The Tang Xianzu Memorial Hall in Fuzhou is a comprehensive cultural venue built to commemorate Tang Xianzu, one of the world’s hundred great cultural figures and a master of Ming‑dynasty drama in China. It is also one of Jiangxi Province’s ten major memorial halls dedicated to historical luminaries.
Opera Appreciation | The Exquisitely Beautiful and Timeless Lines from “The Peony Pavilion”
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2023-01-05
Once “The Peony Pavilion” was published, it was “passed from house to house and recited by every family, to the point that even “The West Chamber” seemed to lose its luster.” From then on, Chinese romantic literature would scarcely produce a work to surpass it. The play is written in elegant prose and exudes lyrical beauty; after reading “The Peony Pavilion,” one cannot help but feel a lingering fragrance on the lips, with an aftertaste that seems endless.
3 The Peony Pavilion: The Scene of the Tragic Farewell
The sea and sky stretch endlessly—where, pray, does the icy moon rise? A jade pestle cleaves the autumn void; who, then, dares steal the elixir to offer it to Chang’e? Alas, the western wind has scattered all dreams, leaving no trace!
I hate the vast sky, envy the blossoms battered by wind and rain—yet they bloom all the more brightly beneath the moonlight.
Sao Luo Pao (A Stroll in the Garden from The Peony Pavilion)
Music: Feng Zi Que – The Peony Pavilion
Music: Feng Zi Que – The Peony Pavilion
1 The Peony Pavilion: A Dream of Awakening
Once the vibrant blossoms bloomed in profusion, yet all is now consigned to broken wells and crumbling walls. What can one do with such fine days and beautiful sights? Who, pray tell, holds the joyous pleasures of this world within their own courtyard?
Morning flights and evening rolls, clouds and rosy hues in the emerald pavilion; rain threads and wind‑blown fragments, misty waves and painted boats—how lightly does the dweller behind the brocade screen regard this fleeting springtime!
Across the green hills, the cuckoos have reddened their cries; beyond the fragrant jasmine, the misty threads seem drunk and soft. Ah, spring’s fragrance—though the peonies be fair, how could they claim the first bloom when spring itself has already departed?
Then, for you—your blossoming beauty and fleeting years—I’ve wandered far and wide in idle search, while in my secluded boudoir I pity myself.
Dreams return to the warbling of orioles, scattering the year’s splendor far and wide. A figure stands in the secluded courtyard of a small garden.
Once the vibrant blossoms bloomed in profusion, yet all is now consigned to broken wells and crumbling walls. What can one do with such fine days and beautiful sights? Who, pray tell, holds the joyous pleasures of this world within their own courtyard?
Morning flights and evening rolls, clouds and rosy hues in the emerald pavilion; rain threads and wind‑blown fragments, misty waves and painted boats—how lightly does the dweller behind the brocade screen regard this fleeting springtime!
Across the green hills, the cuckoos have reddened their cries; beyond the fragrant jasmine, the misty threads seem drunk and soft. Ah, spring’s fragrance—though the peonies be fair, how could they claim the first bloom when spring itself has already departed?
Then, for you—your blossoming beauty and fleeting years—I’ve wandered far and wide in idle search, while in my secluded boudoir I pity myself.
Dreams return to the warbling of orioles, scattering the year’s splendor far and wide. A figure stands in the secluded courtyard of a small garden.
2 Peony Pavilion – Photographs
The path winds, dreams return, yet the beloved is nowhere to be found; deep in the boudoir, the jade pendant grows cold, and the soul is consumed. Like mist shrouding blossoms, or clouds filtering the moon, a single trace of tender longing stirs at dawn.
The heartrending springtime lingers in the curve of her brows—whom shall I send to gaze upon the distant hills?
With grudges piled high, and clothes too thin, I pluck the red tears from the blossoms.
The path winds, dreams return, yet the beloved is nowhere to be found; deep in the boudoir, the jade pendant grows cold, and the soul is consumed. Like mist shrouding blossoms, or clouds filtering the moon, a single trace of tender longing stirs at dawn.
The heartrending springtime lingers in the curve of her brows—whom shall I send to gaze upon the distant hills?
With grudges piled high, and clothes too thin, I pluck the red tears from the blossoms.
[Kunqu Opera] The Dream of the Red Chamber: “Shanpo Yang” Music:
Gong Yinlei – [Kunqu Opera] Classic Aria from “The Peony Pavilion”
Gong Yinlei – [Kunqu Opera] Classic Aria from “The Peony Pavilion”
3 The Peony Pavilion: The Scene of the Tragic Farewell
The sea and sky stretch endlessly—where, pray, does the icy moon rise? A jade pestle cleaves the autumn void; who, then, dares steal the elixir to offer it to Chang’e? Alas, the western wind has scattered all dreams, leaving no trace!
I hate the vast sky, envy the blossoms battered by wind and rain—yet they bloom all the more brightly beneath the moonlight.
4 The Peony Pavilion: A Secret Love Encounter
Where, pray, has the celestial maiden gone? Her shadow lingers, hazy as moonlight veiling the sands. With lingering regret, yet unspoken vows—already the setting sun descends in the west.
The moon shines as if just born; I ask, on this very night, what year is it, when the Milky Way seems to bridge the heavens? The golden‑hairpin guest returns home in the cold of night, while the jade‑skinned immortal alights upon earth.
Where, pray, has the celestial maiden gone? Her shadow lingers, hazy as moonlight veiling the sands. With lingering regret, yet unspoken vows—already the setting sun descends in the west.
The moon shines as if just born; I ask, on this very night, what year is it, when the Milky Way seems to bridge the heavens? The golden‑hairpin guest returns home in the cold of night, while the jade‑skinned immortal alights upon earth.
5 The Peony Pavilion: The Oath in the Underworld
The shimmering, secluded chamber—its shadow flickers as the lamp’s light wavers. The soul grows even more radiant, its oil replenished; a single thread of affection knots at the wick.
Tonight, in my dreams I return to the distant frontier, where the wild rooster’s cry grows hoarse; and when I wake, the world’s flavors seem all the more strange. The morning breeze flickers faintly, and the cuckoo’s call so easily scatters the waning moon.
The shimmering, secluded chamber—its shadow flickers as the lamp’s light wavers. The soul grows even more radiant, its oil replenished; a single thread of affection knots at the wick.
Tonight, in my dreams I return to the distant frontier, where the wild rooster’s cry grows hoarse; and when I wake, the world’s flavors seem all the more strange. The morning breeze flickers faintly, and the cuckoo’s call so easily scatters the waning moon.
6 The Peony Pavilion: The Wedding Procession
In the secluded courtyard, by the idle steps, the flower shadows sway softly as they turn the verdant moss.
Who, then, endures alone? Who bears it all by themselves? The jade‑dark sachet, the gold hairpin stained with mud. I fear that between heaven and earth, my heart’s secret cannot be made to harmonize.
Alas, where lies my lonely grave—could it be the Wandering‑Wife Pavilion? Oh, Willow Lad, through death and rebirth our love runs as deep as the sea.
7 The Peony Pavilion – Hearing of Joy
The frosty chill is crisp and faint; the golden well winds through the sycamore leaves, yet the endless cycle of longing in the well‑rope’s turn remains unbroken.
As autumn yields to the equinox, the sun’s arc grows steep; I grieve, for the swallows’ parting words are veiled in artful speech. The people have gone, leaving the river empty; my body clings to this guesthouse—no way to summon the seven‑fragrance chariot.
In the secluded courtyard, by the idle steps, the flower shadows sway softly as they turn the verdant moss.
Who, then, endures alone? Who bears it all by themselves? The jade‑dark sachet, the gold hairpin stained with mud. I fear that between heaven and earth, my heart’s secret cannot be made to harmonize.
Alas, where lies my lonely grave—could it be the Wandering‑Wife Pavilion? Oh, Willow Lad, through death and rebirth our love runs as deep as the sea.
7 The Peony Pavilion – Hearing of Joy
The frosty chill is crisp and faint; the golden well winds through the sycamore leaves, yet the endless cycle of longing in the well‑rope’s turn remains unbroken.
As autumn yields to the equinox, the sun’s arc grows steep; I grieve, for the swallows’ parting words are veiled in artful speech. The people have gone, leaving the river empty; my body clings to this guesthouse—no way to summon the seven‑fragrance chariot.
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