Pathway to Japanese Literature

If I recall correctly, you were not particularly fond of theater gossip.
However, there is one thing I must bring to your ears.
Even in your area, you must have seen the Tokyo newspapers.
I presume you are already aware that Dr. Tsubouchi’s *Nagaroshi Getsuya* was staged at the Kabuki-za Theater as part of their May Kyōgen program.
When that script first appeared in *Chūō Kōron*, you too wrote quite a lengthy piece addressed to Dr. Tsubouchi.
Since then, much time has passed, so the details have faded from my memory.
But I believe you focused chiefly on the relationship between fact and conception.
At present, I do not have those Jiji Shinpō clippings at hand.
I suppose they would be in Ueno, but as I procrastinate and my impressions grow faint, I shall write plainly.
If you too were to write about what has already been stated—presenting it as your own idea with self-satisfaction—I might deem it possible. Yet should that occur, it would only mean your ideas had taken concrete form even to me, and there would be no harm in your harboring some superiority.

I could not help but harbor doubts about the value of *Azuma Kagami* as a historical document.
That was still—at least at present—a matter of sentiment I had to belittle as trivial; yet when pressed defiantly for its reasons being scrutinized，one became somewhat flustered.
Might it have been that scenes brimming with excessive interest inevitably evoked such feelings?
Even if not outright fabrication，a hue smacking of folktales（legends）must have emerged inevitably in such passages.
As you know，the events surrounding the Soga revenge—particularly those involving Torigozen—proved quite intriguing，though counterevidence also seemed apparent.
Another instance arose from this Tsurugaoka Hōga article—the passage most strongly arousing suspicion.
Whether compiler or author（though such distinctions exceed our current scope），it appeared both those who compiled *Azuma Kagami* and contemporaries interpreted matters as though Sanetomo had foreknowledge of how events would unfold that day.
Indeed，the writing there seemed wrapped its suggestive implications within composed aftermaths.
Even so，I considered mere naive acceptance of impressions intended by that text’s compiler too shallow for viewing history—or at minimum，for attempting to perceive Sanetomo.
Setting aside folktale-like interpretations arising from such abundant facts contemporary with its compilation，I felt something slightly more genuine might have been grasped separately.

It is embarrassing to admit, but when reading such scripts and novels, I often find myself incapable of pure appreciation, instead compelled by a different impulse—one that seeks to uncover the author’s perspective.
However—leaving aside whether my approach merits praise or blame—unless authors have properly tempered their foundations through such considerations, their characters and events become mere simplifications of history, whether through paraphrase or literal translation. Your critiques may have been dismissed by Dr. Tsubouchi as falling outside artistic criticism proper, but for *Nagaroshi Getsuya*’s underlying framework to take root, it would prove most fruitful were Dr. Tsubouchi to carefully reexamine his approach going forward.
Such virtue cannot be measured by the "words of praise" or "polite clapping" of pure art critics.
Thus I too, following your example, have resolved to labor unseen in the shadows—such being my intent.

In all honesty, what do you think of this?
The incident of Kakua (Hiromoto) shedding tears, isn't it?
I believe that focusing solely on that could yield something quite compelling.
The way the *Azuma Kagami* handled that section was commendable, I think.
With such grand historical context at play, when a leading figure of the time discerns an ominous portent, I refuse to dismiss it simplistically as 'mystery.'
Yet I feel that peculiar premonition could have been brought more to the forefront for examination.
I read *Nagaroshi Getsuya* with this very issue as my central concern.
However—though I suspect you too noted this—Dr. Tsubouchi, ever the meticulous author, deftly avoided such depths (to phrase it thus does me no credit) and marched resolutely forward without any lines or critiques revealing Kakua's true heart, adhering strictly to the *Azuma Kagami* account.
How would this manifest when staged?
If the playwright gave no consideration to this matter, I thought it questionable whether Dr. Tsubouchi himself should serve as stage director at all.
In this production, he approached his artistic principles with such fundamentally compromised motivations from the very start.

However, in this production, the scene at Kamakura Palace’s sleeping quarters that I had set my sights on, along with the prologue at Yuigahama, had been abbreviated, so I was disappointed. At the same time, I sympathized with the actor playing Kakua, whose crucial scene to shine had been lost. Thus, the final act’s “Kamakura Palace’s Middle Gate Corridor” would only emerge from midway through to the curtain fall. However, during this brief emergence, I had been looking forward to how it might instead achieve many effects. The one who became Kakua was the actor whom the so-called gallery patrons called Matsushimaya. Eyebrows of the thick, upturned sort commonly seen in portraits of military commanders from the Historiographical Institute were affixed to his crafted face in a dandyish manner. This face was said to be a construction not often seen in period pieces or modernized history plays of this era. (Admittedly, only the eyebrows appeared to be Matsushimaya’s preference, as my postcard album contains many images of him with the same style.) The depth conveyed during his silent presence until Sanetomo entered was remarkable. Even his looming presence was a truth that transcended technique. I had heard that Danjuro’s subtle acting—now entering the realm of legend and likely to grow ever more esteemed—and those who defiantly cling to positions diametrically opposed to it existed, but indeed, this depth differed markedly from the superficial fullness feigned by the recent subtle acting of the Danjuro school and actors under its influence—a depth that felt fragmented yet potent. However, from the moment the actor playing Sanetomo entered seven-tenths of the way along the hanamichi pathway until after he had vanished into the agemaku curtain, everything completely fell apart. He blinked too much. Is that what you call twitching? He twitched his body.

However, this was something for which Dr. Tsubouchi bore considerable responsibility. In the script, the interpretation of Kakua’s tears had remained nebulous, but under Dr. Tsubouchi’s direction as stage director, it would have been given concrete form. This was precisely what made coming to see the play worthwhile. Yet I could not help but feel deeply disheartened as well. Dr. Tsubouchi had clearly positioned Kakua as one who had foreseen [the tragedy] before its occurrence. It was not only Kakua. Yūki Tomomitsu too had gradually come to intuit, and by the conclusion appeared to have fully grasped why he had been given the “Song of the Plum by the Eaves.” Kakua and others struck poses typical of theater illustrations—turned away, pressing the bases of their palms to their eyes as they wept—while he had the stage revolve.

At first, I considered whether Dr. Tsubouchi—startled by his own overly simplistic interpretation—had been compelled by that characteristic excess of consideration to conclude, “If I do not do this, general audiences will not understand, nor will actors of today’s caliber sustain it.” But given how he had steadfastly rejected all compromise until now, there was no way he would sacrifice his own art to the point of becoming a martyr to lowbrow audiences or actors.
Coming to realize he had indeed truly thought that way, I found myself thoroughly convinced.

I had never imagined that the suicide in Kotsubo Cove would serve as the author’s meticulous foreshadowing for Sanetomo achieving his true intent of self-destruction through Kugyō’s hands.
Yet undoubtedly, the cautious Dr. Tsubouchi had properly prepared a certain stage of gradual layering there.
This was something you too could not have anticipated.
Thus, the statement about being tempted by moonlight to die becomes nothing but a temporary palliative offered for Saneami’s sake.
The man who lamented “I cannot die even when I wish to die” found himself thwarted by his sole kindred spirit when he finally resolved to act.
Though he may have momentarily reconsidered, his deep-rooted obsession with death remained unshaken—in the end, he positioned himself where another might conveniently kill him, or so I prefer to interpret it.
Otherwise, would Sanetomo not appear far too capricious—a mercurial man prone to sudden shifts of temperament?
Viewed thusly, we can at least explain that Sanetomo himself knew of his approaching death with more depth than superficiality.

As for Kakua’s portrayal, I still could not agree.
I could not help feeling he had done nothing more than adhere to theater’s conventional inherited plot structures.
This resigned mentality—of discerning implied meanings and enabling others’ wills—had been repeated ad nauseam in gidayū jōruri and theater, as I understood it.
Dr. Tsubouchi had likened Kabuki theater to a creature called *kaimaira*, yet I sensed a *kaimaira* dwelled within Dr. Tsubouchi’s own heart.
Maintaining such a disposition, upon hearing the official report that Sakyō no Chō had fallen ill and Nakaaki had replaced him, he made them perform gestures suggesting “Well now, just as expected.”
Here—from Dr. Tsubouchi’s perspective—was where anguished sentiment over misfortune nearly becoming reality should have been contained.
Rather than “Well now,” it needed to convey “Now it truly begins.”
As stage director, Dr. Tsubouchi had at least tacitly permitted Kakua and Tomomitsu’s exaggerated expressions of shock here.
Was it not necessary to show expressions not of shock but utter bewilderment?
I even suspected Matsushimaya’s approach as an actor might blend insubordinate interpretations beyond Dr. Tsubouchi’s directives—yet precisely these aspects elicited my agreement.

Now, the one referred to as the other Tachibanaya (there were two people called Tachibanaya—this one was the younger) had a wise-looking face, but it brought no resolution to my mind. I thought it would have been better to present not some monstrous creature with forms hardened here and there, but a Kakua who was utterly chaotic and a Tomomitsu bewildered by an unmanageable state of mind. The newspaper critics did not take this scene seriously. They had remarked that roles like Mr. Matsushimaya and Mr. Tachibanaya were not worth troubling such masters for, but I did not think so. I believed that unless this scene was directed by someone with both gravitas and skill, it would fail to strongly foreshadow Sanetomo’s death. To show a quietness that still clung to some faint hope amidst despair and resignation was something ordinary people could not achieve. Here, it had been Dr. Tsubouchi’s intention to make the audience feel matters had nearly reached their limit—indeed, this was where one recognized how he differed from someone like Shōchi Koji. I had heard Mr. Fukuchi wrote [the play] for Danjuro and others; the *Azuma Kagami Haigakan* seemed to have made the Hachiman Shrine Stone Steps scene its core. The way the next scene connected with Bitchū Ajari followed the author’s approach up to this point—either closing with a curtain or inserting an intermission called a "return curtain" or "quick curtain." However, a companion knowledgeable about theater praised how Dr. Tsubouchi had directly connected [the scenes] using a revolving stage as an exceedingly astute approach. Indeed, in terms of temporal continuity, the next scene could be seen as immediately following the Middle Gate Corridor sequence or occurring slightly later—(though an old-fashioned interpretation might view it as continuing from a time *prior* to Kakua and others’ weeping—a perspective Dr. Tsubouchi surely did not intend)—yet as the stage shifted, the mood transformed into a scene brimming with anxiety and unease, achieving a well-executed contrast. It made one wonder if the feelings imparted to people during the prelude to the same incident could differ so drastically merely due to a shift in setting. To achieve such an effect, the method called the revolving stage had proved highly effective. However, I thought it deeply thought-provoking how Kakua and Tomomitsu’s final silent scene shifted so abruptly into an unsettled moment before its lingering resonance could fully permeate. In fact, even the way Kakua and Tomomitsu’s scene was concluded had been a conventional approach that held meaning precisely because it ended with a curtain drop.

As for Bitchū Ajari’s quarters, the actors achieved results to the extent anticipated by the author. If we set aside the major blunder committed by Fukami Saburōji—played by Elder Tachibanaya—who appeared successful in form and the mood derived from it alone but fell short in thoroughness of interpretation, then... Since Dr. Tsubouchi intended to have the actor Fukami bring this play to its conclusion, Saburōji’s position within this script cannot be considered trivial. Regrettably, I thought there might be points where Dr. Tsubouchi’s conception and Elder Tachibanaya’s expression failed to align. Moreover, there was something I had realized upon reading the script, but having now seen this play, what became unequivocally clear was that Dr. Tsubouchi’s interpretation of Fukami differed considerably from the role I myself would have envisioned.

When I first read the script, I immediately realized that Fukami must be the same individual reported to have assassinated Yoshitoki, and that he was likely intended as a symbol of human evil—a figure with a disagreeable demeanor akin to those appearing in *Osero*.
Thus, in the subsequent script featuring Yoshitoki as protagonist—later published under the title *The Final Days of Yoshitoki*—he would presumably assume a significant role.
Yet for such a purpose, the writing proved woefully inadequate.
With only this material, it appeared as nothing more than Dr. Tsubouchi demonstrating technical brilliance through contrivance—advancing the plot by substituting a shadow double for a character (here, Yoshitoki) whom any ordinary playwright would feel compelled to foreground.
It amounted to concealing Yoshitoki as mere technique for technique’s sake.
I found myself unable to suppress such dissatisfaction.

In this play, I had also anticipated that Fukami’s character would reveal Dr. Tsubouchi’s conception with somewhat greater clarity.

However, this role ended up being the most problematic. Regarding the ninth-generation Ichikawa Danjuro—this being merely my own speculation—I must ask for discretion, as Edo natives like Mr. Oka might take offense—I believe he followed a challenging developmental trajectory: not transcending technique so much as arriving at a state where non-technique itself became a form of technique. That is to say, rather than someone whose essence expanded outward through form, I consider him the type who first established form before enriching its substance later. In literary terms, figures like Mr. Mushanokōji Saneatsu and the Shirakaba group exemplify this approach. Be that as it may, among Danjuro’s disciples and juniors who revered his mood-driven theater as ideal, there appear many who excel more in emotive expression than technical skill—Elder Tachibanaya here; Narikomaya who portrayed Sanetomo; Takashimaya who became Saneami—these are said to represent such layered performers. Observing this, one detects an inclination toward demonstrating craft through subtle acting rather than overt technique. Terms like “ham-fisted” or “wooden” often deride poor actors, yet these three displayed what might be called magnificently ham-fisted execution in their individual methods. Among them, this Tachibanaya has even received newspaper accolades as a technical virtuoso—though likely due to being overwhelmed by his atmospheric presence. This actor’s… how to describe it… That bass-register voice—a raw, masculine timbre described as “dosa”—combined with its penetrating clarity and rhythmic cadence, utterly captivated listeners. His voice truly merits being called finely modulated. Yet this merely reflects free command of what we call merihari tonal shifts—as linguistic expression through Kabuki’s melodic phrasing (I may be mistaken; if so, I’ll consult Mr. Oka)—while his line delivery showed no benefit from decades of practice. You’ve surely seen Kinokuniya… Gennosuke—reputed as today’s unrivaled master in this regard—and indeed, Elder Tachibanaya’s delivery proved monotonous by comparison. To digress—regardless, we find it hard to accept theater connoisseurs deeming him a mere technician. Being a man of clean-cut handsomeness, he must embody ideal form and mood for traditional roles like pure villains or charismatic rogues. Thus Dr. Tsubouchi likely originally intended to cast him in this role.

In actuality, I believe that even going forward, it would be difficult to see a Saburōji of this caliber on stage again. However, in any case, the portrayal of Fukami Saburōji’s character was an utter failure. “The scene of ‘The Bettō-in Kugyō’s Quarters’ merely shows a person with depth, which is passable; thus, mood-driven theater is preferable as it avoids precariousness.” Characters on stage—if they were actual human personalities—must somehow express the aspects that ought to remain chaotic in a way that makes the audience perceive them; there lies a point where naturalism cannot reach. Therefore, rather than easily dissected descriptions, it was more strategic to clearly impress such aspects through mood. At this point, beyond a certain threshold, this person’s mood-driven theater showed that it could symbolize nothing at all. The true nature of Fukami’s character became visible only in the final act’s closing moment. This was, after all, a task utterly beyond the capabilities of today’s actors when one surveyed the situation. Here, I believe there was a note in the script stating something like “Fukami handles it somewhat, and so on,” but in truth, with only this much, one could not discern the author’s intention. As this person’s tense face—maintaining an expressionless demeanor—moved up and down five or six times, the curtain closed.

“Was this a smile of satisfaction—the so-called ‘It went well’ kind?”
Might it also contain a scornful smirk—the kind that mutters “You fool”—directed at the opponent who had fallen so easily into their own trap?
The impression I received was only that.
What differed from conventional methods was that instead of allowing a grin, it took on the very manner of a pale Noh mask when smiling.
I think this was likely done under Dr. Tsubouchi’s direction.
Indeed, Dr. Tsubouchi must have conceived of this as a character of such difficult complexity that even a smile would invite collapse.
Even so, this approach employed a cowardly evasion.

It seemed Dr. Tsubouchi had encountered obstacles in realizing this character's complexities as well. With Fukami appearing only through the script and performance, one could hardly regard him as possessing the intriguing personality even Dr. Tsubouchi was said to have envisioned. Moreover, the newspapers—ever true to form—had merely jumped on the bandwagon, portraying him as some extraordinary figure. Such a man would amount to nothing more than a stock character appearing throughout Kabuki family dramas from start to finish. Was the sole apparent difference not simply that they had dulled his overtly menacing flair? Even so, the script's inherent flaws remained—chiefly that he appeared as nothing but Yoshitoki's shadow double and a puppet of Sakyō no Chō. Since historical ambiguities surrounded Fukami—the assassin of Yoshitoki—I had wished to employ Saburōjirō rather than his son Kosaburō (or Saburō, as in *The Final Days of Yoshitoki*). Only a man who licked his lips while savoring the misfortunes of Yoriie, Yoshitoki, Kugyō, and those approaching their doom could become the fascinating character Dr. Tsubouchi described.

In old plays, there were occasionally what were called paired kyōgen performances. It would take two conventional kyōgen plays, interweaving them front and back with a tenuous connection and alternating them every act. Should this undergo a shift, one might call it a parallel progression style? In a structure where the separate actions of two protagonists branching from a single plotline develop roughly every other act—with the two threads being resolved nearly simultaneously as the finale approaches—it is said that generally, one side becomes the main plot while the other takes on the nature of an appended subplot. This form appears abundantly in San'yūtei Enchō’s ninjō tales and Kawatake Mokuami’s scripts. When I recalled the scripts Dr. Tsubouchi had published thus far, it struck me as peculiar how the actions of two protagonists became entangled in the development of a single incident. Yodo-dono and Katō Tomosada (*A Single Paulownia Leaf*; *The Fallen Moon over the Lonely Castle*), Lady Maki and Yoshitoki (*Lady Maki*), Nichiren and Kato Tomoji (*Persecution of Nichiren*)—all had been splendidly placed on equal footing. The emergence of such tendencies seemed rooted in Dr. Tsubouchi’s traditionalism. This script, too, bore that tendency. Sanetomo and the madwoman were assigned to these roles. I suspected this approach reflected a shift in thinking—that Dr. Tsubouchi had grown dissatisfied with his prior parallel progression style and now sought to have the two central characters meet face-to-face within single scenes wherever possible. Such patterns had already surfaced in *The Final Days of Yoshitoki*. The relationship between Sanetomo and the madwoman appeared to have solidified into a fixed form. Some might position Kugyō in the madwoman’s role, but I could not agree. To be sure, Kugyō might be termed either a sub-protagonist or supporting character. Yet by never allowing these two to share the stage, Dr. Tsubouchi seemed to have discarded remnants of the alternating paired style and parallel progression. Nevertheless, he had affixed a subheading—or what one might call a label—declaring it “the tragedy of Sanetomo, the Nun Consort, and Kugyō.” Depending on perspective, even excluding the Nun Consort, one might argue there were four protagonists by adding Fukami Saburōjirō to Kugyō. In a certain magazine, Dr. Tsubouchi himself had called the madwoman and Fukami mere “stage devices.” Yet if employed as such devices, there could be no objection to regarding them as protagonists.

To any observer, it was evident that even unconsciously, memories of Oferi-ya were at work in scenes of love-maddened singing or waterlogged deaths drifting downstream. By this logic, Sanetomo became Hamlet while Saneami trailed Horatio’s shadow.

This Koikubo madwoman diverged markedly from theatrical madwoman archetypes, precisely as the author had noted. Yet she remained fundamentally a post-Noh madwoman—emerging bamboo grass on shoulder. When I first read the script, I sensed Mr. Yanagita’s *Studies on Shrine Maidens* had subtly influenced Dr. Tsubouchi’s conception. Her self-declaration as a Kashima priestess—a choice made to incorporate the Kashima dance (something I hadn’t noticed in the script)—could have been set at Izu Mountain or Hakone without consequence. That Dr. Tsubouchi applied the teacher’s research—positing that Noh/Kabuki madness conventions stem from shrine maidens’ divine possession—I belatedly admired for its meticulous preparation.

When reading this, I couldn’t discern Sanetomo’s model, but regarding the madwoman: having heard of an onnagata named Otowaya—permitted to perform in Dr. Tsubouchi’s new musicals and dance pieces with repeated stage success—I became convinced she’d been patterned after this individual. Indeed, the role demanded such elaborate staging precisely because of its crucial nature. My conjecture wasn’t mere fancy—I believed Dr. Tsubouchi had surely intended this.

This Otowaya—perhaps through observing actresses across entire performances—reportedly strove to portray not male-impersonated women but women’s inherent unrestrained freedom, breaking constraints binding traditional female-role specialists and achieving partial success. Only such an actor—unbound by femininity’s trappings yet capable of performing womanhood through even masculine gestures—could embody this frenzied, unbridled madwoman convincingly.

I had presumed Dr. Tsubouchi aimed precisely here. Before opening night, newspaper rumors of cast changes—bringing Otowaya in for the Nun Consort role—led me to rashly conclude he’d requested Otowaya for the madwoman, given Masako’s potential dual casting. The reality proved otherwise.

Otowaya never came. Instead, Dr. Tsubouchi nominated a young troupe member—some Ozawa-ya successor—for the role, leaving me chagrined at my presumption. Upon reflection, this made sense: Dr. Tsubouchi had written in a magazine that beyond this young Ozawa-ya, none existed who could dance while singing with versatile voice mid-leap.

This young actor—reputed Kiyomoto successor—boasted celebrated vocal talent. Moreover, inheriting parental dance mastery, he was known for exacting standards. Thus while Dr. Tsubouchi’s reasoning held validity, could he truly have envisioned this performer from inception?

When I heard that, I somehow felt as though my courage to go see it had drained away. In truth, the actor playing Sanetomo also seemed to have a rather unfavorable reputation, and even if I heard that the madwoman—whom I considered another central figure—was an actor educated enough to be trusted with interpretive skill, there was likely a lack of gravitas. If that were the case, I was disheartened, certain that three or four parts of that play’s intrigue would surely diminish. Dr. Tsubouchi, in reality, had likely resigned himself in this manner because the prospect of bringing Otowaya had become unattainable—this I believed. Though it may be a conjecture-laden way of putting it, I still think so now. Indeed, that script contains many songs for the madwoman. However, since having a fine voice was not strictly required as a condition, I could not help feeling dissatisfied—wondering whether Otowaya’s voice, which they said was ill-suited for someone portraying a woman, might instead convey a sense of seasoned maturity and prove more compelling.

However, Wakazawa-ya fell ill midway through and became unable to appear on stage.
Then, well, what do you know?
In truth, I had heard it was supposed to be Maizuru-ya, but instead, a former child actor—the son of a Daimonji-ya actor who had only recently begun receiving what seemed like full-fledged treatment—was assigned to take over the role.
The madwoman role, which I had presumed would be played by Otowaya—a leading actor at the Imperial Theater—ended up being relegated to an extremely minor part.
Unable to make up my mind, I nevertheless went to see it on what is called Senshūraku—abbreviated as Raku—the final day of the performance.
Until the prologue began, I still thought Wakazawa-ya must have recovered and would appear, wondering how they intended to handle the madwoman.
I speculated whether they meant to employ trendy new staging techniques or emulate last year’s acclaimed *Sumidagawa* in its Hanjo-style approach with Hongyō-gakari (as my guide phrased it), all while pondering what directorial guidance Dr. Tsubouchi might have provided.

When the hill behind Bettō-in Temple appeared amidst darkness and thunderclaps, the familiar song—〝Ah, the Dragon Palace is near〟—could be heard.
However, that was a deep male voice.
"Hmm? That’s off," I thought.
But in that instant—just as I assumed others were singing as an offstage chorus and that once the madwoman herself appeared she would surely sing in her own voice—the stage gradually brightened, and the madwoman came running up from the depths of the left wing.
And so she sang while leaping about, dancing wildly.
The voice I had heard as offstage singing now continued emerging from her own mouth.
As for musical numbers and recitations—let alone dances and all such performances—for someone as utterly unversed as myself to comment on these matters is both presumptuous and mildly embarrassing. Yet since even discussing theater at all is fundamentally impertinent, I shall proceed as one resolved to lick the poison dish and speak my mind.
For someone as sensitive as Mr. Oka, it would be best to have him turn away from such matters—which is precisely why I’ve taken it upon myself.
Those university preparatory students who’d just arrived in Tokyo and become third-tier theatergoers would become undergraduates three years later, then after another three years when they obtained their bachelor’s degrees, turn into full-fledged theater connoisseurs writing actor critiques titled “So-and-So Theory,” growing self-important while others flattered them—so given that even your novice theater review written fresh from cutting your umbilical cord must hold some value of fifty steps versus a hundred steps, I ended up composing this audacious piece after being swayed by that smooth-talking flatterer’s cajolery; thus I ask you to kindly overlook its shortcomings just as you would others’.

Now, this Kashima Dance appeared to be one of the various offshoots of the nenbutsu dance tradition—a style with distinct hand and foot movements—that was still commonly performed in rural areas even then. One might call it a mass dance—in any case, because multitudes performed it simultaneously, spatial constraints on movement emerged, and it seemed they had abandoned that nenbutsu dance not merely for its primitiveness but also because its bodily execution had grown monotonous. Perhaps the Kashima dance of the Izu region originally had a longer tempo, but they may have condensed it in such a manner to accommodate the madwoman’s performance. In any case, the awkwardness arising from discrepancies in timing imparted something akin to the madwoman’s dance-like quality. However, it proved relatively lacking in rustic charm and utterly devoid of depth. I believe the young Maizuru-ya bore significant responsibility for this latter criticism. Even when wielding a fan, he produced no flavor beyond that of mere nenbutsu dancers’ handling. Even when contorting his body, he failed to achieve the suppleness displayed by the nenbutsu practitioners.

Dr. Tsubouchi had always been a practitioner of realism.
In theater theory debates, he had often argued that many constraints contained impractical elements ultimately impossible to implement.
It seemed stage naturalism could never be fully achieved.
I suspect even this Koikubo madwoman's dance became burdened by his insistence on presenting the Kashima Dance in unaltered form.
Dr. Tsubouchi—who must have read On Shrine Maidens—knew perfectly well that Noh and Kabuki madwomen don't mimic true lunatics' gestures, but rather stylized poses of divine frenzy (*ateburi*) from spirit-possessed mediums (*yorimashi*), never intending to replicate actual madness.
When commanded "Show us madness," those who start raving like farce actors deserve no consideration—yet even this madwoman's portrayal felt forced and unnatural in its crudeness, making me wish he'd allowed artistic adjustments to the Kashima Dance.
Through such modifications, greater rustic charm and depth could have emerged than what we saw.
Personally, I question the wisdom of adapting that nenbutsu-style dance as a solo performance.
The dancing accompanying Saneami's Ryojin Hisho recital at Nagoehama Palace fared better by comparison.
Inuō (this actor's proper role being the madwoman's part)—
When I attended, they'd substituted someone rumored to be Yamazakiya's apprentice instead of the expected performer.
This casting choice alone reveals how undervalued the madwoman role was—yet when expanded into a trio dance incorporating [other elements], it conjured an ecstatic vision worthy of Ippen Shōnin's illustrated scrolls.
The singing's masculine tones carried rustic appeal; beneath its Buddhist chant rhythms lay traces of work songs—boat chants and lumberjack calls—overlaid with what sounded suspiciously like Western vocal techniques.
Had they perhaps heavily incorporated elements from those fashionable new operas?
I couldn't help thinking—this being Dr. Tsubouchi who'd even inserted motion pictures into Yoshitoki's death scene.
Our musician colleague Yuri Teizō confirmed the Western tonalities, which reassured me.
Yet had the Kashima Dance's melodic phrasing truly deteriorated so far?
Watching the Kashima priestess' operatic performance left me feeling I'd witnessed something unanticipated in an unlikely place.
As for the Nagoe Palace scene—both songs and dances succeeded admirably.
That sentimental ballad *Though today's sun has set* resonated without excessive pathos through the actor's timbre and phrasing, creating an impression of polished execution.

However, that only his face in this scene took on a childishly dumbfounded expression was not good. After the thunder in the prologue had struck, when dragged up by Kugyō, his facial expression—half of it smeared with blood—showed considerable promise for the future. From what I have long heard, for Kabuki actors, the face is their lifeblood. If one’s face is ill-suited, no matter how skilled their technique, there is no prospect of advancement; even those blessed with the finest fortunes cannot expect more than the wretched honor of being called an “art-obsessed” supporting actor—such seems to be the case. This person may not be said to come from an outstanding lineage, but it is said their family standing allows them to receive any role commensurate with their skill. If an actor playing Inuō could accomplish this much, one might say there was hope for his artistry yet. As a Kabuki actor, the three essential qualities were now roughly in place through this performance. I was impressed that this person—who had by chance taken on Ani Otowaya’s role—managed to score even two out of ten points in an examination that had been a glorious yet daunting challenge even for his senior Wakazawa-ya.

When staging this script, the most difficult casting challenge was not Sanetomo but rather the Nun Consort.
I did not consider it as arduous a role as the author himself seemed to have envisioned, but in today’s theater world—both eastern and western—no suitable candidate existed.
If I may relay my assistant’s words, there was someone named Onoe Tamizo in Osaka.
They said this person’s onnagata would fit perfectly into such roles.
However, as I kept watching, an idea surfaced.
That was the notion: what if we had Narikomaya—the actor playing Sanetomo—attempt this role?
That coldly elegant face brimming with rational composure—this actor possessing such bearing would surely, with minimal effort, splendidly become the Nun Consort, I thought.
Before this play’s commencement, it had been decided that Ani Otowaya would temporarily join to perform this role.
Yet why had no one recalled such a qualified candidate existed?
If Dr. Tsubouchi regarded actors like Ani Otowaya or the Tachibanaya Elder as suitable for portraying the Nun Consort, then regarding the script itself, there existed a vast chasm between this and the Masako I had envisioned.
The Nun Consort was to appear only once this time, but since both Sanetomo and Kugyō’s tragic fates and Yoshitoki’s good fortune stemmed from this nun’s schemes backfiring, it proved an immensely challenging role requiring simultaneous gravitas.
There exists a theatrical term called “enduring male role” (shinbō tateyaku), but here this role type was to be performed by a woman.
The role’s unmanageability arose not merely from its passive reception but from how—through extremely sparse description yet abundant atmosphere—it came to loom over those three characters’ destinies.
Yet it would prove disastrous for her to become the villainous woman historians had thus far depicted.
Especially considering how this script portrayed the Nun Consort—

The day after this play premiered, newspapers repeatedly reported that during the scenes of the Nun Consort’s appearance on the Tang ship and the subsequent small boat scene offshore, audiences failed to maintain proper decorum, resulting in what might be called a commotion.
I had been on edge, thinking how greatly the viewing would be disrupted, yet this turned out to be unexpectedly quiet.
However—and I say this with embarrassment—perhaps due to my lack of sleep since the previous night, even I, who had been watching intently, found myself unable to withstand the blurring of my vision when the climactic dialogue between the two pivotal characters in the Tang ship scene reached its peak.
In modern plays—or what pass for such—there are often many scenes where two characters exchange opinions like this, but never once during such moments have I felt my heart stir.
That such discord arose in the scene of rivalry between Narikomaya—a highly acclaimed actor—and the Tachibanaya Elder, differing from hastily prepared student actors, is something that leaves one wondering what went wrong.
Could it also be due to their lack of familiarity with Kabuki theater?
I do not think so.
In the Kyōgen’s comic interludes, there is one called Shirazōji, you know.
That Shirazōji also appears in what are called dance pieces in Kabuki, but I distinctly remember the eerie feeling of the female Shirazōji sitting before Sanetomo.
That one was tediously and complainingly admonishing Sanetomo.
While her appearance showed an aspect befitting the Nun General, she was utterly unable to convey the emotional depth.
It appears that the actor, without any ingenuity, had simply followed Dr. Tsubouchi’s directive to avoid making her seem like nothing but a scheming female politician.
She could only be perceived as a naively kind widow.
With tateyaku’s subtle acting, even if it is mere form, they can make it appear to have substance up to a certain point. However, when it comes to onnagata’s subtle acting—being an unprecedented incident not born of true skill—there existed no worthy precedent for this person to emulate.
I thought—how remarkable that Dr. Tsubouchi could bring himself to entrust a two-person scene to people who advocate such hollow subtle acting.
As for Narikomaya’s Sanetomo, though it had to be approached as a mood-driven play, in the end, only the emptiness of their subtle acting became apparent.
While I agree with Dr. Tsubouchi’s interpretation of the Nun Consort’s character, the Nun Consort that emerged under his direction here leaves one at a complete loss.
This was a case of the actors being misused.
Will this, then, serve as an excuse for my dozing?

In the "Nagoehama Palace" scene, Saneami made his first appearance. What Takashimaya and the spectators shouted was likely this person's family name. Within this script, this is the most congenial role. I believe Dr. Tsubouchi, being less constrained by history, must have been able to exercise greater freedom. Though this personality did not align with this actor's inherent qualities, it emerged remarkably well. That he showed not a trace of affectation in a role that should have been sentimental struck me as refreshingly sincere above all else. This was aided by the actor's own impressive physique, countenance, and deep voice. At times, I found myself feeling disappointed that this was not Saneami-san with his delicate, aristocratic bearing. Yet precisely this quality allowed him to fully embody the recipient of all Sanetomo's actions on stage.

In scripts and plays that forbid authorial explanations through text or staging—when the protagonist possesses an ambiguous character and their complex emotions must be expressed through performance—the wisest method lies in introducing a character who overtly displays the majority of the protagonist's traits to materialize what cannot be fully revealed. While such an approach may appear thoroughly cowardly at first glance, it likely serves as an unavoidable means to compensate for inherent flaws in the drama's essence. Thus, if one can make audiences perceive that virtually all aspects of Saneami's character as presented in both script and performance not only exist within Sanetomo but encompass elements beyond him, it would function as an exceptionally convenient annotation.

Proceeding from this perspective—considering that Dr. Tsubouchi wrote Saneami as Wada's youngest son and selected Takashimaya, whose face and build suggest the Ninth Danjūrō imbued with rustic flavor, to realize him on stage—I find myself in complete agreement with his interpretation of Sanetomo. Far from objecting, I am profoundly gratified. Had this role been assigned to someone like that supposedly younger Tachibanaya (who must in truth be around fifty), it would have conformed too neatly to conventional expectations.

I now realize this concerns the actor called Takashimaya.
When we were still children, in an era when modern theater had not even sprouted, I had heard there existed an actor striving to introduce novelty into the plays of that time.
However, the world has since undergone unexpected transformations.
Such realities had also marked Dr. Tsubouchi, author of this script; yet even those aforementioned actors found themselves overtaken by successors.
Thus in today's world twenty or twenty-five years later, they appear content merely to whimsically dig up and discard stones from old fields occasionally, having lost even the will to till new slash-and-burn plots.
This seems particularly true of this actor.
He had not deemed following old-fashioned direction worthless, yet having faltered before discovering new techniques, I heard his craft had become something indecisive.
He stood as a pitiful victim of that transitional era.
Then after five or six years, rumors arose that this actor had devised an entirely novel method of line delivery.
Amidst this, his new dialogue technique found itself buffeted by whirlpools of scathing criticism.
Even so, he stubbornly persisted, prompting connoisseurs to shower him with venomous scorn.
What manner of delivery could this be? Though knowing little of theater yet always sympathetic to his traditional approach, I must confess my curiosity was piqued.
Well, in any case, it proved peculiar indeed.
Striving to break free from traditional 7-5 meter-based delivery, he adopted speech patterns vaulting over pause points to straddle subsequent metrical feet.
Consequently, between pauses emerged terrifying disparities in length.
When interspersed among more leisurely line deliveries, it created an oppressive stifling sensation.
That even we first-time viewers felt this so acutely suggests how it must have struck veteran Kabuki enthusiasts accustomed to polished productions as something beyond reproach.
Whether good or bad, grand or modest, that Kabuki actors—nurtured within tradition—pioneered even this sliver of innovation remains remarkable.
Yet this actor harbored more fundamental issues.
His excessive faith in Master Danjūrō's mood-driven dramas had fused with aspirations toward novelty, breeding contempt for formalist Kabuki techniques.

Therefore, he still ended up being classified among the ranks of great ham actors.
However, around last year, he seems to have begun an attempt to find plays called “new Kabuki theater” that are attuned to human nature while building upon tradition.
It appeared he had settled where he ought to settle.
Given that he was such a person, he was prepared to intuitively incorporate Dr. Tsubouchi’s direction.
He remained the cultured O-bō-san of samurai origin.
He also had sufficient strength to steadfastly endure.
That he fulfilled his duty as a true supporting role was, from the perspective of stage ethics, a refreshingly commendable thing.
I found it strange that there seemed to be something in common with a Noh actor named Hōshō Shin, whom I had seen once or twice.
I thought that he must be a man of considerable integrity—one who maintained the most reverent disposition when performing such a script.
Among those who played weighty roles, it was believed that only this person showed heartfelt respect toward Dr. Tsubouchi, the playwright.
That he danced to the imayō of Ryōjin Hishō without descending into vulgarity, and that he exuded a whimsical flair—this was indeed the mark of the Fujima school’s legitimate successor, those accompanying him marveled.
Neither resembling Ikkyū nor Saigyō, a youthful spirit had indeed emerged.
This, I believe, was also due to his facial features.
When I spoke like this, my companion—a connoisseur—stated, “Among today’s actors, there is no one who has mastered the art of transformation more skillfully than this person in this regard.”
The dialogue in Kotsubo no Okinaka was nothing more than an erotic fusion.
It did not sound like dialogue that emerged in mutual responsiveness to the other party’s words.
This person’s lines also leaned markedly toward formality.
This likely stemmed from this person’s inadequate artistry, but the weighty responsibility lay with the one called Narikomaya.
Ah, with a divergent approach to hara—or should I say, a compressed expression—and frequent emotional intensity (or perhaps one might call it a strained countenance),
(…seeming to reject hara that had become formalized and laden with excessive descriptive elements), even the Ninth Danjūrō—Takashimaya’s master—would not actually have prevailed against an opponent who fragmented the mood so intermittently.

Since they considered it a moral duty to uphold their role as supporting actors, it went without saying that they could not adopt methods that would dominate the role. Even though the author’s plan had aimed to soar above and beyond, on stage it ended up falling far short—a thoroughly lackluster affair. Particularly in the background of this scene, not only was there a lack of subdued elegance, but one also felt a terribly wretched impression. Because of this, it was regrettable that even the carefully prepared *gagaku* music served only to needlessly agitate the mind. The garishness of the purple and indigo color tones here and at Yuigahama felt unpleasant. In the placement of large props and the postures of the actors, one could discern Dr. Tsubouchi’s meticulous attention as a stage director who had worked hypersensitively, but in terms of color tones, an excessively lax approach was evident. Was it thought that by using the same old paints as before, the atmosphere on stage would align with this play? Yuigahama still had few points where it needed to rely on the assistance of the background. However, in the Kotsubo scene, it ended up inflicting a fatal wound.

In the scene at "Bettō-in Urateyama no Ue," when Kugyō emerged chasing the madwoman, the uproar inside the theater was extraordinary.
Thanks to this commotion, I came to know Takashimaya—the most popular actor of that time.
He appeared as a large-framed youth of seventeen or eighteen with certain underdeveloped aspects—a physique that seemed incongruous for his age.
This deficiency—stemming from his upper body's lack of fullness—had paradoxically proven advantageous.
His triangular eyes gave him the appearance of a young man inheriting warrior blood.
He possessed precisely the external form that matched Dr. Tsubouchi's envisioned Kugyō.
Moreover, regarding characterization, it seemed to have materialized exactly as Dr. Tsubouchi had conceived.
I had heard no contemporary actor surpassed him in faithful and astute script interpretation—a reputation I now found credible.
Yet I must voice a reservation.
This burden must be shared between author and actor alike.
When reading the script, my foremost impression was that despite Kugyō's numerous appearances, traces of substantive development remained conspicuously absent.
Considerable ingenuity had been devoted to varying external forms.
However, emotionally, Kugyō remained monotonous throughout—a consistency maintained equally in script and performance.
Other roles might escape this critique unscathed.
But here alone, such deficiency proves fatal.
Without demonstrating psychological evolution, even his vengeful spirit risks becoming simplistic to excess.
The author stands thus.
Precisely so.
One might say he intended to portray a monotonous character.
Yet this explanation feels insufficiently comprehensive.

In the first scene of the prologue and the Yuigahama scene, one could discern in the script a certain flavor of being written with a somewhat flawed, childish, and improvisational character. On stage, he had become nothing more than a man driven by compassion, forgetting all sense of major and minor judgments. I thought that a quality beyond mere mischievousness—something more whimsical, with a tendency for attention to shift—could have been added. Dr. Tsubouchi appeared to have overemphasized stage effects, gradually lowering the tone of character interpretation. I realized this might come across as overly critical and impolite, but it seemed to me that even Dr. Tsubouchi—who had rigorously rejected compromise—had his vision clouded by a mixture of seven parts desire to let his work see the light of day and three parts mundane safety born from practical staging considerations—that safe zone of conventionality emerging from aspects where the author’s interpretations became all too apparent. As a person wandering about in real life, Kugyō’s characterization might have seemed abnormal, but as a figure on stage, it amounted to nothing more than an ordinary human with an expectedly mundane character. That adhering to historical facts was naturally the proper approach to take in works centered on historical figures went without saying. In this regard, playwrights and novelists who reinterpreted history and modernized it with pride could not hold a candle to him. They were people who did not know how much better the act of sketching among our peers could be at discovering worthwhile things compared to half-baked abstractions or the puppetization of concepts. Might we have called it a sketch of historical facts? As for how much this enabled the author to grasp both truth and artistic elements—this was a matter that defied resolution when discussed in such terms. In years past, Dr. Tsubouchi had been made to emphasize realism, and as such, it showed not a trace of crude subjectivity. As for me, I held Dr. Tsubouchi’s attitude in high regard. Given this, how was it that I derived such an unbearably lonely feeling from Dr. Tsubouchi’s usual historical dramas? Dr. Tsubouchi’s so-called ideal of no-ideals had caused complications, and the writer’s inherent qualities (these had become entangled with the actors’ side—I must apologize—to the point of being painted over), which left one unsatisfied. To claim that individuality solved everything would have rendered it all too commonplace.But what else could there have been besides that? It was not deliberate but a necessity.Works that took history stripped of this as their theme were insipid.

Their insipidity differed not at all from works that donned subjectivity as armor and treated historical facts as mere expedients. To phrase it in historians' terms, this amounts to the same thing as the historical theories maintained by those who compile source materials. Any endeavor seeking to extract what fundamentally cannot be extracted shows no promise of success. Yet within these hues lie gradations of depth, and among these tendencies may exist both good and ill. What proves essential is that something allegorical emerges while adhering as faithfully as possible to historical facts. I believe the dispute between Dr. Tsubouchi and Ōgai over idealism versus anti-idealism likewise originated from mutual misunderstanding precisely on this point.

I must reiterate that I was not seeking something that touches the hearts of modern people or anything of that sort.
I wanted to see the shadow that falls upon a quiet mind free of preconceptions.
In Dr. Tsubouchi’s works, this did not emerge; instead, artificial constructs frequently took its place.
Even faithful historical research seemed to declare that, having prepared to avoid contradictions with historical facts, one should feel secure in giving free rein to imagination.
My belief that drama constitutes the ultimate form of historical discourse may have superficially resembled, yet fundamentally differed from, the approach of subjective writers who treated historical facts as mere expedients.
This was the fundamental objection to Dr. Tsubouchi’s works.
As for Kugyō’s character and such, historical research had been amassed to fully manifest stage effects, but the shadow of Kugyō allegorized by Dr. Tsubouchi was far too faint.
As I had already stated, even Dr. Tsubouchi himself did not necessarily consider it to be a monotonous one.
If it was to be simple, then within that simplicity, I wanted to see traces of the character growing steadily.
Even Fukami’s temptations were used by Dr. Tsubouchi solely to reinforce the motive for revenge.
Even after Saburōji’s appearance, Kugyō’s state of mind showed no complexity or depth whatsoever.
For an actor, this was where one could work independently from the stage director.
I had heard that Takashimaya was said to be the most quick-witted person, but what were we to make of that?
In that case, he became nothing more than a proxy acting on behalf of the stage director.
The essence of being an actor should have emerged even if one complied with the stage director’s instructions.
It was a good Kugyō.
However, it was an underdeveloped Kugyō.
It was for Dr. Tsubouchi and for Takashimaya.
My companion informed me that this actor was suited to portraying a monotonous character.
He always seemed to prefer roles where he was impatient, acted roughly, or shouted—was that really a good thing?

Even if one discards the old mold, if a new shell forms, it amounts to nothing—this is a foregone conclusion. This Kugyō, too, was such a tailor-made role. Just because one is an actor does not mean it is permissible not to study. To perform Dr. Tsubouchi’s works, they should read even a portion of the historical materials he studied and not remain content with interpreting only the script. Even actors who were uneducated and lacked new cultivation could, strangely enough, intuitively grasp a character’s nature and demonstrate astonishing interpretive power in actual performance—such cases existed. As for this actor, he could occasionally be spotted at old book exhibitions, and there were rumors that he enthusiastically purchased various rare books. I could not help but hope that such a pastime would not lead this actor to become fixed in his ways but would instead aid him in steadily evolving. In this portrayal of Kugyō, the superficial efforts to present him as a man even younger than twenty were evident, but if one believed the guide’s account, it amounted to nothing more than seeing the very Kugyō we had imagined without having witnessed him firsthand. Among the ideals for Kabuki actors in the early modern period was what was called *kaneru*—the ability to embody multiple roles. It referred to a single actor’s capacity to master all the various character types that had been classified into different categories. From the end of the Tokugawa era into the Meiji period, actors gradually came to exhibit an inclination toward embodying multiple roles. In Osaka actors, this tendency was pronounced, but in Tokyo, those regarded as leading figures had generally returned to a style where actors adhered to their designated roles and did not much embody multiple roles. However, even among them, there were few who persisted as monotonously in performing the same type of roles as this Takashimaya. Yet this would not have the slightest iota of impact on his value as an actor. The issue lay in how, as a result of this, the staging methods had become fixed.

The act of playwrights writing characters tailored to actors’ inherent types was denounced as a sin by those so-called naive critics who insisted on oversimplifying the essence of the theatrical arts. However, given that theater—even works not classified as Kabuki plays—seemed more complex than any other art form, I supposed we ought to temper such vigorous fervor for now. When it came to theater, it appeared that up to a certain point, this preparation by the playwright was necessary. Perhaps because of this, authors like Okamoto and Yamazaki, who constantly supplied scripts for this actor, also tended to write monotonous characters. From such alignment of styles between authors and actors emerged a sequence: the reduction of ingenuity and effort, followed by complacency, fixation, and decline. If an actor claimed that their only struggle with each new play was the memorization of lines, then that actor was already on a steady path to decline. It seemed unthinkable that an actor who could rightfully be declared the founder of Japan’s modern theater in the truest sense would have sunk to such a state. However, in the Kugyō that appeared on stage—though Dr. Tsubouchi might have tailored the role to this person and perhaps could not request anything beyond this person’s habitual staging methods—it remained regrettable that there had been neither profound interpretation nor any novel direction whatsoever. When it came to theater, to change the author’s intent and dialogue as one pleased had to be called a sin. However, I believed this vehement insistence on such matters only emerged once scripts began to be treated as literary works. The idea of viewing theater through a literary-centric lens might occur to anyone, but it needed to be reconsidered. Theater was not an appendage of the literary arts. Just as one had to value the script, there were still other elements that required cherishing. In the current era, being faithful to the script was considered the highest act in the theatrical art. Indeed, the fact that Mr. Takashimaya was regarded as a pioneer among new-era actors had this very point as its primary reason. However, suppose there were instances where a script inferior to the actor’s ability was provided, and they had to perform it. In fact, such instances must have occurred frequently. Even a highly capable author might sometimes write a script—whether in whole or in part—of low value. In such cases, what should the actor truly do? To me, it was a settled question.

However, among young literary scholars involved in the theater world, there are many who believe that even in such cases, actors must have their freedom constrained.
No—it is precisely such people who are everywhere.
Actors had a tendency to attempt to exercise freedom beyond their rightful due.
Even now, such a trend remains prevalent.
They attempt to suppress authors not through ability but through power.
In a theatrical world prone to such conditions, remaining faithful to this script becomes something highly worthy of praise.
But I had thought I wanted to make this one request of this actor.
Adhere to the script, provide a faithful and proper interpretation, and if one can grasp depths not manifested within it, strive to express them.
Time and again, I think one must take care not to stray beyond the author’s interpretation but to deepen it.
Even when speaking of Nanboku and Mokuami among playwrights of old, compared to first-rate actors of their time, they were indeed generally a step below in terms of ability.
Those actors may have been quite willful, but even these uncultivated individuals—through their unique intuitive power—often drew out depths latent within scripts; this can be asserted with near certainty.
Dr. Tsubouchi’s script differs from those created by authors of old.
However, because it remains bound by historical facts (in the sense of being misunderstood as compliance), there are places where free interpretation does not emerge.
As actors, they are permitted to infuse deeper content into the form provided by Dr. Tsubouchi.
In such circumstances, I find it questionable that Mr. Takashimaya naively adopts only literature-centric arguments from his scholar friends.

Finally, allow me to discuss just one role that stands out.
This is none other than the crucial Sanetomo portrayed by Narikomaya—a role I had reserved for discussion until now.
There had long been talk questioning whether Narikomaya, being far too advanced in years, could fully embody the young author of the *Kinkai Wakashū*.
In Kabuki theater—which advances various stage actions while standing on compromise, convention, and tradition—even the audience was not permitted extreme freedom of appreciation.
The casual impressions of rural spectators and the like were rejected even more than other arts would justifiably dismiss.
(Our discussion here is, in truth, but one such impression that ought to be dismissed.) Realism, too, was ultimately a matter built upon convention and exaggeration.
In the strictest sense, realism had always failed.
The female-role actors on stage must never be considered realistic depictions of actual women.
It was a fantasy grounded in realism.
While female, they displayed many male elements, possessing a decadent androgyny.
The same applied to the matter of age.
A genuine seventeen- or eighteen-year-old actor could never become a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old young onnagata on stage.
Unless one could perceive what appeared to be twenty-five or even seventy-eight as eighteen or nineteen, one could not be called a true spectator of Kabuki theater.
If one were watching near the *hanamichi* and remarked on how the area around the mouth and throat was covered in wrinkles, such statements would belong to the clumsy remarks of so-called “peasants,” it must be said.
Now, if one were to view such shortcomings with extreme leniency, it would still have been difficult to believe that the Kamakura Minister of the Right—a man of samurai lineage—could have possessed such dignity, authority, and grace.
Too much was as bad as too little—so much so that in the middle gate corridor scene, with retainers clutching at his hem during entrances and exits, one might have wondered if this could truly be the child of Yoritomo and Masako.
For an actor to truly embody their role was where their efforts should lie; while falling short of the role was naturally undesirable, exceeding it brought no honor either.
However, curiously enough, those who exceeded their roles were not inherently disagreeable, so people did not censure them as they would when they fell short.
But that was merely a matter of being pleasant.
If Murai Chōan ended up appearing as a genuinely sincere person, or Tanbaya Hachiemon came off like an actor specializing in gentle roles, it became utterly problematic.

However, such points may be permissible up to a certain point.
In Kabuki theater—which pursues pictorial beauty and weaves beautiful dreams—excess itself constitutes beauty; thus there should be permissible leniency in that it at least avoids causing unpleasantness.
The foremost condition under which Dr. Tsubouchi permitted this play’s staging must have been his demand to render Sanetomo as a figure equipped with qualities deemed “below.”
This Sanetomo lacked noble wildness.
The living Sanetomo may have been one who struggled considerably to discard his roughness.
The young courtier portrayed by Mr. Narikomaya had a bearing that, speaking of contemporaries, would evoke someone like Regent Gokyōgoku.
Even Dr. Tsubouchi’s script contained ample traces of that tendency, yet it had not gone this far.
This stemmed not only from the inherent qualities I previously mentioned backfiring but also from the fixed nature of Narikomaya’s interpretive faculties.
Modernized History Plays (*katsureki*—you are likely aware this abbreviates *katsurekishi*,
It is a purely formalist history play born from the alignment of tastes between Fukuchi Ōchi and the ninth Danjūrō.
When one considers how profoundly *katsureki* methodology—which has culminated in staging historians’ petrified theories and antiquarians’ phantoms, yielding works severely deficient in artistic flavor—compromises with conventional historical views, the capacity of this quasi-Danjūrō disciple of an old actor to characterize Sanetomo had been evident from the outset.
Age and such matters are not things to consider problematic given Kabuki’s inherent nature.
This single point constitutes an exceedingly significant matter.
Why was this role not entrusted to someone possessing the potential for free criticism—someone suited to historical figures?

When people compared Dr. Tsubouchi and Mori Ōgai, they complacently classified the former as compromise-inclined and the latter as belonging to the non-compromising faction—a grave misapprehension. To praise Ōgai-sama, one might invoke the phrase “harmonizing brilliance with the mundane.” Could it be that his protracted bureaucratic career had tempered his moral rigor? For those of our disposition, he had often made compromises that would have struck us as intolerable. Dr. Tsubouchi, by contrast, revealed himself so inflexible as to seem obstinate—a man who, once having declared his stance, would not yield even to leverage. His scrupulous ethical sense frequently took on a pedantic cast, while his worldview as a battle-hardened soul tended to be dismissed as mere conventionality. Having championed non-idealism and embraced moralism, he plunged unflinchingly into Japan’s most reviled underclass—the outcast communities—making it inevitable that ordinary folk should deem him a compromiser. Yet upon examining Dr. Tsubouchi’s posture toward society, one discovers countless instances where he formed an unanticipated counterpoint to Mori Ōgai. Afflicted by what might be termed theater-mania—call it stage obsession or drama fever—this tenaciously clinging malady brought Dr. Tsubouchi more calamity than fortune. His ventures foundered repeatedly. He likely forfeited substantial sums. Even handpicked disciples—adopted sons no less—deserted him. The theatrical company he had envisioned as his life’s work now lay uprooted beyond redemption—a tragedy to contemplate. Long ago he had sought refuge in academia; more recently he publicly vowed to sever all theatrical ties. Yet invariably he slipped back into that world’s embrace—as though truly pondering, “Shall I carry this unresolved longing through cycles of death and rebirth?” In Mr. Sōseki’s antipathy toward compromise lay transparent traces of Chinese-style literati affectation and Edoite performative disdain.

Dr. Tsubouchi’s case had a bit more depth to it.
Had Dr. Tsubouchi lived in a manner avoiding society’s misconception that he was a connoisseur-type harboring goodwill toward those disparaged as society’s foulest outcasts, he would assuredly have been regarded as nothing more than an obstinate scholar.
This time too, he had been declaring he would not rejoin the theater world beyond *Hoshizukiyo*.
Yet Dr. Tsubouchi’s tenacity could never be constrained by such proclamations.
The theater diehard’s dogged persistence carved out margins for compromise—allowances never shown even faintly to broader society.
While rigorously guarding against overstepping authorial boundaries, Dr. Tsubouchi simultaneously comprehended all too keenly that theater is shaped not by authors alone.
There had apparently been numerous instances where they found themselves compelled to reluctantly compromise with the venerable old man, sour-faced all the while.

Dr. Tsubouchi, tormented by such contradictions, felt to me like someone who touched the depths of my heart far more than Mori Ōgai’s methods ever could.
That society tended to perceive Mori Ōgai as weak and Dr. Tsubouchi as strong—it could well be said that this matter alone was the cause.

Narikomaya—the Kabuki-za’s executive artistic director, who prided himself on his aristocratic features and refinement—must have both thought and declared that he should naturally model himself after Sanetomo. Yet why did Dr. Tsubouchi not press to correct this misguided approach? Given how perfectly he matched society’s inherited notions of court nobles’ appearances, one cannot imagine Dr. Tsubouchi willingly entrusting such a pivotal role to this man who had devolved into a listless quasi-retiree. But having fully grasped even the sentiments of producers and audiences—who believed this play would flounder unless Narikomaya, as leading actor, took the protagonist’s role—Dr. Tsubouchi must have made his first compromise at the critical juncture. As I noted earlier, given this female-role actor’s reputation (which even struck me at a glance) for displaying a politically calculated effort to safeguard his position throughout, Dr. Tsubouchi could not have overlooked how ideally suited he was for the Nun Consort’s role.

In Narikomaya’s conception, [Sanetomo] must have appeared as nothing more than a melancholic character. If Sanetomo had been the type to extract only bitterness from even the finest delicacies presented to him, then Mr. Narikomaya’s direction might have satisfied up to a point. However, we consider Sanetomo to have been a more straightforwardly simple person—self-indulgent yet shrewd, capricious and impulsive, a man with audacity in action yet prone to reflection. Not a trace of such qualities was visible. The same sensation one felt when hearing nouveau riche and wealthy farmers—indifferent to complex verses—chant Noh songs arose during the protracted dialogues of the Tang Ship and Small Jar scenes. I heard that additions like *kurogo* or *kuronbo* behind actors stemmed from insufficient time since the opening to fully memorize lines—yet in such instances, emotions and words became mismatched in pacing, as if muttering “Could it really be like this?”, while preposterous emphases intruded where least appropriate. Even so, during exchanges with the Nun Consort—who remained passive throughout—the latent power she exuded left its mark even on a troubled, dream-addled mind. The scenes at Kotsubo Okichū proved so gratingly irritating they made one’s skin crawl. The curtain-closing line “Kakushite yatsutaramugoi hai” in its distasteful traditional form—blended with jarring modernized history plays and new historical drama (I heard Takashimaya’s faction employed some peculiar erotic fusion)—alongside its jumbled dialogue delivery contained elements that single-handedly reduced this performer’s portrayal of Sanetomo to failing marks.

As long as the *Azuma Kagami* is treated as the foundational historical source for studying Sanetomo’s character—though this may be unavoidable—Sanetomo will only appear distorted. Rumors, legends, and deliberate revisions had surely intruded in full measure, given the nature of that chronicle. Dr. Tsubouchi was unable to completely escape the shackles of the *Azuma Kagami*. Not only that, but he often discarded both compliance and intuition, resulting in mere enumerations. We believe—though this is a rather broad assertion—that such arguments from critics who, like devotees of modern theater, lack ideas and themes, and thus excessively emphasize literary aspects, stem from a failure to comprehend the essence of theater itself. However, I find it regrettable that under Dr. Tsubouchi’s meticulous attention to structural composition, a flaw in true character portrayal becomes visible. The character I speak of is that which becomes the fundamental force of tragedy, expanding causal threads into destiny. Dr. Tsubouchi annotated this as the tragedy of the Nun Consort, Sanetomo, and Kugyō, but this tragedy is not one of fate. Nor is it, of course, a tragedy of character. It might be called a “relational tragedy”—an awkward term, but one that rejects elements arising from human dealings. The flaw in the old-style structure—one that deceives audiences into exclaiming “Ah!”—is something Dr. Tsubouchi was fully aware of. Even if my bones turned to relics, I do not think a time will come when the techniques of past playwrights are slavishly imitated. However, the excessive knowledge concerning theater’s formal aspects must not be allowed to draw Dr. Tsubouchi into such a predicament henceforth.

The era in which I grew up was when Dr. Tsubouchi and Venerable Ōgai’s influence was being properly exerted.
To what extent I had been enlightened in pure literature by these two figures—Dr. Tsubouchi and Venerable Ōgai—could only be fully understood by others of similar age and standing.
I believe it was around when I finally became a middle school student that I saw *Maki no Kata*.
Recalling how there had been an addendum in that Shun’yōdō-published book—the one with a black cover bearing the three-scale crest on its frontispiece or elsewhere—stating that this script would form a trilogy alongside two subsequent works about Sanetomo and Yoshitoki to be published later, I grew all the more astonished at Dr. Tsubouchi’s persistence and tenacity.

The world had changed.
While Dr. Tsubouchi had devoted considerable attention and cultivated deep expertise in both stagecraft and actors, the audience had completely transformed.
The times had come to demand thought-provoking plays containing ideas and social issues.
Those who advocated such demands were indeed superficial people.
However, the remainder of the audience was steadily maturing.
Child actors' shrill voices and tragic scenes had become such that even those susceptible to tears were now few in number.
The essential groundwork for proper theater appreciation had indeed been laid through Dr. Tsubouchi's efforts—with partial credit to Venerable Ōgai and others.
Structure-focused plays too should have reached their natural conclusion by that time.

Mokichi-san.
“I have gone on at length with this troublesome talk.”
“I will stop here.”
“Now then, please fully stretch your hands onto the tatami and take a deep, relieved breath.”