived scenes like that at Ōkuchi's residence must be recognized as inventions beyond kōdan sources, even when reusing elements from Teranishi Kanshin or Torime's works. The work's enduring fame undeniably stemmed from its Shintomi-za premiere cast—Kōchiyama Sōshun (Danjūrō), Kataoka Naojirō (Kikugorō), Kaneko Ichinokurō (Sadanji), and Ōkuchiya Sansetsu (Iwai Hanshirō)—all receiving acclaim. Had second-tier actors staged it without contemporary success, the production likely would have faded into obscurity.

It was not among those works of Mokuami's that merit particularly high regard.

In the rakugo world, the one who stood against Sanyūtei Enchō was Ryūtei Enshi.
They called Enchō’s faction the Sanyū school and referred to Enshi’s faction as the Ryū school, giving the impression that the Meiji rakugo world was almost entirely occupied by these two factions.
Enshi was particularly passionate about theater, frequently visiting Danjūrō’s residence, and modeled after Danjūrō’s art name “Danshū,” adopting the name “Danshūrō” for himself.
Enchō was a gentle man, but Enshi, with his rough-edged Edoite temperament, often revealed that nature in his storytelling style on the platform.
As a result of his passion for theater, he began producing rakugo actor plays and held several popular performances at various theaters.

Enshi, like Enchō, had literary cultivation and excelled at composing haiku among other forms.
Consequently, he likely created many original serial stories himself, though they do not seem to have appeared frequently in shorthand publications.
In the sentimental stories he specialized in—worlds filled with villainous samurai and rogues—the vague perception that Enchō was refined while Enshi was crude may have been somewhat disadvantageous for him.
Ryūtei Enshi passed away on February 11, Meiji 33 (1900), at sixty-eight years of age.
He was five years senior to Enchō and died in the same year as him.
With both the Sanyū and Ryū schools simultaneously losing their leaders, our rakugo world gradually began its decline.

Among Enshi's sentimental stories, the one he was most renowned for was *Shimachidori Okitsu Shiranami*. It featured Sahara no Kisaburō at Ōsakaya Hanatori, with incidents such as arson in Yoshiwara, the women's prison in Denmachō, island breaches, and murders—both the characters and plot devices being particularly well-suited to him. This was performed in June of Meiji 22 (1889) at Harukiza Theatre as a full-length play, with roles including Ōsakaya Hanatori (Bando-ke Tachibana), Umetsu Nagato (Ichikawa Ennosuke), and Sahara no Kisaburō (Nakamura Komanosuke).

In addition to those mentioned above, there were many other kōdan narratives and sentimental stories that had been adapted into plays.
Here I simply introduced only those that were most famous.
The staging of kōdan or sentimental stories in theaters was not merely due to a dearth of material but rather a promotional strategy that leveraged works popularized on Yose storytellers' platforms.
Kōdan storytellers and rakugo artists were also pleased to have their own works performed.
This also served as a form of publicity.
In short, through a mutually supportive relationship between Yose (traditional Japanese vaudeville theater) and kabuki theater, stories from the storyteller's platform were transplanted to the stage.
As I mentioned before, this practice nearly ceased after the deaths of Enchō and Enshi.

Today, the yose's storyteller's platform has been replaced by movie theater screens, and film stories are frequently adapted for the stage.
This too is a sign of the changing times.
But with what attitude do those who adapt it approach their task?
Should they faithfully reproduce the film, or should they add their own creative ideas?
Through this, the value of playwrights will naturally be determined.
(Shōwa 10 [1935] Stage)

Appendix: Meiji-era Yose

I recently wrote stories about Enchō and Enshi from bygone days for a certain magazine.
Though not particularly rare material by any means，young people today apparently found them novel enough that they began regarding me as something of a yose authority—now I regularly field inquiries about Meiji-era vaudeville theaters.
Thereupon，feeling rather self-satisfied，this old man would hold forth at greater length about yose.

This time, rather than discussing Sanyūtei Enchō or Ryūtei Enshi as individuals, I will provide a general explanation of what Meiji-era yose were like.

Even within the Meiji period, there were marked differences in social conditions and human emotions between its early and late years.
Since it proved impossible to cover this exhaustively in a single statement, I decided to focus on the period from around Meiji 20 (1887) to Meiji 40 (1907) and outline its general course.

Unlike today, Tokyoites since the Edo period—with few entertainment options—regarded theater and yose as ordinary recreational venues.
Transportation systems were particularly underdeveloped, with no streetcars, buses, or jinrikisha—in an era when only horse-drawn streetcars operated on major thoroughfares in downtown areas, people could rarely venture out to places like Ginza or Asakusa after nightfall.
People were limited to strolling around nearby night markets or festivals at best.
For those people, yose theaters were the only place for recreation.

Staying home was tedious; yet urban residents felt it inconsiderate to visit neighboring houses every night—especially on rainy evenings when even strolling through night markets proved impossible.
On such evenings, there remained no alternative but to visit the yose.
Unlike theaters, yose were scattered throughout each city district; since none lay too far from their own homes, commuting proved convenient.
The admission fee stood cheap.
With this affordable means to enjoy an evening out before returning home, everyone would head to the yose.
The current decline of yose theaters, I believe, stems not so much from their content as from increased entertainment options like cinema and developed transportation systems.
In truth, there existed no other way to enjoy an evening during the Meiji period than visiting a nearby yose theater.

Thus, whenever I went to a nearby yose theater, I would invariably encounter acquaintances from the neighborhood. I grew up in Motozono-chō, Kōjimachi Ward (now incorporated into Kōjimachi 2-chōme), where the local yose theaters were Aoyagitei in Motozono-chō, Manyoshi in Kōjimachi 2-chōme, and Manchōtei in Yamamotochō. Never once did I visit these venues without meeting someone familiar. I would always come across two or three acquaintances. During New Year's and similar occasions, it was not uncommon for me to encounter ten to twenty people I knew. When I was a child, receiving sweets, rice crackers, and mandarins from all those people would make both my kimono sleeves grow heavy—a predicament I found quite troublesome at times.

For that reason, yose theaters prospered in those days.
While there were occasional fluctuations, from what I had heard, yose theaters during the Meiji period numbered between four or five to six or seven per ward—large and small combined—exceeding one hundred in total.
Among these, Wakatake-tei in Hongō and Miyamatsu-tei in Nihonbashi were regarded as the foremost, and there were also fifty or sixty other large yose theaters.
It was said that the yose theater with the oldest history since the Edo period was Manchōtei in my neighborhood.
Since I frequently went to this Manchōtei to listen to performances from childhood, I could imagine the vestiges of the past—what Edo-period yose must have been like.

Yose theaters were divided into two types: variety halls and storytelling halls.
Variety acts comprised a combination of rakugo comic storytelling, sentimental tales, magic tricks, falsetto singing, mimicry, shadow pictures, and musical performances—what was commonly referred to as "yose."
The other type, storytelling halls, specialized exclusively in kōdan narratives and were called kōshakujō from the Edo period through the early Meiji era.
Yose theaters generally held evening performances starting around 6:00 PM as a rule, though some in downtown areas began at noon.
These were termed daytime performances, operating twice daily with both day and evening sessions.
However, performers typically differed between daytime and evening shows.
Storytelling halls were usually scheduled for two daily performances.

The admission fee for yose theaters was typically 3 sen 5 rin, with cheaper ones being 3 sen or even 2 sen 5 rin; only venues featuring Enchō were said to charge 4 sen. However, from around the time of the Sino-Japanese War onward, prices gradually rose—first to 4 sen generally, then to 5 sen—and over the next decade soared to 8 sen or even 10 sen.
In addition, there were fees of 5 rin for zabuton seating cushions and 5 rin for tobacco trays; these too gradually increased to 1 sen and then 2 sen, so that by the Russo-Japanese War era, the total evening expense for a yose theater—combining admission fee, zabuton, and tobacco tray—amounted to 14–15 sen per person.
During intermissions, vendors would come selling bancha tea, sweets, and sushi.
A pot of tea cost 1 sen, sweets like cheap candies or rice crackers were 5 rin each, and sushi—served in oblong boxes containing six pieces—was 3 sen; however, the practice of selling sushi was soon discontinued.

The Tokyo Electric Light Company was founded in Meiji 20 (1887), but electric lighting only came into general use over a decade later; most yose theaters hung large lamps in their audience areas and placed two candlesticks on the storyteller’s platform.
Consequently, performers on the platform had to trim candle wicks midway through their acts.
For rakugo artists to keep narrating while trimming candle wicks was considered exceedingly difficult—those who could perform this task adequately were deemed full-fledged professionals.
Looking back now, the venues must have been dimly lit, but since nights were generally dark in that era, people didn’t particularly perceive them as such.
Moreover, this dimness seems to have greatly benefited not just Enchō’s signature Botan Dōrō but also Shinkei Kasane ga Fuchi.
However masterful Enchō’s storytelling may have been, one can surmise that in today’s brightly lit venues, he might not have conjured that same quality of eerie atmosphere.

Speaking of dark stories, nights back then were so profoundly dark that many people brought lanterns when heading to yose theaters. All the women carried lanterns with them—the journey there was one thing, but it was because the way back was dark. At the yose’s shoe deposit area, lanterns were hung on each pair of geta. When the performance ended, the audience inside would all come clamoring out at once. In response, since they had to light each lantern one by one and hand them over, the shoe attendants were extremely busy. On rainy days, there were also umbrellas. Since they had to hand over umbrellas, lanterns, and geta all at once, yose shoe attendants needed considerable experience to manage their duties effectively. Fearing this congestion, some had people come from home with lanterns to meet them. This practice gradually fell out of fashion from around Meiji 22–23 (1889–1890), and after the Sino-Japanese War, people carrying lanterns to yose theaters ceased to be seen. Even so, in the autumn of Meiji 41 (1908), when I passed near Shinjuku Station, I saw two women walking by who were talking about going to a yose—one carrying an ordinary lantern, the other a large fugu lantern. In those days, nights in Shinjuku were still dark. Compared to today’s Shinjuku, one truly cannot bear the stark contrast between past and present.

Today’s younger generation may be faintly aware of this reputation, but the popularity of female gidayū narrators at that time was comparable to that of today’s film actresses and Revue Girls.
In the Edo period, female gidayū narrators were thoroughly disparaged; however, they began gaining prominence in Tokyo’s yose theaters around Meiji 18–19 (1885–1886), with Takemoto Kyōshi and others regarded as pioneers.
Soon Takemoto Ayanosuke appeared and Suminosuke emerged, transforming the storytellers’ platforms into a riot of crimson and purple splendor; under labels like “Osaka-trained” or “Awa-trained,” countless female gidayū narrators flocked to Tokyo from all directions.
Their heyday spanned roughly twenty years from around Meiji 22–23 (1889–1890) to Meiji 40 (1907), during which over a third of Tokyo’s yose theaters were occupied by female gidayū troupes.
While there were naturally skilled veterans among them, most were young women who marketed themselves with high shimada hairstyles and crimson flower hairpins—hence they came to be called not “female gidayū” but “maiden gidayū.”
Ultimately, their popularity stemmed less from artistic merit than from their status as “maidens.”

While today’s supporters of film actresses and revue girls are given the foreign loanword “fan,” supporters of maiden gidayū narrators at that time were given the name “Dōsuru-ren.” If one were to assign characters to this name, it would be written as 堂摺連. The origin came from how they would let out strange cries of “Dōsuru dōsuru!” and applaud raucously in response to the sawari strings of the gidayū shamisen. While this naturally disrupted serious audiences, the sheer number of rowdy participants meant there was no choice but to let their boisterousness reign unchecked. As students comprised many Dōsuru-ren members, one can find not a few businessmen, politicians, and scholars occupying considerable social positions today who once devoted themselves body and soul to these groups.

As evidence of maiden gidayū performers' peak popularity, most newspapers of that era—excluding two or three major newspapers—had established columns titled "Tonight’s Narratives" that published each yose theater’s nightly jōruri program titles and narrator names.
From around the time of the Russo-Japanese War onward, both the Dōsuru-ren groups and the maiden gidayū performers gradually declined.

Following the Sino-Japanese War, naniwabushi musical narratives began gaining popularity.
Previously confined to back-alley yose theaters with audiences largely comprising lower-class patrons, naniwabushi gradually expanded its influence until even prominent downtown theaters began displaying posters advertising "Ozashiki Jōruri and Naniwabushi."
Audiences grew more refined, with well-to-do merchants attending, mustachioed gentlemen attending, and wives clad in black crepe haori joining the crowds.
Furthermore, from Meiji 30 (1897) onward, genres like Genji-bushi ballads, Osaka Niwaka comic performances, and reformed sword dances began appearing in Tokyo's yose theaters, increasingly marginalizing traditional variety acts.
Though some lament rakugo's current stagnation, Tokyo's rakugo world had already entered this decline trajectory under these circumstances.
(January 1936, *Japan and the Japanese People*)