Pathway to Japanese Literature

Truly, there is nothing more richly nuanced than human encounters. Whenever I think of the late Kataoka Nizaemon, that feeling deepens. Memories that were once unadorned grew richer and more pleasant with the passing years, yet now seemed to mingle with something akin to a pure sadness.

That I should have encountered an actor and felt such excitement now strikes me as almost inconceivable. Considering my age at the time—somewhere between fourteen or fifteen and sixteen—I was pure in a sense, yet paradoxically sophisticated in a way unbecoming of a boy, perhaps possessing a certain flighty quality. When meeting someone famous in society, I found myself strangely compelled to boast about it—that buoyant feeling as if one’s shoulders were lifting. Even I myself found that frivolousness—that sensation of being tempted into untrustworthiness.

At that time, even the mere fact that upon encountering an actor called Nizaemon, I perceived him as that so-called Matsushima-ya performer bearing the kettle-lid crest already struck me as somehow excessively precocious for a town boy. Merely thinking that way, I remember blushing for years to come.

The plays I saw most frequently during that time were those of Ichikawa Udanji’s stage. There had been a period when Udanji and Nizaemon shared a stage, and that time had come to be regarded as a significant era worthy of remembrance in Osaka theater history. However, that occurred a period after I had begun regularly frequenting the theater—I believe it was mainly around the time Udanji took up residence at Kadoza Theater.

For the few years prior, I had watched Udanji (Sai'nyū), who annually continued performing from the kaomise opening productions at Nakashibai Theater, along with troupes featuring Arakichō, Shōchō, Kohakurō, and Tamashichi.

This period followed immediately after the mad death of Gadō Nizaemon XI, and Nizaemon—though perhaps compelled by social obligation—had to express malice toward Sai'nyū, who was held partially responsible for that incident. Therefore, he could not possibly have gathered the entire troupe.

So if one were to ask where he was, though there were opportunities to see Ganjiro who had taken up residence in a different troupe, I think it must have been exceedingly rare to catch sight of Nizaemon.

Though there was no reason I shouldn’t have recognized him, I hadn’t grown so accustomed to his stage presence that I could immediately identify him as Nizaemon upon seeing his bare face.

Yet nor was it an era when one might have recognized him through newspapers or theater magazines.

Speaking of actor photographs, there was Ishikawa-ya in Dotonbori—later known as Ishikawa Gofukuten.

It’s unclear whether it was originally called Ishikawa-ya—a time when all they did was sell photographs of popular actors mounted on shabby backing paper.

At any rate—the Kaga estate at that time spanned from the western end of Kanyabashi on the Nishiyokobori River northward to the south of Momenbashi, while to the west it extended from that same bridge across what is now the tram line, stretching far further westward—indeed, Horie’s "Tachibana Street" ran along the estate’s northern side—it was just when they had carved a path skewed toward the Nishiyokobori through its grounds to lay the newly completed city tram line.
Near where Momenbashi stood, a tram stop had been established, but it remained a place where scarcely any passengers boarded or alighted.
Having gone somewhere on an errand, there had already been a middle-aged man waiting for the tram before me when I arrived here on my return journey.
Tall and slender—or so he appeared, though this must have been an optical illusion from that time—as zori sandals had not yet come into fashion; he must have been wearing setta.
He wore them on bare feet.
I sometimes think this memory may have been embellished afterward, but there is one thing I distinctly remember.
He was wearing a straw hat—one of those decidedly wide-brimmed seaside styles.

Another thing I clearly remember is that he wore a navy-dyed kasuri summer kimono with a haori over it.
The combination of straw hat and haori seemed incongruous, yet the memory of that haori's cord clasped with jade remains vivid in my mind to this day.
When I think back now—this being a time before celluloid craftsmanship had spread—the dignified simplicity of that jade clasp truly stirred observers' hearts.
That I was a boy who noticed such vivid details mortifies me.
But first of all, even with autumn arrived and him wearing a haori, the straw hat seemed peculiar.
I wonder if it's an illusion, but these two elements remain sharply imprinted.
Thus one can only conclude he kept wearing that straw hat even as the season grew quite unsuitable.
Of course, being an actor, perhaps he clung to that wide-brimmed hat precisely to avoid attracting notice.
I recall another minute detail.
That hat appeared woven from exceptionally fine straw with tight meshwork.
This hat alone felt incongruously worn.
As someone sporting that large, slightly soiled hat, he must have drawn eyes.—Then at last the tram came.
I have an impression we both boarded southbound.
After that, my memory retains not a trace.
What struck me was the hat's aristocratic lineage.
At that time, since the tram was empty, he likely removed his hat and held it in one hand.
Casually yet properly tied, his hyogo obi too exuded refined elegance.
Up to this point I believe my memory holds true, but suddenly I wonder—might the jade have been part of a watch wrapped around that obi?
Yet the revival of front-clasped haori cords came years after seeing his; at that time it must have been rare enough to leave an impression.
In any case, everything below the hat appeared immaculate without a hair's breadth of disorder.

Even that hat, for the reasons mentioned above, maintained a composure that brought together its understated taste—a harmony that would have struck the boy’s eyes as pleasantly harmonious.

By this time, even Ganjiro—once so youthful—must have abandoned the style of full-chirimen silk haori ensembles, as they no longer suited him. Though I now find it fascinating to contemplate these two men's contrasting aesthetic sensibilities, the boy could never have made such associations.
Things like being captivated by people's clothing are something I have little recollection of experiencing throughout the rest of my life.
I have never been the least bit attracted to things like restrained elegance.
But this memory has nonetheless endured.

That I found navy-dyed hemp fabrics pleasing to look at might have marked both the beginning and end of such moments during this encounter. Had I realized it was Nizaemon and reassessed his true appearance afterward, I might have viewed him thus—but after all, I remained a child then. The straw hat that suddenly disrupted his sartorial harmony only to restore it through some new coherence—this man moving through Osaka's streets must have drawn eyes precisely because such figures eluded sight even in that vast city. I still hold this view today. Boarding the train and observing him seated across from me, I likely thought him what people called a patron from some quarter. Yet without tangible cause, none of the great patrons I knew possessed such unparallelled refinement—first and foremost manifested in that face unveiled when he removed his hat.

Now that I think of it, it was his nose.
The taut line connecting nose and lips.
From there, past the lower lip came an undulating curve continuing down to chin and throat—when I closed my eyes and imagined, this differed from what one might call a tautly stretched line flowing smoothly from forehead through brow ridge and nasal bridge to mouth and throat.
The nasal bridge was somewhat shorter and curved, and the chin appeared slightly shorter—it was in these features that I believe there lay a distinction from the Kansai-style standard, a difference that held its own particular appeal.
He must still have been at an age just leaning from his thirties into forty.
When I thought about it, he was in the prime of his manhood.

Now that I think about it—though this is a present-day consideration—the point where his features differed from what would be called an Edo-style handsome face lay in how Kanto preferences, centered on eyebrows and eyes, derived their ideal from desiring overly defined lines; even the sharpness of his features thereby became one criterion of attractiveness.
His countenance possessed qualities entirely distinct from such aesthetic standards.
At that time, speaking of impressions, the abundant wrinkles at the corners of his eyes made his somewhat narrow, beautifully elongated eyes appear cool and gentle.
As for his hair—around the forehead, somewhat refined and slightly wavy—I think it may have imparted a supple quality to what otherwise seemed an overly taut face.
When I dissect impressions in this manner, I fear considerable later accretions may have intruded—yet given that I saw the Eleventh Nizaemon’s true countenance with such clarity only this once, neither before nor after, I cannot believe my memory has become so adulterated.
It remains that old, yet some fresh, sincere emotion still persists.

Admittedly, in later years near Kobikicho’s streets, I saw him riding in a single-horse-drawn carriage that passed by with clattering hooves, its hood thrown back.
I merely recognized him as such and did not look closely.
The intervening years had spanned from Meiji through Taisho to early Showa, instilling in me a profound sense that both he and I had lived through those times.

His countenance displayed truly refined elegance befitting a town resident, yet as foundation for a stage face—though well composed—it lacked roughness, boldness, and gravitas.
So to speak, his refinement emerged too readily, leaving no room for that vague emptiness—what one might call a void—compelling one to draw out and contemplate what lies beneath; this absence left me profoundly unsettled.
When recalling memories of his stage face through old impressions, I find it remarkable that with that countenance, he was not overwhelmed alongside actors with grander features.
But seeing his face on stages of that era—when kabuki visages still retained vigor—one couldn’t help sensing a certain lack of intensity precisely in these aspects.
His was a countenance possessing almost none of what’s termed theatrical flamboyance—a man whose natural essence stood stark.
This face must have disadvantaged him greatly through youth and prime.
The overly amateurish sophistication tended to provoke antipathy.
Even considering his shared stage with Shibasuzume Jakuemon—his polar opposite—makes this clear.
At first, I was troubled by an inescapable disharmony.
Amidst this, when Nizaemon’s inherent disposition was overwhelmed by passion, that very face—unchanged—transformed into a kabuki countenance.
Even in soliloquies, this held true.
I cannot help but feel his performances laid groundwork for what might be called new kabuki—different from Mr. Okamoto Kidō and Sadanji’s collaborations—to emerge.
That culminated in scenes like “Wabi Dwelling” from *Sakura Shigure*—
In *Horikawa*’s Yojirō role, I recall how in early years he’d amusingly indulge himself alone, leaving audiences behind—yet without this mannerism, the raw naturalness from his face would have been unbearable.
Such claims may ring hollow on paper, but those who saw his performances would surely concur.

His normally relaxed face would tense, and his upper body—which in ordinary life expressed nothing beyond the mundane—would begin its okotsuki; then, the very essence of his artistry emerged upon his countenance. His well-formed nose and jaw began taking shape as something beyond the fervent visage of an amateur. But abruptly, at times, it would revert to an amateur's countenance—this occurred when Nizaemon had lost interest in the stage.

As an ordinary person, he possessed a well-proportioned face; yet as a kabuki countenance, it lacked distinctive qualities deemed essential for the form. Still I marvel at how he wielded those very features so masterfully as an actor’s face and bearing.

This becomes clear when one lines up and considers Ganjiro, Utaemon, and then Nizaemon in this manner.
It was Ganjiro whose face, in its ordinary state, bore many flaws—all for the sake of being quintessentially actor-like.
Utaemon too was a man who constantly evoked a natural quality—one who amply displayed beauty as an ordinary person—but even so, the facial elements required of a stage performer were more numerous than his.

But really, it was less a kabuki countenance and more something else entirely.
When it comes to him, his face simply cannot project such an impression merely by emerging from the curtain entrance.
When he comes to about seven-tenths of the hanamichi, performs his mie pose, and settles into position—only then does his countenance assume a stage face. But were he to step onto the stage without these preparatory actions along the runway, his natural mood would persist all the way to the performance area.
He intentionally used the sashidashi pose on the hanamichi longer than anyone else.
Rather than adhering to kabuki conventions, it was necessary for his face to acquire such intensity all the sooner through these means.
Unless he defiantly adopted an attitude of "this and that," it seems he was someone whose artistry would not cohere.
To say so may be going too far, but I believe the reason we so often saw Nizaemon on stage appearing listless and disengaged was largely due to this.
For this very reason, he deliberately employed okotsuki.
At times, through movements that involved shaking his upper body with large amplitude—what was disparaged as 'overwrought'—he found it necessary to create such a mood.
Therefore, as far as he was concerned, it was his use of okotsuki that specialized his artistry. When I saw his okotsuki in a sewamono play, I felt he already had it all figured out.
The movements of okotsuki as a whole are actions in the process of becoming settled without being decisively fixed—this has been cultivated as a technique to withstand appreciation.
In other words, those expressions of sudden jerks and thuds along the path leading to the mie pose were also a type of okotsuki.
That one could perceive technique in this tremulous motion held before stillness was due in part to how audiences had been cultivated over time.
Conversely, one could also interpret it as movements to prevent a fall—actions performed with that "Whoa, that's dangerous!" sense of urgency.
In other words, it could also be described as a form of effort—restraining expression until reaching the mie pose and sustaining that restraint.
It is both the form in which excitement first emerges at the initial moment of entering artistry’s climax and could also be described as resembling a moment of exertion preventing expressions from becoming markedly apparent.
For him, who often attempted to perform with naturalness, this served as an impetus to step beyond ordinary sensibility while also functioning as a form that suppressed expressions threatening to become exaggerated and unnatural.

The reason he came to frequently employ okotsuki also becomes clear. Slightly older than him and in a far more rigid form was Utaroku’s okotsuki, while compared to Nizaemon, Nobuyaka’s approach—slightly younger and more flexible, seeming to enter the okotsuki form only to deviate from it—appeared on the verge of becoming something from the other world.

Speaking of which, these days one scarcely sees anyone performing okotsuki except Sōjūrō. In our memory, there used to be actors who would present stages that seemed like an unbroken series of okotsuki movements. Yoshijirō and others—unless engaging in considerable self-reflection—possess an acting style that readily manifests okotsuki. The previous Kikugorō was famous for gestures closely resembling okotsuki—in other words, it was said to involve tracing a circle with one’s head. However, among the main practitioners of the fifth generation’s artistic style starting with the current Kikugorō, one scarcely sees this anymore.—Three months after writing this passage, in January 1946 during Naozamurai, I saw Kikugorō markedly employ okotsuki in the scene of parting with Ushimatsu at “Tsukuba oroshi nan to yara”—Danjūrō must have consciously excluded this with clear intent. Nakaguruma always appeared to reinterpret okotsuki moments into entirely different movements. Truthfully, I cannot state anything definitive without consulting someone like Toita-kun, but I believe Uzaemon never employed this technique even when appropriate—what might that signify? In the new kabuki following the deaths of the Ninth and Fifth Generations, while their forms were largely adopted from the Fifth Generation, the directorial expressions derived from Danjūrō have presumably been considered correct.

Among my boyhood memories entwined with him, there exists yet another even more fleeting one.
—I have not forgotten.
Though reduced to scattered ashes in last spring’s firebombing—the stretch of town along the south side of the grand avenue that ran from Osaka’s Nankai Railway Namba Station to Sennichimae’s southern edge—what was that place called again?
A space spanning over two blocks east to west without a single side street.
I seem to recall just one roji alleyway running far behind.
From the southern corner across from Sennichimae’s "Izutsu Udonya"—one block south—pressed tight against Shin-Konpira Shrine’s northern boundary wound a narrow path that twisted toward the station front, slender and meandering as it paralleled that grand avenue.
As these eaves neared the western exit, they began to be sheltered beneath a roji roof.
At once it became what local dialect would call a roji-like path, and after walking barely a block, one would abruptly emerge into the bright light of the main avenue before the station.

Six or seven years prior to the time I previously recorded, I commuted from a house on the outskirts of town to Shima-no-Uchi Higher Elementary School.
I took as much time as possible to enjoy traveling back and forth along the school route that spanned over four kilometers.
Among these commutes, taking paths that connected unexpected places became one of my secret joys.
The path I just mentioned was among them especially—one discovered without prior intent.
But I did not frequently pass through here.
For one thing, this path was muddy, damp, and musty.
It was a long, desolate alley running behind houses.
I don’t believe I used it more than three or four times.
But on one occasion when nearing Hankai Railway—the former name of the Nankai Line—in the middle of an alleyway about to emerge before it, I noticed a path leading through a gap in a wall into what seemed like a garden.
Precisely speaking, this was about half a block from where I had entered coming from the station direction.
The moment my eyes peered through the gap at where my foot had stepped—a place that resembled a garden—it proved equally musty: no moss growth visible anywhere, soil parched red beneath soot-blackened ground reeking faintly of soy sauce and miso.
There stood a large Mikage stone lantern—as if patinated with golden rust—starkly prominent.
Drawn in despite myself while muttering such observations, I crept forward with the guilty air of an intruder about to be scolded until reaching a space where something like an inner courtyard opened before me.
Even so, what met my eyes remained parched earth crowded with stunted oak shrubs—sickly-hued undergrowth brushing against my face.
Beyond this I seem to recall glimpsing either a house or perhaps a pond—though now all has blurred into dreamlike uncertainty.
Feeling vaguely culpable for trespassing, I fled back through the roji alleyway and emerged onto Hankai Railway’s thoroughfare where I finally exhaled in relief.

Whether it was then, before that time, or even later—such details I cannot recall—but I was told this had been the Matsushima-ya residence. Whether it had indeed been true over time, I never tried verifying with anyone. Even so, regarding this house, I ended up never knowing from which direction one entered or where its main entrance faced. What I had peeked into was likely some sort of service entrance. Yet I imagine that beyond this estate, the surrounding grounds were enclosed by storehouses of brewing merchants—sake brewers, soy sauce makers, miso and pickle shops. Since this was when I attended school in Takeyamachi, I must still have been eleven or twelve years old. Though I'd already started going to plays, Nizaemon may not have been watching then. It remains undeniable that peering behind this residence somehow instilled in its proprietor—the master actor—an entirely different kind of interest. And yet, strangely enough, this unresolved impression seems to have cast a lasting shadow over my perception of Nizaemon. That peculiar sense of familiarity during our encounter at Momenbashi might well have been connected to such things.

I may have indulged too much in these personal childhood stories of little consequence.
—Yet I somehow felt that these matters were connected to why I retained a deeper impression of him than of Ganjiro, with whom I should have felt greater familiarity.

Thinking back further, I recall yet another instance of seeing him off-stage. It was an extremely quiet night at Shimbashi Enbujo. Shikoro Tayu or someone had ascended the platform and was reciting jōruri. The listeners were intensely still. Among them was an unexpected figure clapping his hands with long, leisurely strokes in perfect silence. The sound came from far behind the middle section of the eastern gallery seats. He had chosen a seat in the nearly empty theater—a position one might question for its obscurity—yet sat there unselfconsciously, listening with such evident delight that he seemed barely restrained from interjecting old-fashioned cheers between his measured applause. The peculiar rhythm of his clapping—at once distinctive and nostalgically timed—compelled me to turn toward the sound. That audience member in the gallery was none other than Nizaemon. He had aged considerably by then, his cheeks hollowed and chin drawn taut. Since this was a period when even his favorite plays were staged only sparingly each year, seeing him enjoy himself with a grand patron's composure—utterly free of the obsequiousness expected from entertainers—filled me with quiet relief.

When I connected these three encounters in reflection, I felt as though I had glimpsed fragments of his life through them. Seeing this cheerful demeanor, my heart swelled with joy for his fine later years. Despite his famously difficult temperament, blessed first by righteousness and then by refined elegance, he seemed poised to complete a truly admirable life. Thinking thus, I found myself profoundly moved by an intensely personal joy. Soon after, the stage rotated away.

I remembered.

This was, if I recall correctly, when the Bunraku Troupe held a sujōruri performance.
Inside the theater—as if oblivious to those around him—he focused solely on his familiar chanter ascending the stage. When that chanter reached the climactic scene and he witnessed the effort exerted to carry through that passage, he offered applause as if rewarding that labor.
Therefore, his clapping never became that rude sort which would interject during narration of the crucial scene.
The chanters' jōruri was indeed remarkable, but the sound of his weathered hands clapping held its own beauty.
I returned home with an unanticipated sense of pure accompaniment from that sujōruri gathering—a refreshing happiness.
It was that calm brightness one feels when remembering how thirty years prior, a boy had stepped off the tram at Naniwa Tsuchibashi.
Even after lying down, there lingered a serene clarity that promised easy sleep.

However, a few days later in some newspaper, in what was likely a marginal note of a certain theater critic’s review of that night’s gathering, there appeared the words: "Nizaemon clapped with brazen disregard."
"He shows an utter lack of awareness of his station."
Words of roughly this meaning had been appended.
How different it could be, I thought.
Indeed, this was something he would do—he who had retired in spirit, taken leave from the theater, and nearly forgotten he was an actor.
And yet—this was the path he had cultivated longest, and listening to the jōruri of those people who still remained around him in great numbers—his colleagues, juniors, associates—he had returned to a carefree ease as if revisiting his youthful Osaka period; while the bystanders who observed him as an actor felt bitterness at seeing him, despite being an actor, behave with excessive liveliness—that perspectives could diverge so greatly, I thought.
From the perspective of the audience who had paid to attend this sujōruri gathering where he was participating with extreme relaxation—though that audience member happened to be a critic—even if they were fellow spectators of equal standing today, they would still have wanted him to show restraint today as well.
That I could well understand—but regarding Nizaemon, I felt there was still a correctness and an unassailable refinement about him, and so concerning this matter, I could rest assured.

At the very least among Tokyo actors, he stood as a senior who could both perform and comprehend gidayū.
In recent times, there was likely none who surpassed him.
Being simple and prone to buoyancy—and precisely because he knew this himself—he unconsciously let it show upon his countenance.
Through this, he made people feel discomfited or caused them inconvenience.
This may be said to have persisted unceasingly through middle age into his later years.

Yet precisely because of this, he read jōruri with depth.
And he would adapt each character within the works to the stage's essential nature, maintaining an interpretation that left no detail overlooked.

As for plays themselves, he had explored quite well those with well-executed simplifications and thoroughly integrated works as one-act pieces. In this, there may have been people who instructed him, but his was not a character that could become so merely through being taught; and given how he delighted in originality, I imagine he also made many discoveries of his own. Indeed, it was he who had truly come to know through actual narration. Considering this, both the Unagidani section from *Sakura Tsuba Urami Samezaya* and the Daimonji-ya sequence from *Kamiko Shitate Ryōmen Kagami*—though renowned as narrative works—had been transferred to the stage through his initiative. I also recall that Tsubosaka from *Kannon Reigenki* followed this pattern. When extracted and examined, there were often act-divided jōruri pieces that were well-integrated as one-act plays. He knew this quite well. Moreover, among his patrons and such, there must have been those who encouraged him to stage such narrative works. When it came to such matters, he seemed to maintain an unassuming receptiveness.

Imagining his supporters would provide delightful suggestions when considering the artistic style and lifestyle that defined his entire career.
The people known as Osaka's patron connoisseurs must have shown the young him bright and varied circumstances.
Throughout East and West, there may have been many actors among other troupes who had fully indulged in worldly pleasures, but none could truly transcend the bounds of being mere entertainers.
No one radiated a dignity as connoisseur-like as he did.
However, in the pleasure districts, the custom of disapproving of actors' revelry had persisted until the Meiji period.
Thus, that he could indulge in leisure and remain unconstrained was solely due to his supporters' guidance.
His affluent patrons began by first instilling in him an understanding of the connoisseur's lifestyle as they guided him.
This contributed to forming his most distinctive style while simultaneously eliciting his innate fastidiousness to an even greater degree.
Even among Edo-period actors, there were those who attempted to learn the lifestyle of connoisseurs in secret.
However, maintaining such dignity was not permitted by the societal sanctions that had outwardly severed them.
Even when Tokyo had become Tokyo and they were free to live outside theater districts, they still carried an ineradicable scent of the actor.
To put it this way, some may think it an overstatement.
However, he alone was.
Behaving like a true connoisseur and truly becoming one at heart was something Nizaemon achieved only after reaching his thirties.

In terms of chronology, this occurred during the Meiji 20s.
As for someone like myself—newly born into an Osaka that had just begun drawing breath—the city still brimmed with its old merchant-centric atmosphere.
When speaking of Edo's quintessential townspeople representatives, one would point to the Kuramae rice brokers.
From their vantage, even fellow merchants possessed far greater wealth and deeper historical foundations.
The lifestyles of what might be termed merchant aristocrats—the masters of Kōnoike, Izumiya, Sumitomo, Kashimaya, Tennōjiya, and at a slightly lower tier, Zeniya, Shimaya, and Chigusaya—still persisted.
Nizaemon's fortunate experience lay in mastering elements of the Osaka-style marumochi-sui existence—that of the consummate connoisseur.
This was further refined by the Edo connoisseur's sensibility cultivated through several years of residence in the eastern capital.
Where Ganjiro would present himself in purple crepe silk formal wear, Nizaemon devised a style layering Kurume kasuri-patterned student haori over his garments.
His fastidiousness and difficult temperament, his air of condescension, his obstinacy that refused dissolution—yet conversely, how these traits could vanish in an instant as if by sleight of hand—formed the core of his lifelong persona. All this took root in the old connoisseur's disposition; indeed, it was precisely such qualities that allowed his seamless immersion into refined aesthete society.

However, being labeled a connoisseur or man of refined tastes represented a lifestyle attitude that demanded considerable financial resources to uphold.
Moreover, there was an unavoidable irony in how reality could at times directly oppose this very attitude.
Yet by and large, throughout Nizaemon’s life, this way of living—imparted by his patrons during his prime years—appears to have been sustained.

Even his lifelong sense of justice—which he upheld in his own way—and his endearing assertions that often missed their mark might have been laughed off, but they were never met with contempt.
Even his eccentric actions did not make everyone despise him.
To such an extent did the good-natured, refined childishness he possessed make itself felt.
He was self-willed, yet never put on airs.

When I later saw his performance in the new play Ōishi Kuranosuke—leaning sideways while plucking the shamisen and singing something like the Kitsunebi Maeuta—I thought to myself that once this man was gone, would we ever again see such an apt portrayal of Ōishi?
From his early career as Nizaemon through his full establishment of the name, he had embodied this lifestyle.
His lifelong cultivation could be considered to rest primarily on this point.
This was something other actors had not achieved.
Indeed, when considering this aspect, one could understand why he had sought to surpass Horikoshi Shu Danjuro.
In other words, he had prided himself on this very cultivation.

A true connoisseur could not uphold their principles without possessing considerable assets.
As for who his supporters actually were, apart from one or two individuals, I still did not know.
Even the current Mr. Nizaemon—who had not yet been born at the time—would probably have known the general circumstances through hearsay.
Among these, if one could gain insight into the current Matsushima-ya, this was something I would very much have liked to be taught.
That he could act as he pleased and speak his mind freely without causing major disruptions to his livelihood was due to this freedom being grounded in stability.
His supporters must be seen as having first made him build assets to create an exceptional connoisseur and fashion an unconventional actor.
Therefore, there were people who organized Nizaemon’s assets and further distributed additional wealth.
The fact that there were supporters who purchased for him the source of Nunobiki Carbonated Water was something I had long heard about.
I had not inquired into the state of his finances, but it certainly had to be noted that this differed from that of a mere wealthy actor.

However, during the long acting career passed down from parent to child and further entrusted to one's own offspring, they must have reached a financial situation requiring organization. In his youth, he and his elder brother Gado endured considerable hardships of wandering. One senses the goodwill of those several individuals who helped put this in order. Particularly, his prudent handling of circumstances in later years cannot be understood without considering this.

He took an exceptionally long hiatus before performing Yoshinai in Chushingura, which became his final stage role, and afterward appeared to have abandoned the stage entirely.
Having gone down to Osaka solely for his nephew Gado’s child’s name-changing ceremony, he caught a cold and died.
Few indeed meet their end with such uncluttered simplicity.
It was Utaemon who seemed consumed by securing even minor standout roles for his children and grandchildren while still breathing.
Upon seeing a colleague persist indefinitely onstage—infirm body rooted to floorboards—he likely unleashed his trademark sneer.
“If only you’d quit sooner.”
Or perhaps Nizaemon found perverse satisfaction in abstaining from performance when faced with Utaemon’s wretched persistence.
Given his capacity for expressing emotions that made one whisper “Surely not…”, such reasoning holds water.

Being fundamentally an actor, he had to possess a thorough knowledge of the performing arts as foundational cultivation. Foremost among these foundational elements were dance in Kamigata, dance in Edo, chanting forms, jōruri narration, shamisen music, and other hayashi accompaniments—these formed the basis of the stage knowledge that actors must possess. Unless one attained proficiency in them to a certain degree, one would lack the qualifications to be called a kabuki actor. That he was thoroughly versed in Gidayū is beyond doubt. However, to what extent he was actually a skilled narrator, I do not know. By the time I had reached an age where my ears could discern his proud artistry, the time when he himself could boast of it with pride had already passed.

Even after leaving Osaka and taking up permanent residence in Tokyo, I had heard he maintained ownership of extensive plots of land and houses around Hagi no Chaya, with the income from these properties affording him a comfortable livelihood.
These too, I think, can be considered instances where the goodwill of those patron gentlemen bore fortunate fruit long afterward.
Speaking of Hagi no Chaya, it was originally part of Imamiya Shinke and moreover situated near Kaido-suji.
The current tram stop is located slightly differently.
He was not the sort of actor who would voluntarily set his sights on acquiring such properties.
He must have felt most deeply that such things were the utmost disgrace for an actor devoted to the art; and he seemed to detest being thought of—more as a gentleman and connoisseur than as an actor—as particularly adept in such mercantile pursuits.

As for the aforementioned horse-drawn carriage incident—on one occasion, certainly after the construction of the new Kabuki-za—I saw his serene figure riding in a single-horse carriage pass before my eyes, saw his horse, saw the carriage with its hood flipped up, and saw his coachman.
For a time, even among fellow actors, this had been all the rage; but though it came to appear too cumbersome and antiquated for anyone to continue, he never once ceased.
As no one did it anymore, his pride in it seemed only to intensify.

It felt as though the carriage’s destination was not Kobiki-cho but rather the entrance of the Kazoku Kaikan.
He too must certainly have ridden while cradling such fantasies from start to finish.
That profile of his glimpsed in the carriage—sculpted yet aquiline nose bridge, slightly abbreviated and straight philtrum, deeply entrenched mouth; aristocratic to a degree yet fundamentally common—or more precisely, freshly drawn from that imperial performance at Count Inoue’s residence—must have been a face perpetually chewing over the sentiments of his Meiji 20s-era seniors and peers as though they were his own memories.
The single-horse carriage was, for him, a casket of classical illusion.

The world he imagined was always the Valley Lily Era where he existed portraying Arisu Seijin.

Even when his contemporary Shikan—playing the female lead in Kobushi, a dramatization of Kosugi Tengai’s work—displayed such confident staging as bathing stripped to the waist, Valley Lily had already become history. Even still, he had not forgotten the impression left by the command performance predating Valley Lily that he had heard in Osaka. Precisely because of this, his fantasies grew vast. It could be said that the figure of Arisu Seijin performed three years after that imperial performance became indelibly affixed to his entire being. Being this sort of man, he clung stubbornly to forms from two or three eras prior in his daily life.

In Year 38, immediately after the same Shikan in Tokyo had performed the role opposite Kawai Takeo's Kimie—the "milk sisters"—in Osaka, with Nobuyoshi Enjaku's Akitoki and Shibasuzume Jakuemon's Fusae as counterparts, he performed Kimie.
I did not see Shikan’s performance, but according to contemporary Tokyo critics, hers was said to far better resemble Kimie in appearance than Kawai’s.
Artistically too, there seemed to be no elements that felt behind the times.
As for Osaka's Kimie (Nizaemon), I too saw her, but she was certainly not a daughter of a Meiji-era noble family.
Despite Shibasuzume Jakuemon’s Fusae being exceedingly antiquated, she did not draw attention to Kimie’s old-fashionedness—
This was likely not so much due to him lacking an intuitive grasp of the times as because his thoughts remained firmly anchored to the early Meiji 20s (1887–1890).

In any case, he left the hinoki stage in Tokyo early and secluded himself in Nakajima-za.
He was impatient to create plays that would satisfy the Meiji 20s-era sensibility pressing upon the tip of his nose.
And so, he dabbled in various new works.
When he himself came to believe that if it was this, then it seemed doable, and people began to acknowledge him as such, he suddenly returned to Osaka.
The era was Meiji 19; he had reached thirty years of age.
Being a man of old-fashioned disposition, he must have deeply contemplated the significance of turning thirty.
While even in Osaka around him, the momentum for new theater was stirring, Tokyo viewed from afar appeared to be riding even fiercer tides of time.
The command performance of the following April too passed, leaving him with a desolate emotion akin to that of some celestial wanderer.
At that time, while continuously performing roles such as Kuranosuke and Sanpei in *Chushingura Annual Events* along with Benten Kozō and Yasuna in Osaka and Kyoto, he must have felt an unbearable frustration.

He must have envisioned a destiny like white orchids blooming in the distance.
That destiny found repose in a somewhat tranquil mood with October Meiji 23's "Valley Lily".
The impression he created through his portrayal of young Count Arisu lingered long in the hearts of Osaka's townspeople afterward.

I had just turned four years old at that time, but even into my teenage years grew up listening to family and female relatives recounting memories of this adult.
For this very reason one imagines he had become someone who conjured this white orchid more in life than on stage.
And so he likely never abandoned this pure and single-minded aspiration until the end of his life as Nizaemon.
He who while thoroughly embodying theater district mannerisms managed to grasp the lifestyle of a transcendent connoisseur.
And yet still pleasurable yet painful—unwanted for an actor—to bring the white orchid into his life—he who clung to such desire.
The reason for his fondness for new works could be comprehended in one aspect from this very meaning.
If he had been performing some role resembling Count Arisu it must have seemed that he could draw closer to such a phantom of life.

Therefore, throughout the 1920s and 1930s, he seemed to be perpetually groping for what he believed approached this ideal. And so he likely felt that what might serve this purpose could be found among the repertoire performed by Shinpa actors. What he finally encountered was March of Year 38's *Milk Sisters*. Far beyond simply aiming to present an unconventional female-role performer, there existed a much deeper reason for him alone. None perceived this; all merely laughed at that oddly rigid Kimie. That Count Arisu Seijin fathering two daughters through a lowborn woman's womb; the rogue fiancé appearing during rejoicing over a fine son-in-law secured in old age; the elder daughter's death—though Kikuchi Yūhō's dramatized plot perfectly mirrored Valley Lily, almost no one noticed. Yet undoubtedly it was he who had first realized this. As for the faint satisfaction in his heart at having voluntarily undertaken Kimie's role—how many besides himself could have known of it?

Even as Tomizo of Yashū, the vagrant, and Mōhyōsuke the blind soldier found vitality upon the stage, who could have perceived the white orchid’s sorrow—this sorrow of mine that, while aware of such vitality, could never forget those flickering things within my heart?