Pathway to Japanese Literature

The term "war-related death" was a desolate one.
If we were to say that "passing by without fulfilling accumulated aspirations" carried such a meaning, then there was nothing more utterly helpless than this.
Yet there existed a certain tragic association with having died for one’s nation in crisis, and from that perspective alone did one feel barely able to mourn our pitiful city streets’ war dead.
When recalling Nakamura Kaisha—especially with this term present—it felt like some small comfort that our aching hearts were lightened even a little.

Until the day of Osaka's first air raid, his end had been something beyond even his darkest imaginings.
So thoroughly did an actor's existence—even within this floating world—embody the very essence of what we call transience.
Yet though one such as myself presuming to mourn him reeks of unspeakable audacity, I find myself compelled to set down these words if only to honor that actor's consummate artistry.
At least among those Osaka contemporaries who still remember being spellbound by his performances, there must linger some few who would comprehend this impulse without scorn.

Amidst the smoke of Katsuraya geisha house’s air-raid shelter in Sōemonchō, Minami District, Osaka, a female-role actor like a flower breathed his last.—This was no era for spreading such refined rumors; more fundamentally, for that Kaisha who had once been pure and beautiful to leave behind a phantom image of a lovely mummy lying amidst desolate ashes, he had already lived thirty years too long.

What felt most merciless was how this figure—said to have turned black while clutching his grandson tightly—this vision that compelled poignant sorrow, had unexpectedly forced its way into our collective image of Kaisha.

How fortunate must have been his predecessors—Suzuemon and Ganjiro—who remained preserved with their stage faces as Princess Sanzuru and Mihosuke.

Even Umekō—with his elegant features enhanced by wigwork—was lamented when he collapsed wearing Enju’s makeup from *Kandōba*, his once-vibrant impression turning abruptly desolate, yet this female-role actor’s misfortune felt all the more poignant precisely because he was a kabuki performer.
O-Haya of *Hikimado*, Kōharu of *Kawashō*, O-Hatsu of *Kagamiyama*, Princess Minazuru of *Kikubatake*, even the Shizuka Gozen from *michiyuki* scenes once seen up close—all had grown distant, as if separated by clouds and mist.
And so roles like Taruya Isuke, Wankyu’s shop clerk, the clerk from *Tsuzura-ori*, and all manner of humble parts became more fitting to associate with him, replacing those long-held beautiful impressions.

At that time, the fact that deaths proved fewer than feared was for Osaka a stroke of luck amidst tragedy—so profound one scarcely knew how to welcome it.
Yet that Kaisha numbered among those few excluded from this mercy makes the heart ache beyond bearing.

After Nakamura Ganjiro’s passing, among the three pillars upholding Kawadake—as Dotonbori’s theater district was called—he alone combined worldly discernment visible to all with what might be termed human insight.
But in matters of health, though most industrious of the trio, it was he who seemed most fragile.

Around Meiji 40, he once resolved to retire from the profession, and in fact, for a considerable period afterward, people were unable to see him perform on stage.
This was the very peak when his artistry reached its full luster and ripened into maturity.
His appearance was also probably at its most beautiful around that time, I think.

Treatise on Actors' Appearance

The attainment of a beautiful appearance and well-defined facial contours typically came to Kabuki actors only around fifty years of age, when they had already deeply entered advanced senescence.
This fact became clearly evident even in photographic images that revealed reality's truth more starkly than stage performances.
For female-role actors particularly, decline set in precisely when they reached their zenith.
There was something deeply poignant about this phenomenon—like cherry blossoms at their fullest bloom.
Upon entering their sixties, no matter how exquisite or voluptuous a female-role actor's features might have been, first their eye sockets would hollow and crease, then their cheeks would distort, rendering them inevitably unsuited for ingenue roles.
Thus did the peak of a female-role actor's beauty truly pass in an instant.
Even Utaemon—whose beauty endured long—and Umekō himself, though both had been remarkably comely since youth, still lacked those sharply defined contours perfected over the subsequent decade when appearing onstage in their forties.
Moreover, upon reaching sixty years of age, their lower lips would remain devoid of sensuality while their cheeks left an impression as if stuffed with nuts.
Even Umekō and Utaemon proved no exception.

For leading male-role actors, it was common that even upon entering their sixties, no decline would yet appear in their stage faces. This was likely because facial contours did not become as critical an issue for them as for female-role actors. Take Nakamura Kaisha—though troubled by prominent cheekbones that showed early signs of contour deterioration, even his poorly applied white makeup that gave his skin a powdery appearance eventually accentuated his distinctive presence through familiarity. Conversely, what we perceived as traces of beauty in aging supporting female-role actors probably stemmed from our leniency toward leading male performers. The ability to maintain stable stage appearances past sixty remained the exclusive privilege of leading male-role actors. Even the illustrious Ganjiro could no longer sustain this upon reaching seventy. During his final decade, a piercing sharpness had become visible at his eye corners, with a severe countenance growing pronounced. Many still remembered Kamiji's familiar facial features at key expressive points. His way of watching performances involved supplementing actors' expressions mid-scene. Well-remembered noble expressions would startle him by veering off-course unexpectedly. The weight of Ganjiro's late years—whether playing Chūbei, Yaoya, or Inanoya's Hanbei—though praised as fresh interpretations—could not escape being permeated by his own stage loneliness: that quality of halting rising exhilaration, reconsidering abruptly, then standing motionless. Yet like Uzaemon, maintaining such facial fullness must be considered an exceptional beauty through the ages.

Gennosuke too—for several years until immediately before his death—had been made unable to perform lead roles, yet seemed too precious for minor parts; this state carrying the air of what might be called lamentation over atrophied skills—through sheer stage presence and beauty, he evoked emotions like a moonflower blooming suddenly in twilight gloom.
In truth, whether one calls it the arrival of wrinkles or being struck speechless with awe—such visceral reality will likely become impossible for later generations to explain.
When Mizushima Samon appeared in the domestic pantomime scene of Gomagiyama, no matter what leading actors like Suzaki Seigoro and Kiyotaki Sakichi did, they would be rendered utterly unnoticeable.
That Hazaemon’s Mitsuuji in *Inaka Genji* had perfect features for a leading male role—even this portrayal which had come to feel almost formulaic through repetition—when compared to his, would have angular features emerge from within the face, strangely unsettling to the heart, leaving one ill at ease.
That the phrase “water’s-edge prominence” seemed prepared specifically for Gennosuke was due to daimyo roles.
In performances evoking figures like Itakura of the Judicial Council or Izu-no-kami of Horibata—rendered as large as possible yet stripped entirely of individuality, akin to lifelike dolls—the beauty when standing clad in a gold-leaf coat was neither elegance nor gallantry, but something wholly other: a quality where artistry itself became irrelevant.
Like the excellence of pillow words in ancient tanka—a flavor that seeps into the heart.
The adjudicator role that could be called the leading actor among leading male roles—the grand presence of decisive roles that pushed their fundamental nature to the limit, coupled with their brisk execution.
Precisely because kabuki theater had developed through an era when one was not permitted to portray shoguns as shoguns, it became the essential nature of such roles to evoke a shogun-like essence while being positioned one or even two ranks lower.
Gennosuke could be called a long-standing keeper of such facial contours for posterity.
With straw sandals as shackles, Iwafuji stood still above and below Onoe—this very appearance and stage presence transcended all debates about necessity for what might be called a martial-antagonistic female role; surpassing even the minutiae of artistry, it was nothing but a stillness that shone resplendent.
“To this face my parents created perfectly,” and “Maushi, Mifu-san,”
O-Tatsu acting playfully then putting on a reflective air—even this expression she repeated countless times—had become nearly flawless after she passed fifty.
However, even that had already been several years after distortions began to appear in her cheeks.
The fact that such facial contours could not be abundantly supplied for the audience’s appreciation was one error in Shochiku Company’s policy.
Others may consider this logic untenable, but such were Messrs. Ōtani and Shirai, who had grown through enduring hardships in that path.
Their understanding of this attachment must have been profound.
For Messrs. Ōtani and Shirai—who had clenched their jaws and sworn to realize a beautiful kabuki world—this was indeed where they diverged.
There are scarcely any instances where talent management was neglected as painfully as this.

Treatise on Female-Role Actors

It was from this perspective that I wished to consider the relationship between Kaisha’s appearance and his roles.
I felt I might have become too absorbed in discussing stage appearances.
However, reflecting on matters since gaining awareness, I had no memory of seeing in Kamigata theater a true female-role actor who specialized in female warrior roles as their principal art—though perhaps it was unfair to say so.
Rikan of the Meiji era was precisely such a person; the previous Umegyoku and Tachibana Saburō too had many aspects that matched this criterion, while Tamishinosuke—later Tamikura—who walked one step ahead of Kaisha, also performed those roles with precision.
However, these were all “dual-role” performances.

Kaisha himself fell into this category—but what caught the eye was the peculiarity of Sanetomo Jitsukawa’s position as the closest example.
Sanetomo became a leading female-role actor through Sainyu Udanji’s patronage.
A person who became a full-fledged leading female-role actor—Ogiame (though I do not know this individual)—was a female-role actor resembling a true female-role specialist who emerged following San’emon.
Therefore, he was consistently cast in the role of Udanji’s wife.
His face retained its freshness indefinitely, but he was large and corpulent.
He was someone who would later bring to mind Yoshime from Tokyo, but was far more beautiful, with superior manners and artistry.
However, his facial contours were suited only for widow roles.
But I have not seen his supposed performance of Masooka either.
I have no memory of seeing Shigenoi either.
After joining Udanji’s troupe, I believe he hardly performed any productions.
Udanji was the one who performed Princess Wakana, Onna Seigen and Shōgetsu-ni, the madwoman from "Manchō," and O-Hikaru.
Even at such times, Akishino and Asaka—the wet nurse of Yokoyama Taro—were never assigned to Sanetomo.
Even if forced into roles like Sakurahime or Terutehime, it was known from the outset that they would not suit him.
If Nozakimura was staged, he would invariably be assigned to the widow role.
On rare occasions, he would also be seen in young maiden roles like Osome.
There was a beauty reminiscent of Izumikura dolls, but the impression remained that no such plump girl existed.
The Ōnishi district theaters—Naniwa-za and Benten-za, particularly Asahi-za—held lower status compared to Nakashibai and Kadoshibai theaters. Yet within this context, actors such as Ganshō, Tamashichi, Usaburō, Rikaku, Tokizō of Karonana, Gennosuke from the female-role specialists, and Tamishinosuke who later became Tamikura frequently performed supporting female roles—widow roles or female warrior parts—and were often cast as leads.
Thus, at times, even Tamashichi—whose features were not particularly fine—and Tamishinosuke had been performing arts diverging from leading male roles in such rapid succession that they left impressions resembling those of true female-role actors.
Just as these people performed female warrior roles on these stages, the higher-ranked Fukusuke—Nidaime Umegyoku and Tachibana Saburō—also served as supporting roles, consistently performing acts characteristic of leading female-role actors.
Therefore, female warrior roles invariably featured faces devoid of beauty.

Whether in Itagaki or Shinohara roles, all featured faces thoroughly steeped in female warrior role aesthetics. Even so, Fukusuke—the second Umegyoku’s female-role actor, with his smoothly rounded plump lower face and charmingly upturned outer corners of the eyes forming a hook-like shape—was felt to be the most beautiful of them all.

Even within the same category of female warrior roles, Hagi no Kata and Sadataka were of significantly higher status.
In modern Kamigata, these had likely ceased to be roles that emerged from true female-role actors.
Even in Tokyo, one could generally discern the fundamental nature of such roles by examining their assignments from before Utaemon and Baikō rose to prominence.
They had come to adopt the style of leading male roles and become arts performed by those of troupe leader standing.
It had grown unsurprising when true female-role actors emerging into such roles met with failure.
Therefore, even though Hagi no Kata and Sadataka were roles that female-role actors could perform through dual-role performance, they had to be approached with the bearing of leading male roles.
For instance, among Nakamura Kaisha’s recent performances, his Hagi no Kata—though received with considerable acclaim—left me disappointed.
This was because Kaisha had persisted as a true female-role actor of his own wise and dignified style.
At that time, I thought he should have confronted it with a more masculine resolve.

“The ‘Dual-Role Performance’ Treatise”

I thought Kamigata may have been that way for quite some time. However, as a notable trend in kabuki theater since the early Meiji era, this seemed to be a fact common to both Tokyo and Osaka’s theatrical worlds. Even in Tokyo, since the Bakumatsu period, the incursion of leading male roles into female warrior roles had become quite noticeable. Not only had they expanded into roles traditionally belonging to true female-role specialists, but as leading male roles, they had significantly extended their reach into both antagonist roles and gentleman roles. I thought it would not be unreasonable to consider the period up until the Meiji 30s (1897-1906) as an era when true leading female-role actors in the proper sense were lost. Even when speaking of Osaka, Sanetomo Jitsukawa—who appeared to have succeeded leading female-role actors like Arashi San’emon—remained in the state just described. In Tokyo, Tanaka no Suke’s sudden prominence—where he exerted great patience to plague the leading roles of both east and west following the decline of Iwai and Segawa—should likely be viewed as a rebellion against this era when true female-role actors teetered on the brink of extinction. His counterforce had persisted to the point of producing Haruto Jirōemon—a patience role actor among enduring leading male roles. Even the Edo theater world, which had continued importing female-role actors and their artistry from Kamigata, reached a state of saturation by the late Edo period. However, female-role actors strove not to forget Kamigata’s linguistic expressions—down to every pronunciation and intonation. Even after Edo-style staging had been fully established in every aspect, it was only in language that they feared dialectal influence. However, the development of Edo-style domestic plays gradually made these Edo female-role actors independent. Following this, "dual-role" actors proliferated, and furthermore, leading male roles’ encroachment into the very essence of true female-role actors flourished.

I viewed this as stemming partly from dance—though this specifically opened up the realm of "dual-role" performances—but why would Kamigata, whose dance traditions were inferior, have displayed this trend so markedly?
It may well have been necessary to trace back as far as Umegawa Utaemon—who excelled in dance—and reassess.
At the very least, among those of the female warrior lineage—heroic women, chaste wives, female knights-errant, poisonous women—and the courtesans (oiran) who should stand apart historically, the women who stood in the world governed by period drama sensibilities as its leading figures were gradually reclaimed into the domain of leading male role actors.
In kabuki, whether in Ōdaimono plays or the world of Zen Taiheiki, female-role actors persisted solely within the stylish essence of period dramas.
Family dramas were “domestic dramas of the warrior class,” but true female-role actors still operated within the stylish essence of period dramas and expressed the era’s mood.
Having extracted such role types belonging to leading female-role actors, they transferred them into the domain of leading male roles.

“Dual-role performance”
Following the establishment of leading male roles, the trend of female warrior role consolidation first arose in Kamigata, and it was not long before this swept through Edo and Tokyo.
This can be considered a narrative from around the time of the Meiji Restoration.

Nakamura Kaisha’s Treatise on Leading and Non-Leading Male Roles

Though the man himself had died, and Katsuraya's landside and Tomitaya's waterfront had undergone transformations where restoration now seemed possible, I still found myself debating whether the deceased belonged to leading male roles or non-leading male roles.
I could not help but think that I thoroughly proved myself to be a pedantic scholar engaging in roundabout arguments.
But this discussion was not conducted solely for the sake of the deceased.
It bore significant relation to the artistic caliber of modern kabuki actors and thus could not be overlooked.

Nakamura Kaisha was a female-role actor, a true female-role actor, and had been seen by society at large as unquestionably Master Ganjiro's wife role.
More than anyone else, Mr. Shiuchi Shirai and his associates had maintained this view—a crucial fact for actors—through their conduct.
However, it could not be definitively stated that Master Ganjiro necessarily shared this perspective.
First and foremost, one could not presume that Kaisha himself had resolved to occupy such a position.
We had long categorized actors' statuses as leading male roles, antagonists, female-role actors, comic roles, and so forth; yet the question remained as to how deeply the actors themselves had internalized these classifications.
Admittedly, through elements like hats, long-sleeved kimonos, and hairstyles, female-role actors likely maintained clear awareness of their identity; conversely, when considering leading male roles, one wondered where their boundaries were drawn. While age brought role distinctions into focus, reflecting on young transitional actors—those in young maiden roles and adolescent male roles—we could not perceive such stark demarcations.
Moreover, the dual-role trend had been implemented; thereafter, female warrior role consolidation flourished further, followed in succession by the August 1871 Haircut Edict.
Even the boundary between leading male roles and female-role actors could be considered to have been affected by this.
No—it was not solely due to such external factors; there had existed more profound internal causes as well.

In Meiji 14 (1881), when this momentum of artistic standard destruction had fully matured, he had been discerning the ways of the actor society since entering Ganjiro’s tutelage.
The beautiful actor who lived in Ganjiro Alley near the ditch—said to have been taken away while playing hanafuda cards—must have witnessed firsthand the uproar that overturned the world of daughters from sewing shops and practice houses.
Though he must have watched senior actors’ performances daily, imitating their gestures and vocal inflections, the stages of Enjaku and Sōjūrō that passed through these child actors—who could not yet internalize such artistry to their core—rarely ventured into female roles outside their expertise.
After all, as their senior, Tamishinosuke—a dual-role performer—had long been reserved in that capacity.
Yet conversely, Sōjūrō frequently engaged with female-role actors in warrior roles.
The conduct of Suehiroya was something Kaisha likely heard much about during his formative years and may have influenced him as a foundation of his actor’s life, but in terms of artistic impression, he probably incorporated almost nothing directly.
This tendency originates from Suehiroya’s successor Kasen.
While traversing such detours, this one appears to have been rather profound.
Depending on how one views it, the extent to which Kasen’s inherent talent—permeating and being incorporated within him—may have been greater than that of Ganjiro.
One can imagine how much Kitamura Ryokurō—who so praised Rikaku—would have extolled Kasen in contrast to Ganjiro had he seen him.
Sōjūrō’s residence was close to Katsuraya—the house of his inherited aunt Ojiyū—and above all, Suehiroya sought to establish the foundation of their livelihood as a reputable kimono merchant rather than relying on an actor’s profession.
They resembled him in being somewhat respectable and in possessing the strength of being able to abandon their actor's vagabond life at any time.
This, too, served as a reason that somewhat diminished the actorly charm emanating from Kaisha.

Artistic Realm – Artistic Vision

The previous Rikan survived nearly ten years longer than Sōjūrō and Enjaku.
For him who had passed through his voice change period and developed artistic ambition—indeed having reached the point of recently taking on roles like O-Haya—even during their joint performances alone he would surely have taken notice.

He differed in essence, grace, and above all in physical constitution; even at an immature age, he must have already possessed something extraordinary.
It cannot be said that Rikan's influence formed his core.
As for myself, since the year I apparently began watching plays coincided with Hamamura Rikan's death, I can only address this matter through documentary records.
Rikan's artistic realm stood closer to Kaisha's than to anyone else's.
And thereafter, throughout his long lifetime of artistic vision, one cannot help but marvel at how thoroughly Rikan-esque it remained.

Generally sharing little in artistic quality and caliber, the fact that their artistic visions aligned to such an extent signified the proximity of their artistic realms.
While artistic realms likely related to external conditions such as physical constitution and appearance, in the case of these two individuals, they were considerably divergent in such aspects.
Therefore, there had to be other reasons for the proximity of their artistic realms.
In other words, these individuals had female warrior roles as their primary specialty.
And thus, they selected role types that grew increasingly distant from this specialty.
In other words, they did not wish to remain confined to the artistic realm associated with female-role actors.
However, if one centered on female warrior roles and applied their conventions, their scope should largely have coincided.
Ultimately, it came down to the fact that their aesthetic preferences regarding such role types bore considerable resemblance.

After all, this was Rikan—one who could choose roles as he pleased.
When examining his artistic vision, there were many roles one imagined Kaisha must have wanted to perform.
There were abundant roles that, were this outstanding junior to perform them, would likely open new frontiers.
Originally, Rikan had established himself as a leading male role from the outset, but his standing as a leading female-role actor was also acknowledged and permitted within the theater society.
Therefore, in terms of artistic vision—with Kuzunoha at the forefront—there followed O-Hatsu, O-Soyo of Kishihimematsu, O-Tsuji of Konpira Rishōki, O-Miwa, Tamategosen, O-Sono of Keyamura, O-Kiku of Sarayashiki, Keimusume of Sanshō Dayū, Shinobu of Shiraishi Banashi, Kakezara of Benizara Kakezara, and O-Kitsu of Tsukigasamori.
Even if we briefly list them, these were roles that were Kaisha’s specialties; simply imagining him in them sufficed to feel how perfectly suited they were to his artistic vision.

Jitsuaku・Hanaguruma-gata (True Villain・Floral Chariot Style)

Moreover, Rikan simultaneously demonstrated an artistic realm encompassing roles such as Hayase Iori, Sakura Maru, Umeō, Kamiya Ten, Hōkoma Chōkichi, and Nezumi Chūgorō—roles that were also Nakamura Kaisha’s specialties and seemed to presage his future trajectory.
Yet in this regard, Kaisha proved unfortunate.
Within leading male roles particularly, he found himself relegated to supporting positions or even more obscure placements, though he considerably performed skillful and memorable servant roles like Yakkai Heizaemon, Irihei, and weightier ones such as Hiraemon.
This appeared to typify the nature of supporting roles in middle age and beyond.
But reflecting now, his gravitation toward this path likely stemmed from passive resignation; he ought instead to have ventured more boldly into leading antagonist roles.
Of course, Master Ganjiro never selected plays requiring such leading antagonists.
The true antagonist roles Rikan undertook—Ishikawa Goemon, Motoeimon, Danjūrō-style performances, and major roles emerging from minor antagonists—Kaisha should have executed with full competence.
Considering his achievements in several servant roles, Motoeiman could be assessed with complete confidence.
Moreover, his ability to convey a comic actor’s light touch ensured certain success.
Yasuke of Tenkachaya perfectly matched his artistic caliber, while Iori suited him effortlessly as a principal role.
Somenoi too proved an effortlessly ideal role for Kaisha—one he had indeed performed.
Above all, patient leading male roles like Ningyōya Kōemon were precisely what he should have pioneered.
Tōma as a leading antagonist would likely have garnered unexpected acclaim.
Sakata Shōsaburō and similar roles carried a benevolent quality fitting him.
Using Yoshie as reference—Kichiemon naturally succeeded alongside Tōma and Sakata; though delicate-boned, they undoubtedly triumphed.
Thus all roles in Tenkachaya Shu seemed entirely within his grasp.
Viewed thusly, his artistic realm appeared remarkably expansive.
Critics who denounced his diverse role selection could be deemed lacking in thorough consideration.
He—so suited to Yasuke and Iori—would have manifested an artistic caliber more befitting patient leading male roles in Ishii Hyōsuke from Kameyama Banashi.

Mizuemon was another role he would have wanted to try.
But even among revenge plays of the same genre, one had no desire to see him take on roles like Kyōgoku Takumi; as for Rokusuke, it was not entirely certain whether he would achieve success comparable to O-Sono.
The versatility in portraying vitality and demise inherent in such roles would find it difficult to surpass Enjaku’s typecast performances.
When it comes to Daianji Tsutsumi, given that both Master and Nizaemon have representative works in this role, the question arises whether surpassing their achievements is possible.
In terms of primary stage presence, one feels he might be overwhelmed by the two.
However, portrayal resolves all.
Without having him perform and observe, one cannot succinctly describe how Haruto’s life would unfold within him.
His Iyemon was a masterpiece.
He was likely a person who carved out his domain in romantic antagonist roles.
He possessed such artistic caliber.
Yet his moral integrity and intelligent countenance would not allow him to feel the unreflective joy in art that Enjaku did.

Rikan also had roles such as Kakuju and other old woman parts. This too he left unfinished. However, since the recent premiere of Koyoshi from The Tales of Ise had been well-received, this area too had shown promise. One could not help but think that amidst the increasingly scarce Floral Chariot Style roles, those requiring particular dignity—such as Kakuju and Bimyō—were likely transitioning into Kaisha’s domain. Koyoshi was a challenging role, but one that showcased technical brilliance in an agreeable manner. Compared to Kansuke’s Mother from Twenty-Four Filial Exemplars—a role possessing certain disagreeable qualities—Kaisha seemed poised for success in the role of Koshiro from Terutora’s Banquet. That overly forceful aspect would likely be sufficiently compensated for through elegance and sorrow. Were Enjaku and he to successfully perform the old couple in *Kusumukashi Banashi* with pathos, it would have signified that both had reached the realm of masterhood. But now, that too was no longer desired.

Competitors

Even Nakamura Kaisha himself—reputed as the most worldly-wise and astute among Osaka’s pillar actors—who had studied under Tokyo seniors Narigomaya and Otowaya, certainly never entertained dreams of creating an era centered on female-role actors.
Rather, given his astuteness, he would have dismissed such notions as mere fantasy.
Even he must have considered delving deeper into the realm of leading male roles for the sake of his future dreams.
In this regard, he had to broaden his considerations further.

Even had he not focused on leading male roles—roles like Sadataka, Hagino Kata, Masuoka, Shigenoi, Shinohara, as well as Tokihime and Yaegakihime—had he been in a position to freely realize these as his own specialties, he might have attained the same self-awareness as that held by the technical committee chairmen of the Kabukiza and Teikoku Gekijō. However, his social standing was considerably low, and furthermore, apart from his master’s supporting roles and wife roles, there was no way he could freely select roles that resembled leading productions or pillar performances. He, whose position as a leading female-role actor was not firmly established, and even Suzuemon and Umekō—who were more quintessentially suited to such roles than he (indeed, he too was such)—only when collaborating with Enjaku did they truly comport themselves as leading female-role actors and stage productions.

Moreover, there was the issue of competitors.
Tokusaburō’s Rikan, as a senior, possessed superior lineage and appearance; however, due to his overly naive actor’s temperament, the withdrawal of backing support, and general ineffectuality, he vanished without ever becoming a thorn in Kaisha’s side.
The present Gado, formerly of Nizaemon, resembled Tokusaburō Rikan in both standing and approach.
Even as relatives, one felt they could not contend.
He had to leave for Tokyo; he could not remain relying solely on the faint shadow of the late Nizaemon.
Nizaemon, being a moralist whose sentiments could shift with complete freedom, neither continued to dote on his real nephew nor was he the sort to turn a blind eye to unpolished artistry and assign only supporting roles.

Gado was an artist who, though he possessed considerable talent as a musician, was ill-suited for theater.
Unfortunately, the stage did not excite him.
As an actor, he approached stages with consistent reluctance, and despite having been a considerable hard worker from early on, the results only amounted to prosaic effects.
He was, so to speak, a man who paid nine *mon* only to receive nine *mon* in return.
He was a man born with a truly unfortunate disposition for his true calling in theater.
Even within the same performing arts, the closer they approached theater, the further they receded from his skilled artistic realm.
In vocal music and melodies, he demonstrated skill sufficient to transition into those performing arts; yet when it came to dance, it was not to that extent.
But if that were the case, one might ask whether Enjaku and Umekō possessed unique skills in music and dance; even in dance—a discipline he did not excel in—it would prove difficult for Enjaku and Umekō.
Kaisha merely possessed a day’s advantage over all others.
The foundation of Kaisha’s dance lies in his reputed training in *shimai*.
I heard that Old Master Tomioka Tessai cherished him because his talent in this field was recognized.
Gado thus appeared to have fallen behind from their ranks.
However, as unexpectedly as a foreign aircraft making an emergency landing, what manifested before them was Shibasuzu Suzuemon’s dramatic comeback.
Despite there being no particular cause, the decline in Suzuemon’s popularity around Meiji 40 (1907) was severe.
He had begun to be viewed leniently as an actor who could no longer grow beyond young female roles.
Indeed, most female-role actors passed through this suffering from their prime into early old age.
The more popularity one has, the more pressing becomes the question of whether one can break through the very role types that brought that popularity and open new ground.
In young male roles, such problems naturally resolve themselves, but in young female roles, there is always suffering at that point.
Indeed, someone like Ichikawa Yonezō—a predecessor of Nakamura Kaisha during his Tokyo period—is said to have retired due to hidden external circumstances, but at the time, it was claimed he had withdrawn from stages dominated by young female roles out of pessimism for the future of his artistry and become a choreographer.
As for recent cases like Matsutsugu, he had finally reached a point where he seemed poised to break through young female roles, but an incurable illness left him unable to rise.
When Suzuemon chanced to move eastward, persisting with what one might call the most idiosyncratic of styles—old-fashioned facial expressions and movements redolent of Kamigata’s distinctiveness—he gained towering acclaim with each successive work.

The reason likely lay in how he boldly pushed into uncharted territory within Tokyo’s theater connoisseurs of the time, astonishing them.
And thus, despite expectations that new frontiers were unattainable, he succeeded in *Tamategosen*—a role that sublated the essence of young female-role artistry—while masterfully depicting the inner depths of O-tane from *Horikawa Nami no Tsuzumi* (“The Drum of Horikawa Waves”), delighting audiences as Princess O-sono of the Gourd Shelf, and through various Akahime roles, compelling recognition for realms opened by artistry surpassing mere grace or beauty.
Ultimately, it was because Tokyo’s most discerning critics—their appreciation fully ripened—were progressively discovering each element: the unprecedented productions, innovative staging, and that artistic temperament perfectly matching these endeavors.
To speak frankly of contemporary critics, they seemed to recognize his technical prowess as something that should counterbalance Utauemon’s sensibility and Umekō’s new expressionism.
If kabuki theater indeed prioritized such technical mastery, then one might say Suzuemon leaned toward being regarded as first-rate in classical female-role artistry.

Even through comparison, one could comprehend Sōjūrō’s daughter roles—their faded beauty only heightening their aura of maturity. They transmitted proper fundamentals, but these were mere correct contour depictions—outlined model calligraphy. Therefore, they could not achieve fineness of texture. After all, the excellence of Suzuemon’s true female-role acting is fondly remembered.

Ganjiro’s Successor

As Suzuemon’s predecessor, Ganjiro would be celebrated as Osaka’s Danjūrō each time he traveled to the capital, returning home bearing tempests of popularity.
With each passing instance—once turning to twice, twice to thrice—the local reverence for Ganjiro swelled.
The position he would hold until the day of his death was thus established through that.
Though Suzuemon was more compact in stature than that, the people of Osaka were astonished and reevaluated him.
In recent years, they had abandoned this actor’s artistry—his visage, his voice…
Even flaws that had been discarded through proper evaluation were now being newly savored.
Even true female-role actors like Kaisha and Umekō—alongside several more in harmony—could not help but be overwhelmed by the reputation Shibasuzu had borne back with him.
Therefore, had Ganjiro not supported Fukusuke as a wife-role actor, Fukusuke would have found himself in a considerably miserable position, and his advancement would have been even more delayed.
However, given the long-standing partnership with his father Umekō, and considering that Shochiku Company’s twin dealings—which had owed a profound debt to the wealthy Umekō and never forgotten that obligation (indeed, even these two men’s later great successes stemmed from this rare show of humanity, which brought respectability to showmen in their volatile entertainment business)—lent their mediating influence, it is also possible that Ganjiro needed to promote this Takasagoya scion in order to retain his senior Umekō as the supreme advisory presence onstage.
Therefore, promoting Seijirō Fukusuke—a man whose benevolence, artistry, and character were straightforward to a degree rare in Kamigata theater, whose appearance was exceptionally well-ordered, who maintained deferential courtesy toward his seniors without haste, and who harbored no ambition to surpass others—as a wife-role actor must have been the most effortless course of action.
This Fukusuke possessed skills that belied his status as a mere disciple, achieving success with *hikimado* roles before even turning twenty and steadily excelling in prowess. Meanwhile, Seitarō—who left his home troupe for several years to train with Tokyo’s Sadanji troupe and was at times promoted by the stomach-churning Nizaemon—appeared in Ganjiro’s eyes as an arrogant pupil. These two now stood shoulder-to-shoulder.
And then, Suzuemon came barging into their midst—such was the situation.
Three people—though it would have been more accurate to count four by adding Enjaku, a leading male-role actor—each either becoming fully-fledged Tokyo actors, passing away, or Ganjiro himself dying of old age; the scenario for resolution had become unthinkable.
However, this was the wretched plight of Osaka actors that had emerged before them since Shochiku Company had spread its wings east and west.

Before that time, the contours of Ganjiro’s solitary dominance over the theatrical world had not yet become so clearly defined.
At that time, Kaisha and the others were also young.
In Ganjiro’s later years, Suzuemon had preceded him in death, but the two female-role actors remained active.
And there was Enjaku.
Thus, it became increasingly clear that among the three, the one who settled in Tokyo and gained recognition from the imperial capital’s theater connoisseurs would emerge as the victor—a truth all three must have understood.
Despite the situation being so clearly evident, all three of them would move east to Tokyo yet never settle there for even a year before returning to Osaka.
This was partly because they could not abandon the belief that after Ganjiro, dominance would fall to those remaining in Osaka, and partly because devotees and associates persistently clung to this stance, seizing their sleeves to hold them back.
However, even when Ganjiro died, none of the three had become Hideyoshi.
That Kaisha appeared to lag slightly behind due to circumstances arising from his family lineage was pitiable, and by any account, it constituted Ganjiro’s miscalculation.
In the turrets of Dotonbori, several managers still persisted, and even after the era of San'ei and Taisei's rivalry had passed, the competition among Ameno, Takagi, Owariya, and others managed to keep the five turrets occupied without leaving them empty and handled many actors—those were good times.
The actors’ movements did not exhibit the stagnant appearance characteristic of the Shochiku era.
If they had complaints about their treatment or superiors, they would handle their situations exactly as they saw fit.

New Actor

In September of Meiji 32 (1899), having journeyed east and joined the troupe of the previous Sadanji, he was assigned to the Meiji-za theater as “Nochi no Iori.”
“Mae no Iori” was Gennosuke.
He was welcomed as a young star from Osaka.
At this very time, the new historical drama *Akugenta*—written by Matsui Shōyō—was staged as a middle act.
The enthusiasm of Sadanji’s troupe could not help but influence him; given that he himself had moved eastward in eager anticipation of such an environment, one can imagine how his stage life became so intensely exhilarating it bordered on euphoria.
At the Tokyo-za theater’s May program, the Enjirō—Enjaku—troupe, based in Kyoto as a Kamigata youth theater company, had already taken part.
Suzaburō—Kichisaburō—also joined, and they generally continued performing until November of the following year.

As for Nakamura Kaisha, in June of the following year, he performed the role of Oishi in the *Kudanme* act alongside Hondō Sadanji, Konami Yonezō, Tonase Shōwaka, Rikiya Koshōjirō, and Yurayosuke Gonshirō; in the second piece *Summer Festival*, he took on his signature role of Kotoura. Even observing the lack of uniformity in such roles allowed one to infer his general standing. However, his assumption of the Oishi role made clear that his type of characters had already gained recognition in Tokyo. In April of Meiji 34 (1901), he played Asaka opposite Koshōji’s Yokoyama Tarō—a major role that suited him perfectly at that stage. That this performance did not achieve greater renown strikes me as curious. In January of Meiji 35 (1902), he performed Shigetada appearing as Anchor-Bearing opposite Sadanji’s Tomomori. For May’s *Ogiya Kumagai*, he played Keiko, while Kohagi was portrayed by Yonezō. Though he occasionally received lucrative roles, these remained exceptions amid predominantly minor parts. Consequently, his professional status never solidified. During this period, he did appear at Masago-za and Miyato-za theaters, but after enduring five years and performing Yatabe Matahachi in April Meiji 36’s *The Ōshio Disturbance*, he appears to have returned fully to Osaka that same year. Had Meiji-za’s fortunes prospered and its owner Sadanji maintained both enterprise and health, he might have remained longer in Tokyo—his artistic progress potentially surpassing all expectations.

Meiji-za staged the Kawakami Troupe’s *The Surrender of Edo Castle* during its June benefit performance for the orphanage.
After opening with *Ma Chanté et Beau Venus*, proprietor Sadanji transferred to Tokyo-za, and by year’s end Meiji-za had suspended operations.
This resulted from complex financial entanglements with its nominal owner.
Consequently, Seitarō continued balancing appearances at Miyato-za and Masago-za theaters until November.
That five years in the capital yielded no achievements worthy of a glorious homecoming appeared to determine Kaisha’s generational fate.
Yet as an actor, his accumulated experiences—gained when Meiji-za teetered before Sadanji’s reformative productions and faced Sadanji II’s imminent debut—undoubtedly left profound imprints on his inner self in later years.
However, what he gained above all—and could unhesitatingly enumerate—was comprehension of new theater coupled with fervor for innovative plays and direction.

Around the time when young Seitarō’s resolve to return home first began to waver, two events—one major, one minor—struck his heart.
One was Takasagoya Fukusuke and his father’s relocation to Tokyo in May.
Fukusuke—later Umekō—opened Ichimura-za starring in *Nichiren-ki* and *Futatsudomoe no Oseki*, performing puppetry for *Twenty-Four Filial Exemplars: Fox Fire*, while Seijirō—now Umekō—appeared as Nichirō and Yaegaki-hime.
Though box office results proved disappointing by all accounts, Seijirō’s portrayal of Yaegaki-hime during what might be called his artistic zenith at that time became legendary.
In June productions including *Kagamiyama* and *Ise Monogatari*, Seijirō took roles such as Iroko, Izutsu-hime, and Shinobu while Fukusuke performed Ohatsu and Mozuzuri Koyoshi.
Imagining Seitarō’s inner turmoil when confronted with Seijirō’s resplendent stage presence—this rival who had stood beside him since their child actor days—one cannot doubt it felt like having his heart clawed raw.
The announcement that this father-son pair would remain in Tokyo for years yet left him no alternative.
He had no choice but to return.

And then another major event occurred.
In February of that year, Kikugorō died, and in September, Danjūrō also passed away.
It was around the time when Sadanji—who had been said to command the stage alone—began to show the waning shadow of one destined to die soon.
The October Kabuki-za production featured a new lineup, welcoming Nizaemon to the top positions alongside Shikan, Baikō, Uzaemon, Yaōzō, and others.
Seitarō was listed with one role name in this production.
Even in the theatrical world that seemed to merely usher in and out surface-level matters as they were, astonishing transformations transpired for a young actor wavering in his career decisions.
The New School, which had been vigorously advancing into Tokyo's various theaters over the past year, now seemed to be closing in on the Old School's main stronghold.
The interactions between Kawakami Otojirō and kabuki actors became increasingly prominent in various respects.
Seitarō returned to Osaka after witnessing such turmoil in Tokyo’s theater world.

In Osaka, the New School’s “Seibi Troupe”—having relocated from the Sumoto Theater and established the Asahi-za as their base—began demonstrating momentum as if commanding political-activist actors across all Japan.
As if declaring Sain Udanji at Sumoto Theater and Ganjiro at Naka Theater, the turrets of Dotonbori at that time stood lined with ritual paper streamers erected in full flourish.
Yet they frequently faced provocations from the New School.
The previous year both Ganjiro and Nizaemon had performed New School-style plays, and it had become an era where they would have to continue doing so from then on.
It was a time when these two leading figures had to labor over contemporized versions of *Hototogisu* and productions like *Chikyodai* lifted directly from New School scripts.
Seitarō joined alone, succeeded in Hatsue (Getsuhaku), and suddenly gained acclaim as a new actor.
For kabuki actors to perform New School plays proved surprisingly straightforward.
Looking back today, it has become clear that New School theater was indeed a branch of kabuki, but at the time this perspective remained elusive; appearing as an entirely distinct dramatic form, there were aspects veteran actors found nearly impenetrable. Yet once they actually tried their hand at it, it became evident that in essence it differed little from the early Meiji “zangiri” cropped-hair dramas.
In Osaka Enjaku led the way, while in Tokyo somewhat later Kanya followed—these two at times demonstrated skills exceeding even New School actors themselves in New School kyōgen plays.
Among female-role actors Seitarō stood at the forefront; in Tokyo following him came the late Shukichō.

On Maiden Roles

It was strange but true that both Nakamura Kaisha and Umekō had never been adept at maiden roles even in their later years.
Whether one could transition from maiden roles to married woman roles determined a female-role actor's destiny.
Both had transcended this from the very beginning.
When it came to roles demanding virginal innocence within maiden roles, Fukusuke had long been hindered by his bearing, physique, face and voice; Kaisha possessed sufficient external qualifications but found internal aspects becoming obstacles to portraying unspoiled maidens.

The innate qualities that allowed merchant-class wives to be fully portrayed even under twenty and convince audiences were truly a dilemma here.
After passing fifty—like a monk achieving enlightenment—the lotus in his chest blossomed forth, and he came to fully grasp the essence of fifteen- and twenty-eight-year-old maidens.
In Fukusuke’s Yobei production, he performed Okame in Uzuki no Momiji.
Was it not from around this time that Kaisha’s innate beauty began emerging through his intelligence?
To call it resignation would suffice—yet this was a realm attained naturally without struggle.
Of course, it was likely the innate grace with which the Takasagoya heir was born that compelled him to yield thus—but Fukusuke no longer showed any ambition to surpass others.
Having settled into such mental clarity, he became able to portray remarkably ingenuous girls never before seen in theater.
This catalyst may not have been mere coincidence.
This became his creative breakthrough after fifty.
With no proper chronology existing—this cannot be stated definitively—he subsequently began portraying brides-to-be.
He created characters like Izaemon’s younger sister in new works and Hanbei’s betrothed in *Ko no Umi*—girls so naive one might question if they were excessively innocent.

During the theater break, Ganjiro—finding himself with free time—came to watch Kaisha and Fukusuke’s Okame Yobei and let out a sigh.
“Why didn’t my Seitarō realize until now that he could take on such maiden roles?”
“If only he’d realized it sooner…”
“Anyway, he’s done something remarkable.”
That man—renowned as “Eight Directions” yet not one to easily yield—would nevertheless often speak these sincere words to his disciples.
Looking back, even we immature spectators in our thirties at the time felt as though we were seeing such a maiden for the first time in kabuki theater.
So authentic was this creation of a maiden role.
The figure of Okame emerging from the black lattice of Mikocho still flickers before my eyes even now, thirty years later.
It was immediately after he had portrayed a thoroughly naive girl opposite Hakotora’s worldly shrine maiden at Mikoyashiki.
Even if difficult, the shrine maiden’s dialogue scene could be managed through skill.
Exiting the black lattice, before one could discern the figure of Yobei standing there, there was a mere moment of idleness.
The art he had always relied upon; a power not of its ilk came surging forth.
It was in the form of a maiden’s soul that this first thrust itself before the audience.
The astonishment of that moment…
Ganjiro’s admiration—yes, I could see why.
For a master, nothing is more unbearable than a disciple’s “selfhood” in their art.
Between Gan and Sei, this irresolvable tension had lain entrenched for many years.
This could be the master’s stubbornness—something akin to jealousy toward his successors—or perhaps simply the disciple’s unbearable self-conceit.
In Gan’s case, it might have been something even more complex and impossible to unravel.
But actors are simple.

They mutually believed that the power of art could resolve all matters.
Therefore, Ganjiro always possessed an overwhelming sense of righteousness.
Even the master of Katsuraya—who wielded considerable power in expounding principles—could not help being overwhelmed by that force.
Those who methodically reasoned through logic and acted, like Kikugorō, were scarcely found in this world.
This great leading actor—who particularly detested logical reasoning and declared expressions alone sufficed—undoubtedly could never convince through logic even those disciples who had become leading female-role actors.
Fukusuke’s jade-like quality that seemed devoid of individuality; Suzuemon, who even when making biting sarcastic remarks backstage would transform into pure charm upon taking the stage; compared to these, there was the unyielding hardness of the shell encasing their own Seitarō—this troubled Ganjiro as a man averse to logic.
Against this man who would make one critical remark or two, Kaisha’s own conduct—years of wielding his master’s authority while accumulating malicious retorts—always found backing in his intelligent countenance yet sent a chill through him.
I believe such instances occurred.
All these things he realized upon seeing Uzuki no Momiji and simultaneously resolved them effortlessly and delightfully.
In short, it must have seemed that his inability to portray innocent maidens—specifically his deficiency in possessing an innocent artistic quality—explained everything.
The moment this realization struck, Seitarō’s performance before our eyes became not merely innocent but transcended all maiden roles performed by young female-role actors over long years onstage—those bound by kabuki conventions—emerging as a virgin both closer to real-world girls yet elevated through artistry.
When portraying town wives, they would become either teahouse wives or courtesan-like figures—such were theater’s women; as for maidens, they became pleasure-quarter-style girls acquainted with men—such were kabuki’s conventional maidens.
From princesses to mansion-born ladies and town girls—even those written as innocent maidens unaware of men—all exuded masculine bravado and feminine allure.
A girl who did not exude femininity fell outside kabuki’s category of female characters.

Yet the maidenhood prime society had imagined soared far beyond such domains in youthfulness.
Both Ohan and Oshichi were maidens whose borderline age between girlhood and womanhood—fourteen or fifteen—posed dramatic questions.
The standard age for maidens appearing across literary and non-literary works stood at twenty-eight years old; seventeen or eighteen—slightly more mature—marked folk songs' flowering years.
The phrase 'tsuzuya hatachi' denoted a woman's peak marriageable age.
These maidenly ages straddled literature and folklore; in reality, fifteen or sixteen still fell short of a girl's true bloom.
Yet theater maidens rooted in folk literature absolutely required expression fitting fifteen-, sixteen-, or seventeen-year-old sensibilities.
But whether literary or theatrical maidens, their portrayed maturity far exceeded actual ages.
Thus their stated years remained confined between fifteen and seventeen.
Hence stage maidens often became women in their twenties—sometimes nearing thirty—exuding feminine allure.
This too characterized female-role actors' portrayals.
Moreover joruri relentlessly reiterated that unmarried female-role actors would pile stone towers at Sai no Kawara upon death—no matter their age.
To call them theater or puppet maidens meant describing composite-photograph constructs.
To this layered artifice came further constraints from male performers' conventions.
Oharu's tragedy sprang from sensuality suppressed into childishness; Shinobu of Miyoshino—lacking eroticism—could never anchor major female roles.
The other Shinobu in Shirakuchi-banashi saw its tragic-maiden seed smothered beneath comedic blossoms.
Such were kabuki's maidens—this much we may deduce.
Kabuki virgins fatefully exuded excessive allure—the very sensuality of courtesans.
Thus town wives too appeared like pleasure-quarter women through Bungoro's puppetry.
His Okame's allure bore no resemblance to traditional kabuki coquetry.
He had wholly excised courtesan-like sentiment.

Rather than describing it thus through text，there arose an urge to present them onstage—to let performance speak where words faltered．Was this what they called character revelation？Or perhaps artistic individuation？In Okame from *Uzuki no Momiji*，Kaisha had crafted what might be deemed kabuki’s inaugural archetype—a maiden transcending theatrical convention．Even Chikamatsu’s original text rendered Okame more womanly than girlish，steeped in mature femininity．Having witnessed several such innovations in his female portrayals，one yearned next for his interpretation of Oharu．For had Kaisha undertaken Baigetsu’s foster-daughter Ochō，he would have elevated her into dignified maidenhood while excavating her singular essence；Osoyo from *Kishihimematsu* and Shinobu from *The Tales of Ise* too—these could have become virginal figures reborn through him into uncharted artistic realms．

In any case, the sensitivity and intelligence pervading his face, body, and every inch from the tips of his nails to their very ends were being reproduced into a bright, delicate standing statue.
That intelligence was bright and kind—beautiful by virtue of its intelligence—honest and unquestioning; it transformed into a goodness that permeated every corner.

Discovery of Inherent Nature

He, like Urashima returned to a world of stylized forms that seemed to make natural depiction irrelevant by design—Ganjiro's troupe at the time being particularly entrenched in classics—found himself dazed by Tokyo theater's upheavals, his ears still ringing from Osaka's quiet plays when encountering that stubbornly contrarian theater society. To this man, they likely echoed back every gesture of Seitarō's as that of a novelty-chasing destroyer.
That state persisted considerably long, ultimately shocking even the master's heart.
New plays, new scripts, roles with new essences—within the Meiji-za he had just revisited, Enjō's fresh movement had already begun germinating, while ahead of this, Otozōji's reform proposal stood poised for announcement.
However composed he remained, performing alongside his master's Jiraiya as Tsukikage Miyuki no Suke—even within theater's elastic world—proved too radical a transformation compared to roles like Seki no Tobira no Komachi or Sakai no Taiko no Ieyasu.

In Kyoto’s kaomise performances, the first year of the Russo-Japanese War drew to a close.
The play *The Conscription Order*, which also appeared in this production, had been written and delivered to Osaka’s theaters that April.
Topical plays and Shinpa theater likely offered some solace to his artistic conscience.
Though not originally a man of high cultivation—so that superficial approach might have sufficed outwardly—within he remained unmistakably an artist.
He must have sharply discerned between counterfeit and genuine.
Thus at that time, none demonstrated such naked thirst for new work after new work as he.
As time passed between these efforts, rewrites of historical dramas and literary works gradually began probing audiences’ tastes and knowledge.
From around the selection period for *Ganshirō Twelve Plays*, Ganjiro’s interest tilted decisively toward new works and adaptations.
He commenced seeking plays suited to allegorizing fixed ethical views.
The Master—who at root seemed even less cultured than this disciple and nearly devoid of moral sensibility—after collaborating with Hekirurien (Watanabe Katei), deepened his expression of life from that lowly foundation.
However shallow his grasp of virtues might be, practicing them—or expressing them artistically—could attain profundity through any means.
Ultimately he came to consciously champion this cause, yet onstage lived liberated from ethical constraints.
Thus he gradually immersed himself in new works—vitalizing old masterpieces as masterpieces while imposing free interpretations through actors’ sensitivity upon contemporary mediocrities’ essential natures.
For such purposes came playwrights expected to compromise.
The stronger an actor’s individuality grew, the more pronounced this tendency became.
Take one like Kikugorō of today: though generally deemed misguided in approach—from art’s perspective or life’s—since theater’s revitalization isn’t completed through scripts alone, we cannot say actors bearing primary responsibility should absolutely reject passionate transformations.
Ultimately it becomes a matter of artists’ individualities and receptivity to artistic sensibilities.

When the Master gradually came to desire writing short pieces that could be called second-act or middle-act plays, Kaisha's long-cherished wish took on a somewhat fulfilled form; yet at the same time, he too had already passed through his youthful and vigorous period.
He must have been seeking something sharper, yet it wasn’t exactly abandoned on theoretical grounds.
That an actorly thirst for a new era—driven solely by instinct—would fade like a dream and settle into an unexpectedly ordinary form was, upon reflection, hardly surprising.
Sadanji II, who staged in rapid succession both traditional kabuki and modern theater severed from any bridge to tradition, was someone who could be called his model.
He had already surpassed Sadanji in artistic caliber by this time, and as his quality was superior, he may have yearned for something more distinct—yet that was a realm that should never have entered his awareness.
That Sadanji II stopped halfway in casting Matsutatsu for wife roles and did not invite Kaisha—with whom he had connections—may have had its reasons, but one feels his troupe thereby missed something significant for their artistic progress.
The works said to have been rewritten by quasi-disciples of Ōgai seeking new themes within historical dramas and modern plays naturally aligned well with the new kabuki of Kido and others, which bore a form that welcomed contributions from the lower ranks.
Because Sadanji II possessed a modicum of theory, the lives within his plays remained confined to the limits of his own comprehension.
There were many cases where he stifled living in depths he himself did not recognize.
I find this pitiable for him.
Ganjiro, who had art but neither theories nor self-interest, extracted life quite deeply from not particularly good writings.
While his characters moved freely within moral frameworks—indeed, within a sense of security—when confronted with aspects that challenged ethical sensibilities, his artistry would suddenly lose its confidence.
In other words, his interpretation did not extend to such free spaces of life.
Even in Yuranosuke from Goban Taiheiki or Hanshichi from Akanesome, when scenes deviated into profound familial ethics, the direction would suddenly become ordinary.
In such instances, Kaisha showed a markedly different understanding.
Because they were women of Japanese drama who artistically asserted a realm of existence beyond social obligations, he was indeed able to portray women who transcended the world of duty.
This does not mean his portrayal was of women who passionately proclaimed, “I turn a deaf ear to both duty and law.”
It meant that they had become women who lived with such an earthly existence.
Osono from Akanesome thoroughly fulfills her duty to Mitsukatsu, but she loves her husband in a way that transcends Mitsukatsu’s very existence.
Moreover, Japan’s Osono is to become a woman deeper in life than self.

The Former Osono of the Sake Shop too must be seen through this interpretation. Osono declares, “Am I just a nursemaid for your child or a cook? The truth is…”, though this stems not from duty toward Koharu. In realms untouched by Koharu, she carves space for her own existence. From didactic scripts, Kaisha forged a woman confident she could actualize even such unreasonable demands were they hers to fulfill. The kotatsu scene’s Osono—now performed by Umegyu—originated as his role and by rights should have remained so. This Osono under Umegyu satisfies external requirements yet here rings hollow as mere persuasion. The essence seems transmuted into gesture alone, granting spectators no respite of assurance. While this unease holds tragedy’s semblance of sorrow, the true path lies in Kaisha’s unshakable conviction—emerging through his portrayal—of serving her husband through any trial. That his strong-willed Osono implanted future reassurance more effectively than Umegyu’s amiable version arose from peerless expression married to role comprehension. Miraculously, he who possessed such selfhood became wholly a woman renouncing ego. Utaemon’s fierce female archetypes remain ever women of selfhood; whether as Osono or Okinu, his art lacks this radiance of surrendered individuality. Chikamatsu’s Osono—a woman who’d likely rekindle strife with Koharu when challenged—finds worth precisely here, yet within audiences’ lenient gaze resides that symbiotic realm where author and spectator sustain each other.

From this perspective, he possessed considerable interpretive power and was fully equipped with the expressive capacity to match it. What can be discerned from his artistic caliber is that his interpretive power deepened precisely because his expressive capacity was superior.

Okame and Okaru and

His female-role acting displayed a tendency to invariably add some new innovation—or rather, a novel approach—to every stereotypical female character. It almost seemed an effort to discard conventional forms altogether. This may have stemmed from his years of experience at the Meiji-za and his history of special participation in the Shinpa movement. In roles like Oen—Baikawa Chūbei—or Osho—Kawasho—that had received little refinement and seemed like minor parts, one could see his restlessness: even in their throwaway lines or improvised actions, he would insert some altered movement when left to his own devices. Had it been a world without critics as thorns in his side, he would surely have ignored several traditional forms and proceeded solely with new productions. Moreover, had Master Ganjiro not imposed demands through their collaboration, I believe he would have made fine new constructions up to a point while also committing astonishing miscalculations. He had been radiating an almost grating novelty since returning to Dōtonbori. This became, for better or worse, a long-enduring benchmark for later years. Moreover, what achieved remarkable success—what was accepted without objection by all—was the new female-role acting method originating from Okame. His free understanding of roles and unrestricted direction fit perfectly into formless role types, allowing them to truly encounter such expressions through performance. One could indeed say the moment had ripened after nearly forty years of living as a woman on stage.

Rather than new staging techniques, it was the culmination of tracing his own life through his very embodiment. This marked the birth of the vivacious maiden he had long nurtured within—a girl both brisk and tidy, radiant with an intelligence deserving universal adoration, ecstatic in her faith in the world, her bodily expressions synthesizing all the virtues expected of society's maidens. To those who carefully observed kabuki stages past and present, this quality had indeed manifested before in lively maiden roles—there it was. Where traditional performances had moved with dimwitted sensuality at their core, he synthesized this into a more devoted spiritual beauty.

It could be imagined that there had been a time when such women appeared near Kaisha’s very being. And thus, he came to imitate them through spirit alone. Wouldn’t it be that such a thing had come to pass? However, after Okame, that female character began appearing frequently even in wife roles. In the case of Osono from *Akanesome*, this had already been discussed. In roles like Okaru of the Seventh Act, he expressed in her encounter with Heiemon a diligence surpassing all others and a beauty devoid of shadows.

A beautiful, amiable woman with a disposition described as reliable had become the common notion regarding his female-role acting.
However, this was in fact something that needed correction.
The critics had neglected that.
They had carelessly overlooked the maiden he had discovered.
And they had continued to view his female characters solely from that perspective.

I deeply regret never having seen it myself, but even if historical greats—the late Umegyu being a notable example close at hand—had layered refined productions of Sōchōchō’s Komeya Act with Osetsu as elder sister of Chōkichi, they could not have outdone him.
Because the disposition collaboratively created by joruri playwrights, actors, and puppeteers had been fully embodied in Kaisha’s earlier self.
Moreover, once he began demonstrating new flexibility, one could only press a hand to one’s forehead in anticipation of his portrayals of unwed town widows—women who were no heroic figures.
Moreover, his female-role acting’s strength lay in being blessed with an excellent sense of rhythm surpassing any Osaka actor.
As a leading male role performer, there lingered a lamentable lack of menace in that dignified voice.
In female-role acting, such considerations proved unnecessary.
His unrestrained voice gave form to his “woman.”
Moving his body with slight motions—gracefully accentuating shoulders and hands while his lower body performed movements as if about to take flight—
She had never manifested in Kabuki’s stages nor Shinpa’s dramas nor Puppet Theater’s motions nor any Japanese performance art’s realm, yet she was womanhood itself dwelling within Japan.
Such were woman’s daily gestures; through his performances came realization—how all expressions had wholly converged into Kabuki’s women.

What we regret is not having examined more profoundly the industrious Japanese women who were fully discovered and embodied through Kaisha’s expressions.
From *Kokutsu Hashigo* to the whispered “Aruzo e, aruzo e” incident—throughout all portions pertaining to the vivacious Okaru—we should have discerned precisely that: the freedom everyone overlooked in Okaru and her unsullied maidenhood.

However, in recent years, the latter half of Ikkichi’s Okaru showed how extreme realism marred the artistic caliber.
It appeared he had rendered a woman prone to nervous fits; even features that still retained some beauty—particularly those—alongside neck arteries pulsing with vivid vitality, while beautiful in their beauty, made one feel the distastefulness of such realism.
This spirit of realism was a fortunate discovery in the history of Japanese theatrical expression for Genroku-period actors, yet how long thereafter did it become shackles binding the artistry of those very performers?
Whether striving for realism in portraying mental illness and stuttering or imitating facial expressions during stomach cramps, such depictions must be founded upon a more refined understanding.
This stands as one instance where his intent to forge a new existence never permitted him to cast aside enlightened realism.

A Theory of Realism

His artistry during its early and middle periods proved sufficient to repel malicious critics.
This was indeed fortunate.
For artistry grows into its proper form when allowed to develop naturally, enabling true talents to flourish as talents.
Yet as it matured, critiques could no longer be dismissed as mere suggestions about his progress.
With each theatrical success came increasingly severe evaluations.
Half this severity stemmed from his propensity for realism—a tendency common among skilled actors possessing free expressive techniques—which grated against sensibilities.
Even among fellow realists, Enjaku demonstrated judicious use of neutralizing techniques—elevating gestures, comic exaggeration, dance-like movements—to transform realism into fantasy.
In such technical mastery, his Kawachiya style revealed genuine brilliance.
This balancing act necessarily accompanied extreme realistic techniques, having developed particularly within Kamigata-style leading male roles.
Though present in leading male artistry too, there persisted an unfortunate tendency to avoid role-appropriate humor while drifting toward unmoderated realism.
Only established forms provided salvation in most cases.
For female-role actors too, salvation lay in formal conventions.
One must recognize realism restores life’s mundanity rather than theater’s primal impulses.
That Kaisha maintained this paradox—adhering to perverse realism while pursuing proper “theatrical return”—remains both contradictory and plausible.
More pragmatically crucial was the absence of criticism surpassing his artistry to guide his “theater’s” development.
Theater criticism—kabuki criticism especially—proved fascinating reading yet lacked philosophical depth, ideals, or groundbreaking insight.
Even as theorists clamored about new “isms,” avoiding their influence seemed preferable.
One imagines how Kaisha—that intelligent soul—might have conquered realism’s arduous path through rich encouragement, much like his triumphs in female roles.
Critics themselves must contemplate how their rigid moral frameworks burden artists.

It could be said that the maiden he discovered was ultimately profoundly individualistic.
The realm attained through realism proves remarkably individualistic in nature.
This at first glance appears devoid of universal elements.
Yet the essence of artistry can only be expressed through the discoverer’s own methods, their expressions, and their physical conception; thus its individualism stands as inevitable.
Hence in certain cases, markedly crude adaptations might be employed to universalize it.
When this occurs, new discoveries may fade into obscurity before ever reaching that stage.

The Comic Roles of Leading Actors

On another front, there existed an aspect where he attempted to deviate toward new vulgarity.
This was him when performing the aforementioned comic-style roles.
So to speak, it was a nature that ran parallel to the Taruya Kyūhachi-type’s simple honesty, lowliness, and goodness.

In this aspect, it was no discovery for him alone.
He merely staged works written with conventional interpretations in a conventional manner.
But for him, there had been an urgent need to suppress his natural style and alter his expressions.
However, even within what might be called the same archetype, in such roles he often found himself recalling the artistry of his seniors.
They would have been Usaburō, Rikaku, and several others beyond my recollection.
But he was not imitating the artistic works of comic actors or those close to that lineage—people who were, so to speak, a step below Kaisha.
There were those of leading actor caliber who had grown accustomed to being regularly assigned supporting roles or slightly lower-ranking ones.
Those people themselves revealed a certain austerity.
Masters or those called “art-obsessed devotees” would open capricious new paths toward the realm of comic roles.
That path too came to be emulated by those in early stages or holding headliner positions.
Even if equally comedic, it belonged to the realm of leading actors’ comic roles.
Actors themselves, unlike us amateurs, had clearly mastered it.
In other words, even if Yajirobei and Kitahachi belonged to the realm of true comic roles, theatrical conventions remained rooted in the artistry of leading actors.
In the Sosori theater of the Meiji era, there was an account claiming that Kichiroku and Danhachi’s *Hizakurige* performances were better suited to their true roles than Danjūrō and Sadanji’s regular ones—a story that might seem plausible to accept but was in fact mistaken.
What required consideration was the distinction between comedy performed by comic actors and comic roles undertaken by leading male performers.
In Japanese theater and performing arts, while they had delved deeply into comedic elements, they ultimately failed to attain true comedy.
But it was the anguish of trying to grasp true comedy that gave rise to leading actors’ comedic theater; one must not think they imitated comic actors’ direction.
In recent examples, for instance, this held true even when observing Yoshioemon.
He had experience performing roles such as Benkei and Kōchō in various productions of Yaooya Oshichi.
These were not roles meant for the realm of comic actors.

Furthermore, it was not staged that way at all.
But with some misunderstanding at play, they appeared to have frequently drawn from the mannerisms of lower-ranking actors—even comic ones—for reference.
When observing performances like the late Nossai’s Kōchō, one might have expected associations with this person prone to misjudgments, but this instead demonstrated authentic headliner comedy artistry.

Another example is the landlord in *Kamiusui Shinzō*.
While Matsusuke’s Chōbei has come to be regarded as the standard archetype in recent times, it is said that the landlord portrayed by the previous generation’s Nakazō still carried a profound air of being one rank superior.
Though Matsusuke later gained considerable esteem as a supporting actor, he had originally been thoroughly rooted in minor antagonist comic roles.
His domain was never that of supporting lead roles.
Nor was he someone who performed supporting parts in proper period dramas either.
This is where the difference emerges between Nakazō’s and Matsusuke’s interpretations of Chōbei.
Roles like the Imposter Son-in-Law and Love Potion Dealer belong to comic actors’ territory, while comedies featuring young lords or basket carrier disguises remain strictly reserved for handsome roles performed by leading actor candidates.

In the sparse roles of Usaburō and Rikaku that leaned toward simple honesty, lowliness, and comedy, one could indeed observe how grandeur befitting supporting roles overflowed alongside unrestrained techniques. It was an outpouring of life utterly free from constraint. In Kaisha's beautiful female-role performances existed that same freedom. Since Kaisha—who cherished his art—could hardly remain unmoved by these seniors' merits, and given his position when assigned similar role types, it stood to reason he would seek models in these people's performances of such roles. Indeed, the clerk in *Tsuzura Ori* had first been performed by Usaburō. Though Kaisha demonstrated a realm of humor distinct from Usaburō's clerk role, he himself remained primarily captivated by Usaburō's excellence.

Seniors Discourse

I believe Taruya Isuke too was first performed by Usaburō before becoming Kaisha's signature role, though Usaburō approached it more as a supporting role—directed toward lower-ranking actors—than as a leading male performer would.
That Kaisha's Isuke—a role meant for leading male actors—was instead performed with supporting role sensibilities and tragicomic essence shows while the latter approach held validity, the former likely resulted from overreverence toward his seniors' artistry.
Rikaku's imitation was thought akin to Heiemon's style, yet onstage this resemblance proved illusory.
Herein lay individuality's true worth.
Nevertheless, its foundation remained thoroughly rooted in Toshimaya traditions.
Kaisha needed to break free; numerous venerable seniors demanded transcendence.
For his artistic completion—to better manifest his individuality—certain artistic fixations required severance.
No—more remained.
His own reluctant emulation of Tamishinosuke Tamizō's artistry exemplified this.
Though differing in appearance and general approach, their artistic realms grew similar through circumstantial pressures.
Their role types became identical.
If any actor served as Kaisha's mental model during this period, I maintain it was the late Nakamura Kasen.
In methodology, everything aligned more with Kasen than Master Ganjiro.
Yet circumstances proved immutable.
The headliner roles Kasen maintained through emaciation and decline seldom fell to Kaisha.
Instead, Kaisha inherited roles Tamishinosuke had previously assayed.
In both female-role acting and leading male parts, he appeared to tread Tamishinosuke's identical path.
Particularly regarding roles like Kamabara, they longed to witness Kaisha's Yosaku.
That artless simplicity constituted merely transformed guilelessness.

Yojirō—Horikawa—was so, and Kitsumata was so.
Kitsumata had accumulated slight misjudgments from predecessors regarding where to anchor the core nature, while recent revisions had come to hit the mark.
However, Yojirō’s performances—when compared to the late Nizaemon’s pristine enactments and those of Kikugorō who appeared to follow his lineage—seemed to differ slightly in their core essence.
Yosaku too was such a case.
Kaisha found himself compelled, whether he willed it or not, to completely distance himself from Tamishinosuke—a necessity that had crept upon him unnoticed.
Compared to Tamishinosuke or Rikaku, he possessed greater beauty.

The comic role in *Wankyu* broke free from these influences to showcase Kaisha’s unique artistry—even compelling critics to acknowledge it—yet precisely because such supplementary roles gained recognition, those same critics cursed his talent as a jack-of-all-trades and fretted over his future prospects.
But the fact that he was already a mature artist had been forgotten.
One reason was that his female-role acting appeared to have firmly established itself as that of a true female-role specialist.
It meant he had been recognized too thoroughly as a female-role actor.

With a yawn,

Seeing Kaisha continue portraying diligent women indefinitely, we had grown negligent. We had even forgotten he had already reached seventy. There must have been many roles he wanted to perform. Speaking from that perspective, there were many regrets that even at that age, he still passed away without having broken free. When enumerating Rikan’s artistic achievements from the Meiji era, particularly profound was that feeling. Was it not precisely through enduring every possible hardship in such aspects—through cultivating new artistic sensibilities via performers’ expressions—that we might achieve those monumental accomplishments of innovative direction born from truly broad-minded vision? Look to the late Tamura Seigi. If he remained intoxicated by pride in having elevated Kikugorō and Yoshijiemon to such heights, then his peace in the afterlife might prove unexpectedly fortunate indeed. Was there no reflection that he himself had narrowed Kikugorō and Yoshijiemon’s artistic realms, reducing their role variety? It was good that he developed Ganjiro to such an extent. How much did Kaisha and those other talents spend their lives yawning? They ought to have given some thought to personnel management. The emergence of talents in the world truly remains but a scarce opportunity. As the performers yawned, the audience too ultimately could not help but yawn.

Behold the Kaisha in your hands.
Still clutching tightly the bluebird not yet revealed to the world, he departed for the afterlife.