is the mask play to speak directly, although that is not an exact translation)–which, marvellously enough, seems to differentiate the most delicate shades of human sensibility; we should thank our own imagination which turns the wood to a spirit more alive than you or I, when neither the actors nor the mask-carvers can satisfactorily express their secret. I know that the mask is made to reserve its feeling, and the actors wonderfully well protect themselves from falling into the bathos of the so-called realism through the virtue of poetry and prayer; and when I realise it is from the same old humanity that tears and smiles, brothers or sisters by blood relation, spring forth, their difference being only a little shade of colour, the mystery that the No hall performs on our human minds will be explained to a great measure. This is the house of fancy where those who can only find strength from the crudity of their five senses have no right to step in, but the silent worshippers of the Imperfect will congregate for the holy exercise of ritual of their imagination; it is not the whole truth to say that it is the No’s dignity to command you to believe in its representation, though you may incline to think otherwise, as for instance in the case where a No character of a lady, whose voice and posture are not different from a man’s, is resented on the stage, but it is for your poetical mind flatly to object to seeing the superficial
