Elite Theatre in Ming China, 1368-1644 (Routledgecurzon Studies on the Early History of Asia)

Elite Theatre in Ming China, 1368–1644

Theatre in Ming China represents a golden age of Asian performance, when an enthusiasm for theatre on the part of the populace became a nationwide phenomenon. Theatre occupied a particularly important place in the life of the elite, for whom owning a theatre troupe was highly fashionable, and for whom theatre performances were an integral part of formal gatherings and of various rituals and ceremonies. This book provides an overview of elite theatre in Ming China. It is based on an exploration of the original historical records, and includes comparisons with other forms of ancient theatre, and an examination of the details of theatrical performance. Grant Guangren Shen is a theatre director and Asian theatre specialist. He teaches a variety of theatre courses, both Asian and Western, theoretical and practical, at the National University of Singapore. He directed English versions of zaju opera of China (1995), kabuki of Japan (1998), and Sanskrit theatre of India (2002), all in their classical styles. He has published articles in Shakespeare Studies, TDR, Asian Theatre Journal and Xinhua wenzhai (China’s Digest). He reviews drama productions regularly for the National Arts Council of Singapore.

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Routledge Studies in the Early History of Asia

Imperial Tombs in Tang China, 618–907 The politics of paradise Tonia Eckfeld Elite Theatre in Ming China, 1368–1644 Grant Guangren Shen

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Elite Theatre in Ming China, 1368–1644

Grant Guangren Shen

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First published 2005 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2005. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” © 2005 Grant Guangren Shen All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN 0-203-48306-5 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-203-68196-7 (Adobe eReader Format) ISBN 0-415-34326-7 (Print Edition)

For Shen Xinfu
 and Shen Xintang
 , my aunts who helped raise me in the difficult years.

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Contents

List of illustrations Preface Acknowledgements

x xi xiv

1 Historical overview

1

Golden age drama and its unparalleled performance 1 Ming chuanqi diverged from Yuan zaju 2 Ming chuanqi evolved from nanxi 4 The impact of Ming theatre 10 11

2 Previous scholarship Accomplishments 11 Difficulties 15

22

3 Literati owners The financial burden 22 The fatal attraction 24 The construction of an ideal reality 27

36

4 Actors’ backgrounds Primary sources for private actors 36 Atypical sources for private actors 40 Financial conditions 42

45

5 Actor training Trainer categories 45 Training arrangements 48 Training experiments 54

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viii

Contents 58

6 Owner–performer relations Types of relations 58 The loyalty of performers 63 The ending of relations 65

68

7 Sexist criteria Her Her Her Her

beauty 68 age 70 performance 72 character 73 75

8 The play as foreplay Romance dominates the subject matter 75 Desirability distinguishes the chuanqi heroine 78 Voyeurism affects stage practice 84

89

9 Singing and dancing Singing 89 Dancing 94

99

10 Role-playing Script explanation 99 Character interpretation 103 Psychological preparation 106

111

11 Directing Literary control 112 Staging control 118 Stylistic control 122 Total control 123

129

12 Performance space Residential halls 129 Garden pavilions 137 Pleasure boats 140 On tour 141 Other’s spaces 142

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Contents

ix 144

13 Performance theory Development 144 Principles 149 Components 153 Methodology 161 Acceptance 164 Notes References Index

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Illustrations

0.1 8.1 8.2 8.3

Determining the date of an ancient theatre building Pang the estranged wife begs her husband to take her back Pang shows filial piety and motherly love Chen Miaochang the priestess fights Pan Bizheng’s seduction 10.1 Du Liniang sings a punning libretto 10.2 Du Liniang complains about the mirror peeping at her 10.3 Du Liniang laments the loss of her youth and beauty in metaphors 12.1 Residential hall performance in Ming painting I 12.2 Residential hall performance in Ming painting II 12.3 ‘Hall of Thirty-six Mandarin Ducks’: full view 12.4 ‘Hall of Thirty-six Mandarin Ducks’: side room 12.5 ‘Hall of Thirty-six Mandarin Ducks’: furnishings 12.6 Women watch a show behind a gauzy curtain 12.7 A dougong supports the roof-beam 12.8 Dougong measurements 12.9 Garden pavilion stage: front view 12.10 Garden pavilion stage: hollow under-stage 13.1 Pan Zhiheng’s article ‘Explore proximity’

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xv 76 79 82 101 102 103 130 131 132 133 133 135 136 136 138 138 168

Preface

This is the first systematic introduction to theatre performance during the Ming era. Its research areas and stylistic features merit some explanation.

Research areas In my preparation of the manuscript, four major areas of research were covered. Library research Some 1,700 volumes of classical materials were examined, including theatre treatises, drama reviews, biographical sketches of performers, correspondences between practitioners, poems and diaries about theatregoing experiences, novels depicting theatre activities and the standard or unofficial versions of Ming history. Field research Fourteen extant theatre buildings used during the Ming, in both northern and southern China, were studied. This fieldwork afforded me an intimate acquaintance with the ancient performance venue, in addition to the visual images and architectural data that were collected. Live shows More than 100 Chinese opera shows in their native land and Singapore, with an emphasis on kunju opera, the genre that dominated the Ming stage, were attended. I also published 15 drama reviews on Chinese opera in academic journals and arts magazines. In restructuring a theatre tradition dated four centuries ago, however, I accepted no element from the modern staging of classical genres without corresponding evidence from a Ming source.

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xii Preface Asian theatre direction I was director in three Asian theatre genres, namely Yuan zaju opera (1995), Japanese kabuki (1998) and Sanskrit dance drama (2002), all in their classical styles (Shen G 1998: 64–86; 2003: 26–30). The experience affected the research in three ways. First, these genres shared the symbolic and abstract nature of a conventional stage. Directing in these Asian theatres obliged me to go through a similar process and difficulty to that Ming practitioners themselves most probably had experienced when they first attempted directing. It also equipped me with an invaluable familiarity with and sensitivity to Ming materials. Second, directing live theatre enabled me to try out vital Ming methods and phenomena in a ‘laboratory setting’ and thus verify their authenticity. Third, the productions in classical styles resulted in what might be called ‘laboratory data’ that helped to resolve ambiguities in Ming accounts. This proved particularly valuable to the research, since what Ming literati valued as subtlety in their writing style might also have been transformed into an ambiguity in factual information to anyone who happened to live in another time or culture.

Stylistic features This book follows the house style of the publisher and the academic convention of the field with only minor modifications for scholarly and practical reasons. The ‘elite’ theatre and ‘private’ troupes The Ming theatre activities took place in the three realms of the court, the private and the public. This study covers private performance only. In the Ming sources, performers and troupes in the private realm are referred to as jiaji
, jiayue
 and jiaban
.1 In modern scholarship, these terms have been variably translated into ‘domestic actors’, ‘household performers’ and ‘family troupes’; and thus the private theatre, ‘domestic theatre’, ‘family theatre’ and ‘household theatre’ accordingly. Such translations are legitimate but cannot be dissociated from a ‘non-professional’ connotation, while these Ming troupes were ‘professional’ in the truest sense. Not only were their productions often superior and directors prominent, but the performers never simultaneously took a vocation other than that of theatre. This book thus identifies the performers, troupes and theatres as ‘private’ or ‘elite’ in an attempt to mirror their professional nature and performative quality. Renaissance England had long established the ‘private theatre’ as a professional entity. And an anonymous reader for Routledge correctly pointed out the elitist tendency of the Ming ‘private theatre’. The title of this book was thus coined, by Editor Peter Sowden, to reflect its nature.

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Preface xiii Literal translation with explanation The theatrical activities cited in this book are largely those of reputable Ming private troupes. Events are reported as they were described by theatre-goers 360 years ago. Almost all the original material presented in this volume has been translated into English for the first time. All translations, except that of The Peony Pavilion, are mine.2 As a proponent of direct interpretation, I do not make an effort to produce a more easily intelligible rendition. I do, however, provide explanations for obscure or paradoxical terms, which are numerous in the writings of the Ming literati. Supplying data in the source language The Chinese characters for the names of all historical figures, except performers,3 are given in the text when they first appear. While also liberally supplying the translation of Ming passages of consequence with their Chinese origins, I nevertheless refrain from indiscriminate inclusion of the romanized Chinese because it communicates neither the meaning nor the sound of the original: 1

2

The source materials cited in this book are by and large in classical Chinese, which is not an oral language. Even the Ming literati did not usually speak in the language they wrote, and might have difficulties in understanding it without seeing. Today’s standard system of Chinese romanization does not include the tonal indicators and thus fails to portray its pronunciation.

Surname and first name initial for in-text reference Many original works from Chinese resources are cited in this book, and many Chinese authors share the same surname. To avoid confusion, therefore, citations include both the author’s surname and the initial of his given name. Page and volume numbers for in-text reference Important historical books often appear in numerous editions. Merely listing the page numbers of the edition I have consulted would not be useful for a reader wanting to check the original, since it is more than likely he or she will not be using the same edition. Therefore, both the page numbers of the edition I have used and the volume numbers of the original are listed. Ancient Chinese books have relatively short volumes.

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Acknowledgements

This volume evolved from the second part of my 1994 doctorial dissertation, ‘Theatre performance during the Ming Dynasty’. I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude to Professor Elizabeth Wichmman-Walczak of the University of Hawaii for her valuable supervision. Two friends of mine from the University of Hawaii, O. A. Bushnell, Emeritus Professor of Medical History, and Daniel Cole of the Center for Chinese Studies, undertook the painstaking task of proofreading the first two drafts of the dissertation. In writing the book, I am particularly indebted to Dr Leong Liew Geok for her comments, suggestions and queries, which prompted new research and led to two additional chapters. Professor David McCraw of the University of Hawaii was an inspiration in the early stages of research. His critical review of my paper ‘Acting in the private theatre of the Ming Dynasty’, together with the valuable suggestions from the anonymous readers of Asian Theatre Journal, made a faulty paper publishable. This paper has been reworked into Chapters 9 and 10 of this book. Professor McCraw was also instrumental in my revision of Chapter 1. His profound knowledge of the Chinese classics enlightened me on several occasions. Chapter 2, a survey of the previous scholarship in the field, was first published in Shakespeare Studies (2003). It has been updated to include the most recent development. Xie Jing, a former student of mine from Shanghai Normal University, provided consistent support in the collection, interpretation and integration of data from the very formidable amount of classical material and fieldwork. When I had difficulty in obtaining the date written on a beam in an ancient theatre building in Qiangxia Village of Xia County, Shanxi Province, three local children, Zhang Junfeng and his two playmates, helped me. Before I even noticed them, they climbed up to the beam and started to copy the complex characters inscribed there, which they had not yet learned, drawing one stroke after another on a piece of cardboard passed up to them (Figure 0.1).

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Acknowledgements xv

Figure 0.1 Determining the date of an ancient theatre building. Local children climb up to a major beam to copy the date inscribed there. One of the boys has drawn several characters in red ink on a piece of cardboard passed to him. Photo by the author.

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Historical overview

1

1

Historical overview

Drama is story, but not just any kind of story. It is the story of conflict. Drama plays word games, but not just any kind of word game. It exploits the thrust and parry of dialogue to build dramatic conflict. The golden age of drama often comes after an era of warfare in which mankind displays its fiercest form of conflict in the struggle for dominance. Playwrights then create stories with verbal battles that echo the conquests and mentality of the triumphant nation. This cycle of conquest and onstage encores repeats itself in classical Greek tragedy, Elizabethan theatre and Yuan zaju opera, among others.

Golden age drama and its unparalleled performance At the beginning of the fifth century , Persians tried to conquer the city-states on the Greek peninsula. The Greeks prevailed in the Persian Wars (499–478 ), and Greek tragedy then flourished with masterpieces like Aeschylus’s The Oresteia (c.458 ) and Sophocles’s King Oedipus (c.430–425 ). Although the English Renaissance began during the reign of Henry VII (1485 –1509), Elizabethan theatre only peaked after the defeat of the Spanish Armada (1588), when the English Navy became master of the oceans. Shakespeare’s Hamlet (1601), Macbeth and King Lear (both 1605–6) then appeared on stage. The Mongols became the world’s superpower when they captured Northern China (1234) and stretched their vast empire across Asia and Europe. Yuan zaju opera
, the climax of China’s classical drama, soon blossomed in Dadu
 (modern Beijing), the warriors’ new capital. A host of dramatic geniuses – Guan Hanqing
 , Wang Shifu
 , Ma Zhiyuan
 , Zheng Guangzu
 and Bai Pu
, among others – appeared suddenly. The performing arts and the visual spectacle of theatre, however, do not usually mature simultaneously with dramatic literature. Immaturity and simplicity frequently mark the presentation of golden age drama. The Greek tragedy of the classical era provides a perfect example. Acting was not a profession and began as an appendage to playwriting. Both Thespis

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Historical overview

and Aeschylus, for instance, acted in the tragedies they had penned. The chorus outnumbered actors by rule: Sophocles called for no more than three actors in tragedy, and his judgement prevailed. The power of Greek classical drama therefore rested primarily in just that: drama. Less dependent on staging, Greek tragedy is incidentally more intelligible to today’s readers or, in other words, less vulnerable to the loss of its performative elements in history. Eventually Greek performance caught up with drama during the Hellenistic age (336–146 ), when the drama had long passed its golden age. By then acting had became a profession and actors became the cynosure of theatregoers’ attention. Elizabethan theatre underwent a similar evolution. Although spectacular Italian staging was introduced to England by 1605, Shakespeare and his colleagues continued to put on plays on the medieval-style platform stage.1 The technical wonders that helped to create illusionary stage images – proscenium arches, wing-and-shutter settings, painted perspective designs and the groove system – only became standard practice in England’s Restoration theatre (1660–88), when the glories of its Renaissance drama had already faded. The development of traditional Chinese theatre followed a pattern remarkably similar to that of Western theatre. Whereas the classical drama of China peaked in the Yuan dynasty (1234–1368), the performance of Chinese opera matured during Ming times (1368–1644). The Yuan style of theatrical performance was relatively simple, with many vestiges of story-telling and other narrative entertainment. For instance, similarly to Greek tragedy’s three-actor rule, a Yuan zaju opera permitted only one singer in a play, a practice apparently inherited from that of zhugongdiao
 ballads. When a zaju opera called for two characters to sing, the singer would double his or her roles, just as Greek actors would do when a tragedy needed more than three characters. The Ming stage, on the other hand, featured sophisticated performing arts with a variety of styles. The growing prominence of singing, dancing, role-playing and visual spectacles in Ming opera – as in Western theatre – gradually eclipsed playscripts before the end of the dynasty.

Ming chuanqi diverged from Yuan zaju The advances of Ming theatre did not always evolve as direct improvements upon Yuan practice. In fact chuanqi
, the prevailing genre of Ming drama, often sharply diverged from Yuan conventions, particularly in terms of play structure, singing roles and musical styles. Play structure A Yuan zaju play typically has four acts or ‘segments’ called zhe
, and a prelude/interlude or ‘wedge’ named xiezi
. In this operatic form,

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Historical overview

3

each zhe segment comprises a musical unit of about a dozen songs composed in the same key. The playwright chose melodies that sound harmonious and enhance the atmosphere and character emotion appropriate for his play, and only then wrote librettos based on the existing music. Prose dialogue at times appears to be an afterthought, especially when it merely prepares, links or repeats the singing verses. The same can be said about stage directions. Though the xiezi wedge suggests it might function to tighten drama structure, in reality it usually involves a brief introductory or transitional scene. A zhe or xiezi routinely involves only one scene and thus a zaju play has five scenes. On the other hand, a Ming chuanqi play features as many scenes, termed chu
, as the playwright sees fit. Almost all chuanqi exceed 30 scenes and Tang Xianzu’s
 The Peony Pavilion
 (Mudan ting), for instance, has 55 scenes. Consequently, zaju often observes unity of action, while chuanqi unfolds episodically and includes multiple subplots. A zaju performance can easily conclude in one sitting, while a chuanqi play requires several days to complete. Singing roles Since zaju operas allow only one singer in a play, they always feature a singular protagonist. Wang Zhaojun, the subject of many literary writings and the heroine in Ma Zhiyuan’s Autumn in the Han Palace
 (Hangong qiu), became a secondary character in her own story when the playwright assigned the singing role to the emperor. The drama hence focuses on the emperor’s lamentation about his lost love instead of their mutual love. On the chuanqi stage, however, anyone may start singing and thus a chuanqi can fully develop more than one character. This gives Ming dramatists a critical advantage in their treatments of romance; both lovers may be adequately portrayed. Musical style Finally, zaju employs northern music and chuanqi uses southern music. Wang Shizhen
 (1526–90), the undisputed literary leader of his time, identifies a set of distinctions between the music of north and south: Music-wise
: The north has many words and thus racing tunes

 ! – racing tunes show muscle [strength]
 !. The south has fewer words and thus pacing tunes
 !"# – pacing tunes show eye [expression]
 !.2 The north is rich in verbal sentiments but poor in musical sentiments
 !"#$!%. The south is poor in verbal sentiments but rich in musical sentiments
 !"#$!
. The power of the north resides in its strings [instruments]
 !. The power of the south resides in its clappers
 !. The north is

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Historical overview suitable for chorus
 !; the south is suitable for solo
 !. The north risks a coarse temperament
 !; the south risks a feeble temperament
 !. (Wang S 1959: 27)

Wang’s observation has been generally agreed upon and frequently quoted (Wei L 1959: 7; Xu F 1959: 246; Wang J 1959: 2/56–7). These profound differences between zaju and chuanqi can be traced to their different evolutionary routes. Before its sudden flourishing in Dadu, zaju had been nurtured by professional entertainers, such as storytellers, comedians and ballad singers, for generations in north China. The way it took over the national stage and overshadowed other forms of entertainment testified to its artistic superiority. Zaju operated with a sophisticated music system that harmoniously facilitated lengthy passages and readily absorbed exciting elements from foreign music (Xu W 1959: 240–1). The zaju corpus accumulated a huge body of popular melodies for playwrights to choose from when they composed their librettos (Zhu Q 1959: 54). Zaju constantly presented new plays by the brightest cohort of dramatists in China’s history. Its performance, moreover, had an ‘international’ appeal. In the world’s most prosperous metropolises of that time, zaju entertained and fascinated victorious Mongol warriors, their multiracial subjects and transcontinental traders.

Ming chuanqi evolved from nanxi Ming chuanqi, instead of growing out of Yuan zaju, evolved from nanxi
, or southern plays, during the Northern Song dynasty (960–1127). Nanxi took root in Yongjia (modern Wenzhou) in south-eastern Zhejiang Province. Lacking musical quality and structural unity, nanxi failed to attract the literati’s attention and remained largely unknown during the Yuan (Xu W 1959: 239). 260 years would pass before nanxi transformed into chuanqi and became mainstream entertainment. Three events marked nanxi’s rise from its humble beginning as a rustic regional theatre performed by itinerant troupes to a sophisticated operatic genre loved by all. The Lute The first event was the publication of The Lute
 (Pipa ji), a monumental nanxi play by Gao Ming
. Prior to The Lute, nanxi was routinely composed by theatre practitioners who had received little, if any, formal literary education. While a few of their scripts proved to be theatrically effective, the majority of them were marred by logic gaps, personality contradictions, structural defects and language flaws. Overall, only four nanxi plays – The Wooden Hairpin
 (Jingchai ji), The White Hare
 (Baitu ji), The Moon-Prayer Pavilion
 (Baiyue ji), and Killing a Dog

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Historical overview

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 (Shagou ji) – collectively won critical acclaim as ‘the four great nanxi pieces
 !’. Even they were noted for their coarse styles. The Lute, in fact, was the first masterpiece of nanxi to win literati admiration. Xu Wei
 (1521–93), a prominent scholar and artist, and himself a playwright, highly esteemed Gao Ming’s play when he introduced nanxi to the academic world for the first time in the sixteenth century: Applying a language of purity and beauty
 !", [Gao Ming] flushes away the inferiority in the [nanxi ] playwriting
 !"#. This insignificant village performance
 !"# then progressed to the level of classical court productions
 !"#$. Being so outstanding, [The Lute] found no match at all
 !"#. (Xu W 1959: 239) Gao Ming, a native of Yongjia where nanxi originated, retired from office during the chaotic final years of the Yuan dynasty. It was said that he locked himself up for several years to compose the drama, which turned out to be an immediate hit and remained a favourite at court and among commoners for many years to come (Xu W 1959: 239). Zhu Yuanzhang, founder of the Ming dynasty, was so fond of The Lute that he commanded its daily performance in his court. In order to perform the play with the more advanced northern music, Zhu had its melodies recomposed by the chief of the Academy of Music (Xu W 1959: 240).3 Kunshan music The second event was Wei Liangfu’s
 reinvention of Kunshan music. Previously, nanxi had been set to music from a variety of folk songs and lacked its own system.4 While this practice allowed free borrowing of popular melodies, nanxi suffered from an aural image of inconsistency and disharmony. In order to realize its operatic potential, nanxi needed an effective music system to replace its piecemeal approach. During the first half of the Ming dynasty, four musical styles of the south prevailed, namely Yiyang, Haiyan, Yuyao and Kunshan. While these styles presented diverse musical characteristics, they were ‘all flat, straight and devoid of emotional depth
 !"#’, and thus unsuitable for theatre (Yu Huai
 ‘Listening to songs at Jichang garden
 !"#’, in Zhang C 1700: 4/8). But Kunshan music had some unique qualities, and the entertainment industry already explored them in non-theatrical performances: Smooth, sweet, and flowing
 !, it [Kunshan music] is unrivaled by the other three styles [of Yiyang, Haiyan and Yuyao]
 !"
. It is the most capable of seducing an audience
 !"#, and courtesans make superb use of this feature
 !". (Xu W 1959: 242)

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Historical overview

Scholars generally agreed that Kunshan music was ‘harmonious within

 and especially pleasant to the ear
 !’. However, ‘its lyrics do not correspond [to the melodies]
 !’ (Xu W 1959: 242). This disparity between words and musical pitches caused a major setback in its lyric intelligibility, because Chinese was a tonal language and any distortion in the tones would change the meaning of the words or render them meaningless. As a result, Kunshan music at that time did not win popularity; it remained close to its birthplace, while the other three styles spread over wide areas of the country (Xu W 1959: 242). Wei Liangfu (active during the mid-sixteenth century), a musician by training, took five steps to revamp Kunshan music and assure its lasting success. Absorbing the structural strengths of northern music Although Wei Liangfu had been trained in northern music and was considered a ‘reigning artist
’ in southern music, he was humble enough to enlist help from Zhang Yetang
 , a master of northern music, to reform the southern music structurally. Zhang came to the south in an unusual circumstance, according to Ye Mengzhu’s
 account:5 Yetang
, a native of Hebei
 , was exiled to Taicang Garrison Command of Suzhou prefect for a certain offence
 !"#$%
. He was a seasoned expert in strings [i.e. northern music]
 !. Since his arrival in Wu
 , [Zhang] often sang the northern songs to the Wu natives
 !"#$. People all laughed at him
 !. (Ye M 1983: 10/221) When Wei Liangfu by chance went to Taicang where Zhang was stationed, ‘he heard Yetang singing
 ! and was amazed
 . He stayed several days and nights listening [to Zhang]
 !" and greatly appreciated [Zhang’s singing]
 .’ To the surprise of many, Wei even married his popular daughter to Zhang who was then merely a ‘garrison soldier
’: Liangfu was in his fifties then
 !"#$. He had a daughter
 who was also good at singing
 . Those aristocrats competed to win her hand
 !", which Liangfu declined
 !. But this time
, he married her to Yetang
 !". (Ye M 1983: 10/222) Poet Chen Weisong
 (1625–82) depicts this marriage in the context of the working relation between Wei and Zhang: In the years of Jiajing [1522–66] and Longqing [1567–72] Zhang Yetang
 !"#$

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Historical overview

7

His name is listed in the top court troupe of the Central Plains
 !
 . At this time Wei Liangfu a native of Yufeng
 !"#$ Has a teenage beauty who runs the household
 !"#$.6 Ever since the Older Zhang comes to the East of the Loujiang River
 !"#$, Both [men] enjoy the other’s accompany in discussing singing and dancing
 !"#$. (‘For Singer Mr Yuan
 !"’, in Xu J 1672: 12/3) Ye Mengzhu’s narrative and Chen Weisong’s lyric allow the possibility that Wei may have married his lovely daughter to the ‘Older Zhang’ in an effort to secure the latter’s devotion to his quest. With Zhang’s assistance, Wei was able to establish a music system of congruity and precision comparable to the sophistication of the northern music. Yu Huai
 (1616 –?), a scholar, music lover and frequenter of opera houses, observes that in Wei’s system ‘the tempo
, pitch
 and diction of every sound
 ! were regulated and within the same key
 !"#’ (‘Listening to songs at Jichang garden’, in Zhang C 1700: 4/8). Purifying Kunshan music Not content with its already ‘smooth, sweet and flowing’ qualities, Wei persisted on filtering out all the elements considered coarse from Kunshan music until it reached the state of so-called ‘polished tunes
’ (Xu W 1959: 242; Wei L 1959: 7). Now Kunshan music was not only the most feminine music in the south, but also the most refined music known to the Chinese stage. Not satisfied with merely amending existing folk songs so they might fit into his new system, Wei also painstakingly reworked old melodies and composed new ones. All his works evidenced the same rich, subtle and charming style that had enjoyed a stage life of 450 years and is still a part of living theatre today (Yu Huai, ‘Listening to songs at Jichang garden’, in Zhang C 1700: 4/8–10). Revamping the southern instrumental ensemble Wei in effect revolutionized the southern orchestra, which had previously provided mostly percussion accompaniments for theatre shows (Gu Q 1618: 9/33). In his methodical way, Wei blended moon-lute, zither, flute and xiao7 in his music ensemble (Xu W 1959: 242). Sanxian was accepted only after Zhang Yetang, now his son-in-law, remodelled it to suit the southern music (Ye M 1983: 10/222). With modified strings and winds, Kunshan music now had orchestral power comparable to that of zaju opera.

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Historical overview

Establishing an orthodox school of singing Wei personally trained selected disciples, who in turn popularized his new style and formed the orthodox school of Kunshan music: Mr Wei of Kunshan
 !"# was superior in music composition
 !. He raised more than 20 issues in his Qulü
 !"#$. Those so-called Kunshan-style singers at that time
 !"# all originated from Wei Liangfu
 !". The Senior [Zhou Siyu] made friends with Mr Wei then
 !", and learned all his subtle and skilled ways [of singing] within a month
 !"#. (Qian Q 1643: 37/13) With their performative strength, Wei’s disciples often won the major singing competitions and enjoyed great prestige: Each Mid-autumn Festival
 , when [Zhou] sat on the Shenggong Rock [where the singing competition took place]
 !, singers would stand in attendance
 !. Vocal singing and wind instruments

 became so deafening that none of them could be differentiated
 !". Yet when the Senior produced the first sound
 !, the forest came to life
 ! while the vast arena fell to silence as if there were no one around
 !"#. The insiders could tell

: ‘This must be the Elder Zhou of Yushan
 !"#.’ Others say
: ‘Could be the Elder Zhao the Fifth of Taicang
 !".’ The Elder Zhao the Fifth
 ! was a brilliant disciple of Liangfu
 !"#$. (Qian Q 1643: 37/13) Some trainees, not necessarily being taught by Wei himself but possibly taught by his disciples or self styled, were able to find their way into the private troupes as actors (Pan 1988: 202 Luanxiao xiaopin). Others found favour among literati troupe owners. One of Feng Mengzhen’s
 (1548–1605) diaries reads: My friend Gu
, by the precious name of Zuhan
 ! and style Hanling
 , recommends to us his townsman Chen Mengxuan
 !"#, who is good at singing
. He has managed to learn from Wei Liangfu
 !"#. He and Pan Shaojing, another disciple of Wei
 !"#, follow Zou Yugu [Zou Diguang] to come here
 !"#$. (Feng M 1616: 59/8) Publishing a training manual Finally, Wei wrote a singing manual that provided theoretical insight and practical guidance for professional singers (Wei L 1959: 3–7). This slim

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Historical overview

9

volume contains only about a thousand characters. Yet it soon became the indisputable authority among theatre practitioners and connoisseurs (Pan Z 1988: 202). Washing Silk The third event was the composition of Washing Silk
 (Huansha ji) by Liang Chunyu
 (c.1521 to c.1594), a fine poet and composer. Before that, Wei Liangfu’s new music had supported concerts and other entertainments, but not theatre performances. Washing Silk was the first play written to the revamped Kunshan music and convincingly demonstrated its feasibility and superiority as theatre music. The play was immensely popular. It had many elements of a well made play, such as suspense, surprise, reversal of fortune and measured build-up to a climax. It also afforded ample chances for actors to sing and dance. Extant historical records suggested that both the theatricality of the drama and the personality of the playwright contributed to the huge impact that Washing Silk had on the Ming theatre scene: Liang Bolong [Chenyu] enjoyed his unconventional lifestyle. He was handsome, about six feet tall, with a long beard. Contemporary dramatists follow his model in their works. His romantic songs and elegant verses were popular in the circles of the rich and famous. Gifts were constantly sent to him, such as silver, silk, rare incense, famous breeds of horses and ingenious handcrafts. Singing boys and dancing girls would consider themselves ill-fated if they had not met him in person. (Xu Youling
 , Woting Zading
 ! [Miscellaneous Commentary in the Sail-shell Pavilion], in Jiao X 1959: 117) Liang’s popularity helped to publicize Kunshan music and drama. His drama in turn amplified his personal legacy. Li Panlong
 (1514–70), a leading poet, testified in ‘A poem sent for Liang Bolong
 !"’: Compose parting verses with literary brilliance
 !"#$, Pour a jade bottle of Spring Spirit to tease Wu beauties
 !"#$. Among Jinling [modern Nanjing] youngsters yours a household name
 !"#$, Performers compete to put up your ingenious librettos
 !"#$. (Cangming ji
 [The Oceanic Collection], vol. 14, in Zhao S 1988: 107) Pan Zhiheng
 (1556–1622), the prominent drama critic and theorist of the Wanli period (1573–1619), confirms: ‘Ten thousand people are won over by your composition of opera libretto
 !"#$’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/236, Yuji manchao).

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10 Historical overview After the publication of Washing Silk, chuanqi replaced nanxi once and for all as the name for southern drama. And Kunshan-qiang, literally ‘the music style of Kunshan’, was shortened to kunqu, meaning ‘kun-music’. This once naive musical theatre had now matured into a literary form, chuanqi, and an operatic form, kunqu. By the middle of the Ming Dynasty, the once timid southern plays, now known as kunju, meaning ‘kun-theatre’, were ready to take over the national stage. And a huge market and an eager audience were waiting for them impatiently.

The impact of Ming theatre Ming theatre, a performative golden age of Chinese opera, had an immediate and lasting impact on the society and history of China. The contemporary impact Ming Chinese were fanatical about theatre. The court maintained troupes of hundreds under the institutions of the Academy of Music
 and the Eunuch Department of Bells and Drums
 . The emperors ordered daily shows called ‘mealtime performances’, a forerunner of today’s TV dinners (Zhang T 1962: 61/651). Civil service candidates practised operatic singing, instead of essay writing, on the eve of their Imperial Examinations (Xu F 1959: 243). Literati went bankrupt as the result of keeping private troupes. And poor peasants emptied their tiny money bags to hire troupes to entertain village gods during religious festivals (Huxian zhi
 [Hu County Annals], in Jiao W 1987: 253). In circumstances like sacred rituals, seasonal ceremonies, social gatherings and dinner parties, plays were routinely staged. Theatrical performances provided aesthetic, psychological, sensual and spiritual satisfaction to people from all walks of life. In turn, Ming people nurtured the performing arts of Chinese opera to a perfection unseen in history. The lasting impact Ming theatre also had a huge impact on the theatre in centuries to come. For instance, although the more than 300 genres of traditional Chinese theatre, both past and present, draw their costumes from as early as the Sui dynasty (581–618), most costumes since the Ming have retained a Ming style regardless of the character’s actual historical period. Other influences have been even more significant. The techniques in singing, dancing and role-playing of Beijing opera are more or less derived from kunju.8 Mei Lanfang
 (1894–1961), the superstar of Beijing opera, was trained and performed in kunju. The Ming theatre and the Japanese Noh and kabuki, which evolved during the same period, might have mutual influences.9

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Previous scholarship

2

11

Previous scholarship

Scholarly writings on Ming theatre are fewer than those on the zaju opera of the Yuan dynasty, or those on the regional genres of the Qing dynasty (1644 –1911). A review of the previous scholarship is thus aimed at assessing not only the accomplishments but also the difficulties in the study. Not attempting an exhaustive investigation, this review places its emphasis on academic publications in the English language only, with the following considerations: 1

2

An extensive review of academic publications in the native language, when equitable to that of those in English, would inevitably inflate this chapter out of proportion to the book. The major achievements published in Chinese, Japanese or European languages are usually reflected, in time, in English publications.

Accomplishments The first work to attempt a history of Chinese literature, Herbert Giles’s A History of Chinese Literature, was published at the turn of the twentieth century, and includes one chapter on drama. The author outlines the plots of three zaju operas of the Yuan and gives an eyewitness account of Qing theatre in performance, but omits any reference to Ming drama (Giles 1901: 256 –75). Similarly, Henry Wells’s The Classical Drama of the Orient, published 60 years later, does not include a single Ming work, although it discusses some 30 translated plays of the Yuan and Qing dynasties with insight (Wells 1965: 3–153). Ming drama was first introduced to the English-speaking world in 1936, when Yao Hsin-nung wrote about the development of the national theatre of the late Ming in his article ‘Rise and Fall of the K’un Ch’ü’ (Yao H 1936: 63 –84). His views are still valid today, although much has been added to that brief survey by subsequent scholarship. Yao’s article evidently benefited from the then recently published Shina Kinsei gikyoku shi
 !"
 (History of Early Modern Chinese Drama) by the Japanese Sinologist Aoki Masaru
 !. Aoki’s book had also benefited from the studies of

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12 Previous scholarship his colleagues.1 But he was most evidently influenced by Wang Guowei’s
 multivolume study that initiated the modern investigation of traditional Chinese theatre.2 Aoki’s survey is one of the most complete and respected works to date, despite its neglect of the performative aspects of Ming drama, a shortcoming that has yet to be fully addressed even in scholarly studies today. Another quarter-century elapsed before the surge of interest in the 1960s in the West in things Asian brought in its wake three books on the history of Chinese literature, each with a section on Ming drama. In Chinese Literature: A Historical Introduction, Ch’en Shou-yi discussed one music composer, no fewer than eight playwrights and dozens of plays, and introduced the structural features of the drama in the chapter on ‘Ming drama’ (Ch’en S 1961: 519–35). Lai Ming in his book covered only one playwright and a single play, while mistaking its heroine of sixteen years for twenty in the session titled ‘Libretti of the Yuan and Ming dynasties: the life of Tang Hsien-tsu and his works’ (Lai M 1964: 245–51). Liu Wu-chi’s An Introduction to Chinese Literature focused on the librettos and intentions of the literati playwrights in the chapter ‘Dramas of the literati and the people’ (Liu W 1966: 247–61). More detailed was Josephine Huang Hung’s pocketsize Ming Drama (1966), covering major playwrights and their representative works. Both Liu and Hung also introduced the schools of dramatists of the late Ming. In the 1960s, scholarship was largely limited to the literary study of masterpieces, about which scholars tended to disagree with each other. In fact, Ch’en and Liu provided two sharply contrasting views of Ming drama. While Ch’en portrayed Ming theatre as contemporary, realistic and entertaining, Liu saw it as historical, poetic and elitist. Ch’en concluded his study by saying: In the selection of plots . . . Ming drama looked persistently if not exclusively to contemporary events for inspiration. Thus, in a sense, as far as the plots go, Ming drama was on the whole much more realistic, reminding us of the rise of middle-class comedy in eighteenth-century England as well as continental Europe. Ming drama . . . has a tendency to utilize the vehicle for mere entertainment with no philosophical message. (Ch’en S 1961: 535) As if to call attention to his disagreement with Ch’en, Liu began his study of Ming drama with the following: during the Ming and Ch’ing periods, drama lost its intimate contact with the audience, particularly the common people, and tended to become a type of studio play for a few connoisseurs of ch’ü poetry rather than a stage presentation for popular entertainment. . . . Little

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attempt was made to invent new plots or to deal with contemporary events and stories of social import. (Liu W 1966: 247) If one uses Phoenix Cries
 (Mingfeng ji), a play about contemporary politics, as an example and holds innovations in theatre as intended to please the theatregoing public, one may agree with Ch’en. But if one reads the allusive and symbolic librettos that are a staple feature of the masterpieces of Ming drama, and regards their verses as incomprehensible to the mostly illiterate common folk, one may concur with Liu’s interpretation and even his conclusion that ‘declining into mere feats of poetic skill’ and the ‘loss of contact with the people’ were the weakness of the dominant genre of Ming drama (Liu W 1966: 260). Nevertheless, the fact remains that scholarship in the 1960s explored only a small number of plays and adopted narrow investigative angles. In the 1970s, scholarship gradually saw a more equitable balance between attention to literature and attention to performance. C. T. Hsia focused on the philosophical ideas encompassed by the four dream plays of Tang Xianzu in his ‘Time and the human condition in the plays of T’ang Hsien-tsu’ (Hsia 1970: 249–90). Colin Mackerras viewed Ming drama from the performative angle, and traced its historical development to the level of individual genres. Combining the learning of the East and the West, Mackerras examined a large number of primary materials of the Ming era, such as the writings of Wang Jide
 and Zhang Dai
, as well as many scholarly reports in Chinese, including the works of Zhou Yibai
 and Wang Gulu
 . Almost two hundred references are drawn from non-European language sources in his paper (Mackerras 1971: 58–91). In an extensive textual study using a wider range of data, Cyril Birch was able to conclude that Phoenix Cries was ‘a rare instance, of its time, of a drama built around contemporary events’ (Birch 1974: 220), while providing four more plays of the same nature (ibid.: 231). However, the performative aspects were not addressed (ibid.: 220–58). On the other hand, William Dolby treated Ming theatre not only as dramatic literature but also as performing arts in A History of Chinese Drama. He tried systematically to introduce staging elements, namely singing and music, costume and props, singing styles and role types, in two chapters: ‘ “Nanxi” drama, “Chuanqi” drama, and the beginnings of Kunqu drama’ and ‘The theatre world during the Ming dynasty’ (Dolby 1976: 71–113). Performative features of Ming drama, albeit still incomplete and inaccurate, started to be tackled. The 1980s saw the publication of the 700-page The Chinese Conception of the Theatre, in which merely four pages were devoted to Ming theatre in the section ‘Changes in the Chinese theatre since the advent of the drama: the innovation of the K’un tunes’, where the innovation of kunqu music was delineated (Hsü 1985: 272–6). The chapter that follows, although titled ‘The decline of K’un dramas and the future of Chinese theatre’, turns to the rise

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14 Previous scholarship of Beijing opera – the author’s favourite topic – again. But John Hu’s ‘Ming dynasty drama’ provides a sensitive treatment of the available data and an objective presentation of the drama scene (Hu 1983: 60–91). In the 1990s, two alternative approaches to the rediscovery of the performance space of Ming private theatre emerged. In the introduction to his translation of selected scenes of Ming drama, Cyril Birch (1995: 1–20) leads his reader to a fictional garden performance, thus imagining the performance space. Chen Shizheng, the director of The Peony Pavilion, which opened the 1999 Lincoln Center Festival in New York City, strove for what ‘Tang Xianzu himself would have known’, thus rebuilding the performance space. The centrepiece of Chen’s set was a Ming style open-sided pavilion consisting of sixty hand-joined pieces – not a single nail was used. But his most unambiguous mirroring of the performance space is seen in the 18,000gallon working pond next to the pavilion, complete with live ducks, fish, water-lilies and songbirds. Chen explains: The ducks floated on the water; the water reflected the lights; the birds chirped – these elements did not necessarily relate to the plot. But they certainly contributed to the environment in which the audience would come into contact with what the Ming literati must have experienced. (Interview with the author on 5 February 2002, in Shen 2003: 20) Chen’s production in fact served an academic purpose: the Ming gardens were famous for their water features, and the Ming literati were known to stage plays at waterside pavilions. In ‘Acting in the private theatre of the Ming dynasty’ Grant Shen described the singing, dancing and role-playing of private actors (Shen 1998: 64–86). At the turn of the twenty-first century, a book-length study – Peony Pavilion on Stage: Four Centuries in the Career of a Chinese Drama – was published. Catherine Swatek carried out extensive, and in a few cases exhaustive, textual research into the numerous versions of The Peony Pavilion. By comparing Tang Xianzu’s masterpiece and its unauthorized adaptations by literati playwrights, Swatek was able to establish evidences of a dispute on prosody (Swatek 2002: 25–67) and the ideological difference (ibid.: 68– 100) between Tang and his more compliant contemporaries. By exploring hundreds of xuanben
 (miscellanies) – collections of zhezixi
 (drama extracts) – in books and manuscripts, and sourcing performers’ accounts, Swatek traced a performance tradition in ‘an actor-centred environment’, in which The Peony Pavilion had been staged (ibid.: 101–202). This tradition or environment, however, belonged to that of the Qing (and after) instead of that of the Ming because, as Swatek pointed out, ‘The first place [from the miscellanies] we find evidence of the impact of staged interpretations of Mudan ting [The Peony Pavilion] turns out to be a Kangxi [1662–1722] edition of Zuiyi qing [
 ]’ (ibid.: 105). Another contribution

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of Swatek’s work is her documentation – sometimes with firsthand knowledge – of two important productions of The Peony Pavilion directed by Peter Sellars and Chen Shizheng, which opened in Vienna in 1998 and New York City in 1999 respectively (ibid.: 203–41).

Difficulties To date, research on Ming theatre has extended from dramatic literature to include the performing arts. These studies, whether on literary scripts or performative elements, have encountered often different and, in a few cases, greater difficulties than the studies on the earlier or later periods. Such a situation is largely due to the elitist nature of Ming drama and its sophisticated styles of performance. The reading of chuanqi librettos Even those with experience of working on the musical theatres of the Yuan or the Qing may encounter difficulties in evaluating a Ming text. For instance, a Ming chuanqi libretto was deemed ‘much inferior’ after it was compared with a Yuan zaju libretto (Birch 1974: 223–4). Yet the only criteria suggested for the judgement were ‘economy and freshness’, which are more suitable for sanqu poetry than for opera librettos. The misused criteria might have in turn contributed to the critic’s neglect of the fact that the Yuan lyric expresses merely a general feeling, while the Ming lyric depicts a specific dramatic circumstance, despite the fact that the critic’s own translation clearly illustrates this functional difference between the two librettos. The Yuan lyric in his translation reads: Setting sun, wide sky, darkling river’s meander
 !"#$%, Hills of Ch’u, folds of green, rest on the clear air
 !"#$. Ice-jar cosmos, sky to earth
 !", Trees tall and short are cloud-brocaded
 !". Will someone ask Wang Wei
 ! For a landscape to transcribe this sorrow
 !"#? (Birch 1974: 223) The Ming lyric reads: Singing strings, metal pick, body of sandalwood
 !"#$ Have made a knell for oh, so many who were young
 !"#. Startle the roosting bird from his still forest
 !" Make dance the dragon in his dim ravine
 !" – But no strum, no twang

 Can all express of this sad song of pining
 !"#. (Birch 1974: 224)

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16 Previous scholarship On the other hand, the sentimental and stylistic similarities between these two librettos are ignored. What is more, ‘Qiusi
’ (‘Autumn thoughts’), a legendary sanqu poem in the tune of Tianjingsha
 , is used as a benchmark for the criticism. The superiority of the Yuan libretto is solely based on a comparison with ‘Qiusi’, against which it is claimed for the former that ‘it hardly seems inferior’ (Birch 1974: 223). However, no actual comparative study between these two Yuan verses has been presented, except finding that they come from the same author. This finding, nevertheless, is proven false by three lines of evidence. Historical evidence Only one Ming source of the early seventeenth century, Yaoshantang waiji
 !" (Secondary notes of the Yao-Mount Hall), ascribes this thirteenth-century ‘Qiusi’ to the celebrated Yuan author Ma Zhiyuan
 (Jiang Y 1606: 68/8). None of the three Yuan sources of the thirteenth to fourteenth centuries has identified the author: 1 2 3

Liyuan anshi yuefu xinsheng
 !"#$% (The Theatre-tried-out New Songs of the Music Bureau; Anonymous 1936: 2/8). Shuzhai laoxue congtan
 !"# (The Collected Notes of an Aged Learner of the Commoner’s Study; Sheng R 1983: 2B/14). Zhongyuan yinyun
 ! (The Prosody of the Central Plains;3 Zhou D 1959: 252).

An earlier Ming source of the sixteenth century, Cilin zhaiyan
 ! (The Charming Flora from the Forest of Librettos), also attributes the poem to an anonymous author (Zhang L 1525: 1/26b).4 Among all these earlier sources, Shuzhai laoxue congtan provides the most convincing evidence by narrating the origin of ‘Qiusi’ before presenting it with two other sanqu poems, all in the tune of Tianjingsha: ‘A northern literate friend of mine sent three short songs of the desert to me
 !"
 !"#. They portray the scenes there quite well
 !"’ (Sheng R 1983: 2B/14). The content of the source book also shows its author, Sheng Ruzi
 , being active during the early thirteenth century. As a leading Qing scholar points out, the author ‘was still in time to socialize with the respectable elders of the early Yuan dynasty
 !"#$%’ and thus his accounts of early Yuan life were reliable (Ji Y 1789: 122/1051). This unambiguous contemporary record in Shuzhai laoxue congtan may only be challenged by counter-evidence, of which Yaoshantang waiji provides none. In fact, while this 100-volume book preserves much data on theatre activity, it does not always stand up to academic scrutiny. The authoritative Siku quanshu zongmu tiyao
 !"#$% (Titles and Abstracts of the Encyclopedia Sinica) notes:5 ‘This book [Yaoshantang waiji] . . . presents equally the refined and the vulgar, the true and the false

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 . . .
 !I=
 !. It particularly lacks effort in the material selection and elimination
 !"#’ (Ji Y 1789: 132/1127). And, unsurprisingly, its assertion of ‘Qiusi’ authorship has been deserted by all the subsequent scholarship of consequence, including the seventeenth-century Cizong
 (Ci Poetry Compilation; Zhu Y 1935: 30/184) and the eighteenth-century Lidai shiyu
 ! (The Lesser Poetry in Prior Dynasties). In fact, this opinion of Yaoshantang waiji never found favour until today, when it is accepted by college textbooks in its native land, for reasons unknown. Stylistic evidence Sanqu concerts, together with zaju opera, were the principal performing arts in the entertainment industry of the Yuan. Sanqu song writers covered a wide social spectrum from high officials and literati to actor managers and actors. Each sanqu tune follows a particular set of phonological and linguistic rules. Classical sanqu poets routinely preserved these unwritten rules either by singing and playing the melodies while composing new songs, or by imitating the literary forms of existing sanqu poems when writing their own. Two consequences of this are expected: 1

2

A poet’s perceived rules for a particular sanqu tune might differ slightly from those of other poets; but he would have no motivation to create new rules. Similarly, the procedure of sanqu composition determines that the phonological and linguistic features of a sanqu tune are likely to be repeated again and again in the sanqu poems of the same tune.

Somehow, ‘Qiusi’ singularly deviates from these consequences; that is, the author was creating new rules and few were following his rules. The poem in its original language – in the left-hand column below – reads: Ku-teng lao-shu hun-ya, Xiao-qiao liu-shui ren-jia,

(Wilted creeper, aged tree, dull crow; Little bridge, flowing stream, family house. Gu-dao xi-feng shou-ma. Ancient road, autumn wind, bony horse. Xi-yang, xi xia. Sunset, settling sun. Duan-chang, ren zai tian-ya. Heartbroken, my darling is worlds apart.)

Three of its linguistic and phonological features deserve special attention: 1 2

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The first three lines constitute dingzudui
 , a less common form of language parallelism. Each of the first three lines contains three compound-words – nine altogether. Each of these nine compound-words is made up of an adjective and a noun.

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18 Previous scholarship 3

The last two lines contain mid-line rhymes, which are doubleunderlined by the author.

Tianjingsha happened to be a popular melody during the Yuan, with 107 songs still extant today, among which, other than ‘Qiusi’, seventeen preserve feature 1 (Sui S 1964: 592, 806, 842, 842, 843, 900, 901, 901, 943, 1251, 1252, 1252, 1320, 1398, 1399, 1607, 1607, 1732), two maintain feature 2 (Sui S 1964: 900, 1732) and none upholds feature 3. This phenomenon cannot be explained by the sanqu poets’ collective inattentiveness, especially because all these features are obvious enough to a classical author. For instance, feature 3, the mid-line rhymes that all the other Tianjingsha songs fail to adhere, serves three functions simultaneously and thus cries for attention. First, it changes the rhyme pattern of the tune from a,

a,

a,

a,

a,

a,

a,

a,

b-a,

b-a.

to

Second, it divides line 4 into two phrases, and line 5 into two sentences. Third, it alters the meaning of the poem. Without the mid-line rhyme, line 5 reads: ‘The heartbroken person is at the end of the world.’ But with the mid-line rhyme, line 5 reads: ‘Heartbroken: my darling is worlds apart.’ In the former case, the poem is about homesickness. In the latter case, the poem is about lovesickness. In fact, a Yuan critic appreciates feature 1, for he commends the fact that ‘The first three lines [of ‘Qiusi’] are in language parallelism
 ’ (Zhou D 1959: 252). But the same author nevertheless dismisses this feature in his own composition of two Tianjingsha songs (Sui S 1964: 1339). The fact that new rules were created in ‘Qiusi’ and that few chose to adhere to these rules provides a hint on the author’s profile: this person must have been living in a remote area and thus isolated from literary influence, except perhaps the influence from popular tunes that could be spread by instrumental music or oral transmission. Similarly, other song writers were separated from his influence. Ma Zhiyuan, from what we know of him – ‘a native of Dadu’ who ‘served the provincial governments of Jiang[su] and Zhe[jiang]’ – lived in or around the cultural centres (Zhong S 1959: 2/108). According to Jia Zhongming (1343–1422), the most important theatre historian of his time, Ma’s prominence was such that ‘[he is] the topic of conversation and envy of many at home or abroad
 !"#$’ and ‘[his] good name is heard throughout the theatre world
 !"
’ (Zhong S 1959: 2/167). It is obvious that Ma Zhiyuan’s status contrasts sharply with the profile of the author of ‘Qiusi’. On the other hand, a person of the northern desert, as can be derived from Shuzhai laoxue congtan, fits the profile of the author neatly.

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19

Textual evidence Further research reveals the existence of the different versions of ‘Qiusi’. When we compare the conventional text with those found in earlier sources, we find that five of the 28 characters have been altered. The following versions in their original language illustrate the difference. The left column shows the conventional text, and the right the alternative words that were used at one time or another in the poem’s evolutionary stages:
 !"#$
 !"#$
 !"#$
 !"#
 !"#

%$

 !"#

 !"
 !"#$

 !"
 !



First, the high percentage of textual discrepancies suggests the folk origin of ‘Qiusi’, as major textural evolution usually takes place in an oral tradition, while printed work is more likely to set the final version at its first appearance. Second, the poem’s semantic change corresponds to its documented travel from the north to the south. While the right column above unmistakably depicts the scene of the northern desert, the left allows geographic ambiguity. The second line of the left version – ‘Little bridge, flowing stream, family house’ – portrays a scene more characteristic of the region of the lower Yangtze valley, where the beauty and joy of the land have been traditionally celebrated in classical poetry. The reading of chuanqi dialogue Another difficulty the researcher confronts is that Ming drama often features allusive and ambiguous language to be decoded during its performance. An investigation of the acting technique thus becomes vital in interpreting the text. Even the comprehension of a colloquial passage may require some knowledge of its staging. The following text was cited to prove the playwright’s debt and close affinity to the Ming novelists, because ‘in its easy loquacity and love of detail it smacks of Chin P’ing Mei [or Jin Ping Mei
 ] brand of fiction rather than of the dialogue of the stage’: Ah, daughter, today you talk of finding a husband, tomorrow you’ll talk of finding a husband – what’s so great about finding a husband? Marry some man and before you’ve got past his gate his first wife will be letting you know who she is. She’ll soon have your coiled hair scratched down, and you’ll have to kneel or kowtow any time she says kneel or kowtow. . . . Now go hurry and do your makeup and entertain your visitors, or I’ve got a whip here and I’ll beat you to a pulp with no mercy if you go on like this. (Birch 1974: 225–6)

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20 Previous scholarship These lines were in fact meant for a farcical presentation of the chou
(clown) role type, instead of the naturalistic persuasion of a courtesan by her mother-procuress, which may resemble the novel mode as assumed by the author. The reading of eyewitness reports While textual research is difficult and sometimes dependent on performance study, the latter too poses its own challenges. First, the primary sources are usually scattered in contemporary books, notes, letters, diaries, poems and memoirs and thus hard to collect. Second, the Ming literati, from whose writings the researchers have gathered much of their information, tended to write in the symbolic or allusive style, making them not readily accessible or comprehensible. For instance, Zhang Dai (1597–1679), a multitalented literatus and private troupe owner, reported how the Hades scenes – as depicted by the Tang painter Wu Daizi
 – were staged in a Ming public performance (Zhang D 1982: 52–3, Taoan mengyi). His eyewitness account vividly described the scenarios when the condemned sinners were tortured by Yaksha, Rakshasa or ox-headed and horse-faced demons. However, the three-dimensional set pieces, including saws and grinding stones, freezing ice and boiling cauldron, sword-hill and blood-ditch, are compared to two-dimensional paintings; and the thousand taels of cash spent on the lavish set were converted to paper hell-money in a modern interpretation: In a most extravagant production, the scenes of the supernatural were represented as vividly, we are told, as the Tang master Wu Daozi’s painting ‘Various scenes from Hell’. Thousands of pieces of paper sacrificial money were burnt – presumably by the audience in dread and fear of the hell which suddenly seemed so real and near to them. (Dolby 1976: 111) Zhiza
, the term in Zhang Dai’s original text which stands for set, was probably first misunderstood as ‘paper-bundle’, which was then interpreted as ‘paper sacrificial money’. To read this passage correctly, one has to know that zhiza means paper-made funeral objects, that the ancient Chinese considered theatre as a platform for the dead and that those appearing onstage were figures of the past. The stage set made for their use, whether in paper or otherwise, thus comprises objects for the other world, and is thus named zhiza. The misreading of primary data is a common occurrence. Two more errors are located in the above-mentioned paragraph: 1

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‘Yu yunshu
 ’ should be read not as ‘a certain Yu Yunshu’, but as ‘my uncle Yun’. The show was organized and financed by one of Zhang Dai’s uncles.6

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Previous scholarship 2

21

‘Nütai
’ does not mean ‘loges for women,’ but a ‘smaller platform’ that serves the function of a box or loge. The character ‘nü’ does not always mean ‘female’ in classical Chinese. For instance, ‘nüqiang
’ means not a city wall defended by Amazons, but the top portion of a city wall, which is smaller in size.

The reading of performance theory More confusion may occur when a modern scholar encounters a passage that involves performance theory, as the Ming literati showed great reluctance in announcing their theoretical discoveries. Like some Renaissance Europeans, Ming literati seemed to enjoy tremendously the mind game of disguising their own thoughts as something ancient, preferably in the periods of the Spring and Autumn
 (770–476 ) or the Warring States
 (474 – 221 ).7 When such a theory is based on a practice that is significantly different from the modern perception or experience, both the idea and fact may be interpreted beyond recognition. For instance, a primary drama critic of the late Ming describes the successful implementation of a radical training programme in a private troupe, which is responsible for the troupe’s ‘reaching a miraculous level of excellence
’ (Pan Z 1988: 23–4). A modern study, however, mistranslates every sentence depicting the unique training programme and misreads the critic’s essay of admiration as disapproval (Swatek 2002: 295).8 While there is much room for improvement in existing scholarship, there is even more opportunity for discovery. The publication of this volume will not change this situation for most part. The three theatre worlds of the Ming dynasty – court theatre, private theatre and commercial theatre, each largely separate from the others – present distinctive performative characteristics. This book manages to cover the performing arts of the elite segment of private theatre only. It refers to the other two theatre worlds merely at the points of comparison and to dramatic literature mainly from the perspective of performance study.

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22 Literati owners

3

Literati owners

The private theatre of Ming China and that of Elizabethan England shared few features, except being professional theatres and having the same name. A Ming private theatre was an individually owned troupe performing to invited guests, while an Elizabethan private theatre was an indoor theatre that opened to the general public for a higher fee. A typical private troupe during the Ming was organized by an owner who bought children from poor families and trained them to perform; they were thus bondservants in legal status. An Elizabethan troupe, on the contrary, comprised free men who invested in or contracted themselves to the theatre company. As a commercial operation, Elizabethan private theatre counted on profitability, while Ming private theatre, a high class pastime, disapproved of financial compensation, even for its most popular or most expensive productions. The Ming taboo had a lasting impact. Li Yu’s
 (1611–79) troupe’s tours were alleged to solicit sponsorship, despite the fact that he was a director, playwright and critic of national and international fame and his tours did not take place until he was in virtual poverty (Wang H 1713: 2/101–2). Such a code of behaviour in effect demarcated Ming private theatre as a status symbol, not a practical enterprise.

The financial burden Almost all known private troupe owners belonged to three privileged social strata: salt merchants, head eunuchs and literati. Licensed salt merchants became extremely rich as a result of their state-sanctioned monopoly in the market place. Owning a private troupe was just a part of their profligate lifestyle. Head eunuchs gained political power and great wealth under a number of Ming emperors. Extravagances like private performances seemed to help to compensate for their sacrificed bed-pleasure. Literati were cultured ones who appreciated and enjoyed drama at a sophisticated level. Their elitist taste dictated the fashions and trends of the stage. By and large, the Ming private theatre was a theatre of the elite, by the elite and for the elite. Virtually all the best actors belonged to literati troupe owners, and all the recognized playwrights, directors and critics came from the social stratum of literati.

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An average member of the Ming literati, known as shidafu
 or jinshen
, was a mandarin who had taken the Imperial Examinations. He might also enjoy the privileged status of jinshi
 as a result of his success in the highest level of Imperial Examinations.1 His social standing and formal training in Chinese classics were thus self-evident. Many of the Ming literati had a passion and craving for private theatre. But not all these theatre-fanatical scholar-officials were rich enough to own a private troupe. The known literati troupe owners, with few exceptions, were landed gentry. Even these scholar-gentry might not be able to sustain their millionaire hobby of private troupe ownership for too long. The deteriorated troupe Li Kaixian
 (1502–68), becoming jinshi in 1529, once owned a private troupe of good size and high quality. According to an eyewitness report: In Li Zhongmu’s [i.e. Li Kaixian] household
 !, actors reach the number of twenty to thirty
 !"#$; courtesan performers, two
 !; and juvenile female singers, several
 !"#. . . . Daily, Zhongmu either puts up performances
 !"#$, or plays soccer with youngsters
 !"#,2 or plays chess games
 . He gives banquets in honor of visiting guests whenever they come
 !". (He L 1569: 18/8) Li Kaixian inherited a sizable family fortune and earned a decent salary from the imperial court as the Deputy Minister of Rites. But his private troupe was a real drain on his wealth. Unlike many others, Li kept his personal integrity and steered clear of dubious income: ‘He had decent savings from his salary as government official
 !. But [after retirement] he declines to visit the prefect or county administrations
 !", and thus enjoys no tax benefit whatsoever
 !’3 (He L 1569: 18/8). After years of active life in the private theatre, Li Kaixian could no longer afford to train his troupe properly or replace aged actors. His troupe degenerated into a group of ‘aged servants
 ’ who ‘did not sing quite correctly


’ (He L 1569: 18/9). Alternative payment Kang Hai
 (1475–1540), zhuangyuan
 [the Number One Scholar among a batch of jinshi] in 1502, bankrupted himself for the same reason. After his dismissal, Kang ‘chose a reclusive life of performance and wine
 !’ (Wang S 1959: 39). To pay hired courtesan performers, Kang at least once resorted to writing them poems in supposed intoxication. As his pride did not allow him to sell his calligraphy for money, he told the courtesans: ‘this is a little better than [the conventional] payment in

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24 Literati owners brocades
 !"#$’ (Xu Youling
 , Woting zading
 !, in Jiao X 1959: 136). Upon his death, Kang’s belongings were valued at merely 300 ounces of silver, while he still owned 300 sets of drums, which he either could not sell or could not bear to part from (Li K 1959: 596).

The fatal attraction The stories of Li and Kang were neither incidental nor isolated. Ming literati embraced private theatre ownership with the full knowledge of its financial consequences. Many of them could not resist the temptation because for them theatre was not only a sophisticated performing art, to which they were ardently devoted, but also a refuge from politics, a dreamland of poetry, an outlet for ego and desire, an escape from reality and a ritual of faith. Such a complicated attitude towards theatre was reflected in the writings of literati troupe owners and their close friends. A refuge from politics Chen Jiru
 (1558–1639) was a prominent literary figure of the late Ming. He repeatedly rejected offers to assume government positions and lived a simple life of travel and writing (Zhang T 1962: 3346–7). As a sign of his eccentric style, Chen’s means of local transportation was a tamed elk instead of the usual horse or sedan chair. In the literary circle, Chen became a symbol of personal freedom. His poem about Bao Hansuo’s
 vacation home, Qinglian shanfang
 ! (‘Qinglian mountain villa’), endorsed Bao’s reclusive lifestyle, in which theatre was a vital component, without reservation: ‘Entrust his grievance to performers
 !", / Invest his nation-building talent in the mountain woodland
 !"’ (Zhang D 1982: 2/30, Xihu mengxun). Bao became the owner of a private troupe after his early retirement. As Chen understood, Bao’s retreat from politics had nothing to do with his competence as the Deputy Imperial Inspector, and everything to do with the ‘grievance’ he had accumulated in office. Bao eventually took the ‘mountain woodland’ as his refuge from politics. As it was impossible or unsafe to complain to others, Bao chose to relieve his pain in the world of private theatre where his actors comforted him. A dreamland of poetry Li Kaixian retired before the age of 40. He described his reasons for becoming a passionate playwright and private troupe owner in a style typical of Ming literati: ‘I have fun with my plays. Sometimes I order my young servants to enact the plays. I use them as a hundred-foot broom to sweep away my gloomy mood, or as a fishhook with a thousand-yard line to angle poems’ (Li K 1959: 857). At first glance, Li’s words seemed to elaborate on

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the tremendous emotional power of theatre, which worked as an instant mood changer, and the strong mental inspiration of theatre, which served as an effective poetry stimulator. However, Li did not attempt a treatise on theatre, and no one could possibly perceive these functions of theatre on an intellectual basis through such a flowery description of the oversized broom and overlength fishing line. The truer and deeper message of these words is the immense sadness and emptiness Li had experienced in life and his desperate need for theatre, which provided him with an escape from the reality and led him into the dreamland of poetry. He was not alone, Li believed. For many of the intelligent and capable men whose talent had been ignored or who had been unfairly treated, theatre could play a vital role in their life, i.e. to keep them breathing and sane: The gifted intellectuals of all times
 ! would either conform to the times and to the power
 !"# or confine their hearts to joyful hobbies
 !"#$. They would otherwise go mad or fall ill and die

 !". My purpose in having these [hobbies] is to kill time
 !"#$%, as an old hero fades away quietly
 !
. (Qian Q 1982: 4A/377) In no uncertain language, Li claimed the therapy power of ‘joyful hobbies’, of which theatre was the ultimate during Ming times. Using himself as an example, Li affirmed that these hobbies alone were capable of rescuing those who suffered from discontented egos and unfulfilled desire. An outlet for ego and desire In a similar tone, Wang Jide (?–1623), an influential theorist, prosodist and playwright of the Wanli period, delivered a message almost identical to that of Li Kaixian, when he defended the choice of theatre as his lifelong pursuit: Time is flying, life short
 !. One cannot wait for the Millennium to come
 !. The world is wide and open
 !. Yet the hero cannot make a move
 !. I thus use this [hobby in theatre] to sap my strong will and high aspirations
 !
"#. (Wang J 1959: 50, ‘Preface’) Qian Dai
 (1539–1620), jinshi in 1571, took the position of Imperial Censor
 when Zhang Juzheng
 was the de facto prime minister (1573–82). Qian gained influence and affluence before he retired at the early age of 43 to avoid alleged suspicion from Zhang (Juwuzi 1980: 3234). He then spent the rest of his life pursuing ‘spacious and enormous residential mansions
 !"#’ and ‘numerous and gorgeous female entertainers

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26 Literati owners and concubines
 !"#’ (Juwuzi 1980: 3246). This behaviour pattern is also traced to Qian’s unrealized political aspirations, and thus therapeutic needs, by the author of his biographical sketch: Ruzhan [Qian Dai’s style]
 . . . retired to his farm in middle age

 . Full of vim and vigour
 !, he spent his energy and talent
 !"# on farming and gardening or performance and performers
 !"#$ to wear away his lofty aspirations
 !. Daily he enjoyed the rhythmic and sonorous music of the winds and strings
 !"#, playing chess
 and drinking wine
, for more than 40 years like this
 !"#$. (Mengsou xupu
 !, in Juwuzi 1980: 3247–8) An escape from reality Other therapeutic effects of theatre became prominent in high society during the last years of the Ming, when rebellions involved larger areas, the threat of foreign invasion appeared more immediate, the government grew further corrupted and the people fell deeper into poverty. The literati turned even more often to the illusive world of theatre to comfort themselves when the dynasty edged to its end. Qi Biaojia
 (1602–45), for instance, proved an ardent devotee of the dynasty and the theatre in those years. Winning jinshi title at the young age of 20 (1622), Qi quickly rose to the revered position of Imperial Censor, and governed Suzhou and Songjiang prefects, among other appointments. Despite his busy schedule and the rapidly changing circumstances, Qi persisted in making routine visits to drama performances. Whether taking high office in the capital and provinces or retiring in his hometown, theatregoing at times was a daily activity for Qi and many of his literati friends. His diary recorded hundreds of theatre performances that he personally attended: The eighth [lunar] month [of 1638] 14th, . . . had a little drink at the Miaoshang Pavilion and listened to the actors who were brought there by Jiezi . . . 15th, . . . went to see a play at the West Marsh . . . 16th, . . . went to see a play at the Temple of Village God . . . 19th, Mother’s birthday . . . a theatre performance [at home] in the afternoon. Chen Changyao, Jiang Anran and I went out to watch an all-girl troupe’s show . . . 20th, . . . watched actors presenting several scenes from Filial Piety and Fraternal Duty
 (Xiaoti ji). (Qi B 1937: 25–6, ‘Zijian lu’)

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Sustaining a private troupe, frequenting shows in town and publishing a well regarded book on theatre criticism, for Qi Biaojia theatre was much of his daily activity. He discontinued his theatre life only when he brought an end to his physical life. This Ming loyalist committed suicide at the fall of the dynasty. A ritual of faith With such an emotional and psychological attachment to theatre, the Ming literati at times attributed a sacred quality to things theatrical, a fact that they were either unaware of or reluctant to admit, as orthodox Confucianism distances itself from religious belief and condemns unauthorized ritual practices. For example, Feng Guan
, born in the theatre-fervent Wu
region and excelling in playing the lute and singing songs since a young age, took the Imperial Examinations five times. Each time he went ‘without taking any books but the playscript of The Lute with him’ (Xu F 1959: 243). The absolute irrelevance of the drama text to the Imperial Examinations testified to the non-secular nature of Feng’s action. And by persisting on taking The Lute to the examinations despite his repeated failure, Feng imposed a ritualistic significance on the playscript. Conscious or not, Feng Guan took The Lute as his holy script or guardian angel and theatre as his faith. In his fifth attempt, Feng Guan passed the Imperial Examinations and was posted as the prefect of Hengzhou, an outcome that probably strengthened his belief in theatre.

The construction of an ideal reality The Ming literati’s obsession with theatre was deeply rooted in social reality and their psychological needs, over neither of which they had true control; while theatre provided the possibility of an illusionary alternative reality, in which at least poetic justice could be done and a happy ending guaranteed. But this theatrical alternative reality was usually not ideal for literati in the court or public theatres. The court theatre provided endless spectacles to promote the glory of the empire and monarch. Its shows in effect brought about a reminder of, instead of an escape from, the oppressive political reality to the more liberal-minded literati. What is more, court theatre allowed no regular access for an average member of the literati and was therefore not a real option in most cases. The public theatre, on the other hand, was readily available to any paying audience. Yet its offers frequently disappointed literati because of a lack of literary merits. The itinerant troupes frequently staged what literati termed ‘country bumpkin’ plays that catered to the taste of the mostly illiterate masses. For instance, the performance of the 109-scene play Encourage People Doing Good
 (Quanshan), which ‘lasted for three days and nights

 !, causing a sensation in the villages and communities
 !’, was seen by a literati critic as ‘merely an imitation of the blind beggars who

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28 Literati owners chant and sing to plead alms door to door
 !"#$%&'(’ (Qi B 1959: 114). The playwright of Red Military Tally
 was criticized thus: The playwright takes his angle of observation from the back of a water buffalo [i.e. as a buffalo boy]
 !"#$%. He arranges a few words of those mean villagers
 !"# and calls them chuanqi
 !". It is truly the work of a small man
 !"#. (Qi B 1959: 116) Literati at times were amused by these plays’ folly rather than their supposed comic effect, such as The Chibi
, which ‘lifts several scenes from The Four Virtues
 !"#’ while misusing the original (Qi B 1959: 117), The Embroidered Clothes
 (Xiuyi ), which copies the lesser parts of a masterpiece and alters them to make a total nonsense (Qi B 1959: 120 –1), or The Resurrection
 (Huanhun), which is inspired by masterpieces, but in which a very unsatisfying deus ex machina ‘may split one’s sides with laughter
 !’ (Qi B 1959: 118). This situation would not necessarily improve even when a commercial troupe put on a masterpiece upon request. Its actors would then probably fail to understand the playscript and their performance would become irrelevant and boring. Li Yu categorically termed such actors ‘ignorant’ and their shows ‘lifeless’ (1959: 5/98). Li probably voiced the harshest comments among the Ming critics, but he was certainly not alone in his opinion. In order to make their theatrical ‘alternative reality’ an ‘ideal reality’, Ming literati had to claim ownership of that reality. By owning the private troupe, the literati could then enact their own plays or plays of their choice and in the ways they fancied. They were thus able to indulge their tastes not only by viewing theatre performances, but also by becoming playwrights, producers and directors themselves. In other words, drama would be written and staged for personal reasons and these reasons alone, a practice at least in its motivation similar to Ming literati’s composition of lyric poetry. These personal reasons inevitably influenced playwriting and productions, and set private theatre further apart from the court and public theatres. The Ming literati’s construction of their ‘ideal reality’ in the elite theatre is a complicated phenomenon and prolonged process. The rest of this section describes some of the social, artistic and historical conditions under which the construction of the ‘ideal reality’ took place. The content of the ‘ideal reality’, however, is discussed in the rest of the book. A trendy lifestyle Owning a private troupe was not only enjoyable, but also fashionable, in the communities of the rich and powerful. While owning any troupe might serve the purpose of a status symbol, owning a reputable private troupe that won

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applause from the literati community would certainly work as a living testimony for the owner’s artistic taste or family tradition. Bao Hansuo, for example, maintained a troupe of many fine actresses in his household. He soon became the role model in his circle. Many literati tried to match his standard but none succeeded. A few, in succession, bought Bao’s mountain villa, where ‘the beauties once lived in those deep and quiet rooms
 !I
 !"’. Yet all they could manage to do was ‘to walk inside [the rooms] to sense the fragrance and romance left [by the beauties]
 !I
 !"#’, not to revive the shows at Bao’s level: The later comers wished to have the full scale presentation of the performers like those of the revered Bao
 !"#$%&'(). But absolutely none of these literati on both sides of the Zhejiang River had succeeded
 !"#$%&'()*. (Zhang D 1982: 2/30, Xihu mengxun) And the legacy of the Qinglian Mountain Villa still belonged to Bao, as Chen Jiru testified: ‘It [Qinglian Mountain Villa] has changed hands for long and several times
 !", / Yet it is still called “Bao’s vocation house” until today
 !"’ (Zhang D 1982: 2/30, Xihu mengxun). Zhang Dai and Hou Chaozong
 (1618–54), as other examples, readily related their lifestyle to the fact that their families had owned private troupes for generations (Zhang D 1982: 4/37 –8, Taoan mengyi; Hou C 1923: 5). A recognized attainment By the mid-Ming, gifted literati like Kang Hai and Wang Jiusi
 (1468– 1551), among others, started serious efforts to learn musical instruments (usually the lute) and singing. This was unthinkable in the early Ming when attempting the performing arts was a criminal offence, except for those who were assigned by the government ‘Household Registration System’ to perform (Wang X 1958: 11; Shen D 1980: 3/881 ‘Addendum’; Gu Q 1618: 10/9–10). In the late Ming, however, practising performing arts became a vogue in the literati circle and so many literati members were immersing themselves in performing arts. And some of them had attained a professional level of skills. Shen Defu
 (1578–1642), an author extremely knowledgeable about the Wanli period (1573–1619), testifies: When I was a child, I saw Wu Guolun
 , a deputy prefect
, who was skillful in beating drums. His drumbeats had the flavour of metal and stone musical instruments. . . . [Nowadays] the literati in the Wu area pay much attention to rules and forms [of the operatic theatre], such as Zhang Xin
, a native of Taicang and an official of

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30 Literati owners the Ministry of Works
; Shen Jing
, a native of Wujiang and an official of the Ministry of Official Personnel Affairs
; and Wu Cheng
, a native of Wuxi and a jinshi – all are experts in musical composition. (Shen D 1980: 627) The literati’s practical knowledge in performing arts made a manifold and lasting impact on the Ming drama and theatre. As troupe owners, literati nurtured competent actors, some of whom eventually joined commercial troupes. As connoisseurs, they promoted fair competition and mature theatre market. And as critics, they commented and debated on the qualities of troupes and productions and thus safeguarded a healthy theatre culture; their drama reviews inadvertently preserved valuable data on China’s pre-modern performing arts. Shen Defu continues: Whenever a performance is called at a gathering [when one of them was present], all the performers, including experienced actors and famous singers, get into a panic. They [Wu Guolun, Zhang Xin and Shen Jing] are no less sharp [in music] than Gongjin
 [also known as Zhou Yu
, a famous general and military strategist in the Three Kingdoms period (220–65), who was well known for his great musical achievements] of Jiangdong
 [the area where Zhou Yu’s kingdom was situated]. (Shen D 1980: 627) These performers got into a ‘panic’ not because of their fear of the rich and powerful among the audience, but because of their anxiety about making any mistakes in the presence of the connoisseurs. Ming theatre professionals, especially those who were experienced, did not easily become nervous in front of an audience. If they believed a criticism was unwarranted or the critic was not qualified, they would be more than likely to challenge the criticism or ignore the critic. Chen Duo
 (c.1468 to c.1521), a nobleman and military official, had an illustrative experience: Chen Dasheng
 [Chen Duo] once served in the military and went to the capital on the duty of shipping commodities and raw materials. One of his friends held a party in his honour, at which performers from the Academy of Music were called to entertain. Dasheng made criticism freely, which was, however, totally rejected by a performer, as if he did not know that Dasheng excelled in music. Dasheng took over his lute, plucked the instrument and sang a song in fast tempo. All the performers exclaimed with admiration, fell on their knees and kowtowed [to Chen]: ‘We have never heard or seen anything like this.’ They had since called Chen ‘the King of Music’. (Jiao X 1959: 210)

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Chen Duo would have embarrassed himself had he not been superior in singing and instrumental music. The artistic attainments of Ming literati were a result of their enthusiasm for the theatre and long-term pursuit of the art. Many literati, whether troupe owners or not, studied dramatic literature and theatre arts wholeheartedly. Wang Jiusi, a former member of the prestigious Imperial Academy (hanlin
, unrelated to the Academy of Music or jiaofang
), learned his arts from a professional: Wang Jingfu [Wang Jiusi] was going to compose a libretto. He first paid good money to hire a grand master. He then closed the door to visitors and learned to play the lute and sanxian and to sing melodies. He did not let the grand master leave until he had mastered all of his skills. (Wang S 1959: 39) This process took Wang several years, according to He Liangjun
 (1506–90), a contemporary musicologist and private troupe owner (He L 1569: 37/8). An exclusive advantage for elite theatre The literati’s participation gave Ming elite theatre an exclusive advantage over court and public theatres. The literati’s contribution to and participation in theatre were commonplace during the preceding dynasty of Yuan and helped zaju opera to the peak of classical drama of China. But they became an extreme rarity and abnormality in the court and public theatres during the Ming. This abrupt change of the literati’s involvement in theatre activity was caused by the complicated societal and ideological conditions that went beyond the literati’s control and often against their wishes. Three major factors contributing to this situation could be identified. Theatre as a despised profession In China, as in many other traditions, the persons, occasions and locations of performing arts have been historically associated with sexual service. The Chinese character ji
/
(literally ‘the skilled one’), for instance, means both ‘the performer’ and ‘the prostitute’, signifying their interchangeable functions in the entertainment industry. In fact, guanji
=(literally ‘official prostitute’), highly popular among the government officials during the Tang (618–907) and Song (960–1279) dynasties, is a government-assigned profession. A routine duty of guanji is ying guansheng
 (literally ‘to answer the calls for one’s servitude’); in practice it requires these guanji to provide performance or sex or both to government officials. Goulan
, for another instance, means either a playhouse or a prostitute quarter, mirroring the real life situation. Qinglou
 (literally ‘the green building’), while

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32 Literati owners being commonly read as ‘courtesan residence’ or ‘prostitute quarter’ today, served as ‘hostel for actresses’ in pre-modern China. It was not a mistake when Xia Tingzhi
 named his book on the Yuan zaju actresses Qinglou ji
 (Stories in the Green Building). He was simply using the word’s contemporary definition. The physical proximity of the two major activities in the entertainment quarters (i.e. performance and sex) and the occasionally shared functions of the practitioners in the entertainment industry contributed to the undesirable reputation of the theatre profession. The rulers of Chinese dynasties, while enjoying performing arts, never forgot to distance themselves from the despised theatre professionals by assigning them outcast status. Routinely actors were banned from taking Imperial Examinations or government positions, and actresses were treated like common prostitutes. The Ming government even ordered theatre professionals to identify themselves openly in a humiliating dress code when they were offstage. According to Mingshi, the standard dynasty history of the Ming, such dress codes were written into the laws as early as the third year of Zhu Yuanzhang’s
 reign (1370): An actress [ yueji
, literally ‘music woman’ or ‘female entertainer’] from the Academy of Music has to dress in a horned hat of bright colours and a black vest. She is not allowed to dress as a commoner’s wife. . . . An actor from the Academy of Music dresses in common clothing, but wears a green headdress in order to distinguish himself from gentlemen or commoners. (Zhang T 1962: 67/707) With such discrimination and degradation in place, literati, historically the elite of the Chinese society, were in effect cut off from theatre professionals, unless (a) the theatre profession overcame the discrimination from the government and society, or (b) the literati became outcasts themselves. The first scenario never took place. The second did, and quite unexpectedly. Literati as social outcasts during the Yuan During the Yuan dynasty, literati were stripped of all their esteemed positions and titles except ‘Confucian scholars’, a narrative phrase of dubious, if not negative, connotations at that time. Two sources, Xie Fangde’s
 (1226– 89) Dieshan Ji
 and Zheng Sixiao’s
 (1241–1318) Xinshi
, affirm the fact that Confucian scholars became virtual social outcasts during the Yuan (Xie F 1774: 2/31; Zheng S 1639: 2/86). Dieshan Ji reads: Those with a keen sense of humour ridicule the Confucian scholars, saying that ‘Our great Yuan dynasty sets up the rules to divide people into ten ranks. Rank 1, government officials; rank 2, civil servants. To place them first is to value them and to declare their worth to

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the country. Rank 7, artisans; rank 8, prostitutes; rank 9, Confucian scholars; rank 10, beggars. To place them last is to humiliate them and denounce their uselessness to the country.’ (Xie F 1774: 2/31) Confucian scholars were categorized lower than everyone but beggars. It was probable the Mongolian government conceived little use of Confucian scholars. They provided no tangible goods or service, while the artisans (ranked 7) or prostitutes (ranked 8) did. Their learning and ideology of the Confucius brand could be harmful to the non-native rulers, who were identified as the ‘barbarian others
’ in Confucian scripts. When the Yuan government declared the cessation of Imperial Examinations, it in effect cut off the career path through which the literati – now Confucian scholars – traditionally entered the civil service. Now even the brightest cohort of Confucian scholars lost hope of respectable and profitable government jobs. And many of them, who did not have the means to live, were indeed not much better off than beggars. The new economy of the Yuan Empire, however, did not forsake Confucian scholars as did the government. It provided a variety of job options to them in its booming entertainment industry, including lucrative ones like song writers, residential playwrights and stage actors. Confucian scholars, now calling themselves cairen
 (talented men) for literary openings or hangjia
 (professional men) for performative duties, readily grasped these opportunities (Zang M 1989: 439). Their newly found, well paid theatre jobs either lifted them out from their pitiful conditions that were next to the beggars’ or outshone the prior positions they managed to attain, such as medical men, staff clerks, Taoist priests, fortune tellers and artisans (Xie F 1774: 2/32; Zhong S 1959: 104–37). Confucian scholars had no hesitation in taking up theatre professions (Hu Shi
 [1500s], Zhenzhu chuan
 [The pearl boat], in Jiao X 1959: 1/90). They probably felt no shame about their new identities in the entertainment industry either, as they simply acted on survival instinct or common sense. As outcasts during the Yuan, Confucian scholars had nothing to lose but everything to gain in their theatre professions. Literati and actors at the different ends of the social spectrum during the Ming The literati experienced a total reversal of fortune after the Yuan dynasty. They regained all their lost prestige under the Ming government, which upheld Confucianism as the state ideology. The once jobless and heedless ‘Confucian scholars’ now became the literati candidates for the top government positions. The theatre professionals also lived through a status change during the dynasty transfer, but from bad to worse. Acting was a personal choice

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34 Literati owners during the Yuan, but a hereditary occupation enforced by law during the Ming. A Yuan actress was discriminated against for the reason that she chose a profession tainted with immorality. A Ming actress was victimized because she was born to a yuehu
 or Musical Family, which was assigned by the government to provide entertainment – both performative and sexual. The head of the Academy of Music was included in the third official rank in the Yuan dynasty, while his counterpart in the Ming, fengluan
, was placed in the ninth official rank or the lowest possible grade for an official in the government bureaucracy (Shen D 1980: 21/546). As Musical Families were under the administration of the Academy of Music, the drastic drop in official rank of its leader reflected the general decline of the social position of theatre professionals. The literati’s distancing from actors was therefore due not only to the literati’s sudden rise from the rank 9 outcast in the Yuan to the rank 1 elite in the Ming, but also to the relative and absolute deterioration of actors’ conditions in the new regime, symbolized by their head official’s plunge in the bureaucracy from rank 3 in the Yuan to rank 9 in the Ming. The literati and actors’ movements towards the opposite ends of the social spectrum eventually amounted to an unsurpassable barrier between them in professional theatre: the actors were to perform and the literati watch. During the Ming dynasty, serving within a theatre troupe, even the court troupe, would be disastrous to the reputation of a man of status. This situation is well illustrated by Yang Xunji’s
 experience. Yang was a scholar who lived in seclusion, and for many years enjoyed fame by keeping himself aloof from politics and material pursuits. His plays were much appreciated by Emperor Wuzong (reigned 1506–21), who appointed him to a position in the Academy of Music, the agency in charge of court troupes. Of this Yang was very much ashamed. He begged the emperor to release him from the position, but without success. He was not able to escape from the post until his friend Zang Xian
, a head eunuch who had the emperor’s favour, interceded on his behalf. Contemporaries of Yang believed that ‘he was humiliated by the emperor’s offer’, and that ‘he was treated like a prostitute or an actor’ (Shen D 1980: 21/544–6; Zhang T 1962: 286/3218). Xu Lin
 (1462–1538), another dramatist, had a similar but less embarrassing experience (Wang S 1959: 41–2). The incident took place during one of the emperor’s many Imperial Inspection Tours
: Emperor Wuzong summoned Xu Lin to an audience at Linqing
 and planned to assign him a position in the Academy of Music. [Xu] Lin declined the offer in tears: ‘Although with little talent
 !, I do come from an untainted family background
 !. The Academy of Music is the governing body of prostitutes and performers
 !"#$. I would rather die before accepting this position
 !". (Li X 1982: 4/133)

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Xu Lin’s honesty, i.e. spelling out the humiliation associated with the Academy of Music, and courage, i.e. vowing to die, luckily convinced the emperor, who assigned him instead a post in Jinyiwei
 , a Ming dynasty star chamber. Since it was virtually impossible for the Ming literati to serve within the court or commercial troupes, private troupes became the only places in the theatre world where literati, as troupe owners, might work with actors and actresses. For them, it was no longer a means of living, but a fashionable and acceptable hobby. Because of their expertise in dramatic literature, the literati owners of private troupes critically contributed to and vastly changed the ways actors were trained and plays staged. Details on actor training and stage direction are discussed in Chapters 5 and 11 respectively. Literati owners played other important roles in the theatre world as well. They wrote a number of well received plays, some of which entered the canon of China’s classics. They provided the sole financial resource for their elite troupes. And they established a tradition of drama review. However, data on Ming literati owners as playwrights, sponsors, and critics are not fully covered in this book, which concentrates on the performative aspects of the Ming theatre.

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36 Actors’ backgrounds

4

Actors’ backgrounds

Ming private troupes shared many features in the composition of their personnel. The troupes were comparable in size. The actors were likely to be the same age in any given troupe. While actors might be selected from diverse sources, they nevertheless came from similar family backgrounds and had the same social status. A private troupe consisted of a dozen actors on average. ‘Guo, Prefect of Changzhou, brought Jiang and his dozen or so fellow actors back home’ (Hou C 1923: 1/9). ‘Wu Yueshi presented thirteen actors in the productions at his villa called Shuixi jingshe
 !’ (‘Refined house on the west bank’) (Pan Z 1988: 2/199, Luanxiao xiaopin). Wang Jixuan’s
 new troupe involved ‘more than ten children’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/211, Luanxiao xiaopin). Normally, an owner chose child-actors of the same age to start a troupe and disbanded the troupe when this group of actors reached maturity. He typically engaged all his actors at once and released them together. As such, actors from different private troupes might be in different years in their teens or pre-teens, but those from the same troupe remained the same age (Zhang D 1982: 4/37– 8, Taoan mengyi).

Primary sources for private actors The three major sources from which troupe owners selected their private actors were existing family servants, children selected directly from society at large and students enrolled in schools for the performing arts. However, children from impoverished families were the ultimate source for private troupes because family servants, performance school graduates or whoever ended up as private actors inevitably came from poor families. It was the norm for households with few means to consider accepting the offer of selling their children, in effect always the brightest and most charming ones, to private troupes or schools for performing arts or their agents. Existing family servants Existing family servants provided a ready source of actors for private troupes. It was easier for an owner to start his troupe from family servants as they

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cost him less and demanded little extra money. However, most of these servants did not possess the talents desired in actors, and more often than not they were too old to be trained to the Ming standard. It was standard practice for Ming actor training to start at the age of five. Family servants at least left their mark on the history of Chinese opera. The birth of Haiyan qiang
 (‘the musical style of the Haiyan region’), one of the four major theatre genres of the south during the Ming, may be traced to a troupe of trained family servants. Yang Zi
 (?–1327), a wealthy nobleman of the Yuan dynasty, enjoyed ‘the one-thousand-fingers service’ (i.e. possessed one hundred servants) in his estate. He learned the arts of singing and ballad composition from Guan Yunshi
 , a personal friend of Yang and a leading sanqu poet in the country. Yang in turn trained his servants to sing. His training proved a success in that the servants became ‘good at singing southern and northern tunes’ and his troupe a sensation in the region. Yang’s hundred servants-cum-singers in time established a tradition and style that was named after the county of Haiyan, where Yang Zi’s hometown Ganpu was situated. Haiyan ‘thereafter became famous in the art of singing throughout the west to the Zhejiang River’, according to a contemporary field report (Yao T 1983: 7).1 The practice of training family servants to perform did not originate in the Ming. Its influence on the theatre was not limited to private troupes either. But this practice was certainly most evident in Ming private troupes. He Liangjun’s family, for instance, kept a private troupe of family servants. He made a dedicated effort in actor training when he reached middle age. Soon enough, ‘the servant boys
 . . . were able to learn the tunes
 !"# and follow the beats
 !’. After a few years, his troupe of servant boys earned a reputation in classical singing (He L 1569: 37/1). Not all family servants performed well. Although Qi Biaojia’s family servants put on shows at his residence, he was not keen to watch them perform. As his diary reveals, he usually attended plays enacted by commercial or private troupes owned by his friends (Qi B 1937: 3, ‘Ganmulu’). Li Kaixian’s troupe also deteriorated with servants-cum-actors, as mentioned before. This fact became known in the literati circle after Li gave a party in honour of Wang Shizhen, who visited Li at his residence (He L 1569: 18/9). Children selected from society at large Most owners of private troupes were more particular about the personal qualities of their acting trainees and would not enrol family servants just because they happened to be there. Instead, they carefully chose children with evident aptitude or, at the very least, the requisite potential to form their troupes. Shen Jing, for instance, bought singing girls to start his private troupe after leaving his office in the Ministry of Personnel (Wang J 1959: 164). Sometimes literati had to travel afar in this talent hunt. Wang Jixuan
 , active in the theatre circle during the Wanli period, picked

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38 Actors’ backgrounds children exclusively from the Wu area for his troupe (Pan Z 1988: 3/211, Luanxiao xiaopin). Selecting children directly from society at large had its advantages and disadvantages. On the positive side, a group of unspoiled trainees at the tender age of five might be nurtured into a perfect troupe, a prospect that would attract idealistic literati troupe owners. What was more, ugly ducklings might turn out to be graceful swans, a hope that would excite everyone. And it was certainly less expensive to buy children young. On the negative side, actor training might prove boring and expensive, and thus dampen enjoyment and eat into one’s initial savings. Moreover, ducklings might just grow into ducks, a frequent outcome with no one to blame. For many troupe owners the most taxing task was waiting: the five-year-olds needed, on average, another six to eight years of training before they could put up a show worth watching in the elite circle. To meet the demand for a timely supply of qualified actors, training schools for the performing arts came into being. Students enrolled in schools for the performing arts Schools for the performing arts recruited children as young as five years old and graduated them at about ten. By graduation, these children were expected to have learned basic techniques and to have developed an aesthetic sense in theatre arts. At that point, they were ready for rehearsals for productions or specific training related to their stage appearance. They were expected to reach the pinnacle of their acting career by twelve to fifteen. Graduates of schools for the performing arts thus provided a resource pool of private actors and actresses. While this mode of actor supply was straightforward in principle, its actual operation could be complicated and varied. And sometimes investors were involved in the process, as both the expense and risk could run high in the business of actor training. Actress Yixi’s experience was illustrative: The Phoenix [title for a star actress in the private troupe] is styled Xi
 !". She was born in Wu
 . At five
, she was engaged [bought] and placed in a jade-decorated room [a luxurious environment] by the Wangs
 !"#. She was taken care of by a woman named Cui
 !, who accompanied her to listen to [to learn] melodies in the Yantiao Conservatory
 !"#. At ten
, she followed her mistress to Heyang where her mistress was married
 !"#. The mistress excelled in singing
 , while [the master from] Heyang was sharp in music
 !"#. [The husband from] Yan [where Heyang was situated] sang and the [the wife from] Wu joined in
 !. That was what [Xi] daily heard and saw
 !". Her character transcended by the lingering influence without knowing it
 !"
 !. After 13
 , [the Phoenix] flew to the West Garden,


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. She was then guided and directed by a reputable master for six months
 !"#$%. When making her stage debut
 !, her sleeves flying and eyebrows dancing
 !, she reached profound enlightenment [of performing arts]
 !. (Pan Z 1988: 3/60, Luanxiao xiaopin) This flowery language typical of Ming literati writing still makes clear the basic facts in Xi’s story. The Wangs bought Xi at five years of age and continued to invest in her heavily. They hired a nanny, Cui, to care for and guide her in a school for performing arts for five years. When their daughter got married, the Wangs exercised their option of paying a stylish dowry for the wedding, i.e. Xi, whose ownership now stood for a sizable market value due to her qualification as a performing arts graduate. This perfect timing of one’s wedding and another’s graduation suggested the possibility that the Wangs were making a calculated and scheduled investment when they bought Yixi five years earlier. Their artistic daughter and son-in-law, however, decided against cashing in their living investment account – Xi – right away. They further invested in her with the value-added training of the representative singing arts of the south (wu) and the north ( yan) for three more years so that Xi’s worth was further enhanced. Xi was finally sold to a private troupe to realize her market value for her investor and artistic value for Wu Yongxian
 , the troupe owner who also owned the West Garden. After six months of additional training and rehearsal in her designated troupe, Xi made her triumphant stage debut and thus provided a timely service to her new master. Schools for the performing arts were considered by many contemporary critics as the best source of private actors and actresses. In ten years, Wu Yongxian, the retired Minister of War
 !, recruited his actresses exclusively from reputable schools: The girls were ten years of age when they were chosen. However, it was easy to see from what they had learned that they were all chosen from [performance schools that had] reputable names. He [Wu Yongxian] certainly had high taste. He did not regret the bushels of pearls and gold [spent on the actresses]. (Pan Z 1988: 3/60, Luanxiao xiaopin) The cost was tremendous. Even a rich man like Wu had to ‘turn out all his boxes and suitcases’, as his friend Pan Zhiheng put it, to pay the cost. A troupe owner’s search for the best possible actors could well extend nationwide. In Wu Yongxian’s troupe, the five actresses styled ‘Phoenix’ were bought from different areas in the country: ‘two from Wu; two from Weiyang
 [modern Yangzhou]; and the last one a Jinling
 girl’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/60, Luanxiao xiaopin). All three of these areas were famous for producing accomplished singing girls. However, the Wu region, especially

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40 Actors’ backgrounds its theatre centre Suzhou, was believed to be where the acting trainees of the highest possible calibre could be found. Hou Chaozong, Wang Jixuan and many others bought their performers in Suzhou or Wu (Hou C 1923: 5; Pan Z 1988: 3/211, Luanxiao xiaopin). Wu children were preferred in actor selection because their looks were delicate, their demeanour was feminine and, more importantly, their dialect was that of the Kunshan music and thus best suited to the kunju opera.2 The countrywide talent search would improve the composition of the private troupe and certainly promote the national exchange of theatre arts. However, the expenses of travel associated with the talent hunt meant additional cost to the private troupe owners.

Atypical sources for private actors A few actors came from backgrounds other than the three primary ones mentioned above. The atypical cases, resulting from personal relations and special arrangements, were often independent of market forces and deviated from the actor-recruiting conventions. Boy-lovers The boy-lovers of private troupe owners represented one of the atypical actor sources. This phenomenon surfaced only after male homosexuality gained momentum in the mid-Ming. Some of these boy-lovers proved to be both bed charmers and stage talents. Abao, the boy-lover of Qi Zhixiang
 , the Imperial Military Inspector, was an outstanding example among his peers. He exhibited a homosexual allure particularly irresistible to Ming literati. According to Zhang Dai’s firsthand observation: Abao was pretty and coquettish like a little girl
 !"#$, a spoiled and cunning one though
 !". He would pretend to be shy and refuse to come to you
 !"#$%. It was like eating an olive
 !, of which the taste was puckery but the aftertaste superb

 !"#$. It was like smoking and drinking
 !, which clogged and choked you but satisfied your craving
 !"#$%&. Though one might quickly get fed up [with Abao]
 !, one would miss him right away
 !". (Zhang D 1982: 2/13, Taoan mengyi) Abao’s acting gifts and directorial sensitivity are evidenced in this interaction with his master’s literati friends. His portrayal of the innocent-looking but difficult-to-get ‘heroine’ created a genuine homosexual appeal, which was spectacular and exciting. Even Zhang Dai, experienced playwright and director that he was, was puzzled by and attracted to Abao’s person, character and role-playing. Four dramatic elements can be identified in this Abao-centred show:

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Actors’ backgrounds 1 2 3 4

41

Tension (‘pretty and coquettish like a little girl’). Reversal (‘a spoiled and cunning one though’). Suspense (‘pretend to be shy’). Discovery (‘refuse to come to you’).

When this sequence would risk developing into an embarrassing real-life situation, Abao’s self-direction transformed the sexual encounter into a theatrical experience of romantic comedy: all’s well that ends well. The thrill and the success of the show lied in the actuality of the scenario and the ambiguity of Abao’s verbal or body language, which sustained a dialectical tension between the efficacious and fictional tendencies in Abao’s behaviour/performance. Actuality Abao’s granting of the guest’s wish – coming to him – would have resulted in a physical intimacy that constituted a taboo: as Qi Zhixiang’s boy-lover, Abao was expected to be ‘faithful’ to his master.3 Yet Abao’s rebuff of that wish could have spoiled the party, as the Ming convention entitled the spectators to the performers’ service, sexual favour included. This real-life dilemma challenged Abao’s wits and skills, whether the guest’s request of intimacy was serious, teasing or joking. Ambiguity Abao responded to the sexual connotation by ‘pretend[ing] to be shy’. ‘Being shy’ alone was ambiguous, as it hinted at the character’s affection, but declined to confirm whether he was or was not to be intimate with his admirer: 1 2

‘Being shy’ could mean ‘I am shy because I like you’, and thus the action is ‘I’ll come to you’. ‘Being shy’ could also mean ‘I am too shy to come to you’, and thus the action is ‘I won’t come to you’.

‘Pretend to be shy’ not only keeps all the ambiguity regarding the action, but also adds ambiguity to the affection, i.e. whether Abao was or was not to be affectionate to his admirer. An actor and lover like Abao inevitably became the focus of a literati party and the envy of many. Zhang Dai, for instance, proclaimed at once: ‘This is a Bird of Paradise. Where did you get him?’ (Zhang D 1982: 2/13, Taoan mengyi ). Concubines A man’s concubines provided still another source from which actresses could be recruited and trained to form his private troupe. In Zhu Yunlai’s


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42 Actors’ backgrounds case, all performers were his concubines. Li Yu led his private troupe of concubines to perform frequently and to tour widely. Both troupes had been putting on commendable shows. The combining of the functions of concubines and actresses was uncommon during the Ming. The husbandcum-troupe-owner inevitably suffered suspicion and criticism, despite the personal or economic reasons he might have (Zhang D 1982: 2/13, Taoan mengyi). The reversed order, i.e. a troupe owner who chose concubines from his existing private actresses, on the other hand, seemed a common practice. Qian Dai took four of his thirteen actresses as concubines (Juwuzi 1980: 3240–1). Feng Mengzhen witnessed a teenage actress becoming a concubine with pain and reluctance (Feng M 1616: 64/9).

Financial conditions During the Ming, no evidence suggested that the huge price gap between the cost of a regular servant girl and that of a trained actress had ever been bridged or narrowed. In Jin Ping Mei
 !", a monumental Ming novel in the realistic mode, a servant girl might be bought for five ounces of silver (Xiaoxiaosheng 1955: 24/1174).4 Private actor Xia Rukai, on his deathbed, sold his younger sister to his master for 40 ounces of silver. But her level of performance training, if any, was not revealed (Zhang D 1985: 6/268). Another historical novel, Taowu xianping
 !, priced a trained actress at 400 ounces of silver (Li Q 1995: 16/128). The chief of the Canton Judicial Department paid 1,000 ounces of silver for the daughter of a star actor and presented her as a birthday gift to Qian Dai, his benefactor (Juwuzi 1980: 3243). Because of the existence of the huge price gap, actor training became highly profitable and schools for performing arts mushroomed. Such schools were usually run as business ventures and taught by individuals who were performing artists or theatre connoisseurs. The elements contributing to the high price The prohibitive price of graduates from reputable schools for performing arts was somewhat justified by the high cost and risk involved in actor training. The management of leading performance schools, in order to keep their competitive cutting edge, wanted to maintain a ‘jade-decorated’ campus, hire the most effective singing masters and, as circumstantial evidence suggested, engage artists from the literati circle to teach. The convention that the child trainees must be stage-ready before puberty complicated matters even further. The designated courses, for instance, had to be phased in strategically so as not to compromise the quality of the training or to risk the revulsion and collapse of the child trainees. In any case, the school or the investor must accept the risk of investing in the wrong trainees. In fact,

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even the experienced professional recruiter might misjudge a five-year-old; certainly no one could predict which child would grow into a beauty queen and stage star in five years. Notwithstanding the high cost and high risk, the high price requested for the star-potential acting graduates was ultimately supported by the high demand in the market place. Such an actress would be the cornerstone of the ‘ideal reality’ that the literati troupe owner invested in private theatre, a topic discussed in detail in Chapter 5. The elements contributing to the low price Likewise, the nominal price for an untrained child or servant girl was to a large extent determined by abundant supply, which in turn was caused by poverty. Selling a child to a private troupe or elsewhere might bring economic relief or even rescue to families in financial distress. In an elegiac address, Zhang Dai told much of the sad story of an actor and his family: This virtuous actor Xia Rukai died in the fourth year of Chongzhen’s reign (1631) and was buried in the Jingting Mountain of the Yue
. A year later, in the Hanshi
 (Cold Food Festival), his former master Zhang Changgong [Zhang Dai] instructs his fellow actors Wang Wansheng and Li Jiesheng to bring one bottle of wine and one feathered sacrifice to his burial chamber . . . and calls on his soul: ‘Xia Rukai, can you still recognize my voice? You have been in Yue for four years. You believed that I was dependable, and thus brought your parents and younger siblings here, five people in all. Your father died in six months. You came to me weeping and I pawned a suit to bury your father. In another year, when I came back from Shandong, you were critically ill, sleeping in an outside chamber. Dead within seven days, you did not have a chance to see me. You were a native of Su [a district in the Wu region]. Both your father and you died, in less than one year in this land [of Yue]. Both of you were put into coffins by me, and buried by me. It was unusual. It was miserable. . . . Before your death, you sold your younger sister to me for 40 ounces of silver. After your death, I thought of you, and excused all your debt. Furthermore, I prepared food and a boat to send your mother, younger brother, and younger sister back to your hometown so that your sister could marry a husband.’ (Zhang D 1985: 6/267– 8) Xia Rukai and his family seemed to have little money or property. The only things worth selling were Xia Rukai himself and his younger sister. Zhang Dai’s writing of the Xia Rukai narrative was a rare occurrence. Ming literati troupe owners, from whom much of this book’s source

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44 Actors’ backgrounds material derived, showed little interest in the families or family life of their actors.5 Circumstantial evidence, such as the prices paid for family servants or the cases of people running actor-training programmes as charity, however, suggested that the economic status of the Xia family was probably representative of that of many actors.

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Actor training

5

45

Actor training

The training of actors, as repeatedly testified by extant data, was often the biggest challenge, and regularly the most time-consuming process in Ming elite theatre. There was initial movement and voice training for child trainees, advanced training for acting students around ten and speciality training for teenage performers. The conventional stage of Ming elite theatre did not provide much leeway for acting problems. An actor either did it right or did it wrong, and the audience could tell, and they did as a matter of principle and pride. Freedom to improvise was a result of, but not an alternative to, the mastery of skills; it was often reserved for stars only. Customarily those entering a private troupe at five years of age received five to eight years of training before their stage debut. Typically, those who joined at about ten years of age had already received basic training at schools for performing arts, and were likely to make their stage appearance after one to three years of speciality training in which they concentrated on their assigned stage functions. Those who joined a troupe after twelve had probably received advanced training and were expected to be stage-ready within one year, if not sooner. Some actors and actresses received years of training before they joined private troupes. Their prior training, for the sake of convenience, has been discussed as actors’ background in Chapter 4. This chapter concentrates on the in-troupe training of actors.

Trainer categories Trainers played an extremely important role in actors’ artistic and personal lives. It is not an exaggeration to say that some trainers helped to nurture the brightest stars of the Ming theatre, while others merely managed to assemble singing machines for the private stage. In private troupes, actor training was conducted by owners or singing masters or both. But some indispensable preconditioning of the pre-teens was accomplished by nannies from time to time.

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46 Actor training Troupe owners The Ming era was never known for a lack of commercially produced theatre performances. Indeed, Confucian scholars of the more rigid kind had frequently complained about the many shows that were alleged to drain away society’s wealth or promote immorality (Fan L 1594: 2/6–7; Liu Z 1868: 5/22). One does not have to agree with their moralistic opinions to concede that there was no necessity to maintain a private troupe just to watch its shows. Ming private theatre – as discussed in Chapter 3, albeit from different angles – was both a hobby and a lifestyle. The fatal attraction of the ownership of a private troupe was to live the illusionary theatre world, of which performers were the most important component. For this reason alone, troupe owners on the whole enjoyed working with their actors; otherwise many of them would not have owned troupes in the first place. Despite their interest, the Ming literati were not always able to conduct actor training personally for two major reasons: 1

2

Although generally versed in dramatic literature, the majority of literati troupe owners were not sufficiently acquainted with theatre as a stage practice to train their actors. The fact that the literati sometimes hired private tutors to coach them in performing arts testifies to this reality (Wang S 1959: 9, 39). Literati troupe owners might be preoccupied with other duties or pursuits and thus fail to devote sufficient time to their troupes, actor training being a most time-consuming task.1 Shen Shixing
 , the de facto premier, owned an outstanding troupe which staged superior productions, but had so little personal knowledge of his actors that a provincial official managed to ‘steal’ a top performer from him (Pan Z 1988: 3/136, Luanxiao xiaopin). He Liangjun
 (1506 – 73), an accomplished theatre connoisseur and scholar, started training his actors only when he ‘was incapacitated by sickness
’ (He L 1569: 1/1, 37/1). Ruan Dacheng was barred from office for seventeen years. And his troupe became a national phenomenon during this period of his failure in political life, when he had abundant time to study theatre and train his troupe to perfection (Zhang T 1962: 308/3495–6; Zhang D 1982: 8/73 Taoan mengyi).

For these reasons and more, the literati owners often ‘had to depend on their hangers-on and singing masters’ for actor training (Li Y 1959: 75). The hangers-on, not necessarily experts in theatre arts, functioned more like managers or consultants for the owners. Singing masters thus had the lion’s share of the day-to-day operation of actor training. Singing masters The hiring of singing masters to train performers became of necessity a common practice in private troupes and other rich households during the

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Ming dynasty. ‘Wang Jixuan hired singing masters to train ten or so children from the Wu region’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/136, Luanxiao xiaopin). He Liangjun’s family, which had kept troupes for generations, used to engage singing masters to train actors as well (He L 1569: 37/8). Qian Dai left his girl troupe of thirteen ‘all to the two female singing masters, Shen and Xue, to teach
 !"#$%&’ (Juwuzi 1980: 3242). Availability Finding singing masters usually posed no difficulty for literati troupe owners, but could prove a concern in certain social circles. Jingshi yinyang meng
 !" (Warning Dreams of Yin and Yang), a historical novel of the late Ming, describes how two eunuch officials get excited about sharing a capable singing master to train child-eunuchs in their households, while other eunuch officials are disappointed by being deprived of the opportunity for their trainees (Guo Q 1985: 11/52–5). Criteria The literati owners’ major concerns were the teaching ability and professional reputation of the singing masters. One of Qian Dai’s singing masters had been ‘a former actress in Premier Shen’s troupe when she was young’. At the age of 60, she still sang sonorously and acted competently (Juwuzi 1980: 3240). Dun Ren’s background in court theatre certainly helped him to land a job in He Liangjun’s private troupe and earned him respect from the very beginning (He L 1569: 37/8). Sometimes, singing masters were hired for their special knowledge and skills. Dun Ren, a former member of the Southern Academy of Music
 , was invited to teach northern theatre in He Liangjun’s troupe. Dun was touched by He’s hospitality to a deserted artist like him: I, Dun Ren, went to Beijing [the centre of Northern theatre] following the Emperor during the Zhengde period [1506–21]. I learned [the northern theatre] in the Academy of Music and kept it to myself for fifty years. Now the songs sung during the banquets are all contemporary ones [of the south]. Nobody has even asked for these verses [of the northern theatre]. I never dreamed that in the last years of my life
 ! I would meet a connoisseur who keenly appreciated my art
 !. (He L 1569: 37/8) By He Liangjun’s time, southern theatre had replaced northern theatre on the national stage. Northern theatre was no longer fashionable and few singing masters were able to teach it. Therefore, not only was He Liangjun hard to come by for Dun Ren, Dun Ren was also hard to come by for He Liangjun in his effort to revive northern theatre.

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48 Actor training Cost Compared to other expenses in a private troupe, the cost of hiring singing masters was nominal, as suggested by the realistic novels of this period. Ximen Qing, head of a wealthy household and antihero in the Ming novel Jinpingmei cihua, hired Li Ming, a professional musician, to train his servant girls for a monthly salary of about five ounces of silver (Xiaoxiaosheng 1955: 20/144). Nannies Because of the tender age of private trainees, nannies were often engaged for their upbringing. The Wangs, as mentioned in Chapter 4, hired Cui to take care of Xi and to accompany her to training school for five years (Pan Z 1988: 3/60, Luanxiao xiaopin). Since trainees usually came from a variety of sources, literati owners often considered their reconditioning necessary. For instance, Qian Dai had an embarrassing experience after receiving four actresses from a eunuch official: The Imperial Censor [Qian Dai] went back to his hometown after acquiring wealth and honour. As it happened, his clan held a banquet of celebration in his honour. Longqiao [Qian Dai’s father], immaculately dressed in ceremonial suit, was sitting in the seat of honour. He requested the four actresses to sing to press guests to drink. Each and every one of them sang in the Yiyang musical style. The whole party exploded in fits of mirth. (Juwuzi 1980: 3235) All those present burst with laughter, because by the Wanli period (1573– 1619) the Yiyang musical style had been out of fashion in literati gatherings. In fact, the more sophisticated or trendy theatregoers regarded all but Kunshan musical styles as vulgar and provincial. Soon afterwards, Qian assigned two experienced nannies to look after and guide these Yiyangsinging new comers. The nannies reshaped them according to the literati taste with (a) ‘radical personal hygiene [training]
 ’, (b) ‘bow-shaped foot-binding
 ’ and (c) ‘neat hair arrangement
 ’. The nannies were so efficient in the remaking of girls that ‘within a year
 , they all became delicate and pretty maids
 !"#’ (Juwuzi 1980: 3235). The most intelligent of the teenage actresses was speaking in the local accent within a month, and all of them sang in the Kunshan style thereafter (Juwuzi 1980: 3243).

Training arrangements Since nannies provided only non-theatrical preconditioning for the performers, their service left no impact on the training arrangement. As

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provided by Ming accounts, three training arrangements existed for private troupes: 1 2 3

Singing masters as the sole trainers. Literati owners as the sole trainers. Literati owners and singing masters joining forces in actor training.

Training by singing masters Despite the proven benefit of the literati’s involvement in actor training, singing masters were still often the sole trainers in many troupes (Li Y 1959: 5/98). Shen Shixing, for instance, was never known to have expressed concerns about actor training. In fact he dedicated the power of running the troupe to the actor manager
 Wu Dayan
 at one time, and to the star actor Guan She
 at another time (Pan Z 1988: 3/136, 2/56, 2/44, Luanxiao xiaopin). Certain troupe owners made a point of not being involved in actor training, even when they had demonstrated their expertise in theatre. For instance, Qian Dai would ‘gently and attentively listen to the performance
 !’ but not interfere. Even when he found flaws, he would only ‘tell the female singing masters to correct them
 !"#$%&’ (Juwuzi 1980: 3244). In private troupes, singing masters usually taught everything, from singing, dancing, movement and role-playing, to costume, make-up and musical accompaniment. The only field a typical singing master tried to avoid was dramatic literature. Coming mostly from a background as former performers, the vast majority of singing masters never had a formal education in classical language and literature. Yet the literati dramatists constantly drew their inspiration, plot and vocabulary from the classics for chuanqi librettos. These two facts, the singing master’s incompetence in and the literati’s preference for classical materials, combined to hamper the quality of actor training in private theatre. Even the most devoted efforts of singing masters seemed to result in technical excellence instead of literary competence. Dun Ren’s example illustrates this situation: The Old Dun always keeps [the two authoritarian phonology books] Zhongyuan yinyun
 ! and Qionglin yayun
 ! at hand. He is thus correct eight to nine times out of ten, from open mouth and close mouth [utterance] to four tones and yin-yang sounds. However, he does not understand the meaning of literature well, and often makes mistakes. (He L 1569: 37/9–10) If even this hard working singing master and former member of the Southern Academy of Music failed his literary test, one would not expect his lesser peers to have much chance of faring better.

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50 Actor training Singing masters often took one of two ways of avoiding their problems in dramatic literature, neither of which, however, satisfied the literati sense of proper actor training: non-literary training and non-literati playscripts. Non-literary training Some singing masters took a non-literary approach to actor training, in which they simply taught performative techniques and avoided textual interpretations. According to Li Yu’s lifetime observation: I find that theatre students nowadays
 !"#$ start with recitation
 ! and continue with singing
 !. After singing
 !, the [training] process is over
 !. As for the word ‘explaining’
 !"#, it is not abandoned or skipped
 !"
; it has never appeared [in their training process]
 !"#. (Li Y 1959: 5/98) Probably designed as a self-defence mechanism, the non-existence of ‘explanation’ helped singing masters to circumvent literary difficulties and avert potential embarrassment. But this incomplete training had serious consequences for the students: There are [acting students] who – even though they may sing this song all day long
 !"#, all year long
 !", even all throughout their lives
 !"#$ – still do not know
 what or whom the song is all about
 !"# $"%. (Li Y 1959: 5/98) In this literati critic’s eyes, such singing masters produced singing machines instead of living performers. Non-literati playscripts Other singing masters chose non-literati plays for actor training: Yet among the singing masters
 !", few are erudite
 !"
. Whenever coming across plays composed by literati playwrights

 !", they’ll try to avoid [teaching them to students]
 !. That is because the plays [of the literati] and the singing masters [who do not know ‘the rudiments of writing’ well] are not suitable for each other
 !"#$. (Li Y 1959: 4/75) Without sufficient understanding of the plays written by literati, a singing master might limit his student-actors to performing ‘country bumpkin plays’,

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as Wang Jide termed the plays written by actors or actor managers, which could be learned by illiterate people through oral transmission. However, such plays were viewed as superficial and vulgar by a typical audience of Ming elite theatre. Literati troupe owners would thus have felt ashamed had they presented such productions to their elite guests – judged by the attitude openly expressed in the writings of Wang Jide (1959: 39/154). Private actors failed their literati owner’s expectations miserably if they were solely trained by an average singing master, just like their counterparts in commercial troupes. This should not have surprised the literati owner, however, as he would probably have learned from his hiring experience that private and commercial troupes shared the same pool of singing masters. When the trainers and their training methods were alike, one could not expect very different training results. In order to make a difference, Li Yu persisted that someone capable of teaching dramatic literature had to be engaged in actor training: If one wants to sing well
 !", one has to ask a bright singing master first to teach the meaning of the opera
 !"#!$%. Sometimes the singing master does not understand the meaning either
 !, and one should turn to a member of the literati
 !"
. Understand first and sing later
 !"#. Whenever one sings
, carry the spirit [of a dramatic verse] through
 !"#$ and keep it accurate
 !. . . . One will then be distinguished from the contemporary actors
 !"#$%. (Li Y 1959: 5/98) Li Yu recommended both ‘bright’ singing masters and literati as drama teachers, probably because he knew all too well that finding ‘bright’ singing masters was much easier said than done, as he frankly admitted in another volume of the same book (Li Y 1959: 4/75). Training by literati owners Determined to make a difference, a few literati owners – such as Gu Dadian
 , He Liangjun and Li Kaixian – trained actors, at certain stages at least, on their own. Their motivations and objectives, however, differed greatly. Gu Dadian was ‘obsessed with opera performance and criticism

’. He seemed to enjoy conducting actor training and did not mind its tedious process at all. ‘The private troupes that he had maintained
 ! were all taught by himself
 !’ (Wang J 1959: 4/164). He Liangjun trained his actors to realize his renaissance dream of ‘keeping the tradition of the Jin and Yuan dynasties alive’. His erudite performers displayed such an expertise in classical theatre that ‘even professional actors yielded to them’. The several actresses He Liangjun personally trained ‘were appreciated by Dun Ren of the Southern Academy of Music’ (Shen D 1980:

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52 Actor training 25/641). Li Kaixian’s training of actors proved a more complicated case. He was not particularly known for his musical talent, which was, however, considered of vital importance in actor training. Wang Shizhen criticized the violation of rules and forms with respect to tonal patterns, rhyme schemes etc. in his playwriting bluntly: [Li Kaixian] was quite proud of his plays
 !. One day he asked me
 !: ‘How do they compare to The Lute
 !"#?’ I said
: ‘The beauty of your librettos
 ! is beyond question
 . All they need are ten singing masters from the Wu region to sing them through
 !"#$%&' and change the characters according to the musical system
 !". They will then spread far and wide
 !.’ Li looked annoyed and ill-humoured in the end
 !
. (Wang S 1959: 36) Yet Li Kaixian persisted on training his own actors, the possible reasons for which included killing time, having fun, being with performers and communicating the true message of his own plays (He L 1569: 18/8; Qian Q 1982: 4A/377; Li K 1959: 857). It was a recognized fact that the troupes with literati-conducted actor training would have a decisive advantage over the troupes without, be they court, commercial or private troupes. This unique Ming phenomenon in the history of Chinese theatre was largely determined by the nature of Ming drama and the practice of literati playwriting. The nature of the sophisticated chuanqi plays Chuanqi, the predominant form of Ming drama, employed two levels of language by convention: Classical Chinese for the libretto and colloquial prose for dialogue. While the prose dialogue allowed the audience to follow the outline of the plot with ease, the beauty and charm of the opera were embodied mainly in the verse singing. Although the clown and minor characters joked, talked and sang briefly in everyday language, the heroes and heroines communicated their romantic passion, innermost thoughts and intricate relations almost exclusively in classical operatic verses. These language features of chuanqi opera thus prevented the inadequately educated singing masters from mastering the crucial literary elements of the drama. As a consequence, their actor training was less enlightened and productions under their direction had little depth. The practice of the elitist literati playwrights A close examination shows that the recognized chuanqi playwrights of the Ming era – Tang Xianzu, Liang Chunyu, Shen Jing etc. – were almost

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exclusively members of the literati. And a quick survey reveals that the acclaimed Ming chuanqi plays, especially those which have entered the classical canon – The Peony Pavilion, Washing Silk, Phoenix Cries etc. – featured the ornate style of dramatic verse, a complicated structure of sub or parallel plots and a subtle portrayal of characters psyches. In the history of Chinese theatre, none of these phenomena was seen before or after this period. These playwriting prerequisites dictated the elitist tendency and literati dominance of Ming drama. The literati were necessarily the ones who understood the plays best, being in many cases the actual authors of the plays. Literati troupe owners were therefore in the best position to train their actors to present intelligent and intelligible performances. Training by both literati owners and singing masters It was a rarity rather than a routine for actor training to be conducted solely by literati troupe owners, and often their involvement did not last for the whole period of actor training. He Liangjun, for instance, dedicated much of the actor training to the singing master once he found him to be competent (He L 1569: 37/8). The more realistic solution was for literati owners and singing masters to join forces in actor training. This model was strongly recommended by contemporary critics and gained momentum in the second half of the dynasty (Li Y 1959: 4/75, 5/98). The causal relation between the literati’s participation in actor training and the making of top troupes was so indisputable that the literati trainers’ contribution and talent were recognized by all and celebrated by many, a rare happening in the often partisan and egoistic community of the Ming literati. For examples, troupe owners Zou Diguang, Zhang Dai and Li Yu, among others, had personally trained their actors. And their troupes were all cherished in the literati circle. The most telling example, however, belonged to Ruan Dacheng and his troupe. Ruan was considered a most notorious traitor of the dynasty, with his biography placed in the volume concerned with ‘Treacherous Court Officials’ in the standard Ming history (Zhang T 1962: vol. 308). But his troupe was commemorated as the best of its time even by his political enemies. Contemporary critics identified the actors and scripts as the keys to his superb troupe, in effect attributing the troupe’s success to Ruan’s painstaking training of actors and meticulous composition of playscripts (Zhang D 1982: 8/73–4, Taoan mengyi).2 Singing masters, usually retired actors or, in fewer cases, musicians, were experts in performing arts. Literati owners, well educated and often gifted, were authorities in Chinese classics. As such, they could readily complement each other and survive the test of the total theatre of Ming chuanqi opera, which demanded both performative skill and literary competence. As is to be expected, literati troupe owners and singing masters usually worked in the fields of their respective strengths in actor training. There is

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54 Actor training no mention in Ming accounts that singing masters ever made suggestions on literary matters. However, literati owners in a few cases did request particular technical qualities in actor training, with either aesthetic principles or the eventual production style in mind. Zou Diguang desired a theatre of perfection. Thus ‘he instructed the singing master
 !" to stick with the precise timing in music and exact formation in movement
 !
’ (Pan Z 1988: 2/23, Luanxiao xiaopin). In most cases, singing masters were ready to accommodate the owners’ wishes. Zou’s singing master carried out his instructions in minute detail (Pan Z 1988: 2/23, Luanxiao xiaopin). The more critical singing masters would also warn their employers of undesirable consequences if there were any. When He Liangjun instructed Dun Ren to teach his actors a few songs from The Lute, for instance, Dun advised against that move, although ‘[he] knows every single song of Bojie [the hero in the opera]
 !"#$’. His lengthy analysis reads like an essay on musicology and goes beyond the scope of this study. In short, Dun Ren argued that the melodies in The Lute ‘were approximated by matching the words to the tunes by later generations
 !"#$%&'()*+’. It was not an original composition, and its singing ‘follows neither [classical music] scores nor temperaments
 !I=
 !’. When the singing master ‘has no fixed rules to regulate [the vocal training]
 !"#’ and ‘plays the instrumental music at his will
 !", how can [the students] learn the singing correctly
 !?’ Dun’s technical arguments apparently convinced his employer, who was of equal musical sophistication (He L 1569: 37/10–11). It was also possible that the different backgrounds and perspectives led to disagreements between a literati owner and his singing master. In such cases, an argument would be likely to ensue, in which they might debate as if they were equals. Dun Ren the singing master once taught his students to sing the character ‘zhan’ (meaning ‘felt’) with ‘closed mouth’, while He Liangjun the literati owner believed it should be sung with ‘open mouth’. Armed with two authoritarian phonology books, Dun proclaimed his expertise in this matter: ‘I, Dun Ren, have conducted extremely detailed research into phonetics
 !"#$%&. The radical “zhan” of this character
 ! determines its “closed mouth” pronunciation
 !’ (He L 1569: 37/10). He Liangjun was unable to persuade Dun Ren until he found out that the scribe of Dun’s playscript used a simplified character, which has a ‘closed mouth’ radical, to substitute for the standard ‘zhan
’, which has an ‘open mouth’ radical.

Training experiments Literati troupe owners often went beyond the conventional scope of actor training, for a general purpose, a performance speciality or a particular task. Bao Hansuo, for example, provided horse-riding and parties for his actresses to enjoy (Zhang D 1982: 4/66, Xihu mengxue). Zhang Dai, for

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another example, took his star performers with him when travelling and hiking (Zhang D 1982: 1/4, 7/65, Taoan mengyi). Their generosity and liberty served the general purpose of enriching actors’ life experience and improving actors’ overall artistic attainments. The training methods employed in the all-girl troupes of Zhu Yunlai and Qian Dai, however, were largely determined by their speciality in singing and dancing. In Zhu’s troupe, ‘dialogue is used to end the singing
 !
 ’ only (Zhang D 1982: 2/13, Taoan mengyi). In Qian’s troupe, the actresses presented theatre pieces two to three times a month, but performed singing and instrumental music daily (Juwuzi 1980: 3243). Understandably, the training in these two troupes differed from that of other troupes. ‘Zhu Yunlai’s training of his girl troupe
 !"#’, in Zhang Dai’s words, ‘cannot be called actor training
 !’ in the true sense because of its undisguised bias for non-theatrical elements: Before training [the girls] in theatre
 , he teaches them to play the qin
 ,3 the lute
 !, the tiqin
 !,4 the xianzi
,5 the xiao-guan
,6 the drum and other kinds of wind instruments
, and singing and dancing
. Using theatre as an excuse
 !, he in fact does not concentrate on theatre at all
 !"#$. (Zhang D 1982: 2/13, Taoan mengyi) A troupe’s training needs were often reflected in its selection of singing masters as well. ‘Madam Xue
’, in her fifties, was one of Qian Dai’s two singing masters. As ‘a lady from a once-prominent family
 !’, her background determined that she could not have any theatre qualifications.7 Xue was thus apparently hired for her ‘talent in music
 ’ so that she might tutor the actresses in singing and instrumental music (Juwuzi 1980: 3240). For particular tasks, novel methods were devised for actor training. Some of these methods were probably ‘progressive’ even by modern standards, but certainly ‘avant-garde’ in their own times. Towards the end of the Dragon Hill outing, for instance, Zhang Dai and his performers enjoyed relaxed relations, which in turn opened doors to more exciting interactions. Zhang Dai the director took the opportunity: [We] did not go back to sleep until midnight. Ma Xiaoqing and Pan Xiaopei hugged together and rolled down the Hundred-Step Avenue, until they reached the foot of the hill. They stood there covered with snow, as though they had just taken a snow bath. (Zhang D 1982: 7/65, Taoan mengyi) This exercise was similar to today’s theatre games of daring and trusting in appearance, but might claim greater significance because when it took place:

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56 Actor training 1

2

3

Its physical intimacy, whether intentional or accidental, would have an effect on the teenagers’ role-playing capacity; such an experience was particularly relevant to Ming actors as almost all chuanqi operas were centred on the protagonists’ romance. The fact that this behaviour was contrary to the social norm and outrageous in Confucian manners would only enhance its impact on the pair and their staring colleagues. The fact that this whole event was under the owner-director’s supervision and meant for all to see demarcated it as a game, an exercise and a performance. In other words, the setting of this happening prevented its physical intimacy from becoming merely a naturalistic expression of personal feelings or passions between the teenagers.

Zhang Dai was so fond of his Dragon Hill excursion when this ‘rolling exercise’ took place that he categorized the event as a highlight of his life in his memoirs (Zhang D 1982: 7/65, Taoan mengyi). The most daring training programme probably belonged to Hou Xun
. He not only devised an outlandish training programme for the sole purpose of observing life, but also sent his actors thousands of miles away to the most unthinkable place – the imperial court – to do so. This theatrically fanatical and politically dangerous enterprise was understandably kept secret and not revealed until the imperial court had changed hands to the new masters of the Qing dynasty. Tian Lanfang, the author of a biographical sketch of his son, concluded that Hou Xun was so serious about theatre that ‘he wanted to make sure [that his troupe’s performance was] true to life and in keeping with [theatrical] conventions.’ To this end Hou Xun made an effort to outdo his contemporaries: He was so bold as to order his little servants [i.e. young actors] to follow him to the imperial court, ostensibly to serve him, but actually their mission was to observe all those courtiers. [The actors] then imitated the appearances of courtiers, virtuous or wicked, royal or crafty, in their productions. (Hou C 1923: 5) By the late Ming, actors capable of portraying state bureaucrats were in short supply. Those who could play high court officials vividly and powerfully were in especially high demand (Pan Z 1988: 2/201, Luanxiao xiaopin). This imbalance probably resulted from the proliferation of dramas depicting, openly or in disguise, contemporary life, such as Phoenix Cries or Iceberg
 , in which political figures dominate the cast. Training was the only route through which a batch of poor children might be cultivated into a troupe of star performers that was the joy of the owner and envy of many. The serious owners of the Ming elite theatre therefore paid great attention to actor training, as they constantly tried to

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set their troupes apart from the rest with individual styles and strengths, or simply tried to outdo each other. Their training methods become too many to describe in detail in this chapter; and the ones that are detailed here may be too eccentric to represent the other modes of training. Therefore the training samples cited in this chapter should be treated as individual cases. The absence of a typical training programme that served the average private troupe from this book does not in any way prove the lack of such training. It merely suggests the lack of interest in ordinary training methods on the part of Ming literati authors, from whose writing this book derives its primary material. What can be determined from the Ming accounts, though, is that the best actor training should result in trainees possessing technical excellence and presentational efficacy, so that they might readily enter the troupe owner’s ideal alternative reality and play their roles.

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58 Owner–performer relations

6

Owner–performer relations

An owner of a Ming private theatre typically bought children from poorer families to start his troupe and customarily released them around the age of twenty. Legally, the performers were bondservants, and the troupe owner was their master. Legal standing aside, relationships between the owner and his performers in a private troupe reflected much of the owner’s enthusiasm for theatre and his psycho-physiological needs in it; often performers became the symbols of such enthusiasm and needs.

Types of relations In many private troupes, owner–performer relations were anything but those commonly seen between master and bondservants. They might work as friends or colleagues, live as hetero- or homosexual partners and, in one case at least, marry as spouses. Historical records indicate a great variety of owner–performer relations, and this book pays particular attention to those relevant to theatre performance. As friends or colleagues Zhang Dai cultivated a comfortable friendship with his leading performers. As a result, they gathered not only on the stage but also for other activities. Zhang Dai once took five of his performers to Dragon Hill to admire the snow: The snow fell some three feet four inches in the twelfth lunar month of the sixth year of the Tianqi period [1626]. The weather cleared up in the evening. I climbed up Dragon Hill, sitting at the gate of the Temple of Town God. Li Jiesheng, Gao Meisheng, Wang Wansheng, Ma Xiaoqing and Pan Xiaofei waited upon me. The snow covered the entire range of hills. The bright moon shone on the snow but failed to illuminate it brightly. The snow was dull white. . . . Ma Xiaoqing sang, and Li Jiesheng accompanied him on the xiao [vertical bamboo flute]. The power of the cold awed the sound and choked it. (Zhang D 1982: 7/65 Taoan mengyi)

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Admiring the snow, like admiring the chrysanthemum, the lotus, the moon, the rocks etc., was considered a leisure pursuit of aesthetics and spirituality in the literati circle.1 They enjoyed such activities often, either in solitude or with literati friends. Zhang Dai’s snow-admiring trip to Dragon Hill was unconventional only in the sense that his illiterate performers replaced the usual literati friends and that he befriended his bondservants. From a directorial point of view, though, Zhang Dai had good reasons to conduct this field trip. It would benefit the performers’ overall artistic attainments, especially in the matter of intangible values, and it would involve the performers in a lifestyle they had little prior experience of but were expected to portray onstage. Bao Hansuo nurtured productive owner–performer relations partly through his humanity and generosity: [The actresses] often rode horses in beautiful make-up
 !", spiralling up and crawling down
 !, passing the willows to overtake others
 !. They laughed and enjoyed it
 !. Under brightly [painted] balustrades and gorgeous windows
 !, they trilled songs in slow and measured tones
 !. When they played yue [a flutelike wind instrument] and zheng [a zither of 21 or 25 strings]
 !, the music sounded like young orioles twittering=
 !. (Zhang D 1982: 4/66, Xihu mengxue) Enjoying a lifestyle like that of the landed gentry, the girls rewarded Bao with unsurpassed performances that were the envy of many (Zhang D 1982: 2/30, Xihu mengxue). Nevertheless, there might have been methodological effects behind their stage successes other than the girls’ desire to please their master. The actresses, without exception, came from the lower castes in the rigidly structured social order of the Ming dynasty. Bao’s openhandedness gave them a unique opportunity to experience upper-class life. Had Bao always treated his actresses as bondservants, they would never have had practical knowledge of the aristocratic lifestyle. The actresses’ portrayal of chuanqi protagonists with their aristocratic upbringing would have been implausible. As heterosexual partners Sex was often a prominent aspect of the relationship between the owner and his performers. A wealth of sources testifies to the fact that it was commonplace in Ming private theatre for actresses to be sexual objects on the stage and off, accommodating the troupe owners, and sometimes their guests, with both performative and sexual services. Troupe owner and actresses Qian Dai’s private troupe afforded a ready source of actresses to ‘wait on his sleep
’ (Juwuzi 1980: 3243). At least four of his eleven actresses ended up as his concubines while still acting in the troupe:

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60 Owner–performer relations Zhang Yinshe
 , the daughter of [Qian’s] bondservants
 . . . . She was able to find sexual favour from the Imperial Censor [Qian Dai]
 !", who changed her name to Suyu
 !. She served as concubine for 30 years
 !"#. . . . Feng Guanshe
 , a native of Yangzhou
 ... [Re]named her Cuixia
 , the Imperial Censor chose her among the concubines as the leader

!"#$%&. . . . Xu Erjie
 , a native of Suzhou
 . . . . She serves as a concubine of the Imperial Censor
 !. . . . She was [re]named Peiyao
 . . . . Zhou Guilang
 , a native of Suzhou
 . . . . Serving as a concubine of the Imperial Censor
 !, her name was changed to Lianbi
 !. (Juwuzi 1980: 3240–1) Details about this troupe are available because a long-term hanger-on, probably in the capacity of Qian’s personal secretary, wrote a lengthy memoir of Qian Dai in the alias of Juwuzi
 .2 Guest audience and actresses Some private troupe owners allowed their invited guests to socialize with the actresses. Bao Hansuo cited classical cases, as was common during the Ming, to justify his decision: The Venerable Han reasoned that the performers were not the same as one’s concubines
 !"#$%&. Modelling on the housekeeping principles of Shi Jilun [Shi Chong
] and Song Zijing [Song Qi
]
 !"#$%&, he ordered all his actresses to accompany the guests
 !. (Zhang D 1982: 4/66–7, Xihu mengxue) Such arrangements almost inevitably led to sexual intimacy in the Ming literati gatherings on opera nights. The spectators were probably under the influence of not only the alcoholic drinks that were indispensable in these parties, but also the drama performance: while their hearts still lingered on the romantic sentiments of the chuanqi play, the legendary heroines came to them in person. Zou Diguang depicts such an opera night in his ‘Three Poems on Watching Private Performance in Reply Using the Same Rhyme Sequence
 !"
’, the first of which reads: Patterned mat is spread out over the courtyard centre
 !", On which appear the beauties of the South
 !". Blowing out candles the night becomes priceless
 !", Sharing his favourites all guests enjoy romance
 !".

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The moon lovingly casts shadows of singing fans
 !", The wind lightly blows dust away from dancing skirts
 !". Before undoing my jade pendant at the Riverside
 !", I already encounter the Goddess of River Luo
 !". (Zou D 1604: 19/2) Two of the expressions in this poem – both among the most favoured allusions to extramarital affairs by Ming literati – deserve specific attention, as they remove any ambiguity from the text and thus define the sexual nature of the party. Thus ‘blowing out candles’ refers not to the lighting effect of the production, but to the Chunyu Kun
 narrative of the classical period: Males and females share the same seating mat [at the feast]
 !. Shoes and clogs are interlocked
 !. Cups and plates lie about in disorder
 !. Then in the hall candles are blown out
 !. The host keeps Kun while he sees other visitors off
 !"#$. When the [girls’] silk jackets are undone
 !, a faint fragrance is sensed
 !. (‘Biographies Number 66 Humourists
 !"#$#’, Sima Q 1774: 126/3–4) This Chunyu Kun narrative was frequently simplified to ‘blowing out candle
’ or ‘keeping Kun
’ when referred to in literary allusions. The last two lines of the poem allude to the celebrated ‘The Rhapsody of the Goddess of the River Luo
 ’ by Prince Cao Zhi
 (192–232), but with a twist.3 Cao’s rhapsody describes his encounter with the goddess when he is awestruck by her beauty and attempts to approach her with an authenticating object: ‘Wishing to reveal my true love first
 !
 , / I undo the jade pendant to invite her
 !"#’ (Cao Z 1911: 2/1).4 But in Zou’s account the motivated actresses take the initiative before the guest spectator has a chance to perform his invitation ritual, with or without the metaphorical jade pendant. Zou’s other two poems in the same sequence further depict the sex party as a passionate and wild one: The golden house [where one keeps his lover] shines under a starstudded sky
 !", The jade terrace [where fairies live] hides in the expansive fragrant mist
 !". She is absentminded in singing through her spotless teeth
 !", Yet she has reasons to contract her eyebrows [that look like the dainty sweep] of a moth’s antennae
 !". (‘Poem Three
’, Zou D 1604: 19/3) Jade-like wrists support her against the bell frame
 !", Golden head ornaments drop on the drum rack
 !". (‘Poem Two
’, Zou D 1604: 19/2)

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62 Owner–performer relations Despite Zou’s romantic depiction, this event may not qualify as a romance if one looks at the whole picture. The sexual encounter was operating on a tacit understanding between the troupe owner and his guest, not that between an actress and her lover. Indeed, it was set up as a ‘happening’ just to increase the dramatic excitement for the benefit of the guest audience. As homosexual partners In some private troupes, boys also served as both performers and sexual partners. This practice became increasingly common and open as homosexuality gained popularity: This [male homosexuality] has become a fashion
 !"#. For instance
, there are ‘juvenile singers’ in the capital
 !, and ‘younger sworn brothers’ in Fujian Province
 !. What’s more
, the literati with successful careers
 !" obtain charming boys as their servants


 !. And the sentimental young men
 ! are improperly intimate with beautiful boys as their friends
 !"#. [Male homosexuality] is in vogue south of the lower reaches of the Yangtze River
 !. (Shen D 1980: 24/622) Such charming boys frequently found their way into private troupes and worked under much the same conditions as their female counterparts. They served the owners as both theatrical performers and male concubines. Huang Ang
, a scholar living in the succeeding dynasty of Qing, wrote that ‘in the preceding dynasty of Ming
, among the local literati families or wealthy and influential clans
 !", many kept boy actors
 !’: Imperial Inspector Feng Longquan’s boy was called Peach-Blossom Rain
 !"#$%&'(; County Magistrate Miao Sheng’an’s boy, Heavenly Blossom
 !"#$%&; Staff Officer Chen’s boy, Jade Buddy
 !"#$; Cao Meichun’s boys, Senior Tender and Junior Tender
 !"#$%&'%&; Ge Jiumin’s boys, Senior Nun and Junior Nun
 ! "##$##; and Zhu Yuzhong’s sex slave was called Sixth Sister
 !"#$%. [These boys] may be considered infamous seducers
 !, and their masters extremely dissolute
 !"#$. (‘Boy Actors
’, Huang A 1896: 5/3) But the critical tone here might not necessarily reflect the true attitude of Ming society or its literati. The authors, being Confucian scholars, might have felt obliged to make value judgements against homosexuality. Or they might have used the categorical accusation as a self-protective device. In any case, the fact remains that the Ming literati embraced homosexuality

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extensively after the court banned officials from patronizing prostitutes in the third year of the Xuande period (1428). The liberal and career-minded literati then turned to adolescent boys for services previously provided by the girls, while maintaining both their private lifestyle and their government positions. This stratagem unexpectedly produced a new vogue of sexual behaviour in society. Boy-lovers were no longer a mere compensation for the forbidden courtesans for literati-officials, but a status symbol for all. Even non-officials, who were not under the prostitution ban, now sought sexual favours from boys. In such a society, a private troupe owner – should he wish to maintain a homosexual relation with his actors – might not be subject to moral censure or peer disapproval as the above-cited material seemed to suggest. As spouses Although the owner and his actresses often became intimate on and off stage, only one instance has been found of an owner actually marrying an actress. Kang Hai married an actress from a musical household
, or a family of professional entertainers, after he left office.5 The woman was famous for acting. She helped Kang to train and manage their private troupe after marriage (Jiao W 1987: 290).

The loyalty of performers Whatever their personal relations were in private troupes, the social and legal division between master and bondservants, while from time to time subdued to a certain extent, was still in place. The loyalty of performers to their owner was expected and praised. Li was an actor in the private troupe of Ruan Dacheng. Like his peers, Li joined another private troupe after Ruan’s death. Being trained by a most reputable director of his time, Li was in high demand in the productions of Ruan Dacheng’s plays. But Li declined such a request each time: Whenever a request for Ruan’s plays to be enacted was made, [Li] always used the excuse of inability. He also told his peers not to perform [Ruan’s plays] any more. When asked why, he replied: ‘People already condemn our Master [Ruan] without provocation. Whenever his plays are enacted, he is ridiculed and cursed in hundreds of ways. It makes me upset all day long. It is better just to decline their request by claiming inability.’ (Jiao X 1959: 201–2) Li’s lame excuse could easily have offended his audience. And he was certainly sacrificing his arts and opportunities in the new troupe. All these served no purpose other than his sense of loyalty towards his dead master.

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64 Owner–performer relations Li was praised for his loyalty by contemporaries, despite the fact that his infamous master enjoyed an unsavoury reputation as a treacherous official and traitor. Ming society, or at least its social elite, showed its approval of the blind loyalty of private actors to their owners. Some actors developed a sense of loyalty to their masters comparable to that of a woman to her husband as encouraged by neo-Confucianism, i.e. serving one and only one master throughout his life. Jiang, an actor who had served several masters, bitterly told one of his patrons: Life is a journey. I have been unfortunate in having to serve people by my singing. I wish at least I had been able to serve a single master. However, [I serve] at Zhanghua Mansion in the morning and Chiqi Palace in the evening. That is not my idea, but my previous masters cannot afford to sustain me. (Hou C 1923: 1/9) There is no indication that Jiang had any relation with his master other than a professional one. Abao was the actor-lover of Qi Zhixiang. Abao kept his loyalty to Qi through weal and woe, thick and thin, serving his master like a chaste wife and more. In everyday life, as mentioned in Chapter 4, Abao ‘pretended to be shy’ and thus tactically avoided other men’s advances. During the fall of Nanjing (in 1645), when Qi was nearly killed while escaping, Abao stayed with his master throughout all the dangers. During the rebellion of Taizhou (in 1646), when Qi lost his luggage and money, Abao sang at bars to feed his master in their death-defying journey home (Zhang D 1982: 4/39, Taoan mengyi). Nevertheless, extant sources describe private performers’ loyalty to troupe owners as neither universal nor automatic, but mostly conditional and varying from person to person. The enthusiastic praise of loyal actors might in fact reflect the rarity of such personal devotion. There was certainly no lack of stories of actor disloyalty in Ming accounts.6 Some actors violated their code of behaviour under the pressure of circumstances: There was an actor called Jin Feng in Haiyan. He was sexually favoured by Yan Donglou
 [i.e. Yan Shifan
 ]. Without Jin’s presence, [Yan] would neither eat during the day, nor sleep at night. When Yan failed in politics, Jin was already old and became poor. Then there was a play called Phoenix Cries, in which Jin put on the make-up and costumes to play the role [of Yan Shifan]. (Jiao X 1959: 6/201) Phoenix Cries is a political drama portraying Yan Shifan and his father Yan Song
 as treacherous court officials who cause horrible suffering in the

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country, instigating the torture and killing of officials who dare to speak out (Mao J 1958: 2:3). Jin Feng accepted the offer of playing the role of his dead master as a villain in his poverty. Other actors disobeyed their masters or simply escaped from their private troupes. In an elegiac address to a deceased actor, Zhang Dai recounted: Four years ago I called my actors together
 !"#$%. Choosing the best ten
 !"#, I wrote short poems for them

. . . . Now among your group of ten
 !"#, some ran away

, and some rebelled

: more than half are not here any more
 !. (Zhang D 1985: 6/268) With most of his best actors gone, this owner retained little faith in actor loyalty. While lamenting an actor’s premature death, Zhang Dai was not quite sure if this actor would have stayed in the troupe had he lived long enough: You unfortunately died young
 !"#. Yet you also fortunately died young
 !", which nevertheless made you a person of consistency
 !"#$%&'. Isn’t that Heaven’s way of kindly helping to secure the success of making you a good man
 !"#
 ? (Zhang D 1985: 6/268)

The ending of relations Of course, the owner–performer relationship did not customarily end with delinquency when performers escaped from their masters. Instead, four standard circumstances were stipulated, under which owner–performer relations could be legally terminated. Transfer of the troupe The owner might treat his troupe like any property and present the actors and actresses as a gift to whomever he saw fit: Now Fan has expanded his private theatre to two troupes, one of which came from Guangling [an antique name for the city of Yangzhou]. The Guangling troupe was trained by my friend [Wang] Jixuan. He suddenly presented the troupe to [Fan
] Changbai
 as a gift. Changbai was happy about it and took good care of the troupe. (Pan Z 1988: 2/56 Luanxiao xiaopin) Eunuch Xu, who was in charge of collecting taxes in Yangzhou, presented four actresses to the retired court official Qian Dai when the latter ‘firmly

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66 Owner–performer relations declined the gifts
 ’. Yangzhou, the gathering place of licensed salt merchants, sustained its tradition of private theatre throughout the Ming era. And Xu, probably taking private actresses as a special local product, insisted on Qian’s acceptance: Eunuch Xu thus summoned a Manjianghong yacht
 !"#$ to take the four girls
 , who were to be accompanied by two retainers
 !" and two maidservants
 !, to wait at the harbour of Zhenjiang
 !. [When Qian and his entourage arrived,] they just followed the Imperial Censor [i.e. Qian] to his home
 !". (Juwuzi 1980: 3235) Transfers of private troupes seemed to have taken place quite often. A person might have the impulse to own a private troupe. But he could lose interest in it. Or he could experience financial difficulties in sustaining it. The latter possibility forced actor Jiang’s masters to transfer him several times, as already mentioned. With the transfer, the ownership of the private performers changed hands. The performers, while ending relations with their old master, began the same relations with their new master. Frequent transfers of loyalty could cause psychological turmoil in actors like Jiang (Hou C 1923: 1/9). Reduction of the troupe’s size The decision to reduce a troupe’s size was usually determined by the owner’s preference or finances or both. When Zou Diguang was getting old, he ‘wanted to cut his troupe to one-half of its size’. His friend Pan Zhiheng, however, thought that it was a pity to dismiss some of the performers, as they ‘were as valuable as fifty bushels of shining pearls’. There is no doubt that ‘fifty bushels of shining pearls’ signified the beauty and arts of the performers. But it was also possible that Pan used this idiom to remind Zou of the fortune he had spent on these performers. Pan succeeded in persuading Zou to restore the troupe to its original state (Pan Z 1988: 3/228 Yiyoucao). Li Kaixian maintained a group of actresses when he left office (Qian Q 1982: 4/377). However, his private troupe was reduced to ‘old family servants’ in his later years, as mentioned in Chapter 3. Dissolution of the troupe The disbanding of a troupe naturally ended owner–performer relations. This was often caused by the death of the owner. Thus Bao Hansuo’s troupe was dissolved when he died (Pan Z 1988: 34/142, ‘Waiji’ Genshi). And Ruan Dacheng’s actors ‘were dispersed in other households after his death’ (Jiao X 1959: 6/201). Zou Diguang’s dismissal of his two highly regarded troupes was triggered by, ironically, a theatre presentation:

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While watching a production of the chuanqi opera The Epiphyllums
 !"#$%& [a chuanqi opera by contemporary playwright Tu Long
], I had an epiphany
 . I immediately dismissed my two troupes
 !"#. I will devote myself to Buddhism
 !
 . (Zou D 1608: 21/16) The Epiphyllums, portraying the futility and vanity of worldly pursuits, triggered Zou’s religious determination. Zou’s attitude change, however, had already showed in his prior attempt to downsize his troupes. Ageing of the actors The ageing of members of a private troupe was the most common reason for the termination of performers’ services. In this case, performers were allowed to leave simply because they had reached physical maturity. During the Ming, owners of private troupes most appreciated actors and actresses who were in their teens. An actor’s stage life in a private troupe, unlike that in a court or commercial troupe, was usually short. The personnel of private troupes changed fast. Zhang Dai personally oversaw the assembling and disbanding of five of his family troupes, Wuling, Tixian, Wujun, Suxiaoxiao and Maoyuan, all within a half century: I have lived for fifty years while those little servants [actors] changed from young to old, and from old to young again [the private troupe regenerated with a new group of new child performers], and from young to old again, five times in all. (Zhang D 1982: 7/38 Taoan mengyi) The average stage life of an actor was only ten years. When Zhang Dai wrote about actors, ‘young’ meant around ten years of age, and ‘old’ twenty.

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68 Sexist criteria

7

Sexist criteria

It is easy to see that some relations between a troupe owner and his performers helped the advance of theatre, such as when the owners inculcated in their performers experience of the artistic as well as of life, or that other relations hindered the potential of performers, such as when they were treated as slaves or frequently changed hands. More complicated, however, is the evaluation of the sexual relations in private troupes. First, source material is scarce in supply, discriminatory in content and intricate in writing style. Second, the teenage performers were mute partners in Ming accounts, where the narrative voice belonged exclusively to their much older masters. Third, and most important, it was not theatre activities that defined the nature and quality of in-troupe sexual relations, as was often the case in other kinds of relations in Ming elite theatre or in today’s entertainment industry. Instead sexual relations helped both to formulate the sexist criteria applied to performers and to establish the chuanqi practices that served sexual purposes. Sexual relations in theatre troupes existed before and after the Ming, in private theatre as well as in public and court theatres. The impact of sexual relations, however, differed significantly in time and among the troupes. Not motivated by profit or bound by tradition, the Ming elite troupes afforded the sexual relations that made an immense and lasting impact on the drama scene. The peculiar set of sexist criteria for performers was hitherto unheard of in public or court theatre. Positioning the feminine features under the male gaze, the sexist criteria judged a private actress – and similarly her male counterpart – as sexual object and partner, opera performer and character. Four interrelated criteria simultaneously applied to her can be traced from Ming sources.

Her beauty The physical features of an actress were a primary concern in the Ming private theatre. As the troupe owner always had the first pick among his actresses, those he selected would probably represent the contemporary perception of feminine beauty. The four actresses who were known to have served Qian Dai in bed are described by his personal secretary:

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Zhang Yinshe . . . had light and delicate eyebrows
 !, fair complexion
 ! and shallow dimples
 !. Her figure was graceful
 !, and her bound feet were bow-shaped
. Feng Guanshe . . . had a pretty face
 !. [She was] Tall and charming
 !, and her bound feet were bow-shaped=
. Xu Erjie . . . had an oval face
 !, full body with fair complexion
 ! and tiny teeth in a small mouth
 !. She is elegant in demeanour
 ! with bow-shaped bound-feet
. . . . Her look singularly crowns the group of concubines
 !"#. Zhou Guilang . . . had a beautiful face
 ! and charming figure
 !. Her bow-shaped bound feet were tiny
 !. Being straight and even [in shape] and light and skipping [in steps]
 !", her feet are unrivalled among all the concubines
 !". Her walk created the image of treading the waves in dainty steps
 !
 . (Juwuzi 1980: 3240–1) From this account and a comparison with unselected actresses, the Ming literati’s criteria of feminine beauty may be reconstructed thus: 1

2 3 4

Bow-shaped bound feet. This is a common feature among the chosen, while four of the unselected had either ‘semi-bow-shaped bound feet
 ’ or ‘non-bow-shaped feet
 ’. The Ming source praises one of the unselected for her ‘quite captivating
 ’ features but laments that ‘her only flaw is non-bow-shaped feet
 !’ (Juwuzi 1980: 3241). The praise of Zhou Guilang’s feet, out of proportion in the narrative, testifies to this obsession of the Ming literati. Indeed, one must have bow-shaped bound feet, the smaller the better, to be considered a Ming beauty. Pretty face. All the selected actresses have attractive features. Oval shape, small mouth, tiny teeth and dimples are appealing qualities. Charming figure. Height and elegance in bearing are appreciated. Fair complexion.

Other critics found actresses more alluring during performance. Keeping an aesthetic distance, their writings usually refrained from a detailed description of the physical features of the actresses. They would instead vividly depict a moment of dramatic excitement, as if to portray the beauties in an expressionist manner. In Wu Kun
’s troupe, for instance, Pingxiuzhi was praised for her ‘seductive eyes
’, because they ‘beguile audience by revealing a hundred charms
 !"’. Huishuzhi and Bidazhi were known for their delicate figures. The former attracted an audience ‘with her meek and mild disposition
 !"#’ while the latter’s ‘fragile appearance is

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70 Sexist criteria lovely enough to cause the fall of a state
 !"#’ (Pan Z 1988: 2/200– 1, Luanxiao xiaopin). The ancient Chinese were probably not alone in believing that a national catastrophe may be the best testimony of woman’s angelic beauty – think of Helen of Troy. However, the reason for Yuanhuaizhi’s appeal is a little more complicated: The loveliest is her winsome smile that slightly reveals her teeth of gourd seeds
 !"#$,1 As she is too lazy to utter a word to warm up the cold audience

 !. (Pan Z 1988: 2/200, Luanxiao xiaopin) Her teeth of classical beauty are appreciated because they contribute to her smile; her smile is ‘the loveliest’ because it compensates for her lack of sweet talk; the sweet talk is not suitable for her because she has ‘the particular kind of beauty of a fallen flower
 !’ that features ‘many kinds of melancholy in her features
 !’.

Her age Early adolescence was believed to be the prime time when an actress might serve her lord sexually. As theatre critic Pan Zhiheng put it in his commentary on Wu Yongxian’s actresses, ‘At the full-and-round age of fourteen or fifteen

 !, they are just fit to be placed in the private rooms
 !"#$’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/61 Luanxiao xiaopin). This period typically coincided with the first peak in an actress’s career, with five years of basic training and four to five years of stage experience on average. The four actresses Qian Dai received as gifts from the Tax Supervisor of Yangzhou
 !, known only as Eunuch Xu
 , were of eleven and twelve years of age then. Qian Dai chose at least one of them as his sexual partner (Juwuzi 1980: 3235, 3240). Feng Mengzhen, a frequenter of playhouses, portrays performers in his ‘Two Miscellaneous Poems
 !’. The teenage girls, at thirteen and fifteen, also serve as their masters’ bedmates, as Poem One reads: A childish girl at the age of thirteen
 !", Dark eyebrows set on snowy skin
 !". Thick hair blackens her shoulder
 !", High pitch brings her new melody to the sky
 !". Being good at singing the tune of ‘Bamboo Branches’
 !",2 She recently joined the rank of little stars [concubines]
 !". Lightly upset – as jade tears stream down her cheeks
 !", Easily bashful – as rosy clouds cover her face
 !". Bringing a quilt makes her uneasy
 !",

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Biting into the bedding she appears still in pain
 !". So soon the moon fully waxes [and is thus to wane]
 !", So nearby she is separated by surging spirit waters
 !". It is not that she does not know the sorrow of separation
 !", She keeps the words to herself for fear of gossip
 !". (Feng M 1616: 64/9) With merely two out of fourteen lines (lines 4 and 5) on singing, the poet clearly foregrounds the girl’s sexual life – or her master’s sexual life with her – in the poem. The term ‘little star’ has nothing to do with the performer’s star status. It alludes instead to the poem ‘Little Star
’ in ‘The Ballads of Shaonan
’ of the Book of Songs, and is conventionally read as ‘concubine’.3 ‘Bringing a quilt’, an allusion from the same source, has been similarly interpreted as the little star’s sexual service to her lord, and thus may be taken as ‘becoming a concubine’. The other actress, in the literati’s eyes, is more mature in appearance and less reluctant regarding the sexual relation, as Poem Two suggests: Little Star is at the right age of fifteen
 !", Her brilliance shines upon the patterned silk curtain
 !". Waiting for betrothal she is enlightened in the meaning [of performance]
 !", Reaching puberty she radiates with dazzling beauty
 !". Gracefully striding quick short steps

 !, Spotlessly she comes to the secret date

 !. She goes to bed [lit. reaches the pillow] without being pulled

 !, Yet ‘bringing quilt’ [as concubine] becomes an empty promise

 !. Why bother Pure Lady to be her singing master
 !"?4 She acts according to circumstances in ten thousand ways
 !". Having this slim and lithe beauty dancing in a palm
 !",5 [Her master] often takes her to have fun on the lake
 !". Clear singing trills through her white teeth
 !", Orchid fragrance penetrates blossoming bushes
 !". [The master] wishes to override the seniority [in the troupe]
 !", And even to set her free from the bondage of servitude
 !". (Feng M 1616: 64/9) A troupe owner often selected his concubine from actresses. But the actress-cum-sexual partner might not necessarily become his concubine. This fifteen-year-old was not taken as a concubine, although she had been serving her lord in performance and in bed. Such fleeting relations or ‘one night stands’, for understandable reasons, were less likely to find their ways into the literati’s writings.

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72 Sexist criteria

Her performance Ming accounts testify to the fact that actresses frequently put on shows at their masters’ request, whether at home, on stage, at a party or during an outing (Juwuzi 1980: 3242–4; Feng M 1616: 64/9; Zhang D 1982: 7/65 Taoan mengyi). In the sensational presentations of singing and dancing, they were not only appreciated as singers and dancers, but also conveniently perceived as potential sexual partners. During the show, a spectator imagined ‘her offstage manners
 !’ or ‘her lingering charms beyond the songs
 !’. And after the show, he was so eager to ‘hold this dewy spray [of flowers] from the jade terrace
 !"#$’ that ‘her song was still dimly discernible in the air and her dancing figure just fading away from stage
 !"#’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/212 Luanxiao xiaopin). An actress’s appeal as sexual partner was even more closely associated with her role-playing skills. In the Qian Dai troupe, six of thirteen actresses were considered capable of ‘mastering the scene
’ in which they appeared, or ‘singularly dominating
’ the scene or role they were in: 1 2 3 4 5 6

Zhang Suyu (Yinshe) and Han Renren ‘mastered’ three scenes. Xu Peiyao (Erjie) ‘singularly dominated’ the role of Zhangsheng (in The Romance of the Western Chamber). Wu Sansan ‘singularly dominated’ the role of Yingying (in The Romance of the Western Chamber). Zhou Lianbi (Guilang) ‘singularly dominated’ the role of Hongniang (in The Romance of the Western Chamber). Zhang Suyu ‘singularly dominated’ two scenes in The White Hare. Feng Cuixia (Guanshe) ‘singularly dominated’ three scenes in The Lute (Juwuzi 1980: 3242).

Qian Dai chose his four actress-concubines – Zhang, Xu, Zhou and Feng – from these six gifted actresses.6 The acting skills and bed charms of an actress at times are depicted as interrelated or even interchangeable in literati writings. While this tendency reflects the actress’s dual function in the elite theatre, it also testifies to the fact that her performative ability enhanced her sexual desirability. Manxiurong of the Wang Youlong Troupe, for instance, appears irresistible in a commentary when the Ming critic details her supreme arts without specifying her looks: She walks slowly while creating the illusion of running
 !. She sits calmly while generating the tension of uncertainty
 !. She is pure in heart and aloof from material pursuits
 !. Beauty yields and soul surrenders
 !. She is the kind of woman who is bewitchingly charming when she reclines across
 !"#$%. (Pan Z 1988: 3/212 Luanxiao xiaopin)

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Among the five sentences in the original language, the first two clearly portray her acting skills. The third sentence, however, is ambiguous, as it can be read as a comment on the actress or her character. The fourth, while subtle in expression, allows, if not encourages, the reading that a man has to surrender his soul
in exchange for her beauty=
and thus suggests the transition from theatre to life and acting to sex. The final sentence confirms this transition by unmistakably praising her bed charms. The phrase ‘reclines across
’ alludes to the famous poem ‘Northern Qi
’ by Li Shangyin
 (812–58), a celebrated poet of the Tang dynasty: On the same night when Xiaolian’s jade-like body reclines across [at the King’s side]
 !"#$, The enemy army of the Zhou announces its conquest of the city of Jinyang
 !"#$. (Chen B 1995: 2418) Since the bed charms of Xiaolian are linked to the fall of a city in the source poem, the literary allusion in the Ming commentary in effect attributes a similar quality of fatal attraction to Manxiurong as a sexual partner. The Ming literati considered not only an actress’s role-playing skills as enhancing her bed charms, but also her stage power as transcending the illusionary world of theatre. In practical terms, she made her partner’s sexual fantasy an ecstatic reality.

Her character Despite her beauty, youth and performance skills, often an actress was not desired as much for who she was as for the character she played when her lord had sex with her. A connoisseur summarized how a private actress might best serve her partner’s sexual fantasies in thinly disguised language: Put on her make-up and decorate her costume
 !. Correct her singing and adjust her movement
 !. Then she is able to seduce the spirits and gods above
 !". The refined beauty and chosen singer
 ! fits this charming criterion
 !. I would say the same about [the actresses of ] the West Garden
 !"#.7 (Pan Z 1988: 3/61 Luanxiao xiaopin) In other words, the actress in character would become so irresistible that her partner might live out the fantasy of making love to the heroine of the drama, while suppressing the image of a maidservant in the household. Such a transition is evidenced in the two poems composed at an opera night hosted by Li Yu. Under the series title of ‘Compose a series of impromptu poems in Li Liweng’s [Li Yu] feast when a new drama is staged by his private actresses
 !"#$%&'()*+,’, one of Yu Huai’s poems reads:

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74 Sexist criteria There are Honghong [Scarlet], Haohao [Pleasant] and Zhenzhen [Genuine]

 !!,8 Unlike the Prince Cao Zhi who has only the Goddess of River Luo to write about
 !"#$. Playing command music on painted se-zithers and jade-decorated sheng-reed pipes
 !"#$, Sure enough the region of [the dukedoms of ] Yan and Zhao produces beauties
 !"#$. (Xu J 1672: 11/16) You Tong
 (1618–1704), a literati playwright of both the chuanqi and zaju genres, wrote a poem in reply, using the same rhyme sequence of Yu’s original. However, he transformed the private actresses of Li Yu’s household into fairy maidens and imperial concubines: As Yuzhen the Fairy Maiden descends from the Western Chamber of the [Taoist] Heavenly Golden Palace
 !"#$, The sport of cloud and rain [sexual intercourse] is not expected to play with the Goddess of Needles

!"#.9 How lovely tonight are the lotus-shaped candles [of the palace style]
 !"#$, Shining on the Goddess of Mountain Wu who has only appeared in dreams before
 !"#$.10 (Xu J 1687: 11/18) Neither the flowery language nor the allusive style disguises the excitement of this literati spectator, who is invited to an opera night, to be followed by a sex party. First, thrilled by the fact that he can choose a partner among different kinds of characters, You Tong prefers the fairy maiden of mysterious flavour over an imperial concubine of domestic quality (lines 1 and 2). Second, he is overjoyed with the knowledge that he is to live out his sexual fantasy in physical reality with the fairy character, while even the Duke of Chu may only meet his goddess-lover in a dream (lines 3 and 4). The spectators at such an opera night thus expected ‘the second climax’ after the performance in a manner unknown to the ancients. You Tong found the need to moderate the age-old ‘Chunyu Kun conventions’: Seeing off the guests and urging me to stay – do not blow out the candles though
 !"#$, I fancy seeing the silver lantern shining on the sleeping flower
 !
 . (Xu J 1672: 11/18) Pleading with the host to alter the ‘candle-blowing’ ritual in the sex party, You Tong could not help but admit the desire to see his partner in her character with the lights on.

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The play as foreplay

8

75

The play as foreplay

Sexist criteria in general and sexual role-play in particular contributed to phenomena characteristic of Ming elite theatre. Most evident was the fact that the production might function as foreplay. Because of the owner’s sexual fantasy and his actress’s complicity, sexual intercourse might follow the performance. Chuanqi opera, the predominant genre of the Ming dynasty and almost exclusively written by the literati, readily served the sexual purposes of elite theatre.

Romance dominates the subject matter In its subject matter, chuanqi shows a bias towards romance, a tendency that became even stronger in the productions of elite theatre. The Qian Dai troupe had ten plays in its repertoire, the majority of which were romance (Juwuzi 1980: 3240–1). The Carp Jumps


(Yaoli ji)

Written by Chen Pizhai
 , a literati playwright of the early Ming, this opera was revised by Gu Jueyu
 , a theatre professional (Zhuang Y 1982: 1090–1). It centres on the filial obedience of Pang. Despite her mother-in-law’s abuse, which leads to her expulsion from the family, Pang does not resist or complain. The story is not particularly romantic by chuanqi standards. But a scene Qian Dai’s actresses often presented was ‘Meeting in the reeds
 !’, when the estranged wife begs her husband to take her back for some 40 minutes of performance time, if a modern staging of the classical piece is to be used as the reference (Juwuzi 1980: 3242). The Lute


(Pipa ji)

This monumental work has two parallel plotlines. One portrays the heroine taking care of her parents-in-law alone while her newly wed husband seeks fame and status in the capital. The other depicts the hero enjoying life with his new wife in the capital. What Qian Dai’s leading actresses ‘mastered’

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The play as foreplay

Figure 8.1 Pang the estranged wife begs her husband to take her back. Shanghai Kunju Company production: Pang by Zhang Jingxian; Husband by Liu Yilong. Photo by Shu Jiyun.

was the parting scene ‘Brief farewell
’, featuring the newly wed couple (Juwuzi 1980: 3242). The Hairpin and Bracelet


(Chaichuan ji)

The writer of this play signed himself only as ‘Pavilion Dweller on Moon Terrace
 !’. This popular opera tells the love story of scholar Huangfu Yin and his devoted fiancée Shi Bitao. When her father wants to break the pledge of her marriage because of Huangfu’s poverty, she tries to pass Huangfu her jewellery. Huangfu leaks this secret to his friend who tricks Bitao out of the jewellery, posing as Huangfu. When Bitao is forced by her father to marry another man, she drowns herself in protest, only to help to convict Huangfu as her rapist and murderer. Fortunately, as is usually the case in chuanqi, Huangfu’s name is cleared by a wise judge and Bitao is rescued from the water. They do not marry until Huangfu wins first prize in the Imperial Examinations, again in the chuanqi convention. The Romance of the Western Chamber


(Xixiang ji)

The Romance of the Western Chamber by Wang Shifu
 matches most closely the generally accepted criteria of Yuan zaju opera. Li Rihua


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transformed this zaju masterpiece into a chuanqi play for staging. The version performed by Qian Dai’s troupe, as staged today, must be Li’s reworking. Frequently banned by Chinese governments, The Romance of the Western Chamber is known for its scenes of passionate romance and explicit sex, in addition to its unparalleled literary merits. The Double Pearls


(Shuangzhu ji)

Written by Shen Jing
, this play is ‘an extremely sad story
 ! that is most skilfully arranged
 !’. The play begins with a military official who is framing Guo’s husband in order to marry her. Guo desperately resists this evil scheme by first selling her child and then drowning herself. She is rescued and her son succeeds in the Imperial Examinations. It was ‘depressing to watch
 !’, according to the reputable critic Lü Tiancheng
 , himself a playwright (Lü T 1959: 238). The Peony Pavilion


(Mudan ting)

Authored by celebrated Tang Xianzu and considered by many the peak of Ming drama, this play sings the praises of romantic love that defies the authority of parents and the boundary between life and death. A comprehensive introduction to the plot can be found in Chapter 10 of this book. The Red Pear Flower


(Hongli ji)

Xu Fuzuo
 successfully expanded a four-act zaju opera into this fulllength romantic comedy of 30 scenes. Scholar Zhao Bochou is fascinated with the reputation of the top courtesan Xie Qiuniang. His friend the County Magistrate arranges a meeting for them but prohibits Xie from identifying herself. Seeing that Zhao has allowed his career inspiration to be subordinated to sensual pleasure, the Magistrate sends Xie’s friend to fool Zhao into believing that the woman with whom he is intimate is an ogress in disguise. Zhao is so terrified that he immediately runs off to the capital to sit for the Imperial Examinations. Winning the first prize, Zhao returns only to encounter the same ‘ogress’, who turns out to be his beloved Xie. With many elements of a well made play, Red Pear Flower is an effective audience teaser with measured exaggeration of romance, comedy and horror. Washing Silk


(Huansha ji)

This kunqu opera was introduced in Chapter 1. It centres on Fan Li’s political life, but with a heavy dose of romantic tragedy. Xishi, a silk-washing girl of angelic beauty, is chosen by her politician lover as a sex spy to subvert the enemy state of Wu and has to sacrifice her true love. She proved a sexual

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sensation in elite theatre. Two scenes, her training in seductive dance and actual seduction, are mentioned again later in this chapter. The Wooden Hairpin


(Jingchai ji)

This is one of ‘the four great nanxi pieces’ mentioned in Chapter 1, but was revised by Ming editors. The opera extols a poor couple who remain faithful to each other and unyielding to external pressure. Wang, the husband, declines the offer of marriage to the daughter of the Prime Minister after attaining the highest score in the Imperial Examinations. He is posted to a remote region as a result. Qian, the wife, drowns herself when forced to marry a rich merchant, only to be rescued by a passing official. They reunite by chance in a Taoist temple five years later. The Jade Hairpin


(Yuzan ji)

This is a well received romantic comedy by Gao Lian
. After failing his examinations, Pan Bizheng visits his aunt, the abbot of a Taoist temple, where he meets the beautiful nun Chen Miaochang. Communicating on the qin-zither, they gradually but inevitably fall in love with each other. When the abbot discovers their relationship, she sends Pan to retake the Imperial Examinations to avoid a scandal. Pan succeeds this time in the examinations as well as in marriage.

Desirability distinguishes the chuanqi heroine Chuanqi heroines time and again have been constructed to suit the sex fantasies or role-play of elite theatregoers. The plays favoured for private productions usually feature heroines with one or more of the three qualities of perfection in character, sexual attractiveness and an avoidance of sexual relations. The ten plays in the above-mentioned repertoire amply testify to this. Perfection in character The chuanqi heroine is so idealized that she is usually flawless in conventional morality. This feature is even more pronounced when her counterpart proves to be a flawed hero. Filial piety In The Carp Jumps, Pang lives to a high standard of Confucian filial piety. Even when she is driven out by her mother-in-law, she still worries that no one is taking care of the aged woman and her son. Her husband, played by the chou or clown role-type, appears to be a heartless and spineless hypocrite in comparison.

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Figure 8.2 Pang shows filial piety and motherly love. Shanghai Kunju Company production: Pang by Zhang Jingxian; Husband by Liu Yilong. Photo by Shu Jiyun.

In The Lute, Zhao performs all three filial duties towards her parentsin-law at home, namely caring for them when they are alive, managing a proper burial when they are dead and observing mourning rites after they are buried, despite the extreme hardship of a severe famine, which compels her to eat rice husks to survive. During this time, however, her husband Cai enjoys luxuries only available to the rich and powerful in the capital. Niu, Cai’s new wife, personifies another side of Confucian morality. When she learns of Zhao’s existence, she urges her husband to reinstate his first wife and volunteers to step down as his second wife, despite being the Prime Minister’s daughter. She thus solves the problem of her husband who does little more than lament all the while. Womanly chastity Bitao in The Hairpin and Bracelet seems to disobey her father’s wish in her marriage. Yet she is acting on a higher order of the morality of her time, i.e. keeping her wedding pledge and womanly chastity. She even works out a plan to pass her jewellery to the poverty-stricken Huangfu so that he may use it to marry her. All their disasters, however, start with Huangfu’s leak of their secret to his false friend Han. Critic Qi Biaojia has this to say about the protagonists of The Hairpin and Bracelet:

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The play as foreplay Huangfu Song is duped by Han Shizhong
 !"#$%& and almost loses his life for that
 !. He may serve as a lesson for those who share secrets with friends
 !"#$%. I only feel sorry for the daughter of the Shi family named Bitao
 !"#. She works out a plan to give [Huangfu] money to marry her
 !. She is a worthy female knight
 !. But [because of him] she is virtually cornered by the villain
 !"#$. (Qi B 1959: 55)

Qi is unambiguous about the fact that the hero pales beside the heroine. The same comparison, although to a lesser extent, can be made between the protagonists in The Romance of the Western Chamber and The Double Pearls. Sexual attractiveness The attraction of a chuanqi heroine’s sexuality is first generated from the verbal description of her physical splendour. A literati playwright, with a literary tradition of more than 2000 years at his disposal, never fails in this task. The heroines in the sample repertoire of the ten plays described above all qualify as beauty queens. However, a playwright’s verbal generosity with the beauty of his heroine may not effect a genuine admiration on the part of audience. In chuanqi plays, the heroines’ attractiveness, like the heroes’ winning of the first place in the Imperial Examinations, is conventional. One may well ask (a) why these hopelessly romantic and overly sentimental young men, who have spent much of their time in boudoirs or courtesan quarters, always become the top scholar in the triennial national examinations; and (b) why their competitors who devote all their efforts to study always lag behind. The audience may not question the fairness of the examination system depicted in chuanqi opera. But they do not take the academic qualities of the top-scholar protagonists seriously either. For the same reason, the beauty narrative alone may not make much impression on the audience. Even when an audience readily accepts a heroine’s beauty, it may have reasons other than the playwright’s verbal skills for doing so. For example, the angelic beauty of Yingying in The Romance of the Western Chamber belongs to a literary tradition that goes back to the Tang dynasty and that has been reinforced in a series of masterpieces in the subsequent dynasties of Song, Jin and Yuan. For another example, the legendary features of Xishi in Washing Silk bear the influence of both historical records and folklore. In normal circumstances, however, a heroine’s claim to beauty needs to be verified by the performer’s stage image or other dramatic devices. An effective device to establish the desirability of the chuanqi heroine is the male characters’ desperate efforts to woo her, as shown in the following operas:

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A high official commits a crime in order to win Guo’s hand in The Double Pearls. A rich merchant is willing to spend a fortune and endure much trouble to marry Qian in The Wooden Hairpin. An outrageous bandit chieftain lays siege to a temple and fights a battle against the military in his attempt to capture Yingying in The Romance of the Western Chamber.

The fiercer the effort, the more convincing the heroine’s desirability. In the power structure of a patriarchal society, the ultimate proof of the heroine’s sexual power lies in how men respond to her. From time to time, this attraction may be translated into how much a man in power is willing to pay for her possession. Xishi, who is seen as worth the price of the fall of a state, proves her ultimate sexual power in Washing Silk – as does Helen in ancient Greek tragedy. A ban on sexual relations Sexual fantasy by its very nature suggests that partners are not readily available owing to social or physical barriers. Sometimes characters become the preferred partners in sexual role-play because of their beauty as well as their inaccessibility in reality. Such characters, whether in the name of fairy maidens, imperial concubines or historical beauties, may serve to embody anyone from one’s unrequited or dead lovers to other men’s wives or concubines, and indeed help to compensate for personal frustration. Ming literati showed interest not only in the unavailable but also in the forbidden in the characters of temple priestesses. Chen Miaochang of The Jade Hairpin became a favourite on the opera stage. The narrative construction of Chen’s beauty is lengthy but not unusual. What makes her stand out, however, is men’s competition for her hand despite her vows of asceticism. Chen declines two marriage proposals with courage and wisdom: one from a powerful prefect and the other from a rich merchant. However, she experiences difficulties while fighting the seduction of the third suitor Pan Bizheng, who expresses his love for her in music and song. Still she puts up a credible defence on the surface, but becomes enamoured of the charismatic scholar in secret. From that point on, the dramatic action centres on the heroine’s desperate resistance and shy surrender. In the antiphonal singing of Scene 16, for instance, the librettos place Chen on the defensive against Pan: Primary female
[Chen Miaochang]: [I am] certainly clean as ice and pure as jade
 !"#$, Whether [my lifestyle] is right or wrong

, Who is to comment
 !? Of whose comments am I afraid
 !?

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Figure 8.3 Chen Miaochang the priestess fights Pan Bizheng’s seduction. Shanghai Kunju Company production: Chen Miaochang by Zhang Jingxian; Pan Bizheng by Yue Meiti. Photo by Shu Jiyun.

Primary male
[Pan Bizheng]: The three stars in Orion shine on us as if to suggest something
 !
 . The dew is cold and hoarfrost descending
 !, Need someone to warm your quilt and pillow together
 !
? (Mao J 1958: 3: 4/43) In the same scene, Chen reveals her inner thoughts in monologue: Primary female
: I know [romance] well in my heart
 !"#, But put up a severe expression
 !, And pretend to talk stubbornly
 !"#. ... Seeing him I act in a chilly manner
 !"##. Leaving him I miss him often
 !"#. (Mao J 1958: 3: 4/44) At the same time, Pan conducts a virtual psychological analysis of her:

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Primary male
: I believe the few phrases she utters
 !"#", Reveal nothing but her anxiety and distress

 !. I think her personal quality and religious discipline
 !"#", Will mostly bend to her mortal nature
 !". (Mao J 1958: 3: 4/44) Based on such a reading of her mind, Pan finds a chance to corner Chen, who almost finds relief in being forced into a forbidden affair in the sanctified space of a religious establishment in Scene 19: Primary female
: I surrender my heart to you
 !"#$. Several times I am too shy to undo my silk jacket
 !"#. ... Losing in the love game and losing in the mind game

, Mandarin duck has been tricked into the cage of romance
 !
 . ... From now on my black kasaya will be spoiled by this retribution [for the sins of my previous life]
 !"#$. (Mao J 1958: 3: 4/54) The Jade Hairpin attained a popularity to which only that of The Peony Pavilion is comparable, as evidenced in both their publication record and performance tradition: (a) nine Ming editions of The Jade Hairpin are extant today, compared to ten enjoyed by The Peony Pavilion during the same period of time; (b) eight scenes of The Jade Hairpin are still regularly staged today, compared to seven of The Peony Pavilion (Zhuang Y 1982: 881–2, 853–4). While Tang Xianzu and his The Peony Pavilion were constantly and unanimously ranked top by mainstream contemporary drama criticism, Gao Lian and his The Jade Hairpin were voted below average by the same critics: 1

2

In Lü Tiancheng’s evaluation of 80 Ming chuanqi playwrights, Gao Lian is marked 6 out of 9; 1 is the highest and is given to Tang Xianzu (Lü T 1959: 217, 212–20). In Qi Biaojia’s assessment of more than 500 chuanqi plays, The Jade Hairpin is marked 5 out of 6; 1 is the highest and is given to The Peony Pavilion (Qi B 1959: 49, 9–123).

Judged from The Jade Hairpin’s unusual popularity against the relatively low status assigned to it by mainstream critics, Ming theatregoers probably developed a taste for forbidden fruit in their chuanqi heroines, who had not influenced the criteria of the literary canon yet. To judge by the opera’s

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measured narration of Chen Miaochang’s torment at the opposition between religious discipline and sexual desire before the affair, as well as her acute shame, anguish and guilt during its course, the playwright and his audience might have shared a sadistic fascination with it. But the sadistic interest was not limited to The Jade Hairpin or indeed characters of priestess status at all. Xishi in Washing Silk might well serve the same purpose. Xishi learns sexy songs and dances in scene 25. She is physically present but sexually forbidden, as she has been designated for a spy mission that requires her to be preserved for the enemy king (Mao J 1958: 1: 4/86–8). To the audience, the difference between Chen Miaochang and Xishi as the forbidden fruit is thus limited, except that the former tastes religious and the latter patriotic. Similarly, Xishi’s sacrifice of her true love for the state and her sexual services to the enemy king might generate a sublime admiration from some spectators, while providing others with sadistic gratification.

Voyeurism affects stage practice Chuanqi performance became progressively feminine from the mid-Ming when chuanqi was increasingly staged in kunju style, known for its seductive music and dance. The situation finally reached a point where theatre practitioners, theorists and playwrights all sensed the need to rein in this tendency. He Liangjun urged playwrights to exercise some verbal restraint in the portrayal of romantic scenes: Descriptions of matters in the boudoir
 ! are necessarily colourful and charming
 !. They should thus be presented in sardonic or ironical ways
 !"#$%& and mixed with jokes
 !; it is only then that they are in good taste
 !. If [the scene] already involves physical description
 !, which is again depicted in colourful and charming words
 !, isn’t that ‘a salty and bloody colouration’ as a painter would call it
 !"#
 !"#? (He L 1569: 37/6) The martial scenes in The Peony Pavilion, which seem so obviously farcical and out of place by all literary standards, are in all likelihood the playwright’s deliberate effort to regain some measure of the yin–yang balance that had been upset by the performative femininity. In fact, the inclusion of scenes of masculinity became a common feature in chuanqi plays, such as in all ten plays in the sample repertoire. Nevertheless, the masculine quality enters chuanqi plays only as an afterthought, functioning essentially as a remedy to, or compensation for, the excessive femininity. Li Yu cautions against the overuse of rowdy and noisy martial scenes as an easy solution to boredom or of a crowd-puller:

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The whole stage is full of killing and attacking
 !, and the air is filled with the thunderous percussion of zheng and drums
 !.1 But it never touches the hearts of the audience
 !", who instead wishes to plug their ears to avoid the noise
 !"#$. (Li Y 1959: 69) And Wang Jide believes masculinity should never become the mainstay in chuanqi: The ci poetry and qu opera
 do not value masculine and mighty [language] or violent and vigorous [style]
 !"#. As long as they continue with the lovely and charming [language] and refined and elegant [style]
 !"#$, they will be considered satisfying
 !. (Wang J 1959: 179) As such, the elite theatre by and large remained romantic and feminine throughout the Ming era. The performative development of martial arts and acrobatics during the same period apparently had a greater impact on public than on private theatre (Zhang D 1982: 6/52–3, Taoan mengyi; Pan Z 1988: 3/215, Luanxiao xiaopin). The spectacle of masculinity seemed to give the practitioners of private theatre one more reason to develop seductive splendour on the elite stage. Fuelling this tendency was a strong voyeuristic interest that was most evident in the staging practices unique to Ming private theatre. Incidental exposure Eyewitness reports suggest that costumes might have produced unexpected visual impact. Li Mingbiao
 , a jinshi who was active during the mid-sixteenth century, wrote about a private show in his colleague’s house: In a secretive room she shortens sleeves with a flip
 !", While the long ribbons pull her costume sideways
 !". (‘An evening gathering at the house of Su Zichuan the Imperial Master of Ceremony
 !"#$%, who ordered his servants to present a dance drama
 !"#, when I jotted a poem to him
’, in Zhao S 1988: 98) But sometimes, the special costuming effects resulted from deliberate efforts. For instance, costumes might be designed in such a way that when an actress kicked, turned, moved fast or jumped high, she would be momentarily exposing herself to the audience (Pan 1988: 3/231, Luanxiao xiaopin). In a group dance performed by the Wang Youlong troupe, the actresses bared ‘the jade-like lustrous flesh around their waists
 !’ simultaneously

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(Pan 1988: 3/90, Luanxiao xiaopin). This effect could only be intentional, as it was a uniform exposure of all five actresses. And spectators were likely to remember such a scene (Pan 1988: 3/215, Luanxiao xiaopin). In matters of costuming, the Ming literati constantly showed their preference for ‘incidental’ exposure over nudity. Such a preference, with its undeniably sexist and voyeuristic nature, might suggest some theatrical quality on the technical level with its twisted forms of ‘suspense’, ‘surprise’, or ‘discovery’.2 Special effects The Ming literati chose thin materials over revealing fabrics for dance scenes.3 Thus Tang Xianzu would ‘try to cut the thin raw silk to make dancing costumes
 !"#$’ for his actresses (Zhao S 1988: 137). Liang Chenyu required ‘patterned silk cloth’ for the dance scene in Washing Silk (Mao J 1958: 1, 4/88). And Li Yu’s actresses would change into their ‘golden thread pieces’ before the dance started (Xu J 1672: 11/18). While the fabrics of these dance costumes seemed quite innocent, the same cannot be said without qualification about their actual functions. In Washing Silk, for instance, the costume is so designed that it could be easily taken off during the dance to reveal the alluring figure of Xishi the sex spy, as a means of seducing the enemy king: Let the patterned silk cloth loosen and drop
 !. Feebly and gradually let the patterned silk cloth loosen and drop

 !". Lithe and graceful is my truly slim figure
 !". (Mao J 1958: 1, 4/88) Because chuanqi librettos also serve the purpose of stage direction when circumstance allows, Xishi’s librettos testify to the costuming effects: A sweet fragrance fills the air when the wind blows open my embroidered skirt
 !"#. A sweet fragrance fills the air when the wind blows open my embroidered skirt
 !"#. (Mao J 1958: 1, 4/88) Two effects are introduced. One is the possible use of perfume, the ‘sweet fragrance’ of which can easily assail the nostrils of the audience because of the intimate seating arrangement of the elite theatre. The other is the actress’ dance movement, such as spinning to open her skirt. This effect must have been created by artificial means, because the wind is not reliable and the opera librettos cannot be improvised, whether by adding or eliminating these lines. When Xishi sings the librettos, the prescribed costuming effect has to take place.

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Erfan jiangershui
 !", the melody to which Xishi sings the abovementioned librettos, provides the opportunity for verse repetition, which is a common feature among chuanqi tunes. What is significant, however, is the fact that the playwright arranges both verses depicting the sexy costuming effects, i.e. ‘let the patterned silk cloth loosen and drop’ and ‘the wind blows open my embroidered skirt’, at the repeatable positions of the tune. This proves the dramatist’s desire to emphasize such special effects, or to buy time for these effects to take place, or both. Viewing angles A peculiar practice, as seen in the Qian Dai troupe, was to dance on platforms: Often after a feast
 !"#, the dancing platforms were set up
 !, either four or eight in number

! . The female singing masters paired the actresses according to their figures and heights
 !"#$%& and dressed them in identical dancing costumes
 !". The musical instruments were played in unison
 !. Actresses appeared on stage in pairs
 !, sang a song
 ! and then stood on the dancing platforms to start dancing
 !" . (Juwuzi 1980: 3242) Such dancing platforms were dangerous. An actress had fallen from it while practising. Injured severely or even fatally, she was never heard of again (Juwuzi 1980: 3243). Yet dance platforms continued to be used in the troupe, according to an eyewitness report: They leaned to their sides and lay supine
 !". They arose from kneeling and bent into curves
 !. Fast or slow
, high or low
, they were in the same tempo and rhythm
 !. Their long sleeves were enchanting
 ! and colourful skirts covering and revealing
 !. They were just like the Goddess of the River Luo
 ! or that of the Mountain Wu
 descending from the sky
 !.4 (Juwuzi 1980: 3242) The only reason for using them was the viewing angle a spectator desired to have. It was possible that by looking up towards the dancing actresses, the spectator might enjoy greater voyeuristic sights or construct his sexual fantasy more easily. As if to confirm this possibility, Qian Dai the troupe owner prohibited the presence of male servants at the performance venue: ‘Yet during the performance
 !, male servants
, unless being called on duty
 , were not allowed to sneak into the playhouse

 !. Only maidservants were permitted as companions
 !"#’

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(Juwuzi 1980: 3242). Whoever violated this ban would be severely punished. When Qian Dai entertained an ‘illustrious and influential guest’ with his actresses, a servant failed to contain his curiosity: His servant named by Yao Bao
 !" stole a glance at the show through the gaps of the screen outside the Baishun Hall [playhouse]
 !"#$%&'. Someone reported him to the Imperial Censor [Qian Dai]
 !"#, who ordered him to be caned and expelled
 !". (Juwuzi 1980: 3242) The more secretive the playhouse, the more suspect the performance.

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Acting is defined as anything an actor does on stage in this book. The three primary means of presentation on a Ming stage, namely singing, dancing and role-playing, receive special attention. In modern practice, acting is considered to be an art largely separated from singing and dancing. This perception, however, would have been inconceivable to a Ming audience. Acting without singing and dancing, especially in its realistic mode, would have been deemed clowning that failed to generate laughter.

Singing Singing in the Ming theatre was employed for dialogue, narration, selfintroduction and the expression of sentiment. The most exciting dramatic moments, the deepest psychological truth and indeed the most beautiful lyrics of Ming plays were all expressed either entirely or primarily in singing. For actors, singing ability was considered a minimum requirement and at the same time the most valuable asset. If any of the acting skills was to be individually performed to an audience, singing would be the choice nine times out of ten, with or without make-up and costume, 360 years ago or today. The importance attached to singing A typical literati owner of a private troupe was very conscious of his performers’ singing skills. He might spend a fortune to buy children who already had adequate vocal training (Pan Z 1988: 3/60, Luanxiao xiaopin). He might also hire experienced singing masters or engage himself to train them (He L 1569: 37/8). Moreover, he would take great pleasure in showcasing his singers whenever he had a chance (Zhang D 1982: 2/13, Taoan mengyi). This phenomenon was created by theatrical, historical and contemporary factors. Theatrical factors Theatrical factors, especially the audience size, the performing space and its surroundings, all called for the extensive use of singing, as well as dancing,

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in this operatic theatre. Sophisticated singing and dancing were particularly suitable for presentation in an intimate environment to a small, cultured audience. The Ming private theatre provided just this: a piece of red rug in a residence hall as stage and a small group of the social elite as audience. Historical factors Historical factors contributed to the aesthetic and artistic preference of troupe owners and their guests for singing and dancing. China’s elite families had long histories of owning private female entertainers
. Wei Jiang
 was awarded eight female performers in 562  (Zuo Q 1914: 229, ‘The Eleventh Year of Duke Xiang’s Reign’).1 This is the first recorded mention of privately owned female performers in China. During the following two millennia leading to the Ming, owning female singers became a tradition among social celebrities. These privately owned female singers presented singing, dancing and instrumental music in pre-Ming times. It was natural for Ming literati to emphasize singing, dancing and instrumental music in their private troupes, for they were the ones who knew tradition best and respected it most. Contemporary factors The two contemporary elements that encouraged the owners to improve their troupes’ singing were competition and fashion. Singing competitions, which were common during the Ming dynasty, contributed much to the perfection of the art. For example, an annual competition was held on the evening of the Mid-Autumn Festival (the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month). People from all walks of life in Suzhou, the birthplace of kunju opera, gathered on Tiger Mound to witness or participate in a grand singing contest. One contemporary account describes such an evening. More than one hundred performances of singing and instrumental music took place as the moon rose. The crowd was so noisy that ‘people could hardly hear themselves yelling’. As the competition continued, fewer performers chose to appear. Well after midnight, the competition ended with just one man on a huge rock singing without any instrumental accompaniment (Zhang D 1982: 5/46–7, Taoan mengyi). Singing without attendant music was considered to be more demanding of a singer’s skills. It was also highly fashionable among literati to be considered experts in singing and music, and many spent much time and effort improving their skills in these arts. They often started young, before officially joining the ranks of literati. Qin Silin, ‘a student of the Imperial College
 !’, loved to sing. He would start singing in the midst of a party or alone by himself or whenever ‘he felt that he had the desire to sing’. Singing was his first priority even on the eve of Imperial Examinations:

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When the education inspector came from the ministry [to preside over the examinations], all Qin brought with him in a travel trunk were libretti of The Lute and The Romance of the Western Chamber. People asked him: ‘You don’t worry, do you? The examinations are looming.’ He answered with a smile: ‘I do. I do worry about my singing being imperfect, but not about my composition being flawed.’ (Xu F 1959: 243) Ming literati were proud of their attainments in the theatre arts. In his later years, Zhang Dai recalled with much pride that actors remembered his expertise so well that they ‘would not dare to perform carelessly’ whenever he was present (Zhang D 1982: 7/69–70, Taoan mengyi). The progress achieved in singing Commentary on singing became a virtually indispensable feature of drama reviews during the Ming. Covering a wide range of topics on vocal production, drama reviews proved beyond doubt that the art of opera singing had developed to a level unknown before and hard to match afterwards. Many of the elite troupes had several singing stars, all with their own characteristics. Contemporary theatre experts delighted in differentiating between their singing abilities and commending them in specific ways. Their comments, usually addressing performers by their stage names, were often written in a symbolic or metaphorical style, similar to the ways in which Ming literati commented on poetry. Vocal quality In the commentaries, an actress’s vocal quality was identified from time to time. Huixinglian of Wang Youlong’s
 troupe, as Pan Zhiheng pointed out, had roundness in her singing.2 It ‘sounded like a jade bracelet turning
 !’ or ‘rhymed to luan or phoenix singing


’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/213, Luanxiao xiaopin).3 The ancient Chinese believed that jade pieces produced melodious sounds and that the luan and phoenix chirped divine tunes. Both Zhangxiangfeng and Zhaobingyu, of the same troupe, were capable of singing very high notes: the former’s pitch ‘could break down the clouds
’, while the latter’s ‘would stop the clouds
’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/213, 214, Luanxiao xiaopin). Oral specialities Ming critics loved to categorize actors’ oral specialties. Ping, Bi and Hui, from Wu Kun’s troupe, all excelled in lengthened sounds in their singing. Ping’s sound was straight, as though ‘half of it ran down the river, and the other half went to the clouds
 !
"#’ (Pan Z 1988: 2/200, Luanxiao

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xiaopin). Bi’s sound was described as being circular, which ‘moves around the roof beams
’ (Pan Z 1988: 2/201, Luanxiao xiaopin). Hui’s sound was so rich in content that ‘although it is only one prolonged sound
 !, it conveyed such intimate and heart-to-heart feelings
 !, as if she was singing to each spectator individually
 !"#’ (Pan Z 1988: 2/201, Luanxiao xiaopin). This critic felt that the quality of Hui’s sound alone, independent of a verse’s meaning, was capable of inducing certain emotions. Singing styles Actors’ singing styles were frequently analysed. The actresses of Zhu Yunlai’s girl troupe maintained delicate and subtle singing styles. Zhang Dai found that their singing had depth ‘whether it was with string and wind instrument accompaniment or with clappers [to mark the tempo and rhythm] only’ (Zhang D 1982: 2/13, Taoan mengyi ). In a few cases, an actor’s musical school was detected from his way of singing. The orthodox singing style of Zhong and Xiao, both of Wu Kun’s troupe, indicated that their practice ‘strictly followed the standards of the school of Wei [Liangfu] and Liang [Chenyu]
 !"’ (Pan Z 1988: 2/202, Luanxiao xiaopin). Stage power Certain singing styles, coupled with an actress’s personal quality and her role-playing ability, might generate great excitement among an appreciating audience. Heng, a gifted actress from Wu Kun’s troupe, possessed a rare touch of underlying melancholy in her singing. A poem dedicated to her pronounced her distinctive style in a typical Ming fashion: A chosen oriole of the palace Flies out of the imperial Shanglin Park
 !"#$, Her songs linger in the air Above the lonely and sad river
 !"#$. (Pan Z 1988: 2/199, Luanxiao xiaopin) The verses reveal Heng’s singing qualities, which encouraged a dynamic audience response: 1

2

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‘A chosen oriole’ not only refers to Heng as a singer of beautiful voice, but also reflects the literati’s fantasy about the perfect heroine, who is the ‘chosen one’ in their self-constructed ideal alternative reality of private theatre.4 The backdrop of ‘palace’ displays an ambiguity. It may denote the heroine’s royal background; yet the poem’s subject matter precludes this reading. The poem is dedicated to a private actress, not a court

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3

4

5

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lady. It may also allude to the talent hunt in which the teenaged private actress has been ‘chosen’. The nationwide scope of the talent hunt parallels that of the palace’s beauty hunt, and thus suggests this reading. This language ambiguity is subconsciously intended. While providing no true identity for the actress, the ‘palace’ setting betrays the literati spectators’ secret desire to see the actress as a lady of the court in their sexual fantasy.5 The language ambiguity is also consciously planned. The repeated imperial court images, ‘palace’ and ‘Shanglin Park’, provoke a sense of forbidden sex, its danger and the associated thrill, all of which apply to the reality of the performance, in which Heng belongs to her master and is prohibited from other guests’ intimacy. Heng ‘flies out’ of the ‘imperial park’ and, by implication, is to return there. What may ‘linger’ are nothing but her songs. This arrangement of the visual and aural imagery implies that both her art and her person will be missed by the audience. The last phrase contains two layers of significance. On one level, it comments on Heng’s singing, which affects the ambience of either nature or the audience, with the ‘river’ representing nature or audience. On the other level, the last phrase comments on Heng’s role playing. The ‘lonely and sad river’ serves as the mirror image of her character. And the possibility that her character might mirror the actress’s ‘lonely and sad’ self provides the audience with much room for imagination.6

Erotic imagery Because actresses and actors were often regarded as sexual objects on stage, on many occasions a spectator would perceive erotic messages from the singing, whether intended or not. A poem dedicated to Manxiurong of Wang Youlong’s troupe reads: Sweet singing and fresh charm
 !"#, You are the incarnation of lovebirds

 !". Already spectators feel transformed under your petticoat
 !"
, Don’t tantalize them with any more words
 !"#$. (Pan Z 1988: 3/212, Luanxiao xiaopin) Manxiurong’s singing was stirring. The poet advises the actress to refrain from using her words to communicate, for that would be either unnecessary or undesirable. This poem was not about the actress’s singing of verses, however, but about her singing skills. Manxiurong’s melodic tunes, vocal quality and body language were considered such efficient mediums of theatrical communication that they rendered words secondary.

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Accuracy Accuracy, a common concern in singing, was rarely mentioned in the criticism. This, however, did not mean that accuracy was less important or that inaccuracy was tolerable in the Ming elite theatre. In fact, precision was one of the minimum requirements for singers. Rigid training beginning in the actors’ early childhood, coupled with a process of elimination through selection and competition during their careers, virtually assured that star singers in reputable private troupes sang flawlessly. Accuracy was no longer the concern of critics, who had more stringent criteria. Thus the lack of comments on accuracy reflected a higher expectation of singing in the elite theatre. Even in troupes of lesser status, those who were unable to sing well enjoyed fewer chances of playing major roles. In Qian Dai’s troupe of thirteen actresses, only one was considered as high in singing quality, while seven were brushed aside: Among the girls
 , the one who has the sweetest and most melodious voice
 !"#$, and who sings every word smoothly and clearly

 !, is no other than Zhang Suyu
 !; followed by Feng
 , by Han
 , further followed by [another] Zhang
 ! and two Xu’s
 . All the rest sing with too narrow or too fragile voices
 !"#"$, which seem to suit no roles but those of the Secondary Female
 !"#$%. (Juwuzi 1980: 3243)

Dancing The word ‘dance’ is used arbitrarily in the discourse of traditional Chinese theatre in modern scholarship. Dance can mean anything from stylized movement – such as conventional ways of walking, pointing or opening the door – to a passage of pure dance. The Ming people, however, did not consider merely stylized movement as dance, since all their stage movement was based on conventions and thus stylized to a certain extent. Following this Ming precedent, dance is defined in this study as moving the body and feet to music in repeatable patterns. Dancing, like singing, was a highly valued performing art of the Ming era. The reasons for its popularity included, but were not limited to, those for singing. Dancers exhibited everything from fragile beauty to masculine splendour, which provided troupe owners and their guests with both aesthetic and sensual entertainment. Audience members greatly enjoyed the visual images of dance, which, at times, were more thrilling than the aural sensations of singing. This is evident from commentaries in which contemporary theatregoers related their experience quite frankly.

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Solo dance Dances, especially solo dances, served as components of the plot, elements of characterization or a means of emotional expression. Dance for dance’s sake was discouraged. In order to present a specific passage of dance, the right play had to be found so that ‘the excuse of the plot might be used

’ (Zhang D 1982: 2/13, Taoan mengyi). On the other hand, the Ming theatre dance was judged primarily by its form, not by its content. In his criticism of Wang Youlong’s twelve performers, Pan Zhiheng wrote almost exclusively about the techniques of their dances, such as Guoqiongzhi’s postures, Manxiurong’s steps, Xishuyue’s carriage, Zhaobingyu’s gestures and Zhangxiangfeng’s waist movements. Nothing was said of the dramatic content of the dances (Pan Z 1988: 3/211–15, Luanxiao xiaopin). Feminine beauty Ming spectators found almost endless charm and fascination in dances. Feminine beauty, whether it appeared in physical delicacy or was charged with wild energy, could always be keenly appreciated. In two romantic plays, the actresses Heng and Ping danced with frail movements, which were said to have delighted the audience.7 The fact that they were still recovering from an illness seemed to enhance the tender beauty of their dance.8 The critic was touched and fell into deep thought while viewing the dance, although he shied away from specifying what his ‘deep thought’ was (Pan 1988: 2/208, Luanxiao xiaopin). Zhaobingyu’s dance, on the other hand, was vigorous. She moved quickly, showing ‘her gorgeous demeanour and skills in the Wu region style of “fast-and-small-steps” in a breeze
 !"#$’. When necessary, she could also jump high in the air. Her dance, although vigorous, was still full of feminine appeal. ‘Wearing a palace ribbon and a string of pearls’, she performed gracefully, with a romantic touch of the south. To a critic’s eyes, ‘she exuded tenderness and love both dynamically and statically
 !’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/214–15, Luanxiao xiaopin). Masculine splendour In dance scenes, Ming spectators loved not only feminine charms but also masculine splendour. Hemeidu, of Wang Youlong’s troupe, was known for his spectacular and forceful dance. The fact that he was less than five feet tall did not stop him from overwhelming his audience with his physical and spiritual power. His stage image was legendary. One critic observed that Hemeidu danced as if ‘the rainbow encircled his body
 !’ and noted that ‘spectators were startled at the frightening anger he expressed
 !"’. Hemeidu’s masculine dance required more than physical strength and technical skill. The dancer had to possess ‘a boldness of vision
 !’ and ‘the vitality of a head shaman in a ritual
 !"#$’.

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Hemeidu had both. The spirit informing his dance was believed to be an essential component in the making of a hero (Pan Z 1988: 3/215, Luanxiao xiaopin). Sexual interest To certain spectators and critics, other kinds of interests, including the sexual, were important in theatrical dances. To at least one man’s gaze, Pan Yingran, of Zou Diguang’s troupe, performed a solo dance that was suggestive and enticing: I love her boundless winding and turning
 !"#$. Whether it is by her sleeves flying or her feet kicking
 !"#$, I am always enchanted
 !. Then as though she suddenly ceases her enchantments, I regain control of my mind
 !"#$. (Pan Z 1988: 3/231, Yiyoucao) ‘Flying sleeves’ and ‘kicking feet’ should not be read as an innocent narration of dance movements. Chinese literati had an almost inherited fascination with female arms and feet, which were constantly covered by clothing. It was understandable that when the clothing was momentarily displaced by certain dance movements, many would be ‘enchanted’. But the text was not totally clear as to how the dancer had stopped this man, and perhaps others, from being overwhelmed by her ‘enchantments’. Possibly her innocent and cool look helped the spectators to survive the testing. One spectator testified, ‘She appears pure and shines like metal
 !’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/231, Yiyoucao). Group dance Judged from available Ming accounts, private theatregoers loved group dances in the same way they fell for solo dances. Group dances customarily served as major spectacles that excited the audience. Formations and variations A uniqueness of group dance was its formations and variations, which are unavailable or impossible in solo dance. Zou Diguang’s troupe was known for its ‘Six Actresses
’ and ‘Eight Actresses
’ dances: [The actresses] spread out on stage at one moment and formed a pyramid the next
 !. [The formations] moved forward and backward
, opened up and closed down
, interlocked and crisscrossed
: exhausting all possible variations
 !. (Pan Z 1988: 3/90, Luanxiao xiaopin)

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These ‘most beautiful
 !’ group dances, according to Pan Zhiheng, were the new varieties of his time, which signified chuanqi dance’s ‘gradual departure from the ancient models
 !"’. Costumes and props Lavish costumes and props at times became inseparable parts of the dance scene. The Zhu Yunlai girl troupe, for instance, offered the kind of group dance in which gorgeous costumes and props predominated. Its performance of ‘Xishi’s Song and Dance
 !’ presented five actresses as main dancers:9 ‘They waved long sleeves and soft streamers
 ! into coils to circle their bodies like rings
 !, which reached high and touched the ground
 !, waving and leaning
 ! like fragile peonies in the autumn
 !’ (Zhang D 1982: 2/13, Taoan mengyi). Much of the dance’s appeal came from its supreme application of the costume pieces, which aesthetically enhanced and spatially extended the charm of the dancers. Besides, more than twenty accompanying dancers presented assorted props in characters: ‘[Dressed as] maids of honour and eunuchs
 !, [the dancers] hold feather vehicle-awnings
 , jade-decorated canopies
, lotus-shaped torches
 !, round silk fans
 and palace-styled lanterns
’ (Zhang D 1982: 2/13, Taoan mengyi). While the quantity and variety of the props were impressive, the lighting mechanism in some of them certainly added an element of wonder to its audience of pre-electricity era: ‘[The scene] was ablaze with flames and lights
 !. [The costume and props] were rich and colourful as layers of brocade
 !. The spectators were surprised and amazed
 !’ (Zhang D 1982: 2/13, Taoan mengyi). Voyeuristic attraction One of the most splendid group dances was that in the ‘Five Scouts’ scene of The West Garden
 (Xiyuan ji). This group dance, originating in another chuanqi play, The Interlocking Stratagems
 = (Lianhuan ji), was adopted and improved to suit contemporary taste: It started with the techniques of the ‘Five Umbrellas’ dance
 !" and the ‘Five Flags’ dance
, whereas the ‘Scouts’ scene used the flag technique
 !"#. In the lake scene the five beauties jumped up together
 !"#, more than a foot from the ground

. The jade-like lustrous flesh around their waists was exposed

. (Pan Z 1988: 3/90, Luanxiao xiaopin) To some spectators, this group dance offered a voyeuristic attraction. Among the five actresses who performed the ‘Scouts’ dance, we know only Zhaobingyu, of Wang Youlong’s troupe, by name, for a poem dedicated to

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her reads: ‘You must have seen the jades lining up in the air
 !"#
, / But will the Fairy of the Xiang River [Zhaobingyu] stay for sure after the opera ends
 !"#$?’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/215, Luanxiao xiaopin). ‘The jades lining up in the air’ was a clear reference to the ‘Scouts’ dance scene. History of dance scenes Popular as they were, solo or group dance scenes never became a standard feature of Ming elite theatre. There was simply a lack of suitable plots and music. In an article titled ‘Hermit in Dance
’, Pan Zhiheng briefly reviewed the dance tradition in chuanqi opera: Before
 in the chuanqi dance
 !, only The Interlocking Stratagems had suitable music [for dance]
 !"#. Its tune of Duiyuhuan
 !" could be used for [dance] choreography

. Among those following this trend
 , the scene in which Xishi is taught to sing and dance [in Washing Silk]
 !" might be called an incompetent imitation
 !. The [tradition of ] the scouts’ Flag Dance
 ! also has its origin in The Interlocking Stratagems
 !", which was followed by the ‘Five Reports’ group dance in The Golden Pellet [Jinwan ji]
 !"#$. Yet the most amazing was the choreography of the ‘Five Scouts’ group dance in The West Garden
 !"#$%. (Pan Z 1988: 3/90, Luanxiao xiaopin) From this account, a few basic facts in the development of the dance scenes in Ming chuanqi opera can be identified. The two kinds of dance scenes in chuanqi opera, the feminine and the masculine, are both evolved from The Interlocking Stratagems, a mid-Ming opera by Wang Ji
 (?–1540). The feminine finds the excuse in the plot when the heroine learns singing and dancing, and the masculine when the flag-carrying scout reports a battle. ‘Scene 5, Teaching Skills’ in the forerunner depicts a singing master training Diaochan and her cohort to sing and dance, which is imitated by Washing Silk in ‘Scene 25, Dance Training’ when Xishi learns singing and dancing. ‘Scene 16, Questioning Scout’ in The Interlocking Stratagems shows the spy Yebushou reporting the military intelligence he has gathered, a solo dance scene later developed into the group dance scene of ‘Five Reports’ in The Golden Pellet
 (Jinwan ji) and ‘Five Scouts’ in The West Garden. To Pan Zhiheng’s knowledge (and he was very knowledgeable), during the entire Ming dynasty only four plays from the chuanqi genre provided the desired plots and melodic patterns to present dance scenes: The Interlocking Stratagems, Washing Silk, The Golden Pellet and The West Garden. The fact that Ming theatre practitioners declined to present dance scenes as merely visual attractions indicates that they cared more about the unity of production and the nature of plot than spectacle for its own sake.

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10 Role-playing

Singing and dancing were highly valued performing arts in private troupes of the period. A superior level of skills in these arts was not, however, the ultimate criterion by which most owners and spectators evaluated a theatrical performance. The ultimate criterion was role-playing. Singing and dancing were meant to be organic components in a certain acting style, which was seen most clearly in role-playing. In an average private theatre, actors and actresses were expected to understand the script and to portray their characters intelligently. In top private troupes, performers, especially those playing complex characters, might take three distinctive steps, namely script explanation, character interpretation and psychological preparation, to approach their role-playing. In the following pages, a wide range of examples is presented to paint a full picture of this practice. To illustrate the complete process, however, this chapter concentrates on Heng’s experience of playing Du Liniang. Heng was a star actress in Wu Kun’s troupe; Du Liniang is the heroine in The Peony Pavilion.

Script explanation This is the first step in role-playing, and occurs at many levels ranging from the reading of librettos to the discovery of subtext, and from the narrative of a plotline to the construction of a character’s life story. Since actors were often illiterate in Ming times, singing masters or troupe owners frequently led this necessary task of script explanation. Li Yu maintained that script explanation was generally responsible for the success or failure of a troupe and its performers. He observed that actors received little literary tutoring during their years of training and were not stage-ready judged by the literati criteria of intellectuality and intelligibility: They sing from their mouths but not from their hearts
 !". Theatrical elements emerge from their voices but not from their faces or bodies
 !"#$%$&!. This is called ‘heartless singing

 !"’. As schoolchildren reciting Confucian scriptures
 !
, they are both pretentious but not motivated
 !"#$%&'. (Li Y 1959: 5/98)

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These harsh comments should not be taken as an exaggeration of the situation, as they were based on the lifetime observation of the practitioner and critic, whose writing is marked by accuracy and evenhandedness. Because of the lack of understanding of playscripts, these actors ‘offered only second or third class performances’ even though they excelled technically with the most accurate melody and rhythm and the clearest enunciation. ‘The keyword is “understanding”
 !"#’, Li Yu concluded, and the understanding of a dramatic text ‘changes a dead voice into living theatre
 !"# and transforms a singer into an intellectual
 !"#’ (Li Y 1959: 5/98). Literati troupe owners apparently agreed with Li Yu. Their efforts were constantly focused on script explanation so that their actors might understand the plot and their production might have life. Ruan Dacheng’s meticulous script explanation resulted in the most logical and intelligent productions of his time (Zhang D 1982: 8/73, Taoan mengyi ). After Ruan’s death, his actors were still most welcome in other troupes (Jiao X 1959: 201–2). Wu Kun was not known for getting directly involved in his troupe’s rehearsals. Yet he found professional help for his troupe. With experts’ help, Heng, his female lead, well comprehended her character’s unusual life story, which went as follows. The daughter of Prefect Du Bao, Du Liniang has been raised under strict Confucian precepts. She has never seen a man other than her father and an old pedantic tutor. She has never had the chance to see the garden of the house until one day when her father leaves town on business. But right after the visit to the garden, she has a dream in which she meets a young scholar and falls in love with him. Du Liniang subsequently dies of lovesickness, but even in the other world she never gives up her love. She travels back to this world and is finally reunited with her dream-lover as his wife. The literati’s participation was needed even in the preparation of a production. Singing masters, as mentioned, were often incompetent at teaching complex chuanqi scripts, especially the intricate librettos that were customarily composed in classical Chinese, rich in allusion and metaphor. To make the situation worse, the face value of the verse may be quite different from the dramatic significance of the scene. When this happened, the literati owner had to rush to the singing master’s rescue. The troupe’s misinterpretation of a playscript would cause embarrassment to the owner regarding his literati guests-cum-spectators. To illustrate the possible differences between the semantic definition and the pragmatic meaning of chuanqi librettos, three brief sections in ‘Scene 10, The Interrupted Dream
’ of The Peony Pavilion, as they appear in Cyril Birch’s translation, can be analysed in detail. The courtyard scene takes place when Du Liniang does her make-up while looking into the yard.

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The spring a rippling thread of gossamer gleaming sinuous in the sun borne idly across the court
 !"#$%&'()a. (Tang X 1980: 43) The words literally do little more than describe the scenery in a courtyard in the spring. The text involves a few word games, however, which have always been popular in Chinese literature, especially in drama and sanqu poetry. Theatre critics commented favourably on this practice (Wang J 1959: 136–7). Thus ‘spring’ is a pun upon ‘lust’ or ‘love’; and ‘gossamer in the sun
’ (qingsi) is a homonym of ‘stirrings of love
’ (qingsi). The mirror scene takes place when Du Liniang, having finished applying her makeup, actually looks in the mirror. She complains of the mirror peeping at her:

Figure 10.1 Du Liniang sings a punning libretto. Shanghai Kunju Company production: Du Liniang by Liang Guyin. Stage image taken from VCD The Peony Pavilion
 Disk A (ISRC CN-E07-98-0022-0/V·J8), Shanghai: Shanghai yinxiang chubanshe.

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Role-playing Pausing to straighten the flower heads of hair ornaments
 !"#, perplexed to find that my mirror
 ! stealing its half-glance at my hair
 ! has thrown these ‘gleaming clouds’ into alarmed disarray
 !"#. (She takes a few steps
.) Walking here in my chamber
 how should I dare let others see my form
 !"#! (Tang X 1980: 43)

Du Liniang’s words seem to indicate a youthful, playful and somewhat humorous dance scene, which would probably be the interpretation of an average singing master of the Ming era. This understanding is nevertheless superficial. The dramatic potential of the scene cannot be fully realized unless an actress performs intelligently and imaginatively. Her acting should

Figure 10.2 Du Liniang complains about the mirror peeping at her. Shanghai Kunju Company Production: Du Liniang by Liang Guyin; Chunxiang by Jin Caiqin. Stage image taken from VCD The Peony Pavilion
 Disk A (ISRC CN-E07-98-0022-0/V·J8), Shanghai: Shanghai yinxiang chubanshe.

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first transform the mirror, which was seldom present on the Ming stage, into Du Liniang’s imagined lover and his gaze. It is then possible for the actress to signify the unsaid: Du’s longing for romantic love. The fact that Du treats the mirror as a man testifies to her lack of romantic love. This scenario would also foreshadow the character’s imagined sexual encounter in her upcoming dream. The admiration of flowers scene takes place during Du Liniang’s visit to the garden: The green hillside
 bleeds with the cuckoo’s tears of red azalea
 !", shreds of mist lazy as wine fumes thread the sweetbriar
 !"
. However fine the peony
 !, how can she rank as queen coming to bloom when spring has said farewell
 !"#$! (Tang X 1980: 45)

Figure 10.3 Du Liniang laments the loss of her youth and beauty in metaphors. Shanghai Kunju Company Production: Du Liniang by Liang Guyin. Stage image taken from VCD The Peony Pavilion
 Disk A (ISRC CN-E07-98-0022-0/V·J8), Shanghai: Shanghai yinxiang chubanshe.

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Ostensibly this scene seems to do little more than list different kinds of flowers. But ‘joyful acting’ here would be superficial and misleading. ‘Azalea’ and ‘sweetbriar’, easily grown bushes, are metaphors for girls from average families; the ‘peony’, with tender blossoms and delicate leaves, is a metaphor for young ladies, like Du herself, who come from rich and powerful families. The mention of flowers in bloom is a symbol for girls embarking on married life. Furthermore, ‘spring’ is an allusion to youth. Therefore, the real meaning of the scene is not that Du Liniang admires the plants or enjoys herself in the garden, but that she complains about her desire for romantic love and a timely marriage. Her bitterness is especially intense when she compares herself with girls from average families, who fully enjoy their earthy lives. Although these dramatic verses seem obscure, they are realistic. As a young lady raised under the strictest Confucian precepts, Du Liniang would not talk easily about the awakening of her love or complain about her lack of a lover. She would instead talk ambiguously to intellectual listeners, who could be readily found in a Ming private theatre. An actress without profound understanding of her lines, however, would never be able to guide her audience to the true meaning of Du Liniang’s messages. She would instead hinder her audience’s appreciation of the beauty of this masterpiece.

Character interpretation With story and script in mind, an actor then took the second step towards role-playing. This step was meant to lead the actor from story to psychology – from script to spirit. Character interpretation started here in the true sense. It was a necessary but often difficult procedure. In general, the sequence in dramatic events did not provide links to the process of thought in the human mind. In particular, the great poets of Ming drama often valued extraordinary events and weird imagery over common-sense approaches to characterization. While such events and imagery might serve as means of symbolic fulfilment of a playwright’s search for spiritual freedom in their ideal alternative reality of elite theatre, they created tremendous difficulties for the average actress. In The Peony Pavilion, for example, Du Liniang lives in a self-made world of illusion. The challenge for the actress was to understand Du’s spiritual life and, eventually, enter Du’s private world. According to Pan Zhiheng’s ten-year observation, the hardest task for a troupe owner in staging The Peony Pavilion was to find an actress who understood Du (Pan Z 1988: 3/72, Luanxiao xiaopin). Heng, an unusually intelligent actress, comprehended her character’s mentality. Apparently she visualized Du Liniang’s romantic dream and understood its aftermath. First, the illusions overwhelm Du at a time when she perceives her initial stirrings of love; then the illusions inspire her erotic dream; finally, her revival from the tomb is a result of her spiritual yearning

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for the illusions. In a Ming critic’s words, ‘her leaving the illusions
’ is a consequence of illusions, but not an awakening from the illusions (Pan Z 1988: 3/73, Luanxiao xiaopin). While the reality is for others to enjoy, illusions are hers to keep. Only in the illusions does Du Liniang find her true self and make her spiritual life meaningful. This is why Du ‘takes the dream as reality
 !’ and why ‘even their parents disbelieve the illusion
 !"#, no one in the world believes the illusion

, Du and her lover come to believe even more firmly in the illusions
 !"#$%&’. Based on such an understanding of her character, Heng dared ‘to play every word in [the context of Du’s] searching for her illusions
 !"’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/73, Luanxiao xiaopin). Heng’s interpretation of the character was bold, spiritual and, evidently, successful. From the character’s perspective, Heng questioned how real the real world was. In her portrayal of the character, she rejected the reality of the physical world, where no real feeling or real love could be found. She did not wander back and forth on broken routes between the two worlds of life and death, as the plots seem to suggest. Instead her Du Liniang took a determined and continuous journey towards the destiny of spiritual liberation and self-realization. Liu Mengmei, the hero of The Peony Pavilion, was another major challenge for Ming actors. Among those who played this role in an entertainment district in Nanjing, Yishi of Wu Taiyi’s troupe won the highest acclaim: Only Yishi had the knack of performing Liu Mengmei
 !"#$
, who is secure in the knowledge that he has the strong backing of his talent and his status as Du Bao’s son-in-law

. He is so selfcomplacent

 that he refuses to yield to the violence
 !
.1 Later actors did their utmost to imitate Yishi’s style
 !"
 . Yet none of them reached his level
 !. (Pan Z 1988: 3/210, Luanxiao xiaopin) Yishi made ‘a touch of infatuation
 !’ a key element in his acting, which was based on his correct interpretation of the character (Pan Z 1988: 3/72, Luanxiao xiaopin). His performance took place soon after Tang Xianzu’s The Peony Pavilion became available to the public. Ten years after the production, Yishi’s attitude of infatuation was still alive in the memory of the audience (Pan Z 1988: 3/210, Luanxiao xiaopin). A sound understanding of the play-script combined with a proper interpretation of character opened the door to the lifelike portrayal of a character. Yet these elements had to be manifested on stage through the actor’s enactment of the character. The greatest difficulty of this manifestation, however, lay in the psychological preparation, not in the physical representation.

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Psychological preparation The next step in role-playing demanded actors to prepare psychologically a second self for their character. This process was not exactly the modern equivalent of ‘becoming the character’, when actors abandon their own personality and adopt another’s mentality. In Ming practice, actors used elements of their personal faculties to form their character’s psychological disposition. The character was not precisely the other, then, but a part of their true self. For this purpose, the Ming actors had first to investigate and analyse the attributes of their own personality and mentality. They then cultivated and ripened the desired psychological qualities within them. And, finally, their character was born of their very own nature. In Heng’s case, she had to find in herself the qualities of passion and madness to play Du Liniang. According to a Ming theory of performance, ‘only those capable of being crazy are capable of having passion
 !"
#; only those capable of having passion are capable of portraying the passion
 !"
 !’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/73, Luanxiao xiaopin). Heng fortunately possessed ‘both the passion and the craziness
 ’ that qualified her as a candidate for the role. But these natural attributes did not guarantee her stage success. She had to strengthen her desired inborn qualities to create an artistically powerful character. Since her character’s illusions ‘were sustained by passion and craziness
 !’, the more forceful her passion and craziness, the more natural or persuasive her character’s illusions. Heng’s passion, both authentic and dynamic, carried her character through all the actions in the illusions. A critic readily testified that Heng ‘placed her own passion in the illusions
 !’, which was so strong that she acted ‘as if she did not know how and why the illusions happened to her
 !"#
’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/73, Luanxiao xiaopin). Despite her passionate and almost self-abnegating acting, Heng never violated the rules of the conventional stage. While living among vague and uncertain illusions, ‘Heng did not miss even a single word
 !’ from the play-script, and ‘she excelled in all the minute details
 !’ of conventional acting (Pan Z 1988: 3/72, Luanxiao xiaopin). This was possible because Heng allowed only her character’s emotion, which derived from her very own passion, to overwhelm her. But she never permitted her character’s mind to replace hers. Heng committed herself to her character at the emotional level, but not at the intellectual level. Heng the actress was always in charge of the stage business. She helped to create the illusions in which she lived as a character. She always knew why her passion and craziness were nurtured and how they should be used. An actor’s controlled application of true feeling or mental state in performance often marked his excellence in the profession. This technique was employed in portraying negative characters as well. In the Wu Kun troupe, Bing’s acting exemplified this sort of personality transformation in playing the jing, or ‘painted face’, role type.2 Jing characters during the

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Ming were either larger or smaller than life and often produced grotesque or humorous scenes, which were much liked by the typical Ming audience.3 Bing, specializing in portraying villains, transfigured every inch of his being into a wicked man: ‘He looks exactly like a treacherous high court official
 !. . . . [His character] cannot be said to have advised his lord with a few wise words
 !"#, but is surely holding immediate power over the life and death of others
 !"#$’ (Pan Z 1988: 2/201, Luanxiao xiaopin). His thoroughly developed characters overwhelmed his audience. A poem describing his art reads: Even when he ceases to be angry, He looks like a vulture or falcon, Talking in an indistinct voice
 !"#$. While stroking his beard, A trick is played In the turning of his hand
 !"#$. The auditorium is stilled with silence, Happiness replaced with sadness
 !"#$. Who would say that he is not controlling The audience’s knitting brows And smiling faces
 !"#$! (Pan Z 1988: 2/201, Luanxiao xiaopin) The power of his art lay in the fact that he, like Heng, nurtured a true emotion for his character and psychologically lived his character’s life as faithfully as possible. He thus possessed a mentality that was willing to kill or ‘taking pleasure from the killing
 !’ (Pan Z 1988: 2/201, Luanxiao xiaopin). At the same time, he never let the evil or murderous mentality of his character get out of hand. What he presented on stage was not a naturalistic performance in the sense of the Western theatre but a performance that drew on the mastery of conventional techniques and the creativity of acting between the lines of the script. As a jing actor, Bing was in great demand in court plays (Pan Z 1988: 2/201, Luanxiao xiaopin). Ming critics often likened jing roles to ‘garlic and strong cheese
’, which were perceived as northern barbarians’ favourites. Obviously Ming dramatists wanted jing roles to add an exotic taste to the usually soft style of their chuanqi productions, just as the flavours of garlic and strong cheese would enhance a Chinese banquet. Bing’s acting exemplified this criterion of the Ming theatre. In a few cases, an actor’s natural attributes met his character’s disposition. Then this actor’s psychological creation of a second self became more or less a self-manifestation. This ideal match might result from his owner’s sensitive casting, or it might just happen by chance. In the Ming private theatre, an actor might have a substantially noble personality. But as a bondservant in legal status, he had little chance of showing this quality. His

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virtue would then remain unknown to others until he revealed it in a worthy character on stage. He Qinhua as a person ‘possessed a leisurely and carefree mood’ and ‘took an attitude of standing aloof from worldly affairs’. This mentality was not recognized until he played the male lead in Zou Diguang’s troupe. In a production He Qinhua presented scenes of separation and reunion vastly different from those of ordinary performances. Instead of showing the acts of weeping and smiling, which were routinely seen on the Ming chuanqi stage, his acting focused on avoiding these common responses. A poet observed: Looking high and far, walking trippingly, as if he has renounced the world
 !"#$, His true self is revealed once in a while on the stage
 !"#$. He does not raise his arm to wave farewell until the parting road can no longer bear the anxiety
 !"
. The reunion is full of joy, which nevertheless revokes the sorrowful past
 !"#$. (Pan Z 1988: 3/230, Yiyoucao) The fact that He Qinhua withheld his emotions had a great impact on the audience. Not only those who were sentimental, but also the hardhearted and those who ‘had already known the ways of the world well
 !’, were moved to tears. In the theatrical atmosphere he created, some spectators ‘became sick at heart even before actually seeing the scenes
 !"
 ’. He Qinhua’s personal attributes probably helped him to accomplish his rare characterization, which called for delayed action and reflective sensation. A poet ‘eventually believed that the character on stage was the actor’s incarnation
 !"#$’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/230, Yiyoucao). Essentially, the third step of role-playing was a demanding psychological process in which an actor not only played the character but also nurtured the character out of his own personality. In Ming accounts, many other stars experienced this process in their careers, such as Pan Yingran of Zou Diguang’s troupe (Pan Z 1988: 3/231, Yiyoucao), Quan of Wu Kun’s troupe (Pan Z 1988: 3/72–3, Luanxiao xiaopin) and Zhang San of Shen Shixing’s troupe (Pan Z 1988: 3/136, Luanxiao xiaopin). During the second half of the dynasty, if not earlier, intellectual roleplaying began to be recognized as a serious artistic pursuit in private troupes. The criteria for an actress were still her skills, looks and intelligence. But their weight changed in the course of time when her intellectual faculty commanded a higher and higher esteem in the profession. This was evidenced in theatre criticism: technical excellence was expected but not always praised; physical beauty was praised but not always emphasized. Only intelligent and convincing role-playing was always praised and

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emphasized. The experience of Lan and Quan, two actors of the Wanli period, readily depicted this trend. Lan and Quan were both actors in Wu Kun’s troupe. Lan had all the physical advantages over Quan. He ‘was stronger and more handsome than Quan
 !’, and his beauty was stunning: Among those immaculately dressed youths, He is the one who shines

 !"#. Among those shining beauties, He is the one who wins people’s hearts
 !"#$. (Pan Z 1988: 3/202, Luanxiao xiaopin) While the two were ‘very close in all the other aspects of theatre arts

 ’, Lan was ‘less intelligent than [Quan]
 ’. Yet this intellectual strength of Quan’s made a difference in their acting careers. Quan, not Lan, became the leading actor in their troupe. A critic remarked: ‘Had Lan played in another troupe
 !, he would have dominated their stage just as Quan did here
 !’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/202, Luanxiao xiaopin). This critic, while recognizing Lan’s value and probably feeling sorry for him, did not dispute the troupe owner’s casting. In all probability Wu Kun the owner appreciated Lan’s rare features as well, but nevertheless chose the brightest instead of the most handsome to play the lead. Quan’s superior role-playing in The Peony Pavilion clearly demonstrated his grasp of his character’s essence (Pan Z 1988: 3/72–3, Luanxiao xiaopin) and, at the same time, testified to Wu’s artistic discretion. When an actor’s conventional skills were taken for granted, it was only natural that the new emphasis on his intelligence would diminish the importance of his physical beauty. This intellectual emphasis marked the maturity of acting in the Ming private theatre. Acting, as a performing art, was gaining independence from the repeatable expertise of physical stunts and the raw beauty of bodily features. The literati taste dictated the fashions and trends of Ming private stage. In acting – the primary means of theatrical presentation – literati emphasized convention and conviction. In terms of acting style, this literati theatre was one of immaculate conventions. Actors were methodically trained in the techniques of convention. Their singing, dancing and role-playing all observed the highest standard of convention. Innovations were allowed to perfect the details of convention, but not to challenge the system of convention. Accuracy was a benchmark of artistic excellence. A successful show usually resulted from the impeccable execution of a well studied and rehearsed production plan. Improvisation had little room on this stage of precision. In terms of acting criteria, literati accentuated the quality of communication. Actors had to impart the true message of the play to their audience. Merciless critics would condemn a mere presentation of acting skills without

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an understanding of plot. Actors had also to impart the message with true conviction; that is, making the character part of themselves. Only those who portrayed their characters with convincing power attained high reputations. The keen literati audience immediately cherished the best and forsook the worst. This environment of optimization selectively nurtured actors and constantly shaped the art of acting.

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11 Directing

In the late Ming, some literati troupe owners assumed functions similar to those performed by modern directors and more. To begin with, they searched for gifted children who had acting potential to form the troupe. Then they hired suitable singing masters from all sources – including the court, public and other private troupes – to train their actors; they themselves often participated in the training process too. Finally, they conducted rehearsals and directed the productions, often with their deep understanding of the script, superior interpretation of characters and overall control of staging effects. The way literati troupe owners took up the task of drama direction was inevitable and unpretentious. It was inevitable because staging elements, especially setting, lighting, props and costume, had developed to a new level of sophistication, in addition to the complicated literary elements of chuanqi libretto, plot structure and character relations and the acting elements of singing, dancing and role-playing. Because of the production’s complexity, a single mastermind controlling supervision and coordination became desirable. And it was unpretentious because Ming theatre directors attempted new methods with their own troupes, similar to the case of Duke of SaxeMeiningen. They probably saw it as a continuous effort in constructing their alternative reality in the illusionary world of elite theatre. China’s early modern drama chanced to have these reform-minded and multitalented individuals as its first directors, who probably did not sense much historical significance or self-importance in their directorial work. Being a new skill unbounded by tradition and an individual endeavour unregulated by market forces, the drama direction of the late Ming existed in many diversified forms and resulted in vastly different productions. To avoid ambiguities, three parameters are set to facilitate the discussion: 1 2

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‘Directing’ is defined as conscious artistic control over the production, not the troupe owner’s managerial power or its application. ‘Directors’ are limited to those who exercised artistic control over the dramatic text, performing arts or staging techniques hitherto unknown to Chinese opera, not those merely following or imitating existing practices.

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Directing ‘Directorial successes’ are recognized only when such new dramatic texts, performing arts or staging techniques were well received by contemporary theatregoers, and thus exclude experimental pieces that produced dubious results.

This study of drama direction takes the perspective of production control. Four general topics, namely literary, staging, stylistic and total control, are discussed in that order, which roughly corresponds with the chorological development of the art of directing.

Literary control Literary control refers to directorial effort in creating playscripts for staging purposes. When a director doubles as the playwright, his directorial effort in literary control becomes unnoticeable, as it blends with his labour of playwriting. When the director makes this move during rehearsals, his textual alterations to the playscript may only attract the attention of the small circle of his guest-audience. But when a director publishes his literary revisions, his action becomes immediately public. Judging from published cases of play adaptations, the Ming directors’ literary control focused on feasibility in performance, suitability of plot and credibility of logic. Feasibility in performance The ‘Tang–Shen Debate
 !’, or what is known today as a playwriting controversy, started with a directorial attempt at literary control. Its outcome, as far as literary control goes, favours directors over playwrights. Tang Xianzu versus Shen Jing Shen Jing, himself a private troupe owner, made textual ‘corrections’ to The Peony Pavilion: Wujiang [Shen Jing]
 . . . once corrected words and lines in the librettos that were inconsistent with [the tonic requirements of ] the music in The Resurrection [i.e. The Peony Pavilion] for Linchuan [ Tang Xianzu]
 !"#$%&'()*+. The [retired] Minister of Personnel Lü Yusheng
 !" [Lü Yinchang
 ] sent the corrections to Linchuan
 !. (Wang J 1959: 4/165) Shen Jing, undisputed expert in musicology and authority in rules and forms of chuanqi opera, modified the masterpiece for performance reasons, but not for literary improvement. Tang Xianzu protested against these corrections in his letter in reply to Lü Yinchang:

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Linchuan was unhappy with that
 !. He wrote back to the [former] Minister of Personnel
 !": ‘What does that man know about the meaning of librettos
 !"#? When I have something to say
 !, I do not mind if that means twisting everyone’s vocal cords
 !"#$%&.’ (Wang J 1959: 4/165) Although Tang Xianzu admitted that his librettos might create singing difficulties, he made his own case thus: (a) Shen Jing distorted the meaning of the librettos; and (b) meaning took priority over singing. Tang Xianzu versus Lü Yinchang Lü Yinchang took Tang’s claims seriously. Assuming he was the one who ‘knew the meaning’ of Tang’s librettos, Lü came up with his own revision, which nevertheless proved a further irritation to the playwright: The Peony Pavilion by my humble self has been severely distorted by Lü Yusheng
 !"#$%&'()*. He said that was to suit the singing in the Wu style
 !. My humble self could not help laughing
 !"#. In the past, there was someone who disliked Mojie’s painting of the winter scene with plantain
 !"#$%&'(. Thus he cut out the plantain to add a plum tree
 !. It was a winter scene all right

, but not Wan Mojie’s winter scene any more
 !"#$%. (‘Reply to Ling Chucheng
 ! [Ling Mengchu
 ]’, Tang X 1621a: 4/18) The ‘Wu style’ was the kunqu musical style. Lü Yinchang used ‘to suit singing in kunqu’ as the reason for his revision, thus suggesting that Tang’s original did not suit kunqu singing. Like Shen Jing, Lü Yinchang made a directorial justification for his textual alteration. Not disputing Lü’s opinion on singing feasibility, Tang Xianzu this time defended his position of textual integrity through an allusion. Mojie (Wang Wei
) was a great poet and painter of the Tang dynasty. The winter scene Tang Xianzu referred to was a painting titled ‘Yuan An Lies in Snow’. It was in the collection of Shen Kuo
 (1030– 94), an accomplished scientist who made multidisciplinary discoveries and a member of the Imperial Academy of the Song dynasty: In my family collection, there is ‘Yuan An Lies in Snow’, a painting by Mojie
 !"#$%&'(), in which a plantain grows in snow
 !". This happened because painting was his element
 !
 and the idea transformed itself into the image in one stroke of genius
 !. Thus he was as creative as the gods
 !", while

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 to discuss with philistines
 !"#$%.

!. This is difficult (Shen K 1774: 17/2)

Expanding on Shen Kuo’s opinion, Tang Xianzu further constructed a scenario in which hopeless pedants criticized Wang Wei’s painting because plantains do not grow in icy weather, and used that mundane truth to revise the divine revelation in an artwork. Tang Xianzu thus established a precedent; that is, his masterpiece should not be revised by a kunqu technician, just as Wang Wei’s inspired work must not be altered by a pedantic painter. Tang Xianzu versus Zang Maoxun Ming editors chose to turn a deaf ear to Tang Xianzu’s repeated protests. Before long, two more unauthorized revisions of The Peony Pavilion, by Zang Maoxun
 (1550–1620) and Feng Menglong
 (1574–1646), appeared in bookshops. Moreover, Zang Maoxun’s revision came with a ‘Preface to the chuanqi operas of White Camellia Hall
 !"#’, which argued that Tang Xianzu ‘had learned nothing about rules and forms of opera
 !"’ and ‘composed rhythm-less music and songs
 !
’ (Zang M 1621: 3/53). Except for the harsh words, Zang’s observation was in line with previous criticisms. Tang Xianzu and Zang Maoxun were otherwise good friends. The only difference between them was their opinion of Tang’s plays, according to Wu Jingxue
 , a nephew of Zang: Yireng [Tang Xianzu] composed the four dream operas
 !"#
. Jinshu [Zang Maoxun] called them armchair dramas
 !"
, but not stage pieces
 !.1 He thus omitted parts and added others
 !. Yireng angrily composed a heptasyllabic quatrain
 !"#$, comparing Zang’s effort to the alteration of Mojie’s painting of ‘Plantain in Snow
 !"#$’.2 (Wu J 1983: 79/3) A directorial victory The struggle for literary control of the dramatic text between directors and playwrights ended with the former’s total victory. Even Tang Xianzu, the giant of Ming drama, lacked the means to prevent stage adaptations of his masterpieces. He resorted to writing to the actor manager of a commercial troupe as a matter of principle or a measure of damage control: Follow my original version of The Peony Pavilion in performance

 !"#$%. That adaptation tempered by Lü
 !" should absolutely not be accepted
 !. Even adding or deleting one or

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two characters
 !"#$ to suit the common way of singing

 would nevertheless change the flavour and mood of my original drastically

 !"#$%&'(. (‘Letter to actor Luo Zhang’er of Yihuang musical style
 !"#’, Tang X 1621a: 6/9) At the same time, the venerable playwright took up the directing of his own troupe: White Camellia Hall opens its screen of the spring greenery
 !"
. The new librettos of The Peony Pavilion spread wide and far
 !
 . Striking all over the balustrade as nobody understands its sorrow
 !"#$. I then beat the marks on sandalwood to direct my juvenile actors
 !"#$. (‘Written in reply to [Liu] Jundong in the evening of the seventh day of the seventh lunar year in intoxication
 !"#’, Tang X 1621b: 15/8) Tang Xianzu’s directorial endeavor ironically placed him in the same shoes as his opponents. Suitability of plot Playscripts were often revised to avoid unsuitable materials or to include desirable topics. Cutting could be done without much complication as long as one followed certain guidelines (Li Y 1959: 77–8). Rewriting, however, might pose a challenge to Ming practitioners. Zhang Dai’s ability as a director became evident after his troupe’s public debut and its tour. In both cases, Zhang attributed these successes in no small part to his ability to revise the existing playscript, first by correcting factual misinformation and then by inserting scenes to suit the taste of the audience. The Iceberg
 (Bingshan ji ), by Chen Kaitai
 , depicts the political events centred on Wei Zhongxian
 (1568–1627), the once all-powerful head eunuch whose political career ended in disgrace shortly before the play was written. Zhang Dai found the chuanqi play ‘often inconsistent with the facts
 ’ and ‘thus cut and revised it
 !’. The resulting show ‘on the stage of a town god’s temple
 !"’ proved a hit that evoked a strong response in ‘an audience of tens of thousands
 !"’. When an upright official was tortured or an imperial concubine was hounded to death, the audience ‘flew into a rage
 ! or fell into silence [out of fear or pity]
 !’. When the hero ‘attacked and

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killed the secret police
 !’, who were sent by the evil head eunuch to arrest his political enemies, the audience ‘whistled, shouted, jumped and stamped
 !’. The atmosphere was so wild ‘as if to bring down the house

 ’ (Zhang D 1982: 7/70, Taoan mengyi). The Iceberg company then went on tour, and Zhang Dai and his troupe faced another challenge of reworking the production at short notice. The night before a performance, Zhang overheard Liu Banfang
 , the prefectural commissioner, wishing for a few more events to be included in the play. Zhang Dai jumped into action: When the feast was over that night
 !, I composed the libretto
 and urged my little servants [actors] to memorize them
 !
. The next day
 . . . seven new scenes were added
 !" just as Banfang had said
 !. Banfang was really astonished by this
 !". (Zhang D 1982: 7/70, Taoan mengyi ) Zhang Dai’s overnight accomplishment included writing, rehearsing and staging the seven scenes. His gifts as a quick-witted director won Liu’s immediate respect and ‘lasting friendship
’. Credibility of logic Finally, Ming directors made a point of amending logical flaws, especially those in classical plays. Li Yu’s reworking of two scenes, one from The Lute and the other from The Shining Pearls
 , serves as a textbook example of how to deal with such cases. The case of The Lute In scene 29 of The Lute, Zhao Wuniang travels to the capital alone (Mao J 1958: 1, 1/114 –16). Li Yu reasoned that this detail affected the characterization: 1

2

Zhao is too young to travel on her own. Li Yu challenges: ‘Even if she can protect herself and nothing has happened
 !"#, how can she avoid immediate gossip
 !"#$?’ Zhang Guangcai becomes inconsistent. Zhang, Zhao’s neighbour and benefactor, ‘has stood by his words and been generous
 ! in filling her needs
 !’. Li Yu questions why Zhang ‘offers assistance when her food and clothing are short
 !"#$, shuts his eyes when her reputation and chastity are in danger
 !"#$’.

Li Yu realized that it is easy to ‘drop a new character from the blue
 !"# to escort Zhao Wuniang to the capital
 !"#’. But

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this ‘would injure [the classical] in its tendons and bones
 !, while the change would be too noticeable
 !’. Li Yu wanted to ‘add merely a few lines
 ! to remedy this defect
 !’, so that Zhang Guangcai might despatch his servant Xiao’er to accompany Zhao in her travel (Li Y 1959: 80). Li Yu’s ‘few lines’, however, turned out to be a lengthy passage that doubles the length of the original scene (Li Y 1959: 82–8).3 The case of The Shining Pearls The Shining Pearls, a chuanqi opera by Lu Cai
 (1497–1537), has enjoyed high popularity since the mid-Ming. In scene 25, a servant boy is sent to contact the heroine, a maid of honour in the imperial palace (Mao J 1958: 3, 3/74–9). Li Yu considered that ‘this is the kind of weak point
 ! that women and children may all be able to spot

 !"#’. Yet it discredits the tremendous effort made by the hero and his swordsman to free the heroine from the clutches of the court, because If the forbidden palace allows a man to prepare its tea
 !"#$
 !, if the man is also able to conduct a secret conversation [with the maid of honour]
 !"#; then, as this can be done

 , what else cannot be done
 !"#? (Li Y 1959: 80–1) As a result, ‘When a clearheaded spectator sees this
 !"#, he may be unable to stifle a laugh
 !"#$ and treat the whole drama as a fantastic absurdity
 !"#$%’ (Li Y 1959: 81). In revising The Shining Pearls, Li Yu followed the same principle of not adding new characters to bridge the logic gap. He chose the hero’s concubine, who happens to be the heroine’s former chamber maid, to make the contact: 1

2

From the hero’s point of view: ‘Finding somebody to send his [secret] message [to the heroine]
 !, he should think of [his concubine] to carry out the plan
 !.’ From the concubine’s point of view: ‘She has been separated [from her mistress] for several years
 ! and they have not had a chance to meet since
 !.’ The chance presents itself and her mistress ‘is now within arm’s reach
 !’. How can she ‘not manage to see her mistress
 !?’ ‘Why is she so hardhearted
 !
 ?’

Li Yu refrained from expanding The Shining Pearls scene and his revision was more in line with the original (Li Y 1959: 90–4).

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You Tong gave an eyewitness report on the production of the two scenes based on Li Yu’s revised script: I personally watched Liweng’s [Li Yu] private actresses perform these two scenes
 !"#$%&'(. Had the two gentlemen [playwrights] Gao [Ming] and Lu [Cai] been resurrected
 !"#$, they would certainly have roared with laughter
 !. An open-minded director, Li admitted that he ‘made many other revisions
 !"#’. He could not afford to publish them all ‘because of their numerous volumes
 !"’ (Li Y 1959: 90–4).

Staging control Watching Chinese opera today, one may see the traditional set pieces of one table and two chairs, simple hand props and no lighting effects at all. Or one may find ornate set pieces, projected backdrops, sentiment-generating lights etc., all of which the practitioners would most likely – and rightfully – attribute to twentieth-century modernization under Western influence. Either way, it is hard to imagine by watching today’s shows that technical wonders once featured in Ming elite theatre in the seventeenth century – contemporary to England’s Restoration theatre. Setting Ming theatre practitioners never took to the kinds of scenery popular on European stages, whether they be the court, street and rustic stock settings of the Italian Renaissance, such as those established by Sebastiano Serlio (1475– 1554) to serve tragedy, comedy and pastoral, or the middle-class domestic settings of living room, kitchen, garden etc., such as those favoured by schools of pictorial or psychological realism. The three-dimentional and functional settings erected on the Ming stage were ‘unnatural’ in the sense that they represented the supernatural. Yet they were ‘realistic’ in the sense that they possessed compelling power to overwhelm the audience with convincing illusions. In the Hades scene put up by a touring company, for instance, the three-dimentional and functional set pieces of torture helped to plant such ‘anxiety and fear in audience’s hearts
 that they all look ghastly pale under the lights
 !"#’ (Zhang D 1982: 6/52–3, Taoan mengyi). Supernatural settings were also devised in the elite theatre. Probably in an effort to manifest their fantasy, the Ming literati seemed to pay more attention to the pleasure of viewing than to grotesque stimulation or shocking effects. For example, Liu Huiji’s
 design of a moon set for his production of Emperor Tang Minghuang Visits the Moon
 !"# (Tang Minghuang you yuegong) was certainly more charming than scary for an audience:

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Ye Fashan [the Taoist priest who is supposed to conduct the Emperor’s moon trip] entered
 !. The stage for a moment was pitch dark

 !"#$. A sword was wielded by a deft hand
 ! and a thunderbolt was heard
 !. . . . The moon revealed itself

, and was as round as if drawn by a pair of compasses
 !. . . . [As legend had it,] Chang Yi [the moon goddess, also known as Chang E
] sat at the centre [of the moon]
 !; [alongside] Wu Gang [the exiled immortal] cut the ever self-healing sweet-scented osmanthus tree
 !; and the White Hare still pounded her medical herbs
 !. . . . Then [the emperor] mounted the moon
 !. (Zhang D 1982: 5/49, Taoan mengyi) The ‘miraculous circumstances
 !’ created by this set must have been ‘realistic’ enough, as the audience ‘forgot it was only theatre
 !"’. It was technically advanced too. According to an eyewitness report, several mechanisms were employed: 1 2

3

4

‘A black curtain was suddenly withdrawn
 !’ to reveal the moon. To create the midair illusion of the moon, clouds were added: ‘Around the moon, pieces of [semi-transparent] goat horns were tinted five colours to form clouds
 !"#$%&'.’ The light came from ‘burning several [giant candles called] Brighter than Moon
 !"#’, which shone through ‘a thin gauze curtain
 ’. Their ‘whitish radiance
 ! looked like the pale light of early dawn
 !’. Finally, Ye Fashan ‘threw a piece of cloth over to form a bridge

’ by which Tang Minhuang ascended to the moon (Zhang D 1982: 5/49, Taoan mengyi).

Liu Huiji’s technically sophisticated production won unreserved admiration from two major figures of the late Ming theatre. From the perspective of history, Zhang Dai was most impressed by Liu’s ‘wonderful ideas and wild imagination
 !’ in set and lighting, which ‘attempted to remedy a chronic defect of theatre
 !"#$%&’ in scenery and setting. From the perspective of performance, Peng Tianxi
 was convinced that Liu Huiji had so perfected the performing arts of his girl troupe that ‘men are no longer necessary
 ! and Big Peng [himself ] is no longer necessary
 !’ in the theatre world (Zhang D 1982: 5/49, Taoan mengyi). Two qualifications are helpful for appreciating Peng’s comments: 1

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Girl troupes were traditionally perceived as ‘pretty and coquettish
’, ‘slow and smooth
’ or ‘gracious and stylish
’. Thus ‘they were totally excused
 !"’ for their supposed lack of other qualities.

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Directing Peng, being considered ‘the righteous and strict judge of the southern theatre
 ! who had hardly praised anyone
 !’, was the prominent acting master of his time (Zhang D 1982: 5/49, 6/52, Taoan mengyi).

Apparently, the Liu Huiji production had changed or challenged the literati perception of both staging and girl troupes. Lighting Towards the late Ming, drama performances often started in the evening and lasted until late into the night. Artificial illumination thus became a common practice in the elite theatre. Descriptions of night performances abound. Qi Biaojia’s diary entry for the sixth of the sixth lunar month in 1632, for instance, records his viewing of The Purple Hairpin
 (Zichai ji) until midnight (Qi B 1937: 24, ‘Qibei longyan’). On the fourteenth of the tenth lunar month in 1639, he went to Qian Deyu’s party, again to watch a night show: ‘Deyu presented all the members of his private troupe to his audience and had them play the “Picking Lotus Seedpods
” scene from Washing Silk. I left and came back on a boat. The night had passed by the time I arrived home’ (Qi B 1937: 27, ‘Qilu’). Zou Diguang seemed to make a point of staging his productions at night. The titles of his three theatre poems all indicate night shows: ‘On the Night of the Sixteenth of the First Lunar Month
 !" . . . Watch the Performance of the Story of Bondservant Kunlun and Maid Red Thread
 !"#$%&’, ‘Winter Night
 . . . Watch The Magic Mirror (Shenjing ji)
 !"#’, ‘. . . Put up The Purple Hairpin with Huoxiaoyu [as the heroine]
 !"#; it is dawn before we know it
 !’ (Zhao S 1988: 125–7). Giant candles were the preferred choice for illumination because of their brightness. Thus in Zou Diguang’s troupe: Tall candles of phoenix patterns shine far into the evening darkness
 !"#$, Making no use of the pale lights sent by Chang E the Moon Goddess
 !"#$. (Zhao S 1988: 126) But multiple light sources might be combined. The Xu Xiyun
 troupe’s lighting arrangement was like this, as described in Qian Qianyi’s ‘The Song of Seeing Opera on a Winter Night
 !"’: Fragrant oil and bright candle; lights shine from silver lantern
 !
 . Flames dance over lamp wicks in the spring breeze in the evening
 !"#$. (Zhao S 1988: 238)

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Artificial lighting was eventually applied during daytime shows when sunlight was blocked from stage. ‘It was said that Ruan Dacheng held theatre performances all day long
 !"#$%&’ in a huge hall, where he ‘set up layers of curtains outside
 ! and burned decorated torches inside
 !’ (Jiao X 1959: 6/199). Only a directorial effort at the control of lighting might explain Ruan’s choice of artificial lighting over natural illumination, as the former could not possibly compete with the latter in brightness before the introduction of electricity. The more sophisticated use of artificial lighting was often an integral part of the set design, as illustrated in the Liu Huiji production mentioned above. On the other hand, special lighting effects, while not necessarily designed for the set, might add a new dimension to the scene. The critically acclaimed lantern dance in the same Liu Huiji production was such a case: About ten dancers
 , each holding a lantern
 !, suddenly appeared and suddenly disappeared

in a hundred bizarre and miraculous ways
 !. It was a phenomenon unimaginably strange
 !. Had Emperor Tang Minghuang seen this
 !"#, he would certainly have been dumbstruck
 !"#. He would have questioned how theatre could ever have such gaudy and garish lights
 !"#$%&'(). (Zhang D 1982: 5/49, Taoan mengyi) Ming literati directors also used lanterns of different designs to facilitate acting space or achieve atmospheric effects. During a lantern festival, Zhang Dai staged a series of classical dramas among a massive display of masterpiece lanterns: I ordered my little servants [actors]
 ! to put up 40–50 Yuan plays
 !"#$. After presenting each Yuan drama of four acts
 !", they performed a group dance
 !", then played percussion and winds
 ! and then presented strings
 !. (Zhang D 1982: 4/36–7, Taoan mengyi ) Interestingly, Zhang Dai still saw this ‘grand occassion
’ as the lantern display, not a drama festival. As he put it, the performances were staged to enhance the lantern spectacle: ‘Lanterns
: without a drama performance
 , the lantern ambience will not be strong
 !"; without group dance and instrumental music, the lantern flame will not flare up
 !
 !"#$’ (Zhang D 1982: 4/36–7, Taoan mengyi). Ming literati directors seemed to have no dispute with Adolphe Appia (1862–1928) and Edward Gordon Craig (1872–1966), founders of modern stage design, over their ideas of lighting as an integral element of stage design or the designer as an interpretive artist in his own right, as in Liu Huiji’s case. Living the folk tradition of the lantern festival alongside the

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deep-rooted lantern industry, some literati directors almost instinctively saw lighting, in the form of lantern displays, as installation art coexisting with performing arts as in Zhang Dai’s case. Again in agreement with Appia’s idea of ‘the master director’ who fuses all the theatrical elements, Zhang Dai attributed the success of his show of lights and performance to his directorial control: The charms [of the show] lie in the combination of excitement and serenity, extravagance and simplicity, symbolism and realism
 !
 !"#: all of these depend on the master’s arrangement and control
 !"#. If this is to be done by someone else or somewhere else
 !"#, certainly the result will not be the same
 !!. (Zhang D 1982: 4/36–7, Taoan mengyi)

Stylistic control Stylistic control is defined as a deliberate choice by a director to emphasize certain performative aspects, often but not necessarily at the expense of role-playing, in a troupe or production. Zhu Yunlai directed his girl troupe to excel in singing, dancing and instrumental music. He made this choice as early as he conducted actor training. Zhu’s direction proved a success when ‘the charm [of the performance] entered the audience’s skin and reached their muscle
 !’, and he was proud of it: Senior Yun was a man who loved to outshine others
 !. Whenever the performance [of his troupe] reached a point he was proud of
 !, he would raise his eyes and look into his guest-audience
 !". Whenever he heard a word of praise
 !, he would run backstage
 ! and tell his girls about it
 !". In by chance and out by chance

, he quite fatigued himself
 !. (Zhang D 1982: 2/13, Taoan mengyi) Stylistic emphasis might sometimes draw attention to its relative weakness. The singing of Zhu’s actresses, for instance, so overshadowed their roleplaying that the spectators ‘felt [their dialogue to be] redundant
 !"’. Among the private troupes of the second tier or below, their speciality might not be a choice but necessity. For instance, the Qian Dai troupe enjoyed great fame in its specialities of singing and instrumental music. Yet it was a situation largely determined by two factors. First, the girl troupe of thirteen actresses under two female singing masters failed to produce commanding stars: All of them are skilled enough to play in an opera production
 !
. Yet none of them is an all-rounder
 !"#. Often each of

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them can play only one or two scenes
 !"#$. Besides, they are good in some scenes and not so good in other scenes
 !
. (Juwuzi 1980: 3242) As such the troupe might not present chuanqi operas full-length, but only selected scenes. Second, the troupe’s lack of role-playing talent might have played a part in a programme filled with singing and music: In the Mansion
, theatre shows were on merely two or three times a month
 !"#$%&'. As for the singing of opera arias accompanied by sandalwood clappers [i.e. without make-up or acting]
 !", and the orchestra music of winds and strings
 !, on not a single day would they fail to fill the ears of the audience
 !!"#. (Juwuzi 1980: 3243) This circumstance most probably contributed to the troupe’s stylistic reputation. Of course, a troupe’s strength in one aspect did not have to be translated into, or the result of, its weakness in another aspect, as in the cases of the Zhu Yunlai and Qian Dai troupes respectively. The Liu Huiji troupe, for example, presented shows of pronounced set and lighting strength, yet its acting still survived the scrutiny of a most stringent critic and acting master (Zhang D 1982: 5/49, 6/52, Taoan mengyi).

Total control Total directorial control refers to the purposeful and effective application of all production elements by a single person. This was possible because: by the late Ming, directors of elite theatre had gained much experience, maturity and confidence from their continuous practice and success in nearly a century; and unprecedented production quality and ensemble acting helped to nurture a generation of more appreciative and demanding audiences. Total control was still difficult because: during the same period of time, literary elements, like those found in The Peony Pavilion, reached great psychological depth; and staging techniques, like setting and lighting, became progressively sophisticated. Because of this, only gifted or multitalented directors might have exercised total control over all the production elements. Absolute control The documented success of the Zou Diguang troupe owed much to his visionary direction, which contributed to the Ming theatre scene in more than one way.

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Actor training system Zou Diguang was the only Ming director known to have developed an actor training system that methodically turned average trainees into capable performers. Zou experimented with his system for twenty years and with several groups of actors. Like Stanislavski, he trained actors in a structured scheme that served his style of production (Pan Z 1988: 4/23, Genshi zapian).4 ‘Giant puppets’ Zou Diguang exercised such absolute control over the production that he virtually turned actors into what Gordon Craig might term ‘giant puppets’. His feeble, nervous and awkward ‘giant puppets’ invited much criticism of his rigid directorial control, which took all the stage initiatives away from the actors. Never wavering in his determination, Zou eventually presented a troupe that reached technical perfection while regaining artistic freedom. This process not only won the admiration of the strictest critics, but also prompted the formulation of the most important performance theory of the Ming (Pan Z 1988: 4/23, Genshi zapian).5 True to the original Serious in personality, the directorial style of Zou Diguang is known for its clarity and precision. Probably encouraged by his stage successes, Zou Diguang made an invitation to Tang Xianzu: For your plays such as The Purple Flute and The Resurrection [The Peony Pavilion]
 !"#$%, my humble self has led the youngsters in rehearsal
 !"#$%. I took this opportunity [of producing your play] to imagine your looks and demeanour
 !"#
 !. These juveniles put on your plays with all their complications
 !"#, without conforming to the conventional patterns

. They might not be in poor taste either
 !. Would you please consider taking a tiny boat [literally, a reed leaf ] on Lake Poyang

 !"#$ and coming straight to Liangxi [modern Wuxi where Zou Diguang lived]
 !? Your Reverence will empty a cup of wine at one drink for me
 !"; and I shall order singing and dancing for Your Reverence
 !"#$. How about that
? How about that
? (Zou D 1608: 35/34) It was a well known fact in the circle of Ming elite theatre that Tang Xianzu had numerous disputes with directors and editors over the textual adaptations of his plays. By inviting Tang Xianzu to watch productions of his own plays and promising to keep the ‘complications’ of the plays, Zou Diguang

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showed considerable confidence both in his direction, which would be true to Tang’s original scripts, and in his actors, who would deliver sublime performance. Overall control Wu Kun took another approach to total directorial control (Pan Z 1988: 3/72–3, Luanxiao xiaopin). He was not as involved in productions as were many others. Instead he selected specialists from relevant disciplines to carry out much of the direction in his place: ‘He first invited famed literati to explain the meaning of the playscript
 !"#$, then music experts to instruct on the melody
 !"#$, and eventually theatre generalists to block the stage movements [for his performers]
 !"#$’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/73, Luanxiao xiaopin). Wu’s method, strikingly similar to the division of labour in a modern theatre, resulted in documented success: 1

2

All members of his troupe, thirteen in number, were encouraged to develop their individual performance styles and techniques, which they did without compromising the troupe’s ensemble acting (Pan Z 1988: 2/199–202, Luanxiao xiaopin). Star performers, such as Heng and Quan, blossomed. Their acting in The Peony Pavilion, reported in Chapter 10, was acclaimed as imbued with spirit, to which literati spectators felt an irresistible attraction. Pan Zhiheng, for one, watched the show five times in a single winter despite his ill health.

Wu Kun’s directorial style was probably influenced by his ‘carefree attitude
 ’. Yet his directorial methods depended more on his ‘profound knowledge and refined taste
 !’ in order to succeed (Pan Z 1988: 3/72–3, Luanxiao xiaopin). Master artist control Ruan Dacheng’s directorial style probably qualified for what Gordon Craig envisioned as ‘the master artist’, who could create all the production elements. Script creation As a playwright, the seventeenth-century Ruan Dacheng showed a few similarities to the twentieth-century Bertolt Brecht, most obviously in productivity, script selection and political message. Ruan was a productive playwright, with up to eleven full-length chuanqi plays to his name, among which four were particularly well received (Zhuang Y 1982: 1068–73). Ruan had an almost narcissistic persistence in directing his own plays, which was nevertheless partially justified by their superior quality as stage-scripts:

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Directing The scripts performed by his troupe
 !" are all written by the master [Ruan Dacheng]
 !"#. Every line is marked with clarity and accuracy

 , and [the plot is] designed painstakingly with all his wisdom
 !, which is totally different from the crude and rushed scripts used by other troupes
 !"#$%&. (Zhang D 1982: 8/73, Taoan mengyi )

Ruan also communicated political messages in productions under his direction. Zhang Dai, the contemporary critic who watched three productions at Ruan’s residence, testified: Ruan Yuanhai has great talent
 !"#$. Yet it is hateful to see that he harbours ulterior motives
 !". Among the plays he has composed
 !, seven out of ten curse the time and the world
 !, and the other three explain away the accusations against him
 !. He frequently slanders the members of the Donglin Academy
 !" and argues in defence of the Gang of Wei Zhongxian
 !.6 (Zhang D 1982: 8/74, Taoan mengyi ) Accused of collaboration with Wei Zhongxian, Ruan Dacheng was banished from the imperial court for seventeen years. In an attempt to regain acceptance from the mainstream literati community, Ruan penned and directed a series of chuanqi operas centred on misunderstanding, miscommunication and misidentification. Such plotlines were designed to symbolize his involvement with Wei Zhongxian as unintentional and unfortunate. Ruan’s plays, serving a political agenda of a personal nature, never reached the height of Brechtian drama in literary brilliance, philosophical depth or genuine passion. What they accomplished was stage effectiveness. What helped their effectiveness was their similarity to well made plays. Actor preparation To weave in all the misinformation and misfortune, Ruan’s plotlines necessarily become complicated and intricate. The plotline of Riddles of the Lantern Festival
 (Chundeng mi), also known as The Ten Misidentifications
 (Shi cuoren), for instance, goes as follows. The hero and his mother travel to his father’s office by boat. He goes ashore to join the lantern festival celebration in a temple. Meanwhile the heroine, travelling with her father, attends the same event in disguise. They both win prizes in the lantern riddle competition. The temple acolyte invites them for a drink afterwards; and they enjoy composing poems in response to one another. Going back, they board each other’s boat by mistake. The hero’s mother adopts the heroine. But the heroine’s father sends the hero to

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jail, as he loses his daughter while finding his daughter’s poems on the hero. The judge who sits on the hero’s case happens to be his brother, who by then has come first in the Imperial Examinations but assumed a name derived from a bureaucratic mistake. The hero also assumes an alias for fear that his case may tarnish the reputation of his clan. Although they don’t know each other’s true identity, the judge still finds the suspect not guilty of the charge against him and sets him free. The hero takes the Imperial Examination and also wins the first prize. The judge marries the heroine’s sister and arranges for the hero to marry his adopted sister, who is the heroine. On the wedding night, one revelation follows another. With a story full of twists and turns and multilayered messages, script explanation to the illiterate private actors became necessary and difficult at the same time. In the light of these difficulties, Ruan Dacheng proved his directorial efficiency: The way the plot was organized and the hints foreshadowing later developments
 !
, the point of humorous performance

, the meaning of facial expressions and the use of eyes
 !, all of these the master [Ruan Dacheng] explained to his performers in great detail and clarity
 !"#$. (Zhang D 1982: 8/74, Taoan mengyi ) When the critic admires Ruan’s actors, there is not a shade of doubt that he realizes who has been the mastermind and driving force behind their achievements: Ruan Yuanhai’s private actors
 !" are serious about play structure
 , particular in mood and logic
 , scrupulous in [character] relations and conflict
 . They are different from the impetuous approach of the other troupes
 !"#$. (Zhang D 1982: 8/74, Taoan mengyi ) Technique innovation Ruan Dacheng proved to be a technical genius as well. According to an eyewitness report, Ruan was keen on set and prop innovation. In Riddles of the Lantern Festival, he employed ‘dragon lanterns
’ and a fairy statue. In S´arı¯ra
 (Monizhu), he presented ‘horsemanship
’ and ‘monkey play
’. In The Swallow Letter
 (Yanzi jian), he used ‘flying swallows
’, ‘dancing elephants=
’ and ‘A Persian display of treasures
 !’. In line with his directorial principle of thoroughness, Ruan Decheng’s set and props proved a technical wonder: ‘Set and props

: Every single piece has been designed for its very realistic details

 . Thus [the whole] becomes even more outstanding
 !"#$’ (Zhang D 1982: 8/74, Taoan mengyi). In addition to lighting control, which

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has been discussed above, Ruan Dacheng proved to be a master artist who created all the production elements. Under Ruan Dacheng’s direction, his troupe became the sensation of its time. Critic Zhang Dai praised its flawless performances in absolute terms: ‘Thus whatever they have presented
 !: every production is splendid

 , every role splendid

 , every scene splendid

 , every verse splendid

 and every word splendid

 ’ (Zhang D 1982: 8/74, Taoan mengyi). Ruan’s directing was essential to the success of his troupe’s productions. First, his meticulous textual analysis, in Li Yu’s words, ‘transformed the singers into intellectuals’, and thus overcame the difficulty arising from the illiteracy of the actors and the complication resulting from the plot and message (Li Y 1959: 98). Second, Ruan’s total control enhanced acting coordination and eliminated the possible conflicts caused by giving free rein to actors in making character interpretations and staging decisions. Finally, Ruan’s ‘master artist’ quality enabled him to bring forth productions that looked organic and flawless, as Zhang Dai had come to believe.

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12 Performance space

During the Ming period, private troupes performed almost anywhere their owners wished them to. Judging from extant theatregoing accounts, residential halls, garden pavilions and pleasure boats constituted the regular performance space. Occasionally, private performers stepped out of the ivory tower to put on shows in public space, take a tour or accept an invitation to perform at other people’s places.

Residential halls Halls in residential mansions provided the most usual performance spaces, as private residences seldom had a raised stage. In effect, the performance area in a residence was merely a bare stage, with the acting area defined by a red rug laid in the centre of the hall. The terms ‘red rug
 ’ or simply ‘rug’ thus became synonyms for ‘stage’ or ‘theatre’ or, by implication, ‘performance’ during the Ming. Pan Zhiheng wrote in his ‘Watching theatre
’ series of poems: ‘a garland of flowers [actresses] moves with a graceful demeanour on the rug
 !"#$’ (Pan Z 1988: 2/218, Luanxiao xiaopin). His comments on Hemeidu, an actor of the ‘painted-face
’ role type, read: ‘[He performs] like Gongsun [a famed Tang dynasty dancer] performing his huntuo dance on a rug
 !"#$’ (Pan Z 1988: 3/215, Luanxiao xiaopin). In these cases, moving or dancing on a rug simply referred to actors or actresses performing on stage. When Tang Xianzu wrote ‘one night of red rug for four hundred coins
 !"#$’, he meant the cost of a night’s performance by a particular commercial troupe (Tang X 1621b: 17/2–3). In a residential hall, people in the audience were positioned on from one to three sides of the rug or acting area: at the back of the hall, and on the left and right sides, leaving the front side of the hall open. The orchestra was placed in either the left or the right corner of the front side. Illustrations from Ming period publications, such as those depicted in the drawings of the Ming edition of Sheng Ming zaju
 ! (The zaju plays in the golden Ming), show that this arrangement was commonplace. The Ming drawings

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Figure 12.1 Residential hall performance in Ming painting I. Illustration reproduced from a painting of The Loyal Dog of the Yuans
 ! (Yuanshi yiguan), a Ming zaju opera (Shen T 1958: 1, 11/1).

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Figure 12.2 Residential hall performance in Ming painting II. Illustration reproduced from a painting of The Gathering of People of the Same Age
 (Tongjia hui), a Ming zaju opera (Shen T 1958: 2, 10/1).

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also suggest that residential performances were often put on in halls open to their natural environment, corresponding to the Ming literati’s accounts. Today, the ‘Hall of Thirty-six Mandarin Ducks
 !"#’ of Zhuozhengyuan
 , the best known Ming garden in Suzhou, is presented as a performance space for private theatre (Suzhou Museum 1978: 6/87). Yet its enclosed space, protective devices and overbearing furnishings do not display the usual features of the performance venue of Ming elite theatre or the professed taste of the Ming literati. Female members of an audience sat in a room behind a gauzy screen curtain. They were able to watch the production without being seen by the males on stage or in the audience, as long as their space was darker than the acting area and its surroundings. The practice of separating ladies from men in public with a curtain goes far back in China’s history. Wu Zhao
 (624 –705, also known as Wu Zetian
 ), an empress in the Tang dynasty, attended court audiences behind a curtain (Liu X 1774 10: 5/170). And the Ming private theatre preserved this tradition well. Marchioness Song, for instance, sat behind a screen curtain when she watched Tu Long
 (1542–1605), a dramatist and county magistrate, performing on stage:

Figure 12.3 ‘Hall of Thirty-six Mandarin Ducks’: full view. Features include lattice screens and window gauze. Although these devices provided an insect-free venue, many Ming literati might not have appreciated the caged feeling generated by the enclosed space. Photo by the author.

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Figure 12.4 ‘Hall of Thirty-six Mandarin Ducks’: side room. This is another structural feature unknown to Ming performance space. It serves the purpose of a green room. Photo by the author.

Figure 12.5 ‘Hall of Thirty-six Mandarin Ducks’: furnishings. The furniture suits the building perfectly in style. Yet these heavy, sturdy and meticulously carved rosewood pieces are devoid of any of the flowing lines that are characteristically Ming. They are Qing beyond any doubt. Photo by the author.

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Performance space Tu was also able to sing the most recent melodies and liked to show off. He often joined actors to perform in playhouses. The wife of Marquis Song would view him through a screen curtain and sometimes presented him with a cup of tea [in token of her favour]. (Shen D 1980: 25/645)

An illustrated Ming edition of the novel The Golden Lotus, in the chapter titled ‘Ximen Qing falls into deep sorrow watching the theatre’, depicts such an arrangement when the merchant anti-hero places his women folk in a screened room to watch the show. The Golden Lotus is believed to have been written during the years of Jiajing (1522–66) (Shen D 1980: 25/652). The practice of using a curtain to separate female members of an audience from the rest of the people during a performance was in keeping with the moral standards of the time. However, Confucian scholars of the more moralistic brand did not believe that such a separation alone would prevent the kinds of misconduct that could occur in private theatre: The contemporary plays are much alike at one point: the plots of illicit love affairs. They are disgusting. However, people often put such plays on a residential stage. They call themselves – fathers, sons and brothers – together, and put their women behind a curtain, to watch the plays. They have no sense of shame when they watch dirty presentations of lascivious and licentious affairs. (Liu Z 1868: 5/22) Liu Zongzhou
 (1587–1645), a moralist author, warned that such performances ‘easily transform humans into beasts
 !"#’ whenever the spectators ‘slightly relax their self-control
 !’. The performing space in a residential mansion was usually an undesignated ordinary hall within the complex. Yet some more particular individuals built halls specifically for performance purposes. When Bao Hansuo built a luxurious villa for his early retirement, he had the hall so structured that ‘The grand hall was built with gong-dou to support the roof-beams

 ! and thus did away with the [usual] four pillars in the centre [of the hall]
 !"#. There was plenty of room for group and lion dances
 !"#’ (Zhang D 1982: 4/66, Xihu mengxun). Gong-dou, or dou-gong, is an arrangement of brackets inserted between the top of a column and a crossbeam. Each bracket is formed of a double bow-shaped arm, called gong, which supports a block of wood, called dou, on each side. The gong-dou system was employed in Yuan temple theatre building to support the stage roof, and thus the performance space only. Bao Hansuo’s hall, not extant today but apparent from the witness report, included both performance and audience space. Residential halls as performance space bore little semiotic significance to the audience. Only occasionally did a residential hall suggest the scope of the

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Figure 12.6 Women watch a show behind a gauzy curtain. Illustration reproduced from an illustrated Ming edition of the novel The Golden Lotus (Xiaoxiaosheng [no year]: 63).

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Figure 12.7 A dougong supports the roof-beam. Dougong found in the Ming temple stage of Datai village, Xia county, Shanxi province. Photo by the author.

Figure 12.8 Dougong measurements. The measurements of the dougong in Figure 12.7. Line drawing by Xie Jing.

productions, as in Bao Hansuo’s case, or symbolize the troupe’s theatrical excellence, as in Ruan Dacheng’s case. Ruan Dacheng’s troupe rehearsed and performed in the Yonghuai Hall of his residential mansion. That fact enters the plot of Peach Blossom Fan
 (Taohua shan), a canonized

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kunqu opera of the early Qing. Yang Wencong, a friend of Ruan’s, describes the performance space in the drama: I am free today. I have come over to watch his new production of The Swallow Letter. Let me just come inside. . . . This is Shichao Garden . . . and Yonghuai Hall. . . . A red rug is spread on the floor. This is the place for theatre performances. I feel as though I am in a painting of Thatched Hall
 [or Caotang Hall, the residence Du Fu, the Tang poet, built in Chengdu, Sichuan Province]. Wearing a high black hat, [Ruan] directs the silver zithers and red clappers [zither and clappers serve as synonyms for Ruan’s performers]. (Kong S 1959: 1/30–31)

Garden pavilions Private gardens were popular for theatre performances because of their natural settings and poetic ambience. Tian Kanghou’s
 garden was ‘winding, curving, gorgeous and neat’. One evening Qi Biaojia and his friends went to Tian’s garden and ‘watched a theatre performance while having a drink in a pavilion on a hill’ (Qi B 1937: 24, ‘Qibei longyan’). The pavilion then served as an auditorium. Qi Biaojia’s diary describes many gardens where he watched theatre performances, such as Lu’s Garden and Lü’s Garden (Qi B 1937: 2, 8, ‘Yunan suoji’). His father-in-law’s garden, however, was described as ‘surpassing other gardens’: We went to Xishi Hill [named after the ancient beauty of the Dukedom Yue during the Warring Era] where my father-in-law had built his new garden. The new pavilion is exquisite and spacious. . . . A single enormous rock, looking like it has been polished by waves, covers several acres. Huxi and I drank [in the beauty of ] the scenery. Then we drank wine and saw the play Watching Clouds
 [Wangyunji]. (Qi B 1937: 29, ‘Guinan kuailu’) The pavilion stage shown in Figure 12.9, a Qing structure against the setting of a modern park, approximates the Ming structure. At times, Ming literati seemed willing to trade a measure of acoustic and lighting control for environmental advantage. But a hollow pavilion stage might just produce the resonance needed to compensate the volume loss in the open. Because of the rich and varied surroundings, garden shows provided much room for imagination among literati spectators. A water-blockaded pavilion was just part of the garden in normal circumstances. It was, however, invested with an erotic significance when a theatre performance took place: ‘The house sits next to the shallow water of blue streams
 !"#$. / The dense vegetation of a bridge locks up the charming flowers
 !
 ’ (‘Watching Wang Shuji troupe performances in a pavilion
 !

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Figure 12.9 Garden pavilion stage: front view. This Qing pavilion stage is found in Fushan Park, Shaoxing city, Zhejiang province. Photo by the author.

Figure 12.10 Garden pavilion stage: hollow under-stage. By chance, the pavilion stage underwent major maintenance when the field research was conducted in 1992, revealing its acoustic design. Photo by the author.

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 ’, Pan Z 1988: 3/235, Luanxiao xiaopin). The water feature of the residence is exploited to create an isolated performance space. The bridge leading to the pavilion is viewed as the only exit that is sealed by overgrown plants. Using these elements, the poet finds, fantasizes and constructs a purpose in the ‘locking up
’ of these helpless ‘charming followers’ of the troupe. While watching a show in an isolated space, not all the spectators exercised restraint on their imagination or behaviour. Gao Yingmian
 , prefect of Guangzhou in the Jiajing period (1522–66), attended a performance at a water-circled pavilion. His poem evidences a fanciful imagination, if not action: Flowers come together over the lotus pond
 !"; Autumn is felt in Green Wilderness Hall
 !". Invite singers as if it is at the Luo Riverside
 !". Choose guests as happened at Gaotang Terrace
 !". Far trees shine with the last raindrops
 !". Thin curtain reflects the setting sun
 !". Rosy clouds cannot fly away
 !". While I come across this pond in a drunken dance
 !". (‘Watching a performance at the overwater pavilion of Zhangze Hill
 !"#$’, in Zhao S 1988: 99) The fact that the flowerlike actresses perform in the Green Wilderness Hall is depicted in a straightforward manner. The poet’s sexual message is, however, embodied in literary allusions, as is usually the case in Ming literati writings: 1 2 3 4

‘The Luo Riverside’ is where Prince Cao Zhi has a romantic encounter with Fufei
, Goddess of River Luo.1 ‘Choosing guests’ refers to the Chunyu Kun narrative, in which Chunyu is chosen as a guest to stay behind to participate in a sex party.2 ‘Gaotang’ is where the Duke of Chu meets the Goddess of Mountain Wu in a dream.3 The ‘rosy clouds’ alludes to a poem by Li Bai
 (701–62) with a twist: ‘I am afraid after the singing and dancing
 !", / They will transform into rosy clouds and fly away
 !"’ (‘Eight merrymaking poems of the inner court
 !"#$’, in Chen B 1995: 602).

Li’s poem depicts a group of juvenile ladies of honour performing in the presence of Emperor Tang Minghuang. The ‘clouds transformation’ is just a poetic expression of their fairy quality and the fact that they will retreat to the inner palace after the performance, and thus be unattainable by their admirers. Gao’s poem, however, allows the actresses to keep their fairy look

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but not their ‘flying’ ability or opportunity. They are trapped in the performance space surrounded by water, while the prefect is coming over in his intoxicated excitement. The after-show scenario, with the prefect entering the picture, is probably more dramatic than the show itself. The poem thus reveals a sexual or sadistic trace afforded by the performance space. Residential courtyards were sometimes used for private troupe performances as well, probably for better sound and lighting effects (Pan Z 1988: 2/23, Luanxiao xiaopin). The Wang Wenbing
 troupe performed in a courtyard at night under ‘miraculous artificial illumination
’. The performance ended moments before daybreak, when ‘the light from the god [sunlight] slowly rose to shine upon the now-empty courtyard

 ’ (Pan Z 1988: 2/218, Luanxiao xiaopin).

Pleasure boats Private troupes at times performed on pleasure boats or ships. When a show was presented on a multistoreyed ship, it was considered such a spectacle that huge crowds were attracted from near and far: Several layers of lumber were used to build a raised stage for theatre performance [on the ship]. People came from the city and villages on more than a thousand boats, big ones and small ones, to see the production. A storm started in the afternoon. Huge waves were breaking. Heavy rain was pouring. The multistoreyed ship was in danger of being overturned by the hurricane. Several thousand cables were used [to stabilize it]. . . . The storm stopped after a while. The production was carried on to the end; and the spectators only left then. (Zhang D 1982: 7/73, Taoan mengyi) Bao Hansuo was the first to introduce multi-storied pleasure boats to Lake Xihu in Hangzhou: [Pleasure boats are] of three sizes, from big to small
 !. Banquets with performances were held on large ships
 !", where the singing boys were also kept
 . Books and paintings were stored on middle ones
 !; and the beauties were kept on small ones
 !". (Zhang D 1982: 4/66, Xihu mengxun) For those who did not have the luxury or convenience of a ship big enough for both performance and audience spaces, they made do with two boats sailing side by side. Xu Shiqi
 (1578–1645), serving as the Minister of Justice and Minister of Personnel during the late Ming, recorded such an arrangement in his poem ‘Watching a show while drinking on double boats
 !’:

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Put on a show on the parallel double boats
 !", While the moon shines mysteriously over Mountain Fan
 !". Wine vessels line up along the water
 !". Singing with winds reaches the flowing clouds
 !". (Zhao S 1988: 219)

On tour A few private productions went on tour. Like the regular shows at home, such tours were usually not conducted for economic gains. They might perform at odd places during the tours. The production of The Iceberg by the Zhang Dai troupe toured from Shaoxing in Zhejiang Province, where Zhang Dai took residence, by way of Jiangsu Province, finally reaching Yanzhou in Shandong Province. The temple stage Before their tour, the Zhang Dai troupe tried out the production on a raised stage in a town god’s temple, as mentioned in Chapter 11. The temple compound proved to be too small for the event when tens of thousands of spectators showed up. It was so crowded that many members of the audience ‘had been pushed out of the temple entrance
 !"’ (Zhang D 1982: 7/70, Taoan mengyi ). The temple stage, frequently a setting for productions by commercial troupes, was used by a private troupe this time. The temple hall On the night of the sixteenth day of the eighth lunar month in 1629, Zhang Dai led his private troupe past Jinshan Temple at Zhenjiang, Jiangsu Province, where he put on an impromptu show: I called my young servants to bring in staging items and set up magnificent lights in the Grand Hall of the temple. [My troupe] sang [the librettos] of Han [Shizhong] the Prince Qi on the Jinshan Hill
 !
, The Great Battle on River Yangtze
 ! and other plays. Our gongs and drums were deafening. All the people in the temple came out to watch. . . . The plays finished just before dawn. We untied the boat cables and crossed the Yangtze River. The monks followed us to the foot of the hill and remained there long after we had sailed off, not knowing if [we] were humans, demons or spirits. (Zhang D 1982: 1/4, Taoan mengyi) It was a daredevil experiment with performance space. These plays, not even religious in subject matter, were not presented on the usual open-air stage

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attached to the temple complex, but in the grand hall where the most sacred rituals took place. Government offices The touring production of the Zhang Dai troupe was designed as a birthday gift. When the troupe ‘arrived at Yanzhou to celebrate the birthday of the prefect’s father
 !"#’, the show ‘was put on in the prefecture government office
 !"’.

Other’s spaces The troupe owner would accompany his troupe wherever it gave performances. However, when a troupe was invited to perform for a gathering hosted by other people, such as the owner’s relatives, peers or friends, normally he would not accompany the troupe. Guo Xun
 (?–1550), Marquis of Wuding, had a reputable private troupe, which was invited by ‘a relative of the emperor
’ to present ‘farces
’. The actors carried out an improvisation ridiculing contemporary court politics, which scared away all the spectators. Guo Xun flew into a rage when he heard this. His actors had not only ridiculed his political views, but had also put him in danger of incurring the court’s wrath. Guo punished the actors severely, and some of them died as a result (Shen D 1980: 26/664–5). Ruan Dacheng sent his troupe to accept an unlikely invitation, one from a political enemy. Ruan was then trying hard to be reinstated in his position after having been expelled from office, and was expecting some help from Hou Chaozong, who requested his troupe. Hou and his friends enjoyed the troupe, but condemned the troupe owner nevertheless: Dacheng had a private troupe famous for its singing and acting. The troupe could sing the opera The Swallow Letter written by him. When the celebrities gathered in Jinling [modern Nanjing] to take the Imperial Examinations, [Hou] Chaozong set up a grand feast [to entertain them] and invited Ruan’s troupe to perform. Dacheng considered himself lucky [to have a chance to win Hou’s favour]. He sent the actors immediately but also other servants to spy. As long as the show was going on, everyone praised [the performance], which [Ruan’s] servants ran back to report. This made Dacheng even more pleased. Afterwards [the celebrities] discussed state affairs loudly. They sat [in an unmannerly fashion] with legs stretched out and shouted and howled. Whenever the name of ‘Dacheng’ was mentioned, every one of them pointed fingers and cursed him unceasingly. (Song Luo,
 Xibei leigao
 ! [Categorized Drafts of the West Slope], in Jiao X 1959: 199)

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When Ruan Dacheng learned of his humiliation in a performance space beyond his reach, he ‘was burning with anger. His hatred towards the three [Hou Chaozong and his close friends Wu Yingji
 and Chen Zhenhui
 ] penetrated his bones.’

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13 Performance theory

The classical drama of China reached its peak during the thirteenth century, a rather late period in comparison with other ancient dramas such as Greek tragedy or Sanskrit theatre. China’s educated elite, knowing and seeing so many genres of performing arts then and before, had probably lost their ability to envision the Yuan zaju opera with a fresh mind or in the large. They never produced anything comparable to Aristotle’s Poetics or Bharata’s Natyasastra.

Development Operating primarily as a commercial venture and enjoying a popular following, Chinese theatre had by the Yuan period severed its umbilical cord from religion. Opera troupes only occasionally and marginally relied on temple or court support. Theatre professionals found little motivation to re-establish or make up a religious genealogy such as the one that Zeami created for Noh theatre in his treatises. Yuan studies The influential zaju opera did not attract much attention from contemporary academia, whether as dramatic literature or as theatrical performance. No serious theoretical investigation was conducted into the genre, a fact mirrored in the scholarly publications of the Yuan era, namely: 1

2

3 4

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Changlun
= (On Singing) by an anonymous author.1 Probably the earliest known study on Yuan zaju opera, Changlun is little more than a brief and sketchy manual of singing techniques. Zhongyuan yinyun
 ! (The Prosody of the Central Plains) by Zhou Deqing
 , a most important book on phonology in China’s history with a documented impact on zaju libretto composition. Lugui bu
 (The Record of Ghosts) by Zhong Sicheng
 , a collection of biographical sketches and works of Yuan playwrights. Qinglou ji
 (Those Live in Courtesan Quarters) by Xia Tingzhi
 , a compilation of biographical sketches of actresses.

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In all fairness, Yuan theatre study is fragmentary and narrow: while the staging placed an emphasis on singing and phonology, the historical accounts were no more than nostalgic narratives of the practitioners. Ming studies This situation changed considerably after the Yuan. The Ming literati, with formal classical training, applied scholarly methods to conduct theatre research. A healthy number of quality academic publications emerged during the Ming or soon after, the most important of which were: 1

2

3

4

Nanci xulu
 ! (The Description and Record of the Southern Plays) by Xu Wei
 (written in 1535). This was the first academic study of the Southern Plays, from which chuanqi opera, the dominant genre of Ming drama, evolved. Xu took a historical and analytical approach in his study when he explored the origin and development of Southern Plays, as well as the playwrights and their works. Qulü=
 (Rules and Forms of Opera) by Wang Jide
 (completed by 1610 and published in 1624), the most respected work on playwriting published during the Ming. Its major contributions include description of the key musical and linguistic requirements of libretto composition, and analysis of the desirable dramatic qualities of Chinese opera. The book ends with critical reviews of contemporary theatre personalities and activities, which help to preserve factual and ideological data. Nanqu quanpu
 ! (The Complete Collection of Tunes of the Southern Opera) by Shen Jing
. This 21-volume book, together with his other works, forms the theoretical backbone of kunqu musicology and the database of the forms and rules of kunju playwriting. Xianqing ouji
 ! (Incidental Notes Written in a Casual Mood ) by Li Yu. Among its sixteen volumes, five are devoted to drama and theatre, which are further divided into ‘Ciqu bu’
 (The part on drama and libretto) and ‘Yanxi bu’
 (The part on performance and training). Published in 1671, this book represents China’s greatest theatre scholarship by a classical author.2

The significance of Xianqing ouji lies in its scope, originality and practicality. ‘The part on drama and libretto’ comprises six chapters, in which 38 topics or ‘items
’ on playwriting were discussed. This part is comparable in scope to Qulü by Wang Jide. The ‘performance and training part’ of the book includes five chapters, in which sixteen staging ‘items’ are analysed. Most issues in this part go beyond the range of topics covered by previous scholarship. Moreover, original ideas are conceived and new fields explored in these volumes. Seemingly to follow a Shang dynasty (?1600  to ?1000 ) maxim

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– ‘friends but old
 , matters but new
 ’ – that he quotes under the topic ‘Avoid the beaten track
 ’, Li Yu persists in ‘avoiding hackneyed expressions
 !’ and strives for an original system of thoughts in his book (Li Y 1959: 15). While some of Li Yu’s discoveries seemed particular to the Ming drama scene, others were relevant to theatre in general. Some examples: 1

2

3

The Asian version of ‘unity of action’ that persists in the whole play, which ‘follows one character only
 !"#’, and the whole plot, which ‘follows one event only
 !"#’ (Li Y 1959: 14). The Chinese opera version of ‘surprise’ that ‘just goes beyond the spectators’ expectation
 !"#$’ or that ‘makes them guess wrongly
 ’ by providing misleading or partial information, at least if Li’s own playwriting practice is any indication (Li Y 1959: 68). The Ming chuanqi version of ‘suspense’ that catches the attention of the audience until the last moment of the performance. To this end, a series of techniques has to be applied, such as a reversal of fortune or the discovery of true identities, so that the playwright may ‘naturally build up [the plot]
  and reasonably reach [the climax]
 !’. During all this, though, the conventional ‘round-round happy ending’ must still be kept in place (Li Y 1959: 69).

Finally, Li Yu shows little interest in abstract matters, preferring practical issues. Backed by his expertise in directing, playwriting and reviewing drama, Li meticulously tracks and criticizes the dramatic and performative flaws of late Ming theatre while volunteering tested solutions, many of which derive from the practices of his own troupe. In Chapter 5 of ‘The part on performance and training’, for instance, he chooses to analyse not merely the errors committed by individual practitioners, but those found in established conventions or habits, such as arbitrary costuming, unvarying dialects, illogical pet phrases and vulgar or silly clowning (Li Y 1959: 108–12). Despite such remarkable and unprecedented achievement, published theatre scholarship during the Ming era and immediately after still lagged behind the progress of practical theatre a long way away. This academic inadequacy was most manifest in the fields of stage technology and performance theory and least in playwriting. Non-theatrical reasons must have contributed to this imbalance, because the proliferation of private theatre provided the Ming literati with ample opportunities for observation, and its non-profit operation was a ready testing ground for hypotheses. The political, legal and social discrimination against theatre in general and theatre professionals in particular seemed to have prevented the Ming literati from writing on technical theatre, despite the fact that they were often the inventors of new staging devices. The Ming literati collectively feigned ignorance in the field, because technical theatre clearly belonged to the crafts of the outcast professionals. The Ming literati merely recorded the

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mechanical spectacles on stage, rarely the machinery or operations behind the scenes – they took the audience’s point of view, not that of theatre workers or scholars. Indeed, they never wrote anything on technical details comparable to the Natyasastra, virtually an encyclopaedia of Indian Sanskrit theatre. Theory in disguise The fact that the performing arts of Chinese opera reached their maturity in the ripe – if not overripe – culture of the Ming probably induced the literati into perceiving theatre as a recurrence or mirror image of ancient phenomena; and their own ideas in the guise of existing theories. This tendency might not inflict immediate damage on the creativity or theory of Ming theatre, because: (a) technical creativity happened independently of the way it was described; and (b) performance theory must have been formulated prior to it being written. Whether they were written or how they were written would not change what had already happened, but would present difficulties regarding their identification by scholars of later generations. The method of comparing data of the Ming and pre-Ming, which has been repeatedly applied in the early chapters of this book, usually serves the purpose of revealing the Ming origin of certain performative elements. Indeed, what the Ming literati claimed to be their renaissance glories were sometimes phenomena never before seen on the Chinese opera stage. Taking this approach, a rather sophisticated performance theory may be seen. The theory had its beginnings with Pan Zhiheng’s observation that a rigid programme of actor training diminished the performative power of the trainees. Despite his criticism, the troupe owner continued the practice and the troupe excelled within a few years. Openly admitting and critically reflecting on his own misjudgement, Pan Zhiheng probably sensed the need for a new performance theory. He took a wide investigative angle and conceptualized the most inclusive formula for acting, which resulted in a comprehensive theoretical system that comprised the aesthetic and philosophical principles of the Ming elite theatre and its ideal model: the Theatre Unintentional. Three theoretical components of the Theatre Unintentional – the natural self lost, the natural self redeemed and the actors unbound – constructed its nature, function and the mechanism, respectively. However, it is not immediately clear why Pan Zhiheng presented his thoughts in the mystifying tone and tenets of age-old Taoism, or why a significant theory was published in an almost antithetically humble and sketchy essay. It is anyone’s guess whether Pan was spreading Taoism, playing mind-games, writing in the neo-classicist style or lacking in confidence in his new ideas, or whether there was a combination of any of these elements.

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Theory in formulation The training plan that triggered Pan Zhiheng’s performance theory was designed by Zou Diguang. His training methods, as Pan later found out, ‘took twenty years of practice
 !’ to develop, and experiments with ‘several generations of juvenile actors
 !’ to perfect. Zou’s singing master, known only as ‘Wang the drama teacher
 !’ in the Ming account, faithfully implemented the plan. Wang started movement training by ‘marking the floor to block steps
 !’ and vocal training by ‘counting millet seeds to time singing
 !’. While such an inflexible method had the obvious benefit that the actors ‘were provided with guidelines
 !’ and ‘the presence of restriction prevented wild [movements]
 !"’, there was a price to pay. As Pan Zhiheng noted, [The training] placed the trainees on tenterhooks
 !!, and they were constantly anxious of overstepping the [floor] marks
 !". Despite [their] best efforts to negotiate [the situation]
 !, they nevertheless [betrayed] endless jerks and jolts in their nervous [movement]


 . [Zou] had an even higher taste [in musical training]
 !. But [his actors] lacked the smooth flow [in their singing]
 !"#. (Pan Z 1988: 4/23, Genshi zapian) This difficulty, however, could not be attributed to illiteracy or a lack of interest on the trainees’ part. Pan Zhiheng discovered a ready case of individuals with demonstrated means and interest who failed the same test as well: Recently there were two rich and influential men from the local community
 !"#$%, who fancied his [Zou’s] style
 . They had exhausted all their physical and mental resources
 ! – they invited [master teachers] and practiced breathing exercises
 ! – left no stone unturned
 !. All the same, their singing still suffered from a dearth of expressive power
 !". Fair without, foul within
 !"#. (Pan Z 1988: 4/23, Genshi zapian) Pan Zhiheng ‘used to cite these observations to criticize the host [Zou Diguang] for the constraints [he placed on actors]
 !"#$%&&’. However, Zou refused to trade technical excellence for expressive effectiveness. Instead, he ‘would not interfere with the process of settling this [muddy] water until it gradually became crystal-clear
 !"#$’. Wang the drama teacher explained his employer’s conviction thus: The actors fail to make progress in performing arts
 !, because they have yet to perfect their singing
 !". Once they have

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perfected their singing, a hundred skills of performing arts will surely fall into place
 !"#$. (Pan Z 1988: 4/23, Genshi zapian) Frequenting playhouses, Pan Zhiheng ‘politely accepted many [productions]
 ! but profoundly cherished few
 !"’. Maintaining the high standards of his reviews, Pan was not amused by the rhetoric of Zou or the singing master (Pan Z 1988: 4/23, Genshi zapian). Pan revisited Zou Diguang a few years later when he was travelling in this region, probably to visit its famous mountains and great rivers. He was astonished and utterly convinced by the training results of the troupe. The actors were not only technically superior, but also expressed themselves freely. Pan declared that such performances were ‘the acme of perfection
’. Unable to resist, he ‘made a long stay of two nights just for those [shows]
 !"#’ (Pan Z 1988: 4/23, Genshi zapian). It is interesting to note that in the training process, when the trainees struggled with the mechanical rules and failed to play their roles, the literati owner refused to relax his most stringent requirements. Yet once the trainees had mastered the technical details and performed well, the literati owner allowed them to break the bounds of a conventional stage in order to express themselves freely. This ostensible contradiction deserves some attention because: (a) it cannot be a simple mistake, as it results in the most desirable trainees and favourable productions; and (b) it cannot be an accidental happening, as it results from a long-standing training programme and repeated tests. With the evidence provided by the Ming sources, there is reason to believe that Pan’s critical narrative of this phenomenon in fact depicts the largely shared aesthetic and philosophical principles of Ming elite theatre in its mature stage.

Principles Aesthetics: the purist principle A purist tendency is easily discernible in the circle of Ming elite theatre. Both Zou Diguang’s ‘crystal-clear water’ metaphor and two of his townsmen’s devotion to the radical training testify to this aesthetic principle. Zou demanded perfection from his troupe in acting skills. The two townsmen were obsessed with Zou’s perfectionist vision of performing arts. As for the invited literati guests, they expected technical superiority in the elite theatre and would ridicule the owners of troupes that fell below the benchmark. When his actors made mistakes in singing, for example, Li Kaixian felt the need to ‘claim personally that that he had a few accomplished singers
 !"#$%, who had yet to return from the villages where they had been sent
 !
 !’. A literati commentator brushed off Li’s excuse thus: ‘this venerable old man tells people stories
 !"#’ (He L 1569: 18/8–9).

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This purist principle certainly rests upon artistic grounds, as illustrated in the afore-mentioned facts. But it may also have been influenced by the dispositional or ideological shades of individuals, which explains the different emphases and approaches in the training of Ming elite theatre. The dispositional influence Evidence for this influence can be easily located in private troupes, such as those of Ruan Dacheng, Bao Hansuo, Zhu Yunlai and Zhang Dai, all of which are sufficiently known to modern scholarship. The most complete account of this phenomenon, however, is found in Pan Zhiheng’s essay ‘Explore Proximity
’ where he directly links Zou Diguang’s perfectionism to his character: ‘From the beginning
, Yugong [“Foolish Old Man”, Zou Diguang’s sobriquet] had a serious character
 !"#. Thus he craved decorum and elegance in his nature
 !"’ (Pan Z 1988: 4/23, Genshi zapian). Based on his first-hand experience with the Zou Diguang troupe, Pan Zhiheng theorized that a person’s temperament should be in close ‘proximity’ to his activities in general and his desired mode of theatre performance in particular. Pan realized from personal experience that bold and unrestrained acts like hiking and sightseeing in the wild open country, despite the possible grandeur and serenity, might ill fit his own temperament. He was convinced that such a refined cultural activity as enjoying the performing arts cultivated by Zou Diguang and his singing master was in fact more suitable for him. In practical terms, sophisticated persons with delicate tastes would be more likely to persevere in their attempts to create a perfectionist theatre. Pan Zhiheng concluded his essay by agreeing with the Zou Diguang methods of actor training and directing, which he had previously regarded with distaste: ‘From this day on, I do understand the reasons why the host [Zou Diguang] has directed his opera the way he did
 !"#$%&'()*’ (Pan Z 1988: 4 /24, Genshi zapian). The ideological influence The ideological influence is less common than the dispositional influence on the purist principle of Ming elite theatre. This ideological influence at work can still be tracked in typical cases and in the behaviour patterns of the Ming literati. Zou Diguang had ‘just reached 40 when he was dismissed from the office
 !"#$’. Then he directed much of his literary talent and creative energy to the theatre arts (Qian Q 1982: 4b/647). His stubborn persistence with artistic principles was thus probably a symbolic manifestation of his political principle, and his artistic opinion a compensation for his silenced political statements. On one occasion, he responded to a

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performance critique in a way characteristic of court politics: ‘How can one expect clear and complete messages from vague and decaying writings
 !"#$%&?’ (Pan Z 1988: 4/23 Genshi zapian). This parallelism – within the Ming literati’s political career and without – was more pronounced in their playwriting practice. The absolute literary parallelism, which is the most striking feature of Baguwen
 or ‘the eight-legged essay’, might be a contributory factor. The Ming literati had been trained in the most serious manner in the composition of ‘the eight-legged essay’, because it was the required format for keju
, or the Imperial Examinations for civil service. Conditioned from early childhood, the Ming literati collectively developed a tendency of practising parallelism beyond the examination hall. A farcical but unmistakable revelation of this parallelism at work was made by a courtier exiled to Canton, the southern frontier then. Day in, day out, his servants would leave his house after dinner and not return until evening. This proved unbearable for the official, who still grumbled over his expulsion from the court. He bitterly beat the servants with the accusation: ‘Even you people would follow the example of the mean politicians in power and banish me
 !"#$%&'(.’ However, this parallelism soon proved to be entirely the construct of his mode of thinking (Shen 1980: 24/624).3 Philosophy: the unintentional principle The purist technique is not an end in itself; it serves the higher order of unintentional presentation in the expressed philosophy of Ming elite theatre. Watching a performance of the Zou Diguang troupe, Pan Zhiheng was charmed by neither the troupe’s faultless techniques nor its intelligent communication; nor by its intelligent communication presented in faultless techniques. What truly won Pan Zhiheng over was the ‘Xiangwang
’ quality in the acting. And it was the same Xiangwang element that prompted Pan to apologize profusely for his prior misjudgement of Zou’s training methods: ‘I am not bright
 . I do not have the quality to evaluate the opera performance
 !". Yet I am falsely regarded as a drama critic
 !"#’ (Pan Z 1988: 4/24, Genshi zapian). Xiangwang thus holds the key to the acting principle of the performance theory of Ming elite theatre. It requires four steps in the qualification of its definition. The literary reading of Xiangwang Xiangwang means ‘exist-not’ and Xiangwang acting thus reads ‘exist-not acting’. This literary interpretation fails to make sense in the context that ‘[the Zou Diguang Troupe] presented the [opera’s] sentiment/plot/meaning exist-not
 !"’, which in turn suggests the possibility that Pan Zhiheng is using Xiangwang as an allusion.

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The allusive reading of Xiangwang The fact that the word Xiangwang is found in a fable in the ‘Tiandi
’ (Heaven and Earth) chapter of the Zhuangzi
 confirms the possibility of Xiangwang as an allusion:4 The Yellow Emperor
 . . . loses his xuanzhu, the black/mysterious/ original bead/pearl/essence
 !. He sends Zhi the Intelligent to find/request it but without success
 !"#$.5 He sends Lizhu the Sharp-sighted to find/request it but without success
 !"#$
.6 He sends Chigou the Powerful to find/request it but without success
 !"#$%&.7 He then sends Xiangwang the Exist-not
 !. Xiangwang the Exist-not succeeds
 !. The Yellow Emperor says
 : ‘That’s strange
. Must it be Xiangwang the Exist-not to succeed then
 !"#$%?’ In this source text, Xiangwang is a fictitious name that enjoys no prior or contemporary reference. The text thus provides only clues, not the answer, to the meaning of Xiangwang. The version of the riddle In its allegorical style of writing, Zhuangzi signals the reading of Xiangwang as a kind of riddle or word game in one or both of the following mechanisms: 1 2

‘Exist-not’, the literary meaning of Xiangwang, serves the semiotic purpose of a ‘blankness’ that readers are encouraged to fill. ‘Exist-not’, the fictitious character called Xiangwang, provides an opportunity for readers to construct the hero.

‘The version of the riddle’, if the Zhuangzi fable may be so called, imbues Xiangwang with two characteristics: 1

2

It attributes a supernatural power to Xiangwang in the scenario when Xiangwang proves his superiority over the three characters that serve as icons of the greatest human capabilities. It twice associates the verbal signifier ‘succeed
’ exclusively with Xiangwang, in contrast to the other three characters’ association with ‘without success
’.

The solution to the riddle ‘The solution to the riddle’, in order to qualify, should simultaneously satisfy these two conditions. Another cross-referencing from the same Zhuangzi

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chapter finds wuxin
, or ‘unintentionality’, which meets the criteria: ‘Succeed unintentionally and then the spirits and gods are convinced

 !.’ Like Xiangwang, the ‘unintentionality’ in the same Zhuangzi chapter exclusively satisfies the condition of both characteristics: (a) ‘the spirits and gods are convinced
 ’ serves the semantic equation of the supernatural power; and (b) ‘succeed
’ satisfies the syntactic identification. Therefore, the solution to the ‘Xiangwang riddle’ is ‘unintentionality.’ However, unintentionality is only the meaning of, not the equivalent to, Xiangwang. Originating in the Zhuangzi fable, Xiangwang carries the narrative richness and philosophical depth that Unintentionality does not readily possess. Xiangwang also enjoys an unconditional Taoist sanction that is only occasionally made available to unintentionality. Therefore, when Pan Zhiheng uses the allusive Xiangwang instead of the straightforward ‘unintentionality’, he in effect chooses to evoke the Zhuangzi allegory and indeed to introduce the philosophical tenet of Taoism to his theoretical framework of theatre. By applying the Zhuangzi allegory and Taoist philosophy, Pan Zhiheng acknowledges Unintentional Acting as the superior acting and the Theatre Unintentional as the ideal theatre. Similarly, he constructs the three theoretical components of the ideal Ming elite theatre with an undeniable Taoist inclination.

Components In a somewhat mystifying mode of writing, Pan Zhiheng brings to the Ming literati’s mind – in the context of his interpretation of the Xiangwang narrative – three theoretical components of the Theatre Unintentional: • • •

Alienation: the natural self lost. Unintentionality: the natural self redeemed. Emancipation: actor becoming character.

Alienation: natural self lost Xuanzhu
 imposes an immediate and irreplaceable importance on the ‘through-line of action’ in the Xiangwang narrative.8 It is clear in the fable that if there is no xuanzhu, there would be no need for Xiangwang. Similar to Xiangwang, xuanzhu enjoys no definition in the fable. Differently from Xiangwang, xuanzhu finds no cross-reference to pinpoint its definition, while its dozen or so possible readings necessitate ambiguity in its meaning.9 It is this ambiguity that enables Pan Zhiheng legitimately to redefine xuanzhu to impart his views on theatre. The Xiangwang fable begins: ‘The Yellow Emperor travels around to the north of River Chishui
 !"#$%. He ascends the crest of Mountain Kunlun and gazes south
 !"#$%&. Returning home

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, he loses his xuanzhu
 !.’ Apparently interested in the circumstance of alienation in which the Yellow Emperor loses his xuanzhu, Pan Zhiheng describes his own tour in a marked parallelism: For twelve days before coming here [Zou Diguang’s manor]
 !", I feasted my eyes on the moon and the mountain

. I viewed and admired tidal waves at the Lou River
 !. Those were surely unrestrained acts
 !, which were nevertheless not proximate with my temperament
 !". In fact these unrestrained acts were hundreds of miles away from what might suit my nature
 !"#$%&'. (Pan Z 1988: 4/24, Genshi zapian) This parallelism allows Pan Zhiheng to comment on the Taoist scripture with a personal touch, as well as to reflect on his own experience from the Taoist viewpoint, without committing himself to the philosophical or theatrical position only (see Table 13.1). Mimicking the Zhuangzi method of defining Xiangwang, Pan Zhiheng, again without committing his opinion in words, characterizes xuanzhu as ‘nature
’. ‘Nature’ possesses a profound importance in Taoism, as seen in Laozi’s
 Daode jing
 : ‘Man follows the laws of Earth
 . Earth follows the laws of Heaven
 . Heaven follows the laws of Tao
 . Tao follows the laws of Nature
 !.’ All these Daode jing statements are structured in the direction of Creation. ‘Nature’ – at the furthest end from Man in this spectrum – signifies Origin, and xuanzhu signifies Original Essence. Belonging to an individual, this Original Essence would manifest itself as the person’s Original Self or Natural Self. Belonging

Table 13.1 Pan Zhiheng’s comments on Taoist scripture

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From the perspective of a drama theorist, Pan sees that

From the Taoist perspective, Pan realizes that

The Yellow Emperor travels to the mountain and river, enjoying the exciting foreign land

Pan tours and hikes to ‘feast his eyes’

The Yellow Emperor’s tours and hikes range far and wide

Pan’s tours and hikes are ‘unrestrained’ in nature

Being not proximate to his own realm, the Yellow Emperor is alienated

Being ‘not proximate to’ his own temperament, Pan is alienated

The Yellow Emperor does not realize his loss until he ‘returns home’

Pan does not realize his loss until he comes back to the theatre world of Zou Diguang

The Yellow Emperor realizes the loss of his xuanshu

Pan realizes the loss of his ‘nature’

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to the collective ancestor of the Chinese, i.e. the Yellow Emperor, xuanzhu obliges a ritualistic symbolism: whatever the Head Shaman or Yellow Emperor loses, every Tribesperson or Chinese loses. It is in this circumstance in which everyone may lose his or her ‘Original Self ’ that Pan Zhiheng tries to identify and construct the functions of the Theatre Unintentional. Unintentionality: natural self redeemed Pan Zhiheng’s theatrical version of the Xiangwang narrative contains the performative equivalence (Singing, Dancing and Intelligence) of the original means of ‘Intentionality’ (Intelligence, Skill and Strength). And both versions cherish Unintentionality. Pan paraphrases the Zou Diguang troupe performance thus: As turtledoves sang in the valley
 !, their sound reached high and far until dimly discernible
 !, while their dance matched the ‘Sanglin’ music
 !".10 Although intelligent and sharp in minute details
 !, they presented the sentiment/plot/meaning [of the opera] unintentionally
 !". (Pan Z 1988: 4/23, Genshi zapian) As with the Xiangwang allegory, Pan Zhiheng attributes the magic power of recovering his Natural Self, and presumably those of other literati theatregoers as well, to the Unintentional quality of theatre performance. In a veiled lyric account, Pan testifies: At the time [when Zou Diguang troupe is performing], the autumn sky is clear and the air is bracing
 !"#; the pure and clear sounds of the mountain and streams
 ! seem to echo with their singing
 !". Gargling with the Twin Springs
 !" and bathing in the fleeting clouds
 !", I become liberated in attitude and aspiration
 !"#. I do not realize that the severe chronic disease has left my body
 !

 !. (Pan Z 1988: 4/24, Genshi zapian) Despite the mystifying tone, the three sentences of the passage unambiguously identify three essential qualities of the Theatre Unintentional: the natural, the spiritual and the therapeutic. The natural quality According to Taoist doctrine, the ideal life of Man is supposedly modelled on Nature and in harmonious existence with Nature. Pan Zhiheng sees a supreme example of this doctrine in the performance of the Zou Diguang troupe. His phrase ‘the pure and clear sounds of the mountain and streams’

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is an allusion to a poem of the Western Jin dynasty (265–316), which characterizes these natural sounds as having the quality of instrumental music.11 When these natural sounds of music and other natural elements – visual, aural and environmental – all serve to enhance a human performance, they combine to prove that the human performance is indeed in harmonious existence with Nature, and thus the natural quality of the Theatre Unintentional. The ‘echoing’ of natural sounds in effect also implies the supernatural approval of the presentation of the Theatre Unintentional. The spiritual quality This quality is manifested first in a purification rite that at least partially takes place only in the mind of the spectator, in which he – as witness and participant – has to cleanse himself inside (by ‘spring-water gargling’) and outside (by ‘clouds bathing’). The rubric of this imagined ritual betrays its purpose in washing off Something from him. This Something must be opposing ‘Unintentionality’; yet ‘Intentionality’, the semantic candidate, does not readily fit the bill for two reasons: 1 2

Any conscious removal of Intentionality would necessarily be ‘intentional’ and thus self-contradictory. Any unconscious removal of Intentionality could conveniently result in the non-sensible ‘Absentmindedness,’ a quality that serves no relevant objective in the spiritual realm or in the theatre world, and thus self-defeating.

The purification ritual, by definition, is performed to purge Something that is opposing Unintentionality; yet it cannot be Intentionality, the all inclusive opposite of Unintentionality. It must be, therefore, Something that is only part of Intentionality – a redefined Intentionality. The same Zhuangzi chapter that defines wuxin
 as Unintentionality further defines the xin
(heart/intention/mind) as jixin
, or ‘Scheming Mind’. There is virtually no doubt that Pan Zhiheng is applying the Scheming Mind definition to that Something to be purged during his ritual of purification. With the cleansing of the Scheming Mind, the theatregoer may then ‘receive a liberated attitude and aspiration’. Typically, in Ming literati circles, to succeed in the Imperial Examinations for the civil service was regarded as the most productive aspiration. And to take the Examinations time and again until one passed or died was considered the most positive attitude. There were candidates who slaved all their lives for the Examinations.12 And the ossified ideology and format required by the Examinations, designed by the imperial court to stifle any unorthodox thoughts, helped to shackle the mind and soul of the candidates. Therefore, freeing the literati spectator from his conventional mind-set during a theatre performance is indeed a liberation that resembles a ritualistic transcendence when the spiritual

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replaces the secular and idealism replaces materialism. Pan Zhiheng, a man of unquestionable talent who twice failed the Imperial Examinations, was certainly writing from experience. The therapeutic quality Pan Zhiheng’s ailment may not be traced to a single cause from his own account. But a combination of factors may have contributed to or prolonged his lingering illness, among which are: 1 2 3 4

Overwork to realize his ambition in officialdom, i.e. preparing and taking the Imperial Examinations. Frustration over failing the Examinations. Other worldly desires and pursuits. Bold and unrestrained activities in the open country that did not suit him.

Pan Zhiheng enjoyed a swift and total recovery during the two days he stayed in Zou Diguang’s manor, when ‘the host chose plays for multiple shows in the courtyard
 !"#$%&’ (Pan Z 1988: 4/23, Genshi zapian). It is significant that Pan presents his case not as a metaphor, a possibility or a hypothesis, but as a clinical and personal reality. Thus he declares in unequivocal language the power of drama therapy in the Theatre Unintentional. The facts that Pan is not even seeking medical treatment when he recovers and that he is not aware that he is recovering parallel the Yellow Emperor’s retrieval of his xuanzhu or Natural Self by Xiangwang the Unintentional and his surprise over Xiangwang’s success. This parallelism manifestly characterizes Pan’s healing as a result of regaining his Natural Self in the world of the Theatre Unintentional. Emancipation: actor becoming character The Theatre Unintentional comes into being if and only if its actors are unbound by traditional rules, liberated from directorial controls and free of artificial acting. Pan Zhiheng depicts them as a company of free souls who live an unrestrained stage life (Pan Z 1988: 4/23, Genshi zapian). It seems self-contradictory that the Theatre Unintentional requires its actors to be utterly natural – in order to be involuntary in acting – on a conventional stage that is unnatural by definition. This rather complicated phenomenon, as depicted in Pan’s eyewitness report and other relevant narratives, is actually the work of three mechanisms: acting becomes second nature, second nature liberates the actor and the actor becomes the character. These mechanisms function as one to create the Ming acting miracle that is believed to have spiritual and medical benefits for its audience, in addition to its irresistible dramatic charms.

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Acting becomes second nature This is possible because humans are social creatures, so the human’s nature is nature as much as culture. An actor’s nature, or first nature, is in any case a product of his or her natural attributes and particular cultural upbringing. Similarly, the actor’s second nature can be constructed with his or her natural features and theatrical training. The first nature results in his or her social behaviour and the second nature in his or her stage behaviour. Four lines of evidence are drawn upon in support of this hypothesis for Ming elite theatre. Two are derived from the Ming accounts as validation of historical fact, and two from contemporary experiments or observations to verify the mechanism: 1

2

3

4

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In the Zou Diguang troupe, both movement training by ‘marking the floor to block steps’ and vocal training by ‘counting millet seeds to time singing’ bore the unmistakable mark of ‘muscle memory’ exercises. The non-intellectual quality of muscle memory served to construct in the actors involuntary behaviour patterns, i.e. to cultivate their second nature. Observing a training experiment for a kabuki production in 1998, the author found that the repetitive and non-dramatic exercises, similar to those of the Zou Diguang troupe, helped to induce two actresses into their Empty Mind, a mental state that was more receptive to emotions and ideas previously alien to them (Shen G 2001: 136 –7). In other words, Zou Diguang’s ‘clear water’ methods are optimal for inducing the Empty Mind, which in turn is optimal for the cultivation of second nature in the trainee actors. Typically starting training at the tender age of five, the child actors of Ming elite theatre devoted a longer period of time and in a more purposeful manner to nurture their second nature of conventional stage behaviour than to develop their ‘first nature’ of social behaviour.13 It was envisaged that these trainee actors would be more natural on stage than off it when they reached puberty. The author once worked with a Chinese opera actor when the latter visited the United States. He had been trained in the traditional methods since early childhood in the Kunqu Institute of Learning and Passing-on
 !" – the last keban
 (old-type opera school) of kunju theatre. The actor often appeared a little tense and occasionally clumsy when lecturing to or socializing with American students. But he was another man when acting or tutoring acting: completely at ease, full of life and at times bursting with humour. This example of an actor’s second nature outgrowing his first nature was not an isolated case. Many Chinese opera actors were so absorbed in their role-playing that they developed a mutated narcissism – with great admiration for their stage selves rather than their everyday selves.

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The importance of the actors’ ‘second nature’ cannot be overemphasized. It preconditions their acting liberty, facilitates their stage power and finally helps to open doors for actors to become characters. Second nature liberates the actor In the Chinese opera house, only the specially cultivated second nature can liberate actors from conventional rules, as depicted in Pan Zhiheng’s eyewitness report: ‘Performing unhurriedly or wildly at their own free will

!", they were not bound by certain rules
 !"#, while their master removed his restrictions on them
 !"#’ (Pan Z 1988: 4/23, Genshi zapian). Pan paints a picture of the actors’ dominance over the stage. They were in fact the same batch that used to move puppet-like with observable anxiety. Their liberal master was no other than Zou Diguang, who regulated their every move or sound. The actors were liberated not because they had abandoned conventional acting or their master had changed his mind, but because the conventions had become second nature to them. By now, their most comfortable steps spontaneously fitted into the prescribed measurements; their most natural singing instinctively fell on the preset beats. Their second nature, as Pan Zhiheng sees it, resulted in a performative autonomy that included stylistic choice, rule rejection and directorial withdrawal. 1

2

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Stylistic choice or ‘performing unhurriedly or wildly at their free will’ – Pan’s first phrase markedly depicts the free acting style. Allowed to act in their own mode and on their own initiative, the actors experience a reversal of fortune from their slavish early training, when they were required to tread on marked floors and to sing to dropping seeds. But the translated term ‘free will’ does not suggest that the actors abandon the rules and the conventional theatre, because this ‘free will’ has been encoded by their ‘second nature’ and within the cultural setting that cherishes the Confucian code of ‘indulging oneself without breaking the rules
 !"#$’. In other words, the actors have grown so habituated to or comfortable with the rules that these have turned into their ‘second nature’; their ‘free will’ would be unlikely to go against their own nature. Rule rejection or ‘they were not bound by certain rules’ – Pan’s second phrase indicates that the actors may reject the rules of the conventional stage when necessary. It is not, however, for the sake of convenience. Clearly patterned after a well known maxim, ‘a general in the field is not bound by certain orders from his sovereign
 !"#$%&’, this phrase argues for the higher order of the needs arising from an actor’s role-playing (‘a general in the field’) than the rules set by conventions (‘orders from his sovereign’). It is not, however, for the actor to predetermine which rule to break in the show – just as the

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Performance theory general does not scheme to disobey his king beforehand. The actor unintentionally breaks the rules out of role-playing inevitability – just as the general changes his king’s war plan according to the battlefield reality. In a sense, the actor does not break the rules, his or her character does. At the same time, the selectivity mechanism of ‘second nature’ safeguards not only the actor’s rule-rejection, but also his or her acting innovations. What survive the close scrutiny of ‘second nature’ must be innovations that meet or exceed the criteria of Ming elite theatre. Therefore, what can be added by the Actor Unintentional to the conventional stage is necessarily artistic creation rather than naturalistic triviality. Directorial withdrawal, or ‘their master removed his restrictions on them’, Pan’s third phrase, specifies that the master, who is the de facto director, finally lets go of his control over acting. This move signifies the directorial recognition of, and respect for, the actors’ second nature. The director is able to pass judgement on acting skills, but not always on acting impulses that stem from the actors’ second nature, because his directorial sense is usually sharper than movement, but duller than instinct. By withdrawing his control, the director in fact pronounces his trust in actors’ nurtured instinct even more than in their trained skills. By ending his ruling and meddling, the director allows the actors’ second nature to take over, which in turn encourages the actors to live their characters’ lives, and the characters to live their lives to the fullest.

The actor becomes the character As discussed, in the conventional theatre, the actors’ second nature allows them to live the stage life as naturally as, or more comfortably than, their social life. Then again, when the actors live their characters’ lives by experiencing the characters’ life-stories in their mind and thus behave instinctively as their characters onstage, the actors become characters. The definition and operational principle of the ‘actor becomes the character’ tenet, albeit on a conventional stage, are – for the afore-mentioned part at least – similar to those of the Stanislavskian theatre of psychological realism, from which the phenomenon of ‘the actor becomes the character’ is well known. The documented acting mode in the Theatre Unintentional dialectically proves how its actors must have prepared themselves in order to play their parts: 1

2

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When actors ‘performed at their free will’ in role-playing, their ‘free will’ had to be that of their characters. Otherwise their performance would have resulted in irrelevant characterization at best, and split personalities at worst. When the actors ‘presented the sentiment, plot or meaning of the play unintentionally’, they must have lived their characters’ life first. Otherwise they would have presented anything but what is essential

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to the play, and ‘Unintentionality’ would have degenerated into absentmindedness. In other words, actors had to become their characters in order to have the right ‘free will’ and to do the right things ‘unintentionally’. The ‘free will’ and ‘unintentionality’ in all likelihood were the telling signs of a Ming equivalent of ‘the actor becomes the character’. While the Theatre Unintentional is identified by its Unintentional Acting, the latter is distinguished by ‘the actor becomes the character’, the importance of which can be examined in four aspects. The first, and the most important, aspect is to contribute to the characterization. The actor becoming the character is the actor’s psychological preparation, while Unintentional Acting is his or her physical manifestation in role-playing. The second is to set apart the sophisticated Unintentional Acting from the under-trained fake such as free acting that deviates from the conventional stage, or absentminded acting that deviates from the character. The third is to differentiate Unintentional Acting from such technical wonders as spectacular acting that emphasizes the staging mechanism and physical stunts in order to overwhelm an audience, or mindless acting when the actors’ mastery of a drama piece becomes a reflexive repetition. The fourth is to ascertain the authenticity of Unintentional Acting. This is possible because the literati audience of Ming elite theatre was always charmed and captivated by the incarnational quality of the actor becoming the character in an identifiable way:14 Those in the audience listened with rapt attention
 !"# and watched, gaze transfixed
 !. The spectators conversed but as if they missed the point
 !"#. They picked up the cups but immediately spilt the wine
 !"#. (Pan Z 1988: 4/23, Genshi zapian) Judging by all the detectable signs, the Theatre Unintentional must have provided its audience with excitement and ecstasy. This acting – again arguing only from what may be observed – represents the supreme performing art of the Ming stage. With respect to its documented excellence, the Ming performance theory in this study is to a large extent derived from data about the Theatre Unintentional.

Methodology The Ming performance theory presented in this chapter is not derived from a single ready source, for which a straightforward translation might have served, but reconstructed from the allusive applications of the supposedly ancient theory of the Taoist canon. The process and methodology of reconstruction, predetermining the reliability and viability of the theory, are thus

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as relevant as the theory itself. For this reason alone, every step in the process has been documented throughout the previous sections of this chapter. And two issues relevant to the reconstruction methodology that have not been discussed are examined in this section. They are: the rationale behind the methodology selection; and the method used to verify the Ming origin of the performance theory. Methodology selection In this book, much of the Ming theatre scene has been reconstructed from contemporary drama reviews and performance reports, hundreds of which are extant. Yet the Ming performance theory has been reconstructed by tracing the Ming literati’s application or misapplication of pre-Ming theories. This methodological inconsistency is tolerated because the alternative would be the adaptation of ideas from the Ming commentaries, which raises two insurmountable difficulties at the operational level, one in reading the data and one in structuring the theory. 1

2

Without sharing the viewing experience of the show with the Ming author, a modern scholar cannot read a Ming drama review in context or with confidence, let alone make independent observations or judgements. What he or she may recover from the review would be a potentially valuable opinion about an unknown production. Without sharing the Ming perception of performance theory, the modern scholar would have the next-to-impossible mission of relocating the piecemeal Ming ideas to their original hierarchy; yet without a determination of the relative positions of the ideas in a value system, their significance remains in doubt.

In this Catch-22 situation, one needs to realize the significance of the commentary in order to construct a performance theory, and one needs to understand the performance theory in order to appreciate the commentary. An analytical piece such as Pan Zhiheng’s ‘Explore Proximity’, despite its disguised origin and allusive language, has irrefutable advantages over narrative writings when it comes to reconstructing a Ming performance theory. The information supporting Pan’s analysis, collected from multiple productions and over a period of time, is less arbitrary than that of individual drama reviews. The ideas derived from the data, almost always arranged in a hierarchy by the Ming author, are much more reliable and only a little less readable. Origin verification When the Ming authors claimed no performance theory as their own, all the theories they applied would necessarily be placed within a real or imagined

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pre-Ming context. The discrepancy between their theory and the Ming context may suggest the theory’s pre-Ming origin, a derivation from and designation for non-Ming circumstances and, as can be expected, a certain collision with the Ming context. The discrepancy between the theory and its supposed pre-Ming context, on the other hand, would suggest the theory’s disguised Ming nature, as its ‘misreading’ is abnormal and thus more likely to be a deliberate device to bring new ideas to light. Following this line of investigation, the discrepancy between the Taoist text and its Pan Zhiheng reading signals the possibility of a new theory of Ming elite theatre. It is noteworthy that while the Zhuangzi fable pronounces the failure of the ‘Intentional Efforts’ of Intelligence, Skill and Strength, the Pan Zhiheng essay praises the accomplishment of Performing Arts (Intelligence, Singing and Dancing) of the same nature. This difference can be explained to a certain extent as a stylistic distinction that demands that the former achieve philosophical simplicity and clarity, and the latter preserve the factual accuracy of the practical theatre. Further, this thematic discrepancy does not have to be deemed a contradiction, because both scenarios ultimately require Unintentionality (Xiangwang) to regain the Natural Self (xuanzhu). None the less, their interpretive discrepancies remain: 1

2 3 4

In the conventional reading, the Yellow Emperor sends replacements, one at a time, to retrieve xuanzhu. In the Pan Zhiheng reading, the Yellow Emperor sends reinforcements, one after another, for the same task. In the Zhuangzi, Xiangwang is a lone fighter. In the Pan allusion, he is the leader. In the former, the Intentional Efforts are useless. In the latter, the same Efforts are necessary. The Yellow Emperor commends Xiangwang only. Pan Zhiheng praises all.

It is these discrepancies that highlight Pan Zhiheng’s need for an unconventional reading of the Zhuangzi allegory to launch his performance theory. It is these discrepancies that betray the disguised Ming nature of his performance theory. It is highly implausible that Pan Zhiheng could have actually misunderstood the Zhuangzi; it would have been an elementary mistake for any member of the Ming literati, let alone Pan, a renowned scholar of proven literary accomplishments. Therefore, if Pan had misread the Taoist text, he must have done that on purpose, not by mistake. But with his level of literary sophistication, Pan Zhiheng does not even have to misread the Zhuangzi outright. Instead he treads a thin line of ‘alternative reading’ when he constructs his theory in the Taoist framework. Indeed, nowhere in the Zhuangzi fable does the Yellow Emperor dictate that

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his envoys must work independently or one at a time to retrieve xuanzhu; and he would have no motivation to stop them from rallying round Xiangwang to accomplish his mission. In a fundamental sense, Pan’s reading, although discrepant and disguised, cannot be proven wrong.

Acceptance A performance theory may not determine its significance; its acceptance does. A performance theory may not indicate the level of performance; its acceptance does. Because of acceptance’s vital importance, this section investigates the contemporary acceptance of the style, content and theorist of the performance theory, exploring both direct and circumstantial evidence. Approval of the style Pan Zhiheng’s theory of the Theatre Unintentional posed no perceivable challenge to its intended readers in its comprehension, because the Zhuangzi was a most popular work for the Ming literati who, if not always in favour of, at least were used to the allusive writings. Pan’s style in fact was common among ‘poetry talks
’, which were remarks on poets, poems and the original stories on which the poems were based. Influenced by Zen Buddhism
 or the mystical Taoist school of Dark Learning
, these writings at times were deceptively simple and informal, while leaving subtle narrative or analytical gaps to be bridged by their enlightened readers. ‘Poetry talks’ became extremely popular among the literati during the Ming; the mode of writing from an esteemed poet like Pan was not only tolerated, but probably also expected. Therefore one may decide with confidence that the intelligibility and style of Pan Zhiheng’s performance theory would not have been problematic to a typical Ming literati community. Acceptance of the opinion There is no known commentary on the theory of Theatre Unintentional dating from the Ming. Nevertheless, circumstantial evidence strongly suggests that the Ming literati agreed with Pan Zhiheng. This agreement may be assessed by two measures, one in developmental trends and one in performative criteria. Developmental trends During the late Ming, the drama shows bustling with noise and excitement gradually but surely fell out of favour in elite theatre. The literati audience appreciated productions of psychological truth and character depth. And their highest admiration was always reserved for involuntary acting.

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Mao Xiang
 (1611–93), a literary celebrity, praised the ‘purity’ of ‘the passionate and meaningful
 !"’ opera singing, while expressing dismay over loud and coarse performances: ‘The most rarely heard is aural purity
 !"#$, / Not to be found in the noisy singing with winds
 !"#$’ (‘Watching theatre
’, in Zhao S 1988: 284). Zhu Wei
, active in the literati circle of the late Ming, held an acting opinion similar to Pan Zhiheng’s: ‘Unpretentious demeanor makes a beauty

 !", / While inaudible singing leads to romance
 !"#$’ (‘The Master of Lake Mandarin-ducks presents his private actresses in the production of The Peony Pavilion
 !"#$%&'()’, in Zhao S 1988: 232). And Li Yu voiced precisely the same idea as Pan Zhiheng, but in different words: This opera belongs to Heaven only
 !"#$, It is enacted in the mortal world today
 !"#. More music than one can hear
 !. More charm than one may see
 !. Yet the acting is totally unintentional
 !"#. (‘Watching a girl troupe’s show at the banquet of Wang Chang’an
 !"#$%’, in Zhao S 1988: 282–3) The more sophisticated audience taste in the late Ming prepared a fertile soil for the growth and maturity of Theatre Unintentional. The same literati audience should have had no difficulty in embracing Pan Zhiheng’s performance theory based on the same Theatre Unintentional. Performative criteria Extant data indicate that the Ming literati shared the same criteria in the performing arts, from singing and dancing to instrumental music and role-playing. The reports on Ming elite theatre revealed many occasions when the literati spectators unanimously responded to a particular production. To cite the more extreme examples, an audience applauded Ruan Dacheng’s troupe even though he was their political enemy, while another detested Li Kaixian’s actors although he was their personal friend. At the same time, there was not even a single mention of the audience’s opposing opinions on the artistic quality of any dramatic performances. And this was not because the literati spectators were able to keep opinions to themselves. Indeed, both Wang Jide’s Qulü and Lü Tiancheng’s
 Quping
 resulted from lengthy discussions and disputes among theatre scholars (Wang J 1959: 49–50, 172; Lü T 1959: 207). The open and fierce debate over The Peony Pavilion and its revisions went on for decades without running out of steam. By the same token, if the Ming literati had disagreed on the performative criteria, they would have at least voiced their

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opposition in the more emotion-packed playhouses. Note what Victor Hugo’s (1802–85) audience did when Hernani premiered.15 The documented agreements and the absence of dissent over the performing arts indicate the shared criteria of the elite spectators. This, to all intents and purposes, amounts to an aesthetic perception on which a generally accepted theory may be constructed, the theory in this case being that of Theatre Unintentional. Appreciation of the theorist While the Ming literati shared the same standards in theatre performance, their leaders unanimously commended the theorist who developed the literati perception of theatre into the Ming theory of performance. Mainstream endorsement It was not by coincidence that Pan Zhiheng became that mainstream theorist. Wang Shizhen, the leader of the literary arena, applauded Pan, then 29, as the brightest among the young scholars who came to him to seek guidance and approval: Dozens of brilliant young men came to Jiangzuo (‘East of the Yangtze’)
 !"#$%&'(, among whom Jingsheng [Pan Zhiheng styled himself Jingsheng] is the most outstanding
 !"#$%&. Who is Jiangzuo
 !? He is Shizhen, my humble self
 !". (Yanzhou shanren sibu xugao
 !"#$% vol. 51, in Pan Z 1988: 320) Other major literary figures of late Ming, such as Li Weizhen
 , Yuan Hongdao
 , Tan Yuanchun
 and Zhong Xing
, likewise wrote about their appreciation of Pan’s achievements (in Pan Z 1988: 322–4, 337–40, 331, 333). A few of Pan’s acquaintances who had written in favour of him were leading dramatists of his time, namely Wang Daokun
 , Tang Xianzu and Tu Long (in Pan Z 1988: 335 – 6, 340 –1, 327–8). The written endorsements of these celebrated figures of China’s literary canon affirmed Pan Zhiheng’s status. This fact adds weight to the literati acceptance of Pan’s theory as it was now not only based on the performance criteria undisputed by the literati, but also developed by the literatiendorsed author. Undisputed authority Pan Zhiheng received frequent endorsements of his classical poetry. But the most significant contribution he made was to theatre. For much of his adult

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life, he prioritized performance-related activities like ‘partying
, visiting
, inviting singers
 and coordinating courtesan-pageants
’, from which he developed a superior sensitivity in arts appreciation and criticism. Huang Juzhong
 , a personal friend of his, testified thus: In these activities
, he appraised the scenic beauties
, feminine beauties
, artistic beauties
 and dramatic beauties
 [in poetry]. [These beauties and his poems] fall in love at first sight

, which cannot be explained in technical terms
 !. [Such poems are] virtually heaven bestowed
 , not manmade
 !. (‘A foreword to the new collection of works of Pan the Whiskers 1599–1620
 !"#$%’, in Pan Z 1988: 330) He devoted 21 volumes, or 121 biographies, to late Ming courtesans, many of whom were accomplished actresses, in his 93-volume Genshi
 (Pan Z 1988: 234–91). His often strict but fair judgement won him an unblemished reputation as a drama critic. His contemporaries named him after Dong Hu, a court historian of the Spring and Autumn Period (779–476 ) who risked his life to keep the historical records straight: Lately Pan Jingsheng [Zhiheng], a native of the Huangshan Mountain
 !"#, loved to appraise the courtesans
 !". He wrote their biographies
 ! in flowery language
 !. People now call Jingsheng ‘Dong Hu of the Courtesans’
 !"#$%&'. (Zhou Lianggong
 , Yinshuwu shuying
 !" vol. 8, in Pan Z 1988: 260) Pan Zhiheng paid a personal price for his artistic devotion. Huang Juzhong observed that some members of the literati complained that Pan’s writings ‘offended the [Confucian] ethical code
 !"#’ (Pan Z 1988: 330). Qian Qianyi, the literary leader who met Pan in the latter’s last days, concluded that Pan’s theatrical activities contributed to the virtual bankruptcy of the man, who was born to a well-to-do merchant family: Taking Jingling [Nanjing] as the city of his residence
 !, [Pan Zhiheng] lingered on in the courtesan quarters
 !, inviting singer and composing songs
 !. Drinking excessively while begging for food
 !, he feigned madness and died in dire straits
 !"#. (Qian Q 1982: 630) Nevertheless, Pan Zhiheng’s sustained field work and unparalleled performance study won him undisputed authority as a theatre scholar and prepared him for the development of the most sophisticated performance theory known to the history of Chinese opera.16 ‘Explore Proximity’, the article

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that contains the main body of Pan’s performance theory, was published twice, first in Genshi (1626) and then in Luanxiao xiaopin
 ! (1628), during the final glory of the sophisticated Ming opera. This elitist theory thus concluded Ming elite theatre on a timely high note before the dynasty collapsed among domestic trouble and foreign invasion.

(a)

(b)

Figure 13.1(a)–(c) Pan Zhiheng’s article ‘Explore proximity’. The theory of Theatre Unintentional as it was first published in the sixth year of the Tianqi period (1626). Photos by the author.

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(c)

Figure 13.1(a)–(c) (cont’d )

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Notes

Notes

Preface 1 Occasionally these performers or troupes were referred to as nüyue
 (female entertainers), the term first used for privately owned female performers in the sixth century . The Ming literati’s preference for antique expressions is consistent with their ‘Renaissance tendency’. 2 I use another scholar’s translation to demonstrate that my textual analysis is based on an unbiased interpretation of The Peony Pavilion. 3 Actors and actresses are usually referred to by their stage names or nicknames in the Ming commentaries. Their stage names were given by troupe owners and their nicknames were bestowed by critics (Pan Z 1988: 2/199, Luanxiao xiaopin). These names, known to small groups of people only and changed from time to time, have little value for the purpose of cross-reference. 1 Historical overview 1 Only the Jacobean (1603 – 25) and Caroline (1625 – 42) court entertainments employed Italian staging techniques, introduced by Inigo Jones. 2 Yan
, literally ‘eyes’. It can either mean ‘expressions in one’s eyes’ or ‘unaccented beats in a bar’. Wang uses it as a pun here. 3 Impressed by the playwright’s talent, the emperor offered Gao a post in his government, which the latter tactfully declined (Xu W 1959: 240). 4 Some have come to believe that Gao Ming’s claim that he ‘would not limit [The Lute] in certain keys or tunes
 !"#’ testifies to a nanxi music system and Gao’s ignorance of it. Gao’s verse, however, should be read as meaning that there are no such rules to follow. Xu Wei brilliantly debates this issue in Nanci xulu (1959: 240–1). 5 Ye Mengzhu
 is the learned and versatile author of Yueshi bian
 , a reliable source of late Ming and early Qing data from which regional annals – such as those of the prefect of Songjiang
 and counties of Huating
=(modern Jiaxing
), Shanghai
 and Nanhui
 – have often drawn their material. 6 The phrase ‘to run one’s home
 ’ alludes to a verse of the sixth century: ‘The strong woman runs the household
 !", / Better than a true man
 !"’ (Anonymous ‘The west of Mountain Long
 ’, in Xu Ling
 ed. Yutai xinyong
 ! [The new ballads of the Jade Terrace] ). Chen Weisong’s literary allusion thus asserts Miss Wei’s contribution – which is not necessarily limited to enhancing the men’s relation and keeping the house, but may include direct artistic or creative input – to Wei’s cause, because this ‘beauty’, who is known to be ‘good at singing’, is now paralleled by ‘the strong woman’ who is capable of doing things ‘better than a true man’.

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Notes 171 7 A recorder-like wind instrument. 8 The indigenous term for Beijing opera is Jingju
, literally ‘capital drama’. Beijing was the capital of the Yuan, the Ming and the Qing dynasties, except for a period in the early Ming dynasty when the capital was Yingtian
 (modern Nanjing). 9 During Ming times, the classic Noh developed to its full glory. Towards the end of the Ming era, kabuki evolved. While no relations have been firmly established between the classical theatres of China and Japan, similarities are found in acting styles, such as striking a pose (mie in kabuki and liangxiang in various genres of Chinese opera), and in staging practices, such as using black-hooded stage assistants visible to the audience during performances. 2 Previous scholarship 1 The fact that Aoki Masaru benefited from his colleagues’ scholarship is seen in his 1930 preface (Aoki 1936: 734–5). 2 Wang Guowei’s major works in this field include Qu lu
 (1909), vols 3–5, and Song Yuan xiqu shi
 !" (1912). 3 Geographically, the Central Plains comprise the middle and lower reaches of the Huanghe River. However, this term has a connotation of authority and authenticity derived from the majority population and cultural superiority. 4 See also Quan Yuan Sanqu
 ! (The Complete Collection of Sanqu Poetry of the Yuan dynasty; Sui S
 1964: 242, 1732–3). 5 Under the decree of the Emperor Qianlong (reigned 1736–96) of the Qing dynasty, a nationwide campaign of book compilation (1772–82) amassed some 10,254 books in 172,860 volumes. These books, collectively known as Siku quanshu (A Complete Library of the Four Treasures [Namely the Classics, History, Philosophy and Literature] ), also known as the Encyclopedia Sinica, were edited and reviewed by an imperial editorial board composed of experts from different fields and headed by Ji Yun
, considered by many the most knowledgeable man at the time. These book reviews resulted in the 200-volume book Siku quanshu zongmu tiyao, which was published in 1789 by Wuying dian
 , a publishing house of the imperial court. 6 ‘Uncle Yun’ – Zhang Yefang
 being his name – styled himself Er-Yun
 and was a person of striking personality. Zhang Dai penned a bibliographical sketch for him 36 years after his premature death (Zhang D 1985: 173–5). 7 A complete case study of this phenomenon is provided in Chapter 13 of this volume. 8 The training programme is detailed in Chapter 13. 3 Literati owners 1 Zhao Yi
 (1727–1814), one of the three top historians of the Qing dynasty, gives a concise account of the privileges that the Ming jinshi enjoyed in his essay ‘You Ming jinshi zhi zhong
 !"#’. For instance, jinshi were routinely assigned to higher but less challenging positions. The state bureaucracy openly applied double standards between its jinshi and non-jinshi officials, always showing partiality towards jinshi, whose contributions were exaggerated and mistakes understated (Zhao Y 1791: 18/20–1). 2 This game, called cuju
 or cuqiu (literally ‘kicking the ball’), was originally a drill in military training. Its round ball was made of leather and played by the feet and heads of the participants. 3 It was common practice that a retired government official took advantage of his status and connections. He might seek favours from his former classmates or colleagues who took office in his hometown. Or he might use his influence to sponge on people.

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172

Notes

4 Actors’ backgrounds 1 It was conducted by Yao Tongshou
 , who traveled to Haiyan in the sixteenth year of the Zhiyuan period (1276) during the Yuan dynasty. He studied the history and legends of this area through his field work and his local acquaintances, like Yang Youzhi
 (Yao T 1983: 3). 2 The next chapter elaborates on the significance of the first two qualities to Ming theatre in general and private troupes in particular. 3 This social expectation is discussed in the next chapter. 4 This study consults the Ming novels in the realistic mode to furnish a price index. The literati troupe owners habitually shied away from specifying the money amount in their actual deals, probably in an effort to avoid su
or ‘commonness’, a trait that was considered undesirable in writing style or personality. 5 The troupe owners might consider these families as former owners of their actors in business or legal terms. Whatever their attitude, the Ming troupe owners were never known to demand that their actors sever their family relations. 5 Actor training 1 The Ming literati as a collective did not take private theatre as their first priority, despite the fact that many individuals in this social spectrum showed a fanatical enthusiasm for their private troupes. 2 In addition to superior actors and playscripts, Ruan Dacheng’s talent and style of direction helped to secure the success of each production of his troupe, which is discussed in Chapter 11. 3 Qin, a seven-stringed plucked instrument that resembles a zither. 4 Tiqin, a two-stringed bowed instrument that is similar to a fiddle. 5 That is, sanxian, a three-stringed bowed instrument similar to a fiddle. 6 Several wind instruments, but primarily the vertical and horizontal bamboo flutes, are included in this category. 7 It was not a viable option for a woman from good family to practise or even learn theatre performance throughout the Ming dynasty. The social conditions that determined the separation of theatre professionals from the rest of the society have been discussed in Chapter 3. 6 Owner–performer relations 1 Other than their natural beauty, these objects also possess ethical or ideological significance. For instance, snow is associated with purity, the chrysanthemum with aloofness from worldly affairs, the lotus with incorruptible integrity, the moon signifies separation and reunion, and rocks imply uncompromised individuality. 2 Juwuzi identifies himself only as ‘an old acquaintance
’ of Qian, and quotes a letter that the de facto Prime Minister has sent to Qian in his memoir Bimengxu. In a note to the quotation, Juwuzi explains: ‘The Imperial Censor [Qian Dai] kept secret all the letters from Jiangling [Zhang Juzheng]
 !"#$%. I incidentally saw this letter in his study
 !"#$’ (Juwuzi 1980: 3237). The assumption that Juwuzi served as Qian’s secretary is based on the fact that the Bimengxu author had intimate knowledge of life in Qian’s mansion and that he gained access to Qian’s study. 3 The Chinese rhapsody, or fu
, is an intricate literary form, popular from Han times (206  to  220) to the Six Dynasties period (220–589). It features rhymed verses, literary parallelism, and the extravagant expression of spectacle, event, sentiment and feeling.

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Notes 173 4 The Prince’s original text, a masterpiece of the Chinese classics, features simultaneously passion and hesitation, romantic love and moralistic restrain. Its sexual tension is never released, desire never fulfilled. However, when this classical piece appears as literary allusion, it routinely signifies an extramarital romance or illicit affair. 5 A musical family is also known as ‘a household of professional entertainers’. All people born into musical families were bound by the System of Household Register. Under Ming laws, those people had to continue in government-assigned professions for entire their lives, and for generation after generation. Other such ‘professional families’ were junhu
 or military families, mahu
 or horse-raising families and chuanhu
 or water-transportation families. 6 With few exceptions, the Ming accounts available today were written by literati and from the perspective of troupe-owners. The performers, despite their trained stage voices, presented a mute existence in Ming history. No attempt has been made to correct the bias or filter the value judgements in the original accounts. 7 Sexist criteria 1 The poem ‘The Beauty
’, in ‘The Ballads of
’ of the Book of Songs
(an anthology of poems approximately from the eleventh to the sixth centuries ), reads: ‘Her teeth look like gourd seeds
 !’. 2 ‘Bamboo Branches’ are folk songs with primarily romantic themes. 3 Zheng Xuan
 (127–200), an authoritative annotator of the Han dynasty, determines that the ‘little stars’ refer to the nameless imperial concubines of the Zhou court in his Mao Shi Jian
 (Annotations on the Mao version of the Book of Songs). His interpretation has become popular since. 4 Pure Lady, or Sunü
, is a goddess of music who plays the zither-like se
upon the Yellow Emperor’s request. However, she is also the goddess of sex who shares her sexual expertise with the Yellow Emperor. The ancient books named after her, such as Sunü yangsheng yaofang
 !"# (Pure Lady’s essential prescriptions for conserving one’s vital powers), Sunü midao jing

 (Pure Lady’s secret scripture on ways) and Sunü fang
 (Pure Lady’s prescriptions), are regarded as China’s Kama Sutra. Because of Pure Lady’s double identity, this verse has a double meaning. Little Star may learn performance, sex or both from this master teacher. 5 As legend has it, Empress Zhao Feiyan
 of the first century  and a professional dancer named Zhang Jingwan
 of the sixth century, who had a waistline of 18 inches, were both slim and lithe enough to dance on a palm. 6 The two other actresses of competence were also married. With ‘perfect looks and demeanour
 ! and tiny bow-shaped bound feet
 !"’, Wu Sansan was ‘later married to a Gu Junior as his concubine
 !"#$’. Han Renren, who probably failed the ‘beauty contest’, was married to the son of a household servant: ‘Han Renren
, a native of Peking
 . She had purplish red complexion
 and a square face fitted with well proportioned forehead and chin
 !. Her figure was charmingly well developed
 ! with semi-bow-shaped bound feet
 .’ 7 The text partially quotes from a third century source (Taiping yulan
 !, vol. 573). The connoisseur used this classic reference to strengthen his argument. He also made clear that he was applying the ancient observation and opinion to the Ming phenomenon. Classical citations were a stylistic feature of Ming literati writing. 8 All three are common female names. Honghong or Scarlet enjoys no particular historical reference. Haohao or Pleasant once appears as a gifted singsong girl in

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Notes

a poem by Du Mu
 (803 –53) of the Tang dynasty (‘Zhang Haohao shi
 ’ [A poem for Zhang the Pleasant], Chen B 1995: 2340–1). Zhenzhen or Genuine is a figure in a painting who comes to life after her name is called out for 100 days. Her legend is found in Songchuang zaji
 ! (Miscellany of the window under pines) by Du Xunhe
 (849–904) of the Tang dynasty. 9 Xue Lingyun
 was an imperial concubine of Cao Pi
 (187 – 226), the Wendi Emperor of the Wei
 . As legend has it, she was able to do needlework in the semi-darkness of a curtained room without lights. She is thus referred to as the Goddess of Needles in the palace. See Wang Jia
, Shiyi ji
 (Collection of omissions), vol. 7. 10 The Huaiwang Duke of the Chu
 ‘meets the Wu Mountain Goddess in a dream

=

’. She takes her departure, saying: ‘During the day I appear as morning cloud

 and in the evening, spreading rain

. Day in day out and night after night

, I stay below the Sunning Terrace

.’ This narrative of the classical period became such a popular literary allusion or euphemism for extramarital sex in Chinese literature that any of the underlined phrases above or the location Gaotang
 may singularly allude to extramarital relations. See Song Yu
, Gaotang fu
 (The Rhapsody of Gaotang). 8 The play as foreplay 1 Zheng was originally a bell-looking, but longer and narrower, percussion instrument that was used in the army to regulate marching steps. It is also another name for gong
. Li Yu apparently refers to the gong in an opera orchestra while applying its military connotation in the martial scenes. 2 This kind of exposure, sometimes referred to as ‘the sudden leak of the spring [sexy] view
 !’ in the fiction and plays of the Ming and Qing eras, had long been considered a source of voyeuristic excitement in China. 3 Their Japanese counterparts utilized revealing textiles in early kabuki for the purpose of sexy costuming, before the Tokugawa shogunate intervened. 4 For the reference to the Goddess of the River Luo, see Chapter 5; and that of the Goddess of the Mountain Wu, see Chapter 6, note 10. 9 Singing and dancing 1 Wei Jiang was a senior court official of the Dukedom of Jin. 2 Wang Youlong, known by his courtesy name Wang Jixuan in Pan Zhiheng’s writing, was Pan’s townsman and academic associate. 3 Both the luan and the phoenix are mythical birds in Chinese legend. 4 An analysis of this phenomenon is in Chapter 3. 5 This mechanism is discussed in Chapter 7. 6 Circumstantial evidence, much of which can be found in this chapter, suggests that the Ming literati audience sustained an active and sometimes aggressive sexual imagination when watching singing and dancing. 7 Heng and Ping are named Jiangru and Nanru, respectively, in the commentary by the critic. 8 This taste of dance connoisseurs was consistent with the Ming elite’s general criteria of female beauty. For a young lady, physical weakness in appearance was a sign of high class and proper upbringing. Thus the Chinese proverb ‘being too weak to stand a gust of wind
 !’ confirms neither sickness nor undesirability in a young lady. 9 The performance of ‘Xishi’s Song and Dance’ was apparently derived from Washing Silk by Liang Chenyu, with a possible emphasis on ‘Scene 25, Dance

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Notes 175 Training
’, in which Xishi learns and practises seductive songs and dances as a part of her spy training. 10 Role-playing 1 In scene 53, Liu Mengmei is charged with ‘opening of coffin and theft of contents’ in a court of law. He is then tortured as a criminal. 2 The classification of the jing role type experienced significant changes after the Yuan dynasty. In the Yuan zaju tradition, a jing could be either a villain or a clown. This practice was kept in the Ming chuanqi troupes. But the Ming jing might also play a hero, while the Yuan jing never did. Whether a villain or a hero, the Ming jing always had a distinctive personality and a strong character, which was not true of the Yuan jing. Average Ming theatregoers arbitrarily referred to their clown characters as jing or chou, the latter derived from the nanxi, or ‘southern plays’, system. The Ming literati, however, tried to limit the comic jing to characters of high social status. The jing category underwent further changes during the Qing dynasty. 3 That is, the villain or hero jing was larger than life and the clown jing was smaller than life. This became evident in their acting style, costume and make-up. All jing characters painted their faces, for example. The villain or hero jing covered his whole face and way above the hairline with a striking design of abstract or symbolic patterns. But the clown jing drew only a small patch of white in the centre of his face. 11 Directing 1 Zang’s comments are found in his ‘Preface to the chuanqi operas of White Camellia Hall’ (Zang M 1621: 3/52). 2 Tang’s heptasyllabic quatrain is titled ‘Laughing in spite of myself over the distorted text of The Peony Pavilion
 !"#$%&’ (Tang X 1621b: 18/43). 3 The lengthy addition was partly due to Li Yu’s interest in lecturing on conventional morality (Li Y 1959: 82–8). 4 For details, see Chapter 13. 5 For details, see Chapter 13. 6 The members of the Donglin Academy in the late Ming considered themselves a ‘clear stream
’ in politics, i.e. an uncontaminated group of scholars who were concerned with politics but held themselves aloof from those in power. 12 Performance space 1 An explanation of this literary allusion is given in Chapter 6, note 4. 2 The context of the Chunyu Kun narrative is given in Chapter 6. 3 This sexual dream is detailed in Chapter 7, note 10. 13 Performance theory 1 The author signs himself only as Yannan Zhian
 ! (the Magic-fungus Convent of the Southern Yan), obviously a pseudonym. Magic-fungus (i.e. glossy ganoderma) is a symbol of refined personality in the Chinese classics. It is credited with miraculous powers in certain schools of Taoism, Buddhism and Chinese medicine. Yannan Zhian might have been a contemporary of Wang Yun
 (1226–1304), as the latter had a poem titled ‘For Monk Zhian
 !’ (Wang Y 1774: 9/10).

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Notes

2 When Xianqing ouji was first published, Qing dynasty rule had already begun, despite the remnants of Ming loyalists still fighting the advancing Qing forces in a few southern provinces until 1683. However, virtually all the theories and practices explored in this book are identical to those of the fading Ming theatre but not those of the emerging Qing drama. 3 As it turned out, his servants were attracted to the site where the locals kept the nudist tradition of ‘male and female bathing in the same river
 !"#’. 4 Zhuangzi
 (The Writings of Master Zhuang) is the work of Zhuang Zhou
. He is one of the two founding Taoist philosophers, the other being Laozi
 or Lao Tan
. 5 Zhi, literally ‘intelligence’, a fictitious name with no other reference. 6 Lizhu, a figure that enjoys some historical references. Lizhu also appears in the ‘Pianmu
’ (Double Thumbs) chapter of the Zhuangzi=
 and the ‘Lilou
’ chapter of the Mencius. A Han dynasty (206  to 220 ) annotation of the Mencius reads: ‘Lizhu, also known as Lilou, can see the tips of [new] autumn feathers from a hundred steps away
 !"#$%&'#(’ (Zhao Qi
: Annotations on the Mencius
 ). 7 Chigou is a legendary figure, supposedly the most physically powerful person in the ancient world known to the Chinese. 8 Xuanzhu functions as the key in the through-line of action: (a) the Yellow Emperor loses his xuanzhu in a mysterious circumstance; (b) he deploys the most potent persons to retrieve the xuanzhu, all of whom fail in their mission; (c) the Yellow Emperor sends Xiangwang; (d) Xiangwang recovers xuanzhu; (e) the Yellow Emperor is surprised by Xiangwang’s success. 9 There are reasons for the difference. Xiangwang must have a definition, as long as the Zhuangzi fable is to make a Taoist statement and indeed to make any sense at all, because it defines an ‘action’. Xuanzhu does not need a singular or absolute definition, because it is the ‘objective’ of an action. An action can have multiple objectives. The ambiguity of xuanzhu is in fact its strength, as the ambiguity allows multiple applications of the fable to be made. 10 ‘Sanglin’, literally ‘Mulberry Forest’, was a famous piece of court music of the Shang dynasty (c.1800–1200 ). It is used here to allude to the classical and courtly standard of the troupe’s dance and movement. 11 Zuo Si’s
 (?250–?305) poem ‘Invite Hermit
 ’ reads: ‘It does not have to be the music of string and wind instruments
 !"; the mountain and streams are making pure and clear sounds
 !".’ 12 A candidate who passes his Imperial Examinations at the age of 80 becomes the hero of the Ming drama Refuse to Give in to Old Age
 . 13 A number of examples depicting this more purposeful manner can be found in Chapters 5 and 11. 14 For more Ming examples, see Chapter 10. Of course, the incarnational quality is not limited to acting in Ming elite theatre. Its documentation is also found in the records of Ming public theatre performances. And its power would conquer not just Ming literati spectators, but audiences of all times and theatres. 15 When Hugo’s Hernani, the forerunner of romantic theatre, opened at the Comédie Française in 1830, a riot broke out between Hugo’s supporters and those of neoclassical theatre among the audience. The shouting and fighting restaged themselves every night in the auditorium during the drama’s run of 55 days, with the actors playing in the new style onstage. 16 More examples of his extensive research in Ming elite theatre can be found in Chapters 5, 9, 10 and 11.

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 !"#$%&' (A Collection of Treatises on Classical Chinese Opera), 4: 15 – 42, Beijing: Zhongguo xiju chubanshe. Wang Xiaochuan
 (1958) Yuan Ming Qing sandai jinghui xiaoshuo xiqu shiliao
 !"#$%&'()* (The Historical Accounts of the Forbidden or Destroyed Fictions and Dramas during the Dynasties of the Yuan, Ming and Qing), Beijing: Zuojia chubanshe. Wang Yun
 (1774) [1300s] Qiu Jian Daquan Wenji
 !"#$% (Complete Works of Qianjian), 130 vols, in Encyclopedia Sinica
 !, Beijing: Wenyuange. Wei Liangfu
 (1959) [1616] Qulü
 (Rules and Forms of Drama), in Zhongguo gudian xiqu lunzhu jicheng
 !"#$%&' (A Collection of Treatises on Classical Chinese Opera), 3: 233–56, Beijing: Zhongguo xiju chubanshe. Wells, Henry (1965) The Classical Drama of the Orient, Bombay: Asia Publishing House. Wu Jingxue
 (1983) Lidai shihua
 ! (Poetry Talks of Previous Dynasties), 80 vols, in Encyclopedia Sinica
 !, vol. 1483, Taipei: Taiwan Commerce. Xiaoxiaosheng

 (1955) [1550s] Jinpingmei cihua
 !" (The Golden Lotus Story), Hongkong: Guangzhi. —— (n.d.) Jinpingmei cihua Ming-ban quantu
 !"#$%& (The Complete Illustrations in the Ming Edition of the Golden Lotus Story), Shanghai: Zhongyang shudian. Xie Fangde
 (1774) Dieshan Ji
 (Collected Works of Dieshan), 5 vols, in Encyclopedia Sinica
 !, Beijing: Wenyuange. Xu Fuzuo (1959)
 Sanjiacunlao weitan
 !"# (Honest Talks of the Old Man of the Three-family Village), in Zhongguo gudian xiqu lunzhu jicheng

 !"#$ (A Collection of Treatises on Classical Chinese Opera), 4: 229–48, Beijing: Zhongguo xiju chubanshe. Xu Jiu
c (1672) Benshi shi=
 =EPoems with the Original Stories They Were Based on), 12 vols, no place: Juzhuang (Chrysanthemum village). Xu Wei
 (1959) [1558] Nanci xulu
 ! (Account of Southern Plays), in Zhongguo gudian xiqu lunzhu jicheng
 !"#$%&' (A Collection of Treatises on Classical Chinese Opera), 3: 233 –56, Beijing: Zhongguo xiju chubanshe. Yao Hsin-nung
 (1936) ‘Rise and fall of the K’un Ch’ü’, T’ien Hsia Monthly 2(1): 63–84.

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References 181 Yao Tongshou
 (1978) [1276] Lejiao siyu
 ! (Private Talks in the Peaceful Suburb), in Biji xiaoshuo daguan
 !"# (The Library of Literary Sketches), 4/4: 2547–66, Taipei: Xinxing shuju. Ye Mengzhu
 (1983) [approx. 1700] Yueshibian
 (The Seeing the World Volumes), in Biji xiaoshuo daguan
 !"# (The Library of Literary Sketches), 35/5: 1–237, Taipei: Xinxing shuju. Zang Maoxun
 (1621) Fubaotang wenxuan
 !" (Selected Writings of the Fubao Hall), 4 vols, Private publication. Zhang Chao
 (compiler) (1700) Yuchu xinzhi
 !. (Contemporary Short Stories), 20 vols, Private publication. Zhang Dai
 (1982) [early 1700s] Taoan mengyi
 ! and Xihu mengxue

 ( [The Bound Volume of] Earthenware Studio’s Remembrance of Dreams and Dream Pursuits on Lake Xihu), Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe. —— (1985) [early 1700s] Langxuan wenji
 ! (The Collected Works of the Langxuan Fairyland ), Changsha: Yuemu chubanshe. Zhang Lu
 (1525) Cilin zhaiyan
 ! (Charming Flora from the Libretto Forest), 10 vols, Private publication. Zhang Tingyu
 (1962) [1739] Mingshi
 (Standard History of the Ming), 332 vols, Taipei: Guofang yanjiuyuan. Zhao Shanlin
 (ed.) (1988) Lidai yongju shige xuanzhu
 !"#$% (Selected Poems on Theatre in the Past Dynasties), Beijing: Shumu wenxian chubanshe. Zhao Yi
 (1791) Gaiyu congkao=
 ! (Collected Textual Research Conducted during Spare Time when Attending the Parents’ Graveyard [ for Three Years Practising the Confucian Funeral Rites] ), Private publication. Zheng Sixiao
 (1639) Xinshi
 (A History in Heart), np: Zhang Guowei. Zhong Sicheng
 (1959) [1340s] Lugui bu
 (Ghosts Register), in Zhongguo gudian xiqu lunzhu jicheng
 !"#$%&' (A Collection of Treatises on Classical Chinese Opera), 2: 85–274, Beijing: Zhongguo xiju chubanshe. Zhou Deqing
 (1959) [1324] Zhongyuan yinyun
 ! (Prosody of the Central Plains), in Zhongguo gudian xiqu lunzhu jicheng
 !"#$%&' (A Collection of Treatises on Classical Chinese Opera), 1: 167–285, Beijing: Zhongguo xiju chubanshe. Zhu Quan
 (1959) [1398] Taihe zhengyin pu
 !" (Great Harmony Manual of Prosody for Drama and Song), in Zhongguo gudian xiqu lunzhu jicheng
 !
 !"# (A Collection of Treatises on Classical Chinese Opera), 3: 1–232, Beijing: Zhongguo xiju chubanshe. Zhu Yizun
 (ed.) (1935) [1678] Cizong
 (Ci Poetry Compilation), Shanghai: Zhonghua shuju. Zhuang Yifu
 (1982) Gudian xiqu cunmu huikao
 !"#$% (General Textual Criticism of the Extant Titles of Classical Chinese Opera), Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe. Zou Diguang
 (1604) Yuyilou ji
 ! (Collected Works of the Sun-visitor’s Tower), 54 vols, Private publication. —— (1608) Tiaoxiang’an gao
 ! (Drafts of the Elephant-trainer’s Studio), 40 vols, Private publication. Zuo Qiuming
 (1914) Chunqiu Zuo zhuan
 ! (The Spring and Autumn period [770 – 476 ] annuals by Zuo), in Shisan jing
 (The Thirteen Scriptures [of Confucian school] ), Shanghai: Commerce.

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182

Index

Index

Abao 40–1, 64 Academy of Music 5, 10, 30–2, 34–5, 47, 49, 51 acting 1–2, 19, 33, 37–8, 40, 43, 45, 59, 63, 72–3, 79, 89, 99, 102–3, 105–11, 120–1, 123, 125, 128, 129, 132, 142, 147, 149, 151, 153, 157–61, 164–5; see also dancing, role playing, singing, star performer actor background 36, 45; atypical sources 40–2; financial conditions 42–4; primary sources 36–40; see also Xi the Phoenix, Xia Rukai actor becoming character see theory component actor manager 17, 49, 51, 114; Guan She 49; Wu Dayan 49 actor training 35, 37–8, 42, 45–6, 49–57, 122, 124, 147, 150; age and length 45; by both 53–4; by literati owner 51–3; by singing master 49–51; trainers 46–8; see also hanger-on actor training experiment 54; for general purpose 54–5; for particular task 55–7; for performance specialty 55 Aeschylus 1–2 alienation 153–4 alternative reality 27–8, 57, 111 Aoki Masaru 11–12 Appia, Adolphe 121 Autumn Thoughts see ‘Qiusi’ Baitu ji see The White Hare Baiyue ji see The Moon-Prayer Pavilion Bao Hansuo 24, 29, 54, 59–60, 66, 134, 136, 140, 150 Beijing opera 10, 14 Bing 106–7 Bingshan ji see The Iceberg

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Birch, C. 13–15, 19, 100 blow candle 60–1, 74 boy-lover 40–1, 63 Ch’en Shou-yi 12–13 Chaichuan ji see The Hairpin and Bracelet character interpretation 99, 103–5, 128; Heng’s reading of Du Liniang 104–5; Yishi’s reading of Liu Mengmei 105 Chen Duo 30–1 Chen Jiru 24, 29 Chen Kaitai 115 Chen Miaochang 78, 81–4 Chen Pizhai 75 Chen Weisong 6–7 Chifu see Red Military Tally chuanqi 2–4, 10, 13, 15, 19, 28, 49, 52–3, 56, 59–60, 67–8, 74–8, 80, 83–7, 97–8, 100, 107–8, 111–12, 114–15, 117, 123, 125–6, 145–6 chuanqi opera 52–3, 56, 67, 75, 80, 98, 112, 114, 117, 123, 126, 145; see also chuanqi play chuanqi play 3, 52–3, 60, 77, 80, 83–4, 97, 115, 125; see also Encourage People Doing Good, Filial Piety and Fraternal Duty, Killing a Dog, Phoenix Cries, Red Military Tally, The Carp Jumps, The Chibi, The Double Pearls, The Embroidered Clothes, The Epiphyllums, The Four Virtues, The Hairpin and Bracelet, The Iceberg, The Moon-Prayer Pavilion, The Peony Pavilion, The Red Pear Flower, The Resurrection, The Romance of the Western Chamber, The Shining Pearls, The White Hare, The Wooden Hairpin, Washing Silk

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Index chuanqi hero(ine) 12, 52, 54, 60, 73, 75, 78, 80–1, 83, 92, 96, 98–9, 105, 115, 117, 120, 126–7; see also Chen Miaochang, Du Liniang, Liu Miengmei, Pan Bizheng, Pang, Xishi, Zhao Wuniang civil service examinations see Imperial Examinations concubine 26, 41–2, 59–60, 62, 69–72, 74, 81, 115, 117 Confucian scholar 32–3, 46, 62, 134 costume 10, 13, 49, 64, 73, 85–7, 89, 97, 111 Craig, Edward Gordon 121, 124–5 dancing 2, 7, 9–10, 14, 39, 49, 55, 61, 71–2, 86–7, 89–90, 94, 98–9, 109, 111, 122, 124, 127, 129, 139, 155, 163, 165; definition 94; see also group dance, solo dance directing 111–12, 115, 125, 128, 146, 150; definition 111–12; see also literary control, staging control, stylistic control, total control director 14, 22, 28, 40, 55–6, 63, 111–12, 114–16, 118, 121–4, 160 Dolby, W. 13, 20 Du Liniang 7, 99–106 Duke of Saxe-Meiningen 111 Dun Ren 47, 49, 51, 54 Elizabethan theatre 1–2; private 22 emancipation 153, 157 Encourage People Doing Good 27 Eunuch Xu 65–6, 70 Fan Changbai 65 Feng Guan 27 Feng Mengzhen 8, 42, 70 Filial Piety and Fraternal Duty 26 flawed hero 78–80 Gao Lian 78, 83 Gao Ming 4–5 Giles, H. 11 girl troupe 26, 47, 55, 92, 97, 119–20, 122, 165 Goddess of Mountain Wu 74, 87, 139 Goddess of River Luo 61, 74, 87, 139 Greek tragedy 1–2, 81, 144 group dance 85, 96–8, 121; costume and props 97; dance history 98; formation and variation 96–7; voyeuristic attraction 97–8; see also voyeurism

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183

Gu Jueyu 75 Guan Yunshi 37 guest-spectators 22–3, 41, 48, 51, 59–62, 74, 88, 90, 93–4, 100, 122, 139, 149; see also Chen Jiru, Feng Mengzhen, Li Yu, Peng Tianxi, Qi Biaojia, Wang Shizhen, You Tong, Yu Huai, Zou Diguang Haiyan music 5, 37 hanger-on 46, 60 He Liangjun 31, 37, 46–7, 51, 53–4, 84 He Qinhua 108 Hemeidu 95–6, 129 Heng 92–3, 95, 99–100, 105–7, 125 her age: in acting 70; in actor training 36–9, 45, 48, 67; in sex service 70–1 her beauty: complexion 69; face 69; feet 69; figure 69; teeth 69, 70; see also solo dance heterosexual 59–62 historical overview 1; chuanqi diverged from zaju 2–4; chuanqi evolved from nanxi 4–10; golden age drama 1–2, 10; impact of Ming theatre 10; its unparalleled performance 1–2; see also Beijing opera, chuanqi, Elizabethan theatre, Greek tragedy, kabuki, nanxi, Noh, zaju homosexual 62–3 Hongli ji see The Red Pear Flower Hou Chaozong 29, 40 Hou Xun 56 Hsia, C. T. 13 Hu, J. 14 Huang Juzhong 167 Huanshaji see Washing Silk Hung, J. 12 ideal heroine: desirability 78; fatal attraction 80–1; filial piety 78–9; forbidden fruit 81–4; perfect character 78–80; sexual attraction 80; womanly chastity 79–80; see also alternative reality, ideal reality ideal reality 27–8, 43, 57 Imperial Academy of Music see Academy of Music Imperial Examinations 10, 23, 27, 32–3, 76–8, 80, 90, 127, 142, 151, 156–7 instrumental music 18, 31, 54–5, 90, 121–2, 156, 165 intelligence 98, 108–9, 155, 163

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184

Index

jiaofang see Academy of Music Jingchai ji see The Wooden Hairpin Jinling 9, 39, 142 jinshi 23, 25–6, 30, 85 K’un Ch’ü see kunqu kabuki 10, 158 Kang Hai 23, 29, 63 keep Kun 61, 74 keju see Imperial Examinations Killing a Dog 4 Kuanshan-qiang see kunqu kunju 10, 40, 84, 90, 145, 158 kunqu 10, 13, 77, 113–14, 137, 145, 158 Kunshan music 5–9, 40, 48 Li Kaixian 23–5, 37, 51–2, 66, 149, 165 Li Panlong 9 Li Rihua 76 Li Weizhen 166 Li Yu 22, 28, 42, 50–1, 53, 73–4, 84, 86, 99–100, 116–18, 128, 145–6, 165 Liang Chunyu 9, 52 libretto 3–4, 9, 12–13, 15–16, 31, 49, 52, 81, 86–7, 91, 99–100, 111–13, 115–16, 141, 144–5; see also playwriting light 14, 61, 74, 97, 111, 118–23, 127, 137, 140–1 literary allusion 61, 71, 73, 100, 103, 113, 139, 151–2, 156, 163; see also blow candle, Goddess of Mountain Wu, Goddess of River Luo, keep Kun, recline across literary control 112–18; credibility of logic 116–18; feasibility in performance 112–15; suitability of plot 115–16; see also Tang-Shen Debate literary leader 3, 166–7; see also Li Panlong, Li Weizhen, Tan Yuanchun, Wang Daokun, Wang Shizhen, Yuan Hongdao, Zhong Xing literati attainment in performance 29–30; see also Chen Duo, Feng Guan, Guan Yunshi, Kang Hai, Qin Silin, Wang Jiusi, Wu Cheng, Wu Guolun, Zhang Xin literati critic 9, 15, 18, 21–2, 27–8, 30, 35, 39, 50, 53, 69–70, 72, 77, 79, 83, 91–2, 94–6, 100–1, 105–7, 109,

ETID03C

184

123–4, 126–8, 151, 167; see also Chen Jiru, Chen Weisong, Feng Mengzhen, He Liangjun, Huang Juzhong, Hou Chaozong, Li Kaixian, Li Yu, Lü Tiancheng, Mao Xiang, Pan Zhiheng, Peng Tianxi, Qian Qianyi, Shen Defu, Shen Jing (
), Wang Shizhen, Ye Mengzhu, Yu Huai, Zhang Dai, Zhu Wei, Zou Diguang literati owner 8, 20, 22–4, 30–1, 35–6, 38–40, 42–3, 46–9, 51, 53–4, 57–60, 62–4, 68, 71, 87, 89–90, 94, 99, 100, 104, 109, 111–12, 142, 147, 149, 171; exclusive advantage 31–5; recognized attainment 29–31; trendy lifestyle 28; see also Bao Haosuo, Fan Changbai, He Liangjun, Hou Chaozong, Hou Xun, Li Kaixian, Li Yu, Liu Huiji, Qi Biaojia, Qi Zhixiang, Qian Dai, Ruan Dacheng, Shen Jing (
), Shen Shixing, Tang Xianzu, Wang Jixuan, Wang Youlong, Wu Kun, Wu Taiyi, Wu Yongxian, Xu Xiyun, Yang Zi, Zhang Dai, Zhu Yunlai, Zou Diguang literati troupe owner see literati owner Liu Huiji 118–21, 123 Liu Mengmei 105 Liu Wu-chi 12, 13 Lu Cai 117 Lü Tiancheng 77, 83, 165 Ma Zhiyuan 1, 3, 16, 18 Mackerras, C. 13 Madam Shen 47 Madam Xue 47, 55 make-up 19, 49, 59, 64, 73, 89, 100, 101, 123 Mao Xiang 165 Mingfeng ji see Phoenix Cries Mudan ting see The Peony Pavilion musical style 2–3, 5, 10, 37, 48, 113, 115; see also Haiyan music, kunju, kunqu, Kunshan music, music system, musician, Yiyang music, Yuyao music music system 4–5, 7, 52; see also musical style musician 6, 48, 53; see also Wei Liangfu, Zhang Yetang nanxi 4–5, 10, 13, 78 Noh 10, 144

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Index owner-performer relation 58: ageing of actors 67; disloyalty 64–5; ending 65–7; friendly 58–9; legal 58; loyalty 63–4; spousal 63; troupe disband 66–7; troupe reduction 66; troupe transfer 65–6; see also boy-lover, concubine, heterosexual, homosexual, sexual fantasy, sexual relation, sexual role-play opera night 60, 73–4 Pan Bizheng 78, 81–4 Pan Yingran 96, 108 Pan Zhiheng 9, 39, 66, 70, 91, 95, 97–8, 104, 125, 129, 147–51, 153–7, 159, 162–7 Pang 75–6, 78–9 Peng Tianxi 119 performance space 14, 129, 132, 134, 137, 139–41, 143; garden pavilions 137–40; on tour 141–2; others’ spaces 142–3; pleasure boats 140–1; residential halls 129–37 performance theory 21, 124, 144, 146–8, 151, 161–5, 167–8; see also theory acceptance, theory components, theory development, theory methodology, theory principles Phoenix Cries 13, 53, 56, 64 Pipa ji see The Lute play as foreplay 75; see also flawed hero, ideal heroine, opera night, sadism, sex party, subject matter, voyeurism playwright 1, 3–5, 9, 12, 14, 19, 22, 24–5, 28, 33, 35, 40, 50, 52, 67, 74–7, 80, 83–4, 87, 104, 112–15, 118, 125, 144–6; see also Aeschylus, Chen Kaitai, Chen Pizhai, Gao Lian, Gao Ming, Gu Jueyu, Kang Hai, Li Kaixian, Li Rihua, Li Yu, Liang Chunyu, Lu Cai, Ma Zhiyuan, Shen Jing (
), Shen Jing (
), Sophocles, Tang Xianzu, Thespis, Tu Long, Wang Daokun, Wang Jiusi, Wang Shifu, Xu Fuzuo, Xu Lin, Xu Wei, Yang Xunji, You Tong playwriting 1, 5, 28, 52–3, 112, 145–6, 151; see also libretto previous scholarship: accomplishments 11–15; difficulties 15–21; see also Aoki Masaru, Birch, C., Ch’en Shou-yi, Dolby, W., Giles, H.,

ETID03C

185

185

Hsia, C. T., Hu, J., Hung, J., Liu Wu-chi, Mackerras, C., Shen, G., Swatek, C., Wang Gulu, Wang Guowei, Yao Hsin-nung, Zhou Yibai private troupe 8, 10, 20–4, 27–9, 31, 35–43, 45–9, 51–2, 57–60, 62–3, 65–8, 89–90, 94, 99, 108, 111–12, 120, 122, 129, 140–2, 150; fatal attraction 24–7; financial burden 22–4; see also alternative reality, ideal reality, literati owner prostitute 31–4, 63 psychological preparation 106–8; controlled application of true feeling 106–7; cultivation of the second self 106; playing delayed action 108, playing passion and craziness 106; playing self 107–8; playing villains 106–7; withholding emotion 108 Qi Biaojia 26–7, 37, 79, 83, 120, 137 Qi Zhixiang 40–1, 64 Qian Dai 25–6, 42, 47–9, 55, 59–60, 65, 68, 70, 72, 75, 77, 87–8, 94, 122–3 Qian Qianyi 120, 167 Qin Silin 90 ‘Qiusi’ 16–19 Quan 108–9, 125 Quanshan see Encourage People Doing Good recline across 72–3 Red Military Tally 28 role-playing 2, 10, 14, 40, 49, 56–7, 64 –5, 72–3, 75, 81, 89, 92–3, 99, 103, 105–6, 108–9, 111, 122–3, 158–9, 160–1, 165; components 99; criteria 108–10; see also character interpretation, intelligence, psychological preparation, script explanation Ruan Dacheng 46, 53, 63, 66, 100, 121, 125–8, 136, 142–3, 150, 165 sadism: fascination 84; gratification 84; interest 84; trace 140 sanqu 15–18, 37, 101 school for performing arts 36, 39, 42, 45 script explanation 50, 99–103, 127; admiration of flowers scene 103; challenge of chuanqi libretto 100–3; construction of character’s life story 100; courtyard scene 100–1; mirror scene 101–3

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186

ETID03C

Index

set 2, 20, 93, 111, 118–19, 121, 123, 127, 137, 141 sex party 61, 74, 139 sexist criteria 68; her character 73–4; her performance 72–3; see also her age, her beauty sexual fantasy 73–5, 81, 87, 93 sexual relation 63, 68, 71 sexual role-play 75, 81 Shagou ji see Killing a Dog Shen Defu 29–30 Shen, G. 14 Shen Jing (
) 30, 37, 52, 112–13, 145 Shen Jing (
) 77 Shen Shixing 46, 49, 108 Shuangzhu ji see The Double Pearls singing 89; competition 8, 90; contemporary factors 90–1; fashion 90–1; historical factors 90; significance 89–91; theatrical factors 89–90; see also singing progress singing master 42, 45–55, 71, 87, 98–100, 102, 111, 122, 148–50; see also Dun Ren, Madam Shen, Madam Xue, Wang the drama teacher singing progress 91–4; accuracy 94; erotic imagery 93; oral specialities 91–2; singing styles 92; stage power 92–3; vocal qualities 91 solo dance 95–6; feminine dance 95; masculine dance 95–6; sexual interest 96 Sophocles 1–2 southern plays see nanxi staging control 118–22; see also Appia, Adolphe, Craig, Edward Gordon, light, set star performer 38, 42–3, 45, 49, 55–6, 91, 94, 99, 108, 122; see also Abao, Bing, He Qinhua, Hemeidu, Heng, Pan Yingran, Quan, Yishi stylistic control 122–3; see also costume, instrumental music, make-up subject matter 75–8 Suzhou 6, 26, 40, 60, 90, 132 Swatek, C. 14–15

Shen Jing (
) 112–13; Tang Xianzu versus Lü Yinchang 113–14; Tang Xianzu versus Zang Maoxun 114 The Carp Jumps 75, 78 The Chibi 28 The Double Pearls 77, 80–1 The Embroidered Clothes 28 The Epiphyllums 67 The Four Virtues 28 The Hairpin and Bracelet 76, 79 The Iceberg 56, 115–16, 141 The Moon-Prayer Pavilion 4 The Peony Pavilion 3, 14–15, 53, 77, 83–4, 99–100, 104–5, 109, 112–15, 123–5, 165 The Red Pear Flower 77 The Resurrection 28 The Romance of the Western Chamber 72, 76–7, 80–1, 91 The Shining Pearls 116–17 The White Hare 4, 72 The Wooden Hairpin 4, 78, 81 theatre centre 40; see also Jinling, Suzhou, Wu (region), Yangzhou theory acceptance 164–9; opinion 164–6; style 164; theorist 166–9 theory components 153–61; actor becoming character 157–61; natural self lost 153–5; natural self redeemed 155–7; see also alienation, emancipation, unintentionality theory development 144–9; Ming studies 145–7; theory in disguise 147; theory in formulation 148–9; Yuan studies 144–5 theory methodology 161–4; methodology selection 162; origin verification 162–4 theory principles 149–53; purist principle 149–51; unintentional principle 151–3 Thespis 1 Tianjingsha 16, 18 total control 123–8; absolute control 123–5; master artist control 125–8; overall control 125 Tu Long 67, 132, 166

Tan Yuanchun 166 Tang Hsien-tsu see Tang Xianzu Tang Xianzu 3, 13–14, 52, 77, 83, 86, 105, 112–15, 124, 129, 166 Tang-Shen Debate 112–15; directorial victory 114–15; Tang Xianzu versus

unintentionality 153, 155–6, 161, 163

186

voyeurism 84–8; incidental exposure 85–6; secretive performance 87–8; special effects 86–7; viewing angle 87; see also group dance

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Index Wang Daokun 166 Wang Gulu 13 Wang Guowei 12 Wang Jiusi 29, 31 Wang Jixuan 36–7, 40, 47 Wang Shifu 76 Wang Shizhen 3, 37, 52, 166 Wang the drama teacher 148 Wang Youlong 72, 85, 91, 93, 95, 97 Washing Silk 9–10, 53, 77, 80–1, 84, 86, 98, 120 Wei Liangfu 5–9, 92; disciples 8 Weiyang see Yangzhou Wu (region) 6, 9, 27, 29, 38, 40, 43, 47, 52, 77, 95, 113 Wu Cheng 30 Wu Guolun 29–30 Wu Kun 69, 91–2, 99–100, 106, 108–9, 125 Wu Taiyi 105 Wu Yongxian 39, 70 Xi the Phoenix 38–9, 64 Xia Rukai 42–3 Xiaoti ji see Filial Piety and Fraternal Duty Xishi 77, 80–1, 84, 86–7, 97–8 Xiuyi see The Embroidered Clothes Xixiang ji see The Romance of the Western Chamber Xu Fuzuo 77 Xu Lin 34–5

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187

Xu Wei 5, 145 Xu Xiyun 120 Yang Xunji 34 Yang Zi 37 Yangzhou 39, 60, 65–6, 70 Yao Hsin-nung 11 Yaoli ji see The Carp Jumps Ye Mengzhu 6 Yishi 105 Yiyang music 5, 48 You Tong 74, 118 Yu Huai 5, 7, 73 Yuan Hongdao 166 Yuan zaju opera see zaju Yuyao music 5 zaju 1–4, 7, 11, 15, 17, 31–2, 74, 76–7, 129, 144 Zhang Dai 13, 20, 29, 40–1, 43, 53–6, 58–9, 65, 67, 91–2, 115–16, 119, 121–2, 126, 128, 141–2, 150 Zhang Xin 29–30 Zhang Yetang 6–7 Zhao Wuniang 116 Zhong Xing 166 Zhou Yibai 13 Zhu Wei 165 Zhu Yuanzhang 5, 32 Zhu Yunlai 41, 55, 92, 97, 122–3, 150 Zou Diguang 8, 53–4, 60, 66, 96, 108, 120, 123–4, 148–51, 154–5, 158–9

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