consider it a pleasant tribute to the Chinese sense of humor that it
allows them to laugh occasionally, even at the figure of their national
hero. The scholar who by virtue of having passed the examination in
Peking is made magistrate or even viceroy of a province is the hero
of hundreds of Chinese plays. The examination in the capital with the
attendant change of fortune in the life of the hero is the _deus ex
machina_ of the Chinese stage. As an example I shall mention another
play of Mei Lan-fang’s, the one he played before Secretary of the Navy
Denby on July 17, 1922. This play is called “Yü Pei T’ing” (The Pavilion
of the Royal Monument). A poor scholar on his way to Peking is caught
in a heavy storm and seeks shelter in the pavilion of a royal monument.
He finds, however, that a lady has come before him and taken possession
of the interior of the small building. Since he is both a scholar and a
gentleman, he passes the night on the outside, where the eaves afford him
only insufficient shelter from the rain. In the morning the lady thanks
him for his consideration, and he continues on his way. The courtesy of
the young scholar has made so deep an impression on the lady that she
cannot refrain from telling her sister-in-law about it, who in turn tells
the lady’s husband. The latter thinks that the story is only a disguise
for what he believes to have been the true state of affairs, namely that
his wife has been unfaithful to him. He therefore divorces his wife and
abandons her to a life of misery and disgrace. The scholar, on the other
hand, passes his examination with such distinction that the emperor
grants him an audience, in the course of which he asks the young man to
tell of the noblest thing he has ever done. The scholar tells of his
night spent out in the rain for the sake of an unknown lady. The husband
happens to be among the courtiers present, and, upon this corroboration
of his wife’s story, he takes her back into his home, and all live happy
ever afterward!
The scholar’s quick change of fortune as a theme in the Chinese theater
finds a close rival in the motive of filial piety. Among Mei Lan-fang’s
plays the latter is best illustrated by the play “Mu Lan”, the name of a
girl who goes to war in place of her father because the latter is too old
to undertake a heavy campaign. It is characteristically Chinese that this
Joan of Arc does not fight for motives of patriotism, but out of regard
for the comfort of her aged father. This fascinating play gives Mei an
opportunity of showing in the first part his skill in portraying a demure
young maiden, while in the second part he can display his address in the
extremely conventionalized art of Chinese stage fighting.
All of these and many more characters Mei Lan-fang is on the stage, but
of his real character very little is known among foreigners in China. It
is known that he has a kindly heart, for every year he contributes his
services to a dramatic entertainment arranged by American missionaries
for the purpose of providing shelters for the riksha runners during
the bitter Peking winters. One reads about it in the papers when he
makes his annual pilgrimage to Miao Feng Shan, a mountain temple three
days distant from Peking, the traditional shrine where actors worship.
But artists eager to paint his portrait have never been able to secure
him as a sitter, because he is very shy about entering any society
outside his immediate circle. I considered myself very lucky when
after some negotiations I secured an interview with him in the typical
Chinese fashion through some friends of some friends of his friends.
The house in which I called on Mei was _his_ house; he keeps two other
establishments—one for his wife and the other for his concubine. For many
years Mei Lan-fang was known as the faithful husband of one wife, but
finally friends prevailed on him to act in the manner of every Chinese
gentleman who respects himself and to take a concubine into his domestic
circle. Among Mei’s friends I met a young actor with eloquent scars on
his cheeks; he had been the one who introduced Mei to the concubine and
the scars were the result of some acid thrown by a brother of the jealous
wife. Another gentleman present was a stocky officer of the Peking
_gendarmerie_, a useful friend to the actor, because on several occasions
ruffians have attempted to extort blackmail from him by violence—as they
do with every one in China who has any money. Mei was the last one to
appear, wearing a long white silk gown, the customary hot-weather dress
of the Chinese gentleman.
Some of the coyness that gives such a true ring to his stage
presentations of young ladies clings to Mei off-stage. He seems like a
charming, bookish, slightly effeminate boy of seventeen. In reality he
is thirty, but like so many other Orientals he appears to Westerners
much younger than he is. He is of the frail, willowy build demanded in a
Chinese beauty, but he is the very opposite of languid, sparkling with
vivacity and full of life. His voice is high, gentle, and soft; in fact,
it sounds very much like that of one of his heroines on the stage.
All in all Mei gives the impression of a youthful scholar rather than
of an actor. There is not the slightest touch of Bohemianism about him.
His favorite avocations are music and drawing; opium smoking and other
fashionable dissipations hold no charms for him whatever. He is very
fond of Western music, and hopes ultimately to win over his audiences
to an appreciation of the piano and the violin, which would give him
an immensely richer field for his musical repertoire. He has for a
close friend and daily companion a learned scholar with whom he makes
researches in ancient works dealing with the drama. Instead of following
in the beaten path he is intent on improving the drama by presenting
ancient plays with a staging historically correct, and by reviving
whatever was vital in the past. With great pride he showed me his
extensive library, lingering long over a neatly written text of a play
copied by his grandfather, who had been musician to the great actor T’an.
To sum up Mei Lan-fang: like most other men who achieve distinction, he
is in love with his work and devotes himself to it night and day.
His great merit is that he is bringing good taste and sensible
innovations to the Chinese theater, which had been stagnant—in a state
of arrested development. The old Empress Dowager, showing her usual
bad taste, had made fashionable in Peking a Mongolian style of music
intended for open-air theaters on the wind-swept plains, which in a
roofed theater is absolutely ear-splitting. Mei Lan-fang is returning to
traditional Chinese music in which the soft notes of the flute prevail.
Instead of the old hackneyed themes Mei has staged numerous new plays
based on the famous romantic novel, “The Dream of the Red Chamber”, as
well as many other plays written especially for him. Into his fanciful
plays of the type of “Midsummer Night’s Dream” he has woven graceful
dances, an absolute innovation on his part. New and often historically
correct costumes appear in his plays, enlivening the otherwise rather
drab Chinese stage. In contrast to the Chinese habit of presenting
only the favorite acts of the well-known plays (as though our managers
should stage only the balcony scene from “Romeo and Juliet”, or the
husband-under-the-table scene from “Tartuffe”), he presents even the
older plays in their entirety. When he plays in Japan or in the European
theater in Peking, he removes the ill-clothed orchestra from the stage;
but he cannot do this in the native theaters, where the strong tradition
insists that the musicians must sit on the stage and destroy the
illusion, for the foreigners at least.
In this ability of his to make innovations and at the same time to
adapt himself to his audiences to a certain extent, lies the key of
Mei Lan-fang’s success. Even the most hidebound theater devotees and
connoisseurs must recognize the skill of his acting and the perfection
of his enunciation, and therefore they are willing to accept the foreign
elements which he introduces. Mei Lan-fang’s greatness lies in the fact
that he is able to introduce bold reforms into the theater without
cutting himself off from the tradition.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER NINE
ANALOGIES BETWEEN EAST AND WEST
I have often met with people who ask: “Do the Chinese have the division
of plays into tragedies and comedies?” and when they learn that there
is no such division they feel this to be a great defect in the Chinese
theater. But it might be well worth recalling that these Greek terms
did not originally have their present-day connotations, and that their
original meanings were perhaps not far removed from the divisions which
the Chinese make in classifying their plays. Tragedy meant originally a
“goat song”, and philologists are divided on the question as to whether
the name is derived from the fact that the song was sung by revelers
worshiping Dionysus, who, because of their appearance and licentious
character were called “goats”, or whether it was sung at the sacrifice
of a goat, or whether a goat was the prize which was awarded to the
successful poet.[28] At any rate there is no doubt that tragedy was
a musical term. The same is true of comedy, which is the song of the
_comus_, or band of revelers, who marched along in procession carrying
aloft the phallus and chanting songs to Dionysus which were called
phallic songs. The scurrilous remarks interlarded in the intervals
between songs by the leader of the _comus_ gave rise to the form of light
entertainment known as comedy in the theater of to-day. In the Middle
Ages it had the meaning of a poetic work with a happy ending, for which
reason Dante called his long poem a “comedy”, which later writers made
“The Divine Comedy.” Thus we see the two words have deviated altogether
from their original meanings. We know very little about Greek music of
these earliest days, but we hear also of Doric music and Phrygian music
employed in the theater. The Doric music was grave, dignified, and
employed the harp as the chief musical instrument, while the Phrygian
mode was emotional and was accompanied by the flute.
Now let us look for a moment at the Chinese classification of styles of
drama. We generally hear of the divisions of _kuan-ch’ü_, _p’i-huang_
(a telescoping of _hsi-pi_ and _er-huang_) and thirdly of _pang-tzu_.
These are all musical terms. _Kuan-ch’ü_ is accompanied by the flute,
and is said to be the most literary, the most graceful and soft; also
because of its lack of vulgarity it is caviare to the general. It is
rarely performed nowadays, but was quite popular in the Ming Dynasty.
It was directly descended from the classical Yuan drama, whose authors
were scholars ousted by the Mongols from their public offices. This name
is derived from a geographical term, just as are the Greek Doric and
Phrygian modes. The _pang-tzu_ came to Peking from Shansi during the
Ch’ing Dynasty. The chief instrument is a rude kind of fiddle with a
round, flat sounding box, and the _genre_ is considered to be exciting
and vulgar. The _er-huang_ or _hsi-p’i_ (said to be very similar) are
also styles adopted during the Manchu Dynasty. They employ as their chief
instrument the well-known _hu-ch’in_. There is a great similarity between
Greek and Chinese thought, in that both speak of the good moral effects
of music if only there be the proper harmony; and likewise of the immoral
effects of vulgar, exciting music. I believe one could find almost exact
parallels in the writings of Plato and of many Chinese authors,[29] even
so modern a one as Tsai Yuan-pei. We modern Europeans and Americans, on
the other hand, seem to have given up the idea of music as a means for
developing harmonious and moral souls.
In practice music was employed in the Greek theater not only by the
chorus, but also by the actors in the midst of the spoken dialogue when
a particularly emotional point was reached. When the passions rose to a
high pitch the musical accompaniment commenced and the actor sang; such
a passage was, for example, the recital of the forebodings of Cassandra
in Æschylus’ “Agamemnon”, interrupted by the Argive elders who form the
chorus. Exactly the same practice obtains in the Chinese theater, as any
one can readily observe in almost any play. Some scholars have asserted
that the whole of a Greek play was accompanied by music, but it is
generally believed now that only the lyrical passages were sung, while
the iambic dialogue was spoken. In this similarity of the Greek and the
Chinese theaters we can find an aid in our efforts at reconstructing the
past—perhaps worthy of consideration by _régisseurs_ who attempt to put
on the stage to-day some of the plays which stirred the imagination of
the Athenians of old. Possibly it may also be a shock to some who have
seen modern representations in which the actors, as well as the chorus,
employ a solemn and stately, sometimes monotonous recitative, to learn
that the ancients sang or chanted a great part of their plays; a shock
such as we are likely to receive when we first learn that the ancients
did not employ marble in their architecture in its austere virginal
whiteness only, but that they frequently colored their buildings. But
just as a traveler coming to China may see beautiful architectural
results achieved by the bold use of color in architecture, so he may come
closer to the real—not the pseudo-classical—art by reflecting on the
effect of musical interruptions in Sophocles’ “Œdipus” or Euripides’
“Medea.”
In Greece the theater was an institution which gave performances at
the time of certain religious festivals, and it was in this sense a
folk theater. In Peking also there are certain plays given always at
particular festivals, and dealing always with the supernatural, or if you
prefer, with religion. On the first day of the New Year, for example,
there is the “Ch’ing Shih Shan”, a play dealing with the gods’ conquest
of the devils; on the fifth day of the New Year comes a play in honor of
the god of wealth; on the fifth of the fifth month, a play describing
the overcoming of the five dangerous poisons; and on the seventh of the
seventh month the “Meeting on the Milky Way.” These plays persist in
spite of the commercialization of the Peking theaters.
The student of European literature whose field of research lies in the
reconstruction of the past can find in China a wonderful source book,
for this is a magic land where for Europeans and Americans the clock
has been set back several centuries. We can see the Middle Ages enacted
before our very eyes, and get in that way a vivid picture of things as
they were in the Europe of yesterday. In illustration of this I wish to
cite the Chinese theater of to-day, and to offer the suggestion that the
Shakespeare scholar who has seen the Peking theaters of the present time
has—if one may use the figure—not only the words, but also the tune, of
the Elizabethan drama.
If I take a tourist to the theater his first remark often is that this
is just like the Shakespearean theater. And it is indeed not surprising
that it should be so, for China to-day is at about the same stage of
culture as England was at the beginning of the seventeenth century.
There is a court where royal splendor can be seen; the deposed emperor
still receives in the Forbidden City the faithful Manchus, who come in
gorgeous raiment and with fastidious regard for court etiquette to offer
their congratulations on the occasion of his birthday.[30] The ordinary
man of means dresses not in the stereotyped manner of our present-day
civilization, but follows his taste in the selection of rich purple,
wine-colored, or other shades of silk. Sedan chairs are still used as
a common means of transportation. Torture is still practiced, and the
heads of executed criminals are hung up in the streets in case of a
revolution or other great excitement. The servants are typical Dromios
in their submissiveness and occasional impertinence. The streets are
frequently still the narrow and filthy lanes of medieval times. Most
important, there are few factories, and manufacture is done by leisurely
home industry. Much of this is passing with the coming of industry,
the automobile and the tram car, the Europeanized tailor and the
moving-picture machine; yet much that is picturesque in Peking continues
to flourish, and the theater with its huge community of actors is one of
the most conservative elements.
To begin with, the Chinese and the Elizabethan theaters are almost
identical in structure, and for much the same reasons. The origin of the
sixteenth-century theater in London is to be found in the innyard in
which a platform had been erected for the performance; and when James
Burbage in 1576 built the “Theater” outside the jurisdiction of the City
Fathers of London he erected what was practically an innyard without
the inn. There was a platform stage projecting into the yard, where the
rabble could find standing room, and a gallery in which the wealthier
patrons could be seated. The origin of the Chinese theater building,
such as it is found in Peking, is very similar. Performances were first
given in the courtyards of temples or of the houses of rich men. A
platform was erected at one end. The spectators stood in the courtyard
or sat at tables. The latter was particularly the case when theaters
were held in the private courtyards of princes or other rich men. For
centuries theatricals in China were either religious or private, and
public theaters which any one may attend for the payment of an admission
fee are a fairly recent institution, but when they were built they
were constructed on the model of the temple or palace theaters, with a
projecting roofed stage at one end, the cheaper seats on the ground
floor and the more expensive ones in the gallery. The Chinese audiences
have been trained to regard the stage as anywhere and not as a particular
place; it is unlocalized, as in Shakespeare’s time. The roof on the stage
serves the same purposes as in Elizabethan times; it is a protection for
the actors against rain, and a “heaven” from which deities may be lowered.
In distinction to our modern theater in which we present a series of
pictures within a frame called the proscenium, which we cover with a
curtain while the pictures are being shifted, both the Elizabethan and
the Chinese stage have neither a proscenium nor, in general, a curtain.
In both the stages is an unframed rostrum thrust bodily forth into the
auditorium, surrounded on three sides, if not on four, by spectators. In
short it is not a picture stage, but a platform stage. On such a stage
there can be, of course, no question of artistic lighting effects; the
plays are performed either by daylight, as they were in Shakespeare’s
day, or by the light of huge arc lamps that illuminate stage and audience
alike. As the actors cannot present artistic stage pictures to three
sides of the house at the same time, it is not surprising that, as the
English literary historians tell us, the appeal was more to the ear than
to the eye. That this is equally true in China is seen from the Peking
term for a theatrical performance, _t’ing-hsi_, which means a play that
is heard. In old Peking theaters the seats on the ground floor are
arranged at right angles to the stage, along tables on which are served
tea and cakes; recently built theatres, however, have their seats (with
rails for the inevitable teapots) running parallel to the stage.
In speaking of the chief characteristics that distinguish the Elizabethan
from other stages Professor Thorndyke says:[31]
The fixed and most important principle was the use of the
projecting platform as a sort of neutral, vaguely localized
territory, where almost anything might happen. The second
principle was the use of the inner stage with its curtains
(and to some extent the upper stage) as a means to denote
locality more exactly, to employ properties more readily, and
to indicate changes of scene more effectively.
[Illustration: THE FORTUNE THEATER]
[Illustration: A TYPICAL PEKING THEATER]
From what has been said it is apparent that in regard to the first
principle the Chinese and the Shakespearean stage are identical. In
regard to the use of the curtain and the inner stage, scholars are
very much divided as to the manner and frequency with which they were
employed. To quote Professor Thorndyke once more:[32]
The total evidence of the stage directions alone indicates that
the arrangement prescribed was in general use in important
theaters, public and private, though doubtless its adoption was
gradual and subject to variation. We may suppose that the size
and visibility of the inner stage varied in different theaters,
and that the extent to which the curtain was used changed
from decade to decade, or playwright to playwright, or manager
to manager, or even according to the state of the weather and
light.
The use of the curtain in Chinese theaters is very rare; and the curtain
itself is by no means like the curtain to which we are accustomed. When
a relatively elaborate setting is about to be placed on the stage a
curtain about ten feet high by about twenty feet wide is carried by stage
hands to the front of the stage, and there stretched out to cut off the
view of the audience. The ends of the curtain are each sewed to a bamboo
pole held upright by two coolies. In this most primitive manner a garden
setting or a heavenly throne is made to appear to the audience in one
burst of glory instead of being carried on piece by piece, as is the
case with most properties and sceneries. The Chinese playhouse has no
inner and likewise no upper stage. Curtains about beds or other pieces of
furniture are used to “discover” actors in the same manner as was done on
the Elizabethan stage. But all of these articles are regularly carried
on the stage in full view of the audience. The size of the two stages
seems to be about the same, except that the Elizabethan was much wider.
The dimensions given for the stage of the Fortune are forty-three feet
wide by twenty-seven and a half feet deep; while a typical Chinese stage
measures about twenty-five feet in both directions.