"Is the social status of the actor higher than it used to be, Mr. Danjuro?"
"I think it is. Speaking for myself, many of our nobles and one of our princes have done me the honour of inviting me to their houses, but such invitations are by no means common. The illiteracy of actors, to which I alluded just now, is a barrier to their social advancement."
"If I may broach a delicate question, will you tell me if the paragraphs circulated in the Japanese Press are correct? They state that your season of four weeks last April in Ōsaka brought you in a sum of 50,000 yen (nearly £5000), and that out of this amount you gave away in presents something like 20,000 yen (£2000)."
The old man smiled, less grimly. "It is quite true," he said. " But the presents are imposed by etiquette, and such customs are more or less reciprocal. The total receipts of the theatre, as certified by the Government auditor, after the tax had been deducted, amounted to 130,000 yen (£13,000)."
"How is it you have avoided the master-passion of our London actors to become an actor-manager?" "I think a manager must be sorely tempted to put money first and art second. I often advise authors to make certain alterations in the plays for which I am engaged, but the responsibility of entire management would distract me from the purely artistic aspect of representation."
A mischievous recollection of Delobelle's "Je n'ai pas le droit de renoncer à mon art" occurred to me, and I cynically wondered whether management might not diminish (it could hardly increase) the lion's share of the receipts.
"Will you ask Mr. Danjuro," I said, "if he will
