Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Kunio Kishida

I. What Constitutes Modern Drama

This term was inherently rather ambiguous; the word "modern" (近代) undoubtedly translated *moderne*, thereby carrying both the commonly used sense of "new era" (新時代) while historically denoting what was termed the "early modern period" (近世).
In historical terms, I recalled it referred to the period following the Middle Ages—specifically speaking, after the Reformation—though according to French history, *Histoire moderne* had denoted the span from Constantinople's fall (1453) to the French Revolution (1789), meaning everything thereafter fell under “contemporary times.”
In that case, since terms like “modern drama” and “modern literature” belonged to literary-historical classification, one might reasonably expect them to align with historical interpretation; yet by avoiding “early modern period” and specifically using “modern,” we might argue they carried a literary nuance—signifying either the portion of the early modern period closest to contemporary times or what could be called the most “modernistic” modernity inclusive of the present day.

However, at the same time, when we speak of modern literature—particularly modern novels or modern drama—I cannot help but feel that even these terms alone fail to fully encapsulate their conceptual essence.
This is because it has become common understanding to shift focus away from chronological analysis of eras themselves and instead emphasize questions of modernistic quality or tonal characteristics—indeed, one might further posit that the term “modern drama” refers to a more delimited, cohesive department with clearly defined traits than does the phrase “modern novel.”
In other words, the "modern" elements in drama give the impression of being more conspicuous, prominent, and oriented in a definite direction compared to those in novels.

Needless to say, this stems from cultural-historical analysis forming its foundation; in the realm of theater, such analysis transcends mere amorphous tendencies or synthetic concepts to indicate something approaching a definitive genre—a distinct artistic classification.

Thus, "modern drama" refers to theater born along the currents of so-called "modern literature," yet it constitutes not merely drama that embodies modern thought, depicts modern life, or incorporates modern sensibilities. Beyond these aspects, it must manifest the modern spirit's engagement with theater as an artistic form—that is to say, essential efforts aimed at "theatrical innovation"—wherein there must clearly be demonstrated, whether consciously or unconsciously, some form of convention's destruction and tradition's exploration.

In this sense, while the various pioneering phenomena of "contemporary drama" are indeed connected to the mainstream of modern drama, I interpret the task assigned to me in this lecture series—the Iwanami World Literature Lectures—as lying rather in tracing back to the origins of modern drama, and from this perspective, I intend to set forth only what I know.

II. Lineage of Modern Drama

The question of how modern drama came into being was an exceedingly difficult problem.
For to address this, one first had to thoroughly survey the entire history of world theater.
By comparing each country’s respective eras, it became necessary to ascertain the interactive exchanges of literature—particularly dramatic literature—that had occurred between them.
The utilization of comparative literary methods proved indispensable to this research.

Moreover, while merely knowing about representative writers from each country, era, and school might not have been particularly difficult, accurately tracing modern drama’s ancestry required that we not overlook those humble "pioneers" often treated as minor presences in various nations’ theatrical histories.
Simultaneously, we had to remain vigilant against certain writers who—through transnational aptitudes or fortuitous opportunities—had crossed national borders to assume roles abroad exceeding their true merit.
Conversely, there were instances where genius writers who most influenced subsequent generations in their homeland became hampered by their works’ purely national characteristics—rejected by foreign literary circles and undervalued in their achievements.

Therefore, I would now trace modern drama's lineage through broad strokes centered on French theater—my field of expertise.
Let me clarify that while similar methods could construct genealogies focusing on German theater, British theater, Russian theater and others, such endeavors lie beyond my current scope.

The term *le théâtre moderne* entered French usage remarkably early—likely originating in what we call seventeenth-century classical theater.
But bracketing such etymological debates, this era saw French dramatic literature achieve spectacular growth in both reputation and substance—with Racine, Corneille and Molière standing as monumental names gracing French drama history's opening chapters.
Regarding so-called classicism or pseudo-classicism rather than belaboring tedious definitions we need only observe how that era's representative writers connect to what we term 'modernity'.

Racine (1639–1699), when compared to Corneille (1606–1689), was always deemed more realistic—and indeed, it remained an undeniable fact that he had demonstrated astonishing precision and acuity in dissecting love psychology for his time. Even viewed solely from this aspect, he appeared more “modern” than Corneille.
Yet that was not all.
While Corneille’s idealism had become trapped in a certain mold, his realism—apart from Greek drama’s influence—could be seen as embodying the romanticism of his era, a view that aligned precisely with the notion that what was “modern” across all ages remained inherently romantic.
As evidence of this, his works initially sparked public controversy; accusations of immorality surrounding masterpieces like *Phèdre* had plunged his milieu into temporary gloom.
This closely resembled the fate encountered in the nineteenth century by Flaubert’s novel *Madame Bovary* and later by the Goncourt brothers’ play *La Fille Élisa*.

He not only enriched French theater by incorporating "realistic truth" or "truthful reality" into his plays, but one of his greatest achievements lies beyond this.
Fundamentally, when examining the composition of plays from a formal perspective, we can divide them into two schools—one of which was indeed pioneered and perfected by Racine himself.
That is to say, in contrast to the complex school, this represents the simple school.
This, in essence, marks the beginning of modern “literature that de-emphasizes plot” and the starting point for “drama without climactic peaks.”
In other words, considering how the rejection of melodrama contributed to the artistic purification of modern drama, the path he pioneered was by no means without significance.

In contrast, Corneille modeled his work after Spanish drama and wrote plays with intricate plots teeming with dramatic climaxes.
This figure should be counted among those who would later join the complex school represented by Shakespeare.
Next considering Molière (1622–1673)—who stood alongside Racine as a great comic playwright upholding French theatrical tradition—the outstanding trait of his comedies lay in their literary dissection of character through what was termed “high comedy,” while also serving as the earliest precursor to Balzac’s *Human Comedy*; thus one cannot help but consider modern French satirical drama’s characters clad in Molière-esque guise.

Moreover, it was particularly noteworthy that Racine’s elegant and flowing poetic style did not hinder his splendid creation of dramatic form; likewise, alongside Molière’s unrestrained improvisational wit—steeped in the bitterness of human life yet undulled in its vividness—later writers discovered much to learn from there.

Now, this god of French theater, Racine—like many humans—had at least three shortcomings when viewed impartially.

Firstly, the intricacies of his language strike us today as somewhat too grating on the nerves.
Secondly, in his excessive focus on psychological pursuit, the delineation of characters becomes blurred.
Thirdly, philosophy is entirely absent.
Even in his area of expertise—love problems—they are presented without being philosophically examined to the point of becoming genuine issues.

In this regard, there are indeed critics who would rather award the victory to Corneille; however, while this very Corneille has been steadily losing ground with the passage of time, Racine continues to gain an ever-increasing number of adherents.

By the eighteenth century, the delicate romantic dramatist Marivaux (1688–1763) first emerged as his direct successor.
Moreover, one must not forget that Racine’s tragedy transformed there into comedy.
In other words, it was precisely in this abrupt shift of focus from the tragic to the comic aspects of love psychology that Marivaux’s eighteenth-century sensibility came into play.

In this era, Voltaire (1694–1778) also wrote plays.
Because he believed wholeheartedly in his abundant talent, he churned out works indiscriminately—whether tragedies or comedies.
He traveled to England and brought back a remarkable souvenir.
After studying English for three years, he read Shakespeare.
Among French literary figures, it can well be said that he was the first to read Shakespeare; consequently, it was only after this that the name of this great playwright born in a neighboring country became known in France.
Yet what he brought back was not limited to that alone.
He subsequently blended British drama—particularly the Shakespearean style—into later tragedies.
It was a bold attempt.
But when the seed became apparent, society dismissed it with an “Oh, is that all?”
He also introduced new directorial innovations never before seen on the French stage.
Respect for local color was one such innovation.
But in the end, as his contemporary literary rival Diderot remarked, “No matter what he wrote, he remained second-rate at best,” he said.
However, there are also critics who argue that this view is mistaken.
According to them, “While he may indeed occupy a second-rate position in tragedy, in comedy he is dead last.”

There is one more thing I would like to say regarding Voltaire and Shakespeare, but as Mr. Honda Kensho has already written about this topic in detail in this lecture series "Shakespeare and World Literature," I will omit it here.

In short, Voltaire—who dominated eighteenth-century France with his unbridled and indomitable spirit—accomplished virtually nothing as a playwright, though he may find slight solace in having introduced Shakespeare to his homeland and having his name and works sent into the German theater scene.

Lessing, the founder of German national theater, took Shakespeare as his model and sought to eradicate traditional French theater and its imitative tendencies.
Indeed, according to the theater reviews compiled in his collected works, even when examining the proportion of scripts performed solely at the Hamburg National Theatre during that period, French plays accounted for the majority—approximately two-thirds—of them.
Among these, Voltaire’s works were notably numerous.
And strangely enough, there was not a single one by Racine.
Furthermore, consulting Mr. Ryozo Niizeki’s *Characteristics of German Drama* more thoroughly in this preface reveals that Goethe himself had translated no fewer than two of Voltaire’s tragedies.
On the other hand, it appears Schiller translated Racine’s *Phaedra* among others.
Yet none seemed to have been genuine proponents of French theater.
The circumstances here prove rather intricate—indeed, should we question whether these two remained entirely untouched by French theatrical influence, we would need to consult Mr. Niizeki anew to comprehend.

Let us proceed with our discussion.
In Germany, the so-called Sturm und Drang era soon arrived.
In France too, during the latter half of the eighteenth century, the first cry of theatrical reform was sounded.

Nivelle de la Chaussée’s (1692–1754) "tearful comedy," though less prominent, first pioneered modern middle-class drama in France by breaking the fixed forms of tragedy and comedy, thereby establishing a new genre of playwriting.
From this period onward, the notion that “human nature is evil”—which had taken root in everyone’s minds since the seventeenth century—was replaced by the idea that “human nature is good.”
Chaussée and other playwrights of this era, of course, viewed humanity from this perspective.
Comedy was no longer merely something that made people laugh.
It was sufficient to create ripples in the moral sensibilities of upright humans.
This optimism was not destined to persist unchanged; conversely, it may be said to have established the practice of casting at least a faint bright smile upon modern pessimistic thought.
At this juncture, translations and adaptations of Shakespeare began to emerge in rapid succession.
Diderot published his treatise on drama.
He declared, “Between tragedy and comedy, there must exist what we call serious drama.”
“Furthermore, there must undoubtedly be several gradations between serious drama and tragedy, as well as between serious drama and comedy.”

From the blending of dramatic genres emerged new discoveries within those very genres. However, more than Diderot’s hundred arguments, we should turn our attention to a certain writer who approached the stagnant theater world of that era with unconventional ideas and, through his *On Dramatic Art*, inaugurated the history of realism in theater. He was but a minor talent called Mercier, yet his words were these: “Seek not your materials in the study—go forth and turn the pages of real life.” But throughout the eighteenth century—before and after—the sole playwright worthy of being called a genius was, in truth, not a literary figure by trade but an entrepreneur who happened to write plays as a pastime.

Beaumarchais (1732–99), author of *The Barber of Seville*, achieved unprecedented theatrical success through three facets: content, style, and narrative ingenuity.
Moreover, through his masterpiece *The Marriage of Figaro*, he finally implanted a premonition of the French Revolution into the hearts and minds of the era.
It was the first time the voice of the people entered the theater.
From where did he inherit his playwright’s blood?
It is certain that Molière stands among his paternal ancestors.
He might have caught a whiff of Shakespeare through Ducis’s adaptations.
Yet consider this trajectory: clockmaker’s son turned court musician; seducer of two wealthy widows; defendant imprisoned after legal defeats; falsely accused yet serving as Louis XVI’s secretary; arms dealer supplying America’s revolution; millionaire reduced to penniless vagrant dying roadside—could such a man, who navigated society’s every layer and shadow, not draw infinite dramatic inspiration from his odyssey?

Yet despite writing such masterpieces, he was somehow not taken seriously by others.
In other words, when people hear that Beaumarchais is a genius, many wonder if such a frivolous genius could truly exist.
Nevertheless, some critics bestowed upon him the title “father of modern drama,” while simultaneously declaring, “Beaumarchais—by another name, Figaro.”
Figaro is ironic, quick-witted, audacious, a materialist, forthright, stubborn, and possesses a tender heart.
There is indeed a theory that he was born about fifty years too early.
While the title “father of modern drama” may be understood from this, one might also put it thus: “Beaumarchais did indeed rescue French theater from stagnation—but the very brilliance of this rescue lay in how his works already prefigured theater’s complete decay.”

Indeed, all "well-made plays" in modern times are undoubtedly descendants of Figaro.

Just as the French Revolution destroyed everything, the stone cast by Beaumarchais brought about an eerie silence in the theater world for a time.
It appeared as though everyone lost the courage to step forth into a "new direction."

Yet here appeared a man with the peculiar name Nepomucène Lemercier, who boldly declared, “I will introduce into drama elements never before seen in the theatrical realm—all within twenty-two days”—and he kept that promise. He invented a new style he dubbed “historical comedy.” Now, he did invent such a thing, but many critics declared it to be “neither history nor comedy.” Nevertheless, forty years later, Scribe followed suit, and a century later, Edmond Rostand was believed to have partially adopted this technique.

The Revolutionary and Imperial Eras were a period of theatrical barrenness.
Yet this was none other than the birth pangs of Romanticism.

Before long, Victor Hugo (1802–85) published his play *Cromwell* and brandished the banner of Romantic drama in its preface.

He first declared, "Life itself is incoherent and filled with contradictions."
Therefore, he asserted that plays too need not follow logical order.
Next came his declaration: “The innovation of drama must first and foremost begin with its style.”
He retained verse but sought greater freedom in poetic form.
He also commanded: “Banish long monologues.
Let characters speak for themselves.”
He demonstrated an ambition to depict humanity’s full spectrum on stage,
portraying Cromwell as both political hero turned domestic plaything and battlefield warrior who doubled as a bad poet.
Whatever his intentions, these very qualities rendered the play unstageable.
Subsequently completed, *Marion Delorme* failed to pass censorship due to its radical ideas.
In 1830 came *Hernani*’s premiere—
an event people would call the “Battle of *Hernani*.”
That opening night erupted into tumultuous commotion:
spectators fracturing into rival factions bellowing rage,
jeers and cheers colliding chaotically.
Yet when the dust settled,
Romanticism’s victory stood proclaimed.

He, Victor Hugo, in truth, never managed to become a true playwright throughout his lifetime.
Despite his giant strides as a poet, in drama he merely scattered words like fanciful rainbows; ultimately, it was only Racine’s twelve-syllable verse that was revived through his pen a century later.
Thus, while charging forward through classical drama’s ruins, I believe he paid homage to his far senior Racine.
It is worth noting that slightly before this period, a troupe of British actors crossed the sea and descended upon Paris.
The first instance was in 1822 with a production of Shakespeare’s *Othello*.
Records show the audience “burst into uproarious laughter.”
But that was not all.
“Beast!” came the jeer.
They hurled raw eggs.
They threw roasted apples.
It culminated in them chanting “Shakespeare out!”

It was when Kemble led his troupe in presenting *Hamlet* in 1827—and especially when another troupe came to perform *Othello* and *Coriolanus* in 1829—that Shakespeare’s reputation became firmly established.
The audience unconditionally embraced this foreign genius.
A particularly tremendous uproar of fervor arose within the young theater circles.

On stage, the Parisian audience saw for the first time an actor shedding real tears.
The British actress Smithson, playing Ophelia at that time, gave the impression of an actual madwoman.
Particularly when stabbed with swords or forced to drink poison, their agonized contortions became too gruesome to watch, making the female spectators cover their faces.

Amidst the whirlwind stirred up by Shakespeare, our Victor Hugo composed the preface to *Cromwell*.
He threw down his pen and exclaimed—“This god of theater bears alone the genius of Corneille, Molière, and Beaumarchais!”

However, the Romantic playwrights who received the greatest influence from Shakespeare were Alfred de Vigny (1797–1863) and Alfred de Musset (1810–57).

Though lacking Hugo’s monumental stature, these two possessed far more meticulous and richly endowed dramatic talents. Their extraordinary sensibilities drew nourishment not merely from Shakespeare but equally from Byron and Goethe—Vigny crafted plays like *Chatterton* and *Antony*, stripped of artifice and steeped in the century’s collective anguish, while Musset wove together Racine’s classical elegance and Shakespeare’s primal vigor through his supple modern sensibility, creating comedies so singular they seemed to unveil sorrowful visages beneath a whispering zephyr’s caress.

Musset, after his debut work *La Nuit Vénitienne* ended in theatrical failure, subsequently abandoned staging and continued writing what he termed "armchair dramas"—works that, following the author’s death, have come to be counted among unparalleled modern classics that intoxicate audiences to this day.

Incidentally, it must not go unmentioned that during this period, there was the incursion of German drama and its repercussions.

Goethe’s novel *Werther* was adapted and staged in 1775, followed by the appearance of its translation, which struck a tremendous blow to the French theater world and literary circles.
However, it was that great poem of pure emotion and despair that, through what Madame de Staël called “emotional and political reasons,” captured hearts on the eve of the Revolution.
Thus French Romanticism absorbed “German Romanticism” from within Goethe.
Next came the premiere of *Faust*’s first part in 1808 at an amateur theater managed by Madame de Staël; then in 1828, Gérard de Nerval’s celebrated translation was published, its profound philosophical meditations finally sinking into the era’s new spirit.
There again, Vigny and Musset each manifested Faustian “anxiety” in their works.
Notably, much later, both Edmond Rostand and Henri Bataille—when portraying Don Juan—treated Faust’s intellectual torment precisely as romantic anguish.

The representative comedy writer of the first half of the nineteenth century, Eugène Scribe (1791–1861), was a prolific commercial playwright of so-called “well-made plays” that prioritized mechanical plotting, but through his prodigious output and entertaining elements, he dominated the commercial theaters of his time and even enlivened theatrical circles beyond borders, including those of England, Germany, and Italy.

He could in a sense be considered Beaumarchais’s unworthy successor, but more critically, this single writer’s presence posed a formidable obstacle to the so-called “new theater movement” of the late nineteenth century.
Not only that, but in Germany, he profoundly impressed the eminent critic Schlegel, leading certain works to be certified as surpassing even Molière’s *The Misanthrope*.

Under Louis-Philippe’s reign, theaters had already become factories.

Young Romanticism grew old alongside Dumas (Alexandre Dumas père, 1802–70), and such was the state of affairs that if Scribe wrote 150 light comedies over fifteen years, Dumas—while penning 60 volumes of novels annually—would stage 15 to 20 acts of swashbuckler plays per season.

Amidst this, the sole staging of François Ponsard’s (1814–67) *Lucrèce* gave rise to a new school called the “Theater of Good Sense.”
"The 'Theater of Good Sense' was, in essence, a verse drama that sought to reject the extremism of Romanticism and revitalize a moderate, steadfast classical spirit within modern consciousness; yet it cannot be denied that it still retained romantic embellishments in places."
This was in 1843.

In stark contrast to Ponsard’s *Lucrèce* receiving enthusiastic acclaim on one front, that same year saw Hugo’s *Les Burgraves* meet with disastrous failure at the National Theater. Rather than the work’s fault, it was that the audience had grown weary of excessive lyricism. Ironically—or perhaps fittingly—amidst this shift, the renowned tragedienne Rachel took to the stage of that very theater. Then, the classical tragedies of Racine and Corneille, which had failed to attract audiences for twenty years, suddenly filled the auditorium to capacity.

1850 was the year Balzac died.
(Incidentally, this was the year Ibsen, at twenty-three, published his verse historical drama *Catharina*.)

The era shifted abruptly.
The hue of the so-called "modern spirit" grew more intense, and French theater history from that point onward entered what is called the contemporary era.

The world of novels had already heralded the dawn of realism through Balzac’s works.
This influence, of course, extended to the world of drama as well, and in 1852, Alexandre Dumas fils (1824–1895) published his renowned work *La Dame aux Camélias* (*The Lady of the Camellias*).
A quintessential "heart-wrenching drama" that probes the subtleties of real life and human emotions, its extraordinary impact lay in making contemporary audiences—especially women—weep, cementing its status as a masterpiece of global new-school tragedy.
In his subsequent numerous works, he applied a kind of common-sense philosophical critique to social systems and marital relations, thereby pioneering the path of so-called problem plays.
Émile Augier (1820–89) also, in *Monsieur Poirier’s Son-in-Law*, began to develop environmental descriptions and incorporated fairly sharp criticism of the post-revolution emerging forces—namely, the moneyed class.
However, the fact that these two—alongside Victorien Sardou (1831–1908), Scribe’s direct successor—managed to achieve generational popularity as writers for commercial theaters signified a certain stagnation therein, and thus the essential evolution of modern dramatic art seemed to cast a shadow over its future prospects.
Moreover, during this period, the fact that Eugène Labiche (1815–88) revived the tradition of medieval farce through Molière and created a stepping stone for modern satirical drama must not be overlooked.

Now, in the nineteenth century, novel literature—which achieved the most splendid development—stimulated by the growth of material culture and the accompanying spirit of scientific supremacy, gradually came to view individuals from the standpoint of a mechanistic view of life and to address society as such.
From this tendency arose extraordinary talents beginning with Balzac—Flaubert, Zola, the Goncourts, Daudet, Maupassant, and others—but each of them, at some point in time, tried their hand at playwriting.
Zola, for example, later published a book titled *Naturalism in the Theatre* and vigorously promoted realism on stage.
However, all of their works lacked dramatic vitality, and even those that could be considered mediocre were rare.

However, Henry Becque (1837–1899)—a stockbroker acquainted with Dumas and Sardou—having passed middle age, conceived the idea of writing opera librettos for supplemental income; after producing two short comedies, he ultimately came to publish *The Vultures*, the quintessential modern realist drama.
What Flaubert accomplished in his *Madame Bovary*, he demonstrated nearly perfectly in drama.
However, the stagings of these two works were met with a cold reception from the general public.
In this solemn "life record"—staged for the first time—the theater critics of the time could discover nothing truly dramatic, and Becque consequently had to end his days as a writer in obscurity.

French modern drama there entered a period of great leaps forward.

In 1887—that is, the year following the publication of *The Vultures*—the Free Theater (Le Théâtre Libre), regarded as an epoch-making enterprise in world theater history, was founded by André Antoine (1858–), a bill collector for a gas company.
He was originally merely the head of an amateur troupe, but upon realizing that if there were amateur actors, there ought to be amateur playwrights as well, he looked around and discovered a group of unknown writers there.
Because this group consisted of the youthful and ambitious disciples poised to emerge both for and through the new school, Antoine found himself compelled—albeit unintentionally—to align with their literary theories.
The aim of his naturalistic acting now possessed a definitive assertion for the first time, and there, under the banner of the Free Theater, the beacon of theatrical reform was finally lit.

Among the new writers surrounding the Free Theater, it was Jean Julien (1854–1919) who—though not flamboyant—steadfastly maintained the purest literary stance and attempted to establish a rigorous theoretical foundation for naturalist theater. In his work *The Living Theatre*, he coined the famous slogan “The stage is a fragment of life,” and further, in discussing the essence of drama, rejected traditional plays based on “life through movement,” declaring that “movement through life” (*le mouvement par la vie*) alone constitutes true theatrical beauty. He was, however, one of those unfortunate writers who exhausted their promising talent in service of their theories.

Though by no means few were the playwrights brought forth through Antoine's efforts between 1887 and 1895 who achieved considerable fame, it is likely only three—Courteline, Curel, and Porte-Riche—whose works' vitality continues to endure to this day.

Eugène Brieux (1858–), who had participated in the Free Theater movement from its inception, became incidentally world-renowned through association with Antoine’s name and had Bernard Shaw serve as a bold standard-bearer; yet before assessing his true merit, we must first consider the so-called “transnational quality” inherent in his works.
Plays that debate eloquently remain the most readily comprehensible.

The short comedies of Georges Courteline (1860–1929) stand as enduring works that inherit the French comedic tradition stretching from Molière to Labiche.
Selecting his definitive masterpiece from among these gem-like creations proves no simple task.
Moreover, singling out one work to proclaim it an eternal masterpiece feels rather presumptuous—so much so that one affects an air of “nonchalance.”
Yet while adopting this veneer of indifference, we must first acknowledge established classics such as *Boubouroche* and *La Paix chez soi*.
His style, though deceptively plain in appearance, forged the purest essence of modern farce, while the matchless comic sensibility born from his incisive observations of contemporary mores could only be conveyed through a genius’s vision.

Georges de Porte-Riche (1849–1930) was a renowned writer who inherited the mantle of Racine as a masterful analyst of love’s psychological intricacies.
According to Antoine, the pinnacle of French modern drama history was occupied by Musset, Becque, and Porte-Riche—a claim that would meet with virtually no dissent.
He possessed naturalistic severity while simultaneously pioneering what was called “psychological poeticism,” and in this regard, he had already demonstrated a departure from pure realist drama.
One of his masterpieces, *Amoureuse* (Amoureuse), was published in 1894, but twenty years later, its influence—alongside works such as *Le Passé* (The Past) and *Le Vieil Homme* (The Old Man)—began to stand out in a new era.

Next, François de Curel (1854–), while Porte-Riche was chasing down the psychology of love, wandered the depths of contemplation and meditation, listening intently to the breath of the northern colossus, Henrik Ibsen.
He too anguished over the era’s torments and battled life’s uncertainties.
However, while Ibsen remained unwaveringly Northern in essence, Curel was decidedly Southern.
Though the Vosges forest near the Rhine nurtured his soul, his philosophy resembled fresh, bright leaves—and the bestiality he depicted in humanity often danced across the stage in a pleasant guise.
His debut work *La Foi Nouvelle* (The New Faith) responded to the zeitgeist by addressing the bankruptcy of science, while *La Danse Devant le Miroir* (The Dance Before the Mirror) stood as a representative work demonstrating both the maturity of symbolic techniques and the flexibility of dramatic composition; ultimately, however, the depth of his ideas generally failing to harmonize with dramatic rhythm constituted a fatal flaw permeating his oeuvre.

While discovering these great talents, the Free Theater also introduced foreign writers—most notably Henrik Ibsen’s *Ghosts* (1828–1906)—to the French stage for the first time.
Regarding Ibsen, I believe an independent lecture will be established in another section; therefore, here, as per usual practice, I shall confine my discussion to his interactions with French theater.

Ibsen’s plays were subsequently performed not only at the Free Theater but also at several smaller theaters, and before long, Prossor’s translations were published; the reverberations seem to have been considerable around 1890.
Revisiting the contemporary criticism of Ibsen proves rather fascinating.
While some critics can be heard exclaiming in unconditional admiration, others like Jules Lemaître dismiss Ibsen as unworthy of reverence.
The reasoning behind this was their claim that “everything Ibsen possesses had already existed within French literature up to that point, and there was no need to adopt anything from his works now.”

Probably cautioning against the young generation’s fervor, he undoubtedly made his characteristically roundabout acknowledgment.

In fact, if one examines Ibsenian themes conceptually, their philosophical underpinnings had already “existed” since Davenant; as previously mentioned, one could well say that Ibsenian stagecraft finds its every example in the “well-made plays” from Scribe onward, while in terms of the talent for “bringing characters to life,” it might be stated that Musset and Becque had already demonstrated its ultimate expression.
However, there remains a reason why Ibsen should still be regarded as the pinnacle of world modern drama even from today’s perspective.
In other words, simply put, it is because of the astonishing fact that he alone possessed all the qualities that the brilliant French playwrights of the past had individually embodied.
Moreover, this phenomenon cannot be demonstrated even by the formula of 1 + 1 = 2; it is one where the combination of trait A and trait B gives rise to an entirely distinct trait C.
That is to say, in Ibsen, all the talents of a modern playwright are harmoniously blended to build up the great power of his works.

I maintain that Ibsen as a dramatist cannot be properly understood without this perspective. While examining Ibsen's philosophies and the archetypal characters he created has its merits, his plays elude full appreciation through such analysis alone.

Therefore, when considering the influence Ibsen exerted on the French theater world, one must never view it as merely partial.
Of course, among them were those like Curel who turned to so-called “Ibsen-esque” ideological dramas; however, while the rise of these “thought-provoking plays” did mark an epoch in modern drama, it soon gave rise to a backlash, engendering questions both theoretically and practically in dramatic theory.

However, in any case, the fact that tragedies of "will" and "fate" began to appear—if only slightly—on the French stage, then dominated by love plays and social dramas, was undoubtedly due to the influence of Ibsen and other Nordic writers.

The Free Theater also introduced foreign writers such as Germany’s Hauptmann and Russia’s Tolstoy; however, the Free Theater movement swiftly brought momentum for theatrical reform across Europe, leading to artistic troupes being established in countries like Germany, Britain, and Russia that pursued stage realism or resisted large theaters’ commercialism while striving to discover and champion new writers.

In France as well, during this period, two or three theaters of this kind emerged with their respective principles; among them, Lugné-Poe’s Théâtre de l'Œuvre primarily adopted the avant-garde tendencies of foreign drama, but its introduction of Strindberg constituted the most significant achievement.

Meanwhile, declaring that “a play must above all be theatrical” and clearly positioning itself in opposition to the Free Theater’s “slice of life” plays, Paul Fort’s Théâtre d’Art was born.
There, with the support of poets such as Verlaine, Gourmont, Laforgue, and Mallarmé, poetry recitations were first conducted, followed by attempts to stage poetic dramas; however, it ultimately failed to achieve the anticipated results.

However, by that time, the mainstream of French literary circles had already begun shifting away from Realism, with the Symbolist movement gradually gaining momentum.

While symbolic tendencies were sufficiently evident in Ibsen’s later works and certain plays by Strindberg, it was not until the emergence of the Belgian writer Maeterlinck (1862–) that Symbolism’s stagecraft fully established itself as a distinct style.

Simultaneously, what came to be called “static drama” expanded drama’s literary domain while contributing a mysterious dimension to theatrical illusion.

When one observes how techniques of suggestion and thought-evocation guided French theater through the 1920s, Maeterlinck’s influence proves by no means insignificant.

Following the decline of the Free Theater, French drama did not necessarily rush headlong into Symbolism.
In short, the anti-realist tendency—which ought to be grouped under the banner of New Romanticism—gradually began to rise.

Edmond Rostand’s (1868–1918) *Cyrano de Bergerac* (1897) became a major clarion call that accelerated such trends.
For though this grand-era popular verse drama might at first glance face accusations of lacking “modern theatricality”—to the extent that even someone like Antoine stood up mid-auditorium on its opening night and exclaimed, “This has set our theater back twenty years!”—one cannot deny that it too was a masterpiece in the same sense that Beaumarchais’s *Figaro* was a masterpiece, however justified such disappointment may seem.
Rostand, holding firm to his conviction as a popular artist, abruptly proclaimed his presence in the streets.
This was incompatible with the laboratory-like aloofness of realist drama.
Rostand undoubtedly harbored the ambition to elevate mundane themes through pure emotion and to artistically refine the entertainment value of theater with his poetic talent.
Moreover, precisely because he was French, he sang out cheerfully and resoundingly without pandering in the slightest to French tastes and inclinations.
This too could be regarded as an artless virtue permissible in a poet.
Having established these premises, one might indeed certify Rostand as a genius playwright; yet even in his artistry, we cannot conclude that he lagged behind the new currents emerging after 1887 (the year of the Free Theater’s founding).
For within the classical aura of his style lay a vitality that most naturalist writers could not aspire to achieve, and furthermore, his poetic fantasies were always accompanied by a robust theatrical pulse.

Alongside Ibsen, August Strindberg (1849–1912) also greatly stimulated the French theater world through his profoundly intense battle-of-the-sexes dramas—works that might well be termed thoroughgoing naturalism.
However, the Nordic anguish that formed the central theme of his works proved even more incompatible with the Latin intellect than Ibsen’s had been, and its influence could rather be observed among German playwrights.
He too came to adopt symbolic tendencies in his later period, but it may be said without doubt that he occupied one of the summits modern drama had aimed to reach.

Finally, regarding Russian drama, after Tolstoy’s *The Power of Darkness* was performed by the Free Theater, works such as Gorky’s *The Lower Depths* and Gogol’s *The Government Inspector* were introduced; however, most others were merely read in translation. After the Great War, the Moscow Art Theatre troupe visited Paris and first staged Chekhov’s works, securing full recognition of this distinctive playwright’s true worth. I believe that works such as *The Cherry Orchard*, *Uncle Vanya*, and *Three Sisters* offered valuable inspiration to the French theatrical world, which was then riding a new wave of momentum.

The Moscow Art Theatre, established in 1898 through the collaboration of Stanislavski and Nemirovich-Danchenko on an ideal plan and foundation as the world’s premier artistic troupe, saw Stanislavski stand before the public to deliver a speech during its Paris performances in 1921.

“We do not presume to teach anything to the French theatrical world.”
“We simply wish for you to witness our work.”
“I imagine there are those among you who do not understand Russian, but I believe that even such audience members will grasp about seventy percent of the plays we perform.”

Those who heard this declaration and witnessed its stage productions must have been left with the impression that "modern drama has reached this point."

Furthermore, the French heard reports that Stanislavski’s grandmother was French and that he had spent part of his youth in Paris attending the National Theater School.

In connection with the question of artistic lineage, I recalled such a fact; however, fundamentally, to definitively state which influences a particular writer had received could prove troublesome for said writer, and there might also arise unexpected counterarguments.

However, “receiving influence” most often means that what one already possessed within oneself is awakened and nurtured by it; any external force, no matter how potent, will ultimately remain a complete stranger unless there exists something akin within oneself to receive it. For example, Expressionism—which swept through the post-World War I German theater world and is said to have Strindberg as its progenitor—ultimately ended without spreading to other countries. (The motivation behind welcoming the new trends in the Japanese theater world is entirely separate from this.)

The history of modern culture cannot be contemplated without this principle; moreover, when examining the vicissitudes of literary schools—particularly the styles of plays and their evolutionary trajectories—I believe it is essential to adopt an attitude that seeks solely to elucidate both where the achievements of so-called “geniuses,” representative of an era or tendency, originated from and what influences they exerted.

III. Various Aspects of Modern Drama

In lieu of detailing the theatrical phenomena of the past half-century as aspects of Modern Drama—though this approach may carry certain forced elements—I shall instead attempt to enumerate several characteristics vaguely perceptible today through what is termed “Modern Drama,” encompassing both dramatic literature and stage art.

To do so, I must first consider the entire scope of the “Modern Drama movement” by separating it from literary factional tendencies and individual theories of stagecraft, and instead link it to the concept of a theatrical reform movement. I believe that all the significance aimed at by this term “reform” will ultimately prove to be the historically vital spirit that runs through Modern Drama.

Now, it was often thought that writers who reigned during this era—and the principal themes of their works—most fittingly merited the designation “Modern Drama,” given how this cry for “theatrical reform” coincided with Naturalism’s rise and demonstrated its most intense vigor while profoundly transforming theater’s visage; yet when viewed across time, Modern Drama’s countenance becomes apparent as something far broader and more complex.

Therefore, based on my study of theater and plays as genres within modern art’s evolution, I wonder if we might channel the currents of this reform movement toward that grand and singular objective: “the purification of theater.”

There is nothing as prone to becoming “old” as theater, and nothing as prone to allowing “extraneous elements” to infiltrate.

At the same time, there exists nothing that faces as many obstacles in giving birth to what is “new” and “pure” as theater does.

To discover this fact and connect this awareness to artistic action must be not only theater’s pioneering role but also the sole path required to elevate it to the level of other art forms.

Thus, the various aspects of Modern Drama should be regarded as nothing other than a theatrical reform movement based on diverse perspectives and methods, as well as an artistic purification movement.
And when extending our consideration from the literary output of plays to the actual movements of theater centered on the stage, we can generally discern the following transitions.

(1) By infusing theater with the modern spirit—particularly social anguish and a modern worldview—it was transformed into a literary movement.

(2) By resisting the profit-driven tendencies stemming from theater’s commercialization, it was transformed into a pure art movement.

(3) Breaking down theater’s conventional laws and seeking its liberated expression.

(4) Excluding non-theatrical elements from theater and seeking to explore its essence.

Now, based on this first item alone, the characteristics of Modern Drama might seem sufficient—but that is not the case.
Firstly, theater does not evolve solely through ideological content.
Furthermore, even arguments advocating for the exclusion of literature from theater can arise on one front.

However, that theater—having undergone the baptism of modern literature, particularly realist literature—drastically renewed its visage lies first in how the scalpel of reality exposure transformed the stage into a “solemn” “fragment of life,” and second in how the theatrical illusion posited by the so-called “fourth wall” theory brought about the crucial discovery of “movement through life.”

The phrase “movement through life” is one used in the theatrical theories of Jean Julien, a champion of the Free Theater. Whether fortunately or unfortunately, while intended to convey the spirit of naturalist drama, it in fact aptly identified the essential allure—achieved only by those works of enduring value across all eras of theater—that lies at drama’s core.

Until then, everyone had believed that the essence of theater lay in “movement,” understanding that this “movement” constituted the lifeblood of the stage.
Julien argued that this view applied solely to “traditional theater,” and with his slogan—“from theater of life through movement to theater of movement through life”—he clarified the stance of the naturalist drama he himself championed.
However, from today’s perspective, “theater of life through movement” represents a deviation from true drama—a hollow shell, a mere imitation—whereas “theater of movement through life” constitutes the dramatic tradition since Greek theater: that which has bestowed greatness and brilliance upon outstanding plays.

However, as literature underwent conceptual deepening, the handshake between theater and literature inevitably led to a dead end. The essence of theater and the essence of literature diverged from each other at that very point.

"Plays that make people think ultimately ceased to function as plays."

But before reaching that point, the theatrical reform movement simultaneously became a counterattack against theater's commercialization, transformed into an art theater movement, materialized as plans for highbrow small theaters, and increasingly restricted audiences.

And then, coinciding with the New Romantic school’s theatrical successes and similar developments, a separation emerged between the small-theater faction and large-theater faction.
The large-theater faction did not pursue profit-driven popularity but emphasized theater’s mass accessibility, thereby opposing the small-theater faction’s aristocratic tendencies.

At this juncture, what was called the people’s theater movement came to join within Modern Drama.
Being a people’s theater, it inherently contained elements reminiscent of social drama; however, it gradually transformed into a festival-like style that valued archaic and primitive simplicity.

The small-theater faction and large-theater faction split into two extremes—psychological elements and sensory elements—and stood opposed as “theater to listen to” versus “theater to watch,” dialogue-driven plays versus spectacle.

Amidst this period, there emerged—from those who deliberately advocated neither small-theater nor large-theater principles but simply pursued theatrical innovation through original theories—successive endeavors including: the theory that theater constitutes a synthetic art; approaches emphasizing stage design’s artistic effects; doctrines advocating complete stage mechanization; notions that theatrical art must unify under a single artist’s vision (specifically, the idea that true theater emerges when one mind combining playwright, set designer, and director manipulates actors like puppets); as well as attempts to exclude literature from theater and craft uniquely theatrical narratives through three-dimensional stage expressions using “kineticism.”

However, in the end, theater came to realize it had no path to regeneration except through itself, and the slogan "re-theatricalization of theater" began gaining currency.

This meant that under theatrical reform's banner, they had let various non-theatrical elements overrun the stage, ultimately breeding a tendency threatening theater's original essence; thus the cry to "make theater theater again" amounted precisely to a warning urging "proper recognition of theater's fundamental nature." Only when Modern Drama's manifold currents reached this milestone could the question of theatrical tradition finally be taken up.

The goal of theatrical artistic purification had finally come to possess essential significance, and the myriad theories and dramatic literary productions of both past and present reached a juncture where their true worth and vitality needed to be re-evaluated from the standpoint of “pure theatrical beauty.”

This, I believe, was the culminating harvest of the Modern Drama movement and the most precious heritage inherited by contemporary theater.

IV. The Legacy of Modern Drama

The previous section, "Various Aspects of Modern Drama," exists within the context of "Modern Theater" and "Various Tendencies of Contemporary Plays." In this sense, I urge readers to consult the meticulous studies by Hajime Yamada, Shūji Yamamoto, Shigenobu Funaki, Toyo Iwata, and Kyūichirō Hara within this lecture series; however, discerning definitive historical significance within the profuse tangle of inescapable artistic doctrines and personal achievements that at first glance appear to venture into uncharted territory remains scarcely feasible unless considerable time has passed. Even if one were to deem—through the lens of “contemporary theater”—that certain individuals’ enterprises or works occupy Modern Drama’s orthodox lineage based on established notions, such judgments no longer constitute critiques of theatrical value.

From this viewpoint, I wish to make it the purpose of this brief treatise to seal away the so-called “specter of Modern Drama” and fix my gaze upon the true dramatic tradition.
Therefore, I believe that capturing the immediate issues concerning the exploration of theater’s essence as “the legacy of Modern Drama” is the final remaining task.

First, regarding the term “dramatic,” we had to undertake a new examination.
To do so, it became necessary to raise here the question of whether what is termed “dramatic”—that is, “dramatical”—constitutes the essence of theater or plays.
The term “dramatic,” as commonly understood—much like the term “novelistic”—proved an intensely conceptual adjective. Yet whereas in novels, what was termed “novelistic” (roman-esque) was not considered a primary criterion for evaluating a work’s value—a fact generally acknowledged in modern literary theory—it remained perplexing why in theater or plays alone, the practice of persistently linking so-called “dramatic” elements to their essential lifeblood continued unabated.

That the literary history of the past half-century—which saw in the novel the discovery of a “prose spirit” and in poetry reached the theory of “pure poetry” from the free verse movement—alone left “drama’s” essence entrusted to primitive, spontaneous interpretations constitutes a truly curious anachronism; I believe this resulted less from demonstrating theater’s complexity as an art form than from the fact that complete contact between “theater” and “literature” had never been attempted.
In other words, even during realism’s ascendancy—when drama’s literary development became remarkably pronounced—dramas were invariably created *for theater*, and one might assert that *theater for drama* had never yet dominated anyone’s consciousness.
To advance further still: even the motives behind prompting dramas unconcerned with staging—so-called “plays meant to be read”—remained insufficiently clarified, leading us to conclude that drama as a literary genre drifted between novel and poetry without ever achieving self-awareness of a domain it could rightfully claim.

Generally speaking, what is referred to as “dramatic emotion” can indeed be frequently experienced through masterpieces from past and present; however, whether this emotion constitutes a pure artistic experience is surprisingly difficult to explain. Moreover, this so-called “dramatic emotion” does not always determine the value of excellent plays; particularly in comedy, it cannot be regarded as their essential lifeblood. Examining this, the substance of the term “dramatic” can ultimately be seen as transmitting vestiges of an era when tragedy was upheld as theater’s representative form and dramatic theory’s framework was in fact constructed upon tragedy. Simultaneously, it seems plausible that theater’s popular nature has unwittingly influenced plays’ literary evaluation, resulting in a mixture of narrative themes or technical prerequisites—meant to sustain mass appeal—with genuine artistic elements.

The claim that the stagnation of naturalist drama—which championed "movement through life"—stemmed from its rejection of so-called "well-made plays" and consequent disregard for "dramatic elements" in a certain sense is mistaken. On the contrary, the majority of naturalist dramas went so far as to abuse "dramatic" situations. Therein lay both decadence and contradiction. Of course, even those deserving respect for their literary ambitions had almost universally committed this common error—that is, their emphasis on prosaic elements in plays. They clung to the fallacy that the prose spirit could be sustained even through drama.

France’s renowned novelists—Flaubert, Zola, Maupassant, Goncourt, and so on—all tried their hand at writing plays, only to produce miserable results.
It should be considered wise that all these writers seemingly gave up on the stage decisively.

From these groups, Jules Renard alone was able to demonstrate plays of “movement through life” in seamless form.
This should be considered exceptional.
Indeed, he created and perfected a unique kind of spirit that was both poetic and prosaic.
The fact that his plays, by chance and due to that very spirit, were able to capture the “essence of drama” in its new sense is worthy of attention.

If poetry takes rhythm as its lifeblood and prose [novels] take ideas as theirs, then drama takes as its lifeblood either the "rhythm of ideas" or the "cadence of rhythmic ideas."
(In this case, rhythm does not refer to the phonetic rhythm of words as found in poetry, but rather to the rhythmic undulation of thought or emotion.) When ideas are pursued beyond a certain depth, this rhythm becomes disrupted; meanwhile, the tempo of rhythm compels ideas to maintain a consistent flow.
Therein lies drama’s first limitation.
The second limitation—commonly recognized as one of drama’s "constraints"—is that playwrights do not themselves narrate the "story" but instead let the "story" speak through itself.
That is, characters must narrate everything—the "unnaturalness" of having characters within the work even articulate what the author ought to narrate in their stead.
Having to divide into a set number of acts, conclude within a fixed timeframe, or require a protagonist—these are not fundamental constraints.
Now, these two limitations are in fact not hindrances but necessary elements for drama.
This limitation serves as the crucible that generates drama’s beauty—akin to poetry’s conventions—and what is termed the "dramatic sense" in its new meaning is precisely the ability to perceive most purely the fused beauty of ideas and rhythm flowing from this crucible.

In drama, this “concept” may specifically be termed a “psychological image” without issue.

In theater, this image is sensorially and perceptually induced through the auditory and visual senses within a certain timeframe; yet the rhythm of this image appealing to ear and eye—an element constituting theatrical beauty—must there pass through another crucible: the spatial limitations of the stage and the physical conditions of actors.

Now, what finally appealed to the audience through this crucible was, strictly speaking, the simultaneous "exudation" of three lives: the author, the characters, and the actors. When these three lives each exerted their distinct forces upon the audience, a confusion of impressions arose from their disharmony; even if one of them had been disregarded, it could not have been called complete theatrical appreciation.

The essence of "beauty" in theater was complex as such, and its complete expression might truly have been deemed difficult; however, the outcome hinged solely on whether one could secure actors. In this sense, it could be said that theater itself had its fate entrusted to the hands of actors.

To delineate in what domain of “theatrical beauty” the stage director’s so-called “direction” (*mise en scène*) could exert its regulatory power: it lay primarily in applying effects not specified by the play to the plastic images of the stage that appealed to vision, while regulating images expanding beyond the actors’ own awareness—thereby adding to the play’s “rhythm” (that is, its “psychological flow”) both the most fitting overall tonal quality and necessary underlines (*sous-lignage*).

The stage director’s primary role, like that of actors, lay in precisely grasping both the spirit and rhythm of the play; however, their subsequent task—in principle—was fulfilled by becoming an impersonal conductor who, without encroaching upon actors’ domain, made their performances serve to three-dimensionalize the play to the utmost degree and without gaps.

However, depending on the nature of the play, there were indeed cases where the job of direction occupied an even broader domain within theater.
This is particularly true of plays where, rather than the characters living as autonomous beings, a sense of vitality in each scene arises—or must arise—from the tension between their somewhat mechanical movements.

This type of theater was frequently found among modern non-realistic tendencies, and even within realistic plays, those employing crowds, for instance, should be classified under this category. The mainstream of modern theater—where the stage director’s responsibility had grown increasingly weighty and their authority had become absolute—could be considered reasonable in principle.

However, while this director-omnipotence doctrine brought unprecedented unity and creative ingenuity to the stage, it could not be overlooked that it simultaneously left behind certain detrimental effects.

Namely, the desecration of plays by directors and the mechanical treatment of actors.
It was the pedantic tendency of recklessly coloring and distorting any play to one’s own preferences and boldly constraining and commanding all actors in their performances.

Theoretically, this theater system was simple, brilliant, and full of vitality.
Therein lay both temptation’s snare and execution’s dead end.

As one element of theater, it followed natural sequence to cite stage design—including lighting and costumes.
This was meant to be devised by stage artists under directors’ guidance yet considering it drama’s paramount element constituted another delusion of modern theater’s transitional phase.
True enough—while none disputed its role as part of theater’s visual appeal through plastic elements—this remained ultimately mere ancillary apparatus to plays.
Being a means to depict characters’ “living” states made it indispensable enough to graze drama’s essence yet ultimately less vital than commonly supposed.
However—as earlier outlined—theater’s labyrinthine structure meant even secondary elements might prove decisive when materials vitalizing essence manifested particular worth.

While I will naturally address this issue later, it is not unheard of for stage design also to play a role—perhaps even more crucial than actors' performances—in realizing theater's essential value in certain play productions.

However, under normal circumstances, as long as a play was outstanding, its essential charm could be fully demonstrated even on a “bare stage”—this was the correct assertion.

Therefore, the necessity and importance of stage decoration naturally corresponded proportionally to how inherently a play being performed contained so-called “spectacle” elements. On the other hand, one could say few plays inherently lacked “spectacle” elements to some extent. However, it had to be emphasized that a so-called “spectacle” was not theater in the strict sense.
At the very least, theater prioritizing spectacle elements could not become distinguished theater.
For theater that neglected literature—aside from dance dramas centered on music—could not escape artistic immaturity in any sense.

Now, I believed I had finished explaining—albeit briefly—the issue concerning the essence of plays or theater; however, what still required addition was this: what relationship did this “essence” bear to their value?

To return to our earlier discussion: when expounding on plays’ or theater’s “essence,” our argument thus far had maintained that we could not apply the so-called “dramatic” (*dramatical*) term in its ordinary interpretive sense—so then what meaning ought we assign to “dramatic”?

Also, “play-like”
Terms such as “theatrical” are still generally used today in their traditional meanings, but if they are meant to denote the “essential life of drama or theater,” one must first inquire into what theory of theatrical essence those who use them hold.

These have all become exceedingly troublesome terms as specialized jargon.

When it comes to plays, it could be said that the adjective “dramatic”—whether in “dramatic theme,” “dramatic structure,” or “dramatic style”—is imbued with entirely different meanings depending on who uses it and where it is applied.
Having directed our attention to this matter, what it means for a play to be truly “dramatic in essence” is this: through its theme, structure, and style, it need not evoke so-called conventionally “dramatic” elements. Instead, it refers to those instances where one can perceive an impression that might be described as a rhythmic flow of life, a progression of psychological images rich in unity and harmony, a clear and precise pulse of the stage, or a splendid symphony of vibrant souls.

And since this impression ultimately stems from the play’s “essential life,” those creative elements—which allow that essence to shine most brilliantly and demonstrate even greater magnificence through it—should be appraised last as the play’s comprehensive impact.
For example: the author’s thought, character depiction, zeitgeist sensibility, wit, poesy, observation…

The “essence” is, in short, “that which cannot be done without”—not “that which suffices on its own.” For a play to first and foremost be a play; for it to be distinguished from other literary genres; and for it to thereby form the core of its artistic vitality—the primary condition it must possess—to put it rigorously, this refers to aesthetic elements. This cannot avoid addressing what is termed the formal issue of “dramatic constraints,” but constraints are lifeless entities. Once one knows this, it is enough. It can hardly be called the artistic essence.

The above “theory of dramatic essence” was something I, as a theater practitioner, attempted to write down after long contemplation in my mind. While it might not be accepted by some due to deficiencies in explanation and lack of systematic structure, this was by no means mere personal dogma; rather, it could well be said to derive its foundational rationale from the assertions and practical work of Mr. Jacques Copeau—leader of Paris’s Théâtre du Vieux-Colombier—and in particular, the phrase “the naked stage” was borrowed verbatim from him.
At the same time, I must confess that regarding the distinction between prose and poetry, while having received invaluable enlightenment from the theories of the philosopher Alain—which allowed me to further solidify my decade-long personal convictions—I was also granted a foundational step in reasoning for defining the essence of drama.

I must apologize that the “Theory of Modern Drama” required for this lecture series deviated from historical description and ended up presenting my own views; however, given that the Modern Drama Movement was oriented toward theater’s artistic purification and exploration of its essence, I believed continuing this exploration myself would simultaneously constitute research into “modern drama.”

Having explored the essence of plays and theater through this process, it became clear that an “excellent” play or theatrical work was one where its essence was fully demonstrated; moreover, through this essence, all other elements were expressed most effectively; furthermore, these elements themselves held high value in their respective significances—and when these two aspects combined, they created a profoundly beautiful and deeply moving totality.

Now, here arises a question: If that is the case, can we not conceive of plays or theatrical works whose essence alone—while keeping other elements to an absolute minimum—maximizes the very charm of that essence itself?

In other words, they would be the “distilled water” and “anthracite coal” of plays or theater.
Admittedly, this metaphor may sound artistically like removing impurities, but that is not its intent; even if works were hypothetically pure in artistic terms, the plays and theater that have existed to this day inherently derive their essence—and thus their overall value—from literary elements as narrative: depictions of life, plot development, interest in characters’ personalities, psychological dissection, ideological hues in themes, social satire, studies of customs, and various other components.
It would be an endeavor to strip away as many elements shared with other literary genres as possible while avoiding venturing into the realm of poetry—that is to say, naturally not centering on verbal rhythm, nor wandering through the realms of so-called “lyricism,” nor chanting philosophical meditations.
For instance, could there not emerge a work that—ignoring narrative development to some extent; instead of depicting characters’ lives, merely presenting their archetypes; entrusting momentary images born of words, expressions, and gestures to a kind of psychological rhythm; pursuing individual ideas devoid of logical connection as one listens to music—gradually immerses one in emotional fulfillment and spiritual delight?

Here, I found myself inadvertently associating this with Noh theater.
This classical theater unique to Japan, I believed, indeed closely resembled the genre I had just described.

If what we called the abstract pursuit of “pure theater” had been merely an imposing presence in the past before emerging in tomorrow’s form, then the evolution of modern drama would have been profoundly precarious—yet in art’s history, such ironies were often repeated.

“Theater requires no revolution.”
“The essence of theater is entirely contained within the masterful plays of all ages.”
“We rather take pride in being faithful disciples of those works.”

This declaration was uttered by Mr. Jacques Copeau—one of modern French theater’s most pioneering leaders—but I shall adopt these humble yet resolute words as the concluding remarks of my *Brief Discourse on Modern Drama*.
(February 1934)