Appreciation of a Fine Work | What Is Love by the Peony Pavilion—An Interpretation of the World of Emotion in Tang Xianzu’s Writings

Tang Xianzu himself declared: “Of his four great dreams, the only one in which he truly excelled was ‘The Peony Pavilion.’” The Peony Pavilion is Tang Xianzu’s magnum opus. As for this work, Li Yu remarked: “Indeed, Tang Ruoshi’s play The Return from the Dead deserves to be ranked alongside the Yuan‑era masterpieces; and if one were to ask where its essence lies, it would surely be in the two scenes ‘Startled Dream’ and ‘Seeking the Dream.’” Hong Sheng likewise observed: “Its very crux resides at the threshold between life and death. In the text, the five scenes ‘Startled Dream,’ ‘Seeking the Dream,’ ‘Diagnosing the Ghost,’ ‘Portrait,’ and ‘Mourning the Deceased’ trace the journey from birth to death; while the five scenes ‘Spiritual Wanderings,’ ‘Secret Union,’ ‘Joyful Torment,’ ‘Oath in the Underworld,’ and ‘Revival’ chart the passage from death back to life. Within these scenes, the deepest roots of the spirit are plucked, the innermost caverns of emotion are overturned—so that even the most rigid constraints are transformed into vast expanse, the most mundane matter becomes creative force, and what was once lawless is reimagined as the true sovereign, all in order to stir the soul and bring about profound change.” Mr. Wu Mei shared this view, and contemporary scholars generally concur. It is thus evident that these dozen or so scenes have long been regarded as the very heart of The Peony Pavilion; indeed, many modern stage adaptations devote themselves chiefly to these passages while omitting the rest. Tang Xianzu stands as the leading figure of the sentimental school in Ming‑dynasty drama, and it is widely held that his central tenet—the subversion of reason by emotion—is also the guiding principle of The Peony Pavilion. These ten‑odd scenes, then, serve as a vivid embodiment of Tang’s conception of “emotion.”

In fact, that is not the case. The entire play “The Peony Pavilion” comprises 55 scenes; if it could be brought to a close in just a dozen or so, would not the majority of the work then amount to little more than an unnecessary appendage? And if the script were riddled with superfluous and ineffectual passages, on what grounds could Tang Xianzu have secured his preeminent place in the literary world, and how could “The Peony Pavilion” endure through the ages as a timeless classic?

“Emotion” is the guiding principle of Tang Xianzu and the lifelong pursuit of his life; in his own words, “emotion” is all‑powerful.

Man is born with emotions. Thoughts of joy, anger, sorrow, and grief, stirred in the subtle depths of the heart, find their expression in song and sighs, and manifest themselves in trembling and motion. Sometimes they are spent in a single rush; at other times they accumulate over days, yet still refuse to cease… Heaven gives birth to all things, earth brings forth all beings, ghosts and spirits arise—reaching the myriad paths of human and nonhuman existence, and gathering the thousand transformations of past and present. (Inscription on the Temple of Master Qingyuan, the God of Drama, in Yihuang County)

“Emotion” is not something external; it is innate to human beings. Under the sway of emotion, dramatic and other artistic forms can arise, and these arts serve a wide array of functions: they can depict the heavens and earth, spirits and deities, the myriad things of distant lands, and the transformations of past and present. Thus, at its root, “emotion” is the driving force; yet it is also ineffable and subtle, “responsive to the deepest nuances.” “Love arises without knowing whence; once kindled, it burns deep and unyielding. The living may die, and the dead may live again.” (“Inscription to the Record of the Peony Pavilion”). “In this world, only love is hard to express!” (“The Peony Pavilion—Title)” Wu Wushan, in his commentary on the three women, remarks: “When emotion reaches its utmost height, it can scarcely be unraveled even by itself.” This echoes Laozi’s notion that “the Dao, as a thing, is both vague and indistinct.” Yet “emotion” too must attach itself to objects and images in order to manifest; as Laozi puts it: “Vague and hazy—within it there are forms; hazy and vague—within it there are things.” To “flow into song and cry, to take shape in movement”—song, dance, and drama are precisely such modes of expression. Tang Xianzu further observes: “From emotion arises the dream; from the dream springs the play.” (“Reply to Gan Yilu”) Since Tang sought to convey “emotion” through the art of dream‑play, to grasp the true essence of his “emotion,” one must examine the entire “Peony Pavilion,” rather than confining oneself to the ten scenes dealing with life and death.

From the perspective of intellectual development throughout the Ming dynasty, in its early period, Zhu Yuanzhang’s harsh policies left the scholar-officials with no choice but to serve the ruler—“to punish the person and confiscate his family is not considered excessive” (as recorded in the Third Compilation of the Great Proclamations). With no alternative to officialdom, they found themselves constrained by the rigid doctrines of Cheng–Zhu Neo‑Confucianism, resulting in a debased sense of self and a spiritually impoverished existence. Following the Tumu Incident, when Emperor Yingzong was captured, the “Coup of the Gate” ensued—a palace intrigue that further weakened imperial authority, prompting people to seek pleasure and indulgence. As the commodity economy expanded, cultural reflection began; intellectuals sought to break free from the straitjacket of Cheng–Zhu thought, leading to a rupture in ideological uniformity. First, Master Chen Xianzhang of Baisha shattered these confines, championing an authentic, unforced self‑expression. Later, Wang Shouren, known as Master Yangming, proposed “seeking principle within one’s own heart,” advocating “investigating things to gain knowledge through inner inquiry,” thereby emphasizing the individual and broadening the spiritual horizons of the literati, ushering in a new era of intellectual pluralism. Though this did not displace Cheng–Zhu Neo‑Confucianism as the dominant school of thought, it did grant scholars greater spiritual freedom. Tang Xianzu stood at the forefront of this diverse intellectual current. He argued that what the Ming dynasty most lacked was “feeling” or “emotion,” and thus championed emotion, hoping for the advent of a society grounded in genuine sentiment. Yet Ming society offered little room for such feelings to flourish. When discussing the cultivation of personal virtue, Zhu Yuanzhang remarked: “The greatest harm to man lies in desire; and desire is not confined to matters of sex, housing, food, or clothing—anything pursued solely for private convenience falls under this category. Only ritual propriety can restrain it. The ancient kings instituted rites precisely to guard against excess; when rites are abandoned, desire runs rampant. If a ruler forsakes ritual and indulges in lust, the poison spreads to the people; if a minister does likewise, calamity befalls his household. Thus, observing ritual curbs transgression, while unrestrained desire inevitably leads to one’s own ruin.” In the seventeenth year of the Jiajing reign, an imperial edict declared: “Having reviewed the writings of recent Confucian scholars, I find only Zhu Xi’s learning pure and worthy of emulation. Our ancestors established the civil service examinations, basing their selection on the commentaries of Master Zhu as the authoritative interpretation of the classics… The Ministry of Rites is hereby instructed to inform all provincial education officials and schoolteachers and students: henceforth, should anyone dare to promulgate heterodox doctrines, devise deceptive methods contrary to reason, or vilify Master Zhu, the censors and inspectors may name and impeach them.” During the Jiajing era, the Censor-in-Chief Wang Tingxiang lamented that officialdom had descended into “flattery and bribery without limit,” with “all sense of integrity utterly swept away,” exclaiming, “There are no gentlemen left at court!” Tang Xianzu’s Memorial on Auxiliary and Censorial Officials further exposed how, during the Wanli reign, “bribery and influence peddling flourished, with countless acts of disloyalty and usurpation of wealth—such cases were commonplace.” Even the Wanli emperor admitted: “There is scarcely any impartiality; deceit and deception abound.” Within the family, Du Liniang’s living environment served as a microcosm of society at large. Her parents, Du Bao and his wife, enforced strict discipline: daughters were forbidden to nap during the day or swing in the garden; the only permitted activities were needlework and reading poetry—all aimed at stifling and constraining the vibrant energy of youthful women, so that they might conform to ritual norms and thus, “when they enter another household, they will be learned and well‑mannered, bringing honor to their parents” (from “Training the Daughter”). Accordingly, Du Liniang was assigned a tutor, chosen according to a precise standard: a “rustic pedant of the Hongmen school”—and so Chen Zuilang was selected. Yet despite his title, there was nothing particularly “Hongmen” about him; he was, in fact, a thoroughly conventional “rotten scholar.” He could only recite texts according to prescribed commentaries, never having strolled through a garden or understood the bittersweet ache of springtime—so obtuse and pedantic that Chunxiang mocked him as “an old village ox, a senile dog, utterly ignorant of even the simplest pleasures” (from “The Girls’ Tutorial”). In “The Peony Pavilion,” Chen Zuilang appears as the embodiment of traditional ritual propriety. His efforts to instill in Du Liniang notions of “the virtues of empresses and consorts,” “the exemplary conduct of virtuous women of old,” and the precepts of the “Women’s Admonitions” constitute nothing less than the process by which ritual norms shape and transform her. “A mother is a model for her daughter; a teacher is a model for life itself; and family and society alike strive to mold Du Liniang into a female version of Chen Zuilang.” All this serves merely to accustom her to societal moral codes and behavioral standards, integrating her into the hierarchical order of society—while neglecting the vitality of her living self, her innate desires, and her individuality and aspirations as an autonomous being. This is a process that extinguishes human nature; hence Chunxiang remarks that it amounts to “putting a person to death.” Such disregard for humanity by ritual propriety leaves Du Bao and his wife, though deeply affectionate toward their daughter, estranged and unable to truly know her. When Liniang clearly suffers from the pangs of spring, they stubbornly diagnose her with cold‑heat convulsions—“what kind of seven emotions could she possibly have?” Unable to treat the illness of the heart, they unwittingly bring about their daughter’s demise. This is also why, whenever Du Liniang happens to catch a glimpse of her own garden, she reacts with extraordinary delight and takes great care to dress herself up.

The love of beauty is, after all, human nature; Li Niang had always “cherished the natural” throughout her life. Yet under the constraints of ritual and propriety, she came to neglect even herself—so much so that it was only when she gazed into the mirror and arranged her hair before the garden stroll that she suddenly realized just how radiant her youthful countenance truly was. A vague, inexplicable melancholy then welled up within her: “Unseverable, yet ever more tangled; a senseless gloom.” The very fact that she could not put her anguish into words reveals that its source lay not in any specific event—such as the parental interference in marriage often depicted in earlier operas—but rather in the suffocating oppression of her living environment: this is the sorrow of society, the anguish of the times. And therein lies the profound depth of The Peony Pavilion. During her garden ramble, Du Liniang beholds the exquisite beauty of spring in nature, and from this she is led to contemplate the loveliness of human youth. If spring’s splendor cannot endure, how can youth itself last? The garden stroll was meant to lift her spirits and dispel her gloom, yet it proved instead like drawing a sword to sever flowing water or raising a cup to drown one’s sorrows. Thus did Du Liniang give voice to a line that has echoed through the ages: “What of the fine hour and beautiful scene? Who, pray, in whose courtyard finds joy to delight the heart?” It voices the soul’s anguish of the times, profoundly stirring the hearts of readers and audiences across generations.

Beauty of appearance and the love of beauty—whether in attire or in the splendor of nature—are deeply personal, expressions of one’s intrinsic worth. The discovery and appreciation of such beauty reflect respect for the individual and shine with the light of humanity. Yet when humanity is suppressed, even natural beauty is obscured; as Du Liniang laments, “How cheaply this fleeting time is treated by the one behind the brocade screen.” And Du’s mother remarks, “No wonder—on her skirt, flowers and birds are embroidered in pairs.” When this happens, society loses its vitality and dynamism, reduced to a mere instrument or component of the social whole. Tang Xianzu sought instead another kind of life—a society animated by emotion.