Appreciation of a Fine Work | Zheng Rongjian: A Grand Dream—The Peony Pavilion: Reflections on the Shanghai Kunqu Opera Company’s Complete Production of “The Peony Pavilion”

As one of China’s four great classical dramas, Tang Xianzu’s “The Peony Pavilion” has long been held in high esteem and established its status as a timeless classic from an early stage. As Mr. Zhou Yude has meticulously demonstrated, although upon its publication it was “handed down from household to household, with people reciting it by heart, to the point that it nearly eclipsed the popularity of ‘The West Chamber,’” various factors meant that most performances were presented in abridged versions or as excerpts, with few documented full‑length stagings. By contrast, the Shanghai Kunqu Opera Troupe’s three‑night, eight‑hour run of the complete “The Peony Pavilion” offered audiences a rare glimpse of the work in its entirety—truly a major event on the 2023 performance calendar, and one that holds significant milestone importance even within the broader history of Kunqu opera.

Tang Xianzu once remarked, “Of his four dreams, the one in which he found true fulfillment was ‘The Peony Pavilion.’” The story of profound emotion, set to the exquisite artistry of Kunqu opera, achieves a harmonious unity of classical aesthetic ideals, and for centuries has remained the most comfortable interpretive zone for appreciating this masterpiece. Within this familiar framework, audiences have grown accustomed to satisfying their expectations and shaping their aesthetic experience by invoking Tang Xianzu’s “theory of emotional intensity” and its dramatized expression: “Emotion arises without cause, yet it runs deep and unyielding; the living may die, and the dead may live again.” But is “The Peony Pavilion” truly nothing more than a tale of love? Of course not. This is evident in Tang Xianzu’s own stance, as when he insisted that performances adhere strictly to his original text—“not a single word should be added or omitted.” If we situate “The Peony Pavilion” within the broader context of the “Four Dreams of Linchuan,” we begin to see that Tang Xianzu seems to have sought to offer a kind of solution to the realities of his time; the character Du Liniang, after all, is little more than “a puppet on the stage” (in Wu Mei’s words). So then, what exactly was Tang Xianzu trying to resolve?

The corresponding issues or social concerns thus become an important frame of reference.
 

One

The foundational material for Tang Xianzu’s “The Peony Pavilion” originates in the Ming‑dynasty vernacular tale “Du Liniang Longs for Love and Returns to Life,” which, depending on the source, is also titled “The Record of Du Liniang’s Yearning for Love and Her Resurrection” or simply “The Record of Du Liniang.” The story unfolds during the reign of Emperor Guangzong of the Southern Song dynasty. Du Bao, the prefect of Nanxiong in Guangdong, has two children: an elder daughter named Liniang and a younger son named Xingwen. While strolling in the garden with her maid Chunxiang, Liniang dreams of a young scholar; moved by the dream, she falls ill and dies, being buried beneath a plum tree in the garden. Before her death, she had painted a small portrait of herself and inscribed poems upon it. Three years later, Du Bao is transferred to another post, and the new prefect, Liu En, whose son Liu Mengmei happens to discover the painting in the garden, becomes captivated by the figure within and spends his days and nights pining for her. One day, a young woman comes to seek his favor—only to reveal herself as the former prefect’s daughter. Following her instructions, Liu Mengmei opens the coffin, and Liniang returns to life, whereupon they are united in marriage. Later, Liu Mengmei passes the imperial examination, is appointed to an official post in Lin’an, and, coincidentally, Du Bao, now serving as Vice‑Censor of Jiangxi, happens to pass through Lin’an, finally bringing the long‑separated lovers together. From this account, it is clear that the core plot bears little resemblance to “The Peony Pavilion”; yet under Tang Xianzu’s masterful reworking, the tale undergoes a radical transformation, turning the mundane into the magical.
 

Kunqu Opera’s complete production of “The Peony Pavilion” — Photo by Feizhou
 

Leaving aside the minor details such as the deletion of Xingwen, let us focus on the principal revisions made by Tang Xianzu and their effects: First, he endowed the Du and Liu families with richer historical and cultural identities, positioning them respectively as successors to Du Fu and Liu Zongyuan. The result was an immediate sense of literary lineage, suggesting that their fateful encounter carried a spiritual resonance. Meanwhile, Du Liniang’s confinement to the boudoir and Liu Mengmei’s obsession with official success were rendered largely metaphysical—far removed from the crude and licentious figures they might otherwise have been. At the same time, the originally feudal‑hierarchical notion of a marriage between two families of equal standing was decisively displaced and demystified, allowing the light of human nature to shine forth. Second, he enriched Du Liniang and Liu Mengmei with distinctive, context‑specific elements of daily life—such as Chen Zuilang’s private tutoring, Chunxiang’s classroom disruptions, the Daoist nun Shi’s medicinal cures and exorcisms, and Liu Mengmei’s interactions with fellow students and his efforts to curry favor through social networks—thereby endowing the characters with depth and vitality. Third, he further deepened the internal logic and social underpinnings of the supporting cast: Chen Zuilang, whose own imperial examination career ended in failure, now finds himself teaching; the Daoist nun Shi, marked by a physical infirmity, becomes an outsider who pursues eccentric practices; and one cannot help but wonder—had Liu Mengmei and Du Liniang not faced their respective predicaments, might they not themselves have been another pair of Chen Zuilang and the Daoist nun? Likewise, Du Bao, Miao Shunbin, and the couple Li Quan—one a well‑regarded official, the other a peculiar figure adept at navigating the world through his talent for appraising antiques—alongside a strange faction born of the Song–Jin rivalry, together lay bare both overt and hidden strands of contemporary society. Fourth, the relationships among the characters serve to unfold the historical circumstances and political milieu of the Southern Song dynasty. The additional figures and their roles chosen by Tang Xianzu are far from arbitrary or accidental; just as the subtle juxtapositions between Liu and Du on one hand, and Chen and Shi on the other, reflect distinct thematic concerns, so too do Du Bao, Miao Shunbin, and the Li Quan couple each embody particular political sensibilities. And where the satirical undertones must remain subtly veiled, they are vividly brought to life through scenes set in the underworld, such as the “judgment of the dead.”

Perhaps the legendary love in vernacular tales—where “the living may die, and the dead may live”—truly moved Tang Xianzu, prompting him to further elaborate his “theory of the primacy of emotion.” Yet he must have harbored a deeper, unspoken grievance, seeking out the profound social roots behind the tragic demise of those consumed by passion. In this process, Du Liniang, Chunxiang, and Lady Zhen seem to form a closed hierarchy of feminine identity, while Liu Mengmei, Chen Zuilang, and Du Bao constitute another closed order among the literati. Nevertheless, society’s diversity and richness will always transcend human design; the stone nun within the women’s order and Chen Zuilang in the scholars’ circle stand as, respectively, the ultimate embodiment and the archetypal norm. What is this? It is Tang Xianzu’s distinctive artistic sensibility—the insight and discovery through which he perceived that, even within an exceptionally long‑lasting, stable, and self‑enclosed social order, both the commonplace and the unexpected are bound to emerge. And yet, within the existing framework, only Du Bao and Lady Zhen appear to have a viable path; all others are destined to crumble into dust. We witness Tang Xianzu’s mixture of bewilderment and exasperation, his pity mingled with sighs, and even a touch of playful mockery. But in truth, it is only by grasping this layer of his insight and discovery that we can truly appreciate the compassion deep within his heart and his yearning for an ideal society.

Two

      The era in which Tang Xianzu lived was precisely one of the Ming dynasty’s decline, rife with crises. In the nineteenth year of the Wanli reign, Tang Xianzu was demoted for submitting the memorial “On the Grand Secretaries and Censors,” in which he criticized court politics. The twilight of the Southern Song—its gradual decay and eventual collapse—shone through in his own life experience, leaving an indelible impression on him, a scholar deeply versed in Song history. For instance, the issue of career prospects for scholars is vividly portrayed: in the fourth scene, “A Mournful Lament,” and the twenty-first, “An Audience,” Chen Zuilang laments his arduous journey through the imperial examinations and his descent into teaching, while Liu Mengmei seeks patronage by paying homage to Miao Shunbin—both scenes authentically reflect the loose institutional framework, the corruption of the examination system, and the plight of scholars struggling to make a living in the late Southern Song. Similarly, the story of Li Quan and his wife, who exploit their influence to hedge their bets and stir up trouble at the front lines, and Du Bao’s hasty assumption of office and ill‑prepared defense of Huai’an, reveal the intricate web of political factions that flourished amid the Song–Jin standoff, as well as the court’s chronic malaise: a lack of strategic planning and an absence of effective mechanisms for appointing capable officials. All these issues find expression, to varying degrees, throughout the “Four Dreams of Linchuan.”

Interested readers will surely have noticed that “dreams” are so abundant in ancient Chinese literature as to constitute a veritable phenomenon. Not to mention poetry and prose, even among novels, the number has been countless since the Wei, Jin, and Northern and Southern Dynasties, with an especially pronounced flourishing from the Ming and Qing dynasties onward. Aside from the “Four Dreams of Linchuan,” the most famous work is undoubtedly “Dream of the Red Chamber.” This phenomenon stems from highly complex causes; notably, the early‑maturing Confucian culture—with its rites and music, and its moral and ethical framework—long ago crystallized into an ideal social order. Over the course of history and through the permeation of everyday life, this ideal was scarcely allowed to grow, being instead relentlessly reinforced and instilled. With the rise of Neo‑Confucianism during the Song dynasty, this consolidation reached its zenith. Consequently, “dreams”—as realms detached from bodily constraints and worldly confines—naturally afforded a free space for liberation from material bonds and for the unfettered flight of the spirit. We cannot directly confirm that Tang Xianzu composed the “Four Dreams of Linchuan” precisely on this rationale, yet the degree of freedom he unfolds in his works indirectly attests to such a possibility. The question that follows, then, is: did he really need to utter “dream‑talk”?

In the Chinese poetic and literary tradition, expressing one’s aspirations through objects and alluding to the present by invoking the past have long been widespread. In my view, the “dream” is nothing more than an amplified form of this practice—its lyrical modes of fu, bi, and xing having evolved into narrative forms. Yet the distinctive trajectory of ancient Chinese society stifled the scientific rationalization of the spiritual and psychological realms, while the overarching orientation toward selecting officials through literature and governing the state according to Confucian principles, though growing ever more refined and subtle in every respect, remained perpetually bound by ritual propriety and moral codes, thus giving rise to conflict. Confucius’s discourse on human relationships was, in response to a chaotic age, a framework of order designed to secure for each person a life in which they might find their proper place; its foundation was order, and its core was benevolence. But this order was prone to distortion: over time, “benevolence” gradually yielded to the demands of institutionalized order and ritual‑legal regulations. The rigid hierarchy of scholar‑farmer‑artisan‑merchant prevailed, marriage and romantic relationships were arranged by parental decree and matchmakers, and one’s future lay solely in literary examinations and the imperial examination system. Any transgression beyond this established order could often be realized only through the medium of “dreams.”

At the very moment when the seeds of capitalism were sprouting in the Ming dynasty, Wang Yangming’s “School of the Mind” was steadily gaining prominence, advocating such tenets as “the mind is principle” and “unity of knowledge and action.” Tang Xianzu, deeply influenced by this school—particularly by Luo Rufang, the Chan monk Daguan, and Li Zhi—derived his “theory of the primacy of emotion” from it. At the time, the conflict between Neo-Confucianism and the School of the Mind was fiercely contested; Li Zhi himself was arrested on charges of “daring to preach heretical doctrines, misleading the world and deceiving the people,” and later met a tragic end by taking his own life. Amidst a deteriorating courtly order, heated scholarly debates, and personal demotion—each fraught with hidden perils—and in the absence of modern tools capable of shaping social change, the dream naturally came to be seen as a kind of “dirty wastebasket,” an upgraded version of private venting behind closed doors. As internal and external troubles, along with mounting social problems, piled up one after another, the “dream” ceased to be merely a means of fulfillment or solace; instead, it began to reflect a profound sense of bewilderment and confusion in the face of an increasingly enclosed and restrictive environment. The historian Bo Zhengmin, for instance, titled his monograph on Ming‑dynasty commerce and culture “The Confusion of Indulgence,” offering a telling illustration of this trend. After all, the “dream” remains illusory—so where, then, are human beings headed?

Three

Kunqu Opera’s complete production of “The Peony Pavilion” — Photo by Feizhou

Looking back over the more than four-century history of performances of The Peony Pavilion, most productions have been staged as a series of short scenes or as a string of linked excerpts. Not only have many historically significant episodes been excised or condensed—such as in the revised versions by Zang Maoxun and Feng Menglong, where scenes like “Lü Die,” “Shan Bei,” and “Huai Jing” have disappeared—but the plays often stop at Du Liniang’s resurrection, leaving little more than the central love story. Moreover, even the full‑length structure and plot have drawn considerable criticism, with some deeming them overly intricate and implausible. While certain cuts and abridgments were undertaken to suit audience expectations and stage practice, it must be acknowledged that this process has also introduced cognitive biases and even misunderstandings. The most significant loss, however, lies in reducing the play to a linear focus on “emotion” as its ultimate aim, using Tang Xianzu’s theory of “the primacy of emotion” as justification, while neglecting the polyphonic effects created by the interweaving of other narrative threads with the central love story. As drama theorist Lin Kehuan has observed regarding such polyphonic arrangements: “The dramatic quality arising from several actions and consciousnesses that are both entangled and independent; the overall sense produced by two or more parallel layers of dramatic development… all render the self‑image of the characters and their relationship to the world markedly different from the perspectival imagery traditionally found on stage.” Although Tang Xianzu’s narrative does not yet possess the modern theatrical sensibility, the social and historical contexts he unfolds and elaborates carry the evocative flavor of Zhang Zeduan’s Along the River During the Qingming Festival—a tapestry of everyday life that transcends what is seen and eludes explicit expression.

This makes a full‑scale production of The Peony Pavilion not only necessary but also profoundly significant. Across different historical periods, its canonical critiques and individual values inevitably bear the marks of their times; even today, as we engage with it, a certain skepticism lingers: in our modern age, when love has grown ever more fragile, can it still shoulder the weighty task of upholding the banner of humanity? Indeed, beyond the emotional resonance of classical aesthetics, we seem to need to uncover in the continually staged Peony Pavilion richer, more contemporary dimensions—dimensions that must be discerned through the central thread of love, revealing the socio‑historical contexts upon which it depends; or, put another way, the dreamscapes conjured by Tang Xianzu—not merely the dreams of Du Liniang and Liu Mengmei, but also those of Chen Zuilang, the nun Shi Dao’gu, Du Bao, Miao Shunbin, and the couple Li Quan. Du Bao is an upright official, a man of rectitude; his wife, Lady Zhen, embodies the Confucian ideals of filial piety, propriety, and chastity, even earning the title of “imperial consort”—a paragon of the feudal‑authoritarian era. Yet Du Bao himself lacks real talent; his flogging of Liu Mengmei betrays carelessness and a lack of wisdom, while his entrapment during the siege reveals deficient military strategy. One might say, “In a world without heroes, even a mere boy can make a name for himself.” If even Du Bao fares so poorly, where then lie the prospects of Chen Zuilang, who has no hope of passing the imperial examinations; of the physically impaired nun Shi Dao’gu; of Miao Shunbin, whose sole expertise is appraising antiques; or of the Li Quans, part soldiers, part bandits, part civilians, drifting along the frontlines of the Song–Jin conflict? What are the social roots that give rise to such modes of existence? Though Tang Xianzu ultimately provides each of them with a destination, these resolutions remain, in essence, confined within the original framework. And as for Liu Mengmei and Du Liniang—the figures most cherished and eagerly anticipated—their consummation of “love” is, in truth, little more than a dream.

 

Kunqu Opera’s complete production of “The Peony Pavilion” — Photo by Feizhou
 

In “The Peony Pavilion,” the concept of “dream” not only encompasses “love” but also embraces the bittersweet vicissitudes of human destiny and the myriad facets of social life; thus, its scope and artistic stature far surpass those of “love” alone. For this very reason, the Kunqu Opera version of the complete “Peony Pavilion” holds significant scholarly value in clarifying misreadings and restoring the work to its original essence. More importantly, it is likely to generate a spillover effect of re‑recognizing the classic, encouraging broader public engagement and gradually guiding audiences beyond their aesthetic comfort zones, so that they may fully appreciate the spirit, imagery, and nuances that Tang Xianzu sought to convey. In this sense, what was once regarded as a historically limited happy ending acquires profound sociological implications and assumes a pervasive tragic dimension rooted in the social history of the time. Today, the widely accepted view is that through “The Peony Pavilion,” Tang Xianzu profoundly exposed the cruelty of feudal Confucian propriety while passionately celebrating the indomitable will of young men and women to pursue personal liberation and marital autonomy. This interpretation is certainly valid; yet, after enduring struggles that seem to push one to the brink of death and rebirth, the ultimate reunion of Liu Mengmei and Du Liniang still amounts to nothing more than passing the imperial examination and bestowing honors upon one’s wife and descendants—hardly a breakthrough beyond the long‑standing, rigid confines of feudal society. While “The Peony Pavilion” is often lauded for its striking modernity, this concluding resolution has frequently been cited as a source of criticism—and even as a reason why the full text is seldom staged. Did Tang Xianzu have any way out? No—he could not transcend the historical limitations of his era to advance a feminist movement or champion a modern revolution. All he could do was labor within the historical framework of his time, pondering endlessly, giving free rein to his emotions, and pursuing the poetic sensibilities that defined him. Yet such inner peace, the kind that might truly make a home, remained forever beyond his reach. The character of the nun Shi Dao in the play serves as a potent metaphor: by assigning a woman with physical impairment to heal another woman consumed by lustful desire, Tang Xianzu not only invites self‑irony but also, in a manner reminiscent of how a Ming subject might look back upon the Southern Song dynasty, offers a wry self‑portrait and a touch of self‑mockery.

Four

      The Kunqu Opera version of the complete “Peony Pavilion” largely preserves the original work’s full scope, making only minor adjustments and adaptations to certain arias and individual words, resulting in an overall refined and meticulous production. Its particularly notable strengths lie in its faithful recreation of everyday life and its rich social commentary—qualities that set it apart from other stage interpretations. As mentioned earlier, this approach goes beyond merely restoring scenes and plotlines; it also plays a crucial role in shaping the characters. For instance, Chunxiang is rendered here with greater realism, effectively blurring the line between master and servant. Compared with some versions that are overly lively or even lose their propriety, this portrayal may better reflect the rigorously structured social norms of the Song dynasty. Moreover, Chen Zuilang’s recurring presence and his interplay with Du Bao and Liu Mengmei offer a more objective and authentic glimpse into the collective portrait of Song‑era scholars, moving beyond the stereotype of the dashing, erudite, and proud scholar. Meanwhile, Liu Mengmei’s efforts to curry favor by paying homage to Miao Shunbin and his strategic argument that “only by being able to fight and defend can one achieve peace” vividly depict his resourcefulness and intellectual prowess in diverse contexts, enabling him to transcend the image of a mere philanderer and thief of love and emerge as a true gentleman.

These restorations inevitably pose new challenges for secondary creation. Fortunately, the entire stage adopts a minimalist realist approach seamlessly blended with romantic impressionism: on the revolving stage, railings, arched bridges, and staircases are arranged, supplemented by props that shift with the scene, thus preserving the central performance space while poetically evoking the characters’ lived‑in world. This design serves both the narrative and the practical need to fill and enrich the relatively open expanse of contemporary performance venues, resulting in a aesthetic that feels at once traditional and modern. Meanwhile, the use of projection‑based multimedia achieves a delicate balance between reality and illusion: during realistic sequences, it conjures distant mountains and spring trees rendered in the style of verdant landscapes, along with pavilions, towers, and river vistas; in dreamlike passages, it employs expressionist‑style oil paintings to underscore and amplify the characters’ emotions—producing effects that are unexpectedly powerful.

In particular, the performances of Hu Weilu as Liu Mengmei and Luo Chenxue as Du Liniang demonstrate a masterful grasp of their characters’ inner lives. Even more significant is their ability to distill and shape each character’s temperament and personality through nuanced emotional expression, bringing to life the refined elegance and distinctive vocal coloration of the opera’s melodic forms. As for the characters themselves, Liu Mengmei and Du Liniang undergo marked transformations throughout the play: in the earlier scenes, Liu appears somewhat infatuated and dashing, while later he acquires wisdom, composure, and a dignified bearing; Du Liniang, initially shy and restrained, grows increasingly passionate as the story unfolds. On all these fronts, the actors deliver commendable work. I believe that mounting such a grand production will undoubtedly serve as a powerful catalyst for their artistic growth and maturation. Moreover, Guo Yi as Chen Zuilang, Wu Shuang as Judge Hu, Sun Jinghua as the Taoist nun Shi Dao’gu, Ma Tianqin as Li Quan, and others all deliver standout performances that leave a lasting impression.
 

Kunqu Opera’s complete production of “The Peony Pavilion” — Photo by Feizhou

      The Shanghai Kunqu Opera Troupe, with both strength and perseverance, has overcome the myriad challenges posed by the pandemic to create and present such a grand production, earning our deepest respect. Perhaps this is but one among countless creative endeavors; yet this full‑length performance will surely mark an important milestone in the history of “The Peony Pavilion,” not only for its own merits but also for the ripple effects it will set in motion. The timeless beauty of the classical tradition is already there; as for the modernity that springs from it, we must delve into the depths of historical and cultural context—exploring and understanding, and nurturing—the world of Tang Xianzu, his dreams, and the richly layered, vivid characters who inhabit them, as well as the boundless human nature that unfolds through dream after dream.