Pathway to Japanese Literature

I was one who had returned from seeing the play *The Oil Hell Murder*. One day spent in a hut with severely dimmed lighting had left both my eyes and spirit utterly exhausted. Though unexpectedly moved to something resembling gratitude by the actors' efforts—their artistry being so overwhelmingly superior to what had become my preconceived standard—the beautiful phantom I had witnessed before now seemed to loom over the techniques of these present performers, rendering their work irredeemably ephemeral as I watched on helplessly.

The early years of Meiji and Taisho were noble.
Both play and music dissolved into emptiness like some immaculate dream.

The first time I saw this Kawachiya Yobei was when Jitsukawa Enjaku still went by Enjirō. Even so, how pitiful it was that Oki fell into this young oil seller's hands. Nakamura Naritarō—later Kaisha—whether in form or technique, remained etched vivid and clear in my eyes to this day. When I saw it a second time with Nakamura Fukunosuke as Oki, the lingering impression from before had already diluted any later impact of the role. Such was the excellence of Kaisha's Oki. Yobei's parents—the fellow oil merchants Tokubei and Osaha—were played by Onoe Uzaburō and Arashi Rikaku. Enveloped in these three performers' profound sorrow, their humble postures—heads bowed as if apologizing to unseen multitudes—left me wondering: Could there truly exist a play that renders people both so desolate and purified? I could scarcely contain this welling emotion.

I thought then that no greater emotion than this could exist.
That remains impressed upon me even now.
And following that—to the oil merchant’s wife with her deeply pure-hearted soul that had sent off the elderly couple from across the street—a messenger of terror came.
Between those who harbor mutual affection—even so, the suspicions that must inevitably recur, the obstinate quarrels.
And thus, before long, a charge toward irreparable catastrophe.
Why must human hearts twist, entangle, and then drift apart from one another?
Why can humans not possess the wisdom to directly sympathize—to directly empathize—with the deepest of human sorrows?
A shudder akin to such regret rendered our hearts intensely solemn for an instant—ah, then came the charge toward an unspeakable catastrophe.
I, feeling an agonizing impression to the extent that I might never see it again, stood dumbfounded.
Meanwhile, the stage steadily advanced.
I could do nothing but stand by and watch the extinction of humanity.
The younger generation’s Enjaku was also excellent.
Kaisha was also excellent.
Even if you were to say they are people who were born for this purpose, who could possibly oppose them?
As I gazed upon *The Oil Hell Murder* at the Mitsukoshi Theater, I nearly cried out, "If only there were something to exchange!"
I could not help but recall how such supreme artistry had once been brought forth by people of similar age upon nearly identical stages.

Fortunately, Enjaku, who had escaped this calamity, must have thought of his partner from that time as he burned to death in an air raid shelter by the bay in Osaka’s Sōemonchō, clutching his grandchild.
At such times, recalling the murder scene from *The Oil Hell Murder*, he must surely have felt some regret for Kaisha.

Those who lamented the demise of Enjaku’s artistry had considered that he would be unable to endure traveling east by train.
I have heard they even went so far as to plan requesting air travel if possible.
And yet he still could not appear before Tokyo’s audience.
Without ever finally appearing before them, was he not approaching a time akin to soaring far away while embracing his artistry?
If it came to that, who would take responsibility for having deprived us of seeing the theatrical genius again?

“Daianji Tsutsumi” and “Chichimorai”—kyōgen plays he might still perform—naturally lingered in those people’s hearts.
Yet even these now seemed destined to vanish unrealized.
What they called *The Oil Hell Murder*—now performed by others—might be seen as their wish made manifest: an attempt to cast that profound vision upon unfamiliar youths.
Osaka had no Yobei to replace him.
Nor could Tokyo’s lack of worthy young talents be called unreasonable.

First came the matter of language itself.
The inertia of rural people guided by language's tonal textures and accents—without expressing this essence, there could be no authentic Yobei.
Unless one could convey both the calculative sharpness arising from Osaka speech patterns and the underlying complaints and timidity hidden beneath them, Yobei's distinctive qualities would surely vanish.
While adapting to urban life, Osaka folk typically retained a deeply rooted wildness.
They never coveted the refinement Edo people perpetually boasted of.
They had instead cultivated what might be called an unvarnished rawness.
Through Chikamatsu's writing and Kyoto-Osaka audiences' familiarity, even Kegedayuemon found himself compelled to reveal such cowardice in Yanagimachi.
This defined Osaka people's universality—knowing humanity's deepest strengths while shamelessly sharing their vulnerabilities with one another.
Any character portrayal neglecting this emphasis would likely diverge from the role's fundamental nature as Chikamatsu conceived it.
Enjaku's Yobei would undoubtedly stand as a benchmark—a standard for kabuki characterizations to be preserved through future generations.

Danjū Kurobē represented a geographical variation within the same lineage of character types.
This character type had seen its former stark differences diminish considerably in recent years due to increased cross-referencing between Eastern and Western directing methods; nevertheless, certain revisions were still applied to Edo-style productions.
Kurobē went without saying, but from Issun Tokubei and Tsurifune Sanfu all the way to Tokubei’s wife Otsu—all were Edo-style figures who seemed plausible at a glance and had been performed according to such interpretations.
But as became clear when considering actual practice, it was after all an Osaka-type character.
Kurobē was a man who had been picked up as a vagrant child, raised by a swindler, and said to have had a tryst with that household’s daughter.
He was never an Edo-style gallant to begin with but merely a ruffian.
Tokubei too had been a Chūgoku vagrant who loitered between Sakai and Sumiyoshi and degraded himself into the company of beggars.
Even on the Osaka side, this Tokubei was considered a cocky fellow—if only because there was no other way to handle him—and that was about the extent of it.
In Edo’s *Naniwa Kagami*, the portrayal of these characters had to be seen as having been directed according to different standards of character.
In other words, it was a character directed through differing interpretations.
On this point as well, Enjaku’s directing method had to be deemed the most accurate.
Yoshie’s Danjū could be considered correct because it was based on directing methods and interpretations passed down from his father Karoku in Osaka.
However, as the impression of Karoku faded in recent years, it appeared to have increasingly inclined toward the dashing masculinity characteristic of Edo-style performances.
In such cases where expressing regional characteristics was suited to depicting unique personalities, the directing method inherently had to ensure that even language itself constituted a sense of local identity.

However, there was another problem.
Among the several types of direction—collectively referred to as the Otowaya style—that had been fully systematized by the fifth Kikugorō, the particularly outstanding one was *Iganmi no Gonta*.

Even among Kamigata actors, his senior Ganjiro had possessed not so much shrewd perceptiveness as a powerful assimilative capacity.
He had not particularly insisted on making Gonta a gambler ruffian from the Yamato Shimotsuke area.
But Enjaku had been different.
He had steadfastly maintained that interpretation through to the present.
Yet the Osaka-style Gonta of early Meiji—which had never acknowledged Otowaya authority—did not necessarily seem to form the foundation of Enjaku’s current direction.
His originality showed itself at every turn.
From maruhon kabuki’s perspective, adhering first and foremost to Osaka conventions appeared correct.
But with *Iganmi*, there seemed no need to idealize sustained local color as with Yobei or Danjū.
For character uniqueness did not spring precisely from being rooted in Osaka’s environs or Yamato’s ways.
Rather for Gonta, one needed first to establish his universal rusticity as petty villain before plumbing the depths of such rogues’ inherent sorrow.
Yet keeping him distinct from metropolis-scorched townsfolk remained maruhon’s imperative.
Thus no grounds existed to reject Kikugorō’s approach.
Still in tragicomedies depicting provincial nobodies’ deaths—those devoid of urbanity—Enjaku’s method struck deeper: through its downward spiral making palpable refusal’s cruel toll.

Among these three roles, there were undoubtedly those who did not acknowledge him as foremost in Danjū and Gonta. For Gonta there had been the sixth Kikugorō; for Danjū there had been Yoshie; then Kikugorō, the late Kōshirō, and Uzaemon as well—each had demonstrated representative direction. However, there was no one who would attempt to deny the validity of Enjaku’s performances in these roles. When it came to Yobei, there was none who would advocate for anyone but him.

Judging from these artistic standards, he [Kōshirō] was one who should be positioned as a jitsuaku—that is, a tatekataki antagonist—and stood as the last of such figures from Kōshirō’s era or the age of monarchs; by contrast, Enjaku alone remains as what should be called the true antagonist of domestic plays and family dramas.

In the long prime of his vigor, why did we not strive to witness more varied Kabuki antagonist roles? Neither Akahori Mizuemon nor Taima Saburoemon recalled having observed him in such performances. And thus we were ultimately fated never to see them. The last time I saw Matsuō was two years prior. The moment I called out and stepped from the palanquin, I vividly envisioned Matsuō standing at the diametric position—it had been that of the late Ichikawa Chūsha. The single act of *Terakoya* culminated as both a paragon of virtue and a quasi-superhuman persona. From the instant Enjaku transformed his visage at the threshold through every critical juncture within the house—his bearing, expressions, and gestures—he orchestrated them all while suffusing each with jitsuaku-style shadows. Even elements like presenting the decapitated head with what was deemed Danjūrō’s erroneous blade served to codify the antagonist role’s detestable cruelty and inhuman conduct. Witnessing his direction, I instantly grasped the rationale behind this archaic form—his Matsuō had transcended conventional tachiyaku essence through interpretation.

Fortunately, I had many opportunities to see Enjaku’s Ishikawa Goemon.
His portrayal did not succumb to human emotions as Yoshie’s did.
Yet it was always Goemon centered around Fuji no Mori, so I could not discuss comparisons of artistry in Mibu Village.
What was even more regrettable than that was my inability to witness a great Pan—stripped of human sentiment and reveling in an amoral world.

Looking back, I considered Sadanori of Adachigahara.
Beginning with his exit from the stage-right platform and examination of Naokata’s pockets, through his movements and vocalizations upon reaching the hanamichi runway, and culminating in the callback that followed—what unfolded was not so much a natural progression of action as an inexorable coalescence, a return to evil whose manifestation grew increasingly vivid at each step.
Here too, I compared Yoshie’s performance—with its small, rapid movements that seemed to shake off goodness layer by layer—to a direction filled with such sincerity that it appeared to mourn a return to justice.
The difference between the essence of antagonist roles and leading male roles had manifested itself in the two Sadanori as well.
Therefore, when it came to sorrow using Oki as its vessel, Yoshie approached it with the resolve said to leave none without tears.
The interpretation of plays should not be traced back to historical source texts.
Above all else, the play; the play again—it is an interpretation bounded by the original text that gives proper birth to drama.

Niki Danjō, Taira no Tomomori, Sakura Sōgorō and others adhered closely to Ichikawa Danjūrō’s performances after having observed them. When examining these roles, the difference in approach compared to Yoshie became strikingly apparent. Danjō now predominantly appeared in the climax, though his essence shifted across all three acts. The stage floor had transformed into an exceptionally fantastical role type, while the confrontation occurred midway through with sword fights performed in trivialized fashion. In past performances, a single essence had been consistently maintained throughout these three acts. Consequently, the terror inherent in sword-fighting scenes failed to emerge distinctly. Rather than manifesting naturally, it seemed left behind—even now performed with excessive intensity through lingering tradition. The entire audience unwittingly became Saemon no Jōki, each individual transformed. I felt Danjō advancing from the hanamichi runway while feigning to target me alone within the hidden crowd. Though minimal in scale, Danjūrō’s stage saw its terror sweep forth onto the boards. Even now Yoshie and Kikugorō appeared prepared not to forget this legacy. Yet the Monchūsho confrontation scene had been entirely simplified to resemble an episode from “Ōoka’s Judgment.” Hosokawa Katsumoto in his mediator role should never have been directed as such a childishly astute man. That foolish tiger lecture must be considered nothing more than a leading male role’s clever stratagem—mocking the Yamana faction while restoring dignity to righteous forces. Performed with excessive bravado, it reduced Danjō—who had listened silently throughout—to appearing servile like some low-ranking samurai. He needed to project far greater defiant callousness. This could no longer be witnessed except through actors predating Danjūrō and Kikugorō regardless of circumstance. In the confrontation scene’s Danjō portrayal, while Enjaku’s artistic presence dominated the stage—complete with moments where he neurotically scanned his surroundings—the interpretation might be called the most ancient Danjō. For this he possessed formidable support: his appearance—both extraordinarily unconventional yet fitting within form—from middle age onward had gained universal validity while manifesting individuality with particular force.

It is particularly that antagonist-like countenance which fully brings forth his artistry.

For a moment, I will speak without reference to him.
There were plays that required opposing leading male roles.
This necessity gave rise to what became known as the "Enduring Leading Role" in many instances.
Thus on stage, these came to occupy supporting positions.
Take for example—though it has vanished from recent productions—roles like Oniō Shinzaemon from Soga Kyōgen.
Though substantial in dramatic weight, such roles appeared subordinate to true leading male parts.
Practitioners assumed audiences inherently understood this dynamic of veterans elevating juniors through role design.
While Enduring Leading Roles later evolved significantly, they originated in historical plays with loyal retainers like Shinzaemon at their core.
These were not mere vessels for scorn-enduring lines like Mitsugi or Hachirōbei.
Here crystallized an entire dramatic style centered on devoted servants.
Differentiation proliferated through figures like Hiraemon, Ningyō-ya Kōemon, and Nagoya Sanza's subordinates.

The period around thirty years into Enjaku’s formative years coincided with an era when jitsuaku villain role specialists such as Ichikawa Arakorō (the previous generation), Arashi Kichisaburō (two generations prior), and slightly later Nakamura Kohakurō died one after another without successors to inherit their roles.
Young Enjirō, precisely because he was young, likely never imagined establishing himself through antagonist roles.
Yet what his artistic presence directed ultimately seemed to settle into the realm of Hiraemon-type roles.
For that very reason, he strove.
Rather than mere words, there must have been moments when he—conscious of being the first Enjaku’s son—was shown gut-churning displays of duplicity by those actors who had thrived under his father’s patronage only to reverse course after the patriarch’s death.
The incident concerning his mother—who was supposed to nurture him—during his boyhood; his indomitable spirit that had etched the world’s unreliability into his very bones; how many times must he have gritted those words—“Watch me closely now”—between his teeth while swallowing tears?

His inherent talent as a Hiraemon actor—even after he himself shattered it—became what should be called the roles that defined his generation’s humanity.

In the writings of Okada Ryōsuke, Sano Shikazō, and Mukai Zenkurō as well, the Hiraemon-type could be found everywhere.
But as part of the orthodox Jitsukawa lineage since Gakujūrō, the role types that ought to have been inherited existed solemnly elsewhere.

The lineage of artistry consistent in Kamigata domestic plays—such as Tōya Shinsuke from *The Morning Bell’s Rumors*, Kanō Shirōjirō from *Accumulated Passions: Snow and Milk*, and characters like Danjūrō Mohee and Kamiya Jihee—led him in a direction quite divergent from his innate talents.

As Ganjiro had originally borne the Jitsukawa surname, Enjaku knew better than anyone—and Ganjiro himself was aware—that he had taken his first firm steps under his father’s guidance.
Therefore, for the young him—filled with an indomitable spirit—the first opponent to whom he could declare “Watch me closely now” was none other than Ganjiro.
There was a fear that even the artistry passed down from Gakujūrō to Enjaku—though originating from Jitsukawa—might end up becoming the domain of Ganjiro, who appeared to have turned his back on Jitsukawa.
Moreover, his artistic presence hinted at realms beyond gentleman roles, while his artistic nature was unmistakably oriented toward enduring leading roles or supporting ones.
Even Father Enjaku did not have a beautiful face.
But long training had granted him versatility.
Moreover, that era did not consider innate beauty to be of concern.
In the Meiji era, a preference for actors possessing innate beauty like Utaemon, Uzaemon, and Baikō deepened markedly.
Even in Osaka, the era of Ganjiro, Gaidō, and Ganshō had already arrived.
Among them, Ganjiro possessed exceptionally beautiful artistic presence.
He had become a radiant presence, combining both appearance and physique.
Tenbō Shōzaemon, who had just passed through voice change, possessed a sufficiently stage-worthy countenance as an old-fashioned actor, but as a leading male role in gentleman roles succeeding his house’s acting techniques, he had to undergo rigorous training enough to surpass the beautiful Ganjiro.
Moreover, this Ganjiro—who was no longer merely a hypothetical rival—had nearly a decade’s seniority in the acting world and occupied an unshakable position in the Kamigata theater.
The bitter struggles of his artistry truly began from this point.

The several years he continued as lead actor at the Sakai-za theater in Kyoto’s Shinkyōgoku were likely often driven by these delusions surrounding him.

Gaidō (the Eleventh Nizaemon), who had always stood diametrically opposed to Ganjiro in all matters, reportedly took a favorable interest in Enjaku’s orphan—who bore no personal grudges—assigning him solely to apprentice roles during his voice change while keeping a watchful eye on him.
After that period had passed, building upon his popularity among Kyoto audiences, he resolved to perform every possible type of role to the fullest extent.
Fortunately, Enjirō—who had gained popularity both as lead actor and playwright—soon came to harbor the ambition of demonstrating his abilities before Tokyo audiences.

It was after Osaka impresario Izumikuma’s innovative management methods had succeeded.
The producers who had come to realize that Kamigata theater was sufficiently capable of withstanding the scrutiny of Tokyo’s fastidious critics had been lying in wait for such opportunities.

In May 1899, Enjirō’s troupe, having been invited to the Tokyo-za theater, was set to make its debut before Tokyo audiences for the first time on the 20th, their opening day.

Playwright Nakamura Suzusaburō (later Arashi Kichisaburō) and female impersonator Nakamura Naritaka.
The program consisted of *Okayama Jikki*, the middle act *Ten Amijima*, and the finale *Benkei Jōshi*, in which they served as both the true leading male role of Mizuno Saburōbei and the enduring leading male role, performing Kamiji under the banner of the house’s signature artistry.
In the following month’s program of *The Treasury of Loyal Retainers*, *Daimonji-ya*, and *Chronicle of Three Generations*, the lead role of Ōboshi was ceded to Suzusaburō, while he was set to perform Ishido, Kanpei, Hiraemon, Mantarō Uemon, Clerk Genpachi, and Sanenosuke—encompassing leading male roles, second male leads, comic roles, and even veteran actor parts.

“If one were to describe this actor’s facial features,” began the favorable review by Tōkibō of the Asahi Shimbun (as cited in the *Continued Kabuki Chronicles*), “they might resemble Risō of the Masa-za theater simmered in premium mirin.” This playful analogy crowned their praise.
The third July program featured *Danjūrō Kyūbē* and *Ishii Jōemon*.
In August’s productions of *Shiobara* and *Imoseyama*, Enjaku played Tasuke and Omiwa.
Come September, he took on roles including Heiji Kagetaka in *Genpei Disinheritance*, Osono quick-change Magistrate Tōnai in *Sanshō Hanpei*, and both the Phantom Cat and Hunter Shigesaburō in *The Fifty-Three Stations*.
Such performances risked cementing his reputation as a villainous mastermind.
Around this time, Nakamura Naritarō (later Kaisha)—destined to become Enjaku’s fitting yet emotionally distant collaborator—journeyed east to join Meiji-za theater.
For that September’s program, under the patronage of Ano Hermitage, he assumed roles spanning Shosō the Maidservant, Otorī, Kongara Dōji, Natsume Hanraku, and Morioka-ya Onaru.

Kaisha remained in Tokyo for several years thereafter. While the stated reasons for his eastward move were ostensibly a youthful romantic entanglement and positional conflicts with Nakamura Seijirō (later Fukusuke III Umeyuki), the true impetus behind his decision undoubtedly stemmed from Enjirō’s own relocation to Tokyo.
And before long, Seijirō too would come to accompany his father Fukusuke (II Umeyuki) in moving to the capital.
Three actors, three different paths to Tokyo—when one considers this, there seems to have been something like the threads of an opening scroll, entwined with chance and necessity around these young performers, that over the ensuing forty years would unravel and tangle in ways now remembered.
The Tokyo-za theater’s continuous performances persisted into the following year, and for the New Year’s play of Meiji 33 [1900], Sumizō, Sarunosuke (Danjūrō), Sōgorō (Kōshirō), Kunihachi, and others joined the troupe.
Amidst this, Enjirō was assigned to lighter roles such as Yoshitsune in *The Camp* and Osugi in *Pine, Bamboo, Plum*, but his reputation was gradually improving.

Enjirō’s Yoshitsune—this being my first viewing—bore a resemblance to Risō of the Masago-za. Recently arrived from Osaka among young actors, he was said to be of commendable quality. Having acclimated to Tokyo life, dedicated practice had become imperative.

This critique by Aibara Kōson of the Asahi Shimbun—though one must recognize his self-awareness as Bamboo House Master standing apart from so-called establishment authorities likely compelled even that amiable man to such phrasing—should rightly be seen as wording that maintained rigorous standards for newcomers while still amounting to considerable praise. What intrigued was how this article articulated what might be called the theater world’s consensus regarding his appearance: that it had attained proper actorly refinement after fifty—no small feat in an era still demanding the bloom of youthful beauty.

I think.
It is safe to say that Kamiji ultimately reached its culmination with the previous Ganjiro, but when it came to Baichū, he compellingly demonstrated that he possessed the wildness—that which was essential for Chūbei yet lacking in Ganjiro—which Enjaku had held.
In passages such as those from *Hedo Daijin*, it is precisely Enjaku’s Chūbei that remains without flaw.
It was precisely for this reason that in later years, Ganjiro would perform *Izutsuya’s Back Room* but never *Hedo Daijin*—for when it came to travel scenes, Enjaku’s Chūbei overflowed with both a tenacity for life that clung to existence until the final step before death and an unfeigned sincerity toward Umegawa.
While Ganjiro’s seal-breaking scene was certainly one archetype, it was Enjaku who embodied the Chūbei that had been brought to life—portraying the reckless man who, from a trivial quarrel with Hachiemon, comes plunging into the fiery abyss.

And then there were those eyes.
The beauty of Ganjiro’s eyes went without saying.
Yet in roles demanding the expression of truth and beauty’s sorrow—how did Enjaku’s eyes, so ill-suited by nature, manage to convey such raw verity, anguish, entreaty, compassion, empathy, and exultation?
I could only attribute it to his long years of rigorous training.
Kamiyui Kingorō, Sanjigorōshichi (Gan no Tayori), Kanō Shirōjirō, Katana-ya Shinsuke… A truly dissolving wordless eloquence—a current of resentment and lamentation, so exquisitely seized by the kabuki world, toyed with, refined, and imbued with heart-wrenching power—the resonance of those lingering gazes.
Who now would carry on this art of the eyes?

A desolate spring came to Tokyo’s Kabuki world.
Those who could truly be called leading actors had dwindled to not even half the fingers on one hand.

Over the past year or two, the theater seemed to find its footing again.
Yet this had come at an irreplaceable and grave cost.
In a manner that drew no notice—truly like teeth falling out—the old masters had dropped away.
There were those who cited various reasons, but this time kabuki theater had truly reached the brink of extinction.
Until now, by any measure, there had still been no such sense of desperation.
Having come this far, the world keenly felt Kabuki’s collapse.
A sudden passion to support it had arisen from an entirely unexpected quarter.
The most surprising thing was that it had struck at the hearts of the youngest generation.

The actors who had emerged to confront this new current were particularly humble—though this did not mean their technique was outstanding.
Yet even they, feeling the weight of the times and adapting themselves, appeared naturally changed in their approach to art compared to before.

The foremost concern now was the impact of a single veteran actor's death.
While such words were being spoken, Kōshirō passed away, and Sōjūrō followed suit.
That their deaths were imminent had been anticipated by all.
Yet by dismissing it as something not warranting profound regret over their artistic essence and depth, none had sensed such impending crisis.
But when bereft and looking upon it, the greater loss than any other fell particularly upon Kōshirō.
We came to realize the magnitude of artistic presence he possessed had utterly transcended all means of recovery.
Plays requiring roles befitting true antagonists could no longer be performed in their entirety henceforth.
As for leading male roles too, those characterized by a certain grandeur would leave them longing for him.
Strictly speaking, Tokyo's kabuki theater had to endure becoming lopsided to a degree due to losing him.

If there are those who perceive what I say as exaggeration, I would feel ashamed of the clumsiness of my exposition. But it is precisely because I trust in your wisdom and magnanimity that I feel compelled to speak of an even greater peril now bearing down upon us.

If Osaka actor Jitsukawa Enjaku II were to remain as he is now, or should his illness progress even a step further, then we would have no choice but to endure witnessing—even more starkly than with Kōshirō’s case—the desolate final days of Kabuki.

My discourse on Enjaku had initially set out to compose a paean to this man.
Before I knew it, it had transformed into an account of his early years.
Yet believing I had succeeded in tracing the origins of his lifelong artistic style here, I resolved to set down my pen midway through.
To all of you who have read this through—might you not now, in these final days of Kabuki and of Enjaku himself, kindle the hope to extol his talent, those innate gifts verging at points on genius, to the fullest measure of your contemplation?
If that proves not so, then I must conclude my unwritten words have wrought this outcome.

I wished to discuss Enjaku’s nimaime and sanmaime roles on another occasion.
This was precisely what unveiled the profound mystery lying at the foundation of his art—nay, of his very artistry itself.

I pray, Mr. Jitsukawa.
May you yet burn with the desire to stand upon the stage once more.
Once to perform Harufuji at Daianji Embankment anew; once to play Terakoya Heisuke—long absent from our stages—that you might make these sorrow-blind youths of Japan weep.
Understanding how our forebears' truths could draw hearts so close—to newly bestow tears' quiet solace—
For kabuki—this art of sorrows—.

Our foolishness had truly led us to hate, alienate, and yet love people “as things are.”
As those whose art had not yet vividly achieved its full vitality, we had even begrudged encouraging Ichikawa Ennosuke and Ichikawa Sumizō—Shin, Sumikai.
Reflecting now, Kōshirō and Sōjūrō had already passed away this year as if swept away by a sudden gust.
As for successors to Kikugorō and Yoshijirō after their passing, it had truly become unthinkable to consider anyone but these two.
That they still had many shortcomings was not a mistaken notion to have vaguely held.
However, even when looking to those above like Mr. Onoe (Kiku) and Mr. Nakamura (Yoshi)—actors superior in technical skill and artistic depth—they in fact greatly lacked in artistic presence.
As for Mr. Sawamura (Sō), he did not lack artistic presence, but this was accompanied by the drawback of being excessively intertwined with an antiquated artistic realm.
As for Mr. Matsumoto (Kō), kabuki’s artistic presence—to put it with slight exaggeration—could well be said to perish here alongside him, so richly endowed was he with artistic presence as a master actor.
There was a time when he had been called merely a competent actor, but even that artistic presence had now scattered like tumbleweed in the wind.

Artistic presence does not refer solely to physical appearance on stage.
It begins with subtle movements that bolster this presence, gradually imbuing that stage countenance with psychological depth.
At minimum, it rests on whether movements essential to villain roles, leading male roles, and female impersonators guide their stage bearing into kabuki’s orderly conventions.
Yet this does not mean it cannot take form unless fused more profoundly with other artistic elements.
To take Osaka actors from my own experience: Arashi Rikan of Meiji and Arashi Ganshō spanning Meiji through Showa excelled in artistic presence yet lacked commensurate artistic depth.
Having seen Rikan only in my childhood, I cannot verify hearsay through mere impression.
With Ganshō, this disparity manifested fully.
Organizing my recollections, many in the Arashi lineage mastered what might be termed “push-out” artistic presence—or its convincing imitation.
Consequently, the Arashi school’s style became antiquated in Meiji-Taisho theater, mirroring somewhat the Sawamura school’s fate in Tokyo.
We must endure stoically for theater’s sake, withholding no support until Ennosuke and Sumizō’s artistry fully blossoms.

Only in Osaka does Mr. Jitsukawa (Enjaku) remain—preeminent in artistic presence—standing on the verge of overwhelming the world of kabuki following Mr. Matsumoto's passing. In this regard, even Messrs. Kikugorō and Yoshijirō cannot rival Enjaku. The sorrow lies in him having become one of merely three such artists in all Japan—two in Tokyo, one in Osaka. For Japanese kabuki's sake—and more acutely for Osaka theater—we cannot but grieve. Do Shirai and Ōtani—whom both self and others recognize as kabuki advocates—mean to idly watch this plight of Enjaku? Now at last, I find myself compelled to protest against the common perception of Osaka theater long held by Tokyo's cognoscenti. Even this I had ultimately left unspoken, letting it pass as transient gossip—yet here I venture these lingering lamentations. But I cannot escape the thought that my very discussion of artistic presence may only serve to further entrench these Tokyoites' preconceptions.

Osaka theater had regarded artistic presence as its sole virtue and had never placed significant value on other aspects of artistry—which was precisely why actors of repute who excelled only in superficial displays devoid of substance were thought to have proliferated.
From the perspective of such arbiters of taste, Enjaku’s artistry would appear to amount to little more than artistic presence, with scant else to be expected beyond that.
Even one like Ganjiro faced the peril of being reduced to precisely such pronouncements if forced into these categorical molds.
Moreover, such evaluations had in fact been received from eminent figures in the art world celebrated for their discernment.
Even Jakuenmon seemed likely to tumble effortlessly into such a compartment.
It was precisely because these hollow generalizations threatened to calcify Osaka theater’s worth that I felt compelled to state this much.
That Enjaku’s artistic presence surpassed Kikugorō and Yoshijirō did not mean his artistic quality was more superficial than theirs.
The proof lay in viewing him alongside Mr. Onoe—whose artistic quality seemed diametrically opposed—or considering him together with Mr. Nakamura (Yoshi), who at times revealed an artistic realm close to his own: who could claim he had been overwhelmed by the Kikugorō-Yoshijirō duo’s artistic depth?

One watched the two actors performing Kikuchi Kan’s *The Bidding*.
The boss was Kikugorō, and Enjaku played the subordinate.
Rarely had we witnessed such alignment of two actors’ artistic realms on stage as in that moment.
In roles like Heisaku, Daimonjiya Sukeemon, and Kagoya Jinbei, it had been he whose artistic presence interfered, making the pathos feel thin.
Yet this subordinate role—aging and nearing senility—symbolized both the desolation in the boss’s heart, now compelled to cross borders, and the unacknowledged melancholy of a middle-aged ruffian who had never once contemplated the notion of ‘defeat’ in human affairs—a role that served as such a symbol.
He himself expressed the sorrow of that aged subordinate—one could only think he strove to do so.
As for Kikugorō, who played that boss, he likely never even dreamed of considering it.
Or perhaps he may have harbored hope for what the stage of *Shichikiotoshi* could achieve.
Was he not striving solely to express pity for the subordinate being cast aside?
However, were that the case, this one-act play would have become nothing more than a vehicle for the old man role that had chosen *The Bidding* for itself.
We found it far from easy to divert the emotions that made us want to weep for the aged subordinate Enjaku portrayed.
I had never before felt such proximity in artistic quality between two actors who were otherwise so divergent.
It must have been that Enjaku, having yielded for Kikugorō’s sake, stepped into the same artistic quality.
The result guided by that choice was a rare *aware* emerging in his elderly roles—a depth seldom witnessed thereafter.
And yet, it came to symbolize the current circumstances of Chūji of Kunisada Village—a man still in his prime yet untouched by the anguish of crossing borders that should have seeped into his very being.
At that moment, I suddenly felt compelled to examine the problem of archetypes within his acting career.

Chibusa Enoki was his signature role.
It was one of several roles he adopted from the repertoire of his veteran senior Ichikawa Udanji (Sainyu).
Among those three quick-change roles, the one where he exerted the most effort to evoke people’s emotions was that of the simple-minded servant.
The prototype for the aged subordinate role in Kunisada’s *The Bidding* can be seen in this unwaveringly loyal character named Shōsuke.
For him, this was by no means a role lacking *hiki-dashi* from the outset.
However, from an archetypal perspective, there was Terakoya Hyōsuke—a role he inherited from performances by his father and numerous senior actors.
Of course, their personalities differed.
Yet in the role’s essence—particularly in its expressive movements—there were many elements that aligned with Shōsuke.
From that standpoint, the subordinate in *The Bidding* diverges considerably in character.
But since Mr. Kikuchi’s problem play is not a character drama, there naturally remained room for actors’ free interpretations.
What I wish to emphasize is Enjaku’s method of reappropriating archetypes.

Kikugorō is said to be Kabuki’s foremost character actor.
But in truth，he considered the significance of real life through the purest formal representation of external expression.
He had long considered that doing so was the correct path to depicting character.
Therefore，the objects of that depiction were made to conform to the lifestyles of occupations and classes that were minutely categorized.
Therefore，upon actions that were depicted with utmost precision and certainty，a characterless person frequently came to be portrayed.
The likability found in the villains Kikugorō portrayed often stemmed from this very characterlessness.
Sōgorō was an honest fishmonger who occasionally flew into drunken rages—what else was there to him?
Even in portraying the same drunken state as Gotohebei，he ultimately remained nothing more than a sword fittings artisan devoid of character expression that would evoke Goto Matabei of Osaka’s forces—a timid arms craftsman who，in the absence of his nagging wife，might have gotten swayed by drinking companions into seeming out of rhythm yet could execute an artistic dance perfectly in time.

This was not me engaging in a discussion of inherent nature.
The realistic expression forming the basis for performing Dōgen and Chōan—roles repeatedly scrutinized in stage criticism—in fact likely conveyed a way of life common to such professionals or those resembling villains more than it did Dōgen and Chōan themselves.
Connoisseurs recognized this and delighted in the meticulousness of preparatory gestures.
Yet this differed not at all from situations where some ambiguously characterized troupe leader slurped buckwheat noodles or an aged rickshaw puller performed hauling his vehicle exactly as aged rickshaw pullers do.
Ultimately, the reason someone of Kikugorō's artistic stature remained at this level of stylized representation lay in his divergent interpretation of inherent nature's significance—an orientation toward something beyond mere character portrayal.

I was ashamed that I spoke with such venom.
Yet in examining Kikugorō’s theory of expression, I had no intention of extolling Enjaku.
The crux of character portrayal in theater lies here: we find a propensity to mistake for “character” what is no true character at all—mere exhaustively detailed renderings of universal traits—and it is this very propensity over which critics, fellow actors, and self-styled connoisseurs of “discerning taste” endlessly agonize, ever urging toward technical omnipotence.

Enjaku also employed *hiki-dashi*.
But he often ended up not depicting universality despite attempting to do so.
Kingorō and Sanjigorōshichi were both hairdressers; when gestures related to hairdressing tools were required, they certainly did not behave unlike hairdressers, but this did not mean they attempted to clearly demonstrate Onoe-style gestures and professional awareness.
When Kikugorō-kun played Mitsugi, he strove to the utmost to become an *oshi*.
But since there existed no fundamental understanding of what constituted an *oshi*, Mitsugi’s profession as an oil merchant became problematic.
Even if they appeared as Shinto priests, became rural samurai, or resembled doctors’ dependents, was not the approach of not arousing much suspicion the authentic one?
This was equally true in Edo kabuki’s tradition—even in eras that had known too much about the *oshi* profession, it had been better to maintain a balance: neither clinging to nor straying from the *oshi* role, becoming patient leading characters when needed while leaning toward gentleman roles—that had been the proper approach.
The acting method of portraying Mitsugi the oil merchant as a proper *oshi*—expressing the profession’s essential nature—was something unknown to Ise Shibai (Furuichi), and I have not heard of its existence in either Kamigata or Edo since the Bakumatsu and Meiji eras.
In that sense, even if one were to perform the ruffian of Yamato Shimochi in the Edo-style Gonta manner—since expressing geographical essence was not crucial—it would not have been considered a miscalculation at all.
Because Gonta’s essential nature did not lie in being some rustic gambling ruffian.

Enjaku changed seven roles in *Chushingura*.
Such records from a few performances were hardly worth surprise.
For a modern Kabuki actor at that time, it would have been positively strange if they couldn’t change seven roles.
Though not explicitly termed *kane-ru* ("role-taking"), modern actors had commonly taken on multiple roles extensively by then.
Among major role types, only true onnagata actors likely avoided such doubling.
The three roles in Act Five—Hiraiemon and Ōboshi in Act Seven; Tonase and Ōboshi in Act Nine—fell under quick costume changes rather than meaningful character transformations.
Consider Yoichibei: transitioning from patient lead (Kanpei) to romantic antagonist (Jōkurō) before becoming an elder role should showcase transformative brilliance—yet haste for costume swaps reduced it to a hollow shell.
Even Jōkurō lost his iconic entrance cry of “Hey there old man!”
This too stemmed from quick-change compromises.
Act Seven’s shifts between Yurago and Hiraiemon also bred logistical issues.
Yet Enjaku’s case revealed expansive artistry beyond mere spectacle appeal when stripped of such contrivances.
While suitability varies among roles reflecting on his career-spanning repertoire one feels even *Chushingura*’s seven roles constrained rather than showcased his full capacities compared to his portrayal of Moronao—a jitsuaku villain from *Taiheiki*’s war-torn world written as a crudely ambitious upstart daimyo contrasting Edo *Chushingura*’s kōke nobles observing courtly etiquette through Moronao’s eyes treating him through pre-Meiji katsureki conventions drained all intrigue from this antagonist making Enjaku’s rendition far surpassing Danshirō and Nakajū’s late-career attempts shine undeniably brighter than Kōshirō’s technically polished yet depth-lacking version despite surface-level comparisons suggesting otherwise.

Next is Hiraiemon.
I had already discussed the essential nature of this role.
Precisely because it was a role beloved by all—one that allowed an actor of some artistic depth to perform without fear of failure—this so-called amiable role was what Mr. Toita revived through his conventional term: “the good-humored role.”
It was a masterful phrase.
—Indeed.
Even when recalling each actor who had played this role, they all appeared to have succeeded—it remained a mysterious role.
But when selecting the very best masterpieces, problems abounded.
Simplicity alone did not suffice.
What seemed an indispensable clarity for this role, when taken to excess, could not necessarily be called suitable.
Having magnanimity did not appear to have been the foremost requirement.
Even modern Hiraiemon actors and what we had all believed to be Mr. Yoshie’s performances tended to lose the dashing quality essential to servant roles precisely in their tragic aspects.
First and foremost, I wanted those involved to reflect on how the *hiki-dashi* portrayal differed between “Hato no Hiraiemon” and this role.
This role required thoughtfulness; it should not have been approached with the resolute bearing of a *tachiyaku* role.
It needed ultimately to return to a single point of clarity.
Being a man who quickly understood stood as the essential requirement.
When watching Master Hamamatsu’s performance, one was made to consider the unresolved class consciousness lying between ashigaru and chief retainers—a weighty sensation.
The scene was set in a teahouse.
For this role in Osaka theater, there had been Nakamura Tamashichi (Fukumatsurō), who made one think he might have been born for it.
The late Umejuku’s Hiraiemon—who supported Ganjiro in the seventh act and convinced one he was a true supporting role—had been a masterpiece, so long as one did not recall Tamashichi.
Even Honorable Umejuku had been compelled to yield this role to his disciple Tamashichi.

Now that I think of it, the deliberate obtuseness Enjaku cultivated through dedicated practice likely brought greater vitality to this role type than Tamashichi’s unaffected sincerity during his artistic prime. I consider it to be of a higher rank than Tamashichi’s Hiraiemon. By the way, Kaisha’s performances in this type of servant role also include many masterpieces—his Hiraiemon ranks among his most representative works—but given the similarity in their artistic qualities, I suspect he drew more from Tamashichi than from Enjaku. When considering the differences in artistic qualities between Enjaku and Kikugorō, one must also thoroughly examine their similarities with Yoshie.

Dramas of mingled tears and laughter came upon us suddenly, striking when we least expected them.
For that brief interval, we savored a satisfaction so profound it felt our very bellies might burst—sharing this fullness with the characters upon the stage.
But when that moment of uproarious laughter passed, they remained unresolved as ever.
As for the stage and its spectacle, one could only ponder ever more deeply life’s profound loneliness.
Yoshie was an actor who took interest in pursuing such role types.
Takaha Kyoshi’s *Issa* had been written with the purpose of cultivating this Hamamatsu-style artistry.
Recently, the repeated performances of Hōkaibō, the junk dealer from *Rakuda*, Bencho, and Kutsubai Kyūhachi appeared to be attempts to showcase the comedic talent of Yoshie that had long been spoken of.
But both Bencho and Hōkaibō burst forth with laughter arising from the depths of sorrow.
The more absurdly Bencho clowned around, the more he made a sour face, and Hōkaibō deepened his pout.
This was not the kind of literary embellishment young poets engage in.
His tearful laughter was a rationalization of sorrow—through laughter, he seemed to believe life’s bitter weight could be lightened.
There, Hamamatsu—poet of short verses—attempted to compose poetry in futility.

Enjaku did not attempt to apply the principle of pursuing sorrow through laughter.
Amidst laughter alone, the tragic stage advanced.
In *Konpira Risshōki*'s Hyakudo-daira and *Ogasawara Disturbance*'s Okada Ryōsuke, the laughter arose exactly as scripted, erupting abruptly.
And in his case—unlike Master Hamamatsu—he did not strive toward resolution.
As if humanity itself could take no action against sorrow's ordained fate—
Yoshie carried this out through his own power—
In Enjaku's case, one could not even think he possessed such literary qualities.
Even if a leader had been appointed, he remained doubtful as to how obedient he would be toward that direction.
Yet it seemed his unique theatrical life force granted him the willpower to charge through such a life of mingled tears and laughter.
While riding the plot's momentum and mastering the stage, might he not have been establishing some direction toward life?

Among Mr. Ikeda Daigo’s masterpieces was *Saigo and the Pig Princess*. He often took the stage portraying the heroine O-Tama. It was the tragedy of a courtesan who fell in love with a hero, but he cloaked every climactic moment in laughter from start to finish—thus depicting how foolish humans, betrayed by fate, fall into despair and reach what one might call an ending akin to fools reaping what they sowed. And then—falling onto **the** step with a thud—sometimes standing dazedly on **the** earthen floor while letting **the** gold coin tumble from her palm—he brought down **the** curtain. However one might judge the late Mr. Ikeda’s directorial approach, Enjaku’s dynamism on stage ensured that this conclusion—which should be called a grand finale of mingled tears and laughter—never felt like a tragedy. “Although it is sad, life holds hope.” He made spectators—who shared his level of education—feel “the awareness that there exists a pure hope attainable beyond my desires.” Enjaku would never consider such things—he was not an intellectual even in his wildest dreams. At the critical moment when they were about to commit love suicide, the man gained enlightenment and departed brightly while the woman was condemned to live in the abyss of delusion. To express this, one would inevitably have had to stage her as a woman at the depths of despair—as Kawada Yoshiko had performed when it was once staged—and anyone else would still have done the same.

However, the impression Enjaku gave the audience was not like that. Without averting their eyes from the relentless repetition of such a painful existence, they could place trust in enduring it and living purely in this world. And we who were watching also felt a resolve arise that we too would live in such fortune. This may be something I cannot fully explain at present. In other words, it is because they are far inferior to Enjaku in terms of human expressiveness. That Enjaku’s comedic expressiveness has reached this realm is no fantasy of mine. To the extent he could pour bright light into the midst of sorrow, that very power was wielded with mastery in comedy.

Therefore, there were even times when I suspected he might possess greater comedic expressiveness than Soganoya Gorō—with whom he shares artistic qualities—depending on the role. When examining his discussions on art, they did reach considerable depth, yet I still believe they fell short of the artistry he performed. After all, a great actor is a great actor. His expressive power surpassed his script interpretation ability. If one inferred from his discourses on art, interpretation likely merely spoke of the entrance to his artistry. Among today’s great actors, the one with superior interpretive ability would likely be Onoe Kikugorō. But I did not think his character portrayal ability had reached the same level as his discourses on art and stage direction. Therefore, even that excellent interpretive ability—when placed into a drawer and examined—I could not help but suspect it might be mere comprehension through categorization.

Chichimorai—
If you asked ten people, all ten would list it among those art forms likely to perish with Enjaku.
Yet in recent years, Nakamura Ganjiro II too staged it.
Since its reception proved less than favorable, this seems only to have deepened that very fixation.
In Chichimorai, Kano Shirojirō’s excessive sensuality—which at times borders on weakness—his expressions verging on rakish villainy, and his movements so fluid they approach artifice: all coalesce to render Shirojirō inseparable from him.
Though his artistry had early been deemed “grounded,” leading male actors of early Meiji Osaka—as evidenced by predecessors like Oya Enjaku and even Sōjūrō having performed it—had engaged extensively with such roles.
While some see this as mere inheritance of ancestral techniques, we might better regard it as a synthesis broadening tradition through individual flair until reaching saturation.
These works—alongside San-ni-go-Rōshichi and Ton-ton no Sankichi—stand as Osaka kyōgen’s three great comedic exemplars.
Ton-ton no Sankichi appears to be one even Enjaku never attempted.
As for San-ni-go-Rōshichi from Gan no Tayori—though frequently revived and deemed consonant with Enjaku’s humanity—its brevity and contrivances leave it hollow.
Yet through Enjaku alone could vitality be restored.
This latter piece earned considerable acclaim when performed by Nakamura Ganjiro II.
Thus may tradition pass onward once more.

The gentleman role verging intensely on comic foil, and Furuya Hachirōbei—who should be called a *wajitsu* actor approaching the enduring lead—performed both *Kane Tomo ni* and *Urami Same no Saya*, though the former had to take his direction as standard. As with pure-type roles like Kamiya Jihei and Kameya Chūbei, he truly possessed numerous masterful techniques across varied handsome male roles.
Facial expressions, movements, dialogue—all were brought to the pinnacle of mastery as a Gentleman Role.
Compared to Ganjiro—who after his prime never wished to perform anything beyond Gentleman Roles—even in this aspect Enjaku’s domain was broader.

Moreover, what had long been regarded as his true forte—the Gentleman Role—was in fact a supplementary role adopted because he was the son of the first Enjaku, which eventually became his mainstay; yet unless we state that what truly suited him were leading antagonist roles, this discussion cannot reach its conclusion.
At the same time, modern true antagonists had come to lack art forms that could stand independently.
Therefore, emerging from leading roles to supplement this was becoming, rather, the true purpose.
In this sense, conversely, Enjaku’s leading roles occupied a new position for leading roles—this is what I had been attempting to elucidate by contrasting them with Mr. Kōshirō.

In considering how his artistic presence as Yuraosuke related to his artistic depth, we thought of him.
As the lead role of *Chūshingura* that any current theater company could hope for, a Yuraosuke superior to him was no longer being sought.
And yet the day when even that would be lost forever was drawing near.
Within the world of kabuki spanning the Meiji, Taisho, and Showa eras—as one such renowned actor—Jitsukawa Enjaku was a man who should have been sent off with a giant torch.

Mr. Ōtani, Mr. Shirai—do you intend to stand idly by and watch this giant flame vanish into nothingness?

The Osaka house where I was born had an eel restaurant to its east, and the oldest son there became an actor early on, apprenticed under Mitsumasu Inemaru and taking the name Inamasu.
That person’s younger brother would bring bento to his older brother and come to watch plays nearly every day.
Led by that boy, I too learned to enter plays from backstage ever since I attended elementary school.

My memories from early childhood remain astonishingly scarce. But for some reason, a single scene persists in my mind. Reflecting now, this must have been Enjaku during his Kyoto apprenticeship period—before he relocated to Tokyo and became established at the Tokyo-za Theater. There was an occasion when Enjirō of that era participated in a summer production at Naka no Shibai. Though he played Daikokuya Sōroku at that time, both Miyagino and Shinobu have faded completely from memory.

The facial contours already matched Enjaku’s later years, yet his liberated eye movements—said to surpass even Ganjiro’s—had likely not yet attained their full mesmerizing quality then. Moreover, that lingering impression of pliant softness from a face indistinguishable between handsome lead and comic foil probably stemmed from witnessing Enjaku’s excellence in roles beyond the aforementioned *The White Stone Story*. Even recently, when Kikugorō announced a “dual-role banzuke,” it caused controversy before being quietly abandoned—indeed, while Kikugorō merits being called a virtuoso, he cannot truly embody multiple roles. His oyama performances belonged strictly to dance-oriented female impersonation; as a genuine womanly portrayal, he achieved little success. A multi-role actor must anchor their craft in leading male parts while commanding antagonist roles with stately presence. Simultaneously embodying principal onnagata roles while fully transforming into elderly characters, comic foils, and others—this constituted the authentic meaning of role versatility.

The renowned actors active across eastern and western Japan from the Bakumatsu period through early Meiji appear to have striven to broaden their artistic scope by pursuing versatility in multiple roles. Since the era of Danjūrō and Kikugorō, dedication to this ideal had waned considerably—indeed, Tokyo saw no remaining actors capable of such multifaceted performances by this time. In Osaka, both Nizaemon and Ganjiro maintained this commitment until middle age, yet ultimately resigned themselves to never surpassing supplementary engagements in female impersonation roles. It was Enjaku—emerging from gentleman roles to refine comedic sensibilities through comic foil work before establishing his true mastery in antagonist roles innate to his artistry—who achieved every leading female impersonation role from Tonase and Iwafuji to Shikishima and Butahime without compromising their dignity; he alone could truly be called the modern era’s “versatile actor” without equal across all Japan.

Young friends such as Toi Yasuji grieved over the fact that roles like Shirojirō from *Chichimorai* and San-ni-go-Rōshichi from *Gan no Tayori* could no longer be seen. Through being able to witness the archetypes of leading antagonist roles—referred to as Goemon and, in this production of *Hachijin*’s “The Imperial Ship Scene,” Shōsei—or those belonging to that category, they ought to have found satisfaction.