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TAI T’UNG graduated in 1237 and rose to be Governor
of
T’ai-chou in Chehkiang. Then the Mongols prevailed, and Tai
T’ung,
unwilling to serve them, pleaded ill-health, and in 1275
retired
into private life. There he occupied himself with the composition
of
the _Liu Shu Ku_ or Six Scripts, an examination into the origin
and
development of writing, which, according to some, was published
about
A.D. 1250, but according to others, not until so late as the
year
1319.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: WU
SHU--LI FANG]
From the rise of the Sung dynasty may be dated the first
appearance of
the encyclopædia, destined to occupy later so much space in
Chinese
literature. WU SHU (A.D. 947--1002), whose life was a good
instance
of “worth by poverty depressed,” may fairly be credited with
the
production of the earliest work of the kind. His _Shih Lei Fu_
dealt
with celestial and terrestrial phenomena, mineralogy, botany,
and
natural history, arranged, for want of an alphabet, under
categories.
It is curiously written in the poetical-prose style, and forms
the
foundation of a similar book of reference in use at the present
day.
Wu Shu was placed upon the commission which produced a much
more
extensive work known as the _T’ai P’ing Yu Lan_. At the head of
that
commission was LI FANG (A.D. 924--995), a Minister of State and a
great
favourite with the Emperor. In the last year of his life he was
invited
to witness the Feast of Lanterns from the palace. On that occasion
the
Emperor placed Li beside him, and after pouring out for him a
goblet
of wine and supplying him with various delicacies, he turned to
his
courtiers and said, “Li Fang has twice served us as Minister of
State,
yet has he never in any way injured a single fellow-creature.
Truly
this must be a virtuous man.” The _T’ai P’ing Yu Lan_ was
reprinted
in 1812, and is bound up in thirty-two large volumes. It was
so
named because the Emperor himself went through all the manuscript,
a
task which occupied him nearly a year. A list of about eight
hundred
authorities is given, and the Index fills four hundred
pages.
As a pendant to this work Li Fang designed the _T’ai P’ing Kuang
Chi_,
an encyclopædia of biographical and other information drawn
from
general literature. A list of about three hundred and sixty
authorities
is given, and the Index fills two hundred and eighty pages. The
edition
of 1566--a rare work--bound up in twelve thick volumes, stands upon
the
shelves of the Cambridge University Library.
*
* * * *
Another encyclopædist was MA TUAN-LIN, the son
of a high
official, in whose steps he prepared to follow. The dates of his
birth
and death are not known, but he flourished in the thirteenth
century.
Upon the collapse of the Sung dynasty he disappeared from public
life,
and taking refuge in his native place, he gave himself up to
teaching,
attracting many disciples from far and near, and fascinating all
by
his untiring dialectic skill. He left behind him the _Wen Hsien
T’ung
K’ao_, a large encyclopædia based upon the _T’ung Tien_ of Tu Yu,
but
much enlarged and supplemented by five additional sections,
namely,
Bibliography, Imperial Lineage, Appointments, Uranography, and
Natural
Phenomena. This work, which cost its author twenty years of
unremitting
labour, has long been known to Europeans, who have drawn largely
upon
its ample stores of antiquarian research.
* *
* * *
[Sidenote: THE HSI YUAN LU]
At the close of the
Sung dynasty there was published a curious book on
Medical Jurisprudence,
which is interesting, in spite of its manifold
absurdities, as being the
recognised handbook for official use at the
present day. No magistrate ever
thinks of proceeding to discharge
the duties of coroner without taking a copy
of these instructions
along with him. The present work was compiled by a
judge named Sung
Tz’ŭ, from pre-existing works of a similar kind, and we are
told in
the preface of a fine edition, dated 1842, that “being subjected
for
many generations to practical tests by the officers of the Board
of
Punishments, it became daily more and more exact.” A few extracts
will
be sufficient to determine its real value:--
(1.) “Man has three
hundred and sixty-five bones, corresponding to the
number of days it takes
the heavens to revolve.
“The skull of a male, from the nape of the neck
to the top of the
head, consists of eight pieces--of a Ts’ai-chou man, nine.
There is a
horizontal suture across the back of the skull, and a
perpendicular
one down the middle. Female skulls are of six pieces, and have
the
horizontal but not the perpendicular suture.
“Teeth are
twenty-four, twenty-eight, thirty-two, or thirty-six in
number. There are
three long-shaped breast-bones.
“There is one bone belonging to the heart
of the shape and size of a
_cash_.
“There is one ‘shoulder-well’ bone
and one ‘rice-spoon’ bone on each
side.
“Males have twelve ribs on
each side, eight long and four short.
Females have fourteen on each
side.”
(2.) “Wounds inflicted on the bone leave a red mark and a
slight
appearance of saturation, and where the bone is broken there will
be
at each end a halo-like trace of blood. Take a bone on which there
are
marks of a wound, and hold it up to the light; if these are of
a
fresh-looking red, the wound was inflicted before death and
penetrated
to the bone; but if there is no trace of saturation from
blood,
although there is a wound, it was inflicted after death.”
(3.)
“The bones of parents may be identified by their children in the
following
manner. Let the experimenter cut himself or herself with
a knife, and cause
the blood to drip on to the bones; then if the
relationship is an actual
fact, the blood will sink into the bone,
otherwise it will not.
_N.B._--Should the bones have been washed with
salt water, even though the
relationship exists, yet the blood will not
soak in. This is a trick to be
guarded against beforehand.
“It is also said that if parent and child, or
husband and wife, each
cut themselves and let the blood drip into a basin of
water, the two
bloods will mix, whereas that of two people not thus related
will not
mix.
“Where two brothers, who may have been separated since
childhood, are
desirous of establishing their identity as such, but are
unable to
do so by ordinary means, bid each one cut himself and let the
blood
drip into a basin. If they are really brothers, the two bloods
will
coagulate into one; otherwise not. But because fresh blood will
always
coagulate with the aid of a little salt or vinegar, people often
smear
the basin over with these to attain their own ends and deceive
others;
therefore always wash out the basin you are going to use, or buy a
new
one from a shop. Thus the trick will be defeated.”
(4.) “There are
some atrocious villains who, when they have murdered
any one, burn the body
and throw the ashes away, so that there are no
bones to examine. In such
cases you must carefully find out at what
time the murder was committed, and
where the body was burnt. Then,
when you know the place, all witnesses
agreeing on this point, you
may proceed without further delay to examine the
wounds. The mode of
procedure is this. Put up your shed near where the body
was burnt, and
make the accused and witnesses point out themselves the exact
spot.
Then cut down the grass and weeds growing on this spot, and burn
large
quantities of fuel till the place is extremely hot, throwing on
several
pecks of hemp-seed. By and by brush the place clean; then, if the
body
was actually burnt on this spot, the oil from the seed will be found
to
have sunk into the ground in the form of a human figure, and
wherever
there were wounds on the dead man, there on this figure the oil will
be
found to have collected together, large or small, square, round,
long,
short, oblique, or straight, exactly as they were inflicted. The
parts
where there were no wounds will be free from any such
appearances.”
BOOK THE SIXTH
_THE MONGOL DYNASTY_
(A.D. 1200-1368)
CHAPTER I
MISCELLANEOUS
LITERATURE--POETRY
The thirteenth and fourteenth centuries witnessed
a remarkable
political revolution. China was conquered by the Mongols, and
for the
first time in history the empire passed under the rule of an
alien
sovereign. No exact date can be assigned for the transference of
the
Imperial power. In 1264 Kublai Khan fixed his capital at Peking, and
in
1271 he adopted Yuan as his dynastic style. It was not, however,
until
1279 that the patriot statesman, Chao Ping, had his retreat cut
off,
and despairing of his country, took upon his back the boy-Emperor,
the
last of the Sungs, and jumped from his doomed vessel into the
river,
thus bringing the great fire-led dynasty to an end.
[Sidenote:
WEN T’IEN-HSIANG]
Kublai Khan, who was a confirmed Buddhist, paid great
honour to
Confucius, and was a steady patron of literature. In 1269 he
caused
Bashpa, a Tibetan priest, to construct an alphabet for the
Mongol
language; in 1280 the calendar was revised; and in 1287 the
Imperial
Academy was opened. But he could not forgive WEN
T’IEN-HSIANG
(1236-1283), the renowned patriot and scholar, who had fought
so
bravely but unsuccessfully against him. In 1279 the latter was
conveyed
to Peking, on which journey he passed eight days without
eating.
Every effort was made to induce him to own allegiance to the
Mongol
Emperor, but without success. He was kept in prison for three
years.
At length he was summoned into the presence of Kublai Khan, who
said
to him, “What is it you want?” “By the grace of the Sung Emperor,”
Wen
T’ien-hsiang replied, “I became his Majesty’s Minister. I cannot
serve
two masters. I only ask to die.” Accordingly he was executed,
meeting
his death with composure, and making a final obeisance southwards,
as
though his own sovereign was still reigning in his own capital.
The
following poem was written by Wen T’ien-hsiang while in
captivity:--
“There is in the universe an Aura which permeates all things
and makes
them what they are. Below, it shapes forth land and water; above,
the
sun and the stars. In man it is called spirit; and there is
nowhere
where it is not.
“In times of national tranquillity this
spirit lies _perdu_ in the
harmony which prevails; only at some great crisis
is it manifested
widely abroad.”
[Here follow ten historical instances
of devotion and heroism.]
“Such is this grand and glorious spirit which
endureth for all
generations, and which, linked with the sun and the moon,
knows neither
beginning nor end. The foundation of all that is great and good
in
heaven and earth, it is itself born from the everlasting
obligations
which are due by man to man.
“Alas! the fates were against
me. I was without resource. Bound with
fetters, hurried away towards the
north, death would have been sweet
indeed; but that boon was
refused.
“My dungeon is lighted by the will-o’-the-wisp alone; no breath
of
spring cheers the murky solitude in which I dwell. The ox and the
barb
herd together in one stall, the rooster and the phœnix feed
together
from one dish. Exposed to mist and dew, I had many times thought
to
die; and yet, through the seasons of two revolving years,
disease
hovered round me in vain. The dank, unhealthy soil to me
became
paradise itself. For there was that within me which misfortune
could
not steal away. And so I remained firm, gazing at the white
clouds
floating over my head, and bearing in my heart a sorrow boundless
as
the sky.
“The sun of those dead heroes has long since set, but
their record is
before me still. And, while the wind whistles under the
eaves, I open
my books and read; and lo! in their presence my heart glows
with a
borrowed fire.”
“I myself,” adds the famous commentator, Lin
Hsi-chung, of the
seventeenth century, “in consequence of the rebellion in
Fuhkien, lay
in prison for two years, while deadly disease raged around.
Daily I
recited this poem several times over, and happily escaped; from
which
it is clear that the supremest efforts in literature move even
the
gods, and that it is not the verses of Tu Fu alone which can
prevail
against malarial fever.”
At the final examination for his
degree in 1256, Wen T’ien-hsiang had
been placed seventh on the list.
However, the then Emperor, on looking
over the papers of the candidates
before the result was announced,
was immensely struck by his work, and sent
for the grand examiner
to reconsider the order of merit. “This essay,” said
his Majesty,
“shows us the moral code of the ancients as in a mirror; it
betokens
a loyalty enduring as iron and stone.” The grand examiner
readily
admitted the justice of the Emperor’s criticism, and when the
list
was published, the name of Wen T’ien-hsiang stood first. The fame
of
that examiner, WANG YING-LIN (1223-1296), is likely to last
for a long
time to come. Not because of his association with one of
China’s greatest
patriots, nor because of his voluminous contributions
to classical
literature, including an extensive encyclopædia, a rare
copy of which is to
be seen in the University of Leyden, but because
of a small primer for
schoolboys, which, by almost universal consent,
is attributed to his pen. For
six hundred years this primer has been,
and is still at this moment, the
first book put into the hand of every
child throughout the empire. It is an
epitome of all knowledge, dealing
with philosophy, classical literature,
history, biography, and common
objects. It has been called a sleeve edition
of the Mirror of History.
Written in lines of three characters to each, and
being in doggerel
rhyme, it is easily committed to memory, and is known by
heart by every
Chinaman who has learnt to read. This Three Character Classic,
as it
is called, has been imitated by Christian missionaries, Protestant
and
Catholic; and even the T’ai-p’ing rebels, alive to its
far-reaching
influence, published an imitation of their own. Here are a few
specimen
lines, rhymed to match the original:--
“_Men, one and all,
in infancy
Are virtuous at heart;
Their moral tendencies the
same,
Their practice wide apart.
Without instruction’s kindly
aid
Man’s nature grows less fair;
In teaching, thoroughness should
be
A never-ceasing care._”
It may be added that the meaning of the
Three Character Classic is not
explained to the child at the time. All that
the latter has to do is to
learn the sounds and formation of the 560
different characters of which
the book is composed.
*
* * * *
[Sidenote: LIU YIN]
A clever boy, who
attracted much attention by the filial piety which
he displayed towards his
stepfather, was LIU YIN (1241-1293).
He obtained office, but resigned in
order to tend his sick mother; and
when again appointed, his health broke
down and he went into seclusion.
The following extract is from his
pen:--
“When God made man, He gave him powers to cope with the exigencies
of
his environment, and resources within himself, so that he need not
be
dependent upon external circumstances.
“Thus, in districts where
poisons abound, antidotes abound also; and
in others, where malaria prevails,
we find such correctives as ginger,
nutmegs, and dogwood. Again, fish,
terrapins, and clams are the most
wholesome articles of diet in excessively
damp climates, though
themselves denizens of the water; and musk and
deer-horns are excellent
prophylactics in earthy climates, where in fact they
are produced. For
if these things were unable to prevail against their
surroundings, they
could not possibly thrive where they do, while the fact
that they do so
thrive is proof positive that they were ordained as specifics
against
those surroundings.
“Chu Hsi said, ‘When God is about to send
down calamities upon us, He
first raises up the hero whose genius shall
finally prevail against
those calamities.’ From this point of view there can
be no living man
without his appointed use, nor any state of society which
man should be
unable to put right.”
The theory that every man plays
his allotted part in the cosmos is a
favourite one with the Chinese; and the
process by which the tares are
separated from the wheat, exemplifying the use
of adversity, has been
curiously stated by a Buddhist priest of this
date:--
“If one is a man, the mills of heaven and earth grind him
to
perfection; if not, to destruction.”
* * *
* *
A considerable amount of poetry was produced under the Mongol
sway,
though not so much proportionately, nor of such a high order, as
under
the great native dynasties. The Emperor Ch’ien Lung published in 1787
a
collection of specimens of the poetry of this Yuan dynasty. They
fill
eight large volumes, but are not much read.
[Sidenote: LIU
CHI]
One of the best known poets of this period is LIU CHI (A.D.
1311-1375),
who was also deeply read in the Classics and also a student
of
astrology. He lived into the Ming dynasty, which he helped
to
establish, and was for some years the trusted adviser of its
first
ruler. He lost favour, however, and was poisoned by a rival, it
is
said, with the Emperor’s connivance. The following lines, referring
to
an early visit to a mountain monastery, reveal a certain sympathy
with
Buddhism:--
“_I mounted when the cock had just begun,
And
reached the convent ere the bells were done;
A gentle zephyr whispered o’er
the lawn;
Behind the wood the moon gave way to dawn.
And in this pure
sweet solitude I lay,
Stretching my limbs out to await the day,
No
sound along the willow pathway dim
Save the soft echo of the bonzes’
hymn._”
Here too is an oft-quoted stanza, to be found in any poetry
primer:--
“_A centenarian ’mongst men
Is rare; and if one comes,
what then?
The mightiest heroes of the past
Upon the hillside sleep at
last._”
The prose writings of Liu Chi are much admired for their pure
style,
which has been said to “smell of antiquity.” One piece tells how
a
certain noble who had lost all by the fall of the Ch’in dynasty,
B.C.
206, and was forced to grow melons for a living, had
recourse to divination,
and went to consult a famous augur on his
prospects.
“Alas!” cried the
augur, “what is there that Heaven can bestow save
that which virtue can
obtain? Where is the efficacy of spiritual beings
beyond that with which man
has endowed them? The divining plant is but
a dead stalk; the tortoise-shell
a dry bone. They are but matter like
ourselves. And man, the divinest of all
things, why does he not seek
wisdom from within, rather than from these
grosser stuffs?
“Besides, sir, why not reflect upon the past--that past
which gave
birth to this present? Your cracked roof and crumbling walls of
to-day
are but the complement of yesterday’s lofty towers and spacious
halls.
The straggling bramble is but the complement of the shapely
garden
tree. The grasshopper and the cicada are but the complement of
organs
and flutes; the will-o’-the-wisp and firefly, of gilded lamps
and
painted candles. Your endive and watercresses are but the
complement
of the elephant-sinews and camel’s hump of days bygone; the
maple-leaf
and the rush, of your once rich robes and fine attire. Do not
repine
that those who had not such luxuries then enjoy them now. Do not
be
dissatisfied that you, who enjoyed them then, have them now no more.
In
the space of a day and night the flower blooms and dies. Between
spring
and autumn things perish and are renewed. Beneath the roaring cascade
a
deep pool is found; dark valleys lie at the foot of high hills.
These
things you know; what more can divination teach you?”
Another
piece is entitled “Outsides,” and is a light satire on the
corruption of his
day:--
“At Hangchow there lived a costermonger who understood how to
keep
oranges a whole year without letting them spoil. His fruit was
always
fresh-looking, firm as jade, and of a beautiful golden hue;
but
inside--dry as an old cocoon.
“One day I asked him, saying, ‘Are
your oranges for altar or
sacrificial purposes, or for show at banquets? Or
do you make this
outside display merely to cheat the foolish? as cheat them
you most
outrageously do.’ ‘Sir,’ replied the orangeman, ‘I have carried on
this
trade now for many years. It is my source of livelihood. I sell;
the
world buys. And I have yet to learn that you are the only honest
man
about, and that I am the only cheat. Perhaps it never struck you
in
this light. The baton-bearers of to-day, seated on their tiger
skins,
pose as the martial guardians of the State; but what are they
compared
with the captains of old? The broad-brimmed, long-robed Ministers
of
to-day pose as pillars of the constitution; but have they the wisdom
of
our ancient counsellors? Evil-doers arise, and none can subdue
them. The
people are in misery, and none can relieve them. Clerks are
corrupt, and none
can restrain them. Laws decay, and none can renew
them. Our officials eat the
bread of the State and know no shame. They
sit in lofty halls, ride fine
steeds, drink themselves drunk with
wine, and batten on the richest fare.
Which of them but puts on an
awe-inspiring look, a dignified mien?--all gold
and gems without, but
dry cocoons within. You pay, sir, no heed to these
things, while you
are very particular about my oranges.’
“I had no
answer to make. Was he really out of conceit with the age, or
only quizzing
me in defence of his fruit?”
CHAPTER II
THE
DRAMA
[Sidenote: THE DRAMA]
If the Mongol dynasty added little
of permanent value to the already
vast masses of poetry, of general
literature, and of classical
exegesis, it will ever be remembered in
connection with two important
departures in the literary history of the
nation. Within the century
covered by Mongol rule the Drama and the Novel may
be said to have come
into existence. Going back to pre-Confucian or legendary
days, we find
that from time immemorial the Chinese have danced set dances in
time to
music on solemn or festive occasions of sacrifice or ceremony. Thus
we
read in the Odes:--
“_Lightly, sprightly,
To the dance I
go,
The sun shining brightly
In the court below._”
The
movements of the dancers were methodical, slow, and dignified. Long
feathers
and flutes were held in the hand and were waved to and fro as
the performers
moved right or left. Words to be sung were added, and
then gradually the
music and singing prevailed over the dance, gesture
being substituted. The
result was rather an operatic than a dramatic
performance, and the words sung
were more of the nature of songs than
of musical plays. In the _Tso Chuan_,
under B.C. 545, we read of an
amateur attempt of the kind, organised by
stable-boys, which frightened
their horses and caused a stampede. Confucius,
too, mentions the
arrogance of a noble who employed in his ancestral temple
the number of
singers reserved for the Son of Heaven alone. It is hardly
necessary to
allude to the exorcism of evil spirits, carried out three times
a year
by officials dressed up in bearskins and armed with spear and
shield,
who made a house to house visitation surrounded by a shouting
and
excited populace. It is only mentioned here because some writers
have
associated this practice with the origin of the drama in China. All
we
really know is that in very early ages music and song and dance
formed
an ordinary accompaniment to religious and other ceremonies, and
that
this continued for many centuries.
Towards the middle of the
eighth century, A.D., the Emperor
Ming Huang of the T’ang dynasty, being
exceedingly fond of music,
established a College, known as the Pear-Garden,
for training some
three hundred young people of both sexes. There is a legend
that
this College was the outcome of a visit paid by his Majesty to
the
moon, where he was much impressed by a troup of skilled
performers
attached to the Palace of Jade which he found there. It was
apparently
an institution to provide instrumentalists, vocalists, and
possibly
dancers, for Court entertainments, although some have held that
the
“youths of the Pear-Garden” were really actors, and the term is
still
applied to the dramatic fraternity. Nothing, however, which can
be
truly identified with the actor’s art seems to have been known
until
the thirteenth century, when suddenly the Drama, as seen in the
modern
Chinese stage-play, sprang into being. In the present limited state
of
our knowledge on the subject, it is impossible to say how or why
this
came about. We cannot trace step by step the development of the
drama
in China from a purely choral performance, as in Greece. We are
simply
confronted with the accomplished fact.
At the same time we hear
of dramatic performances among the Tartars
at a somewhat earlier date. In
1031 K’ung Tao-fu, a descendant of
Confucius in the forty-fifth degree, was
sent as envoy to the Kitans,
and was received at a banquet with much honour.
But at a theatrical
entertainment which followed, a piece was played in which
his sacred
ancestor, Confucius, was introduced as the low-comedy man; and
this so
disgusted him that he got up and withdrew, the Kitans being forced
to
apologise. Altogether, it would seem that the drama is not
indigenous
to China, but may well have been introduced from Tartar
sources.
However this may be, it is certain that the drama as known under
the
Mongols is to all intents and purposes the drama of to-day, and a
few
general remarks may not be out of place.
Plays are acted in the
large cities of China at public theatres
all the year round, except during
one month at the New Year, and
during the period of mourning for a deceased
Emperor. There is no
charge for admission, but all visitors must take some
refreshment.
The various Trade-Guilds have raised stages upon their
premises,
and give periodical performances free to all who will stand in
an
open-air courtyard to watch them. Mandarins and wealthy persons
often
engage actors to perform in their private houses, generally while
a
dinner-party is going on. In the country, performances are provided
by
public subscription, and take place at temples or on temporary
stages
put up in the roadway. These stages are always essentially the
same.
There is no curtain, there are no wings, and no flies. At the back
of
the stage are two doors, one for entrance and one for exit. The
actors
who are to perform the first piece come in by the entrance door
all
together. When the piece is over, and as they are filing out
through
the exit door, those who are cast for the second piece pass in
through
the other door. There is no interval, and the musicians, who sit
on
the stage, make no pause; hence many persons have stated that
Chinese
plays are ridiculously long, the fact being that half-an-hour to
an
hour would be about an average length for the plays usually
performed,
though much longer specimens, such as would last from three to
five
hours, are to be found in books. Eight or ten plays are often
performed
at an ordinary dinner-party, a list of perhaps forty being handed
round
for the chief guests to choose from.
The actors undergo a very
severe physical training, usually between the
ages of nine and fourteen. They
have to learn all kinds of acrobatic
feats, these being introduced freely
into “military” plays. They also
have to practise walking on feet bound up in
imitation of women’s
feet, no woman having been allowed on the stage since
the days of the
Emperor Ch’ien Lung (A.D. 1736-1796), whose mother had been
an
actress. They have further to walk about in the open air for an hour
or
so every day, the head thrown back and the mouth wide open in order
to
strengthen the voice; and finally, their diet is carefully
regulated
according to a fixed system of training. Fifty-six actors make up
a
full company, each of whom must know perfectly from 100 to 200
plays,
there being no prompter. These do not include the four- or
five-act
plays as found in books, but either acting editions of these,
cut
down to suit the requirements of the stage, or short farces
specially
written. The actors are ranged under five classes according to
their
capabilities, and consequently every one knows what part he is
expected
to take in any given play. Far from being an important personage,
as
in ancient Greece, the actor is under a social ban; and for
three
generations his descendants may not compete at the public
examinations.
Yet he must possess considerable ability in a certain line;
for
inasmuch as there are no properties and no realism, he is
wholly
dependent for success upon his own powers of idealisation. There he
is
indeed supreme. He will gallop across the stage on horseback,
dismount,
and pass his horse on to a groom. He will wander down a street,
and
stop at an open shop-window to flirt with a pretty girl. He will
hide
in a forest, or fight from behind a battlemented wall. He conjures
up
by histrionic skill the whole paraphernalia of a scene which in
Western
countries is grossly laid out by supers before the curtain goes up.
The
general absence of properties is made up to some extent by the
dresses
of the actors, which are of the most gorgeous character, robes
for
Emperors and grandees running into figures which would stagger even
a
West-end manager.
It is obvious that the actor must be a good
contortionist, and excel
in gesture. He must have a good voice, his part
consisting of song and
“spoken” in about equal proportions. To show how
utterly the Chinese
disregard realism, it need only be stated that dead men
get up and walk
off the stage; sometimes they will even act the part of
bearers and
make movements as though carrying themselves away. Or a servant
will
step across to a leading performer and hand him a cup of tea to
clear
his voice.
The merit of the plays performed is not on a level
with the skill of
the performer. A Chinese audience does not go to hear the
play, but
to see the actor. In 1678, at a certain market-town, there was a
play
performed which represented the execution of the patriot, General
Yo
Fei (A.D. 1141), brought about by the treachery of a rival,
Ch’in Kuei,
who forged an order for that purpose. The actor who played
Ch’in Kuei (a term
since used contemptuously for a spittoon) produced a
profound sensation; so
much so, that one of the spectators, losing all
self-control, leapt upon the
stage and stabbed the unfortunate man to
death.
Most Chinese plays are
simple in construction and weak in plot. They
are divided into “military” and
“civil,” which terms have often been
wrongly taken in the senses of tragedy
and comedy, tragedy proper
being quite unknown in China. The former usually
deal with historical
episodes and heroic or filial acts by historical
characters; and
Emperors and Generals and small armies rush wildly about the
stage,
sometimes engaged in single combat, sometimes in turning head
over
heels. Battles are fought and rivals or traitors executed before
the
very eyes of the audience. The “civil” plays are concerned with
the
entanglements of every-day life, and are usually of a farcical
character. As
they stand in classical collections or in acting
editions, Chinese plays are
as unobjectionable as Chinese poetry
and general literature. On the stage,
however, actors are allowed
great license in gagging, and the direction which
their gag takes is
chiefly the reason which keeps respectable women away from
the public
play-house.
It must therefore always be remembered that
there is the play as it can
be read in the library, and again as it appears
in the acting edition
to be learnt, and finally as it is interpreted by the
actor. These
three are often very different one from the other.
The
following abstract will give a fair idea of the pieces to be found
on the
play-bill of any Chinese theatre:--
THE THREE SUSPICIONS.
At the
close of the Ming dynasty, a certain well-known General was
occupied day and
night in camp with preparations for resisting the
advance of the rebel army
which ultimately captured Peking. While thus
temporarily absent from home,
the tutor engaged for his son fell ill
with severe shivering fits, and the
boy, anxious to do something to
relieve the sufferer, went to his mother’s
room and borrowed a thick
quilt. Late that night, the General unexpectedly
returned home, and
heard from a slave-girl in attendance of the tutor’s
illness and of the
loan of the quilt. Thereupon, he proceeded straight to the
sick-room,
to see how the tutor was getting on, but found him fast asleep.
As
he was about to retire, he espied on the ground a pair of
women’s
slippers, which had been accidentally brought in with the quilt,
and
at once recognised to whom they belonged. Hastily quitting the
still
sleeping tutor, and arming himself with a sharp scimitar, he burst
into
his wife’s apartment. He seized the terrified woman by the hair,
and
told her that she must die; producing, in reply to her
protestations,
the fatal pair of slippers. He yielded, however, to the
entreaties of
the assembled slave-girls, and deferred his vengeance until he
had
put the following test. He sent a slave-girl to the tutor’s
room,
himself following close behind with his naked weapon ready for
use,
bearing a message from her mistress to say she was awaiting him in
her
own room; in response to which invitation the voice of the tutor
was
heard from within, saying, “What! at this hour of the night? Go
away,
you bad girl, or I will tell the master when he comes back!”
Still
unconvinced, the jealous General bade his trembling wife go
herself
and summon her paramour; resolving that if the latter but put
foot
over the threshold, his life should pay the penalty. But there was
no
occasion for murderous violence. The tutor again answered from
within
the bolted door, “Madam, I may not be a saint, but I would at
least
seek to emulate the virtuous Chao Wen-hua (the Joseph of China).
Go,
and leave me in peace.” The General now changes his tone; and
the
injured wife, she too changes hers. She attempts to commit
suicide,
and is only dissuaded by an abject apology on the part of her
husband;
in the middle of which, as the latter is on his knees, a
slave-girl
creates roars of laughter by bringing her master, in mistake for
wine,
a brimming goblet of vinegar, the Chinese emblem of connubial
jealousy.
* * * * *
The following
is a translation of the acting edition of a short play,
as commonly
performed, illustrating, but not to exaggeration, the
slender and
insufficient literary art which satisfies the Chinese
public, the verses of
the original being quite as much doggerel as
those of the English
version:--
THE FLOWERY BALL.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ:
Su
Tai-ch’in, _a Suitor_.
Hu
Mao-yuan, _a Suitor_.
P’ing
Kuei, _a Beggar_.
P’u-sa, _the Beggar’s
Guardian Angel_.
Lady Wang, _daughter of a high
Mandarin_.
Gatekeeper.
_Suitors, Servants,
&c._
SCENE--_Outside the city of Ch’ang-an_.
Su
T’ai-ch’in. _At Ch’ang-an city I reside:
My father is a
Mandarin;
Oh! if I get the Flowery Ball,
My cup of joy will overflow.
My humble name is Su
T’ai-ch’in.
To-day the Lady Wang will
throw
A Flowery Ball to get a spouse;
And if perchance this ball strikes me,
I am a lucky man
indeed.
But now I must go on my way._
[Walks on
towards the city
_Enter ~Hu Mao-yuan~._
Hu Mao-yuan. _My
father is a nobleman,
And I’m a jolly roving
blade;
To-day the Lady Wang will throw
A
Flowery Ball to get a spouse.
It all depends on
destiny
Whether or not this Ball strikes
me.
My humble name is Hu Mao-yuan;
But
as the Ball is thrown to-day
I must be moving on my
way.
Why, that looks very like friend
Su!
I’ll call: “Friend Su, don’t go so
fast.”_
Su. _It’s Hu Mao-yuan: now where go
you?_
Hu. _To the Governor’s palace to get me a
wife._
Su. _To the Flowery Ball? Well, I’m going
too._
[Sings.] _The Lady Wang the Flowery Ball will
throw,
That all the world her chosen spouse might
see,
Among the noble suitors down
below--
But who knows who the lucky man will
be?_
Hu [sings.] _I think your luck is sure to take you
through._
Su [sings.] _Your handsome face should bring the Ball to
~you~._
Hu [sings.] _At any rate it lies between us
two._
Su [sings.] _There’s hardly anybody else who’d
do._
Hu [sings.] _Then come let us go, let us make haste and
run._
Su [sings.] _Away let us go, but don’t be so
slow,
Or we shan’t be in time for the
fun._
[Exeunt.
_Enter ~P’ing Kuei~._
P’ing [sings.] _Ah!
that day within the garden
When my lady-love
divine,
Daughter of a wealthy noble,
Promised that she would be mine.
At the garden gate she
pledged me,
Bidding me come here to-day;
From my miserable garret
I have just now crept
away.
And as I pass the city gates
I ope
my eyes and see
A crowd of noble youths as
thick
As leaves upon a tree.
Forward
they press, but who knows which
The lucky man will
be?
In vain I strain my eager eyes--
Alas! ’twill break my heart--
Among the well-dressed
butterflies
I find no counterpart.
Let
her be faithless or be true
I lose the Ball as sure as
fate;
Though, if she spoke me idle
words,
Why trifle at the garden gate?
Nevertheless, I’m bound to go
Whether I get the Ball or
no:
My bowl and my staff in my hands--just
so.
Rank and fortune often come
From
matrimonial affairs;
I’ll think of it all as I walk
along--
And perhaps I’d better say my
prayers.
Why, here I am at the very
spot!
I’ll just walk in._
Gatekeeper. _I say
you’ll not!_
P’ing [sings.] _Oh I dear, he’s stopped me! why, Heaven
knows!
It must be my hat and tattered
clothes.
I’ll stay here and raise an infernal
din
Until they consent to let me
in._
Gatekeeper. _I haven’t anything to spare,
So come again another day._
P’ing. _Oh! let me just go in to
look._
Gatekeeper. _Among the sons of noblemen
What can there be for you to see?
Begone at once, or I’ll
soon make you._
P’ing. _Alas! alas! what can I
do?
If I don’t get within the court,
The
Lady Wang will tire of waiting._
_Enter ~P’u-sa~._
Pu-sa
[sings.] _By heaven’s supreme command I have flown
Through
the blue expanse of sky and air;
For a suffering soul has
cried out in woe,
And Heaven has heard his
prayer.
For the Lady Wang he’s nearly
broken-hearted,
But cruel fate still keeps the lovers
parted.
“Hebbery gibbery snobbery snay!”
On the wings of the wind I’ll ride,
And make the old porter
clear out of the way
Till I get my poor beggar
inside.
The Lady Wang is still within the
hall
Waiting till the Emperor sends the Flowery
Ball._
[Raises the wind.
Gatekeeper. _Oh dear! how cold the
wind is blowing.
I do not see the lady
coming,
And so I think I’ll step inside._
_Enter
~Lady Wang~._
Lady Wang [sings.] _In gala dress I leave my
boudoir,
Thinking all the time of thee--
O Heaven, fulfil a mortal’s longings,
And link my love to
me.
My gorgeous cap is broidered o’er
With flocks of glittering birds:
Here shine the seven stars,
and there
A boy is muttering holy words.
My bodice dazzles with its lustrous sheen:
My skirts are
worked with many a gaudy scene._ |
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