Pathway to Japanese Literature

In the height of summer, both day and night, the heavens and earth are imbued with a loneliness so piercingly pure it cuts through all things.
In midday streets where sunlight blazes at its zenith, utility poles cast their shadows.
At times, this stillness reaches such intensity that it evokes a moonlit night.
As for night—night too holds its own clarity: faint shadows upon roads bright as daylight conjure illusions that even the pavement might take wing.
Had the world remained as it once was, both city and country would now find themselves deep in summer's embrace—this summer steeped in loneliness that seeps into marrow.

Is it that these deeply penetrating impressions of the season, using the resplendent stage as their apparatus, endeavor to conjure within summer theater a hidden—at times verging on shadowy—world?
The simplicity of summer Kabuki's stage entrances and exits—and their profound solitude.
If we were to say that something lying in wait within these depths of the heart—something simple yet refreshing, shadowy yet lonesome—had evoked the summer ghost plays, then we could hardly deny the psychological basis for such a claim.
Yet, even beyond this, human affairs were not set in motion by such impressions lying deep within the heart alone.

Moreover, there existed another group of people who approached matters with even greater simplicity. Given that there were troupes performing plays akin to water spectacles like *Koi Tsukami* ("Carp Grabbing") and nimble seasonal dance pieces such as *Yamagaeri* ("Mountain Return"), works like *Yotsuya Kaidan*, *Tsukumogatari*, *Kobata Koheiji*, *Sara Yashiki*, *Kasamori Osen*, and newer pieces such as *Shikishima Dan*, *Chibusa Enoki*, and *Botan Dōrō*—all lightweight, low-cost productions—also featured scenes where water was lavishly employed. To relieve the oppressive urge to cast off everything, it was no wonder that ghost stories came to be performed. It was said that the practice originated from staging inexpensive plays during theaters' downtime as they transitioned from May performances to Obon plays. Upon closer consideration, this hardly seemed an issue warranting extensive debate. Yet that remained merely a consequence; it did not appear to explain why ghost stories emerged in summer theater.

As subject matter for ghost stories, Kobata Koheiji and Tsukumo had long been taken up in Edo-period plays; however, the works existing today in that lineage were distant descendants of those same stories successively rewritten over time.
I had not examined each and every historical record—thus I could not state with clarity sufficient to gain your unconditional approval—but summer theater’s adoption of ghost stories seemed unlikely to have its beginnings in such recent times.
To seek its origins in modern actors like Matsushiro Matsuemon or Umekichikugorō would be nothing short of a mistake.

In Kabuki’s standard language—the theatrical vernacular—there existed a category called "regional plays" (*jikyōgen*). Moreover, in farming villages, mountain hamlets, and coastal regions across the land, the term was used with pride to denote dramas deeply rooted in their local soil. No matter where one went, there was no shortage of remote villages here and there embracing theater troupes. Among them were skilled amateurs or semi-professional actors of considerable ability. At times—though one no longer hears such heart-stirring rumors these days—they preserved rare staging methods for plays unseen in Tokyo or Keihan theaters. On an unexpected day of travel, having seen such a play, I would find myself experiencing—without quite knowing why—a swelling sensation in my chest. Needless to say, these were events held during the agricultural off-season. Theater performances during farm rest periods or after harvest had become commonplace in the countryside. However, in places where old customs remained deeply rooted, they also held performances during the Obon Festival. Depending on the region, there were areas where Obon plays were staged—so attuned to local customs and seasonal atmospheres that one might wonder if Obon was indeed the true season for regional plays to be performed.

The stages for these regional plays generally utilized buildings that had formerly been Kōshin-dō, Kannon-dō, or Jūō-dō halls, and this fact served to deepen those very sentiments. It was not merely because there were no suitable buildings elsewhere; even in their absence, there were plenty of instances where they erected temporary stages amidst rice paddies and fields, so one might think there was no particular need to use cramped and gloom-inducing wayside shrines. To presume that village plays began to be performed for Yabuiri-period respite or celebrations is, at root, a misapprehension; though through gradual repetition such purposes did come to be conceived, the true cause lay one step prior.

The path by which what was called *Kabuki dance* solidified into *Kabuki plays* is still believed to have originated from the Buddhist invocation dances of her homeland transmitted by Okuni of Izumo; thus, let us take this as our narrative foothold and proceed.
In truth, other elements such as “Maidayū” were involved in a far more complex manner, but in reality, the early days of Kabuki were even more intricate along such pathways.
First and foremost, it was not the Buddhist invocation dances but rather the Kōwaka “Maidayū”—of more orthodox lineage and ancient history—that were deeply involved.
Such were the female Maidayū known as Sado Island, Dekishima, Ikushima, and others.

It appears that later on, this gradually came to be initiated and organized by village adherents of the Nenbutsu sect; however, in earlier times, it was largely semi-professional groups of itinerant Buddhist practitioners—partly missionary in purpose—who traveled around villages that had become their parishioner areas around Obon, either upon request or in anticipation of being summoned.
Even without being summoned, from their sect’s perspective, they could not overlook places where many unrested souls—such as those of victims of wrongful deaths—gathered. To speak in terms of eras close to the warring-states period: sites marked by traces of dreams where deaths had piled high among opposing factions were precisely such places they attended to.
Their true purpose was to beat gongs, strike drums, chant “Namu Amida Butsu,” and dance ecstatically; yet one after another, various side performances came to be added.
As an ingrained tendency of Japanese performing arts, mere ecstatic nenbutsu dancing alone would never suffice.
The desire to seek something with greater substance would arise even in such circumstances.
In this regard, since ancient times there existed dance plays—one might call them karmic tales—that were considered not so much due to reasons inherent to these “dancing nenbutsu” themselves as they were believed to enhance the efficacy of nenbutsu through their addition as side performances.
Proof over theory—even in Okuni’s own Buddhist invocation dances, which transitioned directly from Kabuki dance to Kabuki plays, this dance play had been performed since some time.
In several Kabuki booklets as well as in the Noh piece *Shin Senban*’s “Kabuki” section, amidst gathered spectators, the specter of Nagoya Sanzaburō—a Kabuki performer of old—appeared, entranced by Kabuki dance; after reveling in it,

“Have you returned?”
“Nagoya-sama.”
“We shall send you off now.”
“To Kofu.”
“Losing their way on Kofu’s mountain path, the two rest on Futami’s grass pillow.”
“Even should eight thousand nights accrue, Nagoya-sama.”
“The lingering traces know no bounds.”

Singing, they brought the dance to a close.
Appearing to be an Obon Festival dance play, it showed the poignancy of the Bon send-off—parting from this world to the next, again and again.

Given that Nagoya Sanzaburō—reputed to have been Okuni’s lover—could not possibly emerge like a welcoming Obon spirit within the Kabuki dances of their heyday, this Sanzaburō, said to have been killed by comrades in Tsuyama of Bitchū Province, must have been a figure from antiquity.
Because they intermingled singing and dancing on stage, the witnesses of that time—accumulating illusions and misunderstandings—further passed down these tales orally and in writing to later generations; thus, it came to be believed that Sanzaburō truly existed—that he had taught Okuni hayauta ballads and even appeared on stage.
In fact, even when viewed in *Kabuki Booklets*, as far as Takasagoya Baigyokuzō’s collection was concerned, Sanzaburō—dressed in the same male attire as Okuni—appeared on the same stage, seemingly aiming to evoke a certain mysterious sensation.
These should be viewed as depictions of fantasies on the stage.

Probably, this kabuki troupe of the Nagoya clan—to use the terminology of the time, something akin to contemporary ruffians—met violent deaths, and there must have been incidents where they were thought to haunt the fields, people, and livestock in the nearby mountainous regions of Chūgoku. People of old had a habit of viewing epidemic pests and diseases as arising from a single cause. The legend had even grown to claim that Gamō Ujisato’s favored page matured into Nagoya Sanzaburō and became a member of Okuni’s kabuki troupe, yet every account of this remained unfocused. After all, was it not that across the San’in and San’yō regions, during a certain period, the fear of epidemics had been transmitted through such *rōnin*? It appears this became incorporated into the repertoire of Buddhist invocation dances circulated by Okuni. It could be said that by lavishly praising this Sanzaburō, they easily accomplished the dispelling of vengeful resentment. Because it was such a renowned Kabuki dance play, spectators in both urban and rural areas—unaware of the circumstances—would likely imagine him to have been a former lover of the Kabuki actors and someone who once shared the same stage. That such a Nagoya had no connection whatsoever to the ancestral spirits of the villages visited by the Buddhist invocation dances went without saying. However, though the village ancestral spirits were neither Nagoya Sanzaburō nor heroes or refined figures of old, they were all forcibly cast—as if through some contrived transmigration—as other renowned ghosts with entirely different names and realities, made into protagonists of grandiose plots and stylized performances. Originally speaking, for nameless spirits, being saddled with an ill repute was not so much a nuisance. First, there was no reason for each village’s ancestral holy spirits to possess unique personal histories; thus, by imposing the illustrious pasts of renowned deceased figures onto these village spirits, a method arose in our country’s ancient religions—one that swept the village’s own deceased into the notion that *they* had once been heroes and cultured figures of old. If the performing arts that endured in rural areas into later generations were not originally native to those lands but rather seeds sown by itinerant people roaming the provinces, then it was through such pathways that memorial rites—nominally for figures from other lands’ antiquity but in reality for the villages’ own ancestral spirits—came to be accepted without hindrance, maintaining an ambivalent proximity to the local holy spirits. The deceased would attain Buddhahood, and the filial descendants of the villages, believing so, could rest assured.

The spirit of Sanzaburō who died in Tsuyama came to be recognized among the holy spirits of villages in Chūgoku and was further propagated all the way to the capital.
When it reached the capital however, that efficacy had already dissipated; in an era when such groups of itinerant nenbutsu practitioners no longer visited, the villagers themselves began organizing processions from the village's ancestral burial mountain into the settlement, entering homes observing their first Obon to deliver celebratory speeches praising gardens, dwellings, and stables.
They would parade into Buddhist halls with historical significance to the village and perform rituals and entertainments not typically conducted during Gyōdō processions or at new Obon households.
When these were Ten Kings Halls enshrining even Datsueba of the Sanzu River alongside King Enma at their core, or Six Realms Jizō Halls, the sense of aptness became most profound.
For such purposes there existed halls specifically constructed as retreat spaces, while elsewhere they likely repurposed existing structures like Kannon-dō shrines, Kōshin-dō halls, Yakushi-dō temples and others.

It is reasonable to conclude that the Buddhist invocations performed in that hall centered on what should be called *Nenbutsu Kyōgen* (Buddhist invocation plays). If they performed depictions of the holy spirits’ past lives and the forms of suffering they now endured in the netherworld, one could roughly imagine what kind of plot structures these would have developed when they matured into performing arts and artistic forms.

In this older era when such Nenbutsu Kyōgen had not yet fully taken form, there existed a category in Noh theater called “Shuramono” (Asura plays), where they would perform roles by juxtaposing a ghost’s past life with its present suffering in the Asura realm. It was this very spirit—emerging through Buddhist invocations—that constituted Nenbutsu Kyōgen.

Seeing fragmented clouds—how dissolved lies this body that knew no sleep last night.
If you, rain-laden sky, wish to weep—come lie here with me.
I shall keep you company.
To one becoming primal dew—each tear we add—carry them all undiminished to Mise River.
Even in this world—a drifting existence...

These were the opening verses of Kouta-bushi's *Mizuchoushi*.
Though blending ancient ballads and tanka into seemingly beautiful phrases, their disjointed narratives remained partially decipherable here.
This was a song tied to Tamagiku lanterns hung in rows during Yoshiwara's Nakanochō Obon festivities.
For one who vanished like dew on leaf-tip or droplet at source—all gathered added tears drop by drop as offerings for their send-off.
May these reach unerringly—to Sanzu River's netherworld where the departed dwells.
When considered—both deceased and we living share this courtesan existence; from life's very present we flow as transient beings.
Such seemed its meaning—yet clarity waned with each succeeding line.

It was said that for Tamagiku, who died in March of Kyōhō 11 (1726), [they] presented [the work] in July of Kyōhō 13 (1728), which marked her third anniversary, and an old block-printed authentic text remained.
Mourning Tamagiku's death at the Nakamiseya brothel in Shin-Yoshiwara Sumi-chō, they hung rows of Obon lanterns at the teahouses in Nakanochō.
This came to be called the Tamagiku Lanterns and became an annual event in the pleasure quarter.
However, at Nakamiseya, it was said that playing Mizuchoushi would cause Tamagiku's ghost to appear.
The accounts were fleeting and alluring, but in Tamagiku’s case, there lay a point that made one wonder whether she had truly been such a happy courtesan as they said.
The practice of avoiding playing Mizuchoushi allowed one to perceive a dark shadow over Tamagiku’s death.
Even at the height of her career, the fact that a courtesan had turned twenty-five and still worked—moreover, having collapsed from drink—cast a shadow of loneliness over such a woman’s life.
Even the lyrics famously attributed to Takafujin—when considering their obscure meaning—likely had undergone revisions in Kyōhō 13 by Tosumiken Ranshū and others.
In truth, might there not have been another older phrase?
The fact that all of Yoshiwara hung lanterns was no ordinary matter.
Would it not have been more accurate to think this was done to appease the vengeful grudge of a courtesan who met an unnatural death?
Legends surrounding Yoshiwara and its courtesans were often mere recountings of dreams by those who yearned for the pleasure quarters as a golden world; thus, many could not be taken at face value.

If one extracts the comprehensible parts from *Mizuchoushi*, there emerges a father’s lament performing ritual offerings against adversity, the existence of a jealous wife who forced herself upon a familiar man, and finally those verses that remain as a mirror for posterity.
“It remains as nagi leaves on the back of the mirror.”
This interpretation holds.
The nagae tree—a renowned species of Mount Kumano—was carried by Kumano ascetics and Kumano bikuni.
From this perspective, one might posit its origins in the song nenbutsu chanted by uta bikuni.
In any case, this too connects to Obon rituals.
There exists an event called Pest Exorcism Rituals conducted before Obon.
In these rites, people conceived of an entity—whether as representative of expelled pests or mediator between insects and humans—that would gather all disruptors of human life, suppress their rampages, and forestall their vain struggles.
They believed securing this figure’s allegiance would guarantee safety.
To achieve this, they envisioned a vengeful spirit—one who died tragically yet retained potent spiritual energy and harbored strong inclinations to haunt this world.
They trusted that by appeasing such a spirit, lesser evil entities would be immobilized.
Across regions abounded those feared for leaving behind deathbed curses that wrought prolonged calamity.
In antiquity, even Saitō Sanemori—not considered particularly embittered against society—proved such a case.
The modern era’s most famous example is Sakura Sōgorō, though his story took considerable time before reaching the stage.
Long had it circulated through oral tradition—distorted and amplified through retellings.
A narrative strikingly parallel yet inverse to Sōgorō’s—composed exceptionally late—is that of Yamaga Seibē from the Uwajima Disturbance.
Though belatedly adapted for theater, its transmission path clearly contained elements meant to enshrine vengeful spirits.
From summer through early autumn, whenever rice pests or epidemics arose, people invariably recalled such figures.
Delving deeper history reveals how belief in spirit deities—*onryō*—powerfully shaped discourse around figures like the Soga brothers through narratives of youthful warriors’ untimely deaths and their fearsome curse power.
Particularly resonant was how the younger brother’s name Gorō serendipitously echoed *onryō*, cementing their legend’s visceral impact.

The fact that Edo theater treated the Soga with such emphasis should not be viewed solely as having been done for the sake of samurai education.

Soga Kyōgen was featured as part of the second seasonal program every spring, but until May it gradually fluctuated in scale, reaching a phase of completion here. However, it had not been very long since the Soga stories began to be told. Even if one considers Bon Nenbutsu Kyōgen (Obon Buddhist Invocation Plays) to share origins with them, to simplistically equate the two would risk anachronism.

If theater performances were held in midsummer, there had to be some agrarian significance contained within them.
Even when speaking of cities, these were times when they were not yet entirely severed from rural life as in modern times.
Accounts of vengeful spirits associated with crop pests were indeed frequently passed down through Buddhist invocation-related texts and theatrical performances.
If that was the case, then summer theater inevitably came to possess many elements of gloom and cruelty.
When this extended further into early autumn’s Obon Festival Plays—connected to the spirits of the dead—it was only natural that ghost stories came to take vengeful spirits and supernatural beings as their subject matter.

In modern times, summer theater performances were often extended into Obon Festival productions; since the height of summer and the Obon Festival followed in quick succession, it was only natural that no one’s mood shifted all that much.
The reason why Obon Festival Plays featured many ghost stories was clear; that very reason was also why they had originally existed in Summer Theater.

And another thing that must be added is the involvement of puppet theater's mechanical contrivances.
Puppet theater, fundamentally rooted in Buddhist origin tales that expound divine mysteries and wonders, invariably featured terrifying non-human entities such as monsters, vengeful spirits, malevolent demons, and departed souls.
The popularity of Takada’s theater was also due in part to the mechanical power of water mechanisms, which enabled techniques unattainable by human skill alone.
Due to the nature of water mechanisms, it was only natural that water would be handled on stage as if by magic.
In kabuki as well, the ingenuity of lavishly using water to create a cooling effect was wisdom borrowed from puppet theater.
Ghost stories and water performances—even in these elements lay Summer Theater’s robust contributing factors.

A familiar example that everyone knows is *Natsu Matsuri Naniwa Kagami*.
Though repurposed into Kabuki as a significant summer play, this was originally a jōruri written expressly for puppet theater.
From *Dōguya no Ba* through *Sanpu-uchi*, *Nagamachi Ura*, and *Danjūchi*, the puppets appeared clad in summer-weight unlined kimonos.
Moreover, during Nagamachi Ura's murder scene, they drenched the puppets with real mud and water.
This technique was said to have been devised by Yoshida Bunzaburō.
To this day, Danjū's tea-brown Benkei stripes and Tokubeē's indigo go board checkered patterns in theater productions remain designs this man first had them wear.
The puppeteers' confidence lay precisely in dressing these awkward-limbed puppets in summer robes.
That human actors—capable of effortlessly achieving such feats—transferred them to the stage and received applause formed a curious dynamic.
*Sumiyoshi Shrine Torii Front*
The scenes *Sanpu-uchi* and *Nagamachi Ura* became standard repertoire.
Nowadays, performances of "Tajimachi Danjūchi no Ba" are rare occurrences.
As for *Uchihonmachi Dōguya no Ba*, I only saw it once during my youth at Dōtonbori.

“...The samurai draws his sword with a swish and lunges to strike—”
“...When they see the face—it’s my father-in-law, Mikawaya Giheiji… Giheiji abruptly stops straining… his pale blue-gray summer kimono soaked with sweat as he recoils…”

The master of this house, Magoemon, was a great antique dealer.
Through the efforts of Danjū—the regular fishmonger who exposed the father-in-law’s scheme of infiltrating disguised as a country samurai—they breathed a sigh of relief before night fell.

“I must’ve gotten worked up from today’s chaos.”
“Completely forgot where I put the cupboard key.”
“Been frettin’ over this since evening—tossin’ and turnin’ without sleep… O-Naka! Don’t catch a chill now—dress proper for bed.”

Unlike Edo kyōgen, it was rare for such clarity to emerge in Osaka theater—so lacking in seasonal sensibility.
The fifth act became the travel scene between O-Naka and Tedai Seishichi—the alias Tamajima Isonojo.
Starting with Akutetsu Denpachi, the regulars set out to search for the lost child.

“To think we’re chasing after this ill-fated girl in the peak of summer heat, our bodies sunburnt and mottled as hydrangeas.”
“Even walking all together like this—unlike the festival’s impromptu plays—there’s no audience… How dreary…”

I have no memory of seeing this scene.

“Festival Impromptu Plays” paraded through parishioners’ neighborhoods during the eve of the main festival under the term “flowing impromptu.” When someone called out “Shomō! Shomō!”, they entered beneath eaves to perform brief comedic routines resembling formal addresses before moving on. Thus even when parading down streets with large troupes only to be ignored by all, they attributed it to the season—passing it off as part of their impromptu plays. The Rokume Sanpu Residence fell on the eve of the Takatsu Festival. “The wife prepares the meal.” “Fanning the grilled dish over the brazier,” it stated—but this was unmistakably salted grilled horse mackerel. For Osaka’s summer festivals featured horse mackerel as grilled dishes. Just then appeared a woman of twenty-six or twenty-seven beneath a parasol bearing “Under an Unfamiliar Umbrella,” walking along scorching streets—the wife of Issun Tokubeē who had come from Bitchū Tamashima to meet her husband. Nowadays it became common for them to arrive dressed in Edo-style attire—white-patterned obi over silk gauze—in a manner akin to visiting relatives. The late Sawamura Gennosuke—who had endured considerable hardships in Kamigata during his youth—presented a quintessential O-Tatsu. His delivery was precise, and above all his modulation superb. Even now, recalling how he would take trays with teacups and compose his face with signature poise—I cannot help but feel grateful for the ocular feast he provided. Nowadays even among Osaka actors, those performing O-Tatsu vanished. Even had they remained, they would likely still appear in Edo style. Pale blue-gray cotton hats and bellflower-patterned unlined kimonos fastened with black satin front obi formed their stylishly austere figures. As *Jōrurifu* states—“If dressed otherwise, it would be strange if she did not appear as O-Tatsu”—this too, like Danjū, stemmed from Yoshida Bunzaburō’s ingenuity using puppets from the original performance. Indeed, the traveling woman’s dignified summer appearance—projected through Bunzaburō’s phantom—remained etched upon kabuki stages for ages.

In the second year of Enkyō (1745), during Takemoto-za’s Obon performance, *Naniwa Kagami* was first performed on the railing bridge.
This event is said to have occurred forty years prior, but tracing back nearly ten years further, in Genroku 11 (1698), *Yadonashi Danjū* was performed at the Osaka Kataoka-za theater under the management of Kataoka Nizaemon.
How many years prior to that the actual murder of the father-in-law occurred remains unclear.
In any case, while the adaptation had been considerably modernized, the source material could be regarded as rather old.
In the interim, the temperament of workers in the Osaka-Sakai area had likely changed, and along with this, the hearts of those who observed them—as well as the sentiments of the authors who wrote to represent them—had also undergone transformation.
In any case, Danjūrō Kyūbeē being taken up in Edo kyōgen and performed in a manly fashion is one perspective, but within the lineage of production, it becomes a subplot.
He and his ally Tokubeē were equally the lowest-class ruffians of the streets.
Tokubeē was a man who, having deserted Bitchū Tamashima, joined the ranks of outcasts even temporarily, was hired to back up fights, and though his aims weren’t malicious, was employed to spin false pedigrees and tell sob stories—a veritable con artist.
As for Danjū, it seems they took up and wrote [the story] based on an old factual account that he was a vagrant child who solicited alms by Yamato Bridge.
The protagonist of this play is one who was taken in by the veteran con artist Giheiji, peddled fish as a front, gradually made a name for himself through brawls, and ultimately ended up killing a samurai retainer in the pleasure quarters and being imprisoned.
Such lifestyles and personalities, along with the *jingi* (etiquette—a form of courtesy practiced among the unruly ruffians of that era, which had not yet become standardized) they possessed—these elements are depicted in a highly realistic manner.
The first author did not impose ideals upon such people.
Danjū’s own way of life—free, unrestrained, and likely perceived as easygoing—had not warped in the slightest.
These men worked lightly clothed, half-naked, and at times completely naked.
Particularly in the script-writing era, they likely did not perform murder scenes naked; yet at some point in theater, they adopted a form clad in full-body tattoos with a single crimson crepe loincloth, wielding a sword in one hand to enact multiple slashing motions.
A muddy tangle kneaded from sweat, grease, blood, incest, and immorality—yet from somewhere within, Danjū’s ignorant yet pure essence surged forth, kicking aside all morality to flow into a deeper human compassion that wrenched sobs from men.

Now, even Enjaku’s physique—once overly robust—has likely withered. In the past fifty years, no actor possessing all the requisite qualities to portray such Kamigata urban outlaws as he has been seen. He is mourned. If the time comes when he fades from the kabuki stage, the perfect Yadonashi Danjū will never be seen again. Even if the real Kyūbeē were to appear, we would still be astonished by the singular perfected humanity of Danjūrō Kyūbeē as embodied by Jitsukawa Enjaku that we witness.

A play performed in the same unlined summer kimono—if we speak of Kamigata-produced works—would be *Godairiki Koi no Fujime*. This play does not particularly convey seasonal atmosphere on stage, likely because its source incident occurred during summer. When Hayata Hachiemon—a Satsuma samurai stationed at Osaka’s warehouse residence—killed his regular geisha Kikuno, legend says she died with a *hoozuki* ground cherry still in her mouth. It was an incident where authorities apprehended the culprit just as his Kagoshima-bound ship prepared to depart. Adapting this into the *Satsuma Uta* era’s framework, they recast Gengohee as Hachiemon to create a long-suffering protagonist, altering Fukuoka Mitsugu’s style of severed ties to conclude with both “Komatsu” and “Sangobei” being slain. In prior adaptations of *Satsuma Uta* and *Gonin Musume*, O-Man had been revised to Komatsu and replaced with Kikuno—but this role alone restored Kikuno’s name. So deeply must her murder’s pathos have imprinted itself. Here Sangobei became wholly villainous. Scenes showed him peering through reed doors at Genroku and Kikuno’s summer-room trysts, while the lead actor displayed comedic touches—like night-blindness gags—that such serious roles occasionally permitted. This play migrated eastward with its author Namiki Gohei, creating inevitable clashes between Edo and Kamigata staging methods.

And that—I, in my limited knowledge, have yet to encounter the revised Jōruri.
Recently popular in Kabuki and seemingly on the verge of becoming Jōruri yet never materializing—there must have been some reason.
Among works related to *Gonin Musume* ("Five Women"), there was *Fumizuki Uramukashi no Ko* ("Grudge-Cutting Child of the Seventh Month").
These were Obon Festival Plays true to their titles but were naturally performed as Summer Theater too.
"Satomi Isuke," who kills Taruya Osen—this name derived from Taruya Isuke.
The plot inverted severance conventions: here a man attempts unilateral separation yet ends up killing his lover.
Even among severed-tie stories today’s *Ise Ondo* evokes no summer atmosphere.
Yet their costumes remain thoroughly summery.
Tokushima Iwaji and Aitamaya Hokuroku wore yukata.
The protagonist Mitsugu dressed in sheer haori over jōfu cloth.
The murder scene alone might suggest summer’s seasonal touch.
No one considered depicting multiple slayings during short summer nights’ potential effect.

In Summer Theater productions, there were quite a number of cases—as noted previously—where the seasonal relevance had been forgotten since their revival.
Taking an example from the most recent instances, Kiyomoto’s *Migawari O-Toshi*
(Enjaku, Sadanji, Matsutake, etc.) and *Kasane—Shikisai Kan Karimame* were among them.
The latter appeared here and there this year as well, but none presented a summer setting.
The jōruri scene at Kinutagawa Embankment, presented in the script of *Hokake Matsu Narita Riken* by the aforementioned Tsuruya Nanboku IV—since it was performed in June of Bunsei 6 (1823), it was a summer theater production.
The lyrics also,

〝When longing and heart are dyed by another— / A visage called love, like summer grasses…〟 / 〝Young bracken and crimson summer leaves— / Rain upon treetops…〟 / 〝Though a man becomes a blue parasol’s frame— / What of it?〟 / 〝Affection cast aside— / Summer dew’s vanishing form— / Double carnations— / This must be *Rui*’s namesake.〟

Thus it became a summer journey scene.
The late Umejaku and Hazaemon revived and performed it in December of Taisho 9 (1920), while Kikugorō and the late Kanya staged its second production in July of the 14th year (1925).
As the premiere had been in winter, they seemingly paid little heed to seasonal authenticity.
For the revival, they meticulously studied the libretto and other elements, yet no distinct summer ambiance emerged; today two marginally differing versions persist.

Among summer theater works, *Yotsuya Kaidan*—which truly feels like a summer tale—had indeed been written specifically for the Bunsei 8 (1825) Bon performances.
This was transferred to puppet theater in July of Tenpō 2 (1831).
However, even upon examining the script, there appears to have been no particular intention to focus on summer aspects.

However, since its premiere, it had been established that the scenes of Tamiya Iemon’s Ronin Residence and Oiwa’s Maternity Room must include hung mosquito nets. In the preceding scene, the pawnshop clerk arrived and attempted to reclaim it. Later in the play’s progression, Iemon—having returned from outside—removed it to pawn as part of the staged action.

Oiwa: “This.”
“Lord Iemon.”
“Only that mosquito net...”
(Thinks deeply.)
(Looking around) “Then... has he already sent him away?”
“...Even bedridden with illness—how dear my child is.”
Determined not to let go, she clings—in the violent struggle, the nails of her fingertips tear away like this (she envisions).
(Envisioning fingertips torn away, bloodied) “Though you are the spawn of such a wicked man, how pitiful you’ve become—” (She sinks into thought).
The baby cries.
Oiwa staggers, searches the area, takes out a clay brazier, and attempts to light mosquito-repelling incense.
(The timing of the bell amidst this discarded interior.)

These stage direction specifications were still largely maintained today. Beyond this, the summer elements were no longer truly enlivened. Even “Inbo-bori” and “Jasan Anshitsu,” which ostensibly should evoke Obon, did not particularly appear that way. Modern productions generally seemed to be directed with such seasonal awareness, but too many days had passed since then. Even when viewing Naosuke Gonbei’s deceptive letter to Ito’s wife Oyumi at Inbo-bori, it was said that Iemon had been dead for forty-nine days. Even counting from when [Iemon] killed the Ito parent and child and nailed Oiwa to a plank to set her adrift, it should already have been autumn. Therefore, this was why the author alone had been unable to incorporate summer and Obon events into the subsequent plot structure. The Dream Scene at Jasan Anshitsu had been established as the Tanabata Festival. This scene too had become something unseen in modern Tokyo kabuki, but as Ichikawa Sairyū—who was fond of stylized acting—performed it many times, its impression had yet to fade. When that dream ended, tall lanterns and white paper lanterns hung at the gate—it was the Obon hermitage. However, when viewed through the script written by Nanboku, it was strikingly different. Outside had turned into a day of deep snow. And so Iemon’s slaying too was in snow, and the climax became a snowy assault on Takayashiki. The stage, faintly lit by Tanabata fireflies and decorative lanterns, abruptly shifted to winter’s desolation—a contrivance by the author, likely intended to chill the Obon spectators. While not employing actual water, the scene at Sunamura Inbōbori incorporated waterfront atmospherics without nostalgia—a pair of corpses shifting on a floating plank, the drowning of Ito’s wet nurse, Naosuke Gonbei’s eel catching, and Yomoshichi emerging from a sluice gate’s mouth.

*The Dish Mansion* remains steeped in water throughout without ever showing it.
Even this work—through *Shin Sara Yashiki* and *Banchō Sara Yashiki*—gradually lost its aqueous associations.
A single well served effectively: first, Okiku was slain beside it; then she reappeared as a ghost.
Moreover, this well became a passageway for stealthy figures igniting fires in turban shells.
Villains like Asayama Tetsuzan and Okiku’s husband Funase Sanpei emerged here.
Likely rewritten multiple times even before *The Dish Mansion*,
the scattered legends all recount a woman killed for carelessly breaking dishes—though these tales themselves sprang from ancient beliefs.
The Izumi Well became the escape route by which this water spirit abandoned her long-inhabited human home to return to her realm.
In plays, these stories took forms like *Shinota-zuma*—divorced from water—and what is called *Sanjūsangendō*.
Strangely, this motif clearly resurfaces in modern dramas of distant Northern Europe.
The theme adopted in Ibsen’s *The Lady from the Sea* undeniably stems from *The Dish Mansion*’s immediate predecessor.

When it comes to modern authors, they simply do not attempt to endlessly preserve and extend old legendary plots. They adopt a form that begins anew from their own works. Even when a legend is employed, all its intertwined elements remaining vital and active has gradually ceased to exist.

The source materials for Enchō’s orally performed tales were all like that. It was precisely because they possessed a modicum of literary pretensions that they severed all ties with the past.

*Kaiden Chibusa Enoki* could be called neither an original work nor an adaptation; it showcased three characters—the ghost of an artist who painted Kitain Temple’s ceiling, his earnest servant, and a rogue—through quick costume changes. Scenes like Jūnisō Ōtaki served as prime showcases for such technical spectacle, fully embodying Summer Theater’s quintessential stage atmosphere. Ghost stories were replete with elements like acrobatics and quick costume changes.

Originally, there were no such things as plays that started anew from the very beginning in old Japan. Undoubtedly, upon the foundation of seasonal performing arts that existed in villages and towns, various artistic devices were layered. The foundation consisted of faith or legend. If one pursued it to that extent, the meaning of the elements common to Summer Theater became clear. Moreover, even without water, it could also be understood that being a ghost story itself had entered into the fundamental convention of summer and Obon plays.

Moreover, there remained another element: its connection to the Water God Festival observed on June 15th.
Likely only villages filled with devotees of Seki-style regional plays—those verging on obsessive—would have staged performances for water and river deity festivals, but summer productions seemed profoundly influenced by their temporal proximity to these Water God Festivals.
Otherwise, Edo-period playwrights would never have adopted such deeply rooted water legends as material.
To claim people embraced water plays—those cool spectacles that made sweat vanish—was merely an imagined inference drawn from established customs.
Ghost stories formed an essential part of the Onoe family's legendary performance repertoire, and one could say that the artistic lineage culminating in the fifth Kikugorō—who elevated ghost stories from mere technical spectacle to artistic heights—prevented their exclusion even from solemn kabuki programs.

However, many plays that take water performances and quick costume changes as their key criteria are on the verge of perishing.
With just Sairyū’s death, technical spectacles appear to have vanished from theatrical art altogether.
If anything were to happen to the current Jitsukawa Enjaku, yet another significant loss from that lineage would manifest in our theatrical heritage.

Ah, let us cast aside discussions of art and, like Takimado Shikanosuke, venture out lightly dressed to the water’s edge.
It is a summer to lose oneself in the illusion of catching carp.

The marginal notes in the Takasagoya edition; regarding Okuni and Sanzaburō, the annotations were mistakenly omitted.
The one wearing the sedge hat is Sanzaburō’s ghost; the figure of the kabuki man is what Okuni portrays.
One must interpret it thus; otherwise, the configuration remains incomprehensible.