Three Strange Meetings” (Ch’i San Hui) or, as it is popularly nicknamed,
“The Three Pulls.” It is a popular comedy written during the time of
the Manchu Dynasty, and is one of the favorite plays of Mei Lan-fang.
Through his great prestige he is able to induce other stars to play with
him, and when he presents the rôle of the wife supported by Chü Su-yün
as husband and Li Shou-shan as father, the Chinese consider it a perfect
performance. The play is rich in glimpses of Chinese life and also full
of excellent opportunities for the actors to show their mettle. The
opening of the play is also most unusual, for, like Goethe’s “Faust” and
some of our other famous plays, it has a prologue in heaven. There is as
a general thing no curtain used in the Chinese theater, a rule to which
a scene in heaven forms an exception. Stage hands bring on a curtain
about eight feet high and twelve feet wide, supported by bamboo poles and
painted with clouds and bats to symbolize the sky. Behind this the stage
is set for the divine scene. When the curtain is removed the spectator
sees a god seated on a high throne. Four spirits bearing tall shields
painted with the conventionalized cloud pattern stand by his side. The
horns of the orchestra are blown mightily and fireworks are set off
until finally the god begins to speak in a slow, impressive bass. Like a
Homeric Zeus he sends a messenger to earth to free a certain innocent man
who is languishing in prison. The messenger is ordered to find the man’s
daughter and to conduct her to the prison. The divine herald departs,
carrying a horsehair switch, the conventional symbol by which a spirit
may be recognized on the Chinese stage.
The next scene begins the first of the four acts on earth: 1. The Weeping
in Prison; 2. Writing the Petition; 3. The Three Pulls; 4. The Family
Reunited.
Li Kuei-chih (played by Mei Lan-fang), newly married to a young
magistrate, visits the prison, inspired by the divine messenger. There
she sees the jailer mistreating an old man, in whom, to her surprise and
grief, she recognizes her father, from whom she had been separated in
childhood at the time of his unjust condemnation. The jailer is willing
to relent after the daughter, without disclosing her identity, has paid
him a good-sized bribe. Li Kuei-chih then asks her husband to make an
effort to free her father by writing an appeal to a higher court. The
husband complies very willingly, but, in order to write the petition
he must know his wife’s “little name”, a sort of family nickname of
the little girls, which, according to Chinese custom, is never revealed
to the husband. There ensues a fine comedy scene in which the wife at
first withholds and then shamefacedly tells her “little name”, to the
great triumph of her husband. In presenting the petition to the judge of
the higher court, the wife is recognized by the judge as his long-lost
sister. He rises from his seat, and discarding the stiff formality of
the courtroom, pulls Li Kuei-chih out of the room in order to reveal
his identity to her in the privacy of his home. The husband is told
of this by the servant, and rushes to the court in a rage, because he
fears that the judge has been induced by his wife’s beauty to make her
his concubine. The judge is not in the courtroom, but he sends out two
officers to bring the husband also into his home. The second of the three
pulls comes when the messengers drag the husband off-stage in a state of
comical terror; for, like a true Oriental, he fears sudden death,—a fear
that caused Abraham to lie to the Pharaoh of Egypt about his relationship
to the beautiful Sarah. In the next scene brother, sister, and husband
are happily reunited. The father is summoned from the prison into the
court. He recognizes his son, the presiding judge, and gratefully bows
toward the audience (that is, toward heaven) for, according to Chinese
custom, a father dare never bow toward his son, no matter what position
the latter may hold. Thereupon the father is also pulled off-stage to
complete the happy family reunion. The jailer, knowing full well what
manner of unpleasant death may be in store for him, ends his life by
jumping down a well.
This last-named action is accomplished by the jailer’s making a quick
leap and running off-stage, the conventional expression for suicide by
drowning. The court scenes, especially when the play is given by Mei
Lan-fang, abound in gorgeous costumes of richly embroidered silk. The
various characters wear historically correct dress, the Manchu robes
with wide sleeves. So far as my own observation goes, I have found that
for Manchu or Ming Dynasty events the styles of the respective periods
are followed, but that beyond this no attempt is made at providing
historically correct costume. Characters in plays taking place before the
Ming Dynasty wear Ming costume; it is the style worn before the coming of
the Manchus and therefore serves for all ancient settings.
The actor who plays the part of the husband in this play is Chu Su-yün.
He is nearly fifty years old, but he continues to play the rôle of the
lover opposite Mei Lan-fang, because there is no younger man who can
do it half so well. He is really as good as any Occidental comedian in
assuming the expressions of surprise, anger, or terror; he stutters
admirably whenever necessary, and in laughing gets a comical effect by
means of his faulty teeth, blackened by opium smoking. In another play,
“Ngoh Chia Chuan” (The Ngoh Family Village), he plays the part of a
young boy who has prodigious strength; in fact, he, though a mere child,
protects his family’s home by killing two generals. In one of the first
scenes the parents forbid their abnormally strong offspring to handle
dangerous weapons, whereupon this actor in the costume of a child goes
into tantrums of weeping that convulse the audience by their realistic
imitation of the overgrown baby. Li Shou-shan, in the rôle of the father,
is made up as a fine, dignified old Chinese gentleman. He brings out
very poignantly the tragic situation of the helpless old man unjustly
imprisoned; though perhaps by some of his pitiful wails he somewhat
overdoes his part.
Another very popular domestic drama is “Ta Chih Shang Wen” (Beating the
Nephew and Worshiping at the Grave). The Chinese prodigal son is Ta Kuan,
an orphan boy raised by his uncle. Wicked companions taught him gambling
and other ways of squandering money, and as he needed funds for these
pursuits he insisted that his uncle give him his paternal heritage. In
a short time, of course, all his substance has been wasted with riotous
living and Ta Kuan is forced to beg for his food. His uncle at that
time is distributing alms among the poor and the nephew is not ashamed
to appear among the beggars at his uncle’s door. Naturally, the uncle’s
“loss of face” is tremendous; he becomes extremely angry and chases Ta
Kuan off with blows. But his aunt, in the kindness of her heart, gives
him some money and urges him to avoid his angered uncle. But in China too
there is a destiny that shapes our ends: Ta Kuan’s money is stolen from
him, and with no prospects whatever before him, he suddenly becomes pious
and worships at his father’s grave. While he is busy burning paper money
(i.e. paper imitations of silver ingots) for the spirits of his ancestors
his uncle and aunt happen also to visit the family graveyard. The moment
Ta Kuan sees them, remembering his uncle’s blows and curses, he runs
away. His foster-father is very much surprised that some one should have
been burning paper money at his brother’s tomb. He never would have
suspected his nephew of such an action, but when he finds that it really
was Ta Kuan, his heart is touched by such a display of filial piety that
he sends for the nephew, inviting him to return to his house, and then
persuades him to study under the direction of a teacher. There has been a
real change of heart in the youth, for he applies himself diligently to
his task. And virtue is not without its reward; for when Ta Kuan takes
the examination he passes with the very highest honors.
A play similar to the previous one in that it is much more moral than
probable is “Chu Sha Chü” (A Cinnabar Spot). A certain elderly gentleman
by the name of Han was very unhappy because he had no son. To remedy this
condition he bought himself a concubine; but when the marriage was about
to be consummated, the bride wept bitterly. Han asked the cause of the
tears at such an inappropriate time, and learned that his new spouse was
in reality a married woman who had allowed herself to be sold to aid her
sick husband. The old man took pity on her, burned the marriage contract,
and presented her with more money for her unfortunate husband. A noble
and unusual action, to be sure, which merited and received an unusual
reward! The woman returned to her husband and the latter recovered at
once. Returned once more to health, he went about his business which
carried him to Sze-chuan province. He brought with him a present for his
benefactor, a young boy whom he had bought in a district afflicted by
famine. Han was very much pleased with the bright boy and devoted himself
eagerly to his education. He gradually remarked that the boy resembled
him a great deal and began to wonder if it might not be possible that
it was his own son, who had been carried off a few years before in the
course of a rebellion. One day it occurred to him to examine the sole of
the boy’s foot, and there he found the very same cinnabar spot that had
always been his own distinguishing mark. This proved conclusively that it
was his own son, and both were very happy over the reunion that had been
brought about through Han’s kindness to a poor woman!
The moral Chinese stage sets forth not only the reward of virtue, but
also the punishment of vice. There can be seen on the Peking stage
almost any day a warning to cruel husbands called “Pang Ta Pao Ch’ing
Lang” (Beating the Heartless Husband). Mu Chi was a scholar holding
the first degree (_Hsiu Tsai_, corresponding somewhat to our A.B.),
but he was very poor because his parents had not left him any property
whatsoever. When a famine struck the country he was forced to beg for
his bread. In his half-starved condition he was one day caught in a
snowstorm, in the course of which he fell to the ground more dead than
alive. In this condition the daughter of the head of the beggar’s guild
found him lying before the door of her home. She took pity on him and
nursed him back to health. At first her father was none too pleased
with his daughter’s action; but when the daughter represented that the
gods would surely reward her good deed, he became reconciled to the
presence of the young man in the house. The daughter fell in love with
her protégé and was very proud of his rank as a _Hsiu Tsai_. The father
also became quite fond of the young man and gave him his daughter in
marriage. Then it was arranged that Mu Chi was to go to Peking to take
the examination, while his wife and father-in-law were to go along to
beg and thus furnish the young man with a living until such time as he
should have secured a profitable post. Mu Chi passed the examination and
was appointed the magistrate of a town. The moment he had received his
appointment he became extremely disdainful of his new relatives and in
the course of the journey by boat to the town where he was to become
magistrate he pushed his wife overboard into the stream and drove off his
father-in-law. However, a certain high official saved the life of the
beggar chief’s daughter and adopted her as his child. When he had learned
from her the story of her husband’s ingratitude he decided to punish the
wretch properly. He called on him in his magistracy and offered him his
daughter in marriage. Mu Chi, the cad, naturally was glad to marry into
the family of such an influential man, and accepted eagerly. But what was
his chagrin and fright when on the evening of his marriage he raised the
bride’s veil to find under it the beggar’s daughter! The official then
entered the bridal chamber with a powerful stick and ordered the beggar’s
daughter to give Mu Chi a sound thrashing. This she did with a great deal
of “heart”, as the Chinese say, for which no one can blame her. But Mu
Chi decided to become a wiser and a better man; he sent out men to find
his father-in-law, and the three lived happy ever after.
But the very crowning piece of righteous moral indignation in all the
Flowery Kingdom is found in a story connected with Yo Fei, deified as
the god of war and worshiped as a special patron of the theater. In
his lifetime Yo Fei was a faithful general of the Sung emperors, a
great fighter against the Mongols. In fact, he had almost succeeded in
capturing the Mongol emperor with his entire army when the enemy bribed
some high Chinese officials, chief among them Ch’in Kuei, to do away with
their great patriotic leader. Yo Fei was summoned before a court for
trial, but was cleared of all charges. Then he was tried again before
Ch’in Kuei and two other judges, this time being condemned to death by
strangling. Before the sentence was carried out, his cruel executioners
tore the skin off his back where his mother had tattooed the famous
inscription, “I repay the state with integrity and loyalty.”
At Hangchow is found the tomb of this great Chinese patriot. Before it,
as every tourist sees to his surprise, are four statues in a kneeling
position and bound with chains, while an inscription invites the wanderer
to urinate on them.[21] These villains, who are literally in very bad
odor, are Ch’in Kuei, his wife, and the two other judges who condemned
Yo Fei to death. This drastic, posthumous punishment seems to have had
very little effect in furthering patriotism in China, for in recent
decades neither the Russians nor the Japanese seem ever to have had any
trouble in finding Chinese statesmen willing to accept bribes for the
betrayal of their country. The story is also told that in 1678, fully 500
years after Yo Fei’s death, this play was performed in a certain town,
when suddenly an excited spectator rushed on the stage and stabbed to
death the unfortunate actor who was playing the part of Ch’in Kuei, the
traitor. In the course of the trial this fervent patriot told that in all
his books he had carefully cut out the name of Ch’in Kuei wherever it
occurred. The man was not put to death, as would have been the case had
he been a Britisher, nor was he celebrated as a hero, as would have been
the case had he been a Frenchman, but in characteristic Chinese manner he
was dismissed as an idiot.
Though as a general thing there is very little courtship on the part
of young people in China, yet there are on the stage quite a number of
romantic love stories. In the chapter on Mei Lan-fang I have mentioned
some taken from the novel, “Dream of the Red Chamber.” The same actor
frequently presents “Yü Chan Chih” (A Precious Hairpin), the plot of
which might be an Occidental love story. In a certain convent the
abbess had living with her the daughter of her deceased brother, a very
attractive young girl by the name of Ch’en Miao. In the vicinity there
lived also the abbess’ nephew, with whom, because of his personal charm
and great learning, the young lady fell in love. One day the nephew
became ill and Ch’en Miao asked permission to assist in taking care
of the patient. Under the tender care of such an attractive nurse the
young man recovered speedily, but he too had lost his heart. He found
means to visit Ch’en Miao in her room one day as she was reading poetry,
whereupon, like Paolo and Francesca, that day they read no more. In
the village there lived an elderly magistrate who wished to marry Ch’en
Miao, but when the generous judge learned that she loved a younger rival,
he did not show any signs of jealousy; on the contrary, he went to the
abbess to urge her to join in marriage the young lovers.
Peking theaters have very few properties, as has been stated, but behind
practically every stage one finds a pair of plaster-of-Paris lions in
imitation of the marble lions that guard the gateways of Chinese palaces
and temples. They are used in a very popular play called “Chü T’eng Kuan
Hua” (Trial of Strength and Viewing the Ancestral Portraits). The play
seems to be a modern imitation of the Yuan Dynasty drama “The Orphan
of the Chao Family.” A wicked minister persuades the emperor that an
entire family, one of whose members he hates, must be exterminated root
and branch. A friend decides to save the family name by substituting
just before the execution his own young son for a child of the condemned
family. His wife absolutely refuses to enter upon his plan, but when he
kneels before her she is compelled to yield to his wishes to sacrifice
her child; this is typical of the Chinese, inasmuch as they seem to think
that when some one humbles himself unduly he must gain his end and other
people must grant him whatever he asks. The man and his wife then bring
up the orphan as their own son. The child they sacrificed was chopped
into three pieces by the wicked minister himself, because he feared that
it might some day revenge on him the slaughter of his relatives.
The play as given in Peking theaters opens at the time when the orphan
has attained the age of fifteen. He and his servant are playing in the
courtyard of his foster-father’s house. The boy proposes that they make
a test of their strength by moving the stone lions standing at the door
of the house. The servant tries in vain to move them, while the boy, a
prodigy of strength, picks up the massive stones and moves them with
ease. Soon afterward the master of the house returns and asks angrily
who is responsible for displacing the stone lions. The good-natured
servant, who has the rôle of the clown in this play, says that he did
it. His master then orders him to return them to their proper place, and
thus in a comedy scene he is soon proved a liar. Then the adopted son
is called; like George Washington he acknowledges what he has done, and
returns the lions to their proper places without the slightest trouble.
His foster-father now perceives that although but fifteen years of age,
the boy is strong enough to avenge the cruel injustice done his family.
Therefore he conducts him into the ancestral temple where he shows him
the portraits of his ancestors down to the ones put to death by the
wicked minister. No sooner has the orphan boy heard the story than he
puts on his armor and sets out on his mission of revenge on the enemy of
his family. Incidentally there is often a bit of comedy of a simple kind
thrown in by the stage hands when they remove the stone lions, which they
pretend to find very heavy.
On one occasion when I saw this play I was surprised to hear the audience
break out into peals of laughter at the point when the boy set out on his
errand of revenge. I inquired the cause of this from a Chinese friend.
Amid sobs of mirth he told me that the orphan boy had left the temple
on horseback! As usual, there was no scenery, the stage was bare, only
a picture suspended from a chair set on a table marked the locality as
an ancestral temple. The actor dressed for war had absent-mindedly acted
as though he were on the battle field and had made with his leg the
conventional sign for mounting a horse. I had not noticed the gesture at
all, as it was a rather inconspicuous one. The humor of the episode is of
about the same variety as that engendered years ago in the Philadelphia
Little Theater when, in the course of the action, a cat wandered on the
stage and in her haste to remove him an actress thrust him into the
glowing stage fireplace—in reality, of course, off-stage into the wings.
In this imitation of a Yuan drama, in fact of the drama that several
Western writers have called the nearest approach to true tragedy among
all Chinese plays, practically all that is presented to modern audiences
is the farcical element. Of farces the Chinese stage possesses many, some
good and some less so. A certain Liu Yen-ming, in a farce by that name,
lends money to a magistrate for a journey to the capital. The loan is
arranged, like most things in China, through a third party—in this case
an abbess of a convent. When a year has elapsed and the magistrate has
not returned, Liu demands his money, or, in case the abbess cannot repay
him, the hand of Yu Ying, the magistrate’s pretty daughter. He brings
such pressure to bear by means of threats that the abbess finally agrees
to arrange a rendezvous at midnight in the Convent of Great Purity. Yu
Ying naturally enough refuses to marry a man just because her father
owes him money, but when the abbess pictures the old miser as a dashing
youth of twenty-three she gradually changes her tone and at last gives
her consent. At midnight, therefore, Liu Yen-ming stealthily approaches
the convent, but unfortunately he meets with a patrol of police who
arrest the nocturnal prowler as he is unable to account for his presence
near the convent at such an unseemly hour. Instead of in the arms of
his beloved the money-lender spends the night in jail. But much more
disagreeable for him is another development of the story. A young scholar
on his way to the capital is on the same road when he observes that the
police have arrested Liu Yen-ming. He decides that the police must be
very strict in these parts and so demands hospitality at the very next
house, which is of course the convent. The door is opened by a novice who
has been told by the abbess what to do; the young scholar is asked to
enter and to await the young lady. The youth, though somewhat surprised,
is wise enough to hold his tongue and to follow instructions. Soon Yu
Ying enters and finds that the young man possesses all the charms the
abbess had falsely attributed to her father’s creditor. Love at first
sight, then follow mutual explanations, and before morning an engagement
sealed by pledges.
A rather good scene follows when on the next day the abbess calls on the
miser to felicitate him on the pleasant night he has spent! There are
delightful misunderstandings, but at the end of the scene Liu Yen-ming
is in a towering rage, and determined to have revenge. He forces the
daughter of his debtor to become a maid in his tavern, where she must
perform the most menial tasks. In the end, of course, the young scholar
returns from the capital as a magistrate; he enters the very inn where
his beloved is serving the guests, recognizes and rescues her, giving the
miser the punishment he so richly deserves.
One evening when I had gone to see Mei Lan-fang at the Chen Kwang
Theater, there was performed as the last play among the curtain raisers
another farce, “San Yao Hui” (Shaking Dice). This farce is much less
presentable in every way, but is, I believe, more typical of the
present-day drama, because of its episodic nature and lack of real plot.
On the eve of the husband’s return the wife and the concubine are
quarreling as to which is to share his first night at home. The dispute
waxes hot and violent; herewith follows a prize specimen of the dialogue:
Wife: He has no right to have a concubine.
Concubine: He would not have one, if you were able to bear him
a son.
Wife: Don’t say that, for before I was married I had several
sons.
Two neighbors, the clowns in the piece, enter and after much discussion
suggest that the women settle the disagreement by shaking dice. Three
dice are used, and the wife throws a score of seventeen. The concubine
then prostrates herself before the house god and when her dice are
counted it is found that she has eighteen points. She is victorious!
Probably about as much as one fourth of the drama played in China at the
present time deals with religious or mythological subjects. Kuan-yin,
the goddess of mercy, the Buddhist madonna, very frequently figures in
these plays, releasing unfortunates from punishments and otherwise doing
deeds of kindness. A direct contrast to her is found in the cruel judge
of the lower world. In the Field Museum, Chicago, there are exhibits
portraying a number of Chinese religious plays and the curator, Doctor
Berthold Laufer, has written an excellent guidebook dealing with these
theatrical representations having for their aim the inculcation of better
morals through the fear of punishments in the hereafter. I cannot resist
quoting from Doctor Laufer on the typically Chinese attitude toward this
form of religious drama:
It must not be supposed, however, that the Chinese have ever in
reality practiced the tortures demonstrated in the ten courts
of Purgatory. This lore is not their own, they adopted it from
India. It is the visual illustration of what is described in
the sacred books of the Buddhists. On the stage, moreover,
everything is mitigated and permeated by a willful, grotesque
humor which makes it difficult for the spectator to take
these punishments too seriously. Skeptical and rationalistic
as many of the Chinese are, they will be moved to smile at
this performance, or to entertain doubt as to its reality.
The baroque features and semi-comic gestures of the devils
contribute to the relief and exhilaration of the audience.
The visitor should bear in mind that he is witnessing a fine
piece of scenic illusion, which, while moralistic at its root
and ethical in its tendency, is far from being calculated to
shock the nerves or frighten the conscience, but which, on the
contrary, will encourage and elevate by pointing the way to
ultimate salvation. The keynote of this drama is not misery and
despair, but hope and the possibility of self-perfection.