by Arthur Waley
The chanting of these portions is far removed from singing; yet they are not "spoken." The voice falls at the end of each sentence in a monotonous cadence.
A prose passage often gradually heightens into verse. The chanting, which has hitherto resembled the intoning of a Roman Catholic priest, takes on more of the character of "recitativo" in opera, occasionally attaining to actual song. The verse of these portions is sometimes irregular, but on the whole tends to an alternation of lines of five and seven syllables.
The verse of the lyric portions is marked by frequent use of pivot-words* and puns, particularly puns on place-names. The 14th century Noh-writer, Seami, insists that pivot-words should be used sparingly and with discretion. Many Noh-writers did not follow this advice; but the use of pivot-words is not in itself a decoration more artificial than rhyme, and I cannot agree with those European writers to whom this device appears puerile and degraded. Each language must use such embellishments as suit its genius.
Another characteristic of the texts is the use of earlier literary material. Many of the plays were adapted from dance-ballads already existing and even new plays made use of such poems as were associated in the minds of the audience with the places or persons named in the play. Often a play is written round a poem or series of poems, as will be seen in the course of this book.
This use of existing material exceeds the practice of Western dramatists; but it must be remembered that if we were to read Webster, for example, in editions annotated as minutely as the Noh-plays, we should discover that he was far more addicted to borrowing than we had been aware. It seems to me that in the finest plays this use of existing material is made with magnificent effect and fully justifies itself.
The reference which I have just made to dance-ballads brings us to another question. What did the Noh-plays grow out of?
ORIGINS
Noh as we have it today dates from about the middle of the 14th century. It was a combination of many elements. These were:
(1) Sarugaku, a masquerade which relieved the solemnity of Shinto ceremonies. What we call Noh was at first called Sarugiaku no Noh.
(2) Dengaku, at first a rustic exhibition of acrobatics and jugglery; later, a kind of opera in which performers alternately danced and recited.
(3) Various sorts of recitation, ballad-singing, etc.
(4) The Chinese dances practiced at the Japanese Court.
Noh owes its present form to the genius of two men. Kwanami Kiyotsugu (1333-1384 A.D.) and his son Seami Motokiyo (13631444 A.D.).*
Kwanami was a priest of the Kasuga Temple near Nara. About 1375 the Shogun Yoshimitsu saw him performing in a Sarugaku no Noh at the New Temple (one of the three great temples of Ku-mano) and immediately took him under his protection.
This Yoshimitsu had become ruler of Japan in 1367 at the age of ten. His family had seized the Shogunate in 1338 and wielded absolute power at Kyoto, while two rival Mikados, one in the north and one in the south, held impotent and dwindling courts.
The young Shogun distinguished himself by patronage of art and letters; and by his devotion to the religion of the Zen Sect.†' It is probable that when he first saw Kwanami he also became acquainted with the son Seami, then a boy of twelve.
A diary of the period has the following entry for the 7th day of the 6th month, 1368:
For some while Yoshimitsu has been making a favorite of a Sarugaku-boy from Yamato, sharing the same meat and eating from the same vessels. These Sarugaku people are mere mendicants, but he treats them as if they were Privy Counsellors.
From this friendship sprang the art of Noh as it exists today. Of Seami we know far more than of his father Kwanami. For Seami left behind him a considerable number of treatises and autobiographical fragments.* These were not published till 1908 and have not yet been properly edited. They establish, among other things, the fact that Seami wrote both words and music for most of the plays in which he performed. It had before been supposed that the texts were supplied by the Zen† priests. For other information brought to light by the discovery of Seami's Works see Appendix II.
YŪGEN
It is obvious that Seami was deeply imbued with the teachings of Zen, in which cult his patron Yoshimitsu may have been his master. The difficult term yūgen which occurs constantly in the Works is derived from Zen literature. It means "what lies beneath the surface"; the subtle as opposed to the obvious; the hint, as opposed to the statement. It is applied to the natural grace of a boy's movements, to the restraint of a nobleman's speech and bearing. "When notes fall sweetly and flutter delicately to the ear," that is the yūgen of music. The symbol of yūgen is "a white bird with a flower in its beak." "To watch the sun sink behind a flower-clad hill, to wander on and on in a huge forest with no thought of return, to stand upon the shore and gaze after a boat that goes hid by far-off islands, to ponder on the journey of wild-geese seen and lost among the clouds"—such are the gates to yūgen.
I will give a few specimens of Seami's advice to his pupils:
PATRONS
The actor should not stare straight into the faces of the audience, but look between them. When he looks in the direction of the Daimyōs he must not let his eyes meet theirs, but must slightly avert his gaze.
At Palace-performances or when acting at a banquet, he must not let his eyes meet those of the Shōgun or stare straight into the Honorable Face. When playing in a large enclosure he must take care to keep as close as possible to the side where the Nobles are sitting; if in a small enclosure, as far off as possible. But particularly in Palace-performances and the like he must take the greatest pains to keep as far away as he possibly can from the August Presence.
Again, when the recitations are given at the Palace it is equally essential to begin at the right moment. It is bad to begin too soon and fatal to delay too long.
It sometimes happens that the "noble gentlemen" do not arrive at the theatre until the play has already reached its Development and Climax. In such cases the play is at its climax, but the noble gentlemen's hearts are ripe only for Introduction. If they, ready only for Introduction, are forced to witness a Climax, they are not likely to get pleasure from it. Finally even the spectators who were there before, awed by the entry of the "exalted ones," become so quiet that you would not know they were there, so that the whole audience ends by returning to the Introductory mood. At such a moment the Noh cannot possibly be a success. In such circumstances it is best to take Development-Noh and give it a slightly "introductory" turn. Then, if it is played gently, it may win the August Attention.
It also happens that one is suddenly sent for to perform at a Shōgunal feast or the like. The audience is already in a "climax-mood"; but "introductory" Noh must be played. This is a great difficulty. In such circumstances the best plan is to tinge the introduction with a nuance of "development." But this must be done without "stickiness," with the lightest possible touch, and the transition to the real Development and Climax must be made as quickly as possible.
In old times there were masters who perfected themselves in Noh without study. But nowadays the nobles and gentlemen have become so critical that they will only look with approbation on what is good and will not give attention to anything bad.
Their honorable eyes have become so keen that they notice the least defect, so that even a masterpiece that is as pearls many times polished or flowers choicely culled will not win the applause of our gentlemen today.
At the same time, good actors are becoming few and the Art is gradually sinking towards its decline. For this reason, if very strenuous study is not made, it is bound to disappear altogether.
When summoned to play before the noble gentlemen, we are expected to give the regular "words of good-wish" and to divide our performance into the three parts, Introduction, Development and Climax, so that the pre-arranged order cannot be varied...But on less formal occasions, when, for example, one is playing not at a Shōgunal banquet but on a common, everyday (yo no tsune) stage, it is obviously unne
cessary to limit oneself to the set forms of "happy wish."
One's style should be easy and full of graceful yūgen, and the piece* selected should be suitable to the audience. A ballad (koutai) or dance-song (kuse-mai) of the day will be best. One should have in one's repertory a stock of such pieces and be ready to vary them according to the character of one's audience.
In the words and gestures (of a farce, kyōgen) there should be nothing low. The jokes and repartee should be such as suit the august ears of the nobles and gentry. On no account must vulgar words or gestures be introduced, however funny they may be. This advice must be carefully observed.
Introduction, Development and Climax must also be strictly adhered to when dancing at the Palace. If the chanting proceeds from an "introductory-mood," the dancing must belong to the same mood...When one is suddenly summoned to perform at a riotous banquet, one must take into consideration the state of the noble gentlemen's spirits.
IMITATION (Monomane).
In imitation there should be a tinge of the "unlike." For if imitation be pressed too far it impinges on reality and ceases to give an impression of likeness. If one aims only at the beautiful, the "flower" is sure to appear. For example, in acting the part of an old man, the master actor tries to reproduce in his dance only the refinement and venerability of an old gentleman.* If the actor is old himself, he need not think about producing an impression of old age...
The appearance of old age will often be best given by making all movements a little late, so that they come just after the musical beat. If the actor bears this in mind, he may be as lively and energetic as he pleases. For in old age the limbs are heavy and the ears slow; there is the will to move but not the corresponding capacity.
It is in such methods as this that true imitation lies...Youthful movements made by an old person are, indeed, delightful; they are like flowers blossoming on an old tree.
If, because the actor has noticed that old men walk with bent knees and back and have shrunken frames, he simply imitates these characteristics, he may achieve an appearance of decrepitude, but it will be at the expense of the "flower." And if the "flower" be lacking there will be no beauty in his impersonation.
Women should be impersonated by a young actor.... It is very difficult to play the part of a Princess or lady-in-waiting, for little opportunity presents itself of studying their august behavior and appearance. Great pains must be taken to see that robes and cloaks are worn in the correct way. These things do not depend on the actor's fancy but must be carefully ascertained.
The appearance of ordinary ladies such as one is used to see about one is easy to imitate...In acting the part of a dancing-girl, mad-woman or the like, whether he carry the fan or some fancy thing (a flowering branch, for instance) the actor must carry it loosely; his skirts must trail low so as to hide his feet; his knees and back must not be bent, his body must be poised gracefully. As regards the way he holds himself—if he bends back, it looks bad when he faces the audience; if he stoops, it looks bad from behind. But he will not look like a woman if he holds his head too stiffly. His sleeves should be as long as possible, so that he never shows his fingers.
APPARITIONS
Here the outward form is that of a ghost; but within is the heart of a man.
Such plays are generally in two parts. The beginning, in two or three sections, should be as short as possible. In the second half the shite (who has hitherto appeared to be a man) becomes definitely the ghost of a dead person.
Since no one has ever seen a real ghost* from the Nether Regions, the actor may use his fancy, aiming only at the beautiful. To represent real life is far more difficult.
If ghosts are terrifying, they cease to be beautiful. For the terrifying and the beautiful are as far apart as black and white.
CHILD PLAYS
In plays where a lost child is found by its parents, the writer should not introduce a scene where they clutch and cling to one another, sobbing and weeping...
Plays in which child-characters occur, even if well done, are always apt to make the audience exclaim in disgust, "Don't harrow our feelings in this way!"
RESTRAINT
In representing anger the actor should yet retain some gentleness in his mood, else he will portray not anger but violence.
In representing the mysterious (yūgen) he must not forget the principle of energy.
When the body is in violent action, the hands and feet must move as though by stealth. When the feet are in lively motion, the body must be held in quietness. Such things cannot be explained in writing but must be shown to the actor by actual demonstration.
It is above all in "architecture," in the relation of parts to the whole, that these poems are supreme.† The early writers created a "form" or general pattern which the weakest writing cannot wholly rob of its beauty. The plays are like those carved lamp-bearing angels in the churches at Seville; a type of such beauty was created by a sculptor of the sixteenth century that even the most degraded modern descendant of these masterpieces retains a certain distinction of form.
First comes the jidai or opening-couplet, enigmatic, abrupt. Then in contrast to this vague shadow come the hard outlines of the waki's exposition, the formal naming of himself, his origin and destination. Then, shadowy again, the "song of travel," in which picture after picture dissolves almost before it is seen.
But all this has been mere introduction—the imagination has been quickened, the attention grasped in preparation for one thing only—the hero's entry. In the "first chant," in the dialogue which follows, in the successive dances and climax, this absolute mastery of construction is what has most struck me in reading the plays.
Again, Noh does not make a frontal attack on the emotions. It creeps at the subject warily. For the action, in the commonest class of play, does not take place before our eyes, but is lived through again in mimic and recital by the ghost of one of the participants in it. Thus we get no possibility of crude realities; a vision of life indeed, but painted with the colors of memory, longing or regret.
In a paper read before the Japan Society in 1919 I tried to illustrate this point by showing, perhaps in too fragmentary and disjointed a manner, how the theme of Webster's "Duchess of Malfi" would have been treated by a Noh writer. I said then (and the Society kindly allows me to repeat those remarks):
The plot of the play is thus summarized by Rupert Brooke in his "John Webster and the Elizabethan Drama": "The Duchess of Malfi is a young widow forbidden by her brothers, Ferdinand and the Cardinal, to marry again. They put a creature of theirs, Bosola, into her service as a spy. The Duchess loves and marries Antonio, her steward, and has three children. Bosola ultimately discovers and reports this. Antonio and the Duchess have to fly. The Duchess is captured, imprisoned and mentally tortured and put to death. Ferdinand goes mad. In the last Act he, the Cardinal, Antonio and Bosola are all killed with various confusions and in various horror."
Just as Webster took his themes from previous works (in this case from Painter's "Palace of Pleasure"), so the Noh plays took theirs from the Romances or "Monogatari." Let us reconstruct the "Duchess" as a Noh play, using Webster's text as our "Monogatari."
Great simplification is necessary, for the Noh play corresponds in length to one act of our five-act plays, and has no space for divagations. The comic is altogether excluded, being reserved for the kyōgen or farces which are played as interludes between the Noh.
The persons need not be more than two—the Pilgrim, who will act the part of waki, and the Duchess, who will be shite or Protagonist. The chorus takes no part in the action, but speaks for the shite while she is miming the more engrossing parts of her role.
The Pilgrim comes on to the stage and first pronounces in his Jidai or preliminary couplet, some Buddhist aphorism appropriate to the subject of the play. He then names himself to the audience thus (in prose):
"I am a pilgrim from Rome. I have visited all the other shrines of Italy, but have never been to Loretto. I wil
l journey once to the shrine of Loretto."
Then follows (in verse) the "Song of Travel" in which the Pilgrim describes the scenes through which he passes on his way to the shrine. While he is kneeling at the shrine, Shite (the Protagonist) comes on to the stage. She is a young woman dressed, "contrary to the Italian fashion," in a loose-bodied gown. She carries in her hand an unripe apricot. She calls to the Pilgrim and engages him in conversation. He asks her if it were not at this shrine that the Duchess of Malfi took refuge. The young woman answers with a kind of eager exaltation, her words gradually rising from prose to poetry. She tells the story of the Duchess's flight, adding certain intimate touches which force the priest to ask abruptly, "Who is it that is speaking to me?"
And the girl shuddering (for it is hateful to a ghost to name itself) answers: "Hazukashi ya! I am the soul of the Duke Ferdinand's sister, she that was once called Duchess of Malfi. Love still ties my soul to the earth. Toburai tabi-tamaye! Pray for me, oh, pray for my release!"
Here closes the first part of the play. In the second the young ghost, her memory quickened by the Pilgrim's prayers (and this is part of the medicine of salvation), endures again the memory of her final hours. She mimes the action of kissing the hand (vide Act IV, Scene 1), finds it very cold:
I fear you are not well after your travel.
Oh! horrible!
What witchcraft does he practice, that he hath left
A dead man's hand here?
And each successive scene of the torture is so vividly mimed that though it exists only in the Protagonist's brain, it is as real to the audience as if the figure of dead Antonio lay propped upon the stage, or as if the madmen were actually leaping and screaming before them. Finally she acts the scene of her own execution:
