The Peony Pavilion
A New Telling of Tang Xianzu's Classic Love Story
INTRODUCTION
The only advantage that I have been able to find, in not being able to get one of my previous eleven plays produced, is that it enables me to undertake the kind of dramatic project unlikely to be attempted by anyone else, because of the slim chances for production—such as a new version of Tang Xianzu’s masterpiece The Peony Pavilion. The disadvantage, or deficit, of course, is that one begins to write “for the page instead of for the stage,” merely to please oneself.
Director Chen Shi-zheng’s uncut (or nearly uncut) production, with a running time of eighteen hours, and which I had the good fortune to see at the Spoleto Festival in Charleston, got me to wondering if I could try writing a play on that scale, something I never had conceived of. Of course, The Peony Pavilion that I saw was Chinese Kunju opera, all traditional Chinese drama being suitably referred to as “opera,” whereas my only experience in writing plays has been with “spoken word” dramas in the Shakespearean vein.
Not having a ready story available to fit the bill, I decided to stick with The Peony Pavilion’s itself. Tang Xianzu had taken his story from pre-existing material, a “promptbook” the nature of which is unclear to me, though adapting it and making it his own. That too was my intention, instead of attempting a translation. Of invaluable help to my writing, however, was the translation of the original play done by Cyril Birch, and where it seemed appropriate I lifted the occasional line from his work, as well as much paraphrasing. I ended up following Tang Xianzu’s plotting even more closely than I had intended, because his scenes are very intricately put together. (The trouble with following behind a masterpiece is that, either in sticking with the original or in varying from it one is bound to come up short!) Beyond what Mandarin I could catch in Charleston, I did not have access to the original text, and, in the staging of my version, a director unfamiliar with the work would not be harmed by taking a look at the Birch translation (at present the only one available).
For his staging, Chen Shi-zheng divided The Peony Pavilion into six parts, which were presented (in Charleston) over four successive days. I have kept these divisions, and largely, his titles for them as well. Additionally, in my script, the approximate midpoint of each episode is marked with a “+”, indicating a breaking point suitable for intermission, if the director decides to adhere to the six-episode format, though by no means compelled to do so. Any variety of combinations might be tried.
Pretty much in keeping with universal theatrical tradition, my rendition makes no attempt for historical, geographic, or even cultural accuracy, though trying to keep fidelity to the original source in spirit. If I have managed to capture even a portion of the original’s beauty, and convey it to the reader (or playgoer, as the case may be), then I will feel that my efforts have been vindicated, though, by and large, I imagine, that such a work can be seen as a colossal failure.
The Peony Pavilion by Tang Xianzu is widely considered to be the crowning achievement of Chinese drama, or if not, only a close second to The Peach Blossom Fan—holding, I suppose, a place in the Chinese literary pantheon akin to that of Hamlet in the English. Realizing that, attempting a new version may seem an especially absurd endeavor, like rewriting Shakespeare, it impossible to duplicate all the rich texture, subtle nuance, and contextual referencing of the original. Yet, given that many English speakers might not be inclined to sit through the complete Kunju opera in Chinese, if it gets mounted again, at least this version may help to make accessible to them the epic romance of Du Liniang and Liu Mengmei, which is universal in application.
In his Preface to the play, Tang Xianzu wrote (in Cyril Birch’s translation):
The only advantage that I have been able to find, in not being able to get one of my previous eleven plays produced, is that it enables me to undertake the kind of dramatic project unlikely to be attempted by anyone else, because of the slim chances for production—such as a new version of Tang Xianzu’s masterpiece The Peony Pavilion. The disadvantage, or deficit, of course, is that one begins to write “for the page instead of for the stage,” merely to please oneself.
Director Chen Shi-zheng’s uncut (or nearly uncut) production, with a running time of eighteen hours, and which I had the good fortune to see at the Spoleto Festival in Charleston, got me to wondering if I could try writing a play on that scale, something I never had conceived of. Of course, The Peony Pavilion that I saw was Chinese Kunju opera, all traditional Chinese drama being suitably referred to as “opera,” whereas my only experience in writing plays has been with “spoken word” dramas in the Shakespearean vein.
Not having a ready story available to fit the bill, I decided to stick with The Peony Pavilion’s itself. Tang Xianzu had taken his story from pre-existing material, a “promptbook” the nature of which is unclear to me, though adapting it and making it his own. That too was my intention, instead of attempting a translation. Of invaluable help to my writing, however, was the translation of the original play done by Cyril Birch, and where it seemed appropriate I lifted the occasional line from his work, as well as much paraphrasing. I ended up following Tang Xianzu’s plotting even more closely than I had intended, because his scenes are very intricately put together. (The trouble with following behind a masterpiece is that, either in sticking with the original or in varying from it one is bound to come up short!) Beyond what Mandarin I could catch in Charleston, I did not have access to the original text, and, in the staging of my version, a director unfamiliar with the work would not be harmed by taking a look at the Birch translation (at present the only one available).
For his staging, Chen Shi-zheng divided The Peony Pavilion into six parts, which were presented (in Charleston) over four successive days. I have kept these divisions, and largely, his titles for them as well. Additionally, in my script, the approximate midpoint of each episode is marked with a “+”, indicating a breaking point suitable for intermission, if the director decides to adhere to the six-episode format, though by no means compelled to do so. Any variety of combinations might be tried.
Pretty much in keeping with universal theatrical tradition, my rendition makes no attempt for historical, geographic, or even cultural accuracy, though trying to keep fidelity to the original source in spirit. If I have managed to capture even a portion of the original’s beauty, and convey it to the reader (or playgoer, as the case may be), then I will feel that my efforts have been vindicated, though, by and large, I imagine, that such a work can be seen as a colossal failure.
The Peony Pavilion by Tang Xianzu is widely considered to be the crowning achievement of Chinese drama, or if not, only a close second to The Peach Blossom Fan—holding, I suppose, a place in the Chinese literary pantheon akin to that of Hamlet in the English. Realizing that, attempting a new version may seem an especially absurd endeavor, like rewriting Shakespeare, it impossible to duplicate all the rich texture, subtle nuance, and contextual referencing of the original. Yet, given that many English speakers might not be inclined to sit through the complete Kunju opera in Chinese, if it gets mounted again, at least this version may help to make accessible to them the epic romance of Du Liniang and Liu Mengmei, which is universal in application.
In his Preface to the play, Tang Xianzu wrote (in Cyril Birch’s translation):
Has the world ever seen a woman’s love to rival that of Bridal Du?
Dreaming of a lover she fell sick; once sick she became ever worse; and finally, after painting her own portrait as a legacy to the world, she died. Dead for three years, still she was able to live again when in the dark underworld her quest for the object of her dream was fulfilled. To be as Bridal Du is truly to have known love.
Love is of source unknown, yet it grows ever deeper. The living may die of it, by its power the dead may live again. Love is not love at its fullest if one who lives is unwilling to die for it, or if it cannot restore to life one who has so died. And must the love that comes in dream necessarily be unreal? For there is no lack of dream lovers in this world. Only for those whose love must be fulfilled on the pillow and for whom affection deepens only after retirement from office, is it entirely a corporeal matter…
“Bridal Du,” incidentally, is Cyril Birch’s translation for Du Liniang, a name which might more appropriately (though not as pleasingly) be translated as “Pretty Momma.” However, I have kept with Chen Shi-zheng, in leaving his characters’ names, all with a few notable exceptions, untranslated.
As a final note, for transliteration of Chinese names, I have stuck with the pinyin rendering as used by my sources. If I had the capability myself, I would convert all transliterated Chinese in my text to Wade-Giles, a system of romanization which, it seems to me, at least gives the English speaker a semblance of how things sound, and is immediately more readable than strikingly-ugly pinyin.
DXN 18 July 2004
As a final note, for transliteration of Chinese names, I have stuck with the pinyin rendering as used by my sources. If I had the capability myself, I would convert all transliterated Chinese in my text to Wade-Giles, a system of romanization which, it seems to me, at least gives the English speaker a semblance of how things sound, and is immediately more readable than strikingly-ugly pinyin.
DXN 18 July 2004