Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

It may be too late for reminiscences now, but after publishing my book *A Theory of Modern Theater*, it is true that I somehow felt I had fulfilled a role through this. Whatever roles may still await me hereafter, and even if they end in greater dissatisfaction than before—in any case, over these dozen years until today, I believe I have done all I could for theater and achieved what my abilities could bring forth. There were things I wanted to do more of; work I might have accomplished if attempted. But all of these, upon careful consideration, failed to ignite my passion when the achievable results under current conditions proved too meager. To put it another way, it was something I did after determining that even if I myself were to do such things now, they would benefit no one.

×

Initially, I aspired to literature and, solely because I had studied French since childhood, dabbled in French literature; resolved to systematically study French literature, I began reading classical authors—and since their representative works were plays, I developed an interest in dramatic literature; when creating the opportunity to go to France, considering my future career as a result, I became inclined to cast a glance at the state of Japan’s theater world and observed the New Theater Movement of the time through several stages.
“Resurrection,” “The Tale of Shuzenji,” “The Chronicle of Lord Tadanao”
Along with “*Sono Imōto*” and—if I must add—Tsubouchi Shikō’s “*Hamuretto*,” these constituted nearly all of the Japanese theater I had seen before departing for France.

The first theater I visited in Paris was the Sarah Bernhardt Theatre, where they were performing Rostand’s *L’Aiglon*; sitting in the very front row, I stared holes into the actress’s astonishing makeup.

I had read some works by contemporary authors, but having convinced myself—or perhaps having been led to believe—that Rostand and Hervieu were the twin pillars of the age, when I investigated the actual state of affairs in their homeland, I discovered that critics of any substance did not even consider these two worth discussing, and panicked in utter confusion.
Then, if I were to say Curel was truly great after all, there was someone who dismissed him as “that sort of thing.”
Porte-Riche’s popularity could not be underestimated either.
When I sought out emerging talents, I found it fascinating to discern the various influences at play.
I already sensed the shadowy influence of Musset and Lunel.
Beck’s figure also loomed large.
Ibsen’s ghost walked hand in hand with Shakespeare’s ghost.
Molière’s roar of laughter suddenly pierced my ears.
Following the Parisians' gaze and looking in that direction, there was an affable old man named Courteline speaking softly to the crowd.
Beside him, Bruyau sat utterly dejected, propping his chin on his hand.

Theater was something where you couldn’t grasp even a third of it unless you read the script beforehand. When the audience laughed, there was nothing as lonely as being unable to laugh along. But even so, upon seeing the stage, I felt that it was only then I truly came to understand a work’s merits. This wasn’t merely evidence of how uncertain my script-reading had been at the time. It was then I first learned how actors bring scripts to life. A year later came my grasp of theater’s essence—that what exists on stage is both identical to what’s written in the script and yet entirely distinct from it.

I finally resolved to convey my intentions to Copeau of the Vieux-Colombier Theatre. Under my status as a research student, I obtained permission through Kido Gomen, settled into a neighboring boarding house, and commuted daily to both school and backstage. To understand French theater, I felt that above all else, I had to grasp the tradition of Western drama. At the same time, there were many things I had to consider about the culture that had produced such a tradition and about France’s cultural soil. Viewing life through the stage alone proved insufficient. I endeavored instead to perceive the stage through life itself. As a result, I came to keenly feel that the theater of an era must be shaped by the hands of its culturally engaged people. The playwright must naturally be so; the actor, above all else, must embody this principle. Precisely because one is an actor, one must not become an idol of the masses. It is through human charm surpassing that of ordinary individuals—through abundant wisdom and sensitivity—that such a person must capture hearts and thereby ascend to a higher stage. I reached the conviction that modern theater must be such as this. All “theatrical spectacles” apart from this I deemed unworthy of modern art’s name. Therefore, I had already concluded that Japan still lacked any “new theater.”

×

Paris from 1920 to 1923 was in what might be called a theatrical flowering that occurs roughly once every fifty years.
When I think about it now, I cannot help but wonder if that was perhaps Europe’s last such period.
We who were in Paris at that time were blessed with the fortune of being able to view, within an extremely brief span, a concourse of every theatrical genre, every era, and every ethnic creation.

Through the realism of the Moscow Art Theatre and the subjectivism of Art et Action, we were able to examine both the direction in which the modern stage sought to advance and the spirit it continued to pursue.
“All that is new lies in the changing aspects of the thing itself” became clear.

“Newness” was truly a dazzling charm for me at that time.
However, if there was a need to add something to Japanese theater, I began to form the estimation that it would rather be the “unchanging essence” throughout European theater history than its “changing aspects.”
What was it?

I saw its most prominent manifestation in the work and spirit of the Vieux-Colombier Theatre.
The fundamental question of “what creates theater” lay there.
In Japan, not only was there no “new theater,” but even “the orthodox essence of theater” was on the verge of being lost.

I thought to request scripts by new playwrights from Japan and read them for comparison.
I did not clearly know anyone’s name.
It was Mr. N, a Marxist student, who selected and sent me the works of Nagata Hideo, Yoshii Isamu, Mushanokōji Saneatsu, and Kubota Mantarō.

Since I had never even dreamed of becoming a playwright myself, I applied harsh critiques to each of these works.
Yet, curiously enough, I came to regard Mr. Kubota Mantarō—who at first glance seemed quintessentially Japanese—as the writer most connected to the tradition of Western theater among them, and deeply contemplated the significance of this.

×

Around that time, the Russian couple Pitoeff formed a supranational troupe and made their debut in Paris.
Intrigued by their repertoire’s diversity and believing there was something to learn from leader Pitoeff’s unique directorial system, I sent word requesting an audience at his dressing room one day.
His artistic wanderings resonated with me sentimentally then, but more crucially revealed how sacrifice-laden an isolated theater movement truly was.
Pitoeff’s name gradually gained renown.
Every troupe member starved.
The actor playing Luca in *The Lower Depths* accepted my invitation for lunch after the matinee—a man who claimed ruin by the Muse’s beguiling smile while explaining his embittered reluctance to leave Pitoeff.

Now that you mention it, there was a sense that even the prominent actors of Vieux-Colombier were leaving one by one, whatever their motives may have been.
Until the troupe could “become self-sustaining,” individuals would not remain attached.
I compiled various circumstances and called this the actors’ “leaving the nest.”
In fact, matured talents find hands reaching out from all directions to welcome them.
×

During this period, I investigated the relationship between so-called “commercial theater” and “avant-garde theater.” And furthermore, regarding the significance and mission of the National Theater and actor training schools, I discovered a stance of constructive critique that penetrated all negative debates.

From this emerged a dual examination of theater’s artistic development and its cultural foundations.

The pathways through which playwrights produce exceptional works had come to be largely understood, and the sequence by which actors responsive to their era’s demands emerge—encompassing all exceptions—had been delineated with precision within my mind.

The memory of seeing Antoine, Stanislavski, and Copeau simultaneously upon the stage of the Champs-Élysées became the symbolic dream through which I constructed my theater theory. We needed not imitate any of them. We required only to understand what they represented, in what eras they lived, and what they had achieved.

I had resolved to return to Japan should I become unable to sustain myself in France. This dread of financial insolvency steadily intensified within me. Were I to return home, I contemplated seeking employment as an assistant stage director at the Imperial Theatre. Concurrently, I planned to commence drafting a distinctive history of French theater. Should this theatrical position prove unattainable, I determined to pursue translation work instead. Yet even as I reasoned that all works I wished to translate had likely already been rendered by others, an unease took root within me.

×

One day, I was talking with Pitoeff in his dressing room.
"I want to do something Japanese, but I wonder what there could be," he said.
I could not give an immediate answer.
First of all, I knew nothing.
Secondly, the few scripts I had at hand seemed to be either ones I didn't want performed or ones that would be no good even if they were.
I parted in silence but then hit upon the idea of doing something cunning and immediately set to work creating what could be called my first modern play.
A week later, I requested the cooperation of a French acquaintance and completed its French translation.
I titled it "Yellow Smile"!

When I showed it to Pitoeff, he said, “This is interesting.”
It may sound like a lie, but it’s true.

A few days later, I coughed up blood and resolved myself to die in my boarding house bed.
But death abandoned me.
And so, feeling infinite reluctance toward the little theater on the Champs-Élysées, on my doctor’s advice, I departed for Po in southern France.
From Pitoeff, there was no news at all.

At last, the day to leave France came.
I went to bid farewell to Pitoeff.
He had little to say about *Yellow Smile*, merely muttering, “Pitoresque, but when it comes to staging…”
and then trailed off evasively.
Madame said that the heroine Fusako wanted to try it.
It must be flattery.

×
At that time, Mr. Tatsuno Takashi, who was in Paris, was the only friend with whom I discussed theater.
I asked this senior, somewhat sheepishly, to read my own script.
Not that it was purely precautionary, but to convey that I was somewhat serious, I added that I had shown this French translation to Pitoeff and that his criticism hadn’t been entirely negative.
Mr. Tatsuno must have been quite troubled by this.
It had taken on a form where he was somewhat forced to read it in earnest.

There is no need there to enumerate Mr. Tatsuno’s kindly encouraging words.

Friendship, in the end, compelled me to bring this maiden folly back to Japan.

II

Now, let me return once more to the earlier part of the story.

When I was in Japan, I thought I had gained some knowledge about contemporary French theater through school classrooms, scarce reference books, and occasional glances at newspapers and magazines. But upon arriving in Paris and investigating actual conditions, I collided with new problems, saw vague ideas clarified, and found all my previous value judgments utterly overturned—and so I came to ponder these matters:

First: Can we truly judge a theatrical work’s excellence—especially a play’s—by its performance results alone? More crucially, must we not examine it within its era’s broader literary context?

Thus: Relying solely on theater critics’ appraisals risks missing vital elements. Only by combining these with literary critics’ evaluations might a work’s full historical significance emerge.

The second point is this: Why do works that achieve great success in their initial runs gradually lose popularity, while those that initially receive cold or harsh criticism often stir up an unanticipated sensation when blessed with occasional revivals ten or twenty years later?
Both Musset and Porto-Riche exemplify this phenomenon.
The cause likely isn’t simple.
Moreover, the fact remains that excellent works were long buried.
Does this mean each era has limits to what it can accept?
Then what exactly does an era reject?
There may be cases involving ideas or forms.
However, more often, numerous examples demonstrate how theatrical conventions and the conservative biases of critics and audiences blinded them to tradition’s new, groundbreaking developments.
Yet one can also imagine instances where staging conditions entirely stifled a work’s appeal.
Above all, inappropriate casting can prove fatal to a production.

I made a practice of diligently rereading plays published after their performances.
There were works that were quite entertaining on stage and received considerable acclaim, yet when read in print, seemed utterly dull.

Gradually, I began to feel an interest in comparing plays written by professional playwrights with those written incidentally by novelists and poets. Then, this time, I investigated as much as possible the motives behind novelists and poets wanting to try their hand at writing plays. Finally, I paid attention to such matters as: how writers and actors relate in France; to what extent actors respect the script text they are given; and whether authors do not allow a single word to be altered.

However, surprisingly, literary figures who took up playwriting invariably had competent actors as friends: they first discussed their work’s plan, and when they began writing, sometimes read each act aloud to receive criticism and advice, then revised further; at times even seeking collaboration to the point of co-authorship; and when it finally came to staging, various revisions and refinements were made during rehearsals.

Of course, there were cases where novice playwrights, having no one to consult, abruptly brought their freshly written works to theaters or actors they had in mind; in such instances, theater owners and actors would make arbitrary demands.
The authors did not seem to consider this much of an insult.

What this means is that authors trust theater owners and actors to some extent; in matters of theater, they consider the other party to be professionals; and that authors know they can fully infuse their own distinctive qualities into their works in aspects that ultimately remain untouched by those professionals.
The desire to have one’s work performed even if it means enduring some unreasonable demands—this was an entirely separate matter.
The issue of pride as a literary scholar had now become a personal domain that could not be generalized.
In short, the splendid collaboration between authors and actors in their work, and the fact that actors possessed the ability to assert themselves without harming the author while enhancing the work’s value “for mutual benefit”—this constituted my great discovery.
While examples of resident playwrights existed in Japan, making this not uncommon in form alone, as a true artist, there was no practical method other than this to achieve the close fusion of literature and theater.

As I delved into French theater history and critiques of major playwrights, I did not overlook that behind every masterpiece lay contemporary renowned actors and a vibrant theater culture.
Of course, I acknowledge—acknowledge I do—the fact that the emergence of a genius writer can spark a new movement around them; yet it cannot be denied that such geniuses are ultimately nurtured only within soil cultivated by tradition and an atmosphere gradually ushering in new currents.
Therefore, I came to feel deeply the danger of judging so-called "pioneers" and their achievements solely through the negative aspects of their era's context.

For example, one cannot grasp the true nature of such movements through records alone that state, “Because the established theater world had become utterly corrupt, each reform movement raised its banners and made bold attempts of this sort.”

To put it plainly, even in the case of the Vieux-Colombier—the theater that most captured my interest among all the postwar “New Theater Movements”—while Jacques Copeau was undoubtedly “pioneering” in one sense, he was also, conversely, a faithful servant to “tradition,” which is not the “changing parts” within an acknowledged overall evolution but rather the “unchanging parts.”

Such things, even from the most progressive standpoint, could be clearly asserted as important—I truly envied France for that.

I inevitably found my thoughts turning to Japanese classical theater.

To cut to the conclusion: no matter what “theatrical traditions” Kabuki and Noh may possess, our task now was first to adopt what had been “absent in Japan” in its unaltered form, then process it “in a Japanese manner.” At that time, perhaps the aesthetics of “Japanese classical theater” might resurface within the modern spirit. That in itself was acceptable.

Yet we no longer felt any attraction to “Kabuki-esque” expression in any sense—and even had we done so, it would have stemmed from our own “antiquatedness” or being “too Japanese.” As for the theater of the future—built to forge a universal culture—it needed inherit nothing from such a theatrical form: one that had developed uniquely on an isolated island in the Orient, utterly disconnected from modern minds and hearts, rendering individual creations wholly impotent. This was my final resolve.

III

In July 1923, I had to leave Paris with my work still half-finished.
There were still plays I had yet to see and books I wanted to collect, but being born the eldest son in Japan, I could not act freely in such situations.

What could the soil of my homeland—stepped on by my feet after fifteen years—be to me?

First, I had to think about eating.

As far as I could survey, there existed nowhere in the theater world where I might work.

With a mindset of waiting for the right season, I gradually began working on translation. First, I resolved to start by tackling Lunaire's plays.

Speaking of play translations, before going abroad, I had only once collaborated with Mr. Dazai Semon on co-translating works by Ervieu. This was a piece I hastily retranslated into dialogue style from *La Cour du Flambeau*—a text we used during private French lessons with Mr. Dazai that Mr. Ikumi Seiji and I attended—and published in the magazine *Teikoku Bungaku*; however, I later completely reworked it under the title *Torchlight Farewell*.

The story of this translation would be interesting to recount in detail, but as it would lead too far into digressions, I shall refrain.
In any case, should there be any curious souls, I would like them to compare both my old and new translations.
It may seem like I’m broadcasting my own shame, but apart from improvements in language skills, I’m struck by how differently the same works feel before and after seeing French theater.
Needless to say again, if my initial translation scores twenty-five points, then my later one would perhaps fall somewhere between fifty and sixty?
If I had spent a bit more time and maintained my interest in the original work, I think even I could have reached around eighty points.

So regarding Lunaire’s plays, I resolved to translate them as diligently as possible for study and first tackled *Daily Bread*. Working patiently on two or three pages each day proved truly enjoyable.

However, the truth was that I could not afford to spend all my time on such things; I needed to find more lucrative work. Fortunately, my friends Mr. Suzuki Shintarō and Mr. Tatsuno Takashi announced their plan for the “French Literature Series” and suggested I contribute a translation. I promptly took up Lunaire’s short story collection *Grape Growers in the Vineyard*—since it was prose, I breezed through the entire thing in just over ten days, averaging thirty pages a day. Lunaire’s writing style, with its subtle connection between prose and dialogue, proved immensely helpful as a reference for translating plays.

The narrative shifts slightly in time, but shortly after returning to Japan, I decided to go see a Kabuki play and invited Mr. Suzuki Shintarō to attend a performance by Kikugorō’s troupe at what I believe was the Ichimura-za.
It was on this occasion that I saw the actor Kikugorō for the first time.
Of course, I was utterly entranced.
When I first saw Rostand’s *The Eaglet* in Paris, I experienced a somewhat similar emotion—though to be precise, while there my heart had pounded fiercely, here tears welled up in my eyes without any sadness whatsoever; such was the difference.

After giving much thought to that day’s experience afterward, I concluded that it must indeed have been something like this.
Kabuki was a splendid thing.
The actor called Kikugorō was undoubtedly an excellent actor.
I could say that I sincerely accepted its charm and experienced a purely artistic emotion.
However, I did not believe that the eyes opened wide toward what I called my plays had been in the least distorted by this.
So to speak, in Japan at that time, I had merely confirmed the fact that theater itself indeed had two paths—two traditions in the past and future.
Those two paths could not be trodden simultaneously.
One was a tradition that connected from the past to the present.
The other was a new tradition that connected from the present to the future.
As proof—however perfect Kikugorō’s theater may have been—what power did it possess to create anything from it?
My unwitting tears might perhaps attest to some ethnic connection, but that was decidedly not something possessing futurity.
I lacked the magnanimity to perceive the essential life of theater in Kabuki’s formal beauty as some did.
In other words—if I may touch upon a personal matter—the feudalistic elements within me were repellent to myself; yet there were times when they inadvertently asserted their influence—on occasions such as when I attended a Kabuki performance with a friend after long intervals—this devotee of Western theater found himself unmasked without disguise.

What I wished to clarify here was Kabuki’s position within the world theater.
In my opinion, this stood as a superior reference artifact without equal in either East or West.
Particularly after Western drama had developed in its current manner, everyone had come to realize we now had to pioneer an entirely separate direction.
Japanese Kabuki at such a juncture not only remained invaluable research material but—as an ultimate form of stage expression—stood rather as a model of “new art” worthy of astonishment, unless one scrutinized its historical significance.

However, if one considered through modern Japanese theater just how much Kabuki’s existence hindered the rise of new drama, one’s perspective had to naturally diverge. Moreover, even arguments claiming that while their content might be negligible, their forms could be inherited as they were—if one calmly reflected on this—I believed it became clear that this was a dangerous line of reasoning.

It could be said that Westerners’ admiration for Kabuki stemmed from exactly the same motives as Japanese people’s attempts to learn from Western theater.
Moreover, what Westerner had ever truly understood the common sentiments of the Tokugawa period and critically examined its way of life and customs?

In the term “Japanese-ness,” we could discover all manner of non-cultural nature, insularity, subservience, and ignorance—not merely within its ideology but also within its forms of expression: those seemingly luxurious, refined, or simple and rustic traditions.

How much—and how deeply—had we already come to feel Kabuki-like elements permeating today’s social climate—in our own surroundings, no—even within ourselves?
We were already weary of Kabuki without even watching it.

I do not seek to reject this traditional stage—which the Japanese themselves proclaim as a national treasure—with mere antipathy. Rather, with love, I declare: “Thou shalt occupy the station thou art meant to occupy.”

Now, while continuing my translations, I could not abandon my ambition to try writing plays if I could, and recalled to mind an old friend who alone had made a name for himself as a writer. That was Mr. Toyoshima Yoshio.

One day in August, I visited Mr. Toyoshima Yoshio in Sendagi and requested that he read what was then called “Yellow Smile.” At that time, I believe I had already changed the title to *The Old Toys*.

Mr. Toyoshima took the manuscript from my hands and spoke first.

“You see, manuscript paper follows twenty-character lines by convention.”
“You should rewrite this.”

Indeed, I was unaware of such conventions and had used twenty-five characters per line to fit as much as possible on each sheet.

He then added the following.

“I don’t really understand plays well enough myself—why don’t we have Mr. Yamamoto Yūzō read this instead?”
“I’ll handle passing it along from my end.”
“I’ll introduce you, so why don’t you go and visit him once?”

IV

At that time, I knew of Yamamoto Yūzō’s name but had not read any of his works.
Before going abroad, I had seen Mr. Mushanokōji’s *That Younger Sister* at the Royal Hall in Akasaka and knew Yamamoto as its stage director.
Of course, I may have glimpsed his name later in newspapers or magazines, but I could never quite discern what standing Mr. Yamamoto held in literary and theatrical circles.
Since he was a playwright trusted by Mr. Toyoshima, however, I thought it prudent to have such an expert examine what I had written.
Yet out of caution—or rather courtesy—I felt obliged to read at least some of his works beforehand.
I cannot recall clearly what I read then, but I believe it was likely *Professor Tsumura*.

Moreover, according to Mr. Toyoshima, since Mr. Yamamoto was a graduate of the German literature department, I also harbored the concern that he might look down from the start on what I might call my “French-reeking” works.
It was a foolish thing to dwell on, but at the time, I had no inkling of German influences in Japan’s “new theater movement,” being instead keenly aware that my own tastes were far too “French-styled.”

However, on the second floor of Mr. Yamamoto’s house, for the first time in my life, I was treated as a “new writer.”

It was evening.
As we talked about French theater, it became mealtime.
My manuscript was brought along with the tempura.
Mr. Yamamoto Yūzō said he would read it while eating his meal now, as he hadn’t had time to look through it yet.
That was perfectly acceptable.
But were it me now, I would know full well how much pain one must steel oneself to endure when made to read a novice writer’s manuscript exceeding a hundred pages—yet when I myself was that novice, I secretly marveled at my senior’s thoroughness, thinking, “Reading it while eating is a bit too efficient for comfort!”

However, when I actually picked up my chopsticks and Mr. Yamamoto picked up his chopsticks and manuscript, and I saw that I was using only my mouth while he was using both his mouth and eyes, a profound sense of gratitude welled up within me. First, I wondered whether my work was truly worth reading to such an extent—or rather, I worried that the tempura would grow cold—and second, I thought that if I hadn’t at least been moving my mouth, sitting there in silence while my own writing was being read right beside me would have been unbearably awkward; in this twofold manner, I came to realize the thoroughness of Mr. Yamamoto’s consideration.

By the time we reached the first and second acts,

“Hmm…”

Then came Mr. Yamamoto’s low hum.
It was a hum that could be taken as either boredom or admiration—a profoundly ambiguous sound.

When the third act ended, there was a brief pause.
It was a moment that still sends a shudder through me when I recall it.
Mr. Yamamoto’s chopsticks suddenly grew animated, and behind his glasses, his eyes sought words.
Then into my ears drifted these words, as though through a dream:

“Among the scripts I’ve read recently, there’s nothing as interesting as this.”

I candidly committed this generous praise to paper here.
Although I knew this was not something meant to be made public, it was because the hopeful start of my career as a writer owed itself to this encouragement.

The night path home seemed illuminated by the bright light within my heart.

That said, I must not omit here that indescribable anxiety that followed once the excitement subsided.
What was it?
The question of whether I could indeed write a second work.
The question of whether anything still remained afterward.

This anxiety, I think, is perhaps not limited to cases like mine—that of a writer who became one by chance.
It may stem from the vulnerability of one’s first work being not something born naturally, but something deliberately crafted.
Or perhaps it was simply the presumptuous pride of an overpraised novice?

I had no choice but to cling to Mr. Yamamoto Yūzō’s goodwill, which proposed recommending me to *Kaizō* or the like.

Days passed in anticipation.

Moreover, before even ten days had passed, that Great Earthquake struck.

V

How did the Japanese theater world change with this Great Earthquake as its boundary? At the very least, through this kind of historical event, all things—materially and spiritually—must have received considerable influence, but what of the realm of theater? Now, it’s not impossible to find out if one investigates, but to me at the time, it did not appear in such clear form.

For example, even the newspaper reports stating that all theaters in Tokyo had been reduced to ashes only made me think, “Ah, so the theaters too?”—it did not strike me as a problem I needed to address directly in my work or daily life. Had I already set foot in that path in some form before the Great Earthquake, I would undoubtedly have suffered a far greater shock; moreover, one imagines I would have greeted the so-called “theatrical revival” that soon arose with entirely different emotions.

To put it bluntly, one might say that the closure of theaters and the suspension of magazines caused me little pain or irritation at that time. Amid that chaotic situation, I had already forgotten about my manuscript and was contemplating the occupation that would allow me to support my family and kin from the next day onward. And so—how I came to resolve to run a used bookstore, how that could not be done so readily, and how my old friend Mr. Suzuki Shintarō then brought me a favorable job offer—I have no time to recount these matters in detail.

However, this job offer concerned the massive translation project I mentioned earlier—the “French Literature Series”—and since Mr. Tatsuno and Mr. Toyoshima were also involved in this plan, I was granted what might be called the privilege of freely selecting works I preferred.
And so, I first chose two from among them.
They were none other than Renard’s *The Vintner in His Vineyard* and Anatole France’s *At the Sign of the Reine Pédauque*.
The reason I particularly record this matter here is that I had unexpectedly gained the opportunity to mention the names of the two writers to whom I was devoted at that time.
As for *Bird Cuisine*, I ultimately never began work on it; I recall that the publication of the series also failed to reach completion due to the publisher’s circumstances.

Now that I had found such a lengthy project ahead of me, there was no need to rush.
Just then, as if manna from heaven, French language teaching positions came my way from Mr. Toyoshima Yoshio and Mr. Suzuki Shintarō.
One was at Hosei University and the other at Chuo University, each telling me to try teaching French there.
I think the shifting times are a terrifying thing.
At that time, the number of Bachelors of Arts was still insufficient.

Jests aside, I finally steeled myself to become a teacher and formulated a plan to supplement my insufficient income through translation work and private tutoring.
Therefore, thinking to secure a conveniently located residence, I rented a house at the foot of the slope in Ushigome Wakamatsu-cho and, as a gesture of bidding temporary farewell to professional theater, put up a sign at the entrance reading “French Language Instruction & Molière Society.”
The fact that a single student from the Okappa class of Futsu Eiwa Women’s School’s affiliated elementary school came for lessons, accompanied by a maid, was at least some consolation.

No—if I were to speak of consolation，there was a far greater one.
It lay in those occasional meetings with a group discussing literature and theater at Mr．Yamamoto Yūzō’s residence．

One day at that gathering, encouraging news emerged: plans for launching a new theater journal, with our theatrical world's most distinguished figures joining as contributors under a policy of championing fresh ideas to revive drama—and Mr. Yamamoto Yūzō himself was slated to take editorial responsibility.

One could indeed perceive from everyone's expressions how sensational this news was, but truthfully, such matters failed to strike a chord with me back then; the concept of a "new journal" felt scarcely connected to any genuine "new theatrical movement."
Yet this was neither strange nor unexpected.
I remained ignorant of the crucial reality that Japanese playwrights are born from magazines.

VI

*Engeki Shinchō* published its inaugural Taishō 13 (1924) New Year issue at the end of that year.

The following people are listed as contributors:

Ihara Seien

Ikeda Daigo

Osanai Kaoru

Okamoto Kidō

Yoshii Isamu

Tanizaki Jun’ichirō

Nakamura Kichizō

Nagayo Yoshirō

Nagata Hideo

Kubota Mantarō

Kume Masao

Yamazaki Shikō

Yamamoto Yūzō

Satomi Ton

Kikuchi Kan

The editing was handled by Mr. Yamamoto Yūzō, under whom worked Mr. Nōshima Takefumi and Mr. Kitao Kameo.

Now, when I opened what was called the inaugural issue, the state of the theater world that I had failed to notice at the time rose vividly before my eyes, as if I could grasp it with my hands. The postcard responses from various contributors stating “the first scripts we want to see, perform, direct, and design after the revival” also served to define this magazine’s birth.

My debut work *The Old Toys* was to be published in the third issue of this magazine through such connections.

For an editor, publishing over a hundred pages of an unknown writer’s work all at once must have been quite the gamble. In fact, since only two plays were published that month, the afterword states an explanation to that effect.

Now, when the magazine appeared in stores, I truly could not remain calm. When I thought about not knowing who might be reading it where, it felt so awkward to even step outside that it was rather ridiculous—but sure enough, I received several letters from unknown readers. Among them were even some gracious critiques that evoked Schnitzler, and I breathed a sigh of relief. However, two or three days later, I received a visit from a Yomiuri Shimbun literary department reporter. This was a major event! He asked me to recount my personal history. He demanded to take photographs. I solemnly answered the questions and sat before the lens. Since my younger sister and I were living together, I had her sit for the photograph as well. Ah, what a wondrous country Japan is. After writing something like that, I finally came to be "known."

Until then, I had not intended to pay much heed to public opinion, yet I found myself stirred by curiosity nonetheless. However, I knew nothing of how to scour through monthly reviews. Thus, in the newspaper I subscribed to, I took care to notice what people were saying. The first instance was Mr. Kaneko Hirofumi granting me a favorable review in *Jiji Shimpo*. In the following month’s *Engeki Shinchō*, Mr. Shibata Katsue cited *The Old Toys* as a work of distinct character. When I consider that Mr. Shibata then served as Yomiuri’s literary department chief and that the young reporter who came to secure an interview piece—now the paper’s current literary department chief, Mr. Shimizu Gentarō—I am truly overcome by the poignancy of time’s passage.

Other reviews may have been published, but they never reached my eyes.
However, I later read in the magazine *Shin Engeki* that Mr. Koteda Yūkichi had dismissed it as "a work unworthy of being called a debut."
When I read it at the time, I thought, "What?"—but now I feel that having someone like that was for the best after all.
I heard many indirect accounts of who had praised it this way or criticized it that way, but I have mostly forgotten them all.

Starting with the April issue, I began writing miscellaneous articles under the pseudonym Yamaguchi Saijū. They were pieces like “French Playwrights’ Rights Defense Movement”; in the May issue, I reviewed Mizutani Yaeko’s Geijutsu-za performance.

Since this critical essay marked my first “Impressions of New Theater,” I will briefly excerpt it here.

On Acting.
(Shaw’s *In Praise of Soldiers*)

I first offered full-hearted praise to Mr. Higashiya Saburō, who portrayed Nicolas; I still did not quite understand what exactly was good about it.
After all, he seemed like someone possessing a certain *esprit* that made one think such an actor had finally emerged even in Japan.
He did not merely speak with his mouth.
He possessed remarkable eyelid movements…

Miss Mizutani Yaeko, playing Lina, possessed a beauty that made one wish she were the protagonist of a tragedy.
Her forte lay in playing the "naive maiden" of classical comedy; she seemed to lack something essential for portraying a coquette.

Miss Tamura Akiko’s Luca—ah, must she always be sulking like this?
Thus, when she truly sulks, that sulking loses its effect.
This is a common occurrence.

In short, when staging translated plays in Japan, it is necessary first and foremost to select scripts without being bound by the original authors’ names and to examine whether the translations are suitable for performance.
Such things go without saying, but this mistake conversely places actors in a predicament.
The drawn-out delivery of lines, the inflections and pacing that never venture beyond recitation’s confines, the irremediable void forming between gesture and speech—these theatrical flaws arise from the play’s stylistic qualities discussed earlier.

I keenly felt that Japan’s modern theater was first and foremost colliding with a major obstacle at this very point.
The June issue included a translation of Lunael’s play *Daily Bread*.

VII

And in June of that year, Tsukiji Little Theater—an epoch-making undertaking in the history of Japanese new theater—was established, and its inaugural performance was held with great fanfare.

I, of course, welcomed this with great excitement and expectation.
I had long been hearing about the ongoing realization of this movement through various opportunities, and while I could roughly surmise its general contours, we ultimately believed that the mere facts of Mr. Hijikata Yoshi—returned from Germany—investing his vast personal fortune and Mr. Osanai Kaoru—founder of the former "Free Theater"—taking charge would suffice to establish both a rational plan and conscientious objectives.

Now, prior to the first performance, an essay by Mr. Osanai titled “Tsukiji Little Theater: From Inception to Completion” was published.

This essay not only conveyed the spirit of Mr. Osanai as the eternal youth but also represented a form of fervor that the young generation of that time harbored toward new theater, I thought.
For reference, I will quote its full text here.

“When I parted ways with Shochiku last March—that was when I abandoned all hope for every commercial theater in Japan.”

I resolved that I would never again become involved in any capacity with commercial theaters in Japan.
I simply wrote, barely sustained myself, and scarcely found solace.

Then, a dawn came upon my thoughts.
That was to establish a drama school together once Hijikata returned from Germany.

The Great Earthquake struck—at that time I was in the countryside with my entire family—nearly every theater in Tokyo was reduced to ashes.
All the theaters that had perished in my heart six months prior had now perished in visible form as well.
……
However, as all theaters perished, my own hopes perished as well.
At least a ten-year gap had yawned open before my very eyes.

The theatrical world of post-earthquake Tokyo—a world where everything had perished and everything had to be born anew—what, in the end, emerged from it? Competitive promotions devoid of commercial theater foundations; dubious new troupes sprouting up everywhere, exploiting the theaters’ total annihilation—scattered actors, scattered performances, scattered producers…

I utterly despaired.
I thought only to read and write.
I thought to write and read.
I resolved to create within the confines of my cramped study—or rather，within the even narrower confines of my own mind—a theater that，no matter how it might betray me，I could not bring myself to hate.
It was then that Hijikata returned from Europe.

And he said，“How about we build our theater?”
Now，the construction of barrack theaters would be permitted.
And for the next five years，we could make that our stage.
When we would be able to have a theater through proper construction remained unknown.
If it were barracks，then we could have our theater…….

Our theater—our research theater—the fact that we could have it was a strong temptation to me.
Without thinking, I let myself be pulled along solely by that temptation.
“Very well—let’s do it.”
I immediately agreed.

That was February 3rd of this year.

And then, these four months—they were spent entirely on preparations.

What was preparation?
The first step had been to rally comrades.
Young comrades gathered.
There were daily discussions.
People came and went.
Finally, those who had been organized comprised directors Hijikata, Wada Sei, and myself; actors Shiomi and Tomoda; and manager Asatori Tsuruo.
These six members each bore equal responsibility and obligation for managing and maintaining this theater.

The selection of the site and obtaining permission from the Metropolitan Police Department alone required over two months of deliberation and legwork.
Architectural plans, stage equipment designs, seating research—over a month was spent on these as well.
The schedule for this year’s production list was planned, and comrades beyond our members—among them actors, lighting technicians, set designers, and even choreographers—were gathered.

Debate upon debate, deliberation upon deliberation—the foundation as an ensemble was steadily solidified.
First, the basic education of the actors began.
Training in voice production, rhythm, and articulation began.
Negotiations with the authorities regarding construction were also smoothly advanced.
On the morning of April 26th, the demarcation was carried out on a small plot of land in Tsukiji 2-chome.
Behind it stood Mr. Mutō Sanji’s lecture hall—said to accommodate two thousand people—already towering toward the sky.
Adjacent to it lay plans for Danjūrō-za’s construction.
Interposed between a stage intended for use by institutions of political reform and a theater gasping its last breaths while dedicated to preserving classical Kabuki—what role would our theater ultimately play?
That I will not disclose here.
Please simply watch.
Please watch.

At Tsukiji Little Theater, I must become someone entirely different from who I have been until now.

I am no longer merely a stage artist.
I want to work within this theater as a whole being.
I am seeking to find, for the first time in my life, a realm of freedom unbound by any authority upon this small theater’s stage.

Now, in the room above, the rehearsal of Goering’s *Naval Battle* began. The words flew at a terrifying speed, like bullets. The roar of cannons occasionally shook the house. There were those who prayed to God. There were those who rejected submission. There were those burning with abnormal passions. There were those trying to go mad. It was war. And where would this war lead us…… We now faced war. And what was our purpose? Bullets flew. Flames rose. Cannonballs shook us. Where would we go? No one knew. Still, no one knew. But there was someone who knew. “At least there was one person who knew.……”

Around that time, Mr. Osanai Kaoru announced an important declaration at a lecture meeting held in Keio University’s auditorium.

As there is no precise record today, I cannot convey his exact wording, but according to contemporary documents, when speaking of Tsukiji Little Theater’s aspirations, Mr. Osanai "boldly declared" that since none of modern Japan’s original plays stimulated their directorial ambitions, they would stage only translations of foreign dramas for the next two years.
That was the case.

To tell the truth, when I heard that rumor, I didn’t particularly get the impression of a “bold declaration,” but the general playwriting community must undoubtedly have been shocked.

A tumultuous debate arose among the Engeki Shinchō members.

However, given the magnitude of this issue, one could interpret Mr. Osanai Kaoru and Mr. Hijikata Yoshi’s intentions in good faith.
In fact, I had maintained the argument that Japan’s new theater world should first level the ground through essential studies of Western drama upon returning to Japan; rather than being subjected to half-baked original plays, I wanted to see excellent productions of Western plays, and I myself harbored some ambitions in that direction—secretly thinking that if the opportunity arose, I might even direct a French play on Tsukiji Little Theater’s stage.

In light of these circumstances, when the program for the inaugural performance was finally settled on Chekhov’s “Swan Song,” Mazaud’s “Day Off,” and Goering’s “Naval Battle,” and I received my invitation to opening night, I muttered inwardly.

As for the program itself, I had no particular complaints.
To what extent today’s Japanese actors could manage Western drama,
To what extent the necessary training and instruction for that had been conducted—this, first and foremost, was where attention should be directed.

Around that time, a French youth named H, whom I had become acquainted with in Paris, arrived in Japan after his long journey. Since he was staying at my house until he found lodgings, we ended up deciding to let him watch Mazaud’s *Day Off*. He expressed his wish to read the original text beforehand, but unfortunately I didn’t have a copy. I only knew it had been part of the Vieux-Colombier troupe’s repertoire—though I’d missed their performance due to conflicting schedules—and since I thought it would be good for me to read it too, I managed to borrow a copy from someone and had him read it aloud.

It’s strange—even an amateur listening to French voices gets an impression close to watching a play in Paris.
“Psychological Poetry School”
I had roughly grasped Mazaud’s esprit and style.
For Japanese actors, this was the most challenging piece.
First of all, what had this translation become?
Had the subtle nuances truly been captured?

To be honest, as I listened to the reverberations of that historic copper gong, I harbored both an anticipation akin to excitement and an anxiety that felt half my own toward this production—a stage Tsukiji Little Theater now confidently presented to the world.

8

And so, at last, it was Tsukiji Little Theater’s inaugural performance.

The act of recording here the heart-pounding impressions of that invitation day remains truly a matter of profound emotion for me now.

The newly renovated façade of this Baroque Theater at first glance resembled a colonial church.
The moment I stepped inside, I felt an oddly suffocating sensation, as though there were no place to anchor my footing.
Not only did the gloominess of the gray wall evoke a low-hanging sky, but within the cold, heavy lines of the arched proscenium connected by stairs to the orchestra, I already sensed “the North” and involuntarily hunched my shoulders.

The lack of decoration and simplicity was a relief.
But what is one to make of this grim countenance and the rigid tension in its contours?

Still, let us set this aside as a matter of taste and await the curtain's rise.

Soon that historic bronze gong reverberated, and beyond the curtain there seemed to swirl a radiant vortex of excitement; yet we on this side wore strained smiles here and there, murmuring, "Don't startle us."
It wasn't particularly disagreeable.
Yet this stemmed from its childlike bravado intermingled with an alien eeriness.

Despite this atmosphere—if one could call it that—of unease, I gazed intently at the stage with eager anticipation.

During the intermission, true to a troupe built on vast financial resources, they demonstrated their means by serving all invited guests tea and sandwiches; I myself nearly refused out of sheer overwhelm.

So then—what of the stage itself?

Apart from deeming Japan’s first cyclorama device—this so-called Kuppelhorizont—effective, truth be told, I found nothing commendable across all three performances.
It was not remotely engaging.
It bordered on utter tedium.
At times, I twisted my arm in vexation.
Ah—can this truly suffice?

Someone told me to write tonight’s theater review.
“Let me think about it a little,” I answered.

As for newspaper theater reviews, I felt I couldn’t write them.
Because it amounted to saying, “Don’t go see this play.”

Even so, it was still too early to despair.
I waited until around the end of the performance and, as requested, sent an article to the magazine Shin Engeki.
It was something like an opinion piece titled “The Inauguration of Tsukiji Little Theater” rather than a “theater review.”

I decided to present its full text below.

[The following text has been omitted.]