Appreciation of a Fine Work | The Peony Pavilion, a Tale of Youth.

“The Peony Pavilion” is, of course, a play that young people delight in reading.

Recall the twenty-third chapter of “Dream of the Red Chamber,” in which Daiyu, passing through the garden, hears faint strains of a few lines from “The Peony Pavilion” drifting from afar: “So it is that vibrant hues and rosy blooms have blossomed everywhere—yet all this is consigned to broken wells and crumbling walls”; “What can one do with such fine days and beautiful scenes? Who, pray tell, holds joyous gatherings in whose courtyard?”; “For your sake, my lovely companion, time flows like water.”

In just a few brief words, Daiyu’s heart was stirred and her spirit entranced, lost in a daze of self‑pity and tender self‑regard—its subtle flavor already fully captured in the “Ode to Buried Flowers.”

 

Even Mr. Bai Xianyong was moved to the core. At the age of nine, after seeing Mei Lanfang and Yu Zhenfei co‑star in “The Peony Pavilion” in Shanghai, an ineffable beauty and a dream beyond words took root in his heart.

And as for the dream of “The Peony Pavilion,” Bai Xianyong has been utterly captivated by it his entire life. He painstakingly reimagined the Kunqu opera as the “Youth Edition of The Peony Pavilion,” engaging with young audiences; for more than a decade, nearly every performance has drawn packed houses. At one point, attending a showing of “The Peony Pavilion” even became something of a trend. In today’s fragmented age, the timeless beauty of this ancient art form has been quietly revived.

 

n Image | Still from the youth version of “The Peony Pavilion”

 

 

It’s not just Daiyu and Bai Xianyong; if we trace the passage of time, we can’t help but notice that “The Peony Pavilion” shares an elusive, intricate bond with youth. At the turn of the Ming and Qing dynasties, upon its publication, the play moved countless lovesick young men and women of the era to tears. In the new millennium, Wang Leehom’s song “By the Plum Tree” drew inspiration from “The Peony Pavilion,” sparking a wave of eager renditions among the younger generation. And today, young people are willing to spend their time in the theater, sitting through three hours to listen to this tender, lingering tale of love.

The three characters “Peony Pavilion,” repeated again and again, read slowly several times—why have they endured through four centuries, and why can they so effortlessly touch the heart?

If we were to pause for a moment, steal an idle day, and savor Du Liniang’s “A heart that loves only what is natural,” you might come to understand the youthful love described as “love that knows not whence it springs, yet runs deep and unyielding; where the living may die, and death may live.” Such youth carries not only bashful cheeks and boundless romantic reverie,
It also carries a belief in “supreme sincerity,” which has been transformed into faith and given rise to culture.

Youth is but a line from “The Peony Pavilion.” Life, after all, is no more than a peony dream.
 

Image source | Shi Guangnan Grand Theater

 

 

“Women without talent are virtuous”—according to this fallacy, women ought not to study. Yet at the turn of the Ming and Qing dynasties, this absurd notion grew increasingly untenable. Tang Xianzu could scarcely have foreseen that, after its publication, The Peony Pavilion would become a widely read work in boudoirs and a bedside companion for young maidens. Even less could he have imagined that the daughters of prominent families would be moved to tears by it, finding such profound resonance with the “supreme devotion” of Du Liniang, the novel’s central heroine.

At that time, the celebrated talented woman Feng Xiaoqing of West Lake was just such a woman. From a young age, by the age of eighteen, she excelled in poetry and prose and mastered the art of music. Born the daughter of the governor of Guangling, she endured a political upheaval that scattered her entire family. Miraculously escaping disaster, she took refuge in the home of a wealthy man surnamed Feng, who was connected to her relatives. Tragically, she fell in love with Young Master Feng and became his concubine. Yet the legitimate wife did everything she could to obstruct their union; before she had even seen her husband many times, she grew so despondent that illness overtook her. In the end, she commissioned a painter to create her portrait, and then, her life extinguished like a fading fragrance, she left behind a final poem:

The cold rain at the secluded window is hard to bear; by lamplight, I idly peruse “The Peony Pavilion.”

There are those in this world who are as madly in love as I am—how could it be that only Xiaoqing’s heart is broken?
 

Image source | Xiao Tribe
 

This is, in every sense, a real-life version of The Peony Pavilion. Du Liniang, who has been kept secluded in her boudoir since childhood, is persuaded by her maid Chunxiang to visit her family’s garden to enjoy the spring. The moment she enters, she cannot help but sigh, “Had I not come to the garden, how could I have known how much of spring’s beauty there is?” A riot of purple and red, a splendid season—yet no one is there to appreciate it. Catching sight of her reflection in the mirror, she sees herself as romantic and radiant as a spring blossom, yet there is no one to cherish her.

Springtime fleeting, beauty soon fades; Du Liniang’s joy in spring turns to sorrow. So, languidly reclining by the willows, she drifts into a dream—within it, a young man named Liu Mengmei tenderly cherishes her. Upon awakening, she hesitates, unsure whether it was but a dream, yet loath to dismiss it as such. The passion of her dream, she takes it all too seriously: she paints her own likeness and, for this love, withers away like a fragrant blossom.

Li Niang dies for the love of a dream, while Xiao Qing perishes in the name of true affection. Such an idealized passion is the very essence of youthful romance, imbued with boundless imagination and a resolve as fierce as that of one who would dare to set fire to the flames. In the Ming and Qing eras, when “upholding heavenly principle and suppressing human desires” reigned supreme, this kind of sentiment was like a spring breeze—stirring the hearts of young maidens and awakening the dreams of youth.

                                                                         Photography | Xu Peihong

Back in the year 2000, the song “By the Plum Blossom” became a trendy favorite among young people.

At that time, the internet wave was just beginning, and the pace of urban life suddenly quickened. Western culture seeped into everyday life, with McDonald’s, hip-hop, and the internet becoming staples of young people’s lifestyles, while “doing one’s own thing” came to define the new generation. Meanwhile, Jay Chou’s “East Wind Breaks” sparked a surge of Chinese‑style music, giving rise to hits like “Jiangnan,” “Flower Field Mishap,” and “Chrysanthemum Terrace.” Chinese‑style songs often feature poetically beautiful, antiquated lyrics and melodies that are both graceful and melodious; Wang Leehom’s “By the Plum Blossoms” is one such example.

By the plum tree Music: Wang Leehom

Unlike the poetic, romantic lyrics of other Chinese‑style music, “By the Plum Blossoms” is a dialogue between two cultures. On one side is the slow, deliberate rhythm of the Ming dynasty, when people would spend over ten hours listening to an entire performance of The Peony Pavilion; on the other is today’s fast‑paced life, where there’s no time even to eat and staring at screens leaves your eyes aching. One side offers a love that is almost unimaginably romantic—bound by life and death—while the other indulges in quick‑fix, curiosity‑driven relationships. One side is the Kunqu opera, with its haunting refrain, “Not by the willows, but by the plum blossoms,” repeated again and again; the other is rap, moving so swiftly it feels impossible to keep up.

In “The Peony Pavilion,” the exquisite rhymes hardly require any embellishment from the creator, and the percussion and hip‑hop rhythms of Kunqu opera blend together with effortless naturalness. Back then, young performers, eager to show off their hip‑hop virtuosity, would rehearse that blistering‑fast recitative again and again—unaware that, in doing so, they were also practicing “The Peony Pavilion” over and over.

Especially in the chorus, Du Liniang’s heartfelt words—“These flowers and grasses are loved by all; life and death follow one’s every wish—yet even with aching sorrow, no one dares to blame”—though young people may not fully grasp such a romantic conviction, they can still appreciate the rhythmic beauty of traditional Chinese drama. Though they cannot spend hours poring over The Peony Pavilion, they come to know Du Liniang and Liu Mengmei’s love through just a few minutes of song. So much so that, even in today’s era of hip‑hop overload, those same youths, now grown up, still fondly recall that year’s “By the Plum Tree.”
 

 

Chinese style is not merely the haphazard juxtaposition of Chinese elements; it seeks to delve deep into our culture to uncover our own cultural DNA.

“By the Plum Tree” blends hip-hop, Kunqu opera, R&B, electronic music, and more, retelling the youthful love story of “The Peony Pavilion” in a fresh, contemporary style for today’s young audiences. While some hip-hop artists are still wrestling with rhyming schemes, Tang Xianzu had already mastered the art of rhythm and rhyme to perfection. And when many TV dramas are still striving to depict romance as pure and ethereal, Tang Xianzu had long since transformed love into a profound philosophical meditation. “The Peony Pavilion” carries such a cultural DNA—how could it fail to brim with vitality? With such enduring vitality, how could it not radiate youthful energy?

Image source | Wuxi Grand Theatre

 

When we speak of “The Peony Pavilion,” we inevitably think of Mr. Bai Xianyong. This writer, now in his late eighties, continues to devote himself to “The Peony Pavilion” and to the art of Kunqu opera.

As the son of the renowned general Bai Chongxi, Pai Hsien-yung witnessed life and death, separation and reunion from an early age. He caught glimpses of the splendor of traditional Chinese culture, and inevitably developed a somewhat melancholic cultural nostalgia. He often sighed, “When our culture remains incomplete, our souls will forever wander.”

 

Image source | Fangsuo

In his youth, Bai Xianyong, like most Taiwanese intellectuals of the time, was deeply influenced by Western culture. He read Joyce, Woolf, and Lawrence—classics that moved him profoundly, yet always left a certain distance. By contrast, when he encountered The Peony Pavilion and Dream of the Red Chamber, he felt an immediate sense of kinship; once he began to read them, they became a lifelong companionship.

The Western Renaissance fundamentally transformed Western culture, drawing its inspiration from the ancient Greek and Roman civilizations. Bai Xianyong hopes that this cultural echo will resonate with us as well—encouraging us to seek inspiration in our own classical traditions and spark a Chinese renaissance modeled on the European paradigm. With a sense of solemnity and conviction, he remarks, “Our culture must hold itself in high regard.” And so, Bai Xianyong recalls the dream of *The Peony Pavilion* he had at the age of nine: Kunqu opera is more than just a performance; it can kindle the flame of an entire culture.

Bai Xianyong has been serving as a “Kunqu volunteer” for nearly twenty years. He reimagined the Kunqu classic “The Peony Pavilion,” breathing new life into it. With a young cast, modernized costumes, exquisitely beautiful staging, and a youthful campus setting, Bai Xianyong has infused “The Peony Pavilion” with everything that evokes youth—perfectly in tune with the pure, innocent love at its heart.

Photography | Rui Da
 

Once, during an interview with Bai Xianyong, Yang Lan asked, “Having lived through most of your life and witnessed so much of the vicissitudes of the human world, do you still find yourself moved by the pure, innocent beauty of ‘The Peony Pavilion’?” Without hesitation, Bai Xianyong replied, “I will always be moved by it.” Though the love depicted in ‘The Peony Pavilion’ is profoundly idealistic and almost impractical, that kind of supreme, earthly devotion can endure in our hearts, and its poetic essence can always be rekindled.

Bai Xianyong’s efforts have not been in vain; countless young people are deeply moved by “The Peony Pavilion.” In the wings, when he sees these young audiences weep with emotion over a youthful rendition of “The Peony Pavilion,” he is overjoyed—poetry at the very heart of our culture has been rekindled, and our souls will no longer wander aimlessly.

 

Image source: Mingcheng Suzhou Network

Many people ask, “What is youth?” We might reply that it is a span of time, a group of people, or things long gone. Yet the *Peony Pavilion* teaches that youth is a philosophy, a culture, and an eternity.

So what is culture? I suppose it might be a kind of memory—those moments spent listening to “By the Plum Tree,” those years immersed in “The Peony Pavilion,” and the quiet, lingering beauty left behind by the Kunqu opera version of that masterpiece. Such memories require messengers like Bai Xianyong to bridge and connect the threads of culture.

Culture may also be a wordless kind of poetry, the most natural form of perception—like Du Liniang’s sense of youth. It can be a matter of self‑respect, neither servile nor arrogant. And it may be an “utter sincerity,” as intimate and relatable as the Peony Pavilion, reaching at all times and in every place the softest, most tender corners of the human heart.
 

Image | Still from the youth version of “The Peony Pavilion”