Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

In an old book I recently acquired, there exists something titled "The Dojoji Temple Murder Case."

The recorded incident’s content is as follows: upon a resplendent kabuki stage, a lead actor performing the dance drama *Kyo Kanoko Musume Dojoji* entered a prop bell to transform into a serpent form, only to be murdered by someone within its deserted interior—after which a character documented in the first person deduced the culprit through circumstances and physical evidence—so the account goes.

The narrative method employs the form of a youthful nagauta apprentice’s account; however, its oral storytelling style imparts an excessively verbose impression to us who are accustomed to concise modern prose.

The book’s format consisted of fifty or sixty sheets of Mino paper folded in half and bound at the right edge like a songbook, with everything from the cover to the contents entirely handwritten with a brush.

Centered on the cover, as if it were a Kiyomoto songbook, “The Dojoji Temple Murder Case” was boldly inscribed in thick brushstrokes, while in the lower left corner—likely indicating the author, narrator, or transcriber—the characters for “Saga Kazume” were modestly written in small script.

The entire book was severely discolored, with parts even eaten by silverfish. Therefore, it could be surmised to have aged considerably. Yet upon closer inspection of this detail, a hint of unnaturalness tainted its ancient aura—despite such classical themes and subject matter, traces of modern sensibility permeated its narrative style. Moreover, given the deliberate anachronisms, geographical inconsistencies, and contradictions one could presume intentional, one might sense this volume itself possessed what could be called... a detective novel's essence.

That is to say—a mystery aficionado from the Taisho or Showa era had likely crafted this work disguised as an antique text, secretly hoping fellow enthusiasts might discover it...

By prefacing these circumstances, I concluded my introduction of "The Dojoji Temple Murder Case" and dedicated its full text to the esteemed judgment of mystery enthusiast readers, as its anonymous author would have wished.

｜○｜

The reason I attended that performance at the Kawarazaki-za was, of course, because I loved kabuki theater, and

Segawa Kikunojō

Yoshizawa Iroha

Arashi Hinasuke

Segawa Yoshitsugu

Namizaki Tōsaburō

Iwai Hanshirō

As I have stated, it was undoubtedly because I did not wish to miss the lineup of Edo’s renowned actors’ performances—but even so, it was also because I longed to hear Master’s shamisen onstage during the middle-act play *Kyo Kanoko Musume Dojoji*, which he had composed himself.
After all, the opening act of that performance was *Imayo Shiki Sanbasō* (Modern Four Seasons Sanbasō),
commonly called *Sarashi Sanbasō*, with Iwai Hanshirō performing the role of Ninomiya; the first act being *Ise Miyage Kawasaki Odoribyōshi*, the second kyōgen play being an adaptation of *Keisei Asamagatake*—where Oshichi lights Yoshizaburō’s portrait in smoke, causing Yoshizaburō to materialize for the dance sequence—followed by the main attraction *Kyo Kanoko Musume Dojoji*, with roles distributed thus: Iwai Hanshirō as the shirabyoshi dancer, Onoe Umisaburō as the waki monk, Segawa Yoshitsugu; Nagauta by Matsushima Saburōji and Sakata Heiichirō; shamisen by Master Kineya Shinji and his disciple Shinzaburō among others; musical accompaniment by the Fujishima troupe—each act being so elaborately crafted that one could hardly declare any superior to another.
But no matter how one might put it, the center of attention was the main attraction: *Kyo Kanoko Musume Dojoji* (The Maiden of Dojoji Temple).
The reason for this was that Iwai Hanshirō—who performed this dance drama—was acknowledged by all as Japan’s foremost dancer, making this a performance that theater aficionados in the region simply could not miss under any circumstances.

My master was the lead shamisen player for this Iwai Hanshirō troupe’s resident nagauta ensemble, and his stage name was Kineya Shinji. In earlier times, apart from theater work, he had only been giving lessons in Kamigata, but at some point he began conducting ten days of lessons per month here as well. After all, as Master had been designated by the Tatsumi Kenban licensing office, nearly all of his students were geisha. Among them, since I alone was an amateur girl, Master’s eyes were inevitably drawn to me. To me, during breaks in practice and such, Master would often tell stories about the theater—specifically, stories about the Iwai Hanshirō troupe with which he was affiliated. It was during one such occasion when theater stories were being discussed that Master,

“Though I always play Master Hanshirō’s lead shamisen, I find it quite difficult to get along with someone of his character.”

Master had said such things.
I found this perplexing,

“What manner of person has such a character?”

When I inquired,

“When it comes to artistry alone, I hold him in sincere esteem; however, he remains an exceedingly arrogant, mercilessly cruel individual devoid of moral character.”

Master said such things.
And if a disciple messed up onstage, he would mete out punishments as if performing a scene from a play; if his pet cat stepped on his costume, he would grab its tail and swing it around—acts so brutal that onlookers couldn’t help but cover their eyes.
Furthermore—on one occasion before opening night’s curtain—this was said to have occurred during a tour through the countryside—as he passed through a back garden on his way to the stage curtain, a small monkey kept untethered in the hut’s yard saw his face and screeched, leaping back to bare its white teeth; he reportedly snatched up the wooden geta sandals left at the garden’s edge and hurled them at the little monkey’s head with a shout, pitifully killing it—such stories even existed.
After this story, Master continued,

“That little monkey was truly pitiful. The parent monkey, witnessing this scene, let out a mournful wail and fixed Master Hanshirō with such a fearsome glare that we who stood nearby shuddered involuntarily. That theater subsequently fell out of popularity and closed down. That monkey may hold a grudge, but the theater owner is still the theater owner. Such theaters are, of course, part of the water trade—teahouses and restaurants where monkeys are associated with departure. To avoid ill fortune, even in performance arts, we refrain from learning pieces with ‘monkey’ in their names like *Gikisaru*, *Utsubosaru*, or the commonly called *Sarumai*—officially *Sanshō Sarugakumai*. Yet I still wonder what that theater owner was thinking, keeping such a monkey in the garden.”

Master had said such things.
I, at times like these,

“It must be unpleasant for you to play the shamisen for such a person.”
“However, even so—given that you harbor such feelings in your heart—how does Master’s dance and shamisen harmonize so perfectly?”
“If either party believed they were incompatible with the other... wouldn’t that discord naturally manifest itself even during performances? Wouldn’t their rhythms fail to align?”

When I said this, Master shook his head,

“No, that’s not the case at all.
As a human being, I feel nothing but disgust for that person, but as a dancer, I bow from the depths of my heart to Hanshirō.
My shamisen playing has no connection whatsoever to that person’s character.
Because I play wholeheartedly for Iwai Hanshirō, Japan’s foremost dancer, our rhythms harmonize.
If that person did not possess that artistry, I would have killed someone like him—even for the honor of humanity—right before that parent ape.”

Master said such things and burst into laughter.

｜○｜

The main attraction, *Kyo Kanoko Musume Dojoji*'s curtain rose precisely on schedule.

Needless to say, the stage followed the customary preparations for a dance drama—a cypress platform with painted backdrops of flower-covered mountains stretching as far as the eye could see, their peaks serenely floating in an entrancingly blossom-hazed sky layered two or three deep.
At the stage’s lower side stood a large cherry tree—perhaps modeled after its blossoms—for from the ceiling above the stage’s front hung a curtain of weeping cherry blossoms stretching from the upper to lower ends of the stage, imbuing the entire space with vernal splendor and making the stage itself appear to float resplendently.
The upper third of this cascading floral curtain was obscured from view, but beyond it hung that papier-mâché bell—the very one sung of as bearing a grudge in the play.
When viewed on this grand stage spanning fifteen ken frontage, it did not appear particularly large, yet its interior could fully engulf three or four grown men standing upright.
On the dragon-headed fixture of this bell was attached a red-and-white striped rope, its end hanging limply down to the stage and tied to the trunk of the cherry tree mentioned earlier.

At the front of this stage—with the painted backdrop of cherry-blossom mountains behind it—stood tiered seating spread with a crimson carpet blazing like flames.
On top of this sat the nagauta singers, shamisen players, and hayashi ensemble—all arranged in their proper places.
That is to say: at the center-right sat Master Kineya Shinji on shamisen; at the center-left sat Master Matsushima Saburōji on tateuta.
To their right and left respectively—as they were customarily addressed—Master Shinzaburō and Master Matsushima Jirōji sat aligned with the other disciples in an imposing formation.
On the lower tier were the hayashi ensemble members I mentioned earlier—flute, small drum, large drum, and taiko players—all wearing habutae silk black formal kimonos with kamishimo attire adorned with scattered cherry blossom petals. The singers had their songbooks laid out before them while the shamisen masters held their instruments and plectrums at the ready, fully prepared.

Before such a cherry blossom-filled, resplendent stage, I could only stand there in a daze.
On the stage, the papier-mâché bell seemed to peer down ominously.
At the right and left ends of the stage, the large and small monks were lined up in orderly rows.

｜○｜

The auditorium fell as silent as poured water, with only an occasional cough or two from the audience echoing through the stillness—reverberating in our ears with terrifying clarity, as though in a forest.
Soon, the lead shamisen’s cue rang out.
Through the audience’s stifled breath passed the Nagauta—

“The bell bears countless grudges; when tolled at vespers, it echoes with the impermanence of all things…”

And so, with solemn gravity, it had begun.
It was at this moment I first realized—the lead shamisen player was not my Master—not Kineya Shinji.
It was none other than Kineya Shinzaburō, his foremost disciple.
I gasped at this unexpected turn,

"Why is Master not playing the shamisen?" I murmured to myself.
But then I remembered—Master suffered chronic colic—this must be another attack, and at such a crucial moment... Such were my thoughts.
Yet when the golden eboshi-crowned shirabyoshi emerged amidst thunderous cheers from the upper galleries, my eyes became riveted to her form—and before I knew it, without conscious intent—I had forgotten all about Master.

The bell bears countless grudges...

As this song began, the Chūkei dance commenced—a testament to what one would call the master actor’s consummate artistry—and through it all, the bell’s obsessive grudge seemed to seep through.
The audience could do nothing but watch the stage above, utterly entranced, as though under a specter’s thrall.
The lead shamisen player, as I mentioned earlier, was not my Master—it was Shinzaburō-sama, the foremost disciple—who handled the plectrum with such masterful skill that even Master Saburōji, the lead singer, appeared thoroughly satisfied as he performed.

The song’s lyrics:

"My unspoken heart—my disheveled hair in disarray—your coldness merely a fleeting whim... No matter what—men are wicked creatures…"

As the dance progressed, its mood transformed entirely—truly befitting a master dancer acknowledged by all. The thrusting hands, the drawing hands—such youthful freshness in his dance gestures—indeed, Iwai Hanshirō was sixty-four years old—limbs that showed no trace of an aged dancer, coupled with subtle undulations of his torso and perfectly executed motions of innocent grace—so much so that one could only perceive a maiden yet unawakened to spring. Though I had learned from Master that he held no human worth, and though I myself harbored hatred and contempt for him, I could only stand enraptured by the artistic power of what might well be called divine skill.

｜○｜

This dance drama known as *Musume Dojoji* was performed by Nakamura Tomijūrō at Edo’s Nakamura-za during the Hōreki era, and it is said to have been his greatest artistic success throughout his entire career.
After all, he reportedly staged it eleven times over thirty-three years, with each performance said to have drawn a full house.
The plot of this dance drama dramatizes the Anchin-Kiyohime legend, and historical records preserve the following account.

×

This is a dramatization of the renowned Anchin-Kiyohime legend.
In the eighth month of Enchō 6, a young and handsome monk named Anchin, residing in Oshū, set out on a pilgrimage to Kumano.
On the way, in Muro District, he sought lodging for a night at the house of a man named Shōji Kiyotsugu.
However, there was a daughter in that household—a woman named Kiyohime—who became infatuated with Anchin……When this young, handsome monk’s innermost feelings were laid bare……he promised to stop by again on his return journey……and continued his pilgrimage to Kumano.

Anchin completed his shrine pilgrimage and began his return journey.
Yet he did not visit Kiyohime, who burned with longing for him.
When the woman learned this, she seethed with bitter hatred toward the man.
Through single-minded obsession, the woman transformed her very form into a great serpent.
She pursued the heartless man.
Cornered with no escape, Anchin fled to Dojoji Temple in Hidaka District and begged for salvation.
The temple monks granted his plea.
Without delay, they assembled their brethren, lowered the great bell, and sealed Anchin within it.

Before long, the incarnation of Kiyohime’s grudge—the form of a great serpent—appeared.
The great serpent quietly coiled around the bell.
It raised its tail and struck the bell.
Flames erupted violently each time.
Time passed.
The great serpent departed.
The monks, who had been watching from the shadows terrified out of their wits, let out a deep breath of relief and hurried to raise the bell.
However, not only was there no trace of Anchin—not even his bones remained—they found nothing but ashes.

This Anchin-Kiyohime legend was recorded in the so-called *Dojoji* Noh play, and that *Dojoji* was in turn dramatized into the dance drama we are now discussing—*Kyo Kanoko Musume Dojoji*—so the plot visible in this dance drama’s staging is as follows:――

×

At Dojoji Temple, a bell was erected once more, and a shirabyoshi named Hanako came to pay homage to its consecration.
This was, in truth, Kiyohime, and the temple monks refused her on the grounds of the women’s prohibition.
However, the shirabyoshi pleaded insistently.
The temple monks, now left with no choice, accepted the woman’s plea and requested a dance in return.
The shirabyoshi approached the bell while dancing and disappeared inside.
――The entire group raised the bell in alarm.
And from within emerged a serpent-bodied demoness.

｜○｜

And so, dance movements signifying such a plot continued upon the hinoki stage.
I stood utterly entranced, gazing at the stage—from the temari gestures to the flower hats, then calligraphy brushes, bells, drums…—all executed with such masterful artistry that left no room for breath. But then I noticed: Master Shinji stood in the shadows of the stage-right wing, staring fixedly at the stage—and at the hands of Shinzaburō, who played the lead shamisen in his stead.
At a glance he appeared ill—his complexion had turned completely pale, and even standing seemed laborious—and seeing Master in such a state, I found myself...

"As I had thought, he must have suffered a colic attack..."

This was what I had concluded.
Yet even so, he kept his attention fixed on the stage—watching over his disciple's performance despite his visibly pained condition. Truly, this was one who had founded his own school through artistic mastery—so I reflected, secretly wiping away tears.

｜○｜

As the dance progressed further, it reached what is commonly called the bell entrance scene.
The tate-uta—Matsushima Saburōji-sama’s singing—grew increasingly vivid.

〽Resentment upon resentment, weeping with lamentation

The lyrics of the song—the *shirabyoshi* stared fixedly up at the bell.
I was not very knowledgeable about such dance dramas, but this “resentment upon resentment” did not lament a man’s incomprehensible heart—rather, it signified that a resentful heart had been channeled into the suspended bell through the choreography, or so I had heard.
Yet even so, when faced with that excessively abnormal—nay, madness-tinged—gaze of Hanshirō costumed as the *shirabyoshi*, was I the only one who suddenly felt such an uncanny sensation at that moment?

The dance finally advanced further,

〝When I reflect—ah, how bitterly I resent!〞

And thus, we had reached the scene revealing the serpent heart.
And then,

〝Seeming to leap upon the dragon-head with hand outstretched—yet vanished without pulling it down〞

At these words, Master Iwai Hanshirō as the shirabyoshi entered the bell.

At the center of the stage, the bell dominated the space, and the stage now devoid of its lead performer was entrusted to the monks—in other words, this was the Prayer Scene.
The nagauta ensemble arrayed on the frontal mountain platform—likely compensating for the desolate stage through song—raised their voices in unison, resoundingly,

Both song and dance became the voice of Buddhist law.

They were singing along with the shamisen.
At that very moment inside the bell, preparations for transformation were underway, and in place of the stage monks came forth a great number of Hanashiten.
Then came the scene of raising the bell.
We remained motionless, holding our breath as we waited for the bell to rise.

As the audience stirred, the bell rose.
Inside lay Iwai Hanshirō—transformation complete—wearing a hooded robe and lying face down.
The Hanashiten engaged with this scene through oshimodoshi maneuvers before striking their hikippari mie poses to bring down the curtain.
Yet even as the song progressed further still, this transformed Shirabyoshi did not rise.
In that instant—nearly simultaneous—everyone must have felt that same eerie premonition.

Gasping involuntarily, I leaned forward just as—from the side of the stage—

“Curtain…”

A sharp voice rang out.

｜○｜

Although a highly complex technical term had been assigned to the cause of death of the renowned actor Iwai Hanshirō, it ultimately came down to this: a traumatic injury to the forehead and the resulting acute psychological shock—likely due to advanced age—had triggered a fatal change in the heart, which had never been robust even in ordinary times.
If I were to state it thus—then in that prop bell where not a single human soul was present, who could have created such a cause? Who could the perpetrator be?—one imagines voices would grow hushed in contemplation.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

If I were to answer thus,

“Then who applied the transformation kumadori and assisted with the costume change?
Shouldn’t those people be the first suspects?”

—you would press further.
However, during that costume change, there had been not a single stagehand present.

｜○｜

As you may know, in the *Musume Dojoji* dance drama, when the *shirabyoshi* enters the bell scene, the actor—to costume themselves as a serpentine form and apply *kumadori* makeup—would descend through the stage trapdoor beneath. For a star actor of Hanshirō’s caliber, this would typically involve employing four or five stage assistants to help with both the *kumadori* application and costume transformation—meaning rather than donning the attire inside the bell lowered onto the stage, they would exit through the trapdoor belowstage, complete all preparations there, and when the time came, rise back into that same bell.

However, this actor Hanshirō never used the stage trapdoor during the bell entrance scene.

When the bell descended, he would remain beneath the prop bell onstage alone, arranging his serpent-form costume entirely by himself—and naturally applying the *kumadori* makeup unaided.

...Hearing such accounts, anyone would naturally wonder—why would such a man endure such cumbersome preparations without stage assistants?

There must have been some reason for this.

People had periodically indulged in their own wild speculations.

Among these existed particularly far-fetched theories—such as this one.

It was said that even Hanshirō had once followed standard practice during *Musume Dojoji* performances: exiting through the stage trapdoor like any other actor, borrowing stagehands’ help to don his serpent costume before rising back into the prostrate bell—until one day, while descending into the *naraku*, a careless assistant caused him to fall. Enraged, Hanshirō had berated and beaten the man.

Though it had been his own error, the man—subjected to such brutality—cursed his master before hanging himself in a corner of the *naraku* that very night after the performance concluded. —From then on, whenever Hanshirō descended into the *naraku* through the trapdoor, he would glimpse the man’s vengeful apparition—and thus whenever *Musume Dojoji* was staged, he refused to enter the *naraku*—or so the rumor went.

This seemed an overly contrived attempt to connect Hanshirō with the common ghost stories surrounding the *naraku*—a theory too speculative by half. Ultimately, it was believed Hanshirō simply wished to conceal his family’s hereditary serpent-form *kumadori*. To this end, he dismissed even his stage assistants, treating the prop bell lying onstage as a sealed chamber where he could apply his makeup unseen—eluding all eyes, including those of his attendants.

Now, these *kumadori*—needless to say—are merely various lines adorning the face during makeup application. By color alone they vary: red *kumadori* (*beniguma*), indigo *kumadori* (*aiguma*), ink-black *kumadori* (*sumiguma*). In form they differ too—striped *kumadori* (*sujiguma*), peeled-flesh *kumadori* (*mukimi*), flame-patterned *kumadori* (*kaenguma*), single-line *kumadori* (*ipponguma*)—each perfectly suited to roles like transformed beings, Banryō, or Aizen.

However, though general principles were established, each actor possessed unique *kumadori* methods and techniques guarded as jealously as a swordsmith’s control of water temperature and forge heat.

For these reasons, it was considered that Hanshirō—unwilling to reveal his distinctive serpent-form *kumadori* for *Dojoji*’s transformation scene—had avoided descending to the stage trapdoor even during costuming, instead completing all preparations entirely alone within the bell lying prone onstage.

Thus, inside that prop bell, cosmetics and tools necessary for costuming and kumadori were stored on a shelf-like area, and while an air vent had been opened at the bell’s crown, it was of course not large enough for a person to enter or exit—making it unthinkable that anyone could have entered through there.
Even if, by some means, the culprit had hidden inside the bell suspended above the stage and harmed Hanshirō, how could they possibly have escaped?

—A murder within the prostrate bell at the center of a resplendent stage alive with nagauta accompaniment and instrumental music.
Even if we were to suppose the culprit had hidden inside the bell, there would have been no means to exit undetected.
—Even if someone had clung inside the bell as it was being hoisted, how could they possibly have escaped from that now-suspended bell above the stage?

If I were to state it thus—then might there not have been a trapdoor leading to the stage trapdoor beneath the stage where the bell had been placed? When the bell descended to the stage, might the culprit not have ascended into its interior from there and then escaped back down to the stage trapdoor? —You might say such a thing, I suppose. However, as I mentioned earlier, since Master Hanshirō performed his transformation makeup inside the bell, there had been no need to lower the bell over the trapdoor—it had instead been lowered at a considerable distance away, near the center of the stage. Therefore, it cannot be considered that the culprit entered from the stage trapdoor either.

All circumstances I had just described were well understood by both troupe members and stagehands—so when Hanshirō's body was carried to the dressing room and they collectively exhaled in relief, those remaining onstage must have simultaneously felt—without prior agreement—that something was amiss within the bell.
They gazed fixedly at the prop bell suspended from the stage ceiling until eventually one stagehand quietly lowered it onto the boards, where two or three others began inspecting its interior.
This occurred no more than five minutes after the incident.
Yet the bell's interior showed no disturbances whatsoever—naturally, no human figures were present.
This absence of anomalies had been evident even when viewing it from below without lowering.
People meticulously examined even the shelf installed inside and cosmetics used for kumadori application, yet found nothing noteworthy.

Given these circumstances, it was only natural that everyone's attention became focused on the murder weapon left at the scene—that is to say, the object deemed directly related to the traumatic injury Hanshirō had sustained to his forehead—in order to resolve the case.
This murder weapon was none other than my teacher Master Kineya Shinji's ivory plectrum—and moreover, it was something he had been holding in the dressing room prior to the curtain rising.
This fact had been attested to by the disciples and acknowledged by Master Kineya Shinji himself—that this very plectrum had been discovered beside Hanshirō's prone form onstage when they raised the bell.—For these reasons, my nagauta teacher became the prime suspect in this murder case—though objectively speaking, this conclusion seemed all too inevitable.

Master Kineya Shinji has stated the following to the authorities.

"Considering that I unfortunately suffered an attack of my chronic colic during the performance of *Musume Dojoji* and was unable to appear, and that my ivory plectrum was found inside that prop bell, it is only natural that I should be the first to come under suspicion.

—But what possible connection could there be between myself and that murder case?"

“It was approximately twenty minutes before the curtain rose on *Musume Dojoji* that I took that plectrum from my shamisen case.”
“As a personal habit—or perhaps a matter of principle—I never entrust my shamisen or plectrum to my disciples’ hands.”
“That day too, I took it out with my own hands, checked the condition of the strings, and then picked up the plectrum.”
“At that very moment, the colic came on.”
I placed the plectrum and shamisen there as if discarding them,

“Shinzaburō, come here.”

I called out through labored breaths to my foremost disciple in the adjacent room.
—There had been no one in my chamber.

Shinzaburō, upon hearing my voice, came running immediately and,

“Master, I will call a doctor then, so please bear with it for a while.”

and he rushed out to do so.
After that, due to pain beyond description, I remember nothing.
By the time the pain subsided, the curtain for *Musume Dojoji* had already risen, and Shinzaburō was playing the standing shamisen in my stead.
When I heard this—shaking off the doctor’s attempts to stop me—I left the dressing room and stood by the stage’s edge, intently watching Shinzaburō’s shamisen performance. Of course, I prayed he would manage without incident.
It seems suspicion has fallen upon these actions of mine.
However, when one’s disciple performs their master’s role—how could anyone remain unconcerned?
“For someone like myself, who lives through art—even with unsteady steps, would it not be entirely natural to go observe my disciple’s performance in such circumstances?”

“However, in response to your inquiry as to whether I had taken the plectrum with me at that time—”

“No.”

Rather than simply stating that,

“I absolutely did not bring it.”

I wish to state.
“For me, a shamisen player, the shamisen and plectrum are—needless to say—my very soul.”
However—I must confess this shameful truth—in that moment, even I had completely forgotten my very soul. Overcome by colic, I set down both the shamisen and the plectrum I had been holding, and utterly forgot about them.
Later, I learned that Shinzaburō had brought the shamisen and plectrum back to his own room and placed them in the alcove.
However, I—of course—knew nothing of these circumstances and, as I have just stated, gave no thought whatsoever to the shamisen or plectrum. Concerned solely with Shinzaburō’s shamisen playing onstage in my stead, I shook off those attempting to detain me and made my way to the right side of the stage.
After that, the incident occurred, and until the curtain fell, I remained standing motionless in a single spot.
What possible connection could there be between myself in such a state and that plectrum?
“Were we to concede for a moment that I had indeed held my plectrum at that time and injured Master Hanshirō with it, then I would have had to throw that plectrum from stage right.”
“However, before a near-capacity audience, how could such a thing possibly be possible?”
“Even if one could somehow obscure the audience’s view through some contrivance, the act of hurling it would have to coincide precisely with the moment that prop bell descended upon Master Hanshirō’s Shirabyoshi dancer.”
“If we suppose that the plectrum I threw struck Master Hanshirō, causing his immediate death—and even if the bell descending from above concealed the Shirabyoshi’s form at that very moment—the corpse would still have to remain in the Shirabyoshi’s costume.”
“However, that is not what happened in reality.”
Master Hanshirō was lying prostrate, still composed in his transformation attire.
“If that is the case, then at least this much can be stated—that is to say, Master Hanshirō remained alive inside that prop bell from the moment he concealed himself within it until he could don the transformation attire from the Shirabyoshi role….”
“If that is the case, then even if I had been standing at the side of the stage with my plectrum during that incident, what could I possibly have done?”
“—Would I have thrown the plectrum by timing it precisely when the bell descended upon the Shirabyoshi and Master Hanshirō was preparing his transformation?”
“And then—could it be that this plectrum flew into the papier-mâché bell without even creating a tear, and struck Master Hanshirō?”

｜○｜

I understand that the interrogation of Master Kineya Shinji concluded at this point, and next it was his foremost disciple—Master Kineya Shinzaburō, who had performed the standing shamisen for *Dojoji* in his teacher’s stead—who underwent questioning.

×

“Master, Master Kineya Shinji’s colic is a chronic condition, and even I have nursed him through it once or twice before now.”
“At that time, as Master has stated, it was I whom he first summoned.”
“In my disarrayed state upon hearing Master’s unusual summons, I rushed to his room.”
Master had left the shamisen and plectrum in front of him and was pressing his side, in such terrible pain.
I,

“Master, I will call a doctor...”

With that, I rushed out of the room and happened upon the manager in the hallway,

“I beg your pardon, but please kindly summon a doctor.”

I stated simply and added an explanation of Master’s condition.
The manager,

“Very well.”
“Please attend to Master.”

With that abrupt statement, the theater manager hurried down the corridor. By then, fellow disciples who had heard the commotion and troupe members had rushed to Master’s room as well. Yet even amid such turmoil, my attention was drawn to the shamisen and plectrum left beside Master. If someone were to trip or such—I thought—it would be catastrophic should any harm come to these instruments we shamisen players consider our very soul and life. Thus I took both shamisen and plectrum in my hands and carried them to my room... They were unmistakably the same ones Master always used. After placing them in my alcove, I later returned them to Master’s room.

The opening time for Kyo Kanoko Musume Dojoji was fast approaching.
Through the doctor’s treatment, Master’s colic seemed to have subsided appropriately.
However, even so, there was no possibility of him taking the stage for the dance drama that was to begin in mere minutes.
Therefore, I was granted the honor of performing as Master’s substitute for the lead shamisen.

When I left my room, Master’s shamisen and plectrum were present in the alcove exactly as I had placed them.
However, if someone were to have taken this plectrum after I left, it would have to be someone from the troupe or among us musicians—for to reach my room, one must pass by several dressing rooms, so if it were an unfamiliar person, someone would surely notice and follow up on a suspicious individual passing through.
Moreover, while my dressing room faces the theater’s back alley, it has but a single window—fitted with bars too narrow for even a person’s head to pass through—so given these circumstances, it is unthinkable that an outsider could have broken in and stolen that plectrum.
However, be that as it may—as Master Shinji has stated—even if someone were to have attacked Master Hanshirō, who was dressed as the Shirabyoshi dancer, inside the bell using that plectrum, how could such a method be explained?
As Master has pointed out, how could it be possible to throw such an object into that descending prop bell onstage without damaging it?
As you are aware, at the top of the bell there exists an air vent approximately seven to eight sun in diameter.
However, even granting that, how could a plectrum thrown from the side of the stage enter through that vent and injure the person inside?
Even if one were to aim for that air vent from the stage ceiling and throw it in, how then could the victim’s forehead have been injured?
Moreover, could a thrown plectrum possibly go unnoticed by every single member of the packed theater audience?

｜○｜

Following these two individuals, it was Namizaki Tōsaburō of the troupe—who had served as Iwai Hanshirō’s kōken—who underwent questioning.
I understand that this person’s testimony proceeded as follows.

“I am a man who has served as Master Iwai Hanshirō’s kōken for over a decade now. I had no reason to kill Master Hanshirō. I believe Master Hanshirō himself had no reason to be killed by anyone. Yet by that same measure, he was someone who gave everyone reason enough to kill him. These words of mine may sound strange to you. But how many people in this world could have felt genuine goodwill toward Master Hanshirō—that arrogant man who regarded others as less than human—apart from his artistic prowess? Had he lacked that artistry, his insolent demeanor alone would have been sufficient to incite murderous intent. This is no exaggeration on my part.”

“Needless to say—as you are well aware—a kōken must devote everything to the performer they serve. In the same way, the performer cannot dance without showing sympathy for their kōken. The dancer and kōken must become one—as inseparably as a shadow follows its form. Of course, Master Hanshirō understood this perfectly. Being a virtuoso recognized by all, he worked with such practiced ease that assisting him felt exceptionally straightforward—when it came to artistry. Yet even during performances like that one, his arrogance—that tendency to regard others as less than human—would surface unpredictably. He frequently altered dance movements on a whim as routine practice. At times, he’d capriciously cut sequences short for egotistical reasons like ‘Today’s audience displeases me.’ In *Dojoji*, this meant omitting the *Shirabyoshi*’s bell entrance entirely—leaving the nagauta singers and hayashi musicians gaping as he brought down the curtain mid-performance. Such incidents occurred frequently.”

Master Hanshirō’s dance proceeded in the same manner as always.
His mood was, as usual, neither particularly good nor bad.
However, I find this strange—after the dance began, Master’s demeanor began to change after some time.
How should I put it—it was as if he had taken on the appearance of one possessed by a vengeful spirit.
During the intervals of the dance, he looked upward and sideways, and on his forehead, a greasy sweat had unmistakably broken out.
His complexion had turned completely pale, and he seemed on the verge of becoming utterly out of sync with the shamisen.
However, as one would expect of a master of dance, such things were skillfully concealed within his gestures and footwork, and few, if any, among the troupe’s actors would have noticed.
Moreover, the fact that he kept drifting out of sync with the shamisen led some to lay blame at the feet of Mr. Shinzaburō—who was performing as lead shamisen—claiming that despite being the chief disciple, only Master Shinji could properly handle Iwai Hanshirō’s musical threads. There even seemed to be self-styled connoisseurs affecting an air of expertise with such remarks.

Master Hanshirō’s abnormal excitement grew increasingly intense as the song progressed, and during the dance, such an incident occurred.
It was at the end of the line "grudge against the bell—"

〽Gazing upon the moon of truth until dawn breaks

There exists the lyric that goes, “Gazing upon the moon of truth until dawn breaks,” and there occurs the moment when the Shirabyoshi—wearing a golden eboshi—flips up [the headgear] with the folding fan held in [their] hand.
However, around this point in time, Master Hanshirō, who was dancing,

“The ropes… the ropes…”

Master Hanshirō had uttered those words twice.
It was a voice that felt like either the delirious ravings of someone possessed by a vengeful spirit or the soliloquy of a madman.
However, from my perspective as his kōken, I concluded that this must have been him addressing me with some sort of instruction—.
Of course, that may very well have been the case—though I cannot say for certain.
I concluded this must have been another instance of Master Hanshirō’s usual admonitions directed at me—either about ending the dance prematurely out of self-will or arbitrarily altering parts of the choreography.—As I mentioned earlier regarding Master Hanshirō’s character,

“The ropes… the ropes…”

Even as he uttered this, he flipped up the golden eboshi headdress he wore. I quickly shuffled closer to retrieve it, but in that instant, something came to mind. It referred to a stage convention where the kōken would collect the fallen eboshi and hang it on the ropes. This practice apparently originated when a certain renowned Edo-period actor performed this dance with such vigor in flipping his eboshi that the headdress flew backward and tangled in the rigging. However, since such occurrences were unpredictable by nature, this accident became a sensation and evolved into an established form. Of course, reliably recreating such chance events onstage proved impossible, so actors who adopted this convention would order their kōken to deliberately hang the flipped eboshi on the ropes afterward—or so the story went. I recalled these details and Master’s—

“The ropes… the ropes…”

Interpreting what he had uttered as an instruction for me to perform that very action—I did exactly as commanded.
"However, for some reason, Master Hanshirō was clearly in a state of excitement, and even toward me—who had performed such an act—he displayed not a single expression that might indicate approval or disapproval."

｜○｜

“Even this much should make you understand how Master Hanshirō differed from his usual self at that time.”
“However, if I were to speak of how he was different, it would be around the beginning of the lyrics—

〝A heart that speaks without words...〞

It was around this point that Kiyohime’s true identity was first hinted at, but already from that moment onward—for reasons unknown—Iwai Hanshirō had changed from his normal self, with none of what one might call his dance acting visible whatsoever.
Then the shamisen’s tone shifted, and the song grew all the more subdued,

〝A capital-bred one is as frivolous as a lotus leaf〞

As the song cut off with an instrumental interlude, during this shamisen passage, Shirabyoshi Hanako removed the outer costume she wore—that is to say, she pulled it off—but unlike in ordinary dances, she neither halted her movements nor retreated to the rear of the stage to do so.
She removed it in time with the shamisen’s interlude while performing handball-like gestures.—This was not done by the actor alone but with the kōken’s assistance.
This involved disassembling parts of the costume—the sleeves, torso, and hem—and pulling them off; to undo these sections, one pulled what was commonly called "tama"—threads with small beads.
These were threads that had been sewn but left unsecured, with small beads attached to their ends to allow easy pulling—it was likely from these beads that the term "tama" originated.
When these tama were pulled out, it was the performer’s skill to hand them to the kōken without the audience’s notice—and from the kōken’s perspective, properly receiving them was their duty.
However, he did not hand them over to me as I waited, continuing to dance while gripping them tightly in his hand.
I gasped in surprise and instinctively looked up at Master’s face.
Then, with his eyes bloodshot, he seemed to be groaning something under his breath.
I thought that Master must again be displeased with something regarding the audience—and so I listened closely.
While performing Japan’s greatest dance—perfectly synchronized with song, shamisen, and percussion—Master Hanshirō was murmuring under his breath.

“Damn it… damn it.”

Indeed, he had uttered these words twice.
And then, instead of handing the tama beads he gripped in his hand to me, his kōken, he threw them swiftly and forcefully toward the stage ceiling.

Such things were a common occurrence for that willful Master Hanshirō, so at the time, I paid it no mind.
“However, now that Master Hanshirō has met such an inexplicable death, I cannot help but wonder if such behavior might have been related—or so it seems to me.”

｜○｜

With this, the three suspects—one, two, three—that is to say—

Kineya Shinji (my nagauta Master who always played the lead shamisen for the victim, Iwai Hanshirō)

Kineya Shinzaburō (the foremost disciple of Master Kineya Shinji who replaced the ailing Master Shinji in playing the lead shamisen for Dojoji)

Namizaki Tōsaburō (the one who served as kōken for the victim, Iwai Hanshirō, on the Dojoji stage)

The statements from the three had concluded.

The reason these three underwent such interrogations was,

In the case of (i) my Master, Kineya Shinji: because the ivory plectrum that Master had possessed until just before the opening was left at the murder scene—and because his sudden illness immediately before the opening had been viewed with suspicion—;

(ro) Mr. Kineya Shinzaburō was the one who transported Master’s plectrum to his own room—or to rephrase, he was the last person to have handled the murder weapon—

And,

(ha) Mr. Namizaki Tōsaburō, as Iwai Hanshirō’s kōken, was positioned closest to the victim—this must have been the reason.

However, even if we accept this premise, to entertain even a shred of suspicion toward these three would necessitate applying equal doubt to all performers onstage at the time—the singers, shamisen players, and actors in the dance drama—no, beyond that, one would have to apply the same level of suspicion to the nearly thousand spectators present in the Kawarazaki Theater that day.

That murder took place inside a prop bell laid at the center of a fifteen-ken-wide cypress stage. Not a single person had even touched the exterior of that prop bell. From the moment the curtain opened until the murder was discovered, (i) Master Shinji was twelve or thirteen ken away, (ro) Master Shinzaburō was four or five ken away, (ha) Master Namizaki Tōsaburō, being the kōken, was relatively close; however, he remained more than one ken away until the very end when the bell was raised. If that were indeed the case—as I have already stated—then should suspicion fall upon these three, it would only be natural to apply an equal degree of suspicion to the audience members who had been viewing this resplendent dance stage from distances no greater than five or six ken at the closest, or ten to twenty ken at the farthest, from that prop bell.

Yet even so, in this murder executed by an unseen hand within a prop bell on a Kabuki stage under public scrutiny—where the sole physical evidence left behind was a single ivory plectrum—one might reasonably conclude there is cause for this incident to remain unresolved to this day.

｜○｜

The authorities also appeared to be thoroughly perplexed by this case.
It would seem that thorough interrogations had been conducted for everyone from the troupe members—the nagauta musicians, percussionists, and hayashi ensemble—to the distinguished prop artisans, and ultimately, even the elderly man working as a sort of attendant at the dressing room entrance was subjected to various inquiries. What follows is said to have been his testimony.

×

“As you are aware,” he began, “the Kawarazaki-za theater stands on Saruwaka-chō’s main thoroughfare, its rear facing a narrow back alley.”
“To put it plainly—a desolate lane where Saruwaka-chō’s service road meets Hayashi-chō’s entertainment district after dark, so narrow you’d scarce find two souls passing abreast.”
“This rear-facing side has two entryways: one being an emergency exit for patrons—though perpetually bolted shut.”
“The other serves as the greenroom entrance where I kept vigil through winter’s chill, tending charcoal braziers… On opening days with unfamiliar troupes,” his voice roughened with memory’s grit, “I’d catch myself puzzling—actor or musician? Leading man or comic relief?”
“Yet mark this—” he straightened rheumatic shoulders “—thirty winters I’ve drawn wages as sentinel here.”
“Even country troupes fresh from barnyard circuits—one glance told me their station.” Calloused fingers tapped temple. “Leading man’s swagger or comic’s shuffle—clear as kumadori lines.”
“Thus,” his breath fogged imaginary cold air between us, “with me guarding that post? None but troupe folk passed those doors.”
“On my white hairs I swear it.”
“Every soul’s entrance order remains etched here—” knuckles rapped skull “—like playbills in archive.”
“Not so much as stray kitten slipped through.”

"When you enter through that entrance, it leads directly behind the stage. Right near where I kept watch stood a staircase leading to the second floor. Upon reaching the top of these stairs, you'd find a long hallway with dressing rooms lining both sides. One side faced the theater's front, while across the hallway ran the rear section—its windows overlooking that back alley I mentioned earlier. It was along this rear side that Master Kineya Shinji's room stood alongside that of his chief disciple, Master Shinzaburō.

This layout led the authorities to consider whether someone might have sneaked in through these rooms' windows, despite no unauthorized entries through the dressing room entrance. But even if that were possible—which would require using a ladder or similar tool—Master Shinzaburō had testified about the iron bars fitted into every window. Those bars made it utterly impossible for even a head to squeeze through."

“Given these circumstances, if someone were to have taken that plectrum from Master Shinzaburō’s room, it must have been someone affiliated with the troupe—an insider—and could never have been the work of someone who infiltrated from outside. However, even so—how could they have injured Master Iwai Hanshirō, who was completely enclosed within that prop bell? To this old dressing room attendant, even if it were a hairy foreigner well-versed in the methods of Christian missionaries, such a thing does not seem possible.”

｜○｜

〽 Having practiced love’s lessons in secret—for whom do I apply this crimson tooth-blackening?

...This must be the most widely recognized passage from the Dojoji song's lyrics.
For whom to demonstrate it—or rather, for whose approval to earn—might that be why I commenced my investigation into that murder case?
Could it be—as even our sharp-tongued troupe companions have bluntly told me—that this arose from my own devotion to Master?
No, that was not so.
Yet having said this, it need hardly be stated that my underlying motive lay in considering whether I might extricate Master—owner of that singular piece of physical evidence, the ivory plectrum—from baseless suspicion.

From the very beginning, it would seem the police had regarded that incident as a cleverly planned murder—or so their considerations appeared to suggest.
However, when encountering a death that could be considered a murder case, would it not be necessary to consider several of the following possible scenarios?
In other words—

(1) Victim’s self-inflicted death (suicide disguised as homicide).
Though it would indeed be suicide, there are cases where one might stage it to appear as murder.
In Master Iwai Hanshirō’s case, it might have been a suicide made to look as though he had been murdered by another.

(2) Death from natural causes.
The wooden support bracing the prop bell’s interior came loose.
This resulted in death when it struck Master Iwai Hanshirō’s forehead with fatal force.

(3) Death due to human error.
Iwai Hanshirō, disguised as a shirabyoshi dancer, had not yet fully entered the prop bell when the stagehands lowered it.
A part of the interior struck Hanshirō’s forehead—this being how they caused the victim’s death—that sort of scenario.

(4) Non-premeditated Murder.
Someone had long harbored murderous intent toward Hanshirō.
Yet they had formulated no concrete plan—or perhaps developed sudden lethal impulses.
There existed no premeditated scheme.
But recognizing this moment as their chance—any implement would serve as weapon.
A killing executed by seizing whatever lay nearby... such became its nature.

(5) Planned Murder Case.
A murder plan prepared with meticulous scheming and thorough preparations—like assembling a machine.
Everything had fallen into place.
A murder method that felt as though the time had come—

Such various cases of murder could be considered.
If that were the case, then when encountering a death that could be considered a murder—as I had mentioned—pondering which of these categories it might belong to would not be entirely futile.
Though this constituted a rough and vague classification method, there could be no murder case that did not fall into one of these categories.
Now then, to which category did this Kawarazaki-za murder case belong?—first,

(1) The victim's suicide staged as homicide—could this case possibly fall under this category?
No, that could not possibly be the case.
If we suppose he struck his own head with that plectrum, how could he have obtained it in the first place?
Hanshirō did not approach the vicinity of Master's dressing room before the curtain rose.
If that were so, then there should have been no way for that plectrum to reach Hanshirō's hands—would there not?

In that case, could it be a death due to natural causes as noted in (2)?
No, that could not be the case either.
Even if one were to entertain the notion that the plectrum had fallen from above of its own accord, this would necessitate concluding it had sprouted wings to fly unaided from the dressing room into the bell suspended above the stage—a proposition one must accept for such reasoning to hold.

Then, could it be case (3)—a death caused by human error? If someone were to suggest that a piece of wood or metal fitting inside the prop bell had struck his head—then perhaps it could be considered an oversight by the stagehands—however, given that we clearly knew a plectrum was involved, it could not be attributed to human error.

In that case, I must ultimately conclude it was either a murder under category (4) or a premeditated murder by a third party under category (5).
Moreover, if we regarded this as a murder committed under such circumstances, it was only natural to conclude it was a category (5) planned murder case—an act carried out through meticulous scheming and exceedingly thorough preparations.

｜○｜

With this, I could nearly conclude that this was a premeditated murder perpetrated by a third party.
If that were the case, the next question would naturally become: who committed the murder?—that is to say, the matter shifted to identifying the perpetrator.
However, when I calmly considered the circumstances of that time and the suspects' statements, there were several points suggesting that the planner of that murder case had not directly committed the act—would that not be so?

To rephrase,

(a) The application of some mechanical device,

(b) The utilization of possible superstitious forces,

(c) The use of animals,

Such indirect murder methods as these would be conceivable.
If that is the case, then indeed—

Could it be that they applied mechanical force as in (a), transported the plectrum left in the dressing room into the prop bell, timed it precisely, and hurled it at the person inside—is that what occurred?
Could such a thing even be possible?

Could such a thing be accomplished through the use of superstitious forces as in (b)?
In either case, there seemed something faintly unreasonable about both possibilities.
However,

When I considered the use of animals as in (c), I was astonished and unintentionally felt my entire body tense up.
However, it was not because I had conceived of a murder case where the criminal used an animal in their plan.
This was because I recalled what I had once heard from Master—how Iwai Hanshirō had killed a baby monkey by hurling komageta clogs at it.
At that time, was it not said that the parent ape—while crying out mournfully with a fearsome expression of rage—glared piercingly at Hanshirō?
Then, would this murder case not be one where that parent ape—though a mere beast—seized the opportunity, devised its plan, and carried out the deed?

My reasoning, of course, was not based on physical evidence.
However, this resolution to the mystery—which might seem too coincidental—was by no means unfounded. For there was an aged monkey kept at a certain teahouse near that theater which had escaped and remained missing since the day of the murder.
When considering these facts alongside the circumstances of that murder, could my conjecture not be considered—could it not be thought of as—anything but merely fantastical?
As you may recall, at that theater’s rear entrance, an old dressing room attendant had been keeping watch.
In that case, even if there had been an intruder from outside, the perpetrator would have had to traverse the sole passage to the dressing room where the plectrum was—that is, pass through the iron bars of the dressing room window facing the theater’s back alley—

With the plectrum still in hand—something that could ascend to the very ceiling of the stage—
And then descend along the rope and enter through the air vent at the bell’s summit—something that could—

Something that could hurl the plectrum it held—

Thus, one must conclude—
If that is the case, then would there not be no particular inconsistency in connecting the ape that had gone missing since that time with this murder case?
Moreover, if we take this culprit to be the parent ape whose child was killed, would there not be various convincing aspects that fall into place?
As was stated in the testimony of Mr. Namizaki Tōsaburō, who had been serving as the kōken (stage assistant), that—

~Gazing upon the moon of Suchness until dawn breaks~

At that moment in the performance, after flipping up his golden eboshi hat with the ceremonial fan he held, Iwai Hanshirō—

“Rope… rope…”

It is said he was heard to utter this.
Mr. Namizaki, the kōken, interpreted this as an instruction to secure the eboshi hat to the rope—but might it not have been that at this very moment, an ape clutching the plectrum was traversing that rope and approaching the prop bell?
Yet its form would have been entirely concealed by the curtain of trailing cherry blossoms hanging from the ceiling, invisible from the audience seats.
Moreover, from the actors to the musicians and even those backstage—all eyes must have been fixed upon Iwai Hanshirō's Shirabyoshi performance, everyone eager to witness this unparalleled dance of Japan.
Was it not recounted that even during the hikinuki costume change, Hanshirō refrained from handing the thread scraps he'd rolled up to the stage assistant, instead concealing them within his dance gestures before hurling them toward the ceiling?
Furthermore—

“...Perhaps something about the audience members displeased him, for he was heard muttering under his breath—‘Damn it… damn it.’”

And did he not state such things as well?
That muttering was undoubtedly directed toward the ape.
Moreover, according to the testimony of Mr. Namizaki Tōsaburō, the kōken—

As the song progressed, he became abnormally excited,

It was said that he soliloquized "rope... rope..." like the delirious ravings of someone possessed by a vengeful spirit—would that not be the case? If it were an ape clinging motionlessly and quietly to the rope, why would there have been any need for Hanshirō to throw the thread scraps he held in his hand while dancing?

Was that ape not glaring fixedly at Hanshirō with a fearsome expression of rage—all while thinking of the bitter resentment of its beloved baby monkey that had been cruelly killed?

(June 1937)