Pathway to Japanese Literature

In our youth, watching Kabuki theater was considered shameful.
In other words, theater was not something gentlemen should watch.
Even now, I cannot speak of theater with the cheerful ease of my young friends. My knowledge of drama is akin to money a delinquent pilfers from a shop’s cashbox—nothing remarkable in principle, yet somehow shameful.
Please laugh off the self-deprecating pride clinging to my words.

This was not limited to theater, but what became most crucial was determining which character within a work held the author's deepest affection. Chikamatsu poured his love beautifully upon his dramatis personae. After Chikamatsu, this vanished entirely. Even when affection existed, it felt undeniably mechanical. Being truly a first-rate literary figure who possessed this quality, reading Chikamatsu's works brought one profound tranquility.

After Chikamatsu, stage techniques advanced remarkably. Playwrights began employing contrivances where characters and puppets remained oblivious to their own layered conflicts and anguish while audiences watched with knowing amusement—techniques perfected through artifice. Takeda Izumo, said to have inherited foundational methods from Chikamatsu via Ōuchi Tomo no Torimochi or similar channels, demonstrated outstanding technical mastery. Judged purely by such standards, many surpassed Chikamatsu. Yet contemplating this led me to conclude he ultimately excelled through poetic diction alone.

I had long maintained such views. But upon reaching this age, a quiet reassurance settled within me—that plays contain something vital transcending even Jōruri's structural conventions. I came to realize what matters most remains an author's unwavering affection consistently manifest throughout.

Today, even modern theater practitioners praise Kabuki as part of their ancestral heritage, but if they are praising it with regard to stage techniques and such, that is a mistake.

To label such contrived elements as the stage techniques of puppet theater playwrights is pitiable.
They had devised even more intricate elements into the fundamental structure of plays, leaving them as a legacy for posterity.
But as long as it remained steeped in so-called “technique upon technique,” it felt shallow.
Of course, in *The Calligraphy Manual*, such techniques had considerably advanced; even elements that seemed contrived showed less superficiality and fewer narrative breakdowns.
However, this work should not be viewed solely through the lens of its stage techniques.
Even so, there was considerable authenticity.

Even now, when watching acts like Dōmyōji and Ga no Iwai from *The Calligraphy Manual*, one keenly felt the lack of suitable actors. Moreover, before this cast was finalized, rumors had appeared in the newspapers that Kikugorō upset people by insisting on playing Umeō, Matsuō, and Sakuramaru all by himself. Kikugorō possessed a consciousness of taking on multiple roles—reports suggesting his eagerness to impress this upon audiences’ minds had leaked widely to the public. That might not have been true, yet one was made to feel it could be so. Well, it would likely be only after he accomplished several more outstanding performances as a true female-role specialist that the public itself would come to acknowledge him. Merely lending an ear to theater-district gossip made one feel an ungentlemanly shame—but Kikugorō’s mere conception of playing all three triplet brothers alone deepened the sense that the entire play had become devoid of people. No wonder—even we who did not claim allegiance to the Otowaya faction found ourselves thinking: “Ah, indeed.”

Kikugorō was a man of considerable common-sense intelligence as they say, and his acting precision was unparalleled; however, rather than technique, he excelled in the “intuition” of overall composition—envisioning completed structures whose aptness made the scale of his stagecraft appear precise, so that audiences often perceived it as accurate acting. He was an actor who always gave the impression of operating within limitations. He himself, aware of those limits, would sometimes portray roles drained of passion. Therefore, when faced with roles he did not excel in, adopting an attitude of earnest determination to embrace them was the proper path.

In *The Calligraphy Manual*, Sakuramaru felt most nostalgic, longing, and sorrowful.
If she were an ordinary woman, she would surely conjure Sakuramaru’s phantom and, in the same breath, feel a sense of humility—*I am a woman unworthy of Sakuramaru*.
That, too, was a happiness characteristic of women of old.
However, the puppet Sakuramaru was not necessarily so.
The guide to love, of course, was compelled into a *michiyuki* (journey scene), where instead of luggage, he ended up carrying Prince Saiyo and Princess Kariya separately as they fled.
Such a thing was not something ordinary people could accomplish.
In other words, they conceived him as a man of considerable strength precisely because he was a cowherd retainer.
Yet when one conceived of him as such a Herculean man, the phantom image of Sakuramaru shattered.
Even the romantic affair with Yae at Kamogawa Embankment and its nuances, when viewed in Jōruri, were written as a substantial male lead role.
They could not help but evoke a man in full maturity.
In the initial planning discussions among the puppet theater playwrights, it must have been such a Sakuramaru.

Kikugorō’s Sakuramaru was excellent.
I believed this was among his recent achievements.
In Kabuki theater—were they not placing too much emphasis on innate talent?
Upon seeing this Sakuramaru，I was thoroughly convinced of that thought.
I thought Kikugorō had created a truly fortunate opportunity for me.
The act of praising something when done well—truly，this allows us all to share in and enjoy virtuous sentiments together.
Kikugorō compelled unconditional praise to follow him in domestic plays，but when it came to historical plays，conditions inevitably arose.
Even when it resulted in performances that felt nearly flawless.
However，this was also good in its way.
Even in performances where improvisation and emotional fervor propelled Kikugorō，he invariably maintained compositional structure，making leaps while adhering to narrative continuity.
In such cases，it was decidedly good.
With historical plays，considerable miscalculations emerged within those compositional structures.
There were times when his descriptive tendencies failed full expression，when sequences resisting stylization became fragmented by peripheral showmanship.
That fragmentary elements were good proved acceptable under old-fashioned direction merely stringing together *mie* poses.
In Kabuki theater attempting new directions like Kikugorō’s，it often rang false。
The one who knew all this best was Kikugorō himself。
Yet even when executing prescribed *mie* poses，he stopped at four-tenths or five-tenths—an odd quantification—leaving them incomplete。
Something unresolved lingered。
The *mie* lost its true intent。
Thus with prescribed *mie* poses，it was not Kikugorō but audiences who grew flustered，feeling shame。

But truly, he did not merely avoid it. At times, he would suddenly strike a grand *mie* pose. At Ōkuchi-ryō’s exterior, during the parting with Ushimatsu in the passage where he says “Tsukuba oroshi…,” I was utterly astonished by Naosamurai’s recent performance. Fundamentally, even in dances that prioritized earthy vigor, he sidestepped this and rendered them into something oddly refined. This was but one example: it lay in not disruptively fragmenting the stage that Kikugorō’s defining trait resided—and yet it was also Kikugorō who, obsessing over partial direction, ended up cutting it to pieces. However, I think this contradiction was understandable. Discarding things, lacking enthusiasm, taking things lightly—the tendency to critique his style arose precisely when this fragmentation occurred. At the same time, when he was spoken of as a master actor, it was often in such instances that they made such remarks.

I, like Kikugorō, consider moving toward eliminating *mie* in domestic plays to be proper.
But in historical plays, I wonder what would happen if we were to abandon *mie* now.
I think it would likely leave us utterly helpless.
Even among the same stylized conventions, there are those that emerge gradually and those that accumulate with frequency.
Types such as narrative and fight choreography should be considered forms of dance, yet it feels almost unnatural that only frenzy is exclusively treated as dance.

Sakuramaru’s seppuku and such are stylized conventions to such a degree that we amateurs do not perceive them as stylized at all. Transcending social status, one could perform it as Kuga-no-suke’s seppuku—or even as En’ya Hangan’s. As the manner of a young man’s suicide, performing it precisely as Kuga-no-suke himself would suffice. Therefore, according to the maruhon puppet scripts’ original specifications, it should be performed as a wagoto male lead role approached with the exact mindset of a lower-ranking samurai. This is being staged under what they call the young lord roles of the wakashugata style. There exist no realism advocates who would demand performing this with the pretense of him being a cowherd retainer.

Uzaemon was someone who devoted his entire career to young male roles, but even he required considerable experience to fully master characters like Kuga-no-suke, Sakuramaru, or Rikiya.
Moreover, his sensitive eyes and sharp movements were suited for roles like Benten Kozō and Shirai Gonpachi, yet for a long time they were deemed unsuitable for dignified young male roles.
But his talent spoke volumes, and he came to be thought of as a born Sakuramaru and Kuga-no-suke.
After Uzaemon left, it evoked the sorrow of saying that Sakuramaru too would no longer appear in the world.
When Kikugorō’s Sakuramaru was reported on, many inferred that it could not possibly measure up to Uzaemon’s.
Therefore, even after it was staged, the same opinions surfaced in critics’ critiques.
In that case, apart from innate talent, the actor’s performance would be beyond reproach.

Uzaemon’s Sakuramaru was excellent. The innate beauty of his talent made him perfectly suited for the role of Sakuramaru as a young lord-type character. Moreover, the way his appearance and artistry—unclouded by doubt, as if laying bare a pure heart—harmonized, the beautiful, plaintive recitation of his lines: if one were to dissect such impressions, no Sakuramaru other than him would seem worth considering.

As for Kikugorō’s appearance, I hold it in very low regard. More than his round face or thick jaw, it is his occasionally unnaturally gleaming eye that I find myself fixated on. When that gleamed, it was a particularly pitiful moment for Kikugorō’s countenance. When he played a role suited to his type, this one eye would begin to gleam. However, when he played female-role specialists or certain types of male leads, that eye failed to gleam at all. At such times, his easily exposed self was effaced, and the stage became a world of pure art. He had to become beautiful above all else. Compared to Uzaemon, who could manage without any sense of exertion, he undoubtedly needed effort to suppress his inherent tendencies. When he approached the role with reverence, his artistry radiated brilliance. In roles like the Lion at the Mirror’s *maejite*, Lord En’ya’s bloodshed and seppuku, or the Rinnō-ji abbot—as his artistry gained immense universality, his appearance too became astonishingly beautiful.

Sakuramaru was exactly that. As for this performance's outcome—whatever criticism might follow—he himself knew it well. For this reason, had he forgotten his resolve to achieve beauty when taking the stage this time, it would likely have turned out as crude and unsightly as the recent Shirai Gonpachi performance. I observed that his countenance too was commendable. Beyond this, each gesture of his body conveyed Sakuramaru's sorrow. A voice merely beautiful sufficed to express the anguish within his breast. In Uzaemon's case too, he had been a Sakuramaru born of innate essence. In Kikugorō's case as well, he prioritized essence over technique—first cultivating a reverent mood before immersing himself in it as Sakuramaru. I do not claim he surpassed Uzaemon through technical skill. He was an artist capable of elevating an inferior voice into an atmosphere that transfigured his appearance into beauty.

When I saw his Sakuramaru, I felt that what I thought had been lost through Uzaemon’s decline and demise had been reclaimed in another form, filling me with blissful contentment.

Sakuramaru committed seppuku and perished at the Celebration of Longevity, while his wife Yae died after a desperate struggle in a Kitayama hermitage.
Yet there remains one more scene where Sakuramaru appears.

In Act Five, the one who storms into the imperial court as the thunder god is not Michizane.
In *Tenjin-ki* they have him appear, but in this work, Michizane is written only to emerge as an illusion at most.
If they were to have Michizane wreak havoc in the imperial palace, it would become unfitting for him as both sage and loyal deity; thus, they likely refrained from overt depiction.
If they did not devise some handling method, I think the staging of Michizane’s spirit in this scene would prove difficult.
In any case, as substitute apparitions, the vengeful spirits of Sakuramaru and his wife emerge instead, dashing about the imperial court to thoroughly torment their enemies.
This must have also been necessary because otherwise, there would have been no way to resolve their having been overwhelmed by Tokihira’s spiritual authority in the "Kurumaba" scene.

In *Sugawara and the Secrets of Calligraphy*, Sakuramaru’s position was of crucial importance.
Regardless of whom the author had considered the protagonist within the work, it remained a fact that they had collectively approached it with deep interest in Sakuramaru.

In Kabuki theater, interpretations had gradually shifted over time.
Sakuramaru had been steadily regressing in portrayed age.
Moreover, it had come to pass that even female-role specialists took on [the role], with Sakuramaru in a loosened kimono making dance-like gestures.
This was something I did not yet fully grasp, but since he was a cowherd retainer who had not undergone the coming-of-age ceremony, they likely reasoned by equating him to an ordinary man in society—thus interpreting his forelock style as marking youthfulness, and young male roles being performed even by female-role specialists through such logic.
In any case, I thought Sakuramaru having become so beautiful represented a fine achievement attained by Kabuki theater.

Let us consider why Sakuramaru was written.
When comparing Chikamatsu’s *Tenjinki* with *Sugawara Denju Tenarai Kagami*, we find that in the former, Shiratayu had three children: an elder son named Aratōta followed by two daughters, Komatsu and Koume.
That this became the triplets Matsuō, Umeō, and Sakuramaru in *Sugawara Denju Tenarai Kagami* is something anyone would acknowledge.
As for these triplets, their conception is said to have incorporated an actual event where triplets were born among parishioners of the Tenjin Shrine in Osaka’s Tenma district and received an official reward—an approach that seems entirely appropriate and as it should be.

Ara Tōta’s character had not been directly transferred to Matsuō, but I found Ikeda Yasujirō’s remark intriguing—he sensed Umeō might be the eldest among the triplet brothers of Umeō, Matsuō, and Sakuramaru. Umeō inherited the duties of his father Shiratayu, who served Chancellor Sugawara, becoming Michizane’s retainer and even following him to Chikushi. When centering on the master served, the theory of Umeō being the eldest son seemed plausible enough. Yet in theatrical productions, there had been a growing tendency to position Matsuō as the elder brother. One might say Matsuō represented Ara Tōta from *Tenjinki* transformed into a villain role. Consequently, any staging that prolonged his transition into villainy was misguided. Had Matsuō consistently maintained a villain’s resolve through his post-*Terakoya* appearances, his portrayal in Jōruri would have been correct. Kabuki’s innovation lay in exaggerating him as a male lead in *Kurumaba* while elevating him to a long-suffering protagonist in *Ga no Iwa*. Though this differentiated creativity deserved recognition, from Jōruri’s perspective it marked a deviation. By rendering Matsuō excessively wicked, Kabuki prolonged his tenure as antagonist beyond measure. This itself was permissible—but with no path for reversal, Kabuki-style staging inevitably arose.

There is also an explanation that Ara Tōta became Sukunetarō.
We may accept such differentiation of character traits, but this was not part of the original conception.
Matsuō rather resembles Hata no Kanetake from *Tenjinki*.
Kanetake was Tokihira’s retainer but formed a bond with Shiratayu’s daughter Komatsu and had their child made into an adopted child of Michizane’s wife.
From this incident, Kanetake—though his master was Tokihira—came to devote himself to Michizane.
This aspect reflects Matsuō’s nature, while the earlier section involving female interactions follows Genzō-style logic—a complex creation indeed.

However, having compared both characters in this manner, I do not mean to draw out any significant meaning from it.

When creating works, one does not meticulously reason through each detail, stretching or dividing characters’ personalities to craft them. After *Tenjinki* had been internalized within, these personalities freely differentiated and merged to emerge naturally. A method of analysis that rigidly specifies from whom elements derive up to this point and to whom they belong hereafter—the more granular it becomes, the more flaws it reveals.

Komatsu, having announced herself as Izayoi, resided in the capital and soon met a violent end.
When one imagined a form where these two personalities—Komatsu and her younger sister Koume—had fused into one, Sakuramaru emerged.
Particularly in Act Five of *Tenjinki*, where Komatsu manifested as a vengeful spirit, it must be clearly stated that this undeniably influenced how Sakuramaru’s vengeful spirit dashed about the imperial court in the same Act Five—even in Chikamatsu’s *Heike Nyogo no Shima*, two vengeful spirits appeared in the palace.
They were the spirits of Tōya, the wife of Shunkan, and Ama Chidori.
These things were, rather, akin to psychoanalysis.

In *Sugawara and the Secrets of Calligraphy*, female characters were introduced with particular emphasis.
The play assigned the three wives—Chiyo, Haru, and Yae—to the three brothers.
This created a serene and beautiful atmosphere at the Celebration of Longevity, but one could argue that the inclusion of three women stemmed from how Chikamatsu’s original two sisters had been differentiated into three wives in this adaptation.
When viewed through Kabuki’s lens, Chiyo occupied the foremost position of importance, yet through Jōruri’s perspective, Yae emerged as pivotal with Chiyo secondary—effectively reducing them back to two principal women.

If we continued discussing in this manner, there would be no time to address the subtleties the authors had cultivated. Shōraku, Senryū, and Izumo found themselves deepening their affection for the work's characters as they wrote.

When we ask where the essence of Jōruri lies, it is in the pathos evoked by the characters within the work. And it is common for those who carry this pathos to occupy the position of protagonist in a work or an act. For the audience as well, such protagonists are fondly remembered. When that protagonist is a woman, pathos becomes particularly pronounced, so they make the female protagonist and other significant characters endure sorrowful and painful ordeals.

However, as time passed, the authors came to forget that. The stage aspects became more engaging, but the handling of pathos grew scattered. They merely made characters grieve indiscriminately and tried to center the drama on sorrows arising from the shackles of social obligation. Natural pathos had been lost.

In the Meiji era, particularly at the beginning of its thirtieth year, everyone readily proclaimed—as if it were an established historical fact—that Japanese literature was pessimistic literature, but Japan had no literature of pathos.
Especially in prose literature, dismissing it outright as pessimistic literature due to its laxity in this regard would be erroneous.
Grim elements existed, but due to low expressive capacity, works like Muromachi-period otogi-zōshi ended up becoming carefree compositions.
It presents a seemingly paradoxical fact that carefree works emerged in an age whose literature ought to have been steeped in pathos.
In reality, fresh corpses lay scattered everywhere—from battle deaths, starvation, and banditry.
Yet even when depicting such social conditions, their minds remained elsewhere; thus, the literature became mere empty incantations of “Ah, how pitiful!”
This was not pathos inherent to literature itself, but pathos belonging to the raw material—and even that failed to manifest.

The material of pathos had already emerged blatantly since the Muromachi period.
They attempted to synthesize it and build up literature.
In particular within regulated prose forms, they tried to adopt it as literature—yet what manifested remained hollow incantations.
This became what we call pessimistic literature.
Literature of the sekkyō tradition had from its inception dealt with protagonists' lives steeped in pathos.
And with those somber hues of existence came the promise that a radiant new age would dawn.
Yet their expression never quite attained pure literary status.
Still such works laid essential foundations for what must inevitably emerge.
At minimum they remarkably cultivated a yearning for such literature.
Not until Edo did Bashō arise—wringing it from tear ducts—to first elevate this into true literature.
But such was the era.
Chikamatsu—emerging contemporaneously—gave voice to what Bashō had sensed through an entirely different channel.

Moreover, the world that Chikamatsu entered was squarely that of *sekkyō* literature.
However, during his time of entry, Jōruri possessed pathos as raw material yet utterly lacked expressed pathos.
Both playwrights and audiences resembled fools.
Within this milieu, Chikamatsu gradually took up lives steeped in pathos—unbearable pathos—revealing an existence where those who had internalized such sorrow could enter into the radiant life of succeeding generations.

It was not some shallow meaning of having added that to comfort those who grieve for lovers committing joint suicide.
Of course, it remained true that many lives possessed greater pathos than Chikamatsu ever wrote—but that was reality, mere raw material for literature.
Unless writers took up this material into their works, the pathos inherent in it would never strike people with vivid force.

Through Chikamatsu’s act of taking up this task, our nation’s dramatic literature finally discharged its long-standing obligation.
It was through this that an outlet for life’s “sorrows” through vocal music first came into being.

Jōruri seeped such pathos from its very foundations.
Jōruri moved people through this essential technique.
The pathos inherent in Jōruri sought to guide toward a tranquil existence glistening with life's fulfillment.

Among works attributed to Takeda Izumo—including collaborations—few could match how profoundly Sakuramaru permeated the narrative.
Izumo must have felt his affection for Sakuramaru deepen progressively as he wrote.
This play wove family tragedies through four or five distinct threads.
Michizane's... Matsuō's... Shiradayū's... Kakuju's... each contributing their strand.
One should consider what would remain were we to extract the loneliness lingering in that house—built solely by Sakuramaru and one other—now abandoned.

Matsumoto Kōshirō was an inherently distinguished actor.
The roles and actors said to belong to the tachigataki lineage would likely die out entirely with him.
As for his three sons, Ebizō’s facial features differed from the lineage’s conventions, and Somegorō was unlikely to take on those roles.
Matsumidori’s countenance bore a resemblance closer to that of the late Danzaburō.
This spoke to just how distinguished Kōshirō truly was.

An actor’s artistry is an honest thing; at the peak of his vigor, this man caused a major complication through a minor stumble.
That haunted him for the rest of his life.
Kōshirō’s interpretations were the most rational, and as a result, the staging grew conventional.
This becomes evident even when observing Shiradayū.
He did not seem to consider that a realistic portrayal of a rural old man did not necessarily elevate Shiradayū’s emotional presence.
What emerged frankly in that gap was Kōshirō’s own real life as a devout lay Buddhist—a profoundly lonely existence.

However, on the other hand, actors—even if they led lives that were beneath mention in their real lives and lacked intelligence—found that something came attached to them when they took the stage, making them appear magnificent. This was partly due to the power of the works and partly due to what senior actors had accumulated over time. Even if the actors’ own lives were mundane, Yuraosuke on stage was generally portrayed as a figure of considerable stature. In other words, it was those very things that appeared so impressive which had been built up in Kabuki society.

Actors were rational and sensible; they did not lead lives that imparted a sublime quality. However, the life now present on stage was one built upon accumulated rationality, and the power of that technical mastery unified and overwhelmed each individual's facile interpretations, drawing them into the proper narrative flow. Even if Danjūrō was exceptionally outstanding as a human being, he could not guide others in society to such an extent. However, the life on stage—through its accumulated techniques—rendered him unfathomable. This was not mere empty devotion to trifles, as in the saying “even a sardine’s head can inspire piety.”

It was probably acceptable to view the Temple School act as something permeated by the old spirit. I had no intention of arguing the point. To describe it as feudalistic thinking might seem heavy-handed, but I believed that interpretation could also be accepted. For while other plays centered on human sentiment posed no issue, I had long found this particular aspect unbearable, regarding it as a writing style that rendered even Genzō’s faint-heartedness difficult to accept. This flaw stemmed first and foremost from the author—likely Izumo—failing to fully develop his human characters; even if one were to argue from a certain perspective that he deliberately brushed aside the sentimental encroachment of moral duty upon the heart, I believed such a theory could not hold. First and foremost, the interpretations by generations of puppeteers and actors who had portrayed this were not aligned with such a view. The long, accumulated history of interpretation inherent in our theatrical heritage could not be considered separately from the very characters and events within the plays themselves. The mindset of Genzō, directed through such considerations in performance, should after all be considered in addition to the author’s intentions. Genzō was not portrayed as such a strongly righteous person; he was merely an ordinary man of common sense. In that case, he should have handled matters with a more ordinary person’s mindset. Rather, it was Tonami who was moved by the natural emotions of being human and felt the responsibility that inherently followed. The author should not have written these two characters’ emotions as separate entities. For in the end, the master’s emotional will became what decisively resolved the incident, and this had to be regarded as reflecting the author’s intent.

In any case, it was ill-advised to have defined such simplistic and superficial expressions with the term “duty.” That is not duty. It was what might be termed *jingi* (辞宜)—a more base social courtesy held by ruffians. It is troubling that the term carelessly employed under the glorious name of duty gradually gained substance and came to permeate life itself. They still call social etiquette ‘duty’. That they call such things—and imbue them with moral substance—is not good.

The plan to kill a village child for Michizane’s sake was ultimately transferred—due to their intent on having him killed—to another colleague’s child who had been recommended and carried out.
Genzō had truly fallen into becoming an unreflective and pitiful human.
He resorted to methods indistinguishable from those of past ruffians who escaped crises through mugging, robbery, and what might be called thuggish “courtesy.”
We feel ashamed that among our ancestors’ playwrights there existed those who found satisfaction in such meager moral outlooks.
Therefore, in attempting to carry out his decision—“If pressed,” he declared ominously, “even the mother”—to cover up his crime through this substitution scheme, he could extricate himself from secondary guilt via the substitute child’s mother’s confession.
Such matters only become minor issues because their foundational premise itself was flawed.
But worse still was how in staging *The Temple School*—rendered more concretely than puppetry—there ought yet remain an emotional undercurrent supporting it all; instead we find lacunae where this foundation crumbles.
This stems from Jōruri’s lyrical style having long eschewed writing with such minute sharp-edged detail.
When performed verbatim upon stage these gaps yawn wide.

“Well now—do you consent?”
“You ask consent? Behold the six-character shroud-banner.”
“Hmm… And while inquiring whose secret affairs you’ve been handling—from the gate—… The couple stood doubly startled, dumbstruck as if questioning dream from reality, but Takebe Genzō stiffened his bearing: ‘Ceremonial bows can wait.’”
“Having thought me your enemy until now—what explains this altered resolve?”
When asked “What mystery is this?”… Tonami, sharing in the grief, drew near…

In such a pressing narrative momentum driving events forward, Genzō had no opportunity to lay bare his true feelings to Matsuō before being swept along by the plot’s progression. The play realizing this scene lacked nearly all emotional undercurrents; it merely traced the written text while minutely embellishing what was explicitly stated and performing surface-level emotions. Every unwritten element was wholly neglected. When first adapting *Terakoya* into plays—and for some time thereafter—the dramatic potency of the original script far outstripped theatrical adaptations, with actors themselves overwhelmed by Jōruri’s influence. Even when distorting Gidayū’s libretto to impose interpretations on characters and events, they never ventured beyond manipulating words alone. Having committed such atrocities, Genzō ought to have been compelled to offer both apologies and profounder gratitude before Matsuō and his wife—yet his failure to do so defies comprehension. While Tonami’s portrayal—perhaps necessitated by her role as a woman—includes Jōruri lines hinting at such emotional depths, Genzō persists solely in posturing as a paragon of righteousness. Thus did the actors too become mere effigies of the author’s rigid conception of duty. It was not merely that crucial text remained unwritten; in patching these gaps, they likely sought to prevent Genzō from fully embodying righteous conviction. In essence, Genzō—as an unformed puppet of the author’s crude moralism—had his flaws grotesquely magnified when transposed into Kabuki.

In terms of staging, Mr. Toita Yasuji had raised this as an issue—the long-standing problem of the line “Court service ends quickly here.” Had they left it as Mr. Toita suggested—simply stating “cannot return to the young lord” without alteration—one cannot fathom how deeply it might have resonated. It was likely changed under the rationale that phrasing it this way made Genzō appear more samurai-like and because a mood that seemed to spur on the actors themselves could be perceived here. When addressing fundamental issues, however, the sheer banality of the author’s own life was laid bare here: while one might excuse killing a student as permissible within a play’s context, the mentality of thoughtlessly sacrificing a beloved disciple as mere compensation for court service should have been deeply troubling. That they did not care about this revealed how criticism of period morality had been lost. I find Genzō to be a shallow character—had he killed someone unintentionally in desperation, that would be understandable—but silencing his wife as she voiced the hardships of court service with “Court service ends quickly here” reveals a perspective shallower than her own view of life; it in no way expresses a man’s resolve to endure agony through perseverance. This was a moral sense devoid of motive, confined to convention—he did not consider morality at all.

Mr. Miki Takeji had criticized that Oson, the bride of the sake shop in *En’yō Onna Maiinu* (*The Alluring Woman’s Dance Robe*)—whether out of revulsion toward Hanshichi’s touch or a motive to avoid physical contact with someone she did not love—maintaining absolute chastity and obedience toward a husband with whom she had never once shared a bed reflected the author’s misguided thinking and was unnatural; yet I found Mr. Miki Takeji’s interpretation itself questionable.
Such people did exist in the past.
Even if that lifestyle sentiment was mistaken, it did not mean that writing about such a lifestyle was a mistake.
To claim that love could not arise between those who did not share marital life reeked of the very shallowness characteristic of Meiji-era interpretations.

In this case, the new critics end up being defeated by the authors of old.
This means they failed to grasp the author’s intent in attempting to portray a woman living with such resolute spirit.

Chikamatsu, in that manner, discovered new techniques in Jōruri.
He uncovered the pathos that ought to reside within exceptional individuals.
Had Takemoto theater then nurtured these characters burdened with pathos—figures drawn forth through his works—it would have been ideal.
Yet after Chikamatsu, they could no longer advance properly along that path.

Chikamatsu’s works, had they followed their natural course, would have evolved into lyrical dramas.
The path pursued by Izumo and his successors may have been theater’s main road, yet the excellence of individual works cannot be reduced to structural craftsmanship alone.
Even where Chikamatsu’s compositions faltered structurally, his discovery of Jōruri’s essential techniques deserves recognition.
That these were dismissed so casually reveals the shortcomings of those who followed him.

Before Jōruri, those older works of the same lineage could never hold a candle to it for all eternity. There exists an expression—“a non-swimmer sinking in a river”—and there were many people in such a predicament. In Japan, they remained oblivious even to this, but as it accumulated autonomously and grew increasingly weighty—spurred by religious overtones—it manifested in Sekkyō Jōruri. Those later generations had no choice but to unearth what lay buried in their unconscious depths and carve an outlet for it. How profoundly vital this proved for Jōruri remains beyond measure.

In Edo-period Jōruri and plays of its lineage, those lacking in pathos could generally be regarded as diminished in value.
This might sound somewhat uncharitable, but such a perspective holds validity.
Kabuki theater particularly abounds in mediocrity.
Though they speak of stylized beauty, unless this is rectified, even worthwhile elements worth preserving will be swept away.

To call it ancestral heritage rings hollow—it spans less than three centuries, born from what might be termed the life of particular urban quarters, making the emergence of anything sublime from such origins implausible.
While one recognizes what had been built through time, technique, and tradition, these plays fundamentally concerned themselves with pleasure districts and back-alley affairs.
As theatrical producers, they ought to stage works that elicit hearty weeping and laughter while abandoning hollow mediocrities.
Moreover, even among those in society devoted to cherishing Kabuki theater, many prove equally mediocre.
Consider Naosamurai's Iriya dormitory—its loss hardly merits lamentation.
Our lives need not depend on such things.
Kabuki theater originally developed among lower classes acquainted only with brothel districts and alleyways.
Such unfortunate vestiges deserve discarding.
Should they not relegate dance-drama style plays and performance-art pieces to specialized domains beyond Kabuki's bounds?
Yet Kabuki still retains viable paths forward.
Revitalization remains possible through transfusion.
Let it—having sustained Jōruri's inherited pathos—make us who have forgotten both laughter and grief feel profound sorrow anew.
For the Japanese people who relish weeping at plays to attain spiritual purification, such art retains ample room for renewed vitality.
Japanese theater emerged among those with limited knowledge—actors, playwrights, audiences alike—who lacked means to express their nebulous sensations.
From such origins required over two centuries to ascend to its current state.

What I wished to state last was the matter of play titles.
The final scene of *The Temple School* act in *Sugawara and the Secrets of Calligraphy* was commonly referred to as the Iroha send-off—a scene structured around the iroha poem.
This depicted the sending-off of Kotarō, who had died as a substitute.
In Jōruri, this was Chiyo’s role; during active sequences, she moved with leaping motions that bustled about energetically.
Kabuki theater avoided such performances as they were considered awkward.
Moreover, even transitional dialogue lines were often heavily abbreviated here.

This play title, *Sugawara Denju Tenarai Kagami*, was quite absurd. Even among Izumo’s works, *The Treasury of Loyal Retainers* made sense—it harmonized the forty-seven characters of the iroha syllabary with the Forty-seven Ronin, marked celebratory full houses through iroha symbols struck on storehouses, praised loyal retainers, celebrated commercial prosperity, and even incorporated Kuranosuke into its design.

Yet even if Michizane had imparted the teachings, it made no sense to casually refer to them as “Sugawara.” While Michizane—who appeared in the fifth act of *Tenjin Chronicle*—was treated here with utmost reverence as a righteous deity who ought not commit wrongful acts, the task of wreaking havoc in the imperial court was assigned to none other than Sakuramaru and his wife. And still, *Sugawara Denju* remained absurd. *The Sugawara Family’s Transmitted Teachings* would have been comprehensible. Why did they settle on “Sugawara”? There must have been some other reason.

Chikamatsu had previously used a poorly conceived title: *Wise Women’s Calligraphy and the New Calendar*.
It was said he wrote it to rival Saikaku’s *Calendar*, but one cannot help wondering why he chose such an odd title.

In the main text, there was no scene whatsoever depicting “calligraphy practice”; it merely appeared briefly in the verses of journey scenes.

Prior to this, within the kana-zōshi tradition, there existed a novel titled *Kenjo Kagami* composed of love letters in the style of *The Tale of Thin Snow*.
As part of this lineage, I sense Chikamatsu perceived a connection between calligraphy practice and “wise women” being linked to love-letter calligraphy—then brandished “Sugawara Transmissions” in places where the wise women’s love letters should have proceeded through proper instructional calligraphy.
Thus, there was an audacious pun in the title.

And in this Jōruri play, while there are of course reasons for invoking calligraphy practice in “The Transmissions Scene” and “The Temple School,” I believe the primary one lies in the verses of the Iroha send-off section.
I believe that here, they resolved the significance of the term “Wise Women’s Calligraphy”—something left unachieved since Chikamatsu’s time.
I do not think they would employ such blasphemous phrasing—for mere reasons—where one ought to speak of Tenjin’s divine transmissions.

The wording of play titles posed the greatest challenge.
In particular, I imagine the authors of that period writhed over these expressions.
And I think they gradually came to articulate what earlier generations could not achieve.
Reflecting on this, I see why the Iroha send-off became Chiyo’s role.