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This page intentionally left blank
Third Edition

Data
Structures
and Algorithm
Analysis in

JavaTM
TM
This page intentionally left blank
 Third Edition

Data
Structures
and Algorithm
Analysis in

Java
TM

Mark A l l e n Weiss
Florida International University

PEARSON

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Weiss, Mark Allen.
Data structures and algorithm analysis in Java / Mark Allen Weiss. – 3rd ed.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-13-257627-7 (alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 0-13-257627-9 (alk. paper)
1. Java (Computer program language) 2. Data structures (Computer science)
3. Computer algorithms. I. Title.
QA76.73.J38W448 2012
005.1–dc23 2011035536

15 14 13 12 11—CRW—10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ISBN 10: 0-13-257627-9

ISBN 13: 9780-13-257627-7
To the love of my life, Jill.
This page intentionally left blank
 CONTENTS

Preface xvii

Chapter 1 Introduction 1
1.1 What’s the Book About? 1
1.2 Mathematics Review 2
1.2.1 Exponents 3
1.2.2 Logarithms 3
1.2.3 Series 4
1.2.4 Modular Arithmetic 5
1.2.5 The P Word 6
1.3 A Brief Introduction to Recursion 8
1.4 Implementing Generic Components Pre-Java 5 12
1.4.1 Using Object for Genericity 13
1.4.2 Wrappers for Primitive Types 14
1.4.3 Using Interface Types for Genericity 14
1.4.4 Compatibility of Array Types 16
1.5 Implementing Generic Components Using Java 5 Generics 16
1.5.1 Simple Generic Classes and Interfaces 17
1.5.2 Autoboxing/Unboxing 18
1.5.3 The Diamond Operator 18
1.5.4 Wildcards with Bounds 19
1.5.5 Generic Static Methods 20
1.5.6 Type Bounds 21
1.5.7 Type Erasure 22
1.5.8 Restrictions on Generics 23

vii
viii Contents

1.6 Function Objects 24

Summary 26
Exercises 26
References 28

Chapter 2 Algorithm Analysis 29

2.1 Mathematical Background 29
2.2 Model 32
2.3 What to Analyze 33
2.4 Running Time Calculations 35
2.4.1 A Simple Example 36
2.4.2 General Rules 36
2.4.3 Solutions for the Maximum Subsequence Sum Problem 39
2.4.4 Logarithms in the Running Time 45
2.4.5 A Grain of Salt 49
Summary 49
Exercises 50
References 55

Chapter 3 Lists, Stacks, and Queues 57

3.1 Abstract Data Types (ADTs) 57
3.2 The List ADT 58
3.2.1 Simple Array Implementation of Lists 58
3.2.2 Simple Linked Lists 59
3.3 Lists in the Java Collections API 61
3.3.1 Collection Interface 61
3.3.2 Iterator s 61
3.3.3 The List Interface, ArrayList, and LinkedList 63
3.3.4 Example: Using remove on a LinkedList 65
3.3.5 ListIterators 67
3.4 Implementation of ArrayList 67
3.4.1 The Basic Class 68
3.4.2 The Iterator and Java Nested and Inner Classes 71
3.5 Implementation of LinkedList 75
3.6 The Stack ADT 82
3.6.1 Stack Model 82
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 Contents ix

3.6.2 Implementation of Stacks 83

3.6.3 Applications 84
3.7 The Queue ADT 92
3.7.1 Queue Model 92
3.7.2 Array Implementation of Queues 92
3.7.3 Applications of Queues 95
Summary 96
Exercises 96

Chapter 4 Trees 101

4.1 Preliminaries 101
4.1.1 Implementation of Trees 102
4.1.2 Tree Traversals with an Application 103
4.2 Binary Trees 107
4.2.1 Implementation 108
4.2.2 An Example: Expression Trees 109
4.3 The Search Tree ADT—Binary Search Trees 112
4.3.1 contains 113
4.3.2 findMin and findMax 115
4.3.3 insert 116
4.3.4 remove 118
4.3.5 Average-Case Analysis 120
4.4 AVL Trees 123
4.4.1 Single Rotation 125
4.4.2 Double Rotation 128
4.5 Splay Trees 137
4.5.1 A Simple Idea (That Does Not Work) 137
4.5.2 Splaying 139
4.6 Tree Traversals (Revisited) 145
4.7 B-Trees 147
4.8 Sets and Maps in the Standard Library 152
4.8.1 Sets 152
4.8.2 Maps 153
4.8.3 Implementation of TreeSet and TreeMap 153
4.8.4 An Example That Uses Several Maps 154
Summary 160
Exercises 160
References 167
x Contents

Chapter 5 Hashing 171

5.1 General Idea 171
5.2 Hash Function 172
5.3 Separate Chaining 174
5.4 Hash Tables Without Linked Lists 179
5.4.1 Linear Probing 179
5.4.2 Quadratic Probing 181
5.4.3 Double Hashing 183
5.5 Rehashing 188
5.6 Hash Tables in the Standard Library 189
5.7 Hash Tables with Worst-Case O(1) Access 192
5.7.1 Perfect Hashing 193
5.7.2 Cuckoo Hashing 195
5.7.3 Hopscotch Hashing 205
5.8 Universal Hashing 211
5.9 Extendible Hashing 214
Summary 217
Exercises 218
References 222

Chapter 6 Priority Queues (Heaps) 225

6.1 Model 225
6.2 Simple Implementations 226
6.3 Binary Heap 226
6.3.1 Structure Property 227
6.3.2 Heap-Order Property 229
6.3.3 Basic Heap Operations 229
6.3.4 Other Heap Operations 234
6.4 Applications of Priority Queues 238
6.4.1 The Selection Problem 238
6.4.2 Event Simulation 239
6.5 d-Heaps 240
6.6 Leftist Heaps 241
6.6.1 Leftist Heap Property 241
6.6.2 Leftist Heap Operations 242
6.7 Skew Heaps 249
 Contents xi

6.8 Binomial Queues 252

6.8.1 Binomial Queue Structure 252
6.8.2 Binomial Queue Operations 253
6.8.3 Implementation of Binomial Queues 256
6.9 Priority Queues in the Standard Library 261
Summary 261
Exercises 263
References 267

Chapter 7 Sorting 271

7.1 Preliminaries 271
7.2 Insertion Sort 272
7.2.1 The Algorithm 272
7.2.2 Analysis of Insertion Sort 272
7.3 A Lower Bound for Simple Sorting Algorithms 273
7.4 Shellsort 274
7.4.1 Worst-Case Analysis of Shellsort 276
7.5 Heapsort 278
7.5.1 Analysis of Heapsort 279
7.6 Mergesort 282
7.6.1 Analysis of Mergesort 284
7.7 Quicksort 288
7.7.1 Picking the Pivot 290
7.7.2 Partitioning Strategy 292
7.7.3 Small Arrays 294
7.7.4 Actual Quicksort Routines 294
7.7.5 Analysis of Quicksort 297
7.7.6 A Linear-Expected-Time Algorithm for Selection 300
7.8 A General Lower Bound for Sorting 302
7.8.1 Decision Trees 302
7.9 Decision-Tree Lower Bounds for Selection Problems 304
7.10 Adversary Lower Bounds 307
7.11 Linear-Time Sorts: Bucket Sort and Radix Sort 310
7.12 External Sorting 315
7.12.1 Why We Need New Algorithms 316
7.12.2 Model for External Sorting 316
7.12.3 The Simple Algorithm 316
xii Contents

7.12.4 Multiway Merge 317

7.12.5 Polyphase Merge 318
7.12.6 Replacement Selection 319
Summary 321
Exercises 321
References 327

Chapter 8 The Disjoint Set Class 331

8.1 Equivalence Relations 331
8.2 The Dynamic Equivalence Problem 332
8.3 Basic Data Structure 333
8.4 Smart Union Algorithms 337
8.5 Path Compression 340
8.6 Worst Case for Union-by-Rank and Path Compression 341
8.6.1 Slowly Growing Functions 342
8.6.2 An Analysis By Recursive Decomposition 343
8.6.3 An O( M log * N ) Bound 350
8.6.4 An O( M α(M, N) ) Bound 350
8.7 An Application 352
Summary 355
Exercises 355
References 357

Chapter 9 Graph Algorithms 359

9.1 Definitions 359
9.1.1 Representation of Graphs 360
9.2 Topological Sort 362
9.3 Shortest-Path Algorithms 366
9.3.1 Unweighted Shortest Paths 367
9.3.2 Dijkstra’s Algorithm 372
9.3.3 Graphs with Negative Edge Costs 380
9.3.4 Acyclic Graphs 380
9.3.5 All-Pairs Shortest Path 384
9.3.6 Shortest-Path Example 384
9.4 Network Flow Problems 386
9.4.1 A Simple Maximum-Flow Algorithm 388
 Contents xiii

9.5 Minimum Spanning Tree 393

9.5.1 Prim’s Algorithm 394
9.5.2 Kruskal’s Algorithm 397
9.6 Applications of Depth-First Search 399
9.6.1 Undirected Graphs 400
9.6.2 Biconnectivity 402
9.6.3 Euler Circuits 405
9.6.4 Directed Graphs 409
9.6.5 Finding Strong Components 411
9.7 Introduction to NP-Completeness 412
9.7.1 Easy vs. Hard 413
9.7.2 The Class NP 414
9.7.3 NP-Complete Problems 415
Summary 417
Exercises 417
References 425

Chapter 10 Algorithm Design

Techniques 429
10.1 Greedy Algorithms 429
10.1.1 A Simple Scheduling Problem 430
10.1.2 Huffman Codes 433
10.1.3 Approximate Bin Packing 439
10.2 Divide and Conquer 448
10.2.1 Running Time of Divide-and-Conquer Algorithms 449
10.2.2 Closest-Points Problem 451
10.2.3 The Selection Problem 455
10.2.4 Theoretical Improvements for Arithmetic Problems 458
10.3 Dynamic Programming 462
10.3.1 Using a Table Instead of Recursion 463
10.3.2 Ordering Matrix Multiplications 466
10.3.3 Optimal Binary Search Tree 469
10.3.4 All-Pairs Shortest Path 472
10.4 Randomized Algorithms 474
10.4.1 Random Number Generators 476
10.4.2 Skip Lists 480
10.4.3 Primality Testing 483
xiv Contents

10.5 Backtracking Algorithms 486

10.5.1 The Turnpike Reconstruction Problem 487
10.5.2 Games 490
Summary 499
Exercises 499
References 508

Chapter 11 Amortized Analysis 513

11.1 An Unrelated Puzzle 514
11.2 Binomial Queues 514
11.3 Skew Heaps 519
11.4 Fibonacci Heaps 522
11.4.1 Cutting Nodes in Leftist Heaps 522
11.4.2 Lazy Merging for Binomial Queues 525
11.4.3 The Fibonacci Heap Operations 528
11.4.4 Proof of the Time Bound 529
11.5 Splay Trees 531
Summary 536
Exercises 536
References 538

Chapter 12 Advanced Data Structures

and Implementation 541
12.1 Top-Down Splay Trees 541
12.2 Red-Black Trees 549
12.2.1 Bottom-Up Insertion 549
12.2.2 Top-Down Red-Black Trees 551
12.2.3 Top-Down Deletion 556
12.3 Treaps 558
12.4 Suffix Arrays and Suffix Trees 560
12.4.1 Suffix Arrays 561
12.4.2 Suffix Trees 564
12.4.3 Linear-Time Construction of Suffix Arrays and Suffix Trees 567
12.5 k-d Trees 578
 Contents xv

12.6 Pairing Heaps 583

Summary 588
Exercises 590
References 594

Index 599
This page intentionally left blank
 PREFACE

Purpose/Goals
This new Java edition describes data structures, methods of organizing large amounts of
data, and algorithm analysis, the estimation of the running time of algorithms. As computers
become faster and faster, the need for programs that can handle large amounts of input
becomes more acute. Paradoxically, this requires more careful attention to efficiency, since
inefficiencies in programs become most obvious when input sizes are large. By analyzing
an algorithm before it is actually coded, students can decide if a particular solution will be
feasible. For example, in this text students look at specific problems and see how careful
implementations can reduce the time constraint for large amounts of data from centuries
to less than a second. Therefore, no algorithm or data structure is presented without an
explanation of its running time. In some cases, minute details that affect the running time
of the implementation are explored.
Once a solution method is determined, a program must still be written. As computers
have become more powerful, the problems they must solve have become larger and more
complex, requiring development of more intricate programs. The goal of this text is to teach
students good programming and algorithm analysis skills simultaneously so that they can
develop such programs with the maximum amount of efficiency.
This book is suitable for either an advanced data structures (CS7) course or a first-year
graduate course in algorithm analysis. Students should have some knowledge of intermedi-
ate programming, including such topics as object-based programming and recursion, and
some background in discrete math.

Summary of the Most Significant Changes in the Third Edition

The third edition incorporates numerous bug fixes, and many parts of the book have
undergone revision to increase the clarity of presentation. In addition,
r Chapter 4 includes implementation of the AVL tree deletion algorithm—a topic often
requested by readers.
r Chapter 5 has been extensively revised and enlarged and now contains material on two
newer algorithms: cuckoo hashing and hopscotch hashing. Additionally, a new section
on universal hashing has been added.
r Chapter 7 now contains material on radix sort, and a new section on lower bound
proofs has been added. xvii
xviii Preface

r Chapter 8 uses the new union/find analysis by Seidel and Sharir, and shows the
O( Mα(M, N) ) bound instead of the weaker O( M log∗ N ) bound in prior editions.
r Chapter 12 adds material on suffix trees and suffix arrays, including the linear-time
suffix array construction algorithm by Karkkainen and Sanders (with implementation).
The sections covering deterministic skip lists and AA-trees have been removed.
r Throughout the text, the code has been updated to use the diamond operator from
Java 7.

Approach
Although the material in this text is largely language independent, programming requires
the use of a specific language. As the title implies, we have chosen Java for this book.
Java is often examined in comparison with C++. Java offers many benefits, and pro-
grammers often view Java as a safer, more portable, and easier-to-use language than C++.
As such, it makes a fine core language for discussing and implementing fundamental data
structures. Other important parts of Java, such as threads and its GUI, although important,
are not needed in this text and thus are not discussed.
Complete versions of the data structures, in both Java and C++, are available on
the Internet. We use similar coding conventions to make the parallels between the two
languages more evident.

Overview
Chapter 1 contains review material on discrete math and recursion. I believe the only way
to be comfortable with recursion is to see good uses over and over. Therefore, recursion
is prevalent in this text, with examples in every chapter except Chapter 5. Chapter 1 also
presents material that serves as a review of inheritance in Java. Included is a discussion of
Java generics.
Chapter 2 deals with algorithm analysis. This chapter explains asymptotic analysis and
its major weaknesses. Many examples are provided, including an in-depth explanation of
logarithmic running time. Simple recursive programs are analyzed by intuitively converting
them into iterative programs. More complicated divide-and-conquer programs are intro-
duced, but some of the analysis (solving recurrence relations) is implicitly delayed until
Chapter 7, where it is performed in detail.
Chapter 3 covers lists, stacks, and queues. This chapter has been significantly revised
from prior editions. It now includes a discussion of the Collections API ArrayList
and LinkedList classes, and it provides implementations of a significant subset of the
collections API ArrayList and LinkedList classes.
Chapter 4 covers trees, with an emphasis on search trees, including external search
trees (B-trees). The UNIX file system and expression trees are used as examples. AVL trees
and splay trees are introduced. More careful treatment of search tree implementation details
is found in Chapter 12. Additional coverage of trees, such as file compression and game
trees, is deferred until Chapter 10. Data structures for an external medium are considered
as the final topic in several chapters. New to this edition is a discussion of the Collections
API TreeSet and TreeMap classes, including a significant example that illustrates the use of
three separate maps to efficiently solve a problem.
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Exploring the Variety of Random
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decade, to the peasants of Oberammergau, the Shintōist Pantheon,
sanctifying national history and full of deified heroes, appeals to both
patriotic and religious instincts through the medium of an art
sometimes immature but always refined.
The roots of this musical pantomime reach far back into
mythological times. The figure of the Terrible Female of Heaven,
stamping on an inverted tub to startle the Sun Goddess from her
cave, is generally invoked on the threshold of inquiries into the origin
of Kagura, or temple-dancing. Grotesque and venerable, it is not
illuminating. More startling to me is the statement of a modern
authority that “in the eighth century, in the later period of the Nara
dynasty and at the beginning of the Heian period, combining the
Korean and the Chinese music with the native, a certain perfect form
of Japanese music came to exist.” To comprehend this “perfect
music,” as rendered on drum, fife, and flute, esoteric education is
required. But it may be admitted that certain Wagnerian effects of
terror and suspense and tumultuous agitation are thumped and
wailed into the auditor, while his ocular attention is absorbed by
deliberate phantoms. Very deliberate are the phantom dancers,
whether their theme be simple or complex. On the dancing stages at
the Shintō temples of Ise and of Omi, on the four platforms of the
Kasuga Temple at Nara, the subject was naturally mythological or
had relation to the temple’s own history. Such songs as went with
the dance were simple, short, and primitive. They would be heard at
Court ceremonies, too, for the union of Church and State was close.
They were sung by members of privileged families, who guarded
and transmitted from father to son the professional secrets of their
“perfect music.”
However, the beginning of the Ashikaga period in the fourteenth
century saw the corruption and development of a perfect germ into
complex variety. Both sacred and secular rivalry contributed to this
result. The Biwa-hōshi, blind priests and lute-players, who went from
castle to castle of the Daimyōs, singing Heike-monogatari, historical
romances of warlike quality in prose and verse, opened new vistas of
subject-matter, while Shirabyōshi, the refined and cultivated
precursor of the comparatively modern geisha, extended both the
scope and the significance of posture-dancing. The Kioku-mai, or
memory-dance, came into vogue, being characterised by closer co-
ordination of music and movement, while the accompanying song
would often celebrate a romantic episode or a famous landscape.
Many of these songs survive, embedded in the chorus of Nō texts; in
fact, they may be regarded as the nucleus of Nō drama.
The Muromachi Shōgunate witnessed the final transition from
dance to drama, recitative and singing speeches and dramatis
personæ being superadded to the chorus. Kiyotsugu (who died in
1406) and his son Motokiyo (who died in 1455) are generally
credited with this development. They belonged to the Yusaki family
—one of the four families who exercised hereditary management of
the Nara stage. They held a small estate, and succeeded in winning
the Shōgun’s patronage for their Sarugaku or Nō, which became
extremely popular at Court. Naturally enough, the choric songs
became panegyrics of the reigning Shōgun, and helped to embellish
his Court pageants.
It is not believed that the actor-manager did more than prepare
and conduct the Nō, in which music and dancing were still the chief
features. The author was contented to remain anonymous, and that
for good reasons. Intellectual light shone mostly in the monasteries
during that dark age of feudal fighting. If the Buddhist monk could
make of this aristocratic amusement a vehicle for Buddhist teaching,
individual obscurity was a small price to pay for corporate influence.
Therefore, while it cannot be stated as a fact that the famous priests
Ikkiu and Shiuran wrote the finest Nō poetry, it is certain that yurei
or ghosts and Buddhist exorcisers became very common characters
on the Nō boards, while the chorus betrayed (as I am told) “many
deep conceptions of mystic religion.” What higher compliment has
ever been paid to art, dramatic or pictorial, than the struggles of
priests and politicians to wield its influence? There is something
pathetic in this aspect of the rivalry for Terpsichore’s hand. At first
she wore the red trousers of a Shintō priestess and was wooed by
the Mikado. Then the Shōgun came, a strong man armed, and with
him she danced into the Buddhist camp.
The sixteenth century gave the final touch to this musical drama,
which approximated more and more to secular plays without ever
entirely losing its official character. The ghosts faded out, the
Buddhist influence grew less marked, for it had to traverse the
tyranny of Nobunaga, who patronised Christianity and destroyed the
monasteries of Hiei-zan. But henceforward, as an aristocratic
institution, the Nō was to retain its popularity, though since the
sixteenth century none have been written. A programme is still
extant on which the two greatest names in Japanese history, those
of Hideyoshi and Iyeyasu, star the list of performers. The actors
were treated as samurai, military retainers, though the performers in
popular shibai (theatres) were held in contempt. In the latest
specimens knighthood is the invariable theme, set to more various
music and illustrated by more violent posturing.
Throughout the Tokugawa era (1602–1868) every Daimyō who
could afford it maintained a troupe of Nō players to reproduce for his
edification the thoughts and habits of mediæval art. Old costumes,
old masks, old music were faithfully preserved; no innovation of text
or interpretation was allowed by the hereditary custodians and
directors. And since the shock of the Restoration a reaction has set
in, favouring their revival.
At present there are in Tōkyō six troupes of Nō players, with a
répertoire of from two to three hundred plays. These retain so firm a
hold on cultured conservatives—the younger generation finds them
slow—that Mr. Matsumoto Keichi, one of the leading publishers, is
now issuing a series of one hundred and eighty-three illustrative
colour prints—Nō no ye—whose fine drawing and delicately blent
hues are as superior to the flamboyant aniline horror by which the
Nihon-bashi print-seller advertises the newest blood-and-thunder
melodrama as that itself is inferior to the aristocratically-nurtured
Nō. Reproduced as faithfully as may be, the pictures of Mr. Kogyo
will, I hope, impress the reader with the archaic simplicity and
beauty of the original design, provided that he have the gift of
sympathetic intuition, so as to divine what tale of terror, what
burden of grief, obscure to him, is yet manifest enough behind
quaint mask and rigid gesture to the heirs of national hagiology. The
solemnity and pathos of each dramatised incident in the life of hero
or saint is emphasised by the time-honoured locutions of mediæval
Japanese, which of course convey by mere association, as
Elizabethan English to us, the tone and atmosphere of dead
centuries. Yet, independently of the musical old speech, so
cumbrous and so courteous, it is impossible to miss the meaning of
these tiny tragedies, enacted as they are by instinctive masters of
gesticular eloquence. The writer was particularly fortunate in gaining
admission to a series of Nō produced by the Umewaka company or
society, which has this advantage over the other five organisations,
diverging on points of textual accuracy and stage ritual, that it traces
unbroken descent through its chief from the Kanza school of music
appertaining to the Yusaki family of Nara. When Commodore Perry
forced open the door of the East in 1854, hitherto closed for more
than two hundred years to Western barbarians, Mr. Umewaka
captained a little band of Nō players attached to the then all-
powerful household of Keiki, the last of the Tokugawa Shōguns.
Then followed bloody civil war, the bombardment of Kago-shima
and Shimonoseki, and the restoration of the Emperor to supreme
power. The ex-Shōgun immured himself, a private gentleman, in
strict seclusion. His company of players was of course disbanded,
but little by little, from rare representations in the houses of friends
to more frequent revivals, consequent on growing fame, their
erudite and enthusiastic chief was able to found his present very
flourishing society. One gentleman, an ex-Daimyō, presented the
troupe with a large stage of polished pine from his dismantled
castle; a second contributed a priceless store of plays in manuscript;
Mr. Umewaka himself brought the best gift of all, profound and
practical knowledge of the stage technique, which is curiously
elaborate in spite of seeming simplicity, and bristles with professional
secrets. The orchestra consisted on this occasion of a flute and two
taiko, drums shaped like a sand-glass and rapped smartly with the
open palm. At irregular intervals, timed no doubt by the exigencies
of the text, the musicians emitted a series of staccato cries or
wailing notes, which seemed to punctuate the passion of the player
and insensibly tightened the tension of the auditor’s nerves. In two
rows of three on the right of the stage sat the chorus, six most
“reverend signiors” in the stiff costume of Samurai, who intervened
now and again with voice and fan, the manipulation of the latter
varying with the quality of the strains assigned to the singers. In
placid moments the fan would sway gently to and fro, rocked on the
waves of quasi-Gregorian chanting, but, when blows fell or
apparitions rose, it was planted, menacing and erect, like a danger-
signal before the choralist’s cushion. The musicians were seated on
low stools at the back of the stage before a long screen of
conventional design, in which green pines trailed across a gold
ground, harmonising admirably with the sober blues and browns of
their kimono.
A glance at the programme gave assurance of prolonged and
varied entertainment, since no less than five religious plays and
three kiōgen (lit. mad words), or farcical interludes, were announced
in the following order:
1. Shunkwan, the High-Priest in Exile.
2. Koi no Omone, the Burden of Love.
3. Aoi no Uye, the Sick Wife.
4. Funa Benkei, Benkei at Sea.
5. Tsuchigumo, the Earth-Spider.
Kiōgen.
1. Kitsune-Tsuki, Possession by Foxes.
2. Roku Jizō, the Six Jizō.
3. Fukuro Yamabusshi, the Owl-Priest.
By an hour before noon the audience, seated on cushions in little
pews holding four or six persons, had composed itself to that air of
thoughtful anticipation which I had hitherto associated with devotees
of Ibsen or Wagner. Many peered through gold spectacles at the
copies of the antique text, whose phraseology was not without
difficulties even for the scholars and artists present; the women’s
faces were far graver and more thoughtful than one usually sees in
the land of laughing musumé; the prevailing grey and black worn by
women and men suffered sporadic invasions of bright colour
wherever you saw children settling, like human butterflies. For these,
though their ears availed them little, could follow with wondering
eyes the strange succession of gorgeous or terrible figures—warriors
and spectres and court-ladies—evoked for their delight.

Shunkwan in exile.

The story of Shunkwan, however, was quite devoid of spectacular

appeal. Exiled in 1177 with other rebellious priests by Kiyomori, the
ruthless Taira chief, to Devil’s Island (Kikai-gashima), he is
discovered celebrating with his companions an oblation to Kumano
Gongen and praying for speedy restitution to his fatherland. Pitiful
indeed is the case of these banished suppliants, who wear the blue-
and-white hempen skirts of fishermen and whose penury is such
that they are obliged to bring the god water instead of saké, sand
instead of rice, and hempen fetters instead of white prayer-cord.
Kumano Gongen hears and answers their petition. An imperial
messenger arrives from Kyōto with a letter from the daughter of
Shunkwan, announcing that the Son of Heaven, Lord of the Land of
the Rising Sun, has been graciously pleased to recall his erring
subjects, pardoning their offences and inviting their prayers for an
expected heir to the throne. Beaming with grateful joy, the old man
now scans the imperial mandate more closely, only to find that his
own name is omitted from the list of those forgiven. Yasugori and
Moritsuné will be taken, but he, Shunkwan, must be left. In vain do
his fellow-exiles lament and protest; all know that the Son of
Heaven’s decree must be obeyed to the letter. Accordingly, the
others embark, while their disappointed chief falls, speechless and
hopeless, on the shore. A simple, poignant story! So touchingly
interpreted, that the primitive and even ludicrous makeshifts of the
mounting seemed hardly incongruous! The mooring and unmooring
of the boat, for which the crudest parody in outline of rope and
wood did duty, and the final embarkation (as represented in the
picture) were gravely accomplished in complete immunity from ill-
timed laughter; the messenger’s grotesque hakama, elongated
trousers, trailing a good yard behind the feet, that the wearer might
seem to walk on his knees while about his master’s business,
provoked no smile; in fact, any trivial details and defects were
swallowed up in the prodigious earnestness of the actors. The part
of Shunkwan was played by Mr. Umewaka himself with much pathos,
depending entirely on tone, carriage, and gesture, since all facial
expression is barred by the strict convention of playing the Nō in
masks. While the presentation of spectres and supernatural beings
must be facilitated by this custom, since many of the masks are
masterpieces of imaginative skill, yet, where the interest is purely
human, that illusion at which all drama aims is proportionately
diminished.
 Now came the children’s turn to laugh at the first of the kiōgen,
entitled Kitsune Tsuki, “Possession by foxes.” Most of the comical
interludes deal with rustic stupidity or cunning, and all refer in some
way to religious belief or practice. If one may judge by the ubiquity
of his images, the fox is the most sacred animal in Japan. No shrines
are so numerous as those of Inari, the rice-goddess, and before
each stand two white foxes, with snarling lips and teeth clenched on
a mysterious golden object, which completely baffled the curiosity of
M. Loti, though later writers declare it to be no more than a key,
symbolising the portal of wealth unlocked by divine favour. But Inari
herself is completely eclipsed in popular awe by her attendant foxes.
It is they who, if not propitiated, ruin the rice crop; they who have
the power, like the werewolf, of assuming human shape and of
“possessing” unfortunate beings, whose only chance of delivery lies
in exorcism by a priest. In the case of the kiōgen now presented this
superstition had been turned to comical use. We learned that Farmer
Tanaka had sent two of his men into the fields with rattles to scare
away birds, laying on them many injunctions to beware of the
dæmonic fox, Kitsune, whose exploits had lately made him the terror
of that neighbourhood. The warning is but too effectual. So full are
the watchers’ minds of the dread of fox-possession, that, when their
master appears with a jug of saké in his hand as a reward and
refreshment after labour, they believe him to be Kitsune, the
tempter, and thrash him soundly out of his own rice-field!
Some have asserted that love, the romantic and chivalrous love of
Western literature, is absent alike from the art and letters of Japan.
Nevertheless, what could be more romantic than the title and plot of
the play, attributed to the Emperor Gohanazono though signed by
Motokiyo—“Koi no Omoni,” “The Burden of Love”? The lover is
Yamashina Shoji, an old man of high birth, but miserably poor, to
whom out of charity has been entrusted the tending of the
Emperor’s chrysanthemums. A court-lady, seen by chance one day
as he raised his head from the flowers, inspires a passion which he
feels to be beyond hope or cure. He confides his unhappiness to one
of the courtiers, who counsels him to carry a burden round and
round the garden many times, until, haply, the lady “seeing, may
relent.” This he does. At first the burden seems light as air, being
buoyantly borne, but gradually it grows heavier and heavier, until at
last he staggers to the ground, crushed to death by unavailing love.
Soon after his ghost appears, a melancholy spectre with long white
hair and gown of silver-grey, with wattled staff and eyes of hollow
gold. At this point all chivalry certainly vanishes, for the angry
apparition stamps and glares, and, shaking locks and staff, stoutly
chides the beauty for her callous cruelty. The lady does not once
intervene, but throughout the piece sits motionless, a figure rather
than a person, her eyes fixed on the burden itself, as it lies, concrete
and symbolic, wrapped in apple-green brocade, near the front-centre
of the stage. This inclusion of a significant silent object among the
dramatis personæ is curiously effective. The sight of Yamashina
tottering beneath a physical weight would have made clumsy prose
of a beautiful poetic truth. His feelings are better conveyed by the
dirge-like song and lugubrious posturing, which poverty of language
compels one to miscall a “dance.” Full of dignity and fine gesture is
the ghost’s rebuke. Slowly revolving on his heels, or tossing back his
streaming, silvery hair, now dashing his staff upon the ground, now
raising his kimono sleeve slowly to hide his face, one felt that this
weird figure was expressing elemental passion in a language more
elemental than speech. I cannot say as much for the lady, whose
coronet of thin gold with silver crescent in front and pendent
pagoda-bells on either side, surmounting a mask of singular
ugliness, seemed the fantastic headpiece of a crude idol very
foolishly idealised. But it served to illustrate, with an irony which the
imperial author had not intended, the so grievous “burden of love.”
Kyōto court-life of the twelfth century, painted for posterity in the
famous, interminable pages of “Genji Monogatari,” one of the oldest
achievements of the lady-novelist, has found less tedious and
equally faithful presentment in such dramatic miniatures as “Aoi no
Uye,” Prince Genji’s long-suffering wife. Jealousy is the keynote of
this lyrical play—that insatiable, self-torturing jealousy which is the
hardest of demons to expel. Again I noticed a piece of curious, silent
symbolism. The poor, demoniac wife, who gives her name to the
play, does not appear, either as person or figure: in her stead a long
strip of folded brocade, suggesting a bed of sickness, lies
immediately behind the footlights. Thus, though sub-conscious of
her entity, the spectator is compelled to focus all attention on the
apparition, which takes double form. First comes the spirit of the
Princess Rokujo, who takes vengeance on her false lover (Genji is
the Don Juan of Japan) by haunting the helpless Aoi in the shape of
a pale wailing woman. A miko, or Shintō priestess, is summoned to
exorcise the intruder. In vain she rubs her green rosary, muttering
fervid prayers: the spirit wails more loudly, more intolerably, and only
yields at last to the fiercer spells and rougher wrestling of soul with
soul on the part of a mountain-priest. But his victory is short-lived,
for a terrible phantom, the Devil of Jealousy, wearing the famous
Hanja mask, replaces Rokujo. Inch by inch the priest falls back, as
the grinning demon with gilt horns and pointed ears slowly unveiled
from a shroudlike hood glides forward to smite him with menacing
crutch. To and fro the battle rages beside the prostrate Aoi no Uye;
neither holy man nor devil will give way; the screaming and shrill
fifing of the musicians rise to frenzied pitch; adjuration succeeds
adjuration, until the evil spirit is finally driven away. Nothing can
exceed the realism of this scene, so masterfully played that the
hardiest agnostic must be indeed fancy-proof if he cannot feel
something of the awe inspired into believers by this terrific duel.
Moreover, this is exactly the sort of incident which exhibits to the full
extent of their potency the peculiar characteristics of Nō drama.
What human face, however disguised and distorted, could rival the
malignant horror of a Japanese mask? What mincing and gibing
Mephistopheles could compare for a moment with the devilish
ingenuity and suspense of this posture-pantomime, with its endless
feints and threats and sallies and retreats? And how the anguish of
battle is enhanced by the “barbaric yawp” and sharp, intermittent
drum-taps, which excite without distracting the spell-bound
audience! So abrupt and discreet is the interjected cry of the
immobile musicians that one might easily take it for the defiant or
hortative outburst of an invisible spirit attracted to the ghostly
combat. Indeed, all that is wild and primitive in these enfants
sauvages of Melpomene is chastened into harmony by the innate
sobriety of Japanese art. The creative instinct works within small
limits by small means, but with these means it contrives to project
on its tiny stage a vital suggestion of the largest issues. The gods
become marionettes for an hour, without wholly losing their
godhead.
Good-humoured drollery, of which the gods come in for a fair
share, is no more alien to the Japanese than it was to the Greek
temperament. And if one had to guess which divinity or divinities are
regarded with more affection than awe by such light-hearted
worshippers, one would certainly name the Rokujizō, or six Jizō.
While Buddha and Kwannon, Tenjin and Inari, dwell in small or
stately temples, augustly apart, the six Jizō sit sociably in a row by
the road-side or on the outskirts of a shrine, protected (if protected
at all) from the weather by a plain wooden shed. For they belong to
the class of open-air minor deities familiarly known as “wet gods.”
Yet they play a large part in the emotional life of the people. Patrons
of travellers, women, and children, they bear the semblance of a
shaven priest with benevolent countenance, whose neck is generally
encircled with a child’s bib of coloured wool, while his hand holds an
emblematic jewel, a lotus, a pilgrim’s staff, an incense-box, a rosary,
or sometimes an infant. In most villages and near many schools will
you find the six Jizō, for the country people, loving their children,
cherish the children’s patron-saint with particular attachment. The
amusing kiōgen named “Rokujizō” seemed to please the younger
members of our audience infinitely more than the romantic and
spectral dramas which preceded it. A pious farmer, anxious to attest
his gratitude for a good harvest, resolves to put up six Jizō effigies in
his fields, and, seeking a sculptor to carry out his design, falls in with
a knavish fellow who boasts that he can carve statues more quickly
than any one else in the world, and promises that the six shall be
finished by the following day. The bargain is concluded. Then the
pseudo-sculptor persuades three confederates to personate Jizō,
entrusting them with the jewel, the staff, and the other symbols. As
soon as they are well posed as living statuary, he brings the farmer
to admire them, and, pretending that the other three are at the
opposite end of the field, sends the extemporised gods by a short
cut to anticipate the buyer’s arrival. He, however, though duly
impressed, desires to see the first three again, and then again the
second three, until the impersonators, tired with running backwards
and forwards, forget what pose and what emblem to assume,
entirely destroying all illusion by their ridiculous perplexity. The
farmer discovers the trick, and administers a sound drubbing to the
fraudulent artist, while the Jizō make their escape. The humour of
this naturally depends on the “business” of the performers, since no
pretence is made to literary merit in the dialogue, which is couched
in colloquial Japanese of the same period as the lyrical dramas
themselves—that is, from the fourteenth to the sixteenth century.
The most important, if not the most interesting, item in the
programme was a little historic play in two scenes, entitled “Funa
Benkei,” or “Benkei at Sea.” No figure in Japanese annals is so
popular as Benkei, the devil youth (Oniwaka), credited with eight
feet of stature, unless it be Yoshitsune, the valiant boy, who
vanquished the giant in single combat on Gojō Bridge in Kyōto, and
thus acquired a loyal and invincible henchman. The numberless
adventures in which Benkei by strength or cunning ensures the
success of Yoshitsune have been utilised again and again by painters
and playwrights. Unfortunately, the fruits of victory are always
snatched from Yoshitsune’s grasp by the jealous despotism of his
elder brother, Yoritomo, the terrible chief of the Minamoto faction.
When the play opens he is discovered with a handful of faithful
followers at Omono-no-ura, whither he has fled to escape the
machinations of his brother; but further progress is delayed by the
arrival of Shizuka, a beautiful geisha, who entreats permission to bid
him farewell. Benkei refuses to allow this, and asserts that his
master wishes her to return at once to Kamakura, the capital,
without an audience. But the girl will not believe that her lover has
sent so harsh a message, and insists on dancing once more before
him. Shizuka’s dance is very elaborate and beautiful, though a little
tedious for the European, who has not been trained to appreciate
the symbolic import of woven measure and waving arm. At the
outset a tall golden head-dress, in shape like an elongated Phrygian
cap, is carefully placed on her head. In this she revolves and slowly,
slowly expresses by that choregraphic language—which the profane
would take years to acquire—all her passion and despair at losing
her lover and lord. Yoshitsune, deeply moved, gives her a saké cup,
as a sign that she may carouse with him for the last time; but
Benkei, sternly insensible to dalliance, bids her withdraw and gives
orders to set sail.
Once more the performers take their places in a primitive piece of
framework representing a boat, while the resources of orchestra and
helmsman are taxed to their utmost in the endeavour to simulate a
storm. The fife screams, the drums thunder, the steersman stamps
his foot, and suddenly out of the furious tempest rise grim spectres
with black, fleecy hair, gilt horns, and blood-stained halberds. These
are the ghosts of the Taira clan, slaughtered by the Minamoto in a
great sea-fight at Dan-no-ura, two years before—a battle which
might be termed the Bosworth Field of the great civil war which
devastated Japan in the latter half of the twelfth century. Yoshitsune
with youthful heat (he is always a boy in the Nō dramas) lunges at
the phantoms and shouts his war-cry, but Benkei (who adds the
functions of a priest to his other accomplishments) strikes down his
sword, and, producing a rosary, hurls a volley of exorcising prayers
at the discomfited ghosts. As always, the play ends in David’s
deliverance from danger by the resourcefulness of Goliath.
“Tsuchigumo,” the Earth-Spider, the last piece performed, is
founded on a curious legend, whose chief merit may be that it
affords excuse for a fantastic stage-picture. It seems that a band of
robbers, who lived in caves and were known by the nickname of
earth-spiders, were routed from their lairs and exterminated by
Kintaro, servant of Yoremitsu, whose valour was much enhanced in
popular estimation by the flattering rumour that the defeated pests
were not men at all, but a race of enormous demon-insects.
Accordingly, the climax of “Tsuchigumo” is a stirring encounter
between Imperial Guards, armed with swords and spears, and
masked monsters, who entangle their weapons and baffle their aim
in a cloud of long gauzy filaments, resembling the threads of a
spider’s web. The piece is pure pantomime, owing even less than
usual to music, incident, or poetic style. “The Owl-Priest,” the last of
the kiōgen, calls for no description.

Kintaro fights the Earth-spider.

Such are the religious plays in their last phase of development, the
fruit of a religious revival on the part of archæologists and patriots.
They are a curious instance of wisely arrested growth. Had they
never passed the border-line of archaic dancing, their interpreters
would be a dwindling band of Shintō priestesses to gaping peasants.
Had they followed in the track of popular drama, they might have
been expanded to those loosely-knit and blood-curdling tableaux
which delight the shopkeeper. But, being compressed within severe
limits and addressed to none but educated audiences, they present
in exquisite epitome the literature, the history, the musical and
choregraphic art of mediæval Japan. The foreigner derives from
them an impression of the beliefs and customs, the manners of
speech and dress, the heroism and the dignity, of feudal times. But
to a native they convey far more than this. “The Nō poetry,” writes
an enthusiast, “is like a great store of the treasures of Eastern
culture. It is full of allusions to the classical stories of ‘Manyōshū’ and
‘Kokinshu,’ Chinese poetry and Buddhist scriptures. Its chief
characteristic is colour. The words are gorgeous, splendid, and even
magnificent, as are the costumes.” But of their literary value, and
how far that value is enhanced or impaired by flying puns and
prismatic pillow-words, I cannot judge. The Buddhist authorship is
very obvious in the case of “Aoi no Uye,” for it will be noticed that,
where the miko, or Shintō priestess, failed to exorcise the Demon of
Jealousy, the priest of Buddha succeeded. But perhaps, in art of this
kind, so innocent of construction, so dependent on allusion, it
matters very little that the author should efface himself behind the
ideals advocated in his work. The Nō are frankly didactic. Piety,
reverence, martial virtues are openly inculcated, though never in
such a way as to shock artistic sensibilities. Beauty and taste go far
to disguise all structural deficiencies.
But let us not apply to these the standard by which we judge
mature drama, demanding situation, character, plot, movement.
Rather compare them with the miracle-plays and mysteries of the
Chester or Coventry collection, which hover between scriptural
tableaux and Gothic farce of a peculiarly gross kind. There is no
beauty in those rhymed versions of “The Descent into Hell,” “Adam
and Eve,” or “The Temptation in the Wilderness.” The authors had
such small sense of decency and congruity, that after a serious
attempt to handle a solemn vision in “Pilate’s Wife’s Dream,” you are
confronted with this stage-direction: (“Here shall the Devil go to
Pilate’s wife and draw the curtain, as she lieth in bed, but she, soon
after that he is come in, shall make a rueful noise, running on the
scaffold with her skirt and her kirtle in her hand, and she shall come
before Pilate like a mad woman.”) Imagine the wildest of kiōgen
incidents invading a Nō! How shocked a Japanese audience would
have been! If the Nō seem occasionally naïf and puerile, the gross
enfantillage of European miracle-plays none but readers of them can
believe. And, when we reach the tedious “Moralities,” which
coincided in this country with the advent of the Protestant Tudors,
and were therefore written a century later than the best of the Nō,
the palm of sacred drama for beauty, interest, and pathos must still
be awarded to the disciples of Buddha. Could anything less human
or less dramatic be imagined than a cast of personified abstractions,
bearing such names as Good Counsel, Knowledge, Abominable
Living, and God’s Merciful Promises? We must console ourselves with
the reflection that, when once the stage had freed itself from
ecclesiastical fetters, the popular drama in England shot far ahead of
popular drama in Japan. No student of dramatic art could think for a
moment of bracketing Chikamatsu with Shakespeare.
P O P U LA R P LAY S
 P O P U LA R P LAY S

Between the sacred opera of Tōkyō and the comic opera of London
the difference is so stupendous, that one shudders to reflect on the
unfortunate fact that English playgoers, until quite lately, derived
most of their ideas about Japan from “The Mikado” of Mr. W. S.
Gilbert and “The Geisha” of Mr. Owen Hall. In 1885 so little was
known about Japanese customs and characteristics, that the Bab
Balladist ran no risk of insulting the intelligence of his auditors when
he introduced his puppets with the words:
“We are gentlemen of Japan,
Our attitude’s queer and quaint;
You’re wrong, if you think it ain’t.”

There was no one to tell him that his “gentlemen of Japan” were not
Japanese at all, but Chinamen without pigtails. The very names—
Pish-Tush, Nanki-Poo, Pitti-Sing—were redolent of China, while Pooh-
Bah, with his insatiable appetite for bribes, was a typical mandarin.
However, the author had picked up a real war-song, tune and all
(“Miyasama, miyasama”), and the Three Little Maids from School
giggled very prettily in their novel costumes. Subsequent information
throws a curious light on the misleading characteristics of the Gilbert
and Sullivan opera, enabling me to acquit the producers of
ignorance, but not of mystification. I learn that the Japanese
representative accredited to the Court of St. James’s very naturally
objected to the slight implied in attaching the name of his imperial
master to a frivolous and ridiculous extravaganza. One would have
thought that the most obvious obligations of courtesy dictated a
change of title and of rank in the leading character. Instead, pains
were taken to make the action and demeanour of the performers so
exaggerated that no Japanese would recognise in them his fellow-
countrymen, while the British public, not being in the secret, was
encouraged to suppose the local colour as correct as was compatible
with the exigencies of such a piece.
Eleven years later came “The Geisha.” By this time Mr. Arthur
Diosy had founded the Japan Society, and gladly brought special
knowledge to the help of the management. The result was a very
charming and realistic picture, so far as externals were concerned.
The rickshaw-man and dapper policeman, the wistaria and
chrysanthemum, the frolicsome tea-house girls, might have been
imported from Yokohama. This author, too, had picked up a real
native song (“Jon kina, jon kina”), of which the associations were
fortunately not explained to the audience. But the plot of “The
Geisha” was as farcically untrue to life as that of “The Mikado.” And
this time some one was found to say so. An indignant Tōkyō
journalist, who happened to see the opera, thus commented on its
import:
“The idea of Japan prevalent in foreign countries is thus reflected:
“Happy Japan,
Garden of glitter!
Flower and fan,
Flutter and flitter;
Lord of Bamboo,
(Juvenile whacker!)
Porcelain too,
Tea-tray and lacquer!”
 “Light-hearted friends of Japan find in these lines the most happy
features of the country, and overlook the gross injustice done in the
play to the Japanese nation. A Japanese chief of police is made to
proclaim publicly that superior authority exists in order to satisfy the
personal desires of its holder. Human souls are sold by public
auction, and a person may be found guilty, according to law, after
trial or before! I would not complain of these imputations, or rather
results of ignorance, creeping into a comic piece if it were not
patronised by those who think themselves good friends of Japan,
and if it were not illustrative of the way in which they look at our
country.”
At last, in September 1899, a serious romantic play, purporting to
represent Japanese life, was produced under the title of “The
Moonlight Blossom.” It was even more faithfully staged than the
comic operas. We now saw for the first time a Shintō priest, a blind
shampooer, and a temple with wooden torii and stone lanterns. The
plot was compounded of Adelphi elements, familiar enough, in spite
of their flavouring from Liberty’s. You had the good and bad
brothers, the misunderstood heroine, the intriguing widow, forged
documents, secret meetings, attempted murder. You had even the
“comic relief” and cockney humour of a duel on stilts. But Adelphi
incidents would not have mattered so much (the Tōkyō drama is
mostly melodrama) if the author had avoided Adelphi psychology. No
Japanese woman indulges in the independence or the invective of
Naniwa. “What stupid owls men are!” might pass for a maidenly jest
in this country; never in that. If Arumo were truly a Nagasaki priest,
he would never condescend to solicit the advice and affection of the
other sex. The fatal substitution of Occidental for Oriental particulars
in “the way of a man with a maid” vitiated Mr. Fernald’s claim to
interpret Japanese romance. His men and women lacked the dignity
and severity of Eastern etiquette.
In adapting “Madame Butterfly,” a popular American story, for the
Anglo-Saxon stage, Mr. David Belasco was on far safer ground. Since
M. Pierre Loti set the fashion, many romancers have exploited the
pathos of temporary marriage between the faithless Westerner and
the trustful Oriental girl, but hitherto, in spite of the obvious
opportunities for scenic effect, the theme had not been handled by a
serious dramatist. Now, Mr. Belasco relies greatly, as all who saw his
version of “Zaza” will remember, on the electrician and the limelight
man. To them belongs the credit of the most exquisite and typical
episode in “Madame Butterfly.” As poor little O Chō San sat patiently
at her window, with her baby asleep beside her and her face turned
towards the harbour where lay the newly arrived ship of her fickle
lieutenant, for full twenty minutes there was silence behind the
footlights, while through the paper panes of the shōji could be seen
the transition of dusk to darkness, of darkness to twilight, of dawn
to day. All the poetry of the play was in those twenty minutes, and a
great deal of its truth. Devotion and dumb endurance are more
characteristic, I think, of such a woman than the melodramatic
suicide which touched so many of her audience to tears. If a
competent musician had co-operated with the stage-manager to give
us a play without words in the manner of “L’Enfant Prodigue,” I
should have been better pleased, for the strange “broken American”
jargon and the silly monotonous song which Miss Evelyn Millard had
to say and sing, though legitimate enough, were tiresomely out of
harmony with the grace and beauty of her movements, her looks,
her costume. An extraordinary lapse of taste was that which
permitted the dying heroine to wave the star-spangled banner in her
child’s face. But most of all I doubt the verisimilitude of the alleged
motive for self-destruction. Sometimes Madame Chrysanthème
counts her money and feels rather relieved when her foreign lover
sails away; sometimes she regrets him with genuine sorrow, and
might conceivably put an end to her life if confronted with the
alternative of an odious match. But what she would not do is what
Madame Butterfly does—namely, consider that she had suffered a
dishonour expiable only by death. The Western sentiment of honour
is out of place in such a connection, for she had been party with
open eyes to a legal, extra-marital contract, sanctioned by usage
and arranged by her relations. The infidelity of her partner might
wound her heart; it could not strike her conscience.
 After many more or less accurate adumbrations of Japanese life
on the boards of London theatres, at last, in the spring of 1900,
came “The celebrated Japanese Court Company from Tōkyō,” of
which the leading stars, Mr. Otojiro Kawakami and Madame Sada
Yacco, were freely described as the Henry Irving and Ellen Terry of
the Far East. Most of the critics, expecting too much and
understanding too little, went empty away, or if they derived any
pleasure from the entertainment, derived it from purely æsthetic and
undramatic qualities. For a week the stars shone on empty benches;
but then the fashionable and artistic public, which has a habit of
ignoring the professional critic, became aware of the fact that a
miniature comedy and tragedy of rare delicacy and charm, as naïf as
they were beautiful, could be seen, and seen only for a few
afternoons, in the prosaic neighbourhood of Notting Hill. Success
was assured, and we are promised a return visit in the autumn. But
the critics were partly justified in their cold reception of alien art.
They had come for drama and been put off with pantomime. “If this
be Japanese drama,” they said, “a little of it goes a long way. We
have had enough.” Had they been given drama as it is played in
Tōkyō, with long, irrelevant scenes and a plot requiring four hours to
unravel, how much more discontented they would have been!
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