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.

Yao Chuanxiang on the Performing Arts of “Youyuan” (Part I) — What Are “Baijiao,” “Heban,” “Sanshu,” and “Liusuoyao”?

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2023-05-22

Original Title: A Lifelong Passion for Nature—A Casual Discussion of the Performance Artistic Techniques in “Youyuan”

Oral account: Yao Chuanxiang

Compiled by: Du Qin

Yao Chuanxiang: To treat “Youyuan” merely as a lighthearted little song-and-dance piece is, in my view, not worthy of emulation.

“The Peony Pavilion” is one of the masterpieces of Tang Xianzu, a distinguished dramatist of the Ming Dynasty in China. “A Stroll in the Garden” constitutes the first half of the tenth act, “Startled Dream,” within “The Peony Pavilion.” Because it has a clear beginning and end, forming a self-contained scene, and its musical melody can also stand as an independent section, it is often performed as a separate two‑act play, distinct from “Startled Dream.”

Yao Chuanxiang in His Later Years

Though the play is short and features only two characters, it nonetheless serves as a pivotal touch in shaping Du Liniang—a young lady of the gentry who yearns for freedom, seeks a life of loving happiness, and boldly breaks free from the constraints of feudal propriety.

If one were to forgo a stroll through the garden, one would fail to savor the beauty of spring in nature, and consequently would neither cherish nor mourn the season, nor harbor the yearning to pursue a life of free love within a dreamlike realm. Nor would such feelings ever escalate into the tragic fate of dying for love and being reborn through it. Thus, it may be said that “The Garden Stroll” marks the very beginning of the play’s narrative arc.

In this scene, the playwright, through the motif of a garden stroll, renders with exquisite subtlety and profound nuance the image of the young maiden secluded in her boudoir, as well as the hidden depths of her yearning for spring and her melancholy over its passing, bringing her character vividly to life.

The entire play is suffused with song and dance, brimming with poetic charm and picturesque beauty, making it a rare gem in the tradition of classical Chinese opera. For this very reason, many of its individual scenes have gradually fallen into oblivion, seldom performed in their entirety; yet the scene “Jing Meng” has remained a staple on stage for over two centuries, enjoying unbroken popularity.

1930, Beijing Pictorial [Vol. 2, No. 93, p. 2]

A theatrical scene from “Seeking Dreams” featuring Yao Fuxiang, a renowned dan actress of Shanghai’s Xinlefu Kunqu Opera Troupe.

Because this play features rich, graceful dance, its lyrical passages and choreography blend seamlessly, achieving a natural, harmonious unity, it has become one of the essential introductory works for mastering the kunqu roles of the “gui men dan” (fifth female role) and the “tie dan” (sixth female role).

Mastering this play entails inheriting the most fundamental and commonly employed conventions and gestures associated with portraying an ancient lady of leisure, along with the methods and experience for applying these conventions. Such knowledge can serve as a valuable reference and source of inspiration not only for roles within the same category but also for those in other categories.

Now, let me share some of my humble reflections on performing this particular scene.

Du Liniang is the only daughter of Du Bao, the prefect of Nan’an. Endowed with exceptional intelligence, she devotes herself to the study of poetry and classics, grasping their profound meanings, and possesses a beauty that could topple nations. Her parents dote on her as their treasured pearl. To ensure that in the future she “marries a scholar and lives up to her refined speech and graceful demeanor,” and that “one day, when she enters another household, she will be learned and well‑mannered, bringing honor to her parents,” they hire the pedantic Confucian scholar Chen Zuilang as her private tutor—thus seeking to “restrain” both her body and mind, shaping her according to the rigid standards of feudal propriety.

Before beginning his instruction, Chen Zuilang, having heard from Magistrate Du that Li Niang had committed to memory both the male and female versions of the Four Books, chose the Book of Songs as the textbook. He began with the very first poem, “Guan Ju,” believing that this piece, a hymn to the virtues of the empress and consorts, would, when read, cultivate in her the qualities of a virtuous consort and a graceful lady, thus fulfilling her parents’ hopes.

Little did she know that this was a passionate love song; upon reading it, she not only failed to absorb the slightest trace of the virtuous and graceful conduct befitting a noble consort, but instead found herself consumed by an ardent yearning for a life of free love. Meanwhile, the reclusive confinement of her secluded boudoir left her all the more lonely and discontented. Gradually, she came to realize that between herself and her parents there lay an insurmountable chasm—both in thought and in feeling.

A photo of Wang Fengmei and Yao Chuanxiang.

Some of the scenes behind the curtain—particularly Du Liniang’s stroll through the garden—have already laid appropriate groundwork in terms of setting, circumstances, mood, and the relationships among the characters, making her clandestine visit to the garden both logical and entirely natural. Having read the “Guan Ju,” she sighs with emotion…

The true sentiments of the sage are fully revealed herein.

The sentiments of the past and present are one and the same—how could it be otherwise?

Thus, it stirred in her a budding yearning for spring. Just as her heart was heavy with unresolved sorrow, Chunxiang happened by, seeking to win her favor and urging her, “There’s a grand garden behind the estate—flowers bloom brightly, willows sway green; it’s a fine place to amuse oneself.” Du Liniang hurriedly asked, “Where is this garden?” Chunxiang replied, “Right behind the courtyard; it’s easy to reach on foot.” At these words, her heart swelled with delight. Yet a faint doubt crept in: why had her parents never mentioned such a vast garden?

Recalling not long ago, her mother had once warned her:

“It is most inadvisable for young women to dress up elaborately and go out to amuse themselves in desolate, uninhabited places.”

She suddenly realized the truth. Her parents never mentioned the garden, no doubt for fear that if she knew of it, she would go to that “desolate, empty place where no one dwells.” Now, to go there and play would surely defy the family precept; should her parents find out, she would be reprimanded. The precept’s spiritual straitjacket left her once again torn and indecisive. Yet the garden, bathed in spring’s radiant light, filled with birdsong and blossoms, its riot of colors alluringly beckoning her. After years of being cooped up in her boudoir, she felt an overwhelming sense of boredom, weariness, and loneliness. For now, her inner conflict remained difficult to resolve.

The clever Chunxiang, seeing that the young lady hesitated before setting out, recalled that her temperament was rather affected—soft on the outside but firm within. Reflecting on many past incidents, she realized this trait had always been present. For instance, when she heard there was a large garden behind the estate, she too longed to go and play. But upon learning that Chunxiang had once slipped away to visit it, she publicly “reprimanded” her in front of the master, saying:

“Hands must not touch the swing set, and feet must not tread on the garden path…”

As soon as the gentleman departed, he immediately inquired again, “Where is the garden?” Having heard that it was brimming with springtime beauty and exceedingly delightful, he felt a deep sense of envy and sighed, “So there truly exists such a place.”

Zhang Zhihong poses for a photo with Yao Chuanxiang.

When urged to take a stroll in the back garden, she chided with a playful scold, “You silly girl—what would Master think if he found out?” Though Chunxiang was well acquainted with her mistress’s temper, coaxing her into revealing her true feelings proved no easy task. Then, struck by a sudden idea, she recalled that what the young lady feared most was her master’s knowledge; so she hastened to assure her, “Master is not at home—he has been away in the countryside for several days.” And sure enough, this ploy worked like a charm.

As the saying goes, “A strict father and a loving mother”—her mother had always doted on her more than she disciplined her, and when she could not prevail, she had no choice but to yield. She understood her mother’s tender affection and was not particularly afraid of it; what truly frightened her was offending her father’s dignity. When she heard that he had gone to the countryside, it seemed like a godsend. So she resolved to take a stroll in that desolate, deserted garden—and to dress up for the occasion. This was the first sign of her straying from convention, openly defying her family’s precepts, and casting off the spiritual shackles of feudal propriety.

Understanding these behind-the-scenes elements can help us grasp Du Liniang’s character from multiple angles, providing a foundation for shaping her portrayal.

Below, we will explain the lyrics section by section, with particular attention to the characters’ gestures and movements.

Du Liniang wears a rhinestone‑encrusted headpiece (the earlier stage costume featured a jade‑adorned one), clad in a water‑red skirt and blouse, with a crimson cloak. After her makeup and hairdressing, she removes the cloak and dons a water‑green shawl, stepping into colorful shoes. In her hand she holds an ivory‑bone folding fan, its surface gilded with poetic inscriptions on one side and, on the other, delicately painted flowers and birds against a white background.

Chunxiang wears a green little outfit, a sweatband tied around her waist, her hair styled in a simple bun and covered with a headscarf, and embroidered shoes on her feet.

Wang Fengmei as Du Liniang

Du Liniang enters the stage:

[Strolling Around the Pond] (Xiao Gong Mode) The dream returns, the warbler’s song resounds, And all the season’s splendor is thrown into chaos. A figure stands in the secluded courtyard. (Chunxiang sings) With the incense burned to ash, the embroidery thread cast aside— Is this spring of yours as full of feeling as last year?

Springtime’s radiant beauty stirs the heart, with warblers’ trills and swallows’ soft murmurs. A cheerful song rouses Du Liniang from her dream, leaving her alone in her secluded boudoir, weighed down by weariness and ennui. She enters the stage, singing softly as she moves with graceful steps. When she reaches the line “the oriole’s song,” she sees a bird fluttering past. This passage must be rendered with a sweet, mellow tone.

She stepped into the tranquil courtyard and paused, momentarily free from the anxieties of her secluded boudoir. Her eyes gleamed with an eager, cheerful light, brimming with admiration for nature’s springtime splendor. Though her steps were nimble, they nonetheless retained the poised, dignified demeanor cultivated over years of feudal propriety. Her joy was subtle, barely perceptible. As she walked, she took small, gliding steps—her toes brushing against the backs of her feet, her knees grazing one another—so that her stride remained modest and unswaying. Her gaze would occasionally narrow ever so slightly, her abdomen remained unprotruding, and her bearing exuded a myriad of graceful poise.

Wang Fengmei as Du Liniang

She has two ways of making her entrance. One is to walk slowly into the small courtyard (Jiulongkou), look up and take in the surroundings (making her appearance), when suddenly she hears a faint, melodious sound in the distance and assumes it must be Chunxiang arriving. She opens her eyes and peers more closely—only to find that it is merely a yellow oriole softly warbling.

Seeing that Huang Ying’s gesture was rather difficult to execute, in the past Kunqu opera referred to it as “rubbing one’s hands and hiding one’s back,” conveying a languid, indolent air—much like a modern person who is handsome and takes pleasure in dressing up and gazing at their reflection. She let out a tiny yawn, performed the “rubbing‑hands‑and‑hiding‑back” motion, and seemed to harbor not the slightest fondness for Huang Ying—indeed, she appeared to dislike it, even chide it: “You! You’re making all sorts of noise, waking me up! I want to shoo you away.” Yet in the blink of an eye, she glanced around; the spring sunshine was bright and beautiful…

There is also an older stage convention: Du Liniang steps forward, pointing with her finger to indicate the direction of her gaze. When I perform it, I omit the gesture, since it is merely a symbolic action; at this moment, what should be conveyed is her inner emotion. As she sings “A figure stands in the secluded courtyard,” she glances briefly toward the rooms on either side—this is her way of signaling her gaze to the audience.

First thought: Why is she still standing in the little courtyard? Chunxiang, hurry up and come! Then she sits down rather quickly, her head turned outward as she gazes into the distance—has Chunxiang arrived yet? Why look at this moment? Because Chunxiang still has four more lines to sing; it wouldn’t do to just sit there waiting for her. The two entrances are much the same. The second one is simply a bit more straightforward. The first, however, carries more dramatic weight.

Next comes Chunxiang, Li Niang’s devoted maid. At thirteen or fourteen, she is an innocent, carefree young girl, still untouched by the world. Born of humble origins and living among the lower ranks, she has been only lightly shaped by feudal propriety; her stage walk alternates between brisk and deliberate, marked by keen wit and lively agility.

Her vivacity contrasts sharply with the young lady’s solemnity, her cheerfulness with the lady’s reserve, each highlighting the other and enhancing their mutual charm. As she sings, she enters the stage; murmuring to herself, she notes that the incense has burned out and her needlework must wait for now. When she reaches these four lines, Du Liniang can no longer sit still—any moment the scene might break—and she keeps glancing outward, her heart thinking: “Why hasn’t Chunxiang come yet?”

Chunxiang had already persuaded the young lady to take a stroll in the garden and was quite pleased with herself. She attended to her mistress with patient care, showing the utmost thoughtfulness and devotion, determined to make her happy. Her steps were light, her hands moved deftly, and her joy was plainly visible. Her eyes were bright and open, her demeanor brimming with warmth and enthusiasm. At this moment, she was about to tend to the young lady’s evening makeup, enhancing her beauty and adding to her charm.

Du Liniang recites:

At dawn, I gaze longingly toward Meiguan Pass, my traveling gear still in disarray.

Meiguan Pass lies in Nan’an Prefecture, Jiangxi Province—known as Dayu Ridge. During the Song Dynasty, a checkpoint called Meiguan was established here, its name implying that the mountainous scenery beyond the pass seemed to delay one’s preparations for makeup and adornment. Chunxiang glanced at the young lady; though her makeup was still undone, she nonetheless possessed an air of refined elegance. Complimenting her, she said, “Miss, with your hair styled in the Yichun bun, you look perfectly poised by the railing.”

Legend has it that on the day of the Beginning of Spring, women would cut colorful paper into the characters “Yi Chun” and pin them atop their hair buns; Chunxiang would then praise the young lady’s makeup as both beautiful and perfectly in vogue.

Du Liniang felt that Chunxiang only saw her own fondness for dressing up, yet failed to understand the turmoil in her heart, and so she sighed to herself:

Unseverable, tangled beyond untangling, and suffocating for no apparent reason. The first two lines are quoted from Li Yu, the last ruler of the Southern Tang dynasty, in his ci poem “Xiang Jian Huan,” and they depict Liniang’s intricate emotional state—her confinement within the secluded boudoir, her loneliness and melancholy intertwined with a burgeoning springtime yearning—leaving her beset by an indescribable sense of vexation. Her mind is like a tangled mass of hair, impossible to untangle yet equally impossible to free herself from.

Wang Fengmei as Du Liniang

Chunxiang couldn’t understand any of this; brimming with enthusiasm, her sole concern was preparing for the young lady’s spring outing. She said to her mistress:

“I have already instructed the flower‑urging orioles and the swallows to watch over Chun.”

It means she has already “ordered” the orioles and swallows that summon the blossoms not to carry away the spring’s charm, but to leave it for the young lady to savor at length. Liang recalled how the garden lay desolate and cold, seldom visited by anyone; the grasses must have grown wild, and the flower paths would be hard to tread. She wondered whether any preparations had been made beforehand, and so she asked Chunxiang:

“Have you instructed the Hwarang to clear the flower path?”

Chunxiang replied with a smile, “I’ve already given the order.” Upon hearing this, Li-niang felt that carrying out the plan would be no trouble, so she instructed Chunxiang to “bring over the dressing table and the clothes.”

Chunxiang had already made up her mind and replied, “I understand,” then hurried into the room, took out the dressing table and the garments, and casually recited two lines of poetry: “With her cloud-like hair once more combed, she faces the mirror; in her silk robe, as she changes, a faint fragrance seems to linger.” These verses described how the young lady, having arranged her hair into a coiffure as rich and flowing as colorful clouds, donned a fresh spring outfit, becoming even more exquisite and radiant—like a lotus rising from the water. She then said to the young lady, “The dressing table and clothes are here,” whereupon Liyong instructed her, “Set them down.” “Yes,” Chunxiang replied, carefully arranging each item in its proper place.

The lines spoken by the two characters above are merely narrative, with no particularly striking gestures or movements. Next, Du Liniang finds the weather neither too cold nor too warm—perfectly comfortable—and, in an unusually bright and cheerful mood, she repeatedly exclaims in admiration:

What lovely weather!

In the past, the performance here was conducted by sitting in a chair, resting the right hand on the cheek, assuming the proper posture, and then reciting this line. She was preoccupied only with the weather outside, not waiting for Chunxiang.

Now I’ve made a few improvements. She must have thought that Chunxiang had arrived, so she’s rather cheerful and wants to go out for some fun. Then she says, “What lovely weather!” with great delight, forming the orchid‑hand gesture with her right hand and resting the back of her hand against the lower left side of her cheek, as if supporting her chin.

In the old performance style, when reciting “weather,” one would also extend the right hand forward with a pointing gesture. After the improvement, this “pointing” was eliminated, making the movement appear cleaner. As the line is spoken, the performer stands upright, mentally visualizing fine weather; the eyes and the waist—both key components of the body’s posture—must be properly coordinated for the performance to look graceful.

Zhang Zhihong as Du Liniang

Du Liniang suddenly saw fine threads drifting lazily through the courtyard and softly sang:

[Step by Step Grace] The tender filaments of sunlight are blown by the breeze—

Chunxiang, unaware that the young lady was deeply immersed in the poetic mood, was eager to finish her makeup and attire so she could go for a stroll in the garden. Suddenly, she interrupted the lady’s poetic reverie and said, “Please, madam, do your hair and dress!” Du Liniang, lost in the beauty of her verse, seemed not to have heard the call and went on singing:

In the quiet courtyard, spring sways like a slender thread. It pauses for a while;

In the little courtyard of spring, threads spun by insects often drift and flutter in the gentle breeze. (The pun on “qing” [clear weather] and “qing” [sentiment] is a double‑entendre.) The lovely spring light seems to waft and ripple before one’s eyes like fine silk—how utterly enchanting.

When the song reaches “pausing for a while,” there is a still, contemplative gesture. Chunxiang busily pins hair ornaments and arranges flowers for her young mistress. Li-niang takes up the verse:

She adorned her entire face with makeup, then, without a second thought, stole a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror.

Chunxiang meticulously arranged the young lady’s hair into an elegant chignon and adorned it with ornamental flower‑shaped hairpins. Then, holding up a mirror, Li Niang caught a fleeting glimpse of herself in the glass; her beautiful features seemed to have been secretly spied upon by the mirror itself. Her gaze darted away, two rosy flushes flitted across her cheeks, and she shyly lowered her head.

This is a clever artistic conceit that “personifies” the mirror, with that “person” embodying the ideal beloved. In real life, a fleeting moment is but a brief instant—transient and hard to grasp, making it difficult to discern such subtle expressions. Yet on stage, it cannot be allowed to pass in an instant; otherwise, the audience would fail to see the actor’s facial cues, remain unaware of the work’s exquisite mood, and miss its enduring charm—thus forfeiting the very pleasure of art.

Therefore, during the performance, one should adopt appropriate exaggeration and need not keep staring into the mirror; after all, the more you look, the less it matters whether you’re “stealing half a face” or not. To emphasize the notion of “stealing,” it mustn’t be an incessant, furtive glancing about; rather, it calls for a sudden, fleeting glance—followed by a swift, shy averting of the eyes and a modest lowering of the head. Then comes a brief pause, with the stillness of the body subtly underscoring the inner turmoil, thus revealing, with just the right measure, the intricate, sensitive, and delicate psychology of a young girl in the throes of first love. Such a performance may well possess greater depth.

In the past, some performers would reach this point in the scene: with a sweep of the sleeve to the front and another to the back, they’d simply sit down. Such gestures and movements fail to convey the poem’s meaning with precision. As for the portrayal of Du Liniang, it ends up being overly simplistic, leaving many of the play’s most compelling moments untapped.

Zhang Zhihong as Du Liniang

Next, Du Liniang reflects that her makeup is too heavy and her attire overly ornate—has she dressed herself up too beautifully? Should she really go strolling in the garden like this? She sings:

How can one reveal their entire body in the boudoir?

In the past, I heard the old masters say that when the singing reached this point, the performer would sweep her sleeves and then crouch down. I used to think that such a stage gesture was purely external, rather generic, and incapable of conveying the character’s inner emotions. At this moment, Du Liniang is filled with joy, yet the family precepts and her parents’ teachings leave her both anxious and uneasy, caught between happiness and worry. She ponders whether such a lavish outing in full dress is proper—this reflects the long-standing constraints of feudal propriety, from which she can scarcely break free for the time being.

At this moment, the performance should embody the gestures of “holding one’s sleeves” and assuming a half‑lotus seated posture, slowly lowering oneself into a squat. As you sink, let the heel of your right foot lift slightly, and keep your waist movements supple and gentle. If your body remains stiff and rigid in the squat, you will fail to convey the graceful charm of a young maiden. For when a girl is joyful, her posture and waist always take on a lithe, flowing grace. Having executed this movement, follow it with an instant pause—a brief stillness that suggests hesitation, subtly expressing the sense of “why so quickly?”