Uncrossing the Borders: Performing Chinese in Gendered (Trans)Nationalism 0472125230, 9780472125234

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Uncrossing the Borders

Uncrossing the Borders Performing Chinese in Gendered (Trans)Nationalism Daphne P. Lei

University of Michigan Press Ann Arbor

Copyright © 2019 by Daphne P. Lei All rights reserved This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publisher. Published in the United States of America by the University of Michigan Press Manufactured in the United States of America Printed on acid-­free paper First published July 2019 A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication data has been applied for. ISBN 978-­0-­472-­13137-­2 (hardcover : alk. paper) ISBN 978-­0-­472-­12523-­4 (e-­book) Cover images: (foreground) Scene from The Dialogue at the Green Mound (Qingzhong qiande duihua, 2006), courtesy National Center for Traditional Arts GuoGuang Opera Company; (background) from a facsimile of Mourning the Pipa (Diao pipa) by You Tong (Newly Edited Zaju, edited by Zou Shijin, ca. 1661; rpt.,Wujin: Songfenshi, 1941).

To my mother, sisters, and all the erased and silenced women in history

Contents Acknowledgments

ix

List of Illustrations

xiii

Introduction1 Chapter 1  /  The Performative Border Archetype: Wang Zhaojun

39

Chapter 2  /  Border Survivors of the Two-­Way Crossings: Cai Yan, Su Wu, and Li Ling on the Permeable Border

101

Chapter 3  /  Popular Theater Rescues the Nation: Remapping and Redefining Borders at the Turn of the Twentieth Century

169

Chapter 4 / The State of the Art: Border-­Crossing Drama in Chinese Modernities and Transnationalities

205

Conclusion249 Glossary

261

Notes

265

Bibliography

309

Index

329

Digital materials related to this title can be found the Fulcrum platform via the following citable URL: https://doi.org/10.3998/mpub.9769082

Acknowledgments The original research for this project started more than two decades ago. After the digression of writing and publishing two other books, I returned to my first love, the “old” Chinese stories, and immediately realized that they are the most timely and timeless tales today. The reconfirmation of the contemporary relevance of the centuries-­old genre is also disheartening. Have we not progressed at all? Needless to say, both the original project and the revision rely on the help of many individuals and institutions. Dr. William Huizhu Sun mentioned the name Wang Zhaojun during one of our direct reading classes at Tufts, where I was pursuing my PhD in drama in the 1990s. Despite our distinctive upbringings, being “Chinese,” both of us were familiar with this name, the basic story, and the symbolism. Both of us were utterly surprised, however, by the performativity and adaptability of her story in the political arena throughout history. The research on Wang Zhaojun for a term paper soon took on a life of its own and transformed into a much larger project on border crossing and gendered nationalism. Although Dr. Sun left Tufts before I started my dissertation writing, he kindly flew from Shanghai for my defense a few years later. I want to express my sincere gratitude to Dr. Sun for his inspiration, guidance, and continuous friendship. I intentionally turned away from this project in the past decade while I was working on my two other books from the transpacific and intercultural perspectives. When I decided to return to this topic, I taught a PhD seminar on “border crossing” at University of California, Irvine in 2016. I would like to thank my students, who have helped me contextualize this topic in a very different cultural and political milieu from the one in the 1990s. Teaching and advising PhD students has provided me the greatest joy and inspiration. I have been very privileged and fortunate to be working as an academic. My deep gratitude goes to LeAnn Fields, the chief editor, and her team at the University of Michigan Press, who have guided me throughout the long publication process. I appreciate the feedback from the readers of the

x Acknowledgments

manuscript. It is indeed not easy to conduct research on classical Chinese materials overseas. I want to thank the librarians at UC Irvine, Harvard University, Stanford University, and Academia Sinica, who have assisted me tremendously. A project of this scope cannot be completed without the financial support of many institutions. I wish to thank the East Asian Library of Stanford University for the travel grant I received, which is part of the grant #84.015A from the U.S. Department of Education (although the contents do not represent the policy of the U.S. Department of Education nor the federal government). I also want to thank the Center for Asian Studies of UC Irvine, whose travel grants have funded several of my summer trips to Taiwan to conduct research. Finally, I am deeply grateful for my academic home, the Department of Drama at UC Irvine, for its continuous support and its last-­minute chivalric comradery to assist me with the subvention when other sources failed. A number of scholars and artists have inspired me along the way over the years. The field of Chinese theater and performance (especially in the premodern era) in Western academia is small, and I want to express my appreciation to the scholars and artists who have paved the way and still insist on finding new meaning and creating new theatricality in this art form; they have inspired me to continue my work and to sustain the field. My acknowledgment goes to Wing Chung Ng and Nancy Rao for their study and recent publication on Cantonese opera. Earlier works by Colin Mackerras, Bell Yung, Nancy Guy, Elizabeth Wickmann, Joshua Goldstein, Min Tian, Andrea Goldman, Qitao Guo, and others constantly provide me invaluable references. Although their works might not directly benefit this publication, I am thankful for their diligent work on Chinese opera in their corners of the world. Chinese opera artists in diaspora, such as Hua Wenyi and the Chinese Kwun Opera Society in Los Angeles, are the constant reminders that artistic perseverance is deeply rooted in the daily grind and the labor of love. I credit them for their inspiration, knowing that they will never read my work. On the other side of the Pacific, I want to thank Wang An-­Ch’i for her tireless endeavor for jingju in Taiwan and ½ Q Theatre for their innovative works on kunqu, as well as their assistance to this publication. I continue to be amazed by their passion, vision, and tenacity for the art in an increasingly difficult environment for Chinese opera. This book is also a joint effort of my family members: my sister Bi-­qi Beatrice Lei inspired the cover design and my brother-­in-­law Lu Peng-­



Acknowledgments

xi

Chung provided photography for my illustrations; my husband’s cares and cheers were behind every word of my original dissertation. My family, who has given me unwavering love and support, continues to motivate me to cross borders. My father’s family (Lei) dutifully records a family history of a few hundred years, a proud pedigree of male literati with their names and official titles from the Imperial examination system, and yet no daughters’ names are included until around the turn of the twentieth century. The absence of my Lei female ancestors in history (thirty-­one generations before me) contradicts my own upbringing in a family full of feminist girls and women. It is a fascinating and often frustrating challenge to negotiate my daily existence today with a household and a workplace full of boys and men. The burden of the portable gender/racial border I carry becomes even more oppressive in a world of increasing misogyny and racism. I wish to acknowledge the female side of my family—­from my erased female ancestors to my sisters—­for their moral support; they have been with me in spirit throughout the entire writing process. I try to picture their strength in me, as the female audience members have tried to listen to the silenced feminine voice in border-­crossing plays throughout history. My mother, intelligent, adventurous, and ambitious, had to be unfortunately confined in her gender border despite her audacious crossings of multiple borders. She taught us the importance of women’s education and independence; she taught us to write our own history. She would have been proud and elated to see my achievement today. This book is for her.

Illustrations   1. The border-­crossing scene of Wang Zhaojun in Autumn in the Han Palace (Hangong qiu 漢宮秋) by Ma Zhiyuan 馬致遠 of the Yuan dynasty, printed 1615–­1616 63   2. The border-­crossing scene of Wang Zhaojun in Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai 昭君出塞) by Chen Yujiao 陳與郊 of the Ming dynasty, printed 1629 72   3. The fighting scene between barbarian and Han soldiers in Appeasing the Barbarians (Herong ji 和戎記, anonymous) of the Ming dynasty, printed 1573–­1619 76   4. The border-­crossing scene of Wang Zhaojun in the dream, in The Dream of Zhaojun (Zhaojun meng 昭君夢) by Xue Dan 薛旦 of the Qing dynasty, printed ca. 1661 90   5. The parting scene between Cai Yan and her children in Wenji Entering the Pass Behind (Wenji rusai 文姬入塞) by Chen Yujiao 陳與郊 of the Ming dynasty, printed 1629 114   6. The writing scene of Cai Yan in The Daughter of Zhonglang 中郎女 by Nanshan Yishi 南山逸史 of the Qing dynasty, printed ca. 1661 119   7. Cai Yan visits the Zhaojun Tomb in Mourning the Pipa 弔琵琶 by You Tong 尤侗 of the Qing dynasty, printed ca. 1661 125   8. Li Ling communicates with Chinese troops in Returning to Heliang (Heliang gui 河梁歸) by Zhou Leqing 周樂清 of the Qing dynasty, printed in 1830 164   9. The reunion of Su Wu and Li Ling in Returning to Heliang (Heliang gui 河梁歸) by Zhou Leqing 周樂清 of the Qing dynasty, printed in 1830 165 10. “An Accident Caused by the French Soldier” (法兵肇事 Fabing zhaoshi) from The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio (點石齋畫報 Dianshizhai huabao, 1884–­1908) 188

xiv illustrations

11. “Self-­Killing by the Western Gun” (洋槍自斃 Yangqiang zibi) from The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio (點石齋畫報 Dianshizhai huabao, 1884–­1908) 200 12. The meeting scene between Wang Zhaojun and the Xiongnu chieftain, in Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai 昭君出塞) by Li Yugang 李玉剛, Beijing, 2015 234 13. The heart-to-heart dialogue between Cai Yan and Wang Zhaojun in The Dialogue at the Green Mound (Qingzhong qiande duihua 青塚前的對話) by GuoGuang Opera Company, Taipei, 2006 239 14. The parting scene between Su Wu and Li Ling, in Hero of Half a Lifetime, Li Ling (Banshi yingxiong: Li Ling 半世英雄, 李陵) by ½ Q Theatre, Taipei, 2008 246 15. Goddess Zhaojun at the Zhaojun Temple (Zhaojun miao 昭君廟, Miaoli, Taiwan, 2017) 257

Introduction A recent tragedy shattered the conventional beliefs in good-­willed border crossings. On October 3, 2015, the hospital of “Doctors without Borders” (Médecins sans Frontières) in Kunduz, Afghanistan, was bombed during a US airstrike.1 While volunteers had overcome nearly insurmountable obstacles created by human civilization to cross the national, cultural, economic, ethnic, and religious borders and come together on the basis of common humanity during chaos, they were shut down from above by the world’s superpower. These medical volunteers took a kind of lateral, horizontal border-­crossing path, but the destructive force was a vertical action. If the doctors’ border-­crossing routes resembled the lines scratched on a world map, the bombs were like Zeus’s thunderbolts that eradicated (intentionally or accidentally) most of the human markings on the map. The bombing from a hegemonic power, which erased the effort and result of the humanist collaborations, has restructured the order of the crossing and also made border-­crossing stories three-­dimensional. Border crossing is rarely a simple lateral action of equal powers, and the hegemonic intervention immediately generates another border that challenges the crossers of lesser power. The damaged map of human border-­crossing activities is a palimpsest that could historicize the multilayered human endeavors. Multidirectional and multidimensional, border crossings continue to generate new borders based on the inequality of power. Power-­imbalanced border crossings in the context of war and peace are not a new phenomenon; such border crossings also make up a prominent part of Chinese drama from the thirteenth century to the present. This project interrogates the meaning of border crossing as a captivating dramatic motif and as powerful political rhetoric throughout Chinese history, especially in the context of gendered (trans)nationalism. When national identities are at stake, the desires to cross the political borders for the sake of peace form the basic dramatic plots for this genre; the definition of border, however, multiplies or becomes fluid as political situations change. The premodern concept

2

uncrossing the borders

of “Chinese (Han majority) vs. barbarian (northern minorities)” sets up the tone for the nationalist narrative, but it is a woman’s voluntary self-­sacrifice that provides a reliable and theatrical trope that can rescue the nation. Integrating gender and sexuality into the discourse of border crossing and nationalism is my major intervention in border theories; it also defines the unique genre of Chinese border-­crossing drama. Rey Chow reminds us that race and ethnicity are coterminous with sexuality and vice versa.2 The definition of miscegenation, hybridity, ethnic purity, racial hierarchy, and biopower in the nationalist discourse cannot escape the notion of sex.3 It is also imperative to pay special attention to a woman’s movement and her positionality within patriarchy before we can understand her bodily function. The desire to keep a woman’s body intact (pure) is a familiar concept in many social and cultural systems.4 Women often take on the symbolic role of representing and reproducing nation (mother land), and their obligatory sedentary subjectivity helps stabilize the national borders.5 Julia Kristeva and Toril Moi suggest the woman’s marginal positionality in the Lacanian Symbolic Order: woman’s place is on the frontier, between man and the chaos outside.6 Connecting these few concepts, I analyze why a Chinese woman’s border-­crossing action must be stopped: any forward motion pollutes her body and disrupts the national border; only her suicide can strengthen the border of gendered nationalism and protect Chinese men from the outer chaos. The uncrossable gender border secures the nationalist discourse and ensures the perenniality of the dramatic genre. Today, when the cultural and economic borders seem to be disappearing under transnational collaborations and technological advancement, border-­crossing rhetoric takes on a new meaning, and new boundaries are reinvented with the intervention of new hegemonic powers. It is indeed surprising to see that such old rhetoric of the dramatic border crossing is still alive in today’s transnational transactions among “Chinese nations,” the so-­called “Two Shores and Three Places” (liang’an sandi 兩岸三地). The three distinctive Chinese “nations” (not necessarily nation-­states) in the “Two Shores and Three Places” narrative are the PRC (Mainland China), ROC (Taiwan), and SAR (Hong Kong and Macau [or Macao]).7 The PRC (People’s Republic of China; “China,” “Mainland,” or “Mainland China”) is the “China” the world officially recognizes today; it was founded in 1949 by Mao Zedong (Mao Tse-­tung) with the Chinese Communist Party (CCP).

Introduction 3

ROC (Republic of China; “Taiwan”) was founded by Sun Yat-­sen with the Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT, Kuomintang) in 1912, after the overthrow of the Qing, the last imperial dynasty of China. The KMT government retreated to Taiwan in 1949 under the leadership of C ­ hiang Kai-­shek and is now an autonomous and democratic entity without the UN’s official acknowledgment. More than twenty million residents in Taiwan live with a national identity that is ambiguous, discordant, and sometimes even nonexistent depending on the unstable “two-­shore” relations and international diplomacy. Hong Kong and Macau, the former British and Portuguese colonies respectively, the result of Western imperialism in the late Qing, are now called SARs (special administrative regions) after the PRC regained sovereignty over them in the late twentieth century, and their status as SARs will continue until 2047 and 2049. Although the Chinese government has promised to maintain the status quo for fifty years in these SARs, the anxiety of losing self-­identity and autonomy is looming large today. The stakes of border crossing are high because of the volatile political and military situations of the regions.8 I continue to use such contentious terms as “China,” “Chinese,” “Chinese nations,” instead of the more inclusive term “Sinophone” in my work for a number of reasons.9 The lives of the residents of these nations are inseparable because of the historical and cultural ties in the past as well as the economic interdependence and political entanglement in the present. Very often, the “Chinese” conflict derives exactly from issues related to the definition, ownership, or rejection of the word “China” or “Chinese.” Therefore, having these controversial terms at the forefront is my strategy in this study. “Chinese (people)? What do you mean?” Is the definition aligned with the ethnic, cultural, mythical, or current political and geographical borders? Are you Chinese Chinese, or . . . ? A simple answer will never suffice such questions. I see such inevitable inquisitive interruptions of a harmonious nationalist narrative as necessary in today’s scholarship. In my work, China/ Chinese/Chineseness is always performative and fluid; the definition of Chinese nation, ethnicity, and culture has never been fixed throughout history and the current ideological confusion is exactly part of being “Chinese.” Moreover, the intercultural readers of this work are both accustomed to and often confused by these terms. Providing an explanation that is temporally and ideologically appropriate and interculturally and transnationally comprehensible is a challenge I pose to myself every time such terms are evoked.

4

uncrossing the borders

These terms might not be politically correct or ideologically acceptable to a certain population, yet addressing the controversies should be the first step when approaching contemporary transnational “Chinese” problem. Most of the works I discuss in this book are traditional theater, what the West refers to as “Chinese opera” or what modern Chinese people consider as xiqu 戲曲 (music drama). I also discuss a small number of Western-­style spoken dramas (huaju 話劇) inspired by classical styles in the twentieth century, experimental or hybridized operatic works in the new millennium, and a small number of related stories in various media. “Chinese opera” is a term that demands clarification: A term coined in the West, Chinese opera generally reflects a Western cultural hegemony that separates music and text and prioritizes “theater” over “opera.”10 Similarly, xiqu was used as a standardized term only after the Western, speaking-­based style had become the norm of Chinese theater in the twentieth century. In premodern China, xi 戲 (theater), ju 劇 (drama), and qu 曲 (song) were used interchangeably to describe what we know as “Chinese opera” today. Qu (xiqu) and opera (Chinese opera) are the modern transnational alliance to see music as a “marked” modality in theatrical performances based on Western conceptualization; in other words, to opera-­tize or qu-­tize traditional Chinese theater is closely linked to modernity projects, both in the West and in China. I have written extensively on how Chinese opera functions as identity performances that invent an ideal China in different moments and places of history, sometimes even projecting an idealistic future.11 Taking Chinese opera out of the stifling binary mode—­theater vs. opera or speaking vs. singing—­we might be able to look at the art form as what the West might call “total theater.” Although singing is essential in such a performance style, dance, movement, various styles of speaking and recitation, and symbolic costuming are all indispensable and interconnected parts of the mise en scène. Actors’ training, performance aesthetics, and audience reception are also closely related to the minute specificities determined by conventions. Role type, for instance, not only defines the training and aesthetics, it also plays an integral part at the inception of the play. It is an actor-­centered multimedia art in a watertight system where every element—­textuality, corporality, visuality, orality, and aurality—­is intricately connected.12 As theater is an ephemeral art form, my analysis needs to begin with the text, especially for premodern works; when possible, however, important aspects of performance will be incorporated into my discussion of border-­crossing drama.

Introduction 5

Border-­crossing drama presents a double wishfulness or twice-­imagined “utopia performatives” for the audience: we would have international peace if a good woman could still come forward and if the adversary nation would be enlightened by her virtue.13 Bought with a virtuous and beautiful woman’s blood, the ideal nationhood seems less unobtainable; after all, convincing a woman to comply with gender ideology appears a more reachable goal than reconstructing a nation. The ambitious scope and the diverse genres covered in this book make it impossible to do justice to any specific genre: theater, literature, history, music, or iconography; this book is not intended to be read as a comprehensive study of Chinese theater or music. Within the two millennia I have covered, theatrical works of more than a dozen genres all over China are dated from the thirteenth century to today. I use border crossing and gendered nationalism to thematically thread numerous works in different genres, geo-­sociopolitical zones, and temporalities. It is equally important to note that the works are mostly analyzed from the Han/Chinese perspectives, because it is exactly the Han male chauvinist desire that gives birth to gendered nationalism in border-­crossing drama. Archeological and artistic traces suggest that border-­crossing themes and characters have had translocal effects in other “barbaric” lands, such as Central Asia and Mongolia; unfortunately, the limited length of the book cannot allow in-­depth discussion from the perspectives of the Other. Finally, as an intercultural intervention, this book addresses the readership of Western academia and Sinologists with intercultural and transnational interests. Although I am steering away from Chinese essentialist approach to these works, I find it necessary to remind Western academics that Chinese cultures (ways of behaving and believing) and artistic conventions (ways of determining aesthetics and mimesis) cannot always be fit in the paradigms set up by Western critical theories. While always in dialogue with Western theories based on my own academic training, I am consciously resisting some ready-­made analytical modalities in order to have a more productive discussion. To uncover obscure but important works in border-­crossing drama, to shed new lights in the fields of border theories and transnationalism, and to explain the unique concept of gendered nationalism are the major goals for this book. I hope my intercultural negotiations/translations can inspire more future dialogues on the timeless and ubiquitous topic of border crossing.

6

uncrossing the borders

Border Crossing as Theoretical Discourses Whether as literal or metaphoric boundary, the basic function of the border is to define and separate self and other, within and without. Border theorists often discuss an inherent paradox in border crossing: the demarcation sometimes poses “an invitation to cross” or serves as a “bridge” instead of a wall;14 a parallel action between opening and closing spaces or territorialization and deterritorialization often takes place during the “trans-­action”;15 the broken boundary remanifests itself in new forms of discreteness which generate new borders for new identifications.16 The border is enacted with power and significance only if an attempt to cross is made; borders do not really exist otherwise. Oddly, very often it is not the action, but rather the non-­action of border crossing, the uncrossing, that can truly apotheosize the borders and preach what they stand for. Borders are defined and refined by crossing actions with distinctive quality, rhythm, and temporality; it can be friendly or hostile, easy or strenuous, abrupt or slow-­moving, rare or frequent, one-­way or multiple entries. Porous national borders in transnational crossings today do not necessarily contradict the strict “portable borders”17 individuals carry along with their “flexible citizenship.”18 Ubiquitous borders hide within the apparent borderless state of the World Wide Web. Borders invite, defend, and kill. Borders seduce, manipulate, propagate, and destroy. Borders reinvent and reimagine. Disintegrated borders give birth to new border formations. Border crossing as a theoretical discourse gained popularity in the last two decades of the twentieth century. Two types of events were directly related to the creation of such discourse: the disintegration of conventional national and ideological borders, such as the fall of the Soviet Union and the Berlin Wall in the late 1980s, and a deliberate economic alliance formation across national borders, such as the establishment of the NAFTA (North American Free Trade Agreement) among Mexico, the United States, and Canada in the 1990s.19 These political decisions and actions not only greatly affected many people’s lives and livelihood, they also generated ample academic interest in fields ranging from cultural and ethnic studies, arts, literature, sociology, to postcolonial and diasporic studies. Border crossing can be addressed in relation to sociospatial territories and statehood, as well as new philosophical thoughts and artistic possibilities. Even in performing arts alone, it was evident that border crossing was a trendy topic for academic conferences in the 1990s.20

Introduction 7

Recent Western border-­crossing scholarship related to performing arts is also largely under the influence of the two types of historical events discussed above. Many recent works can be seen as a backlash against globalization and neoliberalism. A major part of border-­crossing scholarship in Americas focuses on the US-­Mexico frontera.21 Although the border legitimizes or disqualifies citizenship, or determines the sentiment of belonging or trespassing, we are reminded by such scholars as Moreno and Lee that the border is only reinforced when crossing becomes illegal.22 Emphasizing the movement of crossing, Rivera-­Servera and Young write that our cultures have been defined by our “proximity to a border or by the border crossing of ancestors,” and “we are the products of the borders that surround us.” “A border transforms space into place.”23 Although crime and violence are often characterized as the “inevitable” byproduct of la frontera border crossings today, one cannot deny that the vibrant cultural hybridity of the Amexicas has greatly enriched the lives of the borderland and beyond. Kolossov and Scott, after their survey of Western (mainly European) border studies, point out the Westphalian model of territorial (state) sovereign does not reflect the real world, for which relational networks instead of fixed spaces become more important. Borders, in their minds, ought to be understood as “institutions, processes and symbols.” Borders emerge “through socio-­political processes of border-­making or bordering that take place within society.” They conclude that the recent field is thematically and disciplinarily diverse, the optimism of a “borderless world” gives way to “rebordering” based on increasing security concerns, and, finally, technological progress creates more obstacles and raises serious ethical problems.24 Works on broader definitions of border crossing usually emphasize the interdisciplinary or intermedia approaches.25 Technological advances since the late twentieth century have introduced a new type of border crossing: the virtual border crossing. Ever since the age of Web 2.0, the World Wide Web has been increasingly turned into a seemingly borderless state: firewalls are to be broken, security codes decrypted, contents hacked and leaked, and English used as the virtual lingua franca. Even for non-­English speakers, advanced technology offers instant translation, although the new translation is often crude and full of errors. In recent years, the attitude toward virtual crossings seems to have shifted from a utopian vision of globalization to a ferocious guarding of the borders of privacy and ethics, and when government agencies are involved, cyber crossings even threaten national security.26 Millennial digital natives know that Internet borders are not to be trusted.

8

uncrossing the borders

One particular type of border crossing in this study is what I call affective border crossing, which usually involves senses such as sound and smell. Josh Kun opens up the border-­crossing discourse to including the aural aspect; he writes about “the border of sound” or “the aural border” and listening as “an acoustic-­geographic interaction” as the subject always listens in place.27 In border-­crossing drama, the sound of reed pipe (barbarian music) or cries of wild geese (migratory birds) heard in the borderland measures the distance to the border but also brings the aural border closer than the actual (visual, geographic, or national) border and heightens the dramatic tension. The sound of the pipa, which reaches the emperor or the divine, is a form of affective border crossing, with positive effect. While a woman’s actual power is often limited under the patriarchal and patriotic hegemony, in border-­ crossing drama, the “sensual” means is sometimes used for accessing the power source and altering the dramatic course. This type of affective border crossing is powerful and dramaturgically efficacious (more details in chapter 1). Similarly, the foul smell of goats of the northern nomad that cannot be blocked by the national borders is an affective border crossing in the negative sense. As the borderland is both an either/or and neither/nor space, the invasive sound and smell re-­emphasize the instability of border hybridity; the unstoppable sensual border crossing creates urgency and heightens theatricality as the heroine seems even more alone and vulnerable. China (PRC) has risen to be one of the major world economic powers in the new millennium: it is the second largest world economy, and RMB (the currency of China) was recently determined by the IMF (International Monetary Fund) as one of the most important currencies today.28 As Asian economic significance grows globally, transnational economic alliances such as TPP (Trans-­Pacific Partnership) become essential for the Western countries on the Pacific Rim.29 American interference in the territorial debate in the South China Sea today further shows the increasing importance of the Pacific at the global level. A “local” type of Chinese transnational problem has grown internationally, with Western superpowers volunteering to serve as arbiters. The continuous rhetoric either in denuclearization or in provocation of a nuclear war at the Korean Peninsula,30 renews Cold War memories and poses a threat to the “local” security in actuality.31 The reference of border-­crossing drama in today’s transnational Chinese political rhetoric demonstrates the lingering power of the dramatic genre; it also reflects the predicament of the transnational borderland, as well as the

Introduction 9

desperate desire for a magical breakthrough and a nostalgic return to the notion of uncrossable borders. Scholarship on border crossing as a theoretical framework and as a systematic investigation in the context of Chinese theater, however, is almost nonexistent.32 I see my study as scholarly and political interventions: by foregrounding the complicated historical and transnational study of Chinese border-­crossing drama, I hope to alter the canonical discourse in theater research and in Chinese studies; by inserting gender into my discussion, I challenge the transnational and intercultural discourse of border crossing in academia; by drawing attention to the increasing American neoliberalism and militarism in the Pacific, I hope to illustrate how the third power/ hegemony transforms a local border-­crossing situation into a translocal one. I predict the Pacific Rim, instead of la frontera, will become the center of border studies for the next decade to come.

Mapping the Borderlands with Distorted Time and Embodied Landscape A border might be imagined as a simple line, but border crossing is an action that takes place in a space. A brief discussion of such concepts of space, place, landscape, and borderland is necessary. My theorization of embodied landscape—­a unique feature in Chinese border-­crossing drama—­will also be explained. A commonly cited distinction between place and space is from Michel de Certeau: As “an instantaneous configuration of positions,” a place (lieu) “implies an indication of stability”; on the other hand, a space (espace) is connected with “vectors of directions, velocities, and time variables.” Compared with the stability of place, space is “like a word that is spoken,” which indicates the transitional, transformational quality in the process of actualization. “[S]pace is a practiced place” (italics in original).33 Space/place is often discussed in relation to time. A number of late twentieth-­century thinkers privilege spatiality over time, whether it is the rhizomatic plateaus against genealogy (Deleuze and Guattari)34 or the logic of spatial organization rather than time that dominates the postmodern life ( Jameson).35 The World Wide Web (WWW) and global positioning system (GPS) are our contemporary ways of prioritizing space over time, although it is the “instant” connection to the web or satellite that determines the actu-

10

uncrossing the borders

alization of space. Vying for the spatial coexistence on the majoritarian map, less powerful groups often find themselves sacrificing their own contemporaneity, voluntarily or by force. Such “temporal disjunction,” the intentional lagging behind, thus functions as an epistemological tool for understanding minoritarian culture and theater, and as survival strategy by the marginalized groups themselves.36 In Chinese border-­crossing drama, the uncivilized mannerism of “barbarians” suggests that they are less advanced in time. The Chinese heroine operates on different tempi. Time is not only slowing down but also suspended as she moves unwillingly toward the border for her final suicide. Despite the urgency of war, she is entitled to have tempo rubato (stolen time) and the liberty to linger in the borderland for her solo performance. It is indeed stolen time since the actual border-­crossing action is often interrupted by suicide and any suspended time means extra breaths granted to her. Mapping and surveying the borderland with poetic singing and bodily exploration of the landscape is to maximize theatricality while prolonging her life. The evolution of the genre shows that time is further and further stretched in the border-­crossing scene; the original hasty crossing action becomes a long extension of her recitation, singing, dancing, and ritualistic actions, all to buy her more time in this earthly world. As shown in later discussion (chapter 4 and conclusion), she literally stretches one or two high-­pitched notes in her climactic singing before the end of the scene and the end of her life. The thin, lingering, extreme feminine sound, penetrating the sky, shows both her feminine frailty (in dramatic life) and her virtuosic strength (in live performance); the world has to stop to watch and listen to her taking her last beautiful and sensational breaths. She does not flee from her gendered destiny; she artfully embraces it with ultimate theatrical femininity to demonstrate her power in the spotlight. While she is not in control of her body or her fate in the play, she is in charge of the ultimate attention of the orchestra and the audience at that dramatic moment because she is in command of the stolen time. The tempo rubato is only allowed in the borderland and she is paying back her temporal debt with cutting her life short. Furthermore, her evergreen tomb in the bleak desert symbolizes her virtuous transcendence of time. A woman’s time in border-­crossing drama is either suspended or as eternity; she defies time with her life and theatricality. Despite her spatial and gender confinement, a woman exists outside of time. The dramatic border-­crossing action has turned a regular place into a space (borderland) where time can be altered, and common logic is surrendered for the sake of theatrical pathos and gendered nationalism.

Introduction 11

Extending the concept of place/space of de Certeau, Chaudhuri and Fuchs bring landscape into the discussion in Land/Scape/Theater: “Landscape is more grounded and available to visual experience than space, but more environmental and constitutive of the imaginative order than place. It is inside space, one might say, but contains place. Landscape has particular value as a mediating term between space and place.”37 In the Western theatrical tradition, landscape offers a romantic rebellion against logocentrism. Gertrude Stein connects landscape with theater in a unique way. Conceptualized as landscape, Stein’s theater goes beyond narration, description, and dialogue; words and emotions can be arranged as landscape. “Landscape is a way of seeing, the imposition of a point of view upon nature.”38 Artaud imagines a total transformation from a text-­based theater to mise en scène, in which sight and sound, the physical and metaphysical, are used to appeal to the senses prior to psychology.39 The rebellion of both Stein and Artaud is deeply rooted in the revulsion against the “Occidental” text-­based theater. Since the convention of Chinese theater forbids the extensive use of painted scenery or realistic set pieces, the landscape scene can only be actualized on stage in stylized singing and movement. Rather than shaping the play as a landscape painting like what Stein would do, Chinese writers follow the long tradition of “frontier poetry” to depict the harshness of the landscape and loneliness of the heart in songs.40 The masculine war-­related frontier poetry is modified to allow for a feminine viewpoint. Outdoor scenes in traditional Chinese theater are not uncommon, but are usually about tamed and confined nature, such as a beautiful garden that a young maiden appreciates. Such scenes fulfill the romanticism associated with nature (flowers and butterflies) and showcase her charming dance movements (catching butterflies with a fan). Borderland landscape is a completely different genre. The embodied transformation from being in the protected nature to the wild no-­ man’s land provides fascinating theatricality and countless possibilities for specialized dance movements. The rugged terrain and harsh weather dictate unique techniques such as handling a horse or dealing with sandstorm and wild winds, which the delicate Han Chinese ladies are not accustomed to at all; the affect of invasive barbaric sound or smell, expressed in the character’s singing, heightens the border-­crossing tension and theatricality. The embodied landscape is a way of depicting the border-­crossing trans-­action: from comfortable royal carriage to strenuous horse riding, from luxury south to bleak north, from Chinese civilization to Xiongnu barbarism. It is also a

12

uncrossing the borders

way of imaging the hybridized ethnicity and culture that would be a result of border crossing, the product of the borderland. The special physicalization of the landscape with a woman’s body, dictated by the theatrical convention with seamless integration of singing, speaking, dancing, and instrumentation, contributes to the unique and indispensable theatricality that guarantees the popularity and longevity of the genre. From an ecocentric point of view, the unique Chinese total theater approach gives border-­crossing drama a new meaning. The border-­crossing scene with embodied landscape is what Lawrence Buell would call “environmental text,” which does not prioritize human beings or human interests but connects human history with natural history, human accountability with environment and ethics. Through embodiment, all elements from the border environment become coactors, so the laborious human crossings are nothing more than markings on the desert sand, and even the human remains will turn into dust. But the evergreen grass on the tomb of the Chinese heroine—­the symbol of Chinese female chastity and patriotism and the stubborn icon that defies time and biodegradation—­becomes not only a statement of Han chauvinism but also a form of “ecological colonization”41 that has altered the border landscape and impacted the environment forever.

Contextualizing Self and Other: Internal Orientalism as a Form of Chinese Nationalism The most common term for China, zhongguo (中國, which is made up of zhong 中, “central” or “middle,” and guo 國, “country” or “state”) has a long history, but exactly what it means when one uses zhongguo to refer to a territorial, historical, ethnic, or cultural identity varies drastically at any given historical moment.42 For instance, the word guo, which refers to nation-­state in modern times, is best imagined as a state under the empire in premodern times. Although multiculturalism is celebrated in modern China, only the Han 漢 (the majority) in the premodern period was considered the real Chinese and the Han China the real China. The other ethnic groups, which occupy the geographical margins of today’s Chinese territory, were considered China’s cultural and ethnic other, the foreign barbarians surrounding the true Chinese. Therefore, despite the territorial change or dynastic transition, the idea of a “central state” was held dearly in premodern China, no matter where this state was positioned. In discussing the border-­crossing

Introduction 13

relations in premodern China, I invoke a Han chauvinist tone when I use terms like China/Chinese (Han) and barbarian (minorities). As Ernest Renan suggests, even race is something that can be made and unmade, so the purity of the Chinese/Han race was not always easy to maintain.43 Whether it was an official policy or simply a means of survival, Chinese and non-­Chinese coexisted, intermarried, and exerted strong cultural and economic influences on each other throughout history. Hence the Chinese/non-­Chinese distinction is based more on ideological, cultural, temporal, and political identification than on race alone. Only when China was threatened with the loss of its sovereignty and identity did the clear distinction between Chinese and non-­Chinese become urgent. An imagined political community, or an invented Chinese nation, is necessary whenever an autonomous China ceases to exist.44 This imagined nation is limited by self-­defined boundaries, as it needs other nations surrounding it to serve as a foil and to demonstrate its sovereignty.45 At these moments, when the border between China and its Other becomes sacred and the action of border crossing becomes problematic, border-­crossing drama thrives. It is probably more accurate to describe this type of mentality as a form of quasi-­Orientalism, or a Chinese version of the Saidian Orientalism, rather than the Western conception of nationalism, which is often paired with European Enlightenment.46 Under certain historical circumstances, the Chinese treated the ethnic Other as a homogeneous group of barbarians, which helped the Chinese define themselves through the “contrasting image, idea, personality, experience” of the barbaric Other.47 Such a simplistic view also conflates all ethnic minorities and sees them interchangeable: in border-­crossing drama, the costume, language, or mannerism of the conventional barbarians are often “updated” to reflect the current national threat, so the stage presence of barbarians might be a discordant picture of language and costume from different ethnicities and periods. This ideology not only defines Chinese cultural and ethnic supremacy and eternity, it also projects an ideal Chinese nation that does not and cannot really exist. The assumed central and supreme position of Chinese constructs a map where China is always the center of the universe, surrounded by different barbarian groups who are inferior to and thus lust for Chinese civilization. Therefore, civilization and humanity end at the border, and only chaos lies beyond. It is important to visualize this imaginary map in order to understand and appreciate border-­crossing drama.48 The words for “barbarian” in Chinese are traditional condescending

14

uncrossing the borders

words for non-­Han ethnic groups, such as hu 胡, fan 番, man 蠻 and yi 夷. The “barbarians” involved in border-­crossing drama are mainly the northern tribes, the Hu 胡 or the Xiongnu 匈奴, generally identified with the Huns who terrorized Europe. Geographically, today’s Mongolia and part of Siberia were considered the Hu land, and the Great Wall served as the general border. Therefore, leaving the pass (chusai) and entering the pass (rusai) are the synonyms of border-­crossing action in premodern China. The Xiongnu had a long history of interaction with Han Chinese, and because of their great military power they often posed a threat to their southern neighbor. Chinese policy toward the Xiongnu, depending on political needs, varied from military aggression to pacification with beauty and gold. All the border-­crossing characters are historical individuals from the Han dynasty (206 BC–­AD 220), when China began sending women of the royal family to serve as brides to the Xiongnu rulers.49 This kind of intercultural marriage, based on the exchange of beauty and status for peace, provides the basic plot structure for border-­crossing drama. Tension between China and its northern barbarian neighbors never ceased. Non-­Chinese groups ruled over parts of China during various periods, but it was not until the Yuan dynasty (1277–­1367) that northern forces, the Mongols, galloped south and occupied the whole of China, staying for about ninety years. A similar occupation was repeated in the Qing dynasty (1644–­1911) by the Manchus, an ethnic group originating in northeastern Asia. The literature and drama of these two periods provide abundant material for studying Chinese nationalist thinking, and the urgent need for a nationalist discourse explains the flourishing of border-­crossing drama under these dynasties. After the Opium Wars, a different type of barbarian—­the powerful and unfathomable Western imperialists—­pounded the Chinese shores and pushed forward the concept of modernity. Around the establishment of the Republic of China in 1912, a new sense of “China,” with a modern Western conceptualization of nation-­state and an inclusive ethnic makeup, became necessary as part of the Chinese modernization project. Zhonghua minzu 中 華民族 (Chinese ethnicity or Chinese nation) was a new term to represent everyone on the imaginary map mentioned above. The foreign barbarians surrounding China in the premodern period were internalized and became ethnic minorities within modern China.50 As the ethnic and cultural borders were deliberately eliminated based on political ideology, border-­crossing drama took on a new mission: instead of marginalizing the ethnic Other,

Introduction 15

it became a way to address multiculturalism in the nascent modern nation. With a new spin, Chinese nationalism is still at work with the centuries-­old border-­crossing drama. After the ROC-­PRC split in 1949, the term zhongguo (central-­nation; China) or zhongguoren (central-­nation-­people; Chinese) became problematic, mainly because of the word guo, which signifies “nation-­state” with total sovereignty in the modern linguistic and political context. While the English term “Chinese” can mean a sort of apolitical and pancultural/ethnic identification, zhongguoren is politically contested and often rejected by people from Taiwan or Hong Kong because of their disidentification with the “guo” (PRC regime), which is often forced upon them because of China’s wish for the ultimate reunification of all “Chinese” nations. The political situation for pan-­Chinese has become much more complicated in the new millennium. First of all, the rise of Chinese capitalism has created a new economic hegemony. The new relation between China and the adjacent “Chinese” nations is both military tension and economic interdependence. Secondly, after the “return” of Hong Kong and Macau in the late 1990s, the autonomy of Taiwan is threatened. Finally, as the national borders are disappearing during numerous transnational collaborations and technological advancement, new types of ideological and portable borders are being formed during transnational transactions. Border-­crossing rhetoric takes on a new meaning in this new era to address today’s “Chinese problems.”

Gendered Nationalism and Gendered Pathos The archetypal character for the border-­crossing drama is Wang Zhaojun 王昭君, a court lady of the Han dynasty who married the chieftain of the Xiongnu in 33 BC to secure peace for China. Curiously, when Wang Zhaojun first appears as a dramatic character, in the Yuan dynasty during the Mongol occupation, she no longer wishes to consummate the peace-­alliance marriage because she is now the emperor’s favorite concubine; her border-­ crossing action is interrupted by her suicide. Chinese patriotism pushes her forward to the borderland, but the patriarchal tradition cannot tolerate her marrying a barbaric chieftain, especially at a moment when the real barbarians, the Mongols, have crushed the border and occupied China. Suicide seems the best escape from her quandary. Marcel Mauss analyzes the dominant roles gift giving and reciprocation

16

uncrossing the borders

play in archaic societies. The repayment of the gift is obligatory to ensure the cycle of reciprocity in social intercourse.51 As a form of exchange, marriages between families, clans, tribes, or even countries establish alliances between the male members of both sides by turning women into objects of exchange. Exchange through marriage is a basic feature of kinship structures in any human society as theorized by Engels and Lévi-­Strauss.52 Linking this kind of trafficking in women and female oppression, Gayle Rubin points out that in a society where men benefit from the exchange of women, women become merely a conduit of relationship rather than a partner in it; they do not have full rights to themselves.53 In Wang Zhaojun’s case, the process of gift exchange is interrupted by her suicide, but reciprocity is miraculously achieved: the Xiongnu chieftain surrenders, offering his gift of peace and establishing an alliance with China, although he has not received his own prize, the bride. A little Han chauvinist and nationalist twist is needed to provide a satisfactory ending: her sacrifice is a token of Chinese virtue and superiority, which will enlighten the barbarian king and guarantee the completion of the gift-­exchange process. Instead of her actual body, it is the alibi of her body that becomes a form of symbolic capital as the object of exchange in the intercultural transaction for peace.54 Lydia Liu draws a comparison between the violation of a woman’s body by foreign intruders and the violation of a nation in her study of the Chinese novel in the 1930s, pointing out that the raped woman’s body was often used in anti-­Japanese propaganda. When the nation is at stake, as when China was suffering from the Japanese invasion, “the crime of rape does not acquire meaning unless it is committed by foreign intruders.”55 This kind of allegorical meaning of the woman’s body in a time of turmoil is exactly what Wang Zhaojun’s body symbolizes in border-­crossing drama. Without the urgency of the potential rape by foreign barbarians, her body (and therefore her suicide) would lose its significance and theatricality. Other dramatic characters who cross the border and then return receive a different sort of treatment from playwrights. In plays featuring these characters, the solid border that guards Chinese nationalism and patriarchy in Wang Zhaojun plays becomes permeable. Cai Yan 蔡琰 (fl. 194?–­206?), a widow and great poet, was captured by Xiongnu marauders and married to a Xiongnu lord. Erudite and musically talented, she was brought back to China by the court to produce an heir for her father’s family because her father was a good friend of the prime minister. Sadly, her children with the Xiongnu lord, considered barbarians, had to be left behind. In drama, it is

Introduction 17

her ability to continue her father’s scholastic work that wins her the right to return home, but she is nevertheless criticized harshly for permitting the violation of her chastity and for her shameful survival­. It is often implied that she should have followed Wang Zhaojun’s example by killing herself at the point of abduction. On the other hand, men are not restricted by such gender rhetoric in border-­crossing drama. The male general Su Wu 蘇武 (?–­60 BC) stayed among the Xiongnu for nineteen years (100–­81 BC) after a failed peace mission; he was imprisoned by the Xiongnu chieftain and married a Xiongnu woman, but was nonetheless honored for his patriotism by the Chinese emperor when he finally returned home. Li Ling 李陵 (?–­74 BC), another male general, put on a fierce fight against the Xiongnu troops but lost the battle; he was forced to remain with the Xiongnu for the rest of his life. Nevertheless, in both historical and literary writings Li Ling is often presented as a sympathetic character. Gender conceptions condition moral judgments of intercultural marriages. Since a woman’s chastity is the ultimate virtue and allegorical nationalism, Wang Zhaojun wins praise for her suicide and Cai Yan invites blame for her survival. As men, whose heroism is not affected by their interracial marriage, both Su Wu and Li Ling married Xiongnu women but still received sympathetic treatment by the literati. Their barbarian wives actually add sensational and exotic theatricality in drama. Although the strict border in Wang Zhaojun’s story has become porous for all three other characters, a “portable border” of shame accompanies Cai Yan through her life.56 Nationalism is the historical and political background, but it is the gendered nationalism that forms the basic ideology of the genre. National urgency (impending war) prompts the inferior gender to take on the border-­crossing peace mission, because Chinese patriotic masculinity has lost its effectiveness. The dramatic action immediately slows down, however, as soon as she enters the borderland. With suspended time and undivided attention, the best drama happens in the stymied period of nonaction while she musters her strength to extend her last breath before the beautiful suicide. Home and civilization have been left behind; the border is in sight but almost never reached. The borderland is the liminal space between Chinese and the Xiong­nu, between civilization and chaos, between life and death. The neither/nor liminality offers tremendous potential for either/or theatricality. For instance, Wang Zhaojun would bid farewell to the Han (Chinese) and change into the Xiongnu (barbarian) outfit, but her superficial ethnic transformation would never be complete because the newly acquired

18

uncrossing the borders

Xiongnu contamination cannot erase her Chinese feminine virtue, which is required to bring closure to the play. Theatrically, the double ethnicity adds exotic appeal and the rape potential heightens the dramatic tension; the affective invasion of barbaric sound and smell and the rough landscape further intensify the border-­crossing action. All these also give her extraordinary excuses for tantalizing singing and dancing. The negation of both ethnicities confines her in the liminal space of nonnation, nonethnicity, nonplace but accentuates her femininity. “She is nothing but a woman!” (a negative comment on Cai Yan, chapter 2). In this either/or and neither/nor vacuum with rubato, she seems to have all the liberty and power. As theatrical convention determines aesthetics and mimesis, however, her best bet is to fully play her part (as her role type) in order for anyone to listen to her. She does not usurp a male register in her singing; she maximizes her femininity with delicate singing and dancing and sensational suicide. With the pathetic and alluring femininity she speaks and sings and audience listens attentively and creatively; her eloquence and strength expressed in conventional singing and embodiment is the first step of her resistance. The borderland is the perfect stage for her solo feminine performance and resistance. As the genre evolves, the sensational feminine pathos through death often becomes the real draw of the genre, even at times when the nation is not in danger. Wang Zhaojun continues to kill herself and Cai Yan always fails to do so, but in later variations of Su Wu drama, Su Wu’s exotic barbarian wife sometimes emulates Wang Zhaojun’s suicide when her Chinese husband returns to China. Gendered nationalism and gendered pathos guarantee the casualty of beautiful women when border-­crossing actions occur. For a nation that has relied on such fantasy of gendered nationalism for centuries, the lack of ethnic conflict and the subsequent female suicide under the banner of multiculturalism in the modern era has created tremendous anxiety (chapter 4).

History and Nationalist Rhetoric in Border-­C rossing Drama History is important in border-­crossing drama for a number of reasons. First, historical (or pseudo-­historical) characters and events make up a large portion of premodern Chinese theater repertory in general, and border-­ crossing drama, which is highly political, is particularly reliant on historical

Introduction 19

references. Second, in border-­crossing drama the nationalist rhetoric in relation to ethnicity and gender is highly dependent on historiography. Third, the consolidation of power through the control of historical accounts is an essential element in nationalist and political struggles. Fourth, drama, which is often fragmented, neglected, or even condemned, contrary to the linearity and authority of history, can legitimize itself by serving as an alternative form of history. Finally, the dramatic characters’ decisions are often deeply influenced by their knowledge of history and their desire to become part of history. Women, who are usually excluded from history, often declare their desire to be recorded in history as their reason to die. But what is history or historical writing in the context of border-­crossing drama? Hayden White writes about historians’ “emplotment” of real events, which is not so different from what novelists do. Historical writing, which appears to be an objective and scientific discipline, can in fact be seen as a kind of rhetoric that results in “literary artifacts.”57 Historiography, according to Michel de Certeau, is indeed a paradox or oxymoron because of its relation between the real and the discourse. Moreover, the making of history needs to be legitimized by “a political power which creates a space proper (a walled city, a nation, etc.) where a will can and must write (construct) a system (a reason articulating practices).”58 This is similar to the general belief of historiography in premodern China: on the one hand, official historiography is usually worshiped as an orthodox form of knowledge. Court historians are seen as the embodiment of justice and righteousness, hence the texts are treated as the ultimate truth and rarely challenged. Allusions to the integrity of past historians further legitimize the contemporary writer and reinforce the orthodox history.59 The concept of linearity is also important; despite dynastic changes, the authoritative voice continues without interruption and compromise. On the other hand, the common saying “the winners are crowned kings, losers damned bandits” (Chengzhe wei wang, baizhe wei kou 成者為王, 敗者為寇) clearly indicates the understanding of the close connection between orthodox knowledge and political legitimacy. While the official voice of the historian was imagined to be continued, Chinese history was interrupted by the foreign regime in the Yuan dynasty, and an even greater interruption was the Mongol government’s abolishment of the imperial examination (keju). This elaborate test on Chinese classics had determined the literary canon and functioned as a major pathway for intellectuals to the civil service system since the Sui dynasty (589–­618). This major means for Chinese intellectuals to achieve fame and fortune, how-

20

uncrossing the borders

ever, was generally not practiced under Mongol rule.60 The elite knowledge of history and classics was deprived of its cultural capital and economic value, which might have contributed to the flourishing of drama in the Yuan dynasty. Stage, instead of paper, became the perfect venue for these exam-­ deprived literati to showcase their literary talent and to engage in a form of alternative history writing.61 What does it mean when literati altered history in border drama in the Yuan dynasty, when the linear Chineseness was interrupted? Writing about China, Prasenjit Duara distinguishes “History,” which secures and falsifies the nation as a self-­same unity evolving through time, from “history,” which includes other modes of figuring the past.62 Besides historical continuity, a whole body of symbols, devices, and knowledge also have to be invented, whether through “semi-­fiction” or “forgery.”63 Duara’s criticism of many postcolonial historians’ adoption of the Enlightenment model to recount national history sheds light on Chinese literati’s belief in the orthodox historical tradition. The orthodox historiography (History) that forms the foundation of Chineseness allows literati to see themselves as the subject of this continuous historical development of China, and their invention (history), which is treated as the new truth in the dramatic linearity, should be ultimately acknowledged as part of “History.” Moreover, such invented dramatic history has tremendous dramaturgical power in border-­crossing drama: it is the raison d’être for the characters’ sacrifice. Characters recite history, emulate history, and express their desire to be included in history; they both re-­enact history and continue writing history through vocalization and embodiment. The invented history continues, strengthened by characters’ faith and action, and reincarnates in the next border-­crossing play cycle. Despite its elite connection or association with imperial court entertainment, premodern Chinese theater also had close relations with the populace. Public performances often took place in teahouses, marketplaces, or entertainment quarters, while private troupes often implied sexual relations between actors and their patrons. Theater, despite its elevated language and heightened morality, could still be considered a form of trivial or low-­ranking knowledge, compared to poetry or essay writing. The pseudo-­orthodox history in elite drama, reiterated by local playwrights and then consumed, regurgitated, and recirculated by the populace, has become what Foucault considers subjugated knowledge, a form of “naive knowledges, located low down on the hierarchy, beneath the required level of cognition or scientificity.” Foucault uses the term le savoir des gens (popular knowledge) to refer to

Introduction 21

this kind of local, disqualified knowledge “whose validity is not dependent on the approval of the established regimes of thought.”64 Appropriating an art form from the realm of low-­ranking knowledge, literati proved their power by displaying their knowledge of orthodox history and inventing a new history in plays. Their possession of both elite and low-­ranking knowledge and their free play between these two forms of knowledge further demonstrated their power; they assumed for themselves the freedom to cross the borders between orthodox and invented histories, between high and low cultures. Therefore, invented history, such as the death of Wang Zhaojun, with the elite playwrights’ free play, is what Homi K. Bhabha would describe as a performative discourse that narrates the nation: “meanings may be partial because they are in medias res; and history may be half-­made because it is in the process of being made; and the image of cultural authority may be ambivalent because it is caught, uncertainly, in the act of ‘composing’ its powerful image.”65 Wang Zhaojun’s beautiful death is invented in drama, worshiped by other dramatic characters as truth, and consumed by the populace generation after generation. Over time, such distilled “history” is morphed into “History” and reincorporated by later playwrights as they recreate history in their plays. As she continues to kill herself, the border and history are in the process of being made and remade, and the nation narrated and reconstructed. Although le savoir des gens of border-­crossing drama was returned to the populace when local drama flourished in the nineteenth century, gendered nationalism nevertheless remained vital in this genre. Power was exercised through an act of stage violence: the female body is either sacrificed in a liminal space or controlled by state-­sanctioned multiculturalism. It was not until recent decades, when traditional Chinese theater was in rapid decline and when women began to participate in the discourse production, that an alternative voice emerged to challenge the status quo of border-­(un)crossing.

Troubled Gender in Border-­C rossing Drama Anyone who does not follow the rules of a given sociological and political economy causes trouble. Border-­crossing drama generally operates under the patriarchal economy, what Gayle Rubin identifies as “obligatory heterosexuality and constraint of female sexuality”;66 therefore, a woman who rebels against her “object” role—­by returning a glance, reversing the gaze, or

22

uncrossing the borders

contesting the authority of the masculine “subject”—­is asking for trouble.67 Following the gender, political, and sociological rules prescribed to her in traditional border-­crossing drama, Wang Zhaojun kills herself to prevent her body from being stained by barbarians, while Su Wu returns home triumphantly after putting aside his barbarian wife. They are the ideal border-­ crossing characters. Even the conventional Cai Yan, who regrets her inability to commit suicide and lives on in shame, can be considered a good foil for Wang Zhaojun and thus qualified to gain a respectable position in border-­ crossing drama. In order to provide a clear picture of “perfect gender” in border-­crossing drama, however, I will point out a number of exceptions: the unconventional Wang Zhaojun in The Words of the Pipa (ca. 1830), the defiant Cai Yan in The Daughter of Zhonglang (ca. 1661) and The Pipa, Continued (1658–­1712), both characters in The Dialogue at the Green Mound (2006), and Li Ling and Su Wu in Returning to Heliang (ca. 1830). The unconventional Wang Zhaojun renounces her femininity and her womanhood by becoming a Taoist nun (and later an immortal), thus rebelling against the Confucian patriarchal doctrine. In traditional Confucian culture, a woman gains her position in society by fulfilling her filial and familial obligations. In China, seeking a refuge in religion has a meaning very different from Christian monasticism. From the point of view of the Chinese family and society, renouncing one’s mundane duty is almost tragic, the last alternative before death. In her analysis of the butterfly genre of modern Chinese love stories, Rey Chow suggests a connection between taking religious refuge and suicide: for a woman, becoming a Buddhist or Taoist nun, and thus renouncing her sexual body, her reproductive value, and her familial duties, is “a sacrifice as complete as suicide. . . . Although she is still physically alive, her body is supposed to be forgotten and its familially signifying reproductive power deadened.”68 Becoming a nun in The Words of the Pipa is a farewell gesture to the emperor and to the world; it is her symbolic suicide. Her traditional suicide is applauded, but her symbolic suicide is troubled: it can only be considered selfish, a bid for her own peace of mind, not an attempt to preserve her chastity from the threat of foreign invasion, and definitely not an effort to save the nation. Moreover, it loses the conventional theatricality and pleasure of the genre because the tantalizing sexuality, the impending violation of her chastity, and the eroticized suicide ritual are no longer part of the play. Cai Yan’s gender trouble results from her survival. The defiant Cai Yan challenges masculine authority by means of a sort of female surplus value

Introduction 23

for biological and literary reproduction in both The Daughter of Zhonglang and The Pipa, Continued. Having crossed the geographical border between Chinese civilization and barbarism, Cai Yan attempts to go further and cross the gender border that Chinese society has prescribed for her. With extraordinary literary and musical talent, she is seen as the sole qualified person to continue the unfinished task of history writing by her father, the great scholar Cai Yong 蔡邕 (132–­92). Moreover, her procreative femininity is put to use again after recrossing the border: she is to produce a Chinese heir for her father, both literally and symbolically. Gayatri Spivak discusses the Marxist triadic relation of use value, exchange value, and surplus value with a feminist twist: in a traditional society, a woman produces more than she needs for her subsistence and is “a continual source of the production of surplus, for the man who owns her, or by the man for the capitalist who owns his labor-­power.” With “womb,” as the tangible place of production, women become a fundamental agent of human production; psychoanalysts should speak of “womb envy” instead of penis envy.69 Here Cai Yan’s surplus value goes beyond even the Spivakian notion: her fecundity can be found both in her biological procreativity and in the reproduction of her father’s literary heritage. Her womanhood and motherhood are the premises of her drama: she has to demonstrate her femininity and motherly love just for the sake of losing them. In order to regain her Chineseness, she has to sever her barbarian connections by leaving her Xiongnu husband and children behind; her motherly jouissance is not only feminine but also barbaric.70 The parting scene on the other side of the border has a pathetic effect similar to that of Wang Zhaojun’s farewell to the Chinese emperor. Since she cannot possess her children, her original procreativity does not have any value in China,71 unless she marries a Chinese man and produces Chinese children. In some modern Cai Yan plays, it is her Xiongnu husband who grants her permission to marry a Chinese man and possess her children (chapter 4). Cai Yan’s assumption of her father’s scholarly enterprise can be seen as her entrance to the Symbolic in the Lacanian concept, or, to History, the Chinese equivalent of the Symbolic, but her border-­crossing action has added ethnic complexity. Since she is not just a woman, but specifically a Chinese woman, her situation in both systems is problematic. Identifying with her father means identifying with her Chinese Father (History), and forsaking her own motherly/barbaric jouissance, which ironically is the drama of her plays, is the prerequisite for her entry to the Chinese symbolic. Even with

24

uncrossing the borders

her fecundity, literary and music talent, and the careful restoration of her ethnicity and gender role in the Chinese Symbolic, she is still reminded of her portable border of moral inferiority and shameful survival. The female gender is doubly troubled as the two characters meet in a modern play The Dialogue at the Green Mound (2006) by Wang An-­Ch’i, one of the most influential female playwrights of Chinese opera today. This type of anachronic encounter between the two characters has occurred in Mourning the Pipa in the seventeenth century, but in premodern border-­ crossing drama, any type of cross-­reference to Wang Zhaojun almost always works as a shaming device in the story of Cai Yan. In The Dialogue at the Green Mound, the two characters meet on equal footing and Wang Zhaojun’s original story of peace-­alliance marriage is restored. Like sharing secrets in girls’ talks, they chat about their marital lives and speak about the motherly jouissance, something that goes beyond patriarchal, patriotic, ethnic, or ethical conceptualizations, something so basically human but that only mothers can understand. In the secret space shared by these two women, the female body is no longer an object waiting to be violated so to serve as a spokesperson for patriarchy; it is something to be enjoyed by herself! Both women challenge their stature in traditional drama. More than simply returning the gaze, these female characters rewrite history through the celebrated contemporary female playwright. Zhou Leqing, the author of The Words of the Pipa, also wrote Returning to Heliang (Heliang gui 河梁歸), which depicts Li Ling’s homecoming. The major part of the play is about Su Wu’s mission to bring Li Ling home and the deep friendship between the two men. From their character traits, manners, and language, one can easily interpret their relationship as homoerotic. Similar to the all-­female haven, the Taoist sisterhood in The Words of the Pipa, the male homoeroticism here opens up a possible entry to a queer utopic space. Instead of gendered nationalism, which operates with a strict heteronormative code, queer utopia offers an alternative ending without any casualties. Despite the cultural and temporal differences, José Esteban Muñoz’s queer utopia strikes a chord with Zhou Leqing’s unconventional imagination in these two plays and offers a sense of hope: “Queerness is an ideality. . . . Queerness is that thing that lets us feel that this world is not enough, that indeed something is missing. . . . Queerness is essentially about the rejection of a here and now and an insistence on potentiality and concrete possibility for another world.”72

Introduction 25

Gendered Voice: Strategic Writing, Reading, and Listening It is necessary to discuss the gendered voice in the Chinese literary tradition. In China, early writing (at least most documented writing) is largely done by masculine hand. While the official or historical writing all appears masculine, poetry writing often seems feminine. As early as in “The Nine Songs” (ca. third century BC) we find apparently male authors adopting feminine voices and stances in their writing. Very often, this borrowing of woman’s voice serves political purposes. When a court lady longs for the king’s visit, a beauty waits for her lover’s return, or a virtuous wife laments that her husband has been seduced by worldly sins, these female images are regularly read as political allegories for a loyal subject who awaits the emperor’s recognition. Another feminine voice appears in “palace-­style poetry” (gongti shi 宮體詩, beginning ca. AD fifth century), a feminine poetic genre whose authors are largely male; later in the lyric (ci 詞) tradition, it is also common for male authors to assume female singers’ voices in the writing of songs. Although these kinds of writing embody women’s voices, they are literary genres mostly created by male writers. In other words, apparently gendered Chinese texts are often deceptive; even ostensibly feminine writings are largely produced by males. One can draw a connection between the male writers’ feminine writing and male actors’ female impersonation; both are well-­established conventions in China and often considered superior to women’s writing and acting. Wang Zhaojun’s theatrical trope can easily be plugged into the deep-­ rooted literary tradition: the country is weak, the emperor is misguided by corrupted officials and cannot see the true beauty, she waits for the emperor’s recognition, the emperor regrets his late realization, and so forth. The Cold Palace, where all the rejected beauties reside in solitude and desolation, is like the unjust exam system that cannot recognize the truly talented scholars. The political allegory, expressed by a feminine voice, was apparent under Mongol-­ruled China. Although Wang Zhaojun’s literary and metaphoric “voice” is well adopted throughout history by male literati, it is not clear whether her real voice was ever recorded. The only poem attributed to her in an early song collection has the theme on nostalgia, but the authorship cannot be verified (chapter 1). Cai Yan, on the other hand, is well known for her literary and musical

26

uncrossing the borders

talent. Two types of writing are attributed to her: official (a continuation of her father’s unfinished task in the orthodox historical and literary tradition) and personal (poems about her personal feelings). Can her writing qualify as écriture feminine (feminine writing)? Feminine writing, according to Hélène Cixous, is not necessarily done by women, and, as a matter of fact, since women usually follow the masculine rules, most women adopt a masculine writing style.73 Although it is difficult to define feminine writing, it is something close to volcanic automatic writing, with newly invented language, images, and rhetoric, and importantly, it is outside of the masculine tradition of discourse, the phallogocentric economy.74 Cai Yan’s historical writing is not only within the Symbolic Order, it is often emphasized as the best “reproduction” of her father’s writing and superior to other contemporary male writers’ works. In other words, her official or historical writing—­if indeed she has helped compile the history of the previous dynasty—­would blend in seamlessly with that of other male historians. Her famous poetry, with heart-­rending lines about motherly love and human cruelty, raise other concerns: traditionally, these poems are seen as her genuine expression of her sorrow, although they follow the poetic style discussed above. Modern scholars also question the authenticity and authorship of these poems, which makes the discussion of gendered writing even more complicated.75 In drama, her literary talent does not save her from being a victim of phallogocentrism. The masculinity of her writing foregrounds the femininity of her body; her female body also disqualifies her from being a literary contestant in the Chinese Symbolic (women were not allowed to take the imperial examination). Although she always goes through a quasi-­religious process of repenting for her sins or even attempting suicide, her irreparably violated body, her defiant attitude, and her self-­confidence bring her multiple humiliations. If indeed all these border-­crossing writings, include Cai Yan’s, cannot be proved to be done by any female writer, do we discredit all the genuine human feelings that resonate with many women’s tragic stories throughout history? If a beautiful maiden’s longing can be accepted as political allegory for a talented scholar based on the literary convention, why can’t a mother’s wailing, despite by a male hand, be embraced by the female readers, spectators, actors, and artists? The raw emotion of motherly love and war horror, I would argue, generates much pathos that is deeply connected to human nature, though it might appear less spectacular than Wang Zhaojun’s suicide. It is clear that some of the feminine voices, perhaps all written by

Introduction 27

men and sometimes performed by men, has had an accumulated effect on women who have read and listened attentively and creatively for that specific feminine resonance. Feminine listening perhaps is even more important when feminine writing or singing is impossible. Feminine listening is creative acoustemology.76 By identifying the void and silence, exploring the undertone and overtone (xianwai zhiyin 弦外之音), and creatively finding resonance philosophically and diachronically, female audiences would locate the feminine voice by crossing the borders of gender hierarchy and artistic convention. It was not until the modern era did women actively participate in the creative process of border-­crossing drama, and finally they are ready to speak, loud and clear (chapter 4).

Music and Border-­C rossing Drama This book is by no means a work of music or (ethno)musicology, but some theoretical framework on music helps solidify my theory of gendered nationalism and border crossing. I address two aspects of music in this book: a unique conceptualization and connection of music and humanity in Chinese thoughts in general, and the specific dramaturgical function of music, which means treating specific moments of music as plot devices or as a genesis of affect. Ultimately, these two aspects work together—­philosophically and dramaturgically—­to make border-­crossing drama resonate with life, and music with humanity. When discussing music in relation to borderland, hybridity or cross-­ fertilization at the borderland is often the topic of analysis, such as Galit Saada-­Ophir’s work on borderland pop (Arab Jewish music in Israel)77 or Guillermo Gomez-­Peña’s “Rock en Español” as his portable la frontera identity. This type of “sonic geographies” is written “about, from and on” both sides of the border.78 Colony is another form of contact zone where hybridized music is formed, such as shown in Mhoze Chikowero’s discussion on the complicated relationship between colonial and indigenous, missionary and tribal, identity performance and musical expressions in Zimbabwe.79 Despite the power imbalance, music in both types of contact zone is a product of mestizaje. What we understand as “Chinese music” or “national music” (guoyue) today is naturally tainted with non-­Chineseness (non-­Han) throughout history; my discussion in chapter 1 shows the barbaric origins of the pipa 琵琶 and its nomadic implications. Imagined by Chinese lite-

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uncrossing the borders

rati through the lens of gendered nationalism, however, music in the ideal border-­crossing drama represents the sacredness of her ethnicity and chastity; the exotic tint of the pipa nevertheless contributes to the popularity of the genre. For the tainted Cai Yan, the zither (qin 琴, Han) and reed pipe (jia 笳, Xiongnu) are both associated with her (chapter 2). While there is no ambiguity in the ethnic representations, we often see the mingling of two in poetic and dramatic traditions to represent Cai Yan’s hybridized identity. Even more intriguing is her incorporation of the reed pipe in the songs she writes for the zither; she never plays the barbaric instrument or writes reed pipe music; she only appropriates it. As seen in an earlier section on ecological colonialism, this could be seen as a form of musical appropriation and musical colonialism. Barbaric and exotic, the reed pipe contributes to Cai Yan’s grand intercultural music scheme, which is a form of peace-­alliance through marginalization of the Other. While the Green Mound is stationary (ecological colonialism), reed pipe music is as portable as Cai Yan’s gender border. The form of Han chauvinism remains wherever the Chinese heroine goes. Representing the local/marginal as a token in a larger discourse of nationalism is a strategy commonly deployed in modern China.80 Note that even though music “underscores” every play under the umbrella of premodern border-­crossing drama, the music from nanxi 南戲, zaju 雜劇, chuanqi 傳奇, and multiple regional dramas (difangxi 地方戲), the distinctive dramatic genres of a few hundred years belongs to diverse musical traditions, and generalizing them as Chinese music is as erroneous as imagining traditional Chinese theaters as Chinese opera.81 Western music analytical frames such as “topic” could be potentially helpful in providing some cross-­referential meaning for this vast body of diverse music, but such a Herculean task would distract from my focus on theatricalized gendered nationalism.82 Unlike Western classical music or opera, “composers” for traditional Chinese theater are largely unknown in premodern times: literati incorporate their poetry and stories into existing tunes, rearranging old tunes and perhaps writing certain new tunes; sometimes music is created collaboratively; sometimes genres are cross fertilized. A large amount of music is also lost, partially because of the nature of oral transmission (little music notation survived in early periods). Because of the distinctive nature of music in traditional Chinese theater, instead of taking an approach of (Western) opera or (ethno)musicology, I find it more productive to focus on the dramaturgical function of music in border-­crossing drama. The emphasis

Introduction 29

is not on how music is played or sounded but on how music is imagined as a tool of unique power and affect within the play. Music is theatricalized as a character, actualized as a superpower, visualized as a prop. Music is part of the mise en scène. For instance, while the pipa is probably part of the Chinese orchestra in premodern theater, it is used more as a prop than a real instrument played on stage in border-­crossing plays. Stage direction often indicates that Wang Zhaojun “acts as if playing the pipa” (zuo tanpipa ke). From video recordings of various traditional performances in the modern era, it seems that the tradition suggests that the actor only mimes playing the pipa, which sometimes is an elaborately decorated prop, not a real instrument at all. The gender aspect of music in border-­crossing drama is important. Among all the dramatic characters, only women are endowed with musical talent or with a specific instrument. As an alternative form of articulation, music compensates their silence in the phallogocentric dramatic tradition and creates a unique connection among female characters. And yet, with a cross-­dressing convention that is “free” and the origin of music (and sometimes of arias) obscure, it is difficult to analyze the gendered music in Chinese theater as a whole.83 Feminist music theorists such as Catherine Clément and Marcia J. Citron are instrumental in identifying misogyny as a major factor in Western music canon formation, and such view can be extended when I interrogate the (de)construction of canon: music, literature, or performance canon as a whole.84 The growing field of feminist approach to opera analysis also indicates the urgency of re-­examining the gendered classical practice in Western music. Naomi André, for instance, writes about the close connection between the change of voice practice (such as from castrato to prima donna) with the higher death rate of female characters in nineteenth-­century opera. Although my focus is not on music or voice, André’s analysis resonates with my study in two aspects: the female characters (plot) are shaped by performance convention, which is closely related to socioeconomic-­political forces, and the attempt to locate the agency of the feminine despite the compelling violence against her.85 By focusing on the dramaturgical functions of music, I identify the musical moments when “drama” happens, such as the music in affective border crossings or the musical instrument as visual icons; for a woman confined in patriarchy and patriotism, it is important for her to have that transcending power and to invite the third dimension to the bilateral border crossing. For the most part, she does not overtly challenge her gender confinement—­she

30

uncrossing the borders

sings the words assigned to her by a male writer in her role type—­but her aesthetic “obeyance” is not only necessary but also advantageous since only good aesthetics (based on convention) could dictate the perimeter of the spotlight and dramatic affect. Mastering the ultimate feminine voice and tantalizing movement become the prerequisite for delivering a feminist message. Beauty begets resistance. Another important cultural aspect to consider in terms of music is the premodern conception of the close connection between sound (music) and heart (humanity). As early as in The Zuo Tradition, the concept of harmony was described as comprising diverse tastes (food) and of sounds. For the sounds, Sounds are just like flavors. The single breath, the two forms, the three genres, the four materials, the five tones, the six pitches, the seven notes, the eight airs, the nine songs—­these are used to complete one another. The clear and the muddy, the piano and the forte, the short and the long, the presto and the adagio, the somber and the joyous, the hard and the soft, the delayed and the immediate, the high and the low, the going out and coming in, the united and separate—­these are used to complement one another. The noble man listens to it and thus calms his heart. (my emphasis)86 Ancient Chinese see music in the larger philosophical and political context: music harmony calms hearts and brings peace, music serves as a signifier or an omen of the fate of a person or a state, one can even link the rhythm of music to the pulsation of humanity. Since music is closely connected to heart, understanding one’s music often equates to understanding one’s heart. The conflation of music and heart is crucial in understanding the female alliance in border-­crossing drama (more in chapters 2 and 4). While largely excluded from the Symbolic Order and History, through music connection women find an affective alternative to strengthen their collective power.

A Historical and Ideological Overview of Border-­C rossing Drama Numerous legends and poems on Wang Zhaojun existed long before the advent of dramas on her story. The first extant border-­crossing drama on

Introduction 31

Wang Zhaojun, by Ma Zhiyuan (ca. 1250–­1324) of the Yuan dynasty, did not appear until the late thirteenth century. As far as we know, he was the first playwright to keep Wang Zhaojun from crossing the border, as she had done in earlier legends. The political situation might offer a good pretext for the violence against her: this was the first era in which the whole of China was under foreign rule. Not only were the Han Chinese categorized as the lowest class among all ethnic groups,87 scholars were seen as one of the lowest professions;88 the imperial examination was generally not in practice under the Mongol rule. Surplus literary talents like Ma Zhiyuan would need to find another venue to express their frustration. The dramatic Wang Zhaojun no longer consummates her peace-­alliance marriage, because the allegorical purity of her body was especially precious when the autonomous Chinese nation had ceased to exist. Ma Zhiyuan’s ingenious dramatic invention is her suicide, which demonstrates both her patriotism and female virtue; moreover, the barbarian chieftain, enlightened by her sacrifice and her high Chinese morals, is willing to surrender to China unconditionally. A greater Chinese nation is thus established in the Yuan dramatic world through gendered nationalism. The short Mongol dynasty was soon over, and Han Chinese regained control of China in the Ming dynasty (1368–­1643). The growth of public wealth, the rise of a mercantile middle class, the advance of printing technology, and the popularization of a new dramatic form, chuanqi,89 all contributed to the flourishing of drama in this period. Border-­crossing drama rose with the high tides of Ming drama and became more popular. A few border-­crossing plays survive from this period, although the focus of these plays varies. Without the urgency of Chinese nationhood, feminine pathos seemed to be the major attraction for the Ming audiences. Through the melodramatic suicide or the pathetic survival of the female characters one can see a version of the gender theme stripped of its nationalist content. An interest in tragic femininity is universal in the theater tradition, and the female character is often “loved only when absent or abused,” as Hélène Cixoux writes.90 But there is a unique social phenomenon in this period—­an increasing rate of female suicide—­which forces us to search for a better explanation of this problem. In order to regain the Chinese culture and morality lost under the Mongol government, Ming emperors promulgated Confucian ethical codes. Among other virtuous persons, “virtuous women,” those women who met their death while resisting outrageous attack, who killed themselves when

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uncrossing the borders

widowed, or who observed lifelong widowhood, were commemorated by the government after their death, usually by erecting a tablet or an arch in a public space.91 With the advent of the print industry, books on virtuous women also became popular among women readers.92 T’ien Ju-­k’ang links male anxiety with female suicide in his study: due to changes in exam policy and an increase in the number of participants, many scholars repeatedly failed; encouraging virtuous female family members to commit suicide was, for the frustrated scholars, “an avenue of emotional escape” and a “response to special environmental stress,”93 as well as an alternative way to bring glory to a family. In some extreme cases, the ritualistic suicide was treated as public spectacle.94 Such a phenomenon is not just a coincidence or an imitation of the contemporary theatrical world; it is a substitution of it. It is a phenomenon closely linked to contemporary moral, legal, religious, and cultural beliefs, encouraged by male scholars and by the government, and echoed in the theatrical world. As more virtuous women were killing themselves on and off the Ming stage, border-­crossing drama saw a decrease in nationalist rhetoric and an increased display of ultimate femininity and almost sadistic pathos.95 Ma Zhiyuan invented a dramatic suicide to affirm his nationalist and patriarchal beliefs in the Yuan dynasty. The frustrated Ming scholars imposed violence on their women (and female characters) on and off stage, as a way of reaffirming patriarchy and masculinity. While male playwrights exercised their freedom to cross social and cultural boundaries, they confined their female characters in the borderland of feminine virtue to perform their heartbreaking suicide rituals. The Ming fell to the Manchus in 1644, and China repeated the painful history of succumbing to foreign occupation. Unlike the short stay of Mongols during the Yuan, who bluntly crushed the border and occupied China, the Manchus were much more careful in their engagements with Han Chinese, and the Qing dynasty lasted more than two and a half centuries (1644–­1911). The Manchu rulers embraced Chinese elite culture by advocating Confucianism and promoting the imperial examinations. In general, the Manchus were a much more sinicized (hanhua 漢化) ethnic group than the Mongols. Emperor Qianlong (r. 1736–­1795) had to advocate the importance of “Manchu roots” after a century of assimilation.96 At the Ming-­Qing transition, the legitimacy of this Chinese nation was challenged not only by the Manchus but also by Chinese themselves, the numerous self-­proclaimed lawful successors and bandits who crowned themselves

Introduction 33

kings. In the midst of the political turmoil caused by the Han Chinese themselves and the successful pacification policy adopted by the Manchu court, it was not easy for literati to insist on believing in a “pure” Chinese nation any more. A glimpse of border-­crossing drama in this period reveals a different kind of political attitude: Instead of compliant self-­sacrifice of the female character, an obvious compromise has to be made after a defiant critique of the Chinese government (one has to make sacrifices for one’s country even though the country does not deserve it), and the nationalist rhetoric seems to weaken and take on a sarcastic tone. In the meantime, emphasis on the miserable fate of the woman in drama becomes even more apparent. Literati in this period had more anxiety and dissatisfaction toward their government. A nationalist discourse was urgently needed, but the formation of an ideal nation was no longer possible, not even in drama. This led to a more prominent exercise of male power: no matter how unobtainable the purity of the nation was, at least the literati could still make their women die for “true” Chinese morals­, thus bringing sadistic pleasure to even greater heights. Female suicide in border-­crossing drama in this period used a more starkly sexual appeal to the audience than in previous periods, and the female characters had never been so constrained in the liminal space and in their role as “woman.” Enjoying sexual pleasure in theater was perhaps an ideal compensation for the frustrated literati and audience who underwent the turbulent political transitions. Along with other global waves, Western imperialism and colonialism affected China at the end of the Qing dynasty, and the Qing government’s inability to deal with the new invading power was one reason for the republican revolution and the end of imperial China. The tumultuous nineteenth century saw numerous large-­scaled uprisings from the masses, such as the White Lotus Rebellion (1795–­1804; 1813), the Taiping Rebellion (1850–­1864), and the Boxers Rebellion (1899–­1901). Despite distinct reasons that inspired their insurgencies, ethnic nationalism (Han vs. Manchu, Chinese vs. Westerners) seemed to play an important part in their revolutionary rhetoric. At the turn of the twentieth century, China faced both internal struggles (led by Dr. Sun Yat-­sen, among others, to overthrow the Qing) and external pressure (from Western imperialism and colonialism). Westernization vs. anti-­Western sentiment, or modernization vs. traditionalism, became the major forces behind political struggles and intellectual dialogues. Many Chinese wished to learn from Westerners to modernize China and to fight Western imperialism with their own technology; many

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uncrossing the borders

others believed that traditional Chinese culture and values offered the ultimate solution. Besides diplomatic and economic disasters brought in by the Westerners, their foreignness made them even more barbaric than Chinese ethnic minorities, who were at least familiar barbarians. Border-­crossing drama in this period had to deal with two kinds of barbarians: the internal familiar Manchus and the external unfathomable Westerners. Determining the ultimate barbarians became the central problem of the genre in this era. For this period, I will focus not on elite drama but on a set of border-­ crossing plays from local dramatic and folk traditions. While elite writing in traditional style continued during this period, the mid-­and late Qing saw the rise of multiple regional dramas. This cluster of plays represented the voice of common people, mostly from the coastal areas where the impact of Western imperialism was directly experienced. While many of the elite were promoting Western culture, politics, technology, and even theater (Western spoken drama), the local people fought to preserve their livelihood and traditional theater. Regional border-­crossing drama from this period often illustrated the debate between Westernization and anti-­Westernization, modernity and traditionalism. Rather than marginalizing Manchus, making them the contemporary equivalent of the barbarian Other, anonymous local dramatists sometimes identified Manchu rulers, the more sinicized barbarians, as “Chinese,” and the Westerners as the ultimate barbarians. Modernization/Westernization was a global force, and any anti-­modernization/ Westernization was almost always doomed to fail, partially because of the inherent paradox in the antimodernity projects: while the concept of modernity is rejected and tradition embraced, technological advances and practical “updates” are simply absorbed into daily lives. In the case of Chinese opera, the local theater world defended their Chinese identity and local theater traditions and rejected realism-­based Western spoken drama advocated by elite; but on the other hand, Western machinery and its style of staging were adopted without qualms. The protesting sentiment expressed in regional border-­crossing drama was complicated and sometimes confusing; it could also be multidirectional, toward the incompetent Manchu government, toward Westerners, and toward Chinese elite. Although these regional plays often lack high literary value and are full of historical or literary errors, “the insurrection of subjugated knowledges”97 on the local stages presented the commoners’ fights for their livelihood and national beliefs, as well as for the right to write their own histories against the orthodox national History, whose continuity was under the threat of modernity.

Introduction 35

In the midst of anticolonial and antielite struggle, an “internal colonialism” was being formed in border-­crossing drama. Feminists often criticize this kind of internal colonialism: under the urgency of nationalist movement, women’s rights are often de-­emphasized or even sacrificed.98 The local playwrights heroically defended their territory against both elite classes and the Western barbarians without sparing their atrocious violence against women. Once again, victimized women were made to demonstrate their worth by advocating nationalism and patriarchy in their bloody spectacles. Throughout premodern history, the major reasons for writing border-­ crossing drama might have changed depending on the specific historical moment and situation, but the gendered tone almost never wavered. Female casualty at the borderland is the easiest way to solve any quandary or crisis and to provide tremendous theatrical gratification. The Republic of China was founded in 1912, ending the long history of imperial China and engendering an officially “modern” and “democratic” country, or at least attempting to be one. Many concepts of Western government structure and technology were adopted, although not without opposition from conservative forces. One major change was the concept of “Chinese”: a new nationalism, modeled on the Western concept, defined the new Chinese nation as multicultural and inclusive, after the necessary process of “forgiving” and “forgetting” the ethnic and cultural conflicts that had divided the premodern China (Han majority) and barbarians (ethnic minorities) for millennia.99 This new national rhetoric—­seeing the new China as a happy multicultural family—­involved the redrawing of the map by eliminating the borders between the Han and others, as well as sinicizing other ethnic groups. In a sense, the internal colonialism, which manifests itself as Han superiority in ethnic, cultural, class, economic, and regional aspects, was more pervasive as the new Chinese nationalism developed. The “barbarians” could no longer be left alone even during peaceful times because of the disintegration of the internal borders. They were part of the master plan of progress in the new Chinese multicultural nation. No longer fierce and uncivilized, these modern internal barbarians (ethnic minorities) are often presented as naive and happy, with an exoticism that contributes to the spectacle of national multiculturalism. This type of spectacular nationalist multiculturalism is even more grandiose in the twenty-­first century when it is presented by the PRC government on the global stage. Western theater, namely the “spoken drama” (vs. traditional operatic forms), had been used by elites to advocate social change and to educate

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uncrossing the borders

the masses in the early twentieth century. But it was not until the communist government was in power in the mid-­twentieth century that drama was really put into work as the nation’s “revolution machine” on a large scale.100 Strong political ideology dominated a large part of the twentieth century in border-­crossing plays, both in spoken drama and in traditional Chinese theater. Some new operas were adaptations of these propaganda modern plays. For the first time in history, Wang Zhaojun and Cai Yan were no longer sad; they were happy cultural ambassadors for the nationalist multiculturalism! Instead of being controlled by literati as an expression of patriotism or frustration, the female body became the property of the state, even though she did not need to die. The Chinese problem has never been so troubled in history as in the new millennium. A few issues contribute to the complexity of being “Chinese” today: the internalized “barbarians” still pose social and political issues (such as autonomy and comparatively low social economic status for some ethnic minorities); the SARs’ anxiety about their ability to maintain the status quo under the PRC regime;101 the increasingly uncertain relationship between Taiwan and China under the 1992 Consensus; the direct Western involvement over the Pacific through the TPP, the dispute of the South China Sea, and the tension around the Korean Peninsula. Today’s Chinese nations, with the anxiety and confusion, hybridized and interdependent existence, and volatile political and economic climate, are formed into the transnational Chinese borderland of the new millennium. I see the anxiety about the status quo—­either maintaining it or changing it—­as a major topic of today’s border-­crossing drama. Other than the female playwrights’ challenge of gendered nationalism, there is also a sense of nostalgia for the uncrossable borders and a stance of antiglobalization.

Chapter Outlines In chapter 1 I first trace the transformation of Wang Zhaojun from a historical character into a popular figure in poetry, then look at the shocking change that occurs in drama, where her suicide is introduced and the full complement of liminal conflicts is assembled in the premodern era. As an archetypal border-­crossing character, she haunts many plays in this genre with her virtuous sacrifice. Chapter 2 focuses on Cai Yan, Su Wu, and Li Ling and their relation

Introduction 37

with the two-­way border. The porous border works well with male generals Su Wu and Li Ling, but Cai Yan must endure eternal shame because of her gender. Wang Zhaojun is constantly referenced and sometimes serves as a counter example to the characters in this group of plays. In addition, I briefly discuss Cai Yan’s writings (or writings attributed to her), which form part of the basis for her dramatic character and her troubled gender. While chapters 1 and 2 discuss the elites’ works up until the late Qing period, chapter 3 is devoted to regional border-­crossing drama by anonymous artists at the turn of the twentieth century. Western imperialism and colonialism made a strong impact on local lives and in theater, and the local effort to preserve traditional values and art forms was a major feature of this period. I have discovered many regional border-­crossing plays in various dramatic forms from this period, most of which have never been studied. Chapter 4 deals with modern and contemporary border-­crossing performances, such as the ideologically driven large costume dramas that promote ethnic harmony, modern operas, and the first border-­crossing plays written by women. In the conclusion I summarize the entire project, but I also discuss the permeation of gendered nationalism and border-­crossing themes in popular cultures today, as well as the new uses of dramatic rhetoric in real-­life political situations across the Taiwan Strait. In terms of textual and performance analyses, in chapters 1 and 2, because of the rarity of classical material, I include all the dramatic works I uncover in order to properly introduce the genre. For chapters 3 and 4, on the contrary, only the most relevant works are selected in my discussion because of the multitude of the works available. In this book, I intend to seek a balance between maintaining the Chinese literary convention and making my analysis accessible to international scholars. Since reciting, alluding, or paraphrasing the literary canon is a common practice in Chinese literary and dramatic tradition, to avoid confusion of multiple plays of the same title with similar plots, I indicate the dynasty, genre, and playwright (if available) when mentioning a play. Throughout the book, I use Chinese terms, plays, or book titles by their English translations; the Chinese original in pinyin and traditional characters (fantizi) are given when the term or title is first introduced. Similarly, when citing other non-­ English sources, I use the English translation while providing the original language in parenthesis. All translations from Chinese texts in this work are my own unless indicated otherwise. Traditional Chinese theater follows the strict rules of “role types,” hence I indicate the role type when the character

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uncrossing the borders

first appears in my discussion to help readers imagine (both visually and aurally) the performance; when possible, I also include the actors’ names. Another convention to note is that a person is often referred by multiple names in premodern era. For my analysis, I use the formal name to avoid confusion; in my translation of Chinese text, however, I follow the name in the original text but add the formal name in brackets. Finally, following the convention, I place the family name before the first name when citing Chinese or Japanese sources. Since many Chinese have the same family name, to avoid confusion I use full names when referring to authors.

Chapter One

The Performative Border Archetype Wang Zhaojun Emperor Yuan: Look at her slender willow waist dancing in the spring wind. How can you let her jade pendant dangle in the moonlight on the Green Mound, And the sound of her pipa fade in the autumn on the Black River? 您須見舞春風嫰柳宮腰瘦。 怎下的教他環佩影搖青塚月，琵琶聲斷 黑江秋? —­Autumn in the Han Palace Wang Zhaojun: One should never be a woman, whose happiness and sufferings are all generated by others! 為人莫作婦人身，百般苦樂由他人! —­A ppeasing the Barbarians

The male nationalist gaze and her own pathetic lamentation carve out the image of Wang Zhaojun王昭君 (fl. 33 BC), one of the most beloved dramatic characters and legendary figures. The evolution of Wang Zhaojun over the past two millennia illustrates a unique ideology of gendered nationalism throughout Chinese history. Tracing the development from historical accounts, literature, music, and iconography, as well as in drama, from the first century AD to the mid-­nineteenth century, I attempt to provide a picture as comprehensive as possible of the development of Wang Zhaojun, the performative archetype in Chinese border-­crossing drama.

Wang Zhaojun in History and the Peace-­A lliance Marriage The major historical sources considered to be the official history of the Han Dynasty (206 BC–­AD 220) are Records of the Grand Historian (Shiji 史記)

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by Sima Qian 司馬遷 (145 BC?–­90 BC?), The History of the Han Dynasty (Hanshu 漢書), compiled by Ban Gu 班固 (AD 32–­92), and The History of the Later Han Dynasty (Hou Han shu 後漢書), compiled by Fan Ye 范瞱 (AD 398–­445).1 The custom of marrying a Chinese woman from the royal family to the chieftain of another ethnic group is generally called “peace-­alliance marriage” (heqin 和親). This custom was well established before Wang Zhaojun came into the scene. Peace-­alliance marriage was first used by Emperor Gaozu (r. 206–­195 BC), the first emperor of the Han dynasty. Modu, the chieftain of the northern ethnic group Xiongnu 匈奴, with his large army, became a major threat to the safety of China; Emperor Gaozu was at one point even besieged by the Xiongnu troops in battle. Gaozu’s subject Liu Jing suggested the strategy of the peace-­alliance marriage to the emperor: Your Majesty, if you can marry your eldest daughter to the chieftain and give him a large sum of money . . . the princess will become his queen and their son will be the crown prince. . . . When Modu is still alive, he will be your son-­in-­law; after his death, your grandson [the son of the princess and Modu] will be the next chieftain. Emperor Gaozu wanted to take the advice, but Empress Lü cried day and night: “I have only the heir son and one daughter. How can I abandon her to the Xiongnu?” Emperor Gaozu chose a woman from the royal family, designated her “the eldest princess,” and married her to Modu.2 Emperor Gaozu set up a peace-­alliance marriage agreement and also sent gifts such as silk, wine, and food every year to the chieftain, and peace was temporarily reached between China and the Xiongnu.3 By marrying a woman from the Chinese royal family to the Xiongnu ruler, China attempted to impose a Chinese family structure and ethics on its relations with the Xiongnu. The Chinese princess of the peace-­alliance marriage is usually the emperor’s daughter, or a woman of the royal family who bears the title of princess, so the Chinese emperor always assumes a superior position as father-­in-­law of the chieftain. Whether as a gesture of friendship or as a disguised form of bribery, the peace-­alliance marriage is always accompanied by gold, as the dowry for the exchanged object, to ensure a better alliance. The practice seemed prevalent throughout the Han dynasty, as the excavation of a tomb of the late Western Han (first century AD) in Mongolia revealed that peace-­ alliance marriage was used as an architectural decorative motif because of



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its auspicious connotation.4 Whether China was powerful enough to fight the Xiongnu or not, peace-­alliance marriage was often seen as a convenient diplomatic policy or a necessary lubricant for maintaining a nominal relationship between China and the Xiongnu or other ethnic groups. The first historical accounts of Wang Zhaojun appear in the imperial annals of Emperor Yuan (r. 48–­32 BC) in The History of the Han Dynasty by Ban Gu (AD 32–­92): In the first month of spring of the first year of Jingning [33 B.C.], Hu­hanye 虖韓邪,5 the chieftain of the Xiongnu, came to court. Emperor Yuan said: “. . . Huhanye did not forget our kindness, and admired our rites and righteousness, so he resumed the ritual of presenting tribute. He is hopeful that communications across the passes will never come to an end and that there will never be armed encounters on the frontiers. Let the reign title be changed to Jingning竟寧 [Frontier Peace] and let the daizhao yeting 待詔掖庭 [the Expectant Woman of the Inner Palace]6 Wang Qiang 王嬙7 be bestowed upon him as his queen.8 In the chapter on the Xiongnu in The History of the Han Dynasty, there is a more detailed account of Wang Zhaojun’s marriage: In the first year of Jingning . . . the chieftain [Huhanye] said he was willing to be the son-­in-­law of China to establish kinship between them. Emperor Yuan then bestowed on him Wang Qiang, also named Zhaojun, a court lady9 from the Inner Palace. The chieftain was happy and stated that he would protect the frontiers. . . . Wang Zhaojun, entitled Queen Appeasing the Xiongnu (Ninghu yanzhi 寧胡閼氏),10 bore a son Yituzhiyashi 伊屠智牙師. . . . After Hu­ hanye’s death [31 BC], Diaotaomogao [the son of one of his other wives] succeeded him as Chieftain Fuzhulei Ruoti.  .  .  . Fuzhulei took Wang Zhaojun as wife, and she had two daughters by him.11 More information about Wang Zhaojun can be found in The History of the Later Han Dynasty, compiled by Fan Ye (AD 398–­445): Zhaojun, also named Qiang, was a Nanjun native.12 . . . When Hu­hanye came to court, Emperor Yuan summoned five court ladies to be given to him. Out of resentment at having been in the palace for a few years

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without having a chance to meet the emperor, Zhaojun asked the Inner Palace official for permission to go. The emperor showed Huhanye these five women at the farewell banquet for him. Zhaojun was radiant and gorgeously dressed, and her beauty illuminated the Han palace. When she looked around and took a few steps, everyone was stirred by her beauty. The emperor was amazed and would have liked her to stay, but could not break his promise and had to give her to the Xiongnu. She bore Huhanye two sons. After Huhanye’s death, his son by the late queen wanted to marry her. Zhaojun petitioned Emperor Cheng [the successor of Emperor Yuan, r. 32–­37 BC] to let her return to China, but was ordered to follow the Xiongnu custom. Thus she became the queen of the new chieftain.13 In the earliest historical records, written more than a century after the peace-­alliance incident, Wang Zhaojun is voiceless, merely a gift that the Chinese emperor bestows on the Xiongnu chieftain because of his loyalty to China. Having received the gift, the Xiongnu chieftain promises frontier peace in return. Both the reign “Frontier Peace” and the title “Queen Appeasing the Xiongnu” symbolize the peace-­alliance attempt established at the official level by the exchange of a Chinese woman. But in The History of the Later Han Dynasty, written about three hundred years after the first historical account and centuries before the first border-­crossing drama, Wang Zhaojun’s story was already full of theatrical potential. We learn about her birthplace, her amazing beauty that the emperor will not have a chance to enjoy, and her resentment against the emperor. We also see her character facing a dilemma: she is unwilling to marry her stepson because of her Chinese ethics, but Chinese patriarchy considers a married woman the property of her husband’s family, and returning to her old home is scandalous. Since she has been touched by a Xiongnu man, her return to China would be much more infamous than a married woman’s rejection by her Chinese husband. A Chinese woman should follow the proper gender code: to obey her father at home, her husband after marriage, and her son after her husband’s death. From a diplomatic standpoint, her return would suggest the breach of the contract and the failure of the alliance; “follow the Xiongnu custom” (從胡俗) is the best and only choice she has. Wang Zhaojun’s marriage with Huhanye, nearly two hundred years after the first instance, is far from being an archetype of the peace-­alliance marriage policy.14 As a matter of fact, the narrative of Wang Zhaojun in The



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History of Later Han Dynasty seems to share a similar trope with the earlier story about Xijun in The History of Han Dynasty.15 The unique popularity of the Wang Zhaojun story throughout history, however, indicates a more complicated ideology that is worth further investigation.

Development of the Wang Zhaojun Legend in Literary Works Between the first simple historical sketch to the fully developed dramatization, there is more than a millennium during which pieces of knowledge from diverse fields help shape the beloved Wang Zhaojun of border-­ crossing drama. Hu Fengdan (1823–­90) of the Qing dynasty compiled poetry on Wang Zhaojun up to the nineteenth century in The Records of the Green Mound (Qingzhong zhi 青冢志).16 Contemporary scholars estimate that there are more than seven hundred poems on Wang Zhaojun throughout history.17 Here I discuss only the works that contributed to the major dramatic motifs.

Suicide “The Song of Resentment and Nostalgia” (Yuankuang siwei ge 怨曠思惟歌) is a song attributed to Wang Zhaojun, but it is probably actually from the late Han period or the Six Dynasties.18 A short biography prefaced to the song provides fascinating new plot development: Wang Zhaojun, the daughter of Wang Xiang of Qi. At seventeen, she was known for her bright and pure beauty. . . . Xiang thought she was unique and offered her to the emperor. . . . After five or six years [without being seen by the emperor] she was full of resentment. . . . The Xiongnu sent an envoy to visit Han. . . . Emperor Yuan asked the envoy what the chieftain would like for fun. He replied, “The Xiongnu have all kinds of treasures, but our women are ugly and inferior to Chinese women.” Emperor Yuan then sought one court lady from the Inner Palace to give to the chieftain. . . . Zhaojun got up, moved forward and said, “I reside in the Inner Palace, but I am vulgar and ugly and do not please Your Majesty. I would like to go.” The emperor was surprised [by her beauty] and

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regretted, but the Xiongnu envoy was present and the emperor could not stop her from going. He sighed, “I was mistaken.” . . . The chieftain, pleased with the gift from China . . . gave in return a pair of white jades, ten precious horses, and jewelry from the Xiongnu. Resenting her misfortune at not meeting the emperor earlier, and missing her homeland, Zhaojun composed “The Song of Resentment and Nostalgia.” The song describes the nostalgia of a beautiful bird: Even though it has enough food to eat, at heart it still hesitates: Why must I alone suffer such changes? The fluttering swallow perches among the far Western Qiang.19 The mountains are high and rivers turbulent. O Father! O mother! You are so far away! Alas, how sad! My heart is full of worries and anguish. According to the preface, Zhaojun had a son named Shiwei. After the chieftain’s death, Shiwei took the throne [and wanted to marry her]. In the Xiongnu custom, the son could marry the mother after the father’s death. She asked Shiwei: “Are you Chinese, or are you Xiongnu?” Shiwei answered: “I wish to be Xiongnu.” Wang then took poison to kill herself. The chieftain [Shiwei] buried her, and the grass on her tomb remained green while all around it was dry and withered.20 According to Xiongnu custom, a son could marry a stepmother after his father’s death, and a brother could marry his brother’s wife after his brother’s death.21 Although barbaric and immoral by Chinese standards, the Xiongnu custom does not actually constitute incest. According to the earliest historical account on Wang Zhaojun, Huhanye died two years after their marriage, which excludes the possibility of her marriage with her own son. It is the editor of “The Song of Resentment and Nostalgia” who first changes the story from a stepson to a son, hence heightening the dramatic tension. Her Chinese conscience prevails and suicide seems to be the only right way to end this kind of dilemma. The introduction of an unbearable incest and her decisive suicide—­both resulted from the immense cultural differences



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between the Han and the Xiongnu—­bring the legendary Wang Zhaojun closer to the dramatic one.

Portrait and the Evil Painter Miscellaneous Anecdotes from the Western Capital (Xijing zaji 西京雜記) introduces Mao Yanshou 毛延壽, who later becomes the designated evil painter in border-­crossing drama: Emperor Yuan had many court ladies in the Inner Palace and could not see them all. He directed painters to paint portraits of them so he could choose women on the basis of their portraits. Everyone bribed the painters . . . except Wang Qiang; as a result, she was never visited by the emperor. When the Xiongnu chieftain asked for a lady as his queen, judging from the portraits, Emperor Yuan picked Zhaojun for the mission. Emperor Yuan saw her just before she went off. In her beauty she surpassed all in the Inner Palace; she was articulate and her demeanor was graceful. He was regretful, but since he had already submitted the name to the Xiongnu and would not break his word to a foreign state, he could not substitute someone else for her. He then abolished the practice of portrait-­painting. . . . Among the painters . . . , Du Ling and Mao Yanshou could accurately depict the ugliness and beauty, age and youth of human figures.22 There is a similar tale in The New Accounts of Tales of the World (Shishuo xinyu 世說新語), but the name given there is Wang Mingjun instead of Wang Zhaojun.23 Portrait painting provides an intriguing dramatic element: the portrait is a simple tool to represent and misrepresent a woman, hence her destiny depends upon the painter’s mercy; like the function of Desdemona’s handkerchief, the manipulation of Wang Zhaojun’s portrait determines her fate. It also transforms her into a commodity, easily appreciated and depreciated, traded and transported; an already objectified woman now has a concrete face value for the international business transaction.

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Poetic Sentiments and Symbolisms The distillation of all the sentiments and symbolisms from a millennium of poetry furnishes the flesh and spirit of the Wang Zhaojun character. The unusually large quantity of Wang Zhaojun poems throughout history demonstrates the versatility of her symbolism. Chinese literary convention requires quoting from, alluding to, or even recycling previous literary tropes; hence it is essential to have a background knowledge of literature before discussing her drama. These poems generally fall into a few different subcategories.

Loneliness in the Far-­away Place and Nostalgia for the Homeland In poems of this sort, poets usually pity the beauty for her humiliating marriage to the barbaric chieftain and for her loneliness and nostalgia. Shi Chong’s 石崇 (AD 240–­300) famous poem “The Song of Wang Mingjun” (Wang Mingjun ci) is a good example of this category: I was a Chinese woman, But was destined for the court of the chieftain . . . The strange place is not one where I can be at peace, And though noble, it is not glorious. I was disgraced by both father and son, And faced them with shame and fear. Indeed suicide is not easy, So silently I live on in vain . . . Once a precious jade preserved in a casket, I am now a flower on the dung-­heap. The flowers of the morning do not please me; I’d rather wither with the autumn grass. Let me tell people of later generations, It is hard to bear the suffering of a marriage far from home! 我本漢家子，將適單于庭 . . . 殊類非所安，雖貴非所榮。 父子見陵辱，對之慚且驚。 殺身良不易，默默以茍生 . . . 昔為匣中玉，今為糞上英 . . . 朝花不足歡，甘與秋草并。 傳與後世人，遠嫁難為情。24



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“Precious jade in a casket” and “flower on the dung-­heap” are shocking contrasts. Words like disgrace, shame, and dung-­heap provide the vivid description of Wang Zhaojun’s unbearable survival, which are often adopted to describe the survival of Cai Yan in border-­crossing drama.

Misrepresented Portrait as Political Allegory Wang Zhaojun’s refusal to bribe the painter because of her integrity and her confidence of her beauty is a common theme. Her integrity is often used as a political allegory to imply the emperor’s blindness to true loyal subjects. “Wang Zhaojun,” a poem by Xu Jun (fl. late thirteenth century), is representative of this category: As skillful as a painter may be, How can he be trusted to depict true beauty and ugliness? It was wrong for the emperor To entrust his own ears and eyes to others.25 The renowned Tang poet Bai Juyi (772–­846), who suffered a rebuke from the emperor and was exiled, uses Wang Zhaojun to satirize the political situation: “The emperor’s favor is as thin as paper. No need to hate the painting or the painter 自是君恩薄如紙，不須一向恨丹青” (“The Resentment of Zhaojun” [Zhaojun yuan]).26

Defiance against a System of Injustice The good-­willed peace-­alliance marriage is sometimes seen as ironic and cowardly. The Tang poet Hu Zeng (860–­872) writes, “Why reward generals with fiefdoms of thousands of households, since a woman is used to appease the barbarians?”27 “How many generals on the border will be ashamed to meet Zhaojun in the underworld?” asked Wang Yuanjie (fl. 1149–­1153).28 Zhaojun’s peace mission that accentuates the cowardice of the Chinese court might also present the best opportunity for herself, since the fierce competition among the court ladies in the Inner Palace offers her a slim chance of ever meeting the emperor. This type of sentiment could be interpreted as a harsh critique of the imperial examination, which is often corrupt but ultimately determines the fate of literati. The Tang poet Wang Rui’s (fl. 806–­820) “Dispelling the Resentment of Zhaojun” (Jie Zhaojun yuan) is a good example of this category:

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Don’t blame the painter for making the portrait ugly. Don’t blame the emperor for sending her for peace-­alliance marriage. Had she not married the Xiongnu chieftain, She would have been no more than a dancing girl in the palace.29 The Qing poet Liu Xianting (1648–­1695) writes, “How many women as beautiful as flowers in the palace would never have been known if they had not married the chieftain?”30 The twentieth-­century playwright Cao Yu’s five-­act play Wang Zhaojun (1978) belongs to the same tradition (chapter 4). The famous Ming literatus Feng Menglong (1574–­1646) argues that the emperor’s “favor upon the jade mattress and the bamboo bed”—­the best treatment Wang Zhaojun could have hoped for had she remained in China—­could never have matched the great sentiments that “dusk at the Green Mound” generates for poets and people who understand love.31 In Feng Menglong’s mind, her greatest contribution to the Chinese literary tradition is the affect she generates by sacrificing herself. Political allegory plays an important part in Chinese literary tradition; many poems carry a strong political meaning under a pretense of appreciating landscape or beautiful women. A male poet’s dissatisfaction with the political situation is often disguised through the adoption of a feminine voice, and the palace-­style poetry (gongtishi 宮體詩) and the lyric (ci 詞) tradition are well-­established literary genres of this kind. Wang Zhaojun, an amazing beauty with integrity who suffers from neglect, injustice, and nostalgia, becomes the best female persona that a misunderstood poet can assume. Her misery and sorrow grow through all the reiteration and elaboration by the disgruntled poets throughout history. Ming poet Li Xuedao (fl. 1562) writes of the importance of Wang Zhaojun in Chinese literary history: Countless court ladies in the Han palace Learned singing and dancing to compete for the emperor’s favor. Though they won favor that surpassed all in the Inner Palace, Their beauty has still turned into dust. Except Wang Zhaojun, Whose suffering is recited by poets and passed on to us today. Had she not met Mao Yanshou then, How could she have won her fragrant reputation in history?32



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Moral Judgment “The Song of Resentment and Nostalgia” invents the incest story line to marginalize the Xiongnu, while her suicide demonstrates her superior Chinese virtue. Zhang Shoulin suggests that the demonstration of Chinese moral superiority in large numbers of Wang Zhaojun poems and works on similar subjects has to do with historical circumstances. During the Six Dynasties (ca. 220–­588), civil wars in China weakened frontier defenses and many people became the victims of the marauding Xiongnu tribes. He speculates that a large body of literary works related to Han-­Xiongnu conflicts, among which many have “fake” authorship, appeared during this period.33 The contemporary chaos made invented historical “truth” palatable. The supposed editor of “The Song of Resentment and Nostalgia” was Cai Yong, whose daughter Cai Yan (chapter 2) was taken prisoner by the Xiong­nu troops. According to Cai Yong’s account, Wang Zhaojun’s Chinese conscience drives her to commit suicide to avoid incest. The implied Chinese morality here might be designed as a criticism of contemporary political turmoil, but it also plays a crucial part in shaping later both Wang Zhaojun and Cai Yan dramas, in which suicide seems to be a preferred solution for women under these circumstances. Another piece freighted with moral judgment is a tale by the Tang poet Niu Sengru 牛僧儒 (late eighth and early ninth century). Unable to find lodging late at night during a journey, Niu Sengru followed a curious fragrance and found an old temple where he could stay overnight. Realizing he was a famous Tang poet, his hostess, the ghost of the mother of Emperor Wen (r. 179–­157 BC) of the Han dynasty, treated him to delicious food and wine and introduced a number of beautiful women to him. The women were ghosts of famous beauties of the past, among them Wang Zhaojun. When it was time for bed, the queen mother wanted a woman to accompany him. Everyone had an excuse to refuse him, but the queen mother said to Wang Zhaojun: “You married Huhanye first and Fuzhulei later. . . . What can a barbarian ghost do? Please don’t refuse him.” Wang Zhaojun then accompanied him. Departing at dawn, Niu Sengru looked back and found that the temple was simply a ruin, but the fragrance left on his clothes lasted for more than ten days.34 This story follows the tradition of Chinese ghost tales, but his use of Wang Zhaojun as a fictional character makes for a harsh moral judgment. Wang Zhaojun’s willing remarriage brings her shame and lowers her to the level of barbarian ghost and prostitute.

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The examples adduced above provide the important traits of the later border-­crossing Wang Zhaojun character in drama. Eugene Eoyang thinks Wang Zhaojun’s popularity also results in her universal appeal. He identifies a few archetypes in her stories: the Cinderella figure (ambition), the haughty woman who refuses to bribe the painter (pride), a political hostage (power), the Joan of Arc figure (loyalty), and the despoiled beauty (sexuality).35

Wang Zhaojun in the Musical Tradition Music is all but indispensable in premodern Chinese theater; what we understand as “Chinese opera” today probably started as a compilation and rearrangement of existing tunes with new arias and minimal dialogue. Two musical aspects related to the Wang Zhaojun legend should be addressed here: “Zhaojun” or “Mingjun” as a song-­and-­dance tradition seemed to be established long before the advent of drama; the pipa, the iconic musical instrument in plot development and in iconography in later dramas, began to make its appearances as the instrument became more popular in China. An image of Wang Zhaojun is often identified by her pipa. It is not clear when “Zaojun” or “Mingjun” became a known song-­and-­ dance genre. “The Record of Music” (Yueshu 樂書) in The History of the Tang Dynasty states that “Mingjun” is a song from the Han dynasty: The people of Han composed this song to express their sympathy for Wang Zhaojun as she was married off to a remote place. In his preface to his “The Song of Wang Mingjun,” Shi Chong (AD 240–­300) explains that people of Jin called her “Mingjun” 明君 instead of “Zhaojun” in order to observe the taboo on using the personal name of the emperor, in this case Emperor Wen of the Jin dynasty, who was named “Zhao.”36 Shi Chong wrote new words for the old song and taught it to Lüzhu, his concubine and talented dancer.37 Xie Xiyi’s On the Zither includes seven different versions of the song “Mingjun” (with tonal and rhythmic variations); it even has a version for the reed pipe.38 The pipa 琵琶, a lute-­like stringed instrument held vertically and originally imported from Central Asia, was not a standard feature in ancient Chinese music, but it became indispensable as part of the Chinese orchestra in later years. The earliest record defines pipa as an instrument “originated from the Hu and played on horseback.”39 No musical instrument was mentioned in the earliest historical account on Wang Zhaojun nor in the poem attributed to her. Shi Chong was probably the first person to connect the pipa to



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her story and the peace-­alliance tradition. According to Shi, when a Chinese princess was being sent to the Wusun, the pipa was used to entertain the princess during her long journey; this is why the songs of Wang Zhaojun were always accompanied by the pipa.40 Note that in this context, the pipa was played by the companions to entertain the distraught princess, not by the princess herself. As a matter of fact, the border-­crossing iconography of Wang Zhaojun often shows that her maid carries the pipa for her (fig. 1 and fig. 2). Nevertheless, by giving Wang Zhaojun the pipa as her major prop, Shi Chong joined her with other princesses in the peace-­alliance marriage tradition. The association of its exotic origin and nomad mobility makes the pipa the perfect instrument (prop) for Wang Zhaojun drama, especially for the scene “leaving the pass behind” (chusai 出塞). The pipa is present in the earliest extant play of Wang Zhaojun and has remained an indispensable prop for her ever since. It is also important to note that while music accompanies singing throughout the performance, the pipa is singled out as the efficacious means for Wang Zhaojun to temporarily lift her out of a stymied state and to connect her with the power source, even if the actor only mimes the playing. In other words, while the actor might be praised for the virtuoso singing or dancing, the pipa playing is much more dramaturgically efficacious and changes the course of the plot development. Music also provides an affective, sensual type of border crossing, penetrating walls and invading personal spaces to cajole an intimate response. This aspect of affect will be addressed in the discussion of dramatic works.

Dramatic Works on Wang Zhaojun The Tang Prototype of Wang Zhaojun Drama The first pseudo-­dramatic Wang Zhaojun piece is “Wang Zhaojun Bianwen” 王昭君變文.41 Bianwen 變文 (transformation text) is an oral narrative form that contains both prose for narration and verse for singing from the Tang and Five dynasties. It shifts between third-­person narration and first-­person discourse and in some cases perhaps involved dramatization. Its prosimetric form and the potential for dramatization make scholars consider bianwen as a link between the literary and dramatic traditions.42 The bianwen scrolls that were discovered in the caves of Dunhuang in Gansu province belong to a popular entertainment tradition: the tales by anony-

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mous authors are full of colloquial language and local color, and the text tends to contain errors.43 Wang Zhaojun Bianwen is in two volumes; the second is almost complete, but the first is fragmentary. If we assume that the two volumes were about the same length, it would appear that the first quarter of the work is lost. The work was probably composed in the late eighth or early ninth century AD (the narrator explains that her tomb still remains after more than eight hundred years after her death). The background of the peace-­alliance marriage is unknown, but it is clear that she has been romantically involved with the Chinese emperor: Today I bask in the kindness of the chieftain. Yesterday I received the favor of the Chinese emperor. 如今以暮(慕)單于德 昔日還录(承)漢帝恩 She is unhappy among the Xiongnu, and their nomadic customs, contrasted with the agricultural life of China, seem strange and barbaric to her: Fighting is the trade and hunting is the merit. They neither raise silkworms for clothes nor cultivate the field for food. Without rice or wheat, meat is their staple. Without silk or flax, they weave wool to make clothes.44 The chieftain does what he can to cheer up Wang in this strange land; he later crowns her as the new queen of the Xiongnu. In the second volume, the chieftain invites her to watch a special hunt on top of Yanzhi Mountain. Gazing into the distance, however, she becomes even more nostalgic for her homeland: Where do I spend my young and beautiful days? Does spring ever come past Jiuquan [a border town between China and the Xiongnu]? . . .  Even though I receive the favor of the Turkish chieftain,45 It still cannot match the love of the Chinese emperor. I am frightened by the roar of cows and goats, The stench of milk and yogurt hurts my head.



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風光日色何處度？ 春色何時度酒泉？ 假使邊庭突厥寵， 終歸不及漢王憐。 心驚恐怕牛羊吼， 頭痛生曾(憎)乳酪羶。46 Wondering where her loving mother is and why the heartless emperor has not sent for her, she laments the harm the wicked painter has done her.47 She connects her own fate with that of heroic widows of legend: “The virtuous wives of Shun scarred the bamboo leaves by shedding tears upon them. The sage wife of Qiliang cried so piteously that the Great Wall collapsed.”48 Wang Zhaojun falls ill that night and gradually pines away. On her deathbed, she asks the chieftain to tell the Chinese emperor the news of her death. Heartbroken, the chieftain replies, “If you die, my princess, I will die too. Who will mourn for your lonely spirit after your death?” Still, the chieftain tries to save her life. He worships the mountains and rivers and prays to the sun and the moon; he seeks out the best medicines and sorcerers. But nothing is to be done; Wang Zhaojun dies before dawn. The chieftain is so sad that he “removes his imperial robe and dons commoner’s clothes. With disheveled hair, he stays by the deathbed.” He cries and howls day and night: The poor court lady in the Weiyang Palace [an inner palace in the Chinese court] now is ruined in the Xiongnu land! . . .  The night was short with you in bed with me, But how long it is now when I have to sleep alone! . . .  Had I known you would be buried in the desert sand, I would have let you return to your homeland. 可憐未殃[央]宮裡女 嫁來胡地碎紅妝 . . . . 昔日同眠夜即短, 如今獨寢覺天長！ . . . 早知死若埋沙裡, 悔不教君還帝鄉！49 He then summons Wei Lü, Lord Dingling, to take care of the funeral.50 After the elaborate ceremony according to the Xiongnu custom, her tomb

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is raised high and named “The Green Mound.” “Now she is buried on the north bank of the Yellow River, facing southwest, toward the City of Surrender.” All tribes arrive to pay their tribute and the crowd is as large as the ocean.51 Emperor Xiao’ai (r. 6–­1 BC) sends an envoy to commemorate her. The envoy composes an elegy, praising her in terms appropriate to the most famous characters of Chinese history. In contrast to the dynasty-­ruining femme fatale Daji 妲己,52 Wang Zhaojun saved China by marrying the chieftain, and her contribution was even greater than that of the generals Wei Qing and Huo Qubing.53 Moreover, Virtue like hers appears only once every five hundred years, as when the water of the Yellow River clarifies. Her reputation will last forever and her name will be recorded in books throughout history. 賢感敢五百里年間, 出德邁應,黃河号一清，祚永長傳萬古，圖 書且載著往聲。54 That the true sage appears only once every five hundred years is mentioned by the ancient philosopher Mencius (Mengzi 孟子, ca. 372–­289 BC). By connecting her virtue to the teaching of the ancient philosopher, the bianwen story firmly establishes Wang Zhaojun’s historical status in the Confucius tradition.55 With the discovery of the bianwen, modern scholars can make a much better connection between early literature on Wang Zhaojun and later dramas. As a perfect transitional piece, Wang Zhaojun Bianwen resembles later drama in a few places:





1. Wang Zhaojun is romantically involved with the Chinese emperor as his concubine before the peace-­alliance marriage. This gives playwrights tremendous potential to turn her legend into a romantic love story. 2. She dies for her lovesickness and homesickness. Although her pining away is different from her decisive suicide in later drama, the pending death has become an unescapable element in her stories. Among all the border-­crossing characters, Wang Zhaojun is the distinctive character with ominous signs of death. 3. The action of the wicked painter seems to be the direct cause of her











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suffering, although no details are available, perhaps due to the loss of the first portion of the work. 4. The description of the northern barbaric traits is gradually standardized, such as roughness and association with animals. The nomad lifestyle and dietary difference of the Xiongnu, such as consuming dairy products and goat meat, are often portrayed as intolerable to the Han ladies. The stench of goat or taste of yoghurt is a synonym of the barbaric affect. On the other hand, drinking milk/milk tea becomes a symbolic gesture of Han women’s assimilation into the Xiongnu culture (chapter 4). 5. The borderland seen from a high viewpoint visualizes the vast and bleak border landscape and a glimpse of the homeland, which heightens both her loneliness and her border-­crossing action. This kind of high viewpoint is also seen in Su Wu and Li Ling stories (chapter 2). 6. The chieftain is in love with Wang Zhaojun and is portrayed as a sympathetic character. Her tomb, the Green Mound, becomes an indispensable visual image for her tragedy. 7. Her value in the peace-­alliance marriage is confirmed. No longer a token gift to the Xiongnu from China, her contribution is as great as those generals who conquer Xiongnu by force; Wang Zhaojun conquers Xiongnu by peace. Moreover, along with other chaste women in history, her reputation will be remembered forever.

Drama on Wang Zhaojun in the Yuan Dynasty (1277–­1367) Autumn in the Han Palace (Hangong qiu 漢宮秋) by Ma Zhiyuan 馬致遠 (ca. 1250?–­1324?) is the first extant and probably most famous play on Wang Zhaojun, in the form of zaju 雜劇 (variety play).56 Zaju was the dominant dramatic form in the Yuan dynasty, but, among all the extant Yuan zaju, only thirty are from the Yuan edition.57 Stephen West and Wilt Idema believe that what we call Yuan zaju today are plays that have been tempered by Ming ideology.58 In the case of Autumn in the Han Palace, no Yuan text has survived,59 and we usually refer to the version that appears in The Selected Yuan Plays (Yuanqu xuan 元曲選), an important Ming collection of Yuan zaju edited by Zang Maoxun 臧懋循 (?–­1621) and published in 1615–­1616.60 Yoshikawa Kojirô has determined that Zang Maoxun, whose edition of Yuan plays is the most readable and popular one, made the most changes in his compilation.61

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There are some general rules concerning the structure for Yuan zaju, although not all the works follow the convention: Usually in four zhe 折 (acts) and one xiezi 楔子 (a demi-­act that can function as prologue or an interval), a Yuan zaju contains both spoken dialogue in vernacular Chinese and songs in rhymed verse. Although stage directions are often sparse and simple in a Yuan zaju,62 the role types (hangdang 行當 or jiaose 角色) are usually specified, especially those for the major characters. The main role types are mo 末 (male), jing 淨 (painted face), dan 旦 (female), and chou 丑 (clown). Subcategories in each role type include the zhengmo 正末 (major male), fumo 副末 (minor male), waimo 外末 (or wai 外, minor male), chongmo 沖末 (also minor male, who usually opens the play), and xiaomo 小 末 (young male), waijing 外淨 or fujing 副淨 (minor painted face), zhengdan 正旦 (major female), xiaodan 小旦 or dan’er 旦兒 (young female), chadan 搽旦 (painted-­face female, similar to jing, usually a wicked female), laodan 老旦 (old female), waidan 外旦 (minor female), and tiedan 貼旦 (or tie, minor female). It is important to note that role types like dan or mo indicate the gender of the characters, not of the actors. Cross-­dressing was common throughout Chinese theatrical history, and the training and aesthetics of the gendered roles are all based on convention. Song or tune titles are also indicated in the text, although most music is lost. With usually a sole actor taking up all the singing, a Yuan zaju can be called a danben 旦本 (a female play) or a moben 末本 (a male play). In other words, the gendered voice of the play—­whether a male or female character is allowed to sing—­had to be decided at the conception of the play. In my play analysis in this book, when available, I indicate the role type in parenthesis following the character’s name, to provide some aspect of the performance. Ma Zhiyuan is one of the most celebrated playwrights from the Yuan dynasty, and a large amount of scholarship is available on his work throughout history.63 Zhong Sicheng’s 鍾嗣成 (c. 1277–­1345) The Register of Ghosts (Luguibu 錄鬼簿), however, is the only work we know on Yuan playwrights written in the Yuan dynasty.64 The entry for Ma Zhiyuan reads: “Ma Zhiyuan, native of Dadu [now Beijing], also named Dongli 東籬, was an official of provincial affairs in Jiangzhe.”65 Zhong Sicheng never had a chance to meet Ma Zhiyuan. According to Chen Anna, Ma Zhiyuan was probably born sometime after 1250 and died between 1321 and 1324.66 Jia Zhongming (1343–­1422) has an elegiac song on Ma Zhiyuan: Amid the cluster of ten thousand flowers, the Immortal Ma! For a hundred generations we speak of Zhiyuan;



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Within four oceans, we all envy and admire him. Contending in the literary battlefield, Winning the title of champion in song-­writing, His fragrant name is famous throughout the Pear Garden.67 Jia Zhongming’s elegy, included in The Register of Ghosts, represents a lasting view of Ma Zhiyuan’s work.68 The Ming prince Zhu Quan (1378–­ 1448) ranked Ma Zhiyuan’s lyric poems above all others.69 His qu 曲 (songs) are often regarded as a standard for qu composition,70 and Autumn in the Han Palace is placed as the first play among all the Yuan zaju in The Selected Yuan Plays.71 In the Yuan tradition, besides the commonly known play title, there are also a “title-­name” (timu 題目) and a “formal title” (zhengming 正名), in the form of either one or two couplets. Autumn in the Han Palace is the name by which people customarily refer to the play, but its title-­name is “The Bright Consort Sinking in the Black River—­Resentment of the Green Mound” 沈 黑江明妃青塚恨 and its formal title is “Lone Wild Goose Breaking Beautiful Dreams—­Autumn in the Han Palace” 破幽夢孤雁漢宮秋. From the title-­name and the formal title one can generally deduce the plot of the play. Since Autumn in the Han Palace is the earliest extant Wang Zhaojun play and serves as a model for many later works on Wang Zhaojun, I devote more space to its plot and dramatic devices than I do in the case of other plays. In the wedge of the play, Huhanye (chongmo), the chieftain of the Xiongnu, first explains the history of the peace-­alliance marriage and his own desire to marry a Chinese princess. He further explains the Xiongnu way of life: “The Xiongnu have no property; with bows and arrows we make a living.” The wicked painter, Mao Yanshou (jing) enters next. He recites:72 With my eagle heart and wild goose claws, I deceive my superior and oppress the powerless. With my flattery, glibness, treachery, and greed, I’ve got more than I can enjoy all my life! His strategy to secure his status in the court is “to let the emperor see his ministers as little as possible and his women as much as possible.” Emperor Yuan (zhengmo), the hero of the play, now expresses the loneliness he has felt since all the court ladies were released after the former emperor’s death. Mao Yanshou suggests to Emperor Yuan that he select beautiful young women

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from all over the country to fill his Inner Palace. Delighted, the emperor asks Mao Yanshou to prepare a portrait of each woman so that he can choose his companions accordingly. The wedge provides a general introduction of the background and the three major male characters. In act 1, after selecting ninety-­nine women, Mao Yanshou comes to Wang Zhaojun’s home. All the other women have bribed him, but she does not, for her family is not rich and she has faith in her own beauty. In revenge, Mao Yanshou mars her portrait, and the eighteen-­year-­old Zhaojun is condemned to the Cold Palace, where she will never have a chance to meet the emperor. Wang Zhaojun (zhengdan) enters next: “One day I was summoned to Shangyang [an inner palace], but I have never seen the emperor in ten years. Who is with me on this fine lonely night? Only the pipa can draw out my inspiration” (I, 2).73 She then introduces herself and tells the audience the miracle of her birth: Her mother dreamed about the moonlight shining on her before she gave birth.74 As she plays the pipa, Emperor Yuan enters and notices the sorrow in the tune. He orders her to come out and is amazed at her beauty in a song: Two leaves of eyebrows painted in the imperial style, Powdered face with elegantly combed hair, Fragrant gold ornaments and green flowers on her forehead, One smile from her could cause a city to fall, If Goujian had seen her on the Gusu Terrace, He would not have taken Xishi at all, And I bet he would have lost his kingdom ten years earlier.75 Naturally, he wonders why such a marvelous gem has so long remained unknown. She explains Mao Yanshou’s scheme against her, and Emperor Yuan orders a eunuch to bring in the portrait. He sees the discrepancy between the portrait and the real person (the color is faded and one eye on the portrait is marred as if blind). “Either you are blind in one eye,” he observes, “or he [Mao] is blind in both”; he orders that Mao Yanshou be executed. He names her as “the bright consort” (Mingfei 明妃). Hurrying her to bed, he sings: “Let’s enjoy tonight’s love and not ask questions about tomorrow” (I, 3–­4). The Xiongnu chieftain Huhanye76 opens the second act by complaining about the rejection of his peace-­alliance marriage request by the Chinese emperor because the princess is too young to be married. Mao Yanshou then



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enters, having fled from Han, and offers the portrait to Huhanye. Stunned by her beauty, Huhanye demands Wang Zhaojun as his wife, threatening to invade Han. By this time Wang Zhaojun and the emperor are enjoying their life together. She says, “It has been more than a month since I gained the Emperor’s favor. His Majesty is so much in love with me that he has not attended court for a long time.” The emperor reaffirms his love for her: “Ever since I met Wang Zhaojun at the pavilion in the Western Palace, I have been feeling half drunk and half crazy. I have not visited court for quite a long time. Today I went to court, but left just after it started.” He expresses his affection in songs: I worship her white teeth and starry eyes. How can I bear the wasteful daytime! I have been overtaken by some illness recently: Half for worrying about my kingdom and people, Half for languishing over beauty and wine. 守著那皓齒星眸， 爭忍的虛白晝。 近新來染得些證候， 一半兒為國憂民， 一半兒愁花病酒。(II, 5) As soon as Wang Zhaojun appears, an inauspicious atmosphere surrounds her. The comparison to Xishi and the emperor’s preference for her over state affairs and even his own health forge a connection with the Chinese femme fatale tradition. Inevitably, the emperor’s indulgence with her brings trouble. Soon the shocking news of the threatened invasion interrupts their happiness. When the prime minister (wai) suggests that Emperor Yuan accept the Xiongnu chieftain’s marriage proposal, the emperor is outraged. He says: We maintain our troops for thousands of days in preparation for a day like this. I have a court full of officials, but who will be able to defeat those barbarian soldiers? You are all afraid of blades and arrows! If you don’t assert yourselves, how can you ask the Lady to appease barbarians?

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The emperor seems to forget that he has already foreseen the ruinous effect that Wang Zhaojun, like Xishi, might have upon the state. The prime minister tries to remind him of examples from history: The foreign state says that because of your infatuation with Wang Qiang, your Majesty has neglected state affairs and ruined the country. If you do not give her to him [Huhanye], he will invade our country. Remember Emperor Zhou’s passion for Daji cost him his country and his own life.77 I think that should be a monitory example. But Emperor Yuan is not convinced at all. He sings: Are you ashamed or not? You sleep under thick quilts and eat gourmet food, Ride on lusty horses and dress in light furs. Look at her slender willow waist dancing in the spring wind. How can you let her jade pendant dangle in the moonlight on the Green Mound, And the sound of her pipa fade in the autumn on the Black River? 你可也羞那不羞？ 您臥重裀食列鼎，乘肥馬衣輕裘。 您須見舞春風嫩柳宮腰瘦。 怎下的教他環佩影搖青塚月， 琵琶聲斷黑江秋？78 Despite the emperor’s chivalric defense, the weight of the orthodox historical tradition pushes her to make a right choice: in this situation, the only alternative to the Daji-­like femme fatale is female martyrdom; she has to volunteer herself. She speaks directly to the emperor: I have received great favor from you and I shall sacrifice myself in order to repay you. I volunteer to appease the barbarians, so that the war can be stopped and my name will be recorded in history. But how can I give up our love? Pressed by the prime minister and by Wang Zhaojun herself, Emperor Yuan has to give her up. He wants to see her off the next day at the Baling Bridge



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and drink a cup of farewell wine with her, but the prime minister intervenes again: “You mustn’t do that, Your Majesty. The foreign barbarians will laugh at you” (II, 6–­7). Foreseeing her fate, Wang Zhaojun speaks in the beginning of act 3: I have no choice but to appease the barbarians. How can I bear the wind and frost in the Xiongnu land? Ever since ancient times, beautiful women have always been ill-­fated. Don’t blame the spring wind but lament for the beauty. Emperor Yuan sees her off at the Ba (Baling) Bridge and for the last time sings his appreciation for her: Brocaded sable furs replaced her Han palace outfit. I have only her portrait left to look at. . . .79 All of her sorrow today is gathered on the pipa. 錦貂裘生改盡漢宮裝。 我則索看昭君畫圖模樣 . . . 想娘娘那一天愁都撮在琵琶上。 She bids the emperor farewell: “I am leaving now; who knows when I’ll return? Let me leave my Han clothes here.” She recites: Today I am a court lady in the Han Palace. Tomorrow I am a concubine in the land of the barbarians. I bear wearing my master’s clothes To enhance my beauty for another man. 正是今日漢宮人，明朝胡地妾。 忍著主衣裳，為人作春色。 (She leaves her clothes behind.) Seeing this, Emperor Yuan sings: Why leave your old dance clothes? When the west wind blows, fragrance of the past will dissipate.

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. . . . Today I am watching Zhaojun leave the pass behind. When will she return to her homeland like Su Wu? 則甚麼留下舞衣裳？被西風吹散舊時香。 . . . . 看今日昭君出塞，幾時似蘇武還鄉？ Desperately, he bemoans: “What kind of Han emperor am I 我那裏是大 漢皇帝?!” He even compares himself to Xiang Yu, the king of Chu, who lost his favorite concubine Yu Ji at a crucial moment during the war.80 Finally the emperor and his subjects return to their palace and Wang Zhaojun is left with the Xiongnu chieftain and his attendants. The chieftain is very happy: “Today China, mindful of our old alliance, marries Zhaojun to me. I dub her Queen Appeasing the Xiongnu. The wars will be stopped between these two countries. Isn’t this good? . . . Let’s go north!” (They walk) (III, 8–­10). The following scene is the climax of any Wang Zhaojun drama: Wang Zhaojun: Where are we now? Xiongnu Envoy: This is Black Dragon River, the borderline between the Han and the barbarian land. What is to the south belongs to the Han empire, and what is to the north belongs to our barbaric kingdom. Wang Zhaojun: Chieftain, may I ask for a cup of wine to make a libation to the South and to bid farewell to the Han, before I go on my long journey? (She pours a libation.) Emperor of Han, my life is ended. I shall await you in the next life! (She throws herself into the river.) (Shocked, the Xiongnu chieftain tries to save her, but fails. Sighs.) Xiongnu Chieftain: Alas, what a pity! Zhaojun did not want to enter the barbarian land and threw herself into the river. So be it. I will bury her by the river and name her tomb the Green Mound. Now she is dead and we are at odds with Han. It is all the scheme of the scoundrel Mao Yanshou! Soldiers, arrest him and send him to Han for sentencing. I will still make peace with Han, maintaining the in-­ law alliance forever. (III, 10–­11)



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Fig. 1. Wang Zhaojun: “May I ask for a cup of wine to make a libation to the South and to bid farewell to the Han, before I go on my long journey?” Moments before her suicide in Autumn in the Han Palace (Hangong qiu 漢 宮秋) by Ma Zhiyuan 馬致遠 of the Yuan dynasty. From a facsimile (Shanghai: Hanfenlou, 1918) of the original The Selected Yuan Plays (Yuanqu xuan 元曲選) by Zang Jinshu [Zang Maoxun], published in 1615–­1616. Courtesy of Stanford Auxiliary Library.

Ma Zhiyuan presents his most drastic innovation in the Wang Zhaojun story in his version of the border scene. She no longer crosses the border, as she did in all the previous works for more than a millennium; she kills herself before entering the Xiongnu territory to consummate the marriage. Although peace-­alliance marriage between China and its northern neighbors had been a common practice throughout history, the Mongol rulers’ condescending attitude toward Chinese literati in the Yuan dynasty made such interracial marriage unacceptable in Ma Zhiyuan’s times. Clearly reflecting contemporary nationalist and patriarchal views, this scene becomes an integral part of later Wang Zhaojun plays. Her patriotic conscience pushes her forward, but the patriarchic belief of female chastity pulls her back; the

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only way to solve the conflict between patriotism and patriarchy is her martyrdom. Her method of suicide—­drowning herself right on the border—­ becomes a standard practice in later dramas on her. Besides washing off her potential stain (the possibility of her body being violated by the barbarian), drowning herself is a good way to keep her body and her beauty intact, unlike ending her life with a sword or poison. Moreover, killing herself right on the border makes her immortal in the liminal space, the space between civilized China and the barbaric Xiongnu, between patriotism and patriarchy; her beauty and virtue remain in the borderland shared by both sides, as her evergreen tomb. The border no longer defends China from barbarism; the border defends Chinese ideology by killing Chinese women. The borderland becomes the ready-­made stage for celebrating such unique female sacrifice with the most elegant poetry and fascinating theatricality for centuries to come. Another ingenious plot invention is the Xiongnu chieftain’s unconditional surrender after Wang Zhaojun’s death. Although the gift-­exchange process is interrupted by her suicide, the peace alliance is miraculously established. Instead of her body, the gift the chieftain ought to receive, it is the alibi of her body that comes to symbolize superior Chinese morality and becomes the chieftain’s replacement prize. Note that the chieftain is devoted to an “in-­law” relationship with China, which means he has accepted her virtue, instead of her body, as his bride.81 Without the marginalizing process, which transforms the Xiongnu into morally inferior barbarians thirsting for Chinese enlightenment, a peace alliance can never be established in such unbalanced diplomatic circumstances. But the terms of the gift exchange are set by Chinese nationalist standards, and Wang Zhaojun’s suicide is taken for granted as the only way to finish this international business transaction. Emperor Yuan opens the last act by stating that he has not attended court since Wang Zhaojun left, a hundred days ago. Feeling lonely at night, he hangs her portrait and feels sleepy: How hard it is to achieve a dream of Gaotang! Where is my love? My love, why doesn’t your spirit visit me? Am I denied the love of clouds and rain of King of Chu?82 (He falls asleep).



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In his dream, Wang Zhaojun has fled from the Xiongnu to visit him but is brought back by the Xiongnu soldiers as soon as they detect her absence. When he wakes up, he is upset that she is gone: No wonder when I called for her beside the lamp, she did not answer me. It was just a portrait I saw! . . .  She does not answer me during the day, Nor does she allow me a good night sleep till dawn In which I can be united with her. (Wild goose cries) A wild goose is crying at the Changmen Palace. How does he know there is a lonely soul? Then comes an ingenious combination of lovely poetry and perhaps the most dramatic sound effect on the Yuan stage: in the next arias the emperor describes how sad and annoying the wild goose cries can be, while between arias the cries of a wild goose are heard: (Wild goose cries) . . . . I was already restless and now this nuisance is torturing me. Sometimes he cries slow, sometimes he cries sharp. . . . . (Wild goose cries) Not a sound that agrees with my heart, Like forest wind whistling and mountain brook gurgling. . . . . (Wild goose cries) . . . . One cry circles around the Han Palace, One cry reaches to Weicheng [a border town]. It adds grey hair and makes me frail. . . . The migration pattern of wild geese makes them the most reliable messengers to carry messages to home from the frontier (north of China); they often serve as letter carriers in border-­crossing drama. Although no letter is mentioned in this scene, the sound of the wild goose reminds the audience of the frontier sorrow, which fills the void in the palace caused by Wang Zhaojun’s absence.

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The prime minister reports Wang Zhaojun’s suicide and presents the captured Mao Yanshou. Emperor Yuan ends the play by ordering Mao Yanshou beheaded and offering his head as a sacrifice to Wang Zhaojun, also giving the Xiongnu envoy a feast before he returns. The emperor ends the play with a poem: When leaves fall in the Palace and a wild goose cries, In dreams she returns to my lonely pillow, as I think of her by night. Though the beauty of the Green Mound is no longer here, I will still kill the painter for the beauty. 葉落深宮雁叫時， 夢回孤枕夜相思。 雖然青塚人何在， 還為蛾眉斬畫師。 (IV, 11–­13) Acoustically, Autumn also sets up the model for later border-­crossing plays. As affective sensual border crossing, sound—­beautiful melody or unbearable noise—­penetrates boundaries unexpectedly and affects the listeners viscerally. Wang Zhaojun’s pipa playing in the Cold Palace transcends the high walls and reaches the emperor, and the wild goose cries bring the frontier sorrow to the palace. This type of affective border crossing can be considered as an intervention from the third dimension, an alternative way for transgression and temporary relief from the lateral border-­crossing situation, as explained in the introduction. Although it is impossible to hear the sounds, the dramaturgical effect is convincing. As the title Autumn in the Han Palace suggests, the last act, in which the emperor longs for Wang Zhaojun in the Han palace, is the essence of the play. Earlier works on Wang Zhaojun emphasized her loneliness and nostalgia after her marriage to the chieftain. The stress was on her feelings and emotions. Here Ma Zhiyuan shifts the emphasis and makes the emperor the central character. As indicated earlier, a Yuan zaju usually only allows one singing actor. Autumn in the Han Palace is a moben 末本 (a mo [male] play) with the lead singing confined to a mo, a male role (the emperor); without her singing voice, Wang Zhaojun is a mere supporting character. Since Chinese theatrical tradition values verse singing much more than spoken prose dialogue, Emperor Yuan becomes the lead, the sympathetic character who conveys his feelings through poetic songs. Throughout the play, the



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emperor appreciates her beauty, scolds the useless subjects, pines for her, expresses his loneliness, and implements justice, all through powerful poetry and music. Moreover, with numerous allusions, Emperor Yuan is granted the liberty to travel in and out of the historical and literary canon. On the contrary, Wang Zhaojun’s limited speeches (in prose) and short recitation (in verse) cannot compete with the emperor’s grandiose performance. Her destiny has been set from the beginning of the play by the chieftain, Mao Yanshou, Emperor Yuan, and later by the prime minister. Perhaps based on this solo singing restriction, her singing with the pipa, a standardized feature and climax of the border-­crossing scene in later drama, is not present here. Her border crossing is rushed and hushed; she does not linger to express her sorrow and resentment in powerful songs in the borderland. The only “voice” she has is the efficacious sound of pipa in an earlier scene. As explained earlier, the most popular version of Autumn in the Han Palace is the one from the Ming edition of The Selected Yuan Plays (1515–­1516). There are a few visual icons related to border-­crossing drama that were well established by then (see fig. 1). In this picture, Wang Zhaojun, in the Xiong­nu attire, is holding a cup for libation by a river, while her companion carries her pipa for her; both are on horseback. The Xiongnu soldiers are in the background, a reminder of the danger of the border. “Brocaded sable furs,” as described by the emperor, signifies the exotic Xiongnu attire, which is indicated symbolically with some fur on clothing or as part of a headdress. The pipa, though it has an important dramaturgical function, is only mentioned in the emperor’s song but not in the stage direction. Horses or horse riding, which would become an important stage action associated with the Wang Zhaojun character in later dramas, is only described for carrying luggage in the text here. Pipa and the horse both emphasize the mobility of the nomad, which contrasts with the stability of the Han. With the strong sense of action, the interruption of border crossing becomes even more violent and theatrical. Although it is impossible to know how much alteration has been made in the Ming text from the original Yuan edition, it is clear that there is a discrepancy between the text and iconography in the Ming edition. By the time the picture was made, border-­crossing drama seemed well established as a dramatic and iconographic tradition. The picture corresponds better to later drama than Ma Zhiyuan’s text, whose border crossing was brief and insignificant. Though probably never presented on the premodern stage, the Black (Dragon) River and the Green Mound are two important (imagined) visual

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elements in Wang Zhaojun drama. The Green Mound has been one of the standard images for Wang Zhaohun’s tragic fate since early on in the literary tradition, but the connection of the Black River seems a newer invention. In Wang Zhaojun Bianwen, she was buried by the Yellow River. Some of the poems occasionally mention a name of a river, and some early historical references indicate the tomb of Zhaojun by the Golden River.83 Ever since Autumn in the Han Palace, however, a river is required in drama for her pathetic drowning. The Black River (or Black Dragon River) is the river most commonly named in drama as the site of Wang’s suicide. The invention of the Black River in Autumn might be a reference to King Xiang Yu and his favorite concubine Yu Ji, who were besieged near the Black River (Wujiang).84 There are a number of Green Mounds and Zhaojun Tombs available for Wang Zhaojun fans to visit nowadays. The most famous one, a grand Green Mound at the city of Hohhot in Inner Mongolia, is located on the south bank of the Big Black River.85 Did the construction of the tomb follow the historical truth or dramatic truth? If the Black River was indeed the border between the Chinese and the Xiongnu, the historical truth—­that she crossed the border and lived among the Xiongnu for years—­would place her tomb north of the river; on the other hand, the dramatic suicide would allow her unstained body to be buried on the south side of the river, within Chinese territory. The popularization of the Green Mound in Hohhot means that dramatic truth triumphs. The stage direction, though scant, is also very telling as the misogyny is apparent: while other speakers are indicated by their positions or names, such as Emperor, Prime Minister, Barbarian King, Barbarian Envoy, and Mao Yanshou, Wang Zhaojun is only referred to as dan (female role type) when she speaks. Her name or title (Bright Consort) matters little since her only value is her womanhood. She is almost mute throughout the play, and the sound of the pipa and wild goose seem even more articulate than she. Even her pipa “playing” is probably only sound effects produced by musicians as the stage direction indicates: acting as playing the pipa. On the other hand, she has a long stage presence as the emperor appraises her beauty, the court subjects discuss her fate, and the Xiongnu troops watch her libation ritual and suicide; she is present throughout the first three acts! Her body (as the object of the beholder) is highlighted while her voice is diminished. She is seen but not heard. Even though the music is largely lost, it is nevertheless



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worth imagining the aural aspects of the play from the feminist musicologist aspect, compared with the visual aspects the text dictates.86 What did a real woman87—­with her silent singing and surrogated pipa playing—­really “sound” like on the thirteenth-­century stage? With attentive and creative listening, can we hear the silence? For most of the later Wang Zhaojun dramas, the singing is more evenly distributed, and the female character (dan) has much more powerful voice and stronger stage presence; nevertheless, the laureate Ma Zhiyuan has set a gendered tone for future Wang Zhaojun dramas with his double marginalization of women: her death and her lack of voice. The lack of her body and voice is compensated by his most magnificent poetry and heartbreaking songs. The value of her sacrifice goes beyond contemporary patriotism and patriarchy: to reiterate the Ming literatus Feng Menglong, it is a tremendous inspiration for literati for many generations to come.88 Although her singing and speaking powers are largely restored in later works, her inevitable suicide proves that Ma Zhiyuan’s double marginalization has a long-­lasting effect. Her evolution is now complete: from a woman in the palace poetry tradition who expresses her sorrow and indignation, she has become a beautiful object of male gaze and of the state-­controlled gift-­exchange transaction. Autumn in the Han Palace transforms her story into his story. Moreover, history has put tremendous pressure on her to do the right thing. She is presented as a pretty obstacle: her beauty interferes with state affairs and even her absence makes the emperor restless; only her death can bring peace to China and an ending to the play. With the beauty of Xishi, if she does not choose to be a good woman who knows when to get out of the way like Yu Ji, she will fall into the category of Daji, the femme fatale that brings the downfall of the Chinese empire. Even during the negotiation with the prime minister, the emperor has foreseen her suicide by referencing the Black River and the Green Mound. Not only is her suicide affective, it is also efficacious: the peace is established despite China’s broken promise. Even though her suicide here is hastened, it inspires later writers to bring out the ultimate melodramatic and feminine pathos of her sacrifice and turn the suicide act into a dramatic climax. After Autumn in the Han Palace, the dramatic border between China and the Xiongnu becomes a solid barrier that all but stops female characters from crossing.

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Wang Zhaojun Dramas in the Ming Dynasty (1368–­1643) Only two complete plays have survived from the Ming dynasty: one zaju, Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai 昭君出塞) by Chen Yujiao 陳與郊 (1544–­1611), and one chuangqi, Wang Zhaojun Appeasing the Barbarians (Wang Zhaojun chusai herong ji 王昭君出塞和戎記) or Appeasing the Barbarians (Herong ji 和戎記, anonymous, printed in the Wanli period, 1573–­1619).89 Numerous songs and fragmentary scenes scattered among Ming anthologies indicate the popularity of her story during this period.90 Chen Yujiao, also named Yuyang 隅陽, was born in Haining, Zhejiang province. He achieved the high ranks of juren (1567) and jinshi (1574) by passing the imperial examinations. Beginning his bureaucratic career, he was employed in the Imperial Court in Beijing. He retired in 1592 due to his mother’s death and because he was accused of taking bribes. He then renovated a country villa, the Yü Garden in Haining, and started his writing career. He commented on earlier literary works and wrote poetry and drama. When writing drama, he adopted pen names such as Gao Man­qing 高漫卿 and Ren Danxuan 任誕軒, both of which suggest nonsense or nonserious writing. He wrote four chuanqi and five zaju; two of the latter were lost. Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind is a one-­act zaju which captures only the sentimental moment of farewell instead of the development of the whole story. This play follows the earlier tradition of Miscellaneous Anecdotes from the Western Capital and The New Accounts of Tales of the World rather than the previous Yuan play. In other words, Wang Zhaojun has never had a chance to meet the emperor until she is on her way to marry the chieftain. The short play starts with the news that Wang Zhaojun is being married to the chieftain and ends with the beginning of her journey. Because of Mao Yanshou’s scheme, the emperor marries her to the chieftain after seeing the unfavorable portrait. The emperor is surprised by her alluring beauty but has to let her go since he cannot break his promise to a foreign country. He does, however, send her off with a special ceremony, as if he were sending off a princess. This is a direct reference to the story of Princess Xijun as it is recounted in The History of the Han Dynasty. What is emphasized here is Wang Zhaojun’s virgin femininity and her regret at not having been visited by the emperor. Unlike a Yuan zaju, a Ming zaju does not restrict the singing role to one actor; therefore, both Wang



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Zhaojun and the emperor can express their feelings through songs. The emperor (sheng)91 sings in regret: Beauty, looking your lightly painted eyebrows makes me hate that greedy wolf . . .92 How should I decide between my love and my credibility? Beauty, stay a while! (He speaks) Better than searching in vain for your footprints and the fragrance of your clothes after we part. (3911–­3912) Wang Zhaojun (dan) changes into Xiongnu attire and sings: Listen to the sound of bugles and reed pipes. My anger stops the sad clouds, Tears fall on the speckled bamboos.93 The cinnabar mark on my arm is still red,94 But my footprints on the mossy steps are green, And the gold bracelet on my arm glitters in vain. . . . (She plays the pipa.) Court ladies, you are not crying for Yu Ji parting from the King of Chu, Just seeing off a maiden substituting for a general. . . . I will be Xishi of the north, Xishi of the north. (3913–­3916)95 The play ends as she begins her journey toward the border, saying, “How unbearable is today’s sorrow 這一天愁，怎生發付我也!” (3918).96 Without the emergency of the Xiongnu invasion, or the chieftain’s specific request for Wang Zhaojun, her marriage to the chieftain does not appear significant. The only threat is the sound of bugles and reed pipes. She is no longer treated as a heroine who volunteers herself to save the country; the sacrifice of her virginal body is trivialized as “today’s sorrow.” Instead of her virtue and courage, her virginal beauty, which seems to have gone to waste because the emperor has missed his opportunity, has become the theatrical focus. Her sacrifice becomes a melodramatic gesture of ultimate femininity, and there is not even any space for her patriotism to develop. The Qing critic Jiao Xun (1763–­1820) valued the brevity of the play: “Chen’s play did not record her death or her marriage. The wonderful thing about the play is that it ends at Yumen Pass [the borderline].”97 Although

Fig. 2. Wang Zhaojun: “How unbearable is today’s sorrow!” 這一天愁，怎生發付我 也! Moments before her border crossing in Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai 昭君出塞) by Chen Yujiao 陳與郊 of the Ming dynasty. From a facsimile (Wujin: Songfenshi, 1918) of the original Zaju of the High Ming Period (Shengming zaju 盛明雜劇, edited by Shen Tai, 1629). Courtesy of Stanford Auxiliary Library.



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her death is not enacted in the play, the allusion to tragic ancient beauties such as Yu Ji and Xishi, and obvious references to the tradition of Autumn in the Han Palace, prefigure her suicide. By hinting at her death rather than describing it, the playwright leaves space for audience’s imagination. In contrast with the petite Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind, another Ming play, Appeasing the Barbarians (Herong ji 和戎記), is an anonymous chuanqi of thirty-­six scenes, with a complicated plot and numerous characters. Chuanqi was a dramatic form popular in the Ming and Qing dynasties. Evolving out of the nanxi (南戲, southern drama) of the Yuan dynasty,98 Ming chuanqi differed from zaju mainly in its use of more southern music and in its length. A chuanqi is usually much longer, with a more complicated plot structure and characters. The extant edition of Appeasing the Barbarians is the Fuchuntang edition, printed during the years of Wanli (1573–­ 1619), and collected in the archives of Beijing Library.99 As Kwong Hing Foon points out, since the full title of the extant edition is “The Newly Cut, Illustrated, Phonetically Annotated Story of Wang Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind and Appeasing the Barbarians 新刻出像音註王昭君出塞和戎記,” there must have been at least one edition prior to this. Moreover, since existent songs in an earlier anthology (The Brocade Bag of Romances, 1553) are almost identical to those in the later edition, Kwong argued that the date of Appeasing the Barbarians can be pushed back to as early as 1553,100 or even to the pre-­Ming nanxi tradition, according to James J. Y. Liu.101 The Fuchuntang edition presents a complete picture of the long and complicated version of the play in the nanxi/chuanqi tradition. With numerous illustrations, it is also an excellent source of information on the iconography of Wang Zhaojun. Due to the length of the play, I will simply sketch out the relevant parts for analysis. A brief plot summary opens the play. The next two scenes102 juxtapose happy pictures of Wang Zhaojun’s family (Wang Zhaojun, her parents, sister Xiuzhen and brother Long) and Mao Yanshou’s (Mao Yanshou and his wife). At court, Emperor Yuan (sheng) declares his interest in choosing a queen, and the prime minister (mo) reports his astrological find: in Yuezhou, the daughter of Wang Chaoshan (Zhaojun’s father) is the most auspicious candidate. Emperor Yuan then orders Mao Yanshou (jing) to paint a portrait of that woman so he can decide whether to summon her to court (vol. 1, i–­iv). Mao Yanshou arrives at the Wang residence and informs them of the reason for his visit, asking for a thousand taels of gold to exchange for a

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good portrait. Too poor to pay and too proud to bribe, the talented Zhaojun paints the portrait herself. This naturally infuriates Mao, who seeks revenge. Rather than simply marring the portrait as in Autumn in the Han Palace, he adds a few marks on the face so that her physiognomy will reveal a threat to the emperor: A dot as a mole on the left side of the face is the mole of calamity, which will ruin the family and destroy the country; a mark on the left eye is the mark of loneliness [indicating her widowhood, and thus the early death of her husband]. When the emperor sees this, he must send her to the Cold Palace to suffer. Then they will know how mean Old Mao can be! (vol. 1, vi, 14–­15) The emperor is enraged when he sees the portrait and orders Wang Zhaojun to be isolated in the Cold Palace in order to prevent trouble; moreover, her father is deprived of his official title (vol. 1, vii–­viii). But the Jade Emperor, the highest deity, knows of this injustice and bids the Golden Star to send her a zither in a dream so she could reach the emperor.103 The story unfolds as in Autumn in the Han Palace. Emperor Yuan, strolling in the garden some three months later, overhears music and singing: “One should never be a woman, whose happiness and sufferings are all generated by others 為人莫作婦人身, 百般苦樂由他人!” (vol. 1, x, 22). Seeing her beauty, he makes Wang Zhaojun his queen immediately.104 He also orders her brother Wang Long to arrest Mao Yanshou after he learns the portrait scheme. Mao Yanshou flees to the Shatuo tribe with the original painting (vol. 1, xi–­xii).105 Wars between China and Shatuo threaten the happiness of Wang Zhao­ jun and Emperor Yuan. In order to resolve the crisis, a court lady named Xiao Shanyin 蕭善音 (tie), who resembles Wang Zhaojun, is chosen to marry the chieftain in the latter’s place. Wang Zhaojun pities Xiao’s fate: “How sad! One should never be a woman!” (vol. 2, xxii, 8). Xiao Shanyin performs a miniature version of the farewell scene (thinking about her family, lamenting her fate, condemning Mao Yanshou) and carries on her mission for the country. When the truth is finally revealed three years later, Xiao Shanyin is brutally killed by the chieftain (vol. 2, xxv). Wang Zhaojun needs to embrace the destiny that history has assigned for her. Now the long-­awaited suicide is finally near, but she is in no hurry; she seems to have all the time in the



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world to play out the whole repertoire of her suicide rituals in the borderland. The traditional farewell and border crossing now fills seven scenes (vol. 2, xxvii–­xxxiii). This time it is her own fate that she laments: “One should never be a woman! Zhaojun suffers the most!” 為人莫作婦人身, 最苦 是昭君! She blames the Han court: “How many civil and martial subjects does Emperor Yuan have? Millions of iron-­armored men without masculinity can bear to see a woman appeasing barbarians! What’s the use of having generals?” (vol. 2, xxix, 21–­23) Seeing the Shatuo troops, she comments on their barbarism: Look, the barbarian soldiers are like flocks of sheep. Their hair is like dried pine needles and faces like dark ink. Noses like eagles’ beaks and mustache as curly as mountain donkeys’. 見番兵一似群羊聚， 髮似枯松，面如黑漆， 鼻似鷹鳩，鬚捲山驢。 (vol. 2, xxix, 24) She lists her reasons for hating Mao: First, I cannot forget my parents’ love. Second, I cannot give up the love of my husband. Third, good citizens have suffered. Fourth, millions of soldiers worked day and night. Fifth, the army food supplies are gone. If I violate my body today, The Han ancestors will be ashamed for ten thousand years. I’d rather be a guest at the Yellow Springs,106 Than queen of the barbarian country (vol. 2, xxix, 24–­25). She requests three things from the chieftain before crossing the border: a promise of surrender, the gold imperial seal of the Shatuo, and a meeting with Mao Yanshou. Golden Star is moved and transforms the Earth God into a white wild goose so it can help her to “show her loyalty to the emperor, express her love for her husband, and demonstrate her chastity” at the end of her life (vol. 2, xxx, 26). In Autumn in the Han Palace, the wild goose helps establish the mood by providing the sound effect; here it grants another

Fig. 3. “Fighting between barbarian and Han soldiers” in Appeasing the Barbarians (Herong ji 和戎記, anonymous). Note the clean-­shaven Han soldier (left) and the barbarian soldier (right) with facial hair and pheasant feathers. From a facsimile of the original Fuchuntang version, printed 1573–­1619.



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excuse for her lingering in the borderland. The wild goose is often associated with letter writing, and in later Wang Zhaojun plays, it is sometimes personalized as an audience for her sorrowful singing in the no-­man’s land. The scene of letter writing and the wild goose usually takes place just before her suicide, when the dramatic pathos is at its height.107 The chieftain orders Mao Yanshou to see her. The following scene is mixed with dark humor and feelings of anger and spite. It is a very satisfying scene in which Wang Zhaojun finally gets her revenge (and revenge for Xiao Shanyin, the proxy Zhaojun): Wang Zhaojun: Traitor, you are the one who ruined the country! How shameless you are to see me! Mao Yanshou: If not for me, how could you come to this prosperous place? Wang Zhaojun then presses the chieftain to execute Mao Yanshou. Chieftain: Old Mao, I want to borrow something from you. Will you agree? Mao Yanshou: Your Majesty. I don’t really have anything. Chieftain: I don’t care if you have it or not, just say yes to me. Mao Yanshou: I will say yes if I have it. Chieftain: Say yes, say yes. Mao Yanshou: Yes, yes. Chieftain: Old Mao, lend me your head. Mao is then killed and his head presented to Wang Zhaojun. She curses his head in songs: Ferret-­faced-­rat-­eyed fellow, you destroyed me! . . .  May you never be reincarnated, and fall into hell and not rise to heaven for ten thousand years! She looks at his hands: These hands had ten pointed fingers that painted my portrait. Sharp razors were hidden in the rabbit hair [painting brush] that changed my looks, and caused my misery. . . .

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Today your corpse is pulled apart by five horses and will be flushed away for a thousand years! She curses his feet: Long-­legged slaves, you carried my portrait to the barbarian country. . . . Now I have to appease the barbarians myself! When his heart and innards are presented to her, her condemnation displays no mercy: This cunning heart worked out the schemes. It is you who jeopardized the country and ruined me. I want to break your corpse, cut off your head, smash your bones into powder and swallow it! (vol. 2, xxxi, 27–­29) When she is urged to hurry into the Shatuo country, she says she will go the next day. The next scene is a short transitional scene in which Wang Long, Zhaojun’s brother, reports to the Chinese emperor that the Shatuo have surrendered and Mao Yanshou has been executed. Oddly enough, he also notifies the emperor that Wang Zhaojun has thrown herself into the Black River, an event which occurs only in the following scene (vol. 2, xxxii). This is an even more premature reference to her death than when Emperor Yuan alludes to the Green Mound and the Black River before Wang’s suicide in Autumn in the Han Palace. Finally comes the climactic moment. Wang Zhaojun hopes to send a letter to the emperor to tell him of her feelings, and a white wild goose descends to await her command. Without a brush or paper, she can only bite her own finger and use her blood to write the letter: Zhaojun kowtows to bid farewell to the emperor. I left the palace and came to the Black River in tears. Your love is as deep as the ocean, My feelings are as heavy as a mountain. Seeing the letter is like seeing me, So you will not weep day and night. We could not enjoy ourselves in our last life,



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Nor celebrate matrimony in this life. The letter is for you as a souvenir. If I die in the river, for the sake of me, With whom you shared a pillow, Please take care of my parents. May you be king for ten thousand generations. My tears fall on the letter, My heart is broken! (vol. 2, xxxiii, 30–­31) She entrusts this letter to the wild goose and bids it be careful: do not fly low, avoid traps, do not float on the water, lest the letter get wet (vol. 2, xxxiii, 31). When they urge her forward again, she curses Mao Yanshou one more time and sings: It is impossible to keep my body intact And not to violate moral rules. If I do not want to have my pure name stained, I must throw myself into the long river. 身體髮膚難全保， 傷風敗俗亂綱常。 奴家不把清名朽， 將身一命喪長江。 (She exits [throws herself into the long river]). The chieftain is very sad about her death: “Though I can’t be with you in this life, I want to marry you in my next life. I should just throw myself into the river so I can marry you!” (vol. 2, xxxiii, 32).108 The next scene follows the last act of Autumn in the Han Palace, in which Wang Zhaojun’s spirit visits the emperor in a dream. She entrusts to him her sister Xiuzhen 秀真, who has “an almond-­shaped face and peach-­ colored cheeks. Marry her. Share your happiness and state affairs with her. May you live for ten thousand years” (vol. 2, xxxiv, 34). But the king of the underworld will not allow her to linger, and the emperor wakes up after she leaves. At this point, the wild goose brings him the letter she has written. He reads the letter and orders his subject to find Xiuzhen for him (vol. 2, xxxiv). The play ends with a wedding between the emperor and Xiuzhen (tie), a

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happy ending of a sort typical in traditional Chinese drama. Pleased to see that Xiuzhen is as beautiful as her sister, the emperor names her “Saijun 賽 君,” which means “Rival to Zhaojun” (vol. 2, xxxvi, 36). Appeasing the Barbarians is important for its influence on later Wang Zhaojun drama and fiction (chapter 3). Its plot twists (the proxy Zhaojun and the delay in the borderland), new characters (such as Wang Zhaojun’s siblings Sai Zhaojun and Wang Long), numerous battles between Chinese and the barbarians, and other new devices such as the divine help and the letter writing, all recur in Wang Zhaojun plays in the Ming dynasty and later. Her lamentation that “One should never be a woman!” becomes a standard line for women characters with bitter fate. The battle scenes add exciting martial elements to an original civil play,109 and the illustrations provide a clear picture of the contemporary perception of the northern barbarians. The fake Zhaojun and the delay at the borderland add tremendous theatrical possibilities to the play. This is the most fully developed Wang Zhaojun character and plot in the history of border-­crossing drama so far, but the more rounded Wang Zhaojun character only ends up dying by a more embellished suicide. The final marriage between the emperor and her sister offers a temporary happy ending. One cannot help but worry about the future of the “Rival to Zhaojun”: will she be next in line for peace-­alliance marriage, repeating the fate of the fake and the real Zhaojun? Wang Zhao­jun’s misery is expanded to affect other women, but her suicide is never forgotten. No matter how many women have been involved in the peace-­alliance mission, no matter how many generals have fought the barbarian troops, no matter how long she delays on the borderland or how much divine help she can summon, only her death can bring down the final curtain and give the audience a satisfying closure.

Wang Zhaojun Dramas in the Ming-­Qing Transition (the Seventeenth Century) The Ming-­Qing transition (the seventeenth century) was a period of fascinating intellectual development and a time of tumultuous social and political disruptions and ethnic, cultural, and national conflicts. The affluence of the late Ming, the rise of mercantile classes, the advance of printing technology, and the popularization of a new dramatic form, chuanqi, made this period a rich ground for literary and dramatic works. The corruption of the



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court, however, brought the fall of the Ming dynasty (1368–­1643), the last dynasty founded by Han Chinese. In 1644 the Manchus, an ethnic group from northeast Asia, established the Qing, China’s last Chinese imperial dynasty. The dynastic transition from Han to foreign rulers provided perfect conditions for the revival of border-­crossing drama. Literati in this period were forced to review the painful experience of foreign occupation, and border-­crossing drama was an ideal medium for the display of their Chinese nationalist thought and their resentment of foreign rule. The national border, which failed to defend China against superior Manchu military power, now awaited the magic touch of the literati to make it sacred again. Surprisingly, in the border-­crossing drama of the seventeenth century, the nationalist border seems to weaken while the gender border is made stronger than ever. Mourning the Pipa (Diao pipa 弔琵琶, ca. 1661) by You Tong 尤侗 (1618–­ 1704), a four-­act zaju with a wedge, exemplifies border-­crossing drama in the transitional time. You Tong, also named Zhancheng 展成, Hui’an 悔庵, and Xitang 西堂, was born in Changzhou (now Suzhou), Jiangsu province. He was admired for his literary talent, but his career as a civil servant was not successful. Nevertheless, in 1679 he was summoned to court by Emperor Kangxi to compile The History of the Ming Dynasty. After his retirement from court, he enjoyed writing for many more years. He published his collected works in 1686, and an anthology of other works was published in 1691. His autobiography, a year-­by-­year account of his entire life, was later included in The Complete Works of You Xitang. The title-­name and formal title of the play reveal the plot: Huhanye proposes marriage on the basis of the portrait. Emperor Yuan of Han marries the lady to the desert. Wang Zhaojun returns to the Han palace in a dream. Cai Wenji weeps and mourns the pipa. 呼韓邪求婚畫障, 漢元帝嫁女龍沙。 王昭君夢回宮闕, 蔡文姬泣弔琵琶。110 The first three acts and the wedge follow the plot of Autumn in the Han Palace: Having been in the palace for three years since being summoned

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at age seventeen, Wang Zhaojun (zhengdan) has been unable to meet the emperor because of the unflattering portrait. The sound of her pipa brings the emperor (zhengmo) to her and frees her from the Cold Palace (I). In the xiezi,111 Mao Yanshou (jing) flees to the Xiongnu with a perfect portrait (he has two portraits, one unmarred) and persuades the chieftain (chongmo) to demand Wang Zhaojun. Wang Zhaojun is forced to marry the chieftain, but kills herself by drowning herself in the Border River (jiaohe 交河). The chieftain orders Mao Yanshou to be executed (II). The emperor falls asleep before the portrait and her spirit visits him in a dream (III). The intriguing part of this play is its last act, in which You Tong presents a moral comparison between Cai Yan and Wang Zhaojun. Two centuries after Wang Zhaojun’s death, Cai Yan visits the Green Mound to commemorate her, and Wang Zhaojun’s spirit appears to console her. The role of Cai Yan will be discussed in the next chapter. Mourning the Pipa is a fine example of how the Wang Zhaojun story can resonate with the complicated social, political, ethnic, and gender ideologies of a transitional period. The Ming court’s sense of desperation when faced with the inevitable dynastic transition is reflected in the speech of the emperor, who sadly tells Wang Zhaojun, My dear concubine, it is not that I want you to go; it is because the Xiongnu are powerful while we are weak. Your precious body can keep the country at peace for a hundred years. Please don’t think I am heartless. (II, 6) The emperor’s heart-­breaking speech would have had considerable sentimental resonance with the contemporary audience. As some nationalists continued to strive for a restoration of the Ming, a kind of performative national myth was invented. This myth was at work in a letter by the patriotic general Shi Kefa 史可法 (1601–­1645), who claimed that a miracle had befallen a Chinese prince proclaimed emperor: On the day of the temple ritual, tens of thousands of people witnessed purple clouds gathering and scriptures rising into the sky . . . Hundreds of thousands of cedar logs floated down the river to provide the material for the new palace. Wasn’t this Heaven’s intention?112 The emperor that was supported by “Heaven’s intention” was Prince Fu, a cousin of the last Ming emperor, Chongzhen. Fu was proclaimed by nation-



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alists the rightful successor to the throne and was made head of a temporary government in Nanjing in 1644 and later sought refuge in Burma with a paltry six hundred followers. But the legitimacy of this Chinese nation was challenged, not by the Manchus, but by the Chinese themselves. As a matter of fact, the immediate cause of Emperor Chongzhen’s suicide was not the pressure from Qing troops but the invasion of Li Zicheng, who led the most powerful Han rebel force in the late Ming.113 Under these complicated ethnic and historical circumstances, there was simply no single orthodox Chinese tradition to be maintained. Even the most naive nationalists had doubts about the transparent national myth. The helpless and hopeless Chinese regime is apparent in another speech of the emperor: “Civil subjects have no strategies, and martial subjects are not willing to fight. Poor I, the emperor, can do nothing but deliver this delicate beauty with my own hands.” Wang Zhaojun responds to his weakness with extreme contempt: “Your majesty, you are an august emperor and yet you cannot protect a woman. What’s the use of crying now like a little girl?” “My dear concubine,” Emperor Yuan explains weakly, “You know very well that peace-­alliance marriage is an old dynastic custom.” She despises his impotence and sneers at his excuses because he imitates not the glory of previous dynasties but their most cowardly customs. When the court ministers want to honor her with a peace-­making poem as a standard custom, she denounces this useless ritual. She sings bitterly: “You should have written the poem to congratulate the emperor, who appeases the barbarians on pillows 枕席平遼!” Defenseless, the emperor can only toast her with a cup of wine and cite the standard lines of farewell poetry, both clichéd parting gestures on the border: Please drink up another cup of wine. Once you cross the border, there will be no old acquaintances. 勸君更盡一杯酒，西出陽關無故人. (II, 5–­7)114 Although You Tong generally follows Ma Zhiyuan’s story line and the zaju tradition, he gives Wang Zhaojun unmatched verbal power by transforming the original moben (male play) into a danben (in which the dan, whether Wang Zhaojun or Cai Yan, sings most of the songs). You Tong felt that the all-­male singing in Autumn in the Han Palace was “colorless” (wuse 無色) and that the play failed to convey Wang Zhaojun’s “sadness

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and resentment of a thousand autumns” (qianqiu beiyuan 千秋悲怨).115 Compared to previous Wang Zhaojun characters, You Tong’s is much more forceful and articulate. She is especially dominant in the second act: only moments before her death, she becomes extremely defiant and surprisingly erudite. Echoing passages from Tang poetry and Sima Qian’s Records of the Grand Historian, she draws on all the historical and literary allusions she can muster to attack the emperor and his subjects. She herself has merged into the orthodox historical and literary tradition, which had become dubious and almost inaccessible as the Chinese nation no longer existed. Traditionally, the imperial examination, a set of largely literary tests by which scholars were certified for official duty, not only dictated the curriculum of literary education but also determined the orthodox literary canon itself. But since the middle of the Ming dynasty, due to the stiffening of the test criteria, the increase in the number of candidates, and the corruption of the testing bureaucracy, more and more scholars harbored doubts about the integrity of the testing even as they did what they could to be included in the system.116 You Tong himself was actually such a cynical scholar.117 After failing the imperial examination many times, he was finally employed as a judge in Beijing, unfortunately only for a short time (1652–­1656). Still unsuccessful in his middle age, he wrote Reading the Lisao (Du Lisao 讀離騷, 1656), a dramatization of the death of the famous loyal poet Qu Yuan 屈原 (ca. 340–­ca. 278 BC), to express his own resentment at not being recognized. Surprisingly, this play was not only highly appreciated by his literati friends, but also praised by the Qing emperor Shunzhi (r. 1644–­1661), who called You Tong “a genuinely talented scholar” (zhencaizi 真才子) and ordered the imperial troupe to perform the play. You Tong’s life seemed to reach a turning point, but unfortunately, Shunzhi died a few years later before having a chance to really “use” him. A few months after Shunzhi’s death, You Tong dreamed of Wang Zhaojun and wrote Mourning the Pipa (1661). It is easy to draw parallels between the playwright and the dramatic persona: his failure in the examinations is like the neglect of her beauty after Mao Yanshou’s intervention; and the brevity of Shunzhi’s appreciation provokes as much resentment as does Wang Zhaojun’s short romance with Emperor Yuan. Ironically, however, the Manchu emperor Shunzhi, the supposedly barbarian ruler, is now equated with the sympathetic Chinese emperor in the border-­crossing drama tradition. You Tong’s own frustration matches Wang Zhaojun’s “sadness and resentment of a thousand autumns.” But he has the power to grant her a



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speaking and singing voice and to eulogize her for her melodramatic death without himself having to die.118 Placed in the larger social context of the seventeenth century, border-­ crossing drama had less to do with ethnic ideology than with conceptions of gender. Nationalist discourse was toned down while sexual appeal was heightened. Wang Zhaojun continued to kill herself on stage, despite greater racial tolerance under the Manchu rulers; meanwhile, outside of the theater, women also fought for the spotlight of suicide. Katherine Carlitz analyzes the conjunction of money and morality that resulted in the popularization of books on notable (mainly virtuous) women in late Ming. Whether reprints of old classics, such as Liu Xiang’s (80–­89 BC) Biographies of Notable Women (Lienü zhuan 列女傳), or new books on female virtue, such as Lü Kun’s Female Exemplars (Gui fan 閨範, 1591), these books were often beautifully illustrated and sometimes furnished with glosses to help female readers. Publishers commodified and packaged female virtue in romantic framework that included graphic depictions of the suicide or self-­ immolation of virtuous women. Surprisingly, it sometimes happened that nearly identical illustrations were used both for stories of virtuous women and for stories of romantic lovers. Virtuous women were depicted as objects of extreme sensuous desire.119 Confucian didacticism enhanced a sort of sadomasochistic pleasure, while numerous women readers emulated these virtuous women of history by killing themselves. Returning to the scene of Wang Zhaojun at the border, we find that although just before her death her power of speech surpasses that of every male on stage, including the emperor, she is, at the same time, putting on a full display of heightened femininity and sexuality. After songs, tears, and lamentation, she changes into Xiongnu attire (which she describes as “fur on the head and fur on the body”). She plays the pipa, connecting her sadness to Princess Xijun, and a pipa string breaks. Responding to her attendants’ shock, she sings, “Phoenix glue can repair a broken string. How much can the glue amend my broken heart?” She further recites “The Song of Resentment and Nostalgia” and writes a letter to the emperor.120 After appropriating the historical and literary canon to comment on the emperor, and after being properly costumed for her role, she has now situated herself perfectly in the Wang Zhaojun tradition. The playwright invites the audience to view her from both sides. Her Chinese attendants remark, “Madam, you look so stunning in Xiongnu garb. No portrait of a beauty could ever compare with you.” And the Xiongnu chieftain appreciates her even more: “Ha ha, what a

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beauty! Skin so tender I could break it with one breath! Such a lovely outfit! How I relish this!” (II, 7–­9). After the double appraisal of her feminine beauty, she throws herself into the river, as the traditional plot demands. In a fascinating study of the cult of female suicide during the Ming and Qing dynasties, T’ien Ju-­k’ang draws a connection between female suicide and the anxiety of male scholars. The rate of female suicide reached an unprecedented high in the late Ming period. Suicides of virtuous women were recognized by the imperial court and recorded in local gazettes. Usually a tablet or an arch (paifang) was erected in a public space to commemorate the woman’s death and to glorify the family name. To die after the death of the husband or the betrothed, to die while resisting rape, or to die in order to avoid remarriage were all good ways for helpless women to earn the enviable posthumous title “virtuous women.” Social and economic instability related to the fall of the dynasty no doubt encouraged bandits and marauders who might have caused more female death, but the real reason for the high rate of female suicide, according to T’ien Ju-­k’ang, probably lies in male anxiety and frustration in that period. He points out that the large number of surplus candidates created by the imperial examination system needed an outlet to release frustration. Regions that had more male scholars also had higher rates of female suicide. In Fujian, for instance, family patriarchs, with the support of local officials, encouraged public suicides of candidates for the title of “virtuous woman.” Crowds appear to have enjoyed watching the spectacle of a woman bidding farewell to her family and then hanging herself on a platform erected in a public space.121 Since it was usually the family’s responsibility to finance the public suicide ceremony, funeral, and even the honorary arch, the only eligible candidates were probably women from families with means.122 Encouraging female suicide was a cruel way of reinforcing the Confucian belief system that produced all the frustrated scholars, but it was also a way of demonstrating virtuous Chineseness to the foreign rulers. Most of all, watching a pathetic woman die and pitying her frailty and death reaffirmed male superiority that had been lost either in the examination process or in the dynastic transition. Needless to say, it was an excellent means of improving or preserving the reputation of the family of the deceased and of advertising the administrative achievements of the local government. We should also acknowledge that Ming-­Qing patriarchies did not really provide a friendly environment for helpless women. For instance, Ming law forbade women to appear in court to accuse others concerning marriage, cultivated



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land, property, and so on, unless they testified through a proxy. According to The History of Ming, “It is a common belief that a childless woman should end her life after her husband’s death.”123 Whether the suicide act was coerced or voluntary, to die as a virtuous woman was in many cases probably the only alternative to a miserable life; as for Wang Zhaojun, suicide is the only escape from calamity. The death of a woman in desperation reaffirmed the order of patriarchy and greatly benefited the members who had control over her body. Female suicide became a cult-­like epidemic in some regions, and tougher standards for rewards had to be established to curtail the number of arches being set up.124 At the end of her life in Mourning the Pipa, Wang Zhaojun sings: “Nobody will mourn for me if I drown by crossing the River [the borderline]. The female Ziqing [Su Wu] cannot stand ice and snow” (II, 10). Though defiant and resentful, she knows that only death can demonstrate her female loyalty both to husband and to country. The common women’s virtuous suicides, encouraged by their discontented male family members, can only be recorded by local gazettes; Wang Zhaojun’s death, embellished by disheartened dramatists like You Tong, is elevated to the status of the act of a national hero and should be recorded in dynastic history. While Chongzhen, the last emperor of the Ming, hanged himself upon the invasion of Li Zicheng,125 the frustrated scholars or dramatists designated female surrogates to die for their resentment, in the town square or on stage. The intense male anxiety of frustrated scholar or helpless emperor does not stop him from exercising his last bit of male power: he can always make his woman die for him willingly and redeem his impotence with his affective elegy for her. The four-­act zaju by Xue Dan 薛旦 (seventeenth century), The Dream of Zhaojun (Zhaojun meng 昭君夢, printed in 1661), is another seventeenth-­ century Wang Zhaojun play in which sexual appeal outplays traditional Chinese nationalism.126 Xue Dan was also named Jiyang 既揚, Xinranzi 訢 然子, or Tingranzi 聽然子. With his second wife Tingyun 停雲, a famous opera singer, he made his home in Wuxi, in Jiangsu province. A contemporary of You Tong, Xue Dan was also famous as a scholar from Changzhou and lived eighty-­seven years. Based on Miscellaneous Anecdotes from the Western Capital rather than on earlier Wang Zhaojun plays, Xue Dan’s play begins when Wang Zhaojun has already been married to the Xiongnu chieftain for a few years because of the scheme of Mao Yanshou. But Sleeping Spirit (mo), the deity who is in charge of dreams, pities her and wants to give her a good dream as

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compensation: “To the rich I must give nightmares; to the poor I must give good dreams. Then the world will be even. . . . There are many regrettable things. . . . Let me give Wang Zhaojun a good dream and send her to the Han Palace” (I, 1–­2). Wang Zhaojun (dan, in Xiongnu outfit) wonders about her fate: “Listening to the sound of the reed pipe fade away in the Green Mountains, will it be possible for me to return home like Su Wu?” (II, 2). She is like “a wonderful flower in the garden plucked up like a weed, or a shining pearl thrown in the dirty mud” (II, 3). One night when her Xiongnu husband is away hunting, she dreams about taking her pipa and fleeing back to the Han palace (II, 6). The Spirit of Harmony (wai, in charge of matrimony) tells her it is her fate to suffer; the pseudo-­Taoist theory of predestination is designed to persuade her to accept her fate without complaint. Wang Zhaojun declares her will to see the emperor, since she did not have a chance to be with him before her marriage. With the help of the Spirit of Harmony, she finds her way back to her old palace after a difficult long journey (III). The emperor is surprised to see her: “I am really happy to see you today.” He sings, Let me look at you under the light, Let me wash your tender jade flesh with hot springs . . . Let me hold your hand as we talk of old times. (IV, 13) With his entourage, the emperor and Wang Zhaojun enter the inner palace to celebrate their reunion, and everything seems to be restored. Here the sacredness of the border seems to be challenged, but the only way the double border crossing can happen is in her dream. In all the previous Wang Zhaojun plays, only her ghost is allowed to visit the emperor in dreams.127 In Autumn in the Han Palace, the emperor longs for her with romantic poetry on an autumn night, but now the meeting scene appears a little vulgar. Drunk and surrounded by court ladies, the emperor hurries her to bed. We are reminded of her pseudo-­prostitute identity in “The Unusual Tale of Zhaojun” by Niu Sengru of the Tang dynasty, in which only Wang Zhaojun has no excuse not to accompany Niu Sengru to bed, since she is marked as a “barbarian ghost.”128 Seventeenth-­century approaches to staging Wang Zhaojun’s story produce higher sense of sexual appeal. In Mourning the Pipa, Wang Zhaojun is viewed as a sexual object both by the Chinese and by the Xiongnu as she flirts with both identities in costumes in both ethnicities. In The Dream



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of Zhaojun, she is dressed in Xiongnu costume throughout the play, since she is now the wife of the chieftain. The illustration has her (both as the dreamer and the dreamed) wear pheasant feather and fur on her hair to indicate her foreignness. Before her journey, however, she begs for help from the Spirit of Harmony: “Thank you for pitying me. But my shoes are arched and my socks tiny. How can I walk for thousands of miles?” (III, 8). The Spirit of Harmony provides a divine horse for her to ride. In conventional Wang Zhaojun plays, the physical border does not appear particularly difficult to cross; it is the ideological border that makes her kill herself. Here the nationalist border seems to have dissolved to allow her double crossing, but her Chinese feminine physique makes actual border crossing almost impossible. Note that “arched shoes and tiny socks” are the accoutrements of bound feet, a product of the cruel Chinese patriarchy. Although foot binding was not practiced during Wang Zhaojun’s lifetime, playwrights, including Xue Dan, frequently used it to heighten the drama of her story.129 Her delicate feet, the last reminder of her cultural identity, are foregrounded by her Xiongnu outfit, her stained body, and the desolate and barbaric border landscape. Binding a woman’s feet was often a way of confining her activity within the domestic realm, and in this case, her bound feet become the symbol for her Chinese gender role as a chaste and loyal wife to her husband, the Xiongnu chieftain. She can visit the emperor only in a dream, and even in her dream, divine help represents both censorship and guidance for her as she recrosses the domestic/national border. Harsh wind, yellow sand, sad sounds of crows and wild geese, and old battlefield scattered with skeletons: the land/soundscape on the other side of the border is familiar, but her reversed border-­crossing journey proves to be more challenging with her bound feet. Unlike the conventional Zhaojun who approaches the border slowly because of the suspended time, this character’s recrossing is presented with a sense of urgency (fleeing) and hardship (bound feet). She sees a large body of water in front of her and is told that it is the Black Dragon River, beyond which is the land of Han. She asks for a boat but Spirit of Harmony says, “My horse sails through water as if flying. Just close your eyes.” He further describes in song: Harshly howling the west wind, Timidly flying over water margin. Frightened on the giant horseback, Escaping from the tiger’s mouth, she is now worry free. (III, 10)

Fig. 4. Wang Zhaojun dreams of recrossing the border, in The Dream of Zhaojun (Zhaojun meng 昭君夢) by Xue Dan 薛旦. Note that both the sleeping Zhaojun (below) and the fleeing Zhaojun in dream (above) wear pheasant feathers, which indicate her new ethnic identity. From a facsimile (Wujin: Songfenshi, 1941) of Newly Edited Zaju (Zaju xinbian 雜劇新編, edited by Zou Shijin, ca. 1661).



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Fleeing in arched shoes, traversing the ragged terrain, seeing spine-­chilling sights, riding the flying giant horse to cross the dangerous waters, all of these require special dance techniques. The unusual physical demand in this scene presents great challenge for the actor and heightens the femininity of the character. The intensified physical border crossing is further developed in modern opera (chapter 4). Unfortunately, she wakes up soon after the happy reunion with the emperor, and laments: It is not easy to have moments of joy. Now I taste the flavor of love-­making! Oh, Heaven, how might I dream every night of returning to the palace? (IV, 14) Here Xue Dan’s ingenious rewriting of the border-­crossing story allows Wang Zhaojun to fully display her feminine beauty and sensual desire. Since he frames the play in a censored dream, he has a valid excuse to display her sexuality. Wang Zhaojun’s erotic appeal has reached its highest point yet on the seventeenth-­century stage: she possesses both traditional Chinese femininity and alluring exoticism; the unique border-­(re)crossing journey allows her to exhibit her hybridized body in a tantalizing fashion. She might be able to cross the national border, but the gender border, standing insurmountably high, generates immense sensual delight for the audience.

Wang Zhaojun Drama in the Qing Dynasty Wang Zhaojun drama remained popular during the Qing. As Wang Gulu points out, various songs from Appeasing the Barbarians, which were called “fashionable tunes” (shidiao 時調) in the Wanli period (1573–­1619), were still referred to as “fashionable drama” (shiju 時劇) in the anthology of 1792 (The Song Collection of Nashuying). In his view, this evidence proves that these songs were popular for more than a century.130 The Words of the Pipa (Pipa Yu 琵琶語, printed in 1830), by Zhou Leqing 周樂清 (fl. 1801–­30), is probably the piece that departs most from the Wang Zhaojun tradition. Zhou Leqing, also named Wenquan 文泉 or Lianqing Zi 鍊情子, was born in Haining, Zhejiang province. This play is collected in his anthology The Chuanqi of the Sky-­Mending Stone (Butianshi chuanqi 補

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天石傳奇), in which he rewrites eight famous historical tragedies and provides them with happy endings.131 Zhou Leqing was inspired by Mao Jin 毛 晉 (1599–­1659), the famous Ming drama anthologist, who, in the introduction to his edition of the Yuan nanxi The Story of the Pipa (Pipa ji 琵琶記) by Gao Ming (fl. 1345), stated his intention to rewrite what he considered regrettable historical stories and call them The Sky-­Mending Stone.132 Unable to find Mao Jin’s work, Zhou Leqing started writing his own version in 1829, publishing it in the next year.133 The goal is to alter the regrettable outcomes of the past, in this way imitating Nüwa’s 女媧 mythical repair of the heavenly vault.134 His friend Iron-­Pipe Blower (Chui Tiexiao Ren 吹鐵簫人) helped him with music for the play, and musical notation accompanies the arias throughout the anthology.135 Adopting the stylized modesty of literatus, Zhou Leqing explains in his preface that he is not the Grand Historian Sima Qian, who knows all historical and literary allusions, nor is he the famous poet Liu Yong (c. 987–­1053), who is good at writing romances. But he believes those who understand him will forgive his mixing history with drama: “If one has to verify everything, he can go to The Comprehensive Mirror of Self-­Governing [Zizhi tongjian] or The Twenty-­one Histories, and need not criticize these plays” (preface).136 In the “rules for reading” (fanli), he lists his dramatic inventions, arguing that they are logically derived from history. Though he recognizes You Tong’s achievements, he still defends his own version of the Wang Zhaojun story: “Zhaojun was a court lady (yeting); how could she become a queen and marry to a faraway place? Even a commoner would not leave the spouse easily, not to mention [the bride of ] the ten-­thousand-­carriage peace-­alliance marriage!” His need to find justification for his own invention proves the power of the literary canon and history. By pointing out where he departs from orthodox historical, literary, and dramatic traditions, he actually demonstrates his erudition, securing for himself the authority to create his own masterpiece. He reiterates the ultimate liberty a playwright has: “All departures from the historical record in the plays are corrections I had to make. What is called ‘drama’ (xi 戲) is ‘play’ (xi 戲).” The first act of this six-­act zaju is not new to us: having failed to bribe Mao Yanshou, Wang Zhaojun (dan), who entered the palace as a child, has never had a chance to meet the emperor, and is now to be married to the chieftain. By the time the emperor learns of her beauty and the painter’s scheme, Mao Yanshou has already fled, and the emperor is unwilling to break his promise to a foreign country. As Wang Zhaojun travels (in car-



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riage)137 to the Yanmen Pass, a frontier outpost, she stops at a temple to pay tribute to the Queen Mother of the West, a Taoist deity. She cries before the statue of the Queen Mother and sings with the pipa to express her feelings of injustice and resentment: “Majestic China is neither poor nor weak; why would they give up fighting and flatter the Xiongnu with gold and beauty?” (I, 6). In act 2, while the Queen Mother (laodan) is traveling on the clouds, she notices a gust of air of resentment interfering with the flow of the clouds and learns about Wang Zhaojun’s sufferings. Blaming the Chinese emperor for his inability to retain his ancestors’ empire and for asking a woman to save the country, she decides to help Wang Zhaojun. Knowing that the wife of the chieftain is jealous and shrewish, the spirit of Dongfang Shuo (mo) makes a plan for the Queen Mother.138 The Blue Bird (tie, a deity) will steal the portrait and show it to the Xiongnu queen. As Mao Yanshou shows the beautiful portrait to the chieftain, wind, smoke, and fire suddenly arise (all indicated in the script as stage effects) as the Blue Bird masks his theft of the portrait (III). Jealous of the beautiful woman in the portrait, the queen (chou) convinces the chieftain (jing) that the peace-­ alliance marriage is a scheme of the cunning Chinese court and persuades him to give up Wang Zhaojun. Mao Yanshou (fujing) is arrested and sent to China; in order to prevent further plotting, the chieftain forbids Wang Zhaojun to enter the Xiongnu territory (IV). Now Wang Zhaojun is able to return to China with her body intact. As “a revived dying person,” she is for the first time in history able to return home from the borderland in broad daylight (V, 25). Emperor Yuan’s plan to make her his queen would bring an ideal ending in traditional Chinese drama. After her experience, however, she sees through the illusionary world and decides to follow the Queen Mother toward Taoist enlightenment instead of enjoying earthly delight. She writes to the emperor: Your Majesty, I followed your orders Concerning the peace-­alliance marriage to the frontier. Venturing into the cold with my frail body, Hoping only that the war could be stopped and our country saved. Thanks to the remorse of the Xiongnu, I had a chance to return to the empire. By Your Majesty’s grandeur my life was saved, Despite the ugly appearance of the portrait. . . . Radiant words of Heaven suddenly announced that

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In the palace I had been named the Queen of Zhaoyang. It is hard to think about my sad past. Whose fault is it that Your Majesty’s order has been violated? I have been trampled upon in the wind and dust of this world. Although this life is already at an end, No divination has been made for my next life. I beg Your Majesty to permit me to enter into reclusive cultivation, And to graciously pardon me. (VI, 26–­27) Wang Zhaojun later learns the truth from Dongfang Shuo and Blue Bird: it was her pipa that moved the Queen Mother to save her from misery. Willing to follow them to heaven, she mounts on the clouds and flies away. At the palace, the Queen Mother explains to her: I praise you for not bribing the painter with gold, Pity you for almost becoming the chieftain’s wife through the peace-­ alliance marriage, Lament that your flower beauty was ruined by the evil east wind. Fortunately you have long agreed with the divine Tao. From now on just forget about gratitude and grudges. Settle down in Yingzhou [the Holy Mountain in the East Sea where the immortals dwell]. (VI, 30) The play ends with an extravagant banquet; Wang Zhaojun is invited to play the pipa and sing together with other fairies who also play instruments, completing a heavenly orchestra.139 The Words of the Pipa is unique among Wang Zhaojun plays in its introduction of troubled gender. Zhou Leqing may seem to have broken a taboo of border-­crossing drama by permitting her to return from the borderland, but in fact he has avoided challenging both the historical and dramatic traditions by redesigning the whole border-­crossing gender economy. Chinese nationalism, which supports patriarchal beliefs in bringing about the female suicide, is now replaced with Taoist themes. Without the urgency of war, the political value of Wang Zhaojun’s body actually depreciates. Without the potential rape by a barbarian, the concern for female chastity is no longer relevant and she appears almost desexed. Not only has the emperor disappeared entirely from the play, the barbarian chieftain also seems to be under the spell of his shrewish wife. Wang Zhaojun’s pipa, usually the means for



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connecting her to the outside world—­for reaching the emperor from the Cold Palace and for expressing her sorrow in the borderland—­now becomes a tool for her to join in the divine. Her pipa, according to the Queen Mother, is exactly what they need to complete the heavenly orchestra. More powerful than the Chinese emperor, who can only offer her fame and fortune within earthly limits, the Queen Mother is able to protect both her chastity and China’s ethnic purity. Instead of the peace-­alliance marriage that forms a nominal kinship between China and the Xiongnu, it is the effort of the Queen Mother and the chieftain’s wife that reaffirms the diplomatic relationship between these two countries, stops the transaction of the female body, and saves Wang Zhaojun’s life. The symbolic female collaboration cancels the patriarchal gift-­exchange ritual and gives the Wang Zhaojun story a refreshing but somehow troubled ending. Zhou Leqing corrects the historical and dramatic conventions of the Wang Zhaojun story not by challenging the traditional patriarchal value system but by redesigning the gender economy. Chinese cultures, religions, and philosophies ought to be taken into consideration here. The chieftain’s wife rejects Wang Zhaojun to protect her own heterosexual domestic life, not to help an ill-­fated virtuous Chinese woman. The Queen Mother, on the other hand, recognizes Wang Zhaojun’s suffering and recruits her into the divine kingdom. The Taoist divine world is depicted as a blissful haven led by the Queen Mother, symbolized by the all-­female heavenly orchestra, but this all-­female utopia is problematic from the Confucian point of view. Instead of fulfilling her familial duties as a woman by becoming the emperor’s imperial concubine, Wang Zhaojun selfishly renounces her mundane sexuality by joining the Taoist sisterhood. As discussed in the introduction, religious retreat can be, as Rey Chow suggests, considered as a sort of symbolic suicide.140 Zhou Leqing substitutes Wang Zhaojun’s conventional suicide with a symbolic one. From the perspective of gendered nationalism, Zhou Leqing’s plotting suggests that a returned Wang Zhaojun (whether her body is violated or not) cannot function in Chinese patriarchy. In the letter to the emperor, Wang Zhaojun describes her current state with very harsh words: “I have been trampled upon in the wind and dust of this world. Although this life is already at an end, no divination has been made for my next life. 風塵踐 蹂. 他生未卜此生休.” Has Wang Zhaojun already been tainted by simply being at the borderland? Is Queen Mother’s intervention not enough to clear her name? Zhou Leqing does not restore Wang Zhaojun to her origi-

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nal society by marrying her off; he offers her the option of religious refuge instead. This change avoids the male gender and patriarchy; it also avoids the mundane world entirely. Wang Zhaoun is kept safe forever in the Taoist sisterhood. Perhaps a combined analysis of music and queerness of the final scene can offer an alternative reading. One might be tempted to analyze the symbolic female collaboration as homosociality or homoeroticism, but I would like to take the analysis beyond the Western-­framed thinking of queerness.141 In The Words of the Pipa, the beautiful divine music replaces a wedding ceremony or grand reunion as the traditional happy ending. Instead of the match of yin and yang as the nuptial bliss, here the perfect musical harmony of a female mortal and fairies becomes a new utopia. As discussed in the introduction, the ancient Chinese belief sees the perfect harmony, which comprises of the right kinds of diverse sound, can calm the heart. One might call this all-­female orchestra an alternative queer utopia, whose harmony is not based on yin-­yang dichotomy or gender binary but functions as a symphony of multiple sounds complementing one another. The Queen Mother not only recognizes Wang Zhaojun’s suffering and rescues her from her calamity, she also “employs” the latter based on her musical skills. For the first time in the history of border-­crossing drama, Wang Zhaojun’s value goes beyond her prized body. The heavenly harmony parallels the peace in the mundane world, and China is saved without a female suicide. While the negotiation between border crossing and nationalism is almost always aligned with heteronormative ideology, queering nationalism with music might offer a nonviolent solution to the difficult border-­crossing dilemmas. Two scenes, “Seeing Zhao[jun] Off ” (Song Zhao 送昭) and “Leaving the Pass Behind” (Chusai 出塞) from The Story of the Green Mound (Qingzhong ji 青塚記), survive in the Qing anthology White-­Fringed Fur (Zhuibaiqiu).142 These two scenes feature the Han subject seeing Wang Zhaojun off and her journey to Yanmen Pass accompanied by Wang Long. Some of the songs are from the Ming chuanqi Appeasing the Barbarians, but a few minor characters are added to provide comic relief. Generally speaking, these two scenes are a mixture of the comical and vulgar language of minor characters and sorrowful songs in high poetry from the standard Wang Zhaojun repertoire. The comical parts, as a sharp contrast to the ultimate tragedy, might have been a way of revitalizing the otherwise old-­fashioned Ming play for Qing audiences. Several scenes/songs (referred to as fashionable drama) survive in The Song Collection of Nashuying (Nashuying qupu, 1792) of Ye Tang.143



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“Zhaojun” is the border-­crossing scene; as in “Seeing Zhao Off,” most of the songs correspond to scene 29 of Appeasing the Barbarians. The other scene, “Little Zhaojun (Xiao Zhaojun 小昭君),” is a miniature version of “Zhaojun,” with some identical phrases. “Pipa Song” (Pipa ci 琵琶詞) starts with a description of the borderland and camel riding, but other parts of the song resemble folk love songs. Since this is only a collection of songs, no dialogue, stage direction, or role type specifications are included.

The Intervention of the Third Force Intercultural conflicts provide the reason for lateral border-­crossing actions in these plays. As stated in the introduction, however, a third force with super power often intervenes and prescribes a different outcome of the border-­crossing stories. The most obvious third power is the supernatural power from deities. Golden Star and Earth God in Appeasing the Barbarians provide such divine help that Wang is able to send a letter to the Chinese emperor to “show her loyalty to the emperor, express her love for her husband, and demonstrate her chastity” (vol. 2, xxx, 26). In The Dream of Zhaojun, Sleeping Spirit bestows a dream to Wang Zhaojun so she can enjoy a moment of happiness with the Chinese emperor; Spirit of Harmony also provides a divine horse for her long journey home. The illustration shows how the supernatural intervention creates the third dimension in the iconography (Fig. 4). In The Words of the Pipa, Queen Mother shows Wang Zhaojun the tao, and the latter is enlightened to join in the Taoist haven by renouncing earthly desire altogether. Her musical talent earns her a space in the celestial orchestra and eternal salvation. Such divine help, sometimes functioning like deus ex machina, loosens the border defense mechanism and allows the temporary transgression or the unconventional behavior of Wang Zhaojun. The unbalanced gift exchange between the Han China and the Xiongnu provides the basic logic for Wang Zhaojun dramas. To sustain the genre’s perenniality, a constant feed of Chinese gendered nationalism and feminine pathos is necessary. In the premodern period, it is clear that this type of divine intervention is an easy way to offer temporary relief from patriarchal and nationalist confinement to allow for some carnivalesque minor transgression, which can prevent the genre from getting stale. But this type of temporary aperture, which seems to offer a new opportunity, causes another

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door to be shut, as described in the introduction.144 The gender border is redrawn, not demolished, with innovative theatrical device to implement nationalism, perhaps with even more sensationalism. By reaching the divine, these playwrights extend Wang Zhaojun’s border crossing to a new dimension and tease out new possibilities, such as a deus ex machina solution or as queer reading of the heteronormative border-­crossing situation. Even though these third forces do not really change the gender economy but sometimes reinforce them, the temporary aperture or change of course, nevertheless, offers a new interpretation for border-­crossing drama.

The Iconography of Wang Zhaojun From folk tales to poetic tradition to theatrical productions, Wang Zhaojun stories are always loaded with wonderful visual images. The iconography of Wang Zhaojun shows that her popularity extends into the fields of fine arts and popular culture. As one of the Four Great Beauties (Sida meinü 四大美 女), the figure of Wang Zhaojun (usually with a pipa) also appears as decorative art. The scenic representation, on the contrary, is bleak since theatrical convention dictates that most visual elements are embodied and narrated by actors and imagined by audience members. Sugimura Toh lists seven extant Wang Zhaojun paintings (of about thirty titles given in historical sources), most of which feature Wang’s journey north.145 “The Painting of the Bright Consort Leaving the Pass Behind” (Ming Fei chusai tu 明妃出塞圖) by Gong Suran 宮素然 is representative.146 This painting is a procession scene in which Wang Zhaojun is escorted to the Xiongnu territory. As the Wang Zhaojun character is defined by her border-­crossing action, her iconography is often presented as a captured moment of her border crossing. The earliest extant prints accompanying Wang Zhaojun plays all date from the Ming period. The moment of border crossing is the focus of these prints. Four prints depicting the border-­crossing moment from famous anthologies—­Chen Yujiao’s Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (from Zaju of the High Ming Period, printed in 1629; see fig. 2)147 as well as three prints of Autumn in the Han Palace from different anthologies. The three Autumn prints—­from The Selected Yuan Plays, printed in 1615–­1616 (see fig. 1); from the Guquzhaai 顧曲齋 edition of Ancient Zaju (Guzaju), printed in 1573–­



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1620; and from Leijiangji 酹江集, printed in 1663—­share similar elements. The border-­crossing iconography usually contains the sad Wang Zhaojun on horseback, sometimes looking back, with a pipa (which is often carried by her attendant), the Chinese entourage, the Xiongnu soldiers, and the borders (mountains or a river). Wang Zhaojun usually occupies a prominent position in the foreground; her intended action directs viewers’ attention. Figures 1 and 2 show that she is dressed in traveling clothes and a Xiongnu outfit (a cape indicating the traveling outfit, and fur indicating foreign ethnicity); the Xiongnu soldiers also have fur and pheasant feathers to indicate their ethnicity. The two pictures are almost identical structurally, but figure 1, with the river in sight and wine cup in hand, shows her libation ritual, just moments before her suicide. Figure 2 shows that she is approaching a narrow pass, the intensified liminal space. Without the river, her border crossing is void of urgency, as she appears to linger by looking back to bid farewell. The Dream of Zhaojun shows a miniature border-­crossing scene in her dream: she is dressed in the Xiongnu outfit and her horse seems to be galloping/flying. She is carrying the pipa by herself (on the back), since she has no companion with her in this journey. From her eagerness (facing forward), we know that she is going south, returning home (see fig. 4). Appeasing the Barbarians (printed during the Wanli period, 1573–­1619) contains numerous vignettes of her story: her life at home, Mao’s portrait painting, countless fighting scenes between Chinese and the Xiongnu, the journey of the fake Zhaojun, and Wang’s farewell to the emperor. The fighting scenes give us a good sense of the visual conventions for representing barbarians in theater (see fig. 3). Facial hair and long pheasant feathers are readily identifiable traits of the barbarism of the soldier on the right, while the clean-­shavenness of the soldier on the left indicates that he is Chinese and civilized. The Brocade Bag of Romances (printed around 1553) also includes a number of tiny, crude wood-­cut prints of Wang Zhaojun story. In all the dramatic illustrations, despite slight alterations, the essential elements of her iconography are always the same. She is always in a procession, on the move. Her sorrow, the pipa, the exoticism of her clothing, and her association with certain border icons constitute her visual identity in traditional Wang Zhaojun drama throughout history. Her tomb, the evergreen Green Mound, is a permanent visual image that dominates the poetic imagination throughout history, and the modern reconstruction of the Hohot site guarantees incessant tourist traffic. From

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the ecological point of view, the materialization, multiplication, and continuous worship of such permanent abnormality of the desert landscape signifies the irreversibility of both Chinese and ecological colonization.148 In this chapter, I have traced the evolution of Wang Zhaojun from a character in historical records, poetry, legends, and the musical tradition into a full-­fledged dramatic character that is loved, appreciated, and even imitated throughout the premodern period. The development of the Wang Zhaojun character illustrates changes in the ideology of the border. Besides keeping foreign barbarians away, the border becomes, in drama, a solid fence that guards the Chinese nationalist and patriarchal beliefs. Wang Zhaojun no longer wishes to cross the border; she is content to stay in the borderland, a liminal space reserved for her one-­woman show with suspended time. Her singing, wailing, and lamenting with the pipa are a must-­see in a Wang Zhaojun drama, and her suicide brings climax and a satisfying closure for the play.

Chapter Two

Border Survivors of the Two-­Way Crossings Cai Yan, Su Wu, and Li Ling on the Permeable Border Cai Yan: As long as I still have my body, I can pass the scholarly tradition on to my descendants; as long as I still have my tongue, I can illuminate the past and its history. 此身未盡，下以續一脈箕裘。 吾舌猶存，上以光千秋史冊。 —­T he Daughter of Zhonglang [Su] Wu swallowed snow and blanket felt together and survived. . . . He held his envoy staff day and night to tend the sheep, and all the tassel on the staff fell off. . . . Wu stayed among the Xiongnu for nineteen years. He left when he was strong; when he returned, his hair and mustache were all white. 武臥嚙雪與旃毛并咽之，數日不死 . . . 杖漢節牧羊，臥起操持，節旄 盡落 . . . 武留匈奴凡十九歲。 始以疆壯出，及還，鬚髮盡白。 —­T he History of the Han Dynasty

This chapter is about survival, survival under the most extreme circumstances, ideological or environmental. The cruel dramatic border that kills Wang Zhaojun and preaches gendered nationalism can sometimes be surprisingly porous to allow two-­way crossings. This chapter is devoted to the border survivors: Cai Yan 蔡琰, a talented female poet and musician, the famous male general Su Wu 蘇武, and, to a certain extent, Li Ling 李陵, a male general of Su Wu’s contemporary. As with Wang Zhaojun, historical and literary narratives were well established before the advent of dramatization of their stories. In drama, their border-­crossing action did not depart drastically from the earlier narratives; however, gender ideology—­especially gendered nationalism—­prescribes completely different critique for them in drama. With her admirable suicide, the dramatic Wang Zhaojun serves as the paradigm of gendered nationalism and constant referent in border-­

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crossing plays. As a female character in the premodern patriarchal system, Cai Yan is more directly affected by the Wang Zhaojun legend than is Su Wu or Li Ling. Cai Yan’s survival after her border-­crossing action is always considered shameful foil for Wang Zhaojun’s principled martyrdom, which matches Su Wu’s patriotic heroism. The narratives of Li Ling are more ambiguous. Unlike the stories of Su Wu, which always present a clear-­cut iron-­hero character who never wavers, Li Ling is forced to change his allegiance to the Xiongnu but remains a sympathetic character in drama. Sometimes a queer reading of the relationship between Su Wu and Li Ling can be deduced. As in the previously discussed The Words of the Pipa by Zhou Leqing (chapter 1), such a queer reading of these male border-­crossing characters opens up other possible interpretations between border crossing and gendered nationalism.

Cai Yan 蔡琰 (also named Cai Wenji 蔡文姬, fl. 194?–­2 06?) The Formation of Cai Yan Biography The only historical account of Cai Yan is in the chapter on women (lienü zhuan 列女傳) in The History of the Later Han Dynasty (Hou Han shu 後漢 書), compiled by Fan Ye 范曄 (AD 398–­445), two centuries after her time: The wife of Dong Si 董祀 of Chenliu 陳留, the daughter of Cai Yong 蔡邕 [132–­92] from the same place,1 was named Yan 琰, and was also called Wenji 文姬. She was erudite and eloquent, and excellent with music. She married Wei Zhongdao 衛仲道 of Hedong. Without sons, she returned to her father’s home after her husband died. In the turmoil during the years of Xingping [194–­195], Wenji was captured by Xiongnu marauders and taken by Lord Zuoxian (Zuoxian wang 左賢王) of the Southern Xiongnu.2 She remained among the Xiongnu for twelve years and bore two sons. Cao Cao 曹操 [the prime minister, 155–­220] had always been a good friend of Cai Yong’s and pitied the latter for his heirlessness; therefore, Cao Cao sent an envoy to ransom Wenji with gold and jade, and remarried her to Dong Si.3 The brief biography of Cai Yan provides a general picture of her miserable life: having lost her first husband, she was first sent home and forced to



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remarry twice (first to a Xiongnu, then to a Chinese husband). It seems her fertility was the only reason for bringing her back to China: she had to produce a Chinese heir for her father’s family. The next entry for her reads, Si [Cai Yan’s third husband], the Chief Commandant of Commanderies with Agricultural Garrisons, committed a crime and was sentenced to death. Wenji went to petition Cao Cao. The court was full of officials, scholars and ambassadors from foreign places, and Cao said to his guests, “The daughter of Cai Bojie [Cai Yong] is outside. Now you can all meet her.” Wenji entered, with disheveled hair and barefoot, and kowtowed for pardon. Her voice was clear, her speech eloquent, and the subject sad. Everyone was moved. Cao said, “I sincerely feel sorry for you, but the paperwork has already gone. What can I do?” Wenji said, “You have ten thousand horses in the stables and brave soldiers as numerous as the trees of a forest. How can you not save a dying man because you want to spare a mounted soldier [to retrieve the order]?” Cao was moved by her words and pardoned Si. It was cold then, and Cao gave her headdress, socks and shoes.4 Here we see a desperate woman, on the verge of losing her third husband, save him with her words and an impromptu performance. Fan Ye’s biography of Cai Yan is not complete, but scholars generally believe that she was born around 177, married Wei Zhongdao around 192, and returned to China around 206.5 Cai Yan’s literary talent is revealed in the same passage: Cao asked, “I have heard that your family had a great number of books of classics. Can you still remember them?” Wenji said, “My late father bequeathed to me more than four thousand volumes of books, but they are all scattered and lost, and none of them has survived. Now I can only recite a little more than four hundred.” Cao said, “I will send ten clerks to your place to write them down.” Wenji said, “I have heard that men and women should be separate, without giving and receiving from each other (nannüzhibie, libuqinshou 男女 之別, 禮不親授). Please give me brushes and paper, and I will [write them down] in standard or cursive script as you command.” Then she wrote down the texts and presented them to Cao Cao. Nothing was missing or mistaken.6

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What happened to her thereafter is not certain. We do not even know whether she successfully restored her father’s family line, which seems to have been the main reason for her return.7 Ill-­fatedness, eloquence and erudition are the major characteristics which mark Cai Yan’s life in history. Compared to Wang Zhaojun, whose first appearance in history offers only a rough sketch of her character, the first historical account of Cai Yan provides abundant material for later dramatization. Literary sources often represent the young Cai Yan as a musical prodigy. Liu Zhao’s (fifth–­sixth century) Book on Children (Youtong zhuan 幼童傳) is a good example: Yong was playing the qin 琴 (zither) one night when a string broke. Yan said, “The second string.” Yong said, “You just happened to guess it.” He broke another string on purpose and asked her. Yan said, “The fourth string.” She was not wrong.8 Li Fang’s Imperial Readings of the Taiping Era (Taiping Yulan 太平御覽; completed in AD 984) has a similar account: Yan, also named Wenji, was the daughter of Cai Yong. When she was six years old, Yong was playing the qin when a string broke. Yan said, “The first string.” Yong broke another string on purpose, and Yan said, “The second string.” Yong broke another string on purpose, and Yan said, “The fourth string.”9 In Diaoyu ji (琱玉集), the musical genius Cai Yan was nine years old when she heard her father playing the qin.10 A passage from The Alternative Story of Cai Yan (Cai Yan biezhuan 蔡琰別傳) also supplies similar information on her recognition of the broken strings, but when her father says that she just happened to guess it, the six-­year-­old girl answers the question by citing classics: By watching transformations Zha of Wu knew about the rise and fall of the states; by blowing bamboo pitch pipes Music Master Kuang recognized that the airs of the southland were not strong. If you judge from this, how can it not be enough to know?11



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The young girl Cai Yan is represented not only as someone with musical talent, but also as an eloquent erudite; she is basically the same as the adult Cai Yan character known to later generations. Although none of the aforementioned anecdotes are especially credible, we see a consistent view of her character throughout history. The Alternative Story of Cai Yan offers another aspect of her musical abilities: Yan, also named Wenji, first married Wei Zhongdao of Hedong. Her husband died and she had no sons, so she went back to her father’s home. In the turmoil at the end of the Han dynasty, she was captured by Hu marauders and ended up among the troops of Lord Zuoxian. On a spring night, she climbed upon the Hu palace under the moonlight and was moved by the sound of the reed pipes. She wrote a poem to express her feelings: “Reed pipes blowing and frontier horses neighing. Lone wild geese singing, returning home.”12 The first part of this passage is similar to the one from Fan Ye’s The History of the Later Han Dynasty, except that the time of Cai’s abduction is not specified. As a matter of fact, some speculate that The Alternative Story of Cai Yan is actually the source for Fan Ye’s biography of Cai Yan, and the abduction date is simply Fan Ye’s own estimation.13 Fan Ye’s account, although compiled two centuries after Cai Yan’s time, is generally considered the orthodox history of the Later Han; some later scholars, however, would rather believe the minimal information supplied in the following two works by Cai Yan’s contemporaries. Cao Pi (ca. 187–­226), a son of Cao Cao, wrote a poem called “The Daughter of Cai Bojie.” Only the preface survives: Since my father [Cao Cao] was as fond of Cai Yong as Guan Zhong was of Bao Shuya, he ordered the envoy Zhou Jin to take dark jade to the Xiongnu to ransom Cai’s daughter and bring her back. He married her to Dong Si, Chief Commandant of Commanderies with Agricultural Garrisons.14 Most of the text of Ding Yi’s 丁廙 (?–­220) poem of the same title has survived. We learn from this work that Cai Yan married at sixteen but was soon widowed. Ding also tells us that she was abducted, forced to marry a barbarian, and lived in shame among the foreigners for twelve years.15

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Cai Yan and the Literary Tradition Literary Works Attributed to Cai Yan Three poems are attributed to Cai Yan the literata: two “Poems of Lament and Resentment” (Beifen shi 悲憤詩) recorded in The History of the Later Han Dynasty, and “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe” (Hujia shiba pai 胡 笳十八拍), the earliest appearance of which is in The Collection of Ballads and Poems (Yuefu shiji 樂府詩集), compiled by Guo Maoqian 郭茂倩 (late eleventh century). In “Poem of Lament and Resentment, One,” she describes the chaos created by civil wars and the invasion of the northern tribes. The barbaric conduct of the Xiongnu is vividly depicted, and her experience seems more heartbreaking than Wang Zhaojun’s departure: They invaded countryside and cities. Everything was destroyed, wherever they went. No one survived after the slaughter. Corpse and skeleton propped each other. On the horse-­flanks hung the heads of men, On the horse-­backs women were carried off. Far west they galloped through the passes, The distant road was full of perils and difficulties. As we looked back into the dim distance, Our innards rotted. The life among the Xiongnu was miserable: “I wished for death but could not get it; I wished for life but had no chance” (欲死不能得，欲生無一 可). Finally Cao Cao sent an envoy to take her back, but I myself was released, But I had to abandon my children. Our hearts were bound together with Heaven’s threads, Yet I realized there was no hope for reunion. In life or death, we would be parted forever. I could not bring myself to say good-­bye to them. The children held my neck And asked where I was going:



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“People say Mother is going away And how can she ever come back? Mother has always been loving, Why are you so unkind now? We have not yet grown up, How can you not care for us?”16 The bystanders could not bear to watch them part, and even her carriage horses were hesitant to move. “Poem of Lament and Resentment, Two” presents an even more desperate scene of her farewell to her children: The children cried mother, till they lost their voices. I covered my ears and could not bear to listen. The desolate tots fell running after me. They got up, but they had injured their faces. I looked back, heart crushed. Distressed, I was dead yet alive. 兒呼母兮號失聲， 我掩耳兮不忍聽。 追持我兮走煢煢， 頓復起兮毀顏形。 還顧之兮破人情， 心怛絕兮死復生。17 Cai Yan left her children with a broken heart, but when she returned to China, “home” was desolate: My family was all gone when I got home, Not even a cousin was there. City walls had become forests And thorns and weeds were growing in the yard. Anonymous white bones Uncovered, lay everywhere. Not a human sound could be heard, But only the howls of jackals and wolves.18

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“Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe” tells a similar biographical story. Stanzas 11 through 13 vividly present the love between mother and sons: I did not cling to life or fear death, But I had my reasons for not sacrificing myself. Alive, I might still have a chance to return home, Dead, my bones would be buried here forever. Days and months I stayed on the foreign ramparts. Favored by the barbarian, I bore two sons. I nursed them and raised them—­and I am not ashamed. I pitied them for growing up in the remote land. This is how the Stanza Eleven started. The sad sound intertwines, penetrating my heart and marrow. 我非貪生而惡死， 不能捐身兮心有以。 生仍冀得兮歸桑梓， 死當埋骨兮長已矣。 日居月諸兮在戎壘， 胡人寵我兮有二子。 鞠之育之兮不羞恥， 愍之念之兮生長邊鄙。 十有一拍兮因茲起， 哀響[纏綿]兮徹心髓。 (Stanza Eleven) I never thought I would return home in this lifetime. I held my barbarian children and my tears soaked my clothes. With four stallions, the Han envoy escorted me home. Who knew that my barbarian children wailed till they lost their voices? Now we suffered the separation of death while still alive, I grieved for my children for their dim days. If only I had wings, I would have taken you with me. Each step away was one step farther; my feet could hardly move. Spirit disappeared, shadows were cut off, but love remained. In Stanza Thirteen the tempo quickened and melody saddened. My innards were churned and stabbed but no one knew my pain.



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不謂殘生兮卻得旋歸， 撫抱胡兒兮泣下霑衣。 漢使迎我兮四牡騑騑， 胡兒號兮誰得知？ 與我生死兮逢此時， 愁為子兮日無光輝， 焉得羽翼兮將汝歸。 一步一遠兮足難移， 魂消影絕兮恩愛遺。 十有三拍兮弦急調悲， 肝腸攪刺兮人莫我知。 (Stanza Thirteen)19 Unfortunately, we are not certain if these powerful words were actually written by Cai Yan. Ever since the eleventh century, scholars have doubted the authenticity of these poems, and no clear evidence has emerged to prove Cai Yan’s authorship of them.20 Genuine or not, though, these poems have provided later drama on Cai Yan with its central themes and sentiments, including the turmoil caused by war, her loneliness among the Xiongnu, the sadness of her parting with her children, and her disillusionment with her homeland after her return. Famous phrases from these poems often appear in drama as allusions to the orthodox historical and literary tradition embodied in The History of the Later Han Dynasty and The Collection of Ballads and Poems.

Literary Works on Cai Yan Liu Shang 劉商 (fl. 773) of the Tang dynasty also wrote a poem titled “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe,” which provides a slightly happier ending.21 When I returned to my homeland I saw my kin. The fields were half deserted but the spring grass was green. From cinders and ashes bright candles were burning again. Cold springs washed my muddy jade. I put on my headdress and comb for the proper ceremony. Once I plucked the strings of the qin, I felt I could have died content. It had been twelve years since I left my country, And all my sorrow was in the Song on the Reed Pipe. (Stanza Eighteen)22

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It is important to recognize the two different kinds of sentiment in Cai Yan’s homecoming. In The History of the Later Han Dynasty and in poems attributed to Cai Yan, her return does not guarantee a happy ending. With her home ruined and her family lost, her life in China twelve years later is no better than her residence among the Xiongnu, where she at least could be with her own flesh and blood. Though her literary and musical talents are recognized by historians and literati, like other women she has no control over her life or her body; marriage, life, and death are all decisions made by others. But Liu Shang’s poem offers a glimpse of hope and suggests that everything can be restored to normal: the muddy jade can be washed, the candle can be relit, and the Han music can bring back joy. Liu Shang’s optimism opens the path to a traditional dramatic happy ending, while Cai Yan’s own poems submerge her in eternal tragedy. Cai Yan’s sorrow is a common feature in the frontier poetry tradition. She is often paired with Wang Zhaojun or Su Wu in the borderland. A poem by Fan Zhaokui (fl. 1719) depicts the border soundscape created by the famous border crossers: Who knows the music beyond the border is not elegant? Only the pipa can understand and interpret Zhaojun. The abandoned sound of the pipa in the modes of Gong and Shang Resonates in the clouds in harmony with sad reed pipes.23 The Collection of Ballads and Poems collects a few earlier frontier poems in which Cai Yan’s name is mentioned with Su Wu’s: “In the place where Cai Yan withered they made reed pipes; Su Wu returned home holding the Han envoy staff ” (“The Song under the Pass”).24 Compared to the multifaceted interpretation of Wang Zhaojun, Cai Yan’s image in frontier poetry seems simple; it is her sadness rather than her resentment that is emphasized.

Cai Yan and Music Like Wang Zhaojun, Cai Yan is always associated with music in her legends. The earliest historical account only states that she was “excellent with music,” but does not give details. The multiple passages cited above suggest an association with the qin starting from her childhood. Cai Yan’s father, Cai Yong, was also a talented qin player. His legendary qin was made from



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a piece of half-­burned paulownia. Having recognized the fine quality of the wood from the sound it made while burning, he rescued it from the fire and made a qin out of it; this qin he named “Burned-­Tailed Zither” (jiaowei qin 焦尾琴).25 Based on Cai Yan’s close connection with her father, the qin becomes an important prop for Cai Yan in her stories. The imperfect and rescued treasure works brilliantly as a metaphor for border-­crossing drama: unlike Wang Zhaojun, whose intact body is bartered for its full value in the border-­ crossing economy, Cai Yan’s imperfect body with its depreciated value is a symbol of perseverance and a damaged but productive site for history writing. Her shameful survival for the sake of completing her father’s task can be compared with historians like Sima Qian, whose bodily pain does not interfere with his grand history writing.26 In contrast to the symbolic Chineseness of the qin, reed pipes represent the new ethnicity Cai Yan acquires. Liu Shang’s preface to his “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe” explains the origins of the reed pipe: Cai Wenji was talented at playing the qin, and could play “The Song of Parting Phoenix and Crane.” When the Xiongnu invaded China, she was captured and became the queen, favored by the chieftain. Emperor Wu27 was an old friend of Yong’s and sent a general to ransom her back to China. The Xiongnu people missed Wenji, so they rolled up reeds to make pipes to play sad music.28 If the creation of reed pipe indeed derived from the Xiongnu’s act of commemoration of Cai Yan, then she could not have written “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe,” the poems supposedly inspired by the reed pipe she hears. Both the original and Liu Shang’s “Eighteen Stanzas” are best known to us as poems. A number of versions of “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe” have also survived as music for guqin 古琴 (ancient zither), although the authorship of these songs is unknown.29 But, like Wang Zhaojun’s pipa, whose dramaturgical function seems greater than its musical effect in border-­crossing plays, the reed pipe’s symbolic value surpasses its musical function in drama. Tha qin and reed pipe together form Cai Yan’s unique hybridized identity. For a woman who has twice crossed the border, the qin represents her Chineseness and her connection with her father, whose legacy is the main reason for her return. Contrasted with the Chinese qin, the barbaric association of the reed pipe provides exotic appeal but also presents an affective threat

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from the frontier. In terms of practical concerns, the qin can be played on stage or simply used as a prop, but playing the reed pipe is more difficult since she has to sing. It seems that the reed pipe is usually mentioned, heard, but not actually played by a character on stage; it is possible that the sound is simply produced offstage to provide a frontier sonic milieu. Dramaturgically, the sound of reed pipe signifies the inevitable affective border crossing, which, instead of fighting against, Cai Yan uses as a source of inspiration in poetry and music. Her hybridized identity is represented by the intercultural music she creates, in which she skillfully appropriates the barbaric elements. Despite her moral inferiority according to Chinese patriarchy, she acts as a musical colonizer who assumes ethnic and musical superiority and utilizes the local material to enrich her own work. “Eighteen Stanzas” both acts as Cai Yan’s portable gender border and a souvenir of her colonial conquest.

Dramatic Works on Cai Yan The earliest known play on Cai Yan, Cai Yan Returning Home (Cai Yan huanchao 蔡琰還朝) by Jin Renjie (金仁傑, ?–­1329) of the Yuan dynasty, is unfortunately lost. Jin was a good friend of Zhong Sicheng, the author of The Register of Ghosts, which records the title of the play. The earliest extant play on Cai Yan is Wenji Entering the Pass (Wenji rusai 文姬入塞) by Chen Yujiao (1544–­1611), a companion piece to his Zhao­jun Leaving the Pass Behind (discussed in chapter 1). As concise as Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind, this one-­act zaju starts with the welcome command to escort Cai Yan back to China and ends with the beginning of her journey home. A eunuch envoy (sheng) from China opens the play with a background introduction: Cai Yan, the daughter of Cai Zhonglang,30 was captured by Xiongnu marauders and ended up marrying Lord Zuoxian. The prime minister Cao Cao, stopping at a courier station on the frontier, discovered a poem by Cai Yan on the wall. In it she had expressed her sorrow as she traveled north with the Xiongnu troops. Touched by the sad words, Cao Cao wrote a poem in response. Later he ordered the eunuch envoy to ransom Cai Yan with gold and silk, saying,



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Zhonglang has a daughter Cai Yan, who is innocent. Let us remove the flower from the dung-­heap, and restore it as the jade in the casket.31 [Cai Yan can] finish compiling the history and the texts for this dynasty, so she will not be buried in the yellow sand and bear resentment forever.32 Cai Yan (dan) then enters in Xiongnu costume lamenting her fate. She explains to the maid (tie) that it is because her father’s family line is weak that she lives on in shame. The maid informs her of the good news and Cai Yan happily changes into Han attire. But she still worries about her son, the little prince, and asks the maid to confirm the news. The envoy repeats his announcement and is ready to escort Cai Yan back, since Lord Zuoxian “does not dare to disobey the edict of the Han emperor.” Now it is time to part. Cai Yan is discouraged to bid her son farewell, but she defends her motherly feeling in song: I want to abandon my bastard child, wiping away my tears But the hearts and innards of mother and son are all tangled together. I know the shame of a Han woman bearing a barbarian child. I want to speak but feel timid; words stop at the tip of my tongue. I want to give it up, but how can I bear giving it up? An inch of my tender heart is turned into an inch of iron. The pain drives me insane! (3931) Kneeling and holding Cai Yan, the little prince (xiaodan) asks: “Mother, you are dressed like this. Where are you going?” She has to tell him the truth, singing sadly, You are in the north and I am in the south; This is no ordinary parting. Mountains upon mountains, passes upon passes, Even dreams cannot fly there! The envoy tries to ease her grief: “Madam Cai, you are from a prestigious Chinese southern family 南國名家, and the little prince is just a northern barbarian bastard 北胡孽子. You shouldn’t be reluctant to give him up!” She sings,

Fig. 5. The Little Prince: “Mother, you are dressed like this. Where are you going?” Moments before her reversed border crossing in Wenji Entering the Pass (Wenji rusai 文姬 入塞) by Chen Yujiao 陳與郊. From a facsimile (Wujin: Songfenshi, 1918) of Zaju of the High Ming Period (Shengming zaju 盛明雜劇, edited by Shen Tai, 1629). Courtesy of Stanford Auxiliary Library.



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Xiongnu or Chinese, he is still like one of my ten fingers. Long or short, I can always feel the heat and pain 任胡越，手中十指，長短總疼熱” (3932–­33).33 The envoy tries again to cheer her up: “Now is the moment when ‘cold springs wash the muddy jade and bright candles are burning from cinders and ashes again.’”34 Desperate, she sings, “No matter how hot the light is, I’d rather die with the ashes!” The little prince clings to her clothes and asks for her name and address so he can write a letter with his own blood, entrusting the letter to a wild goose.35 She tells him her background and laments: “At least you have your father. When I go back, there will be no brothers in the northern village or sister-­in-­laws in the eastern neighborhood” (3934–­36). From the very beginning, though, it is clear to her and to everyone that her son, considered a Xiongnu, cannot accompany her. She has to abandon her barbarian son, produce a Chinese heir for her father’s family, and to continue his scholarship. Like Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind, this play ends when the Yumen Pass comes into view and Cai cries, singing, Oh, Heaven! A sad cry that suffocates me! I dip my brush in frost to write down my feelings. Even the “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe” cannot express half! 天哪！一聲痛哭咽喉絕， 蘸霜毫把中情曲寫。 便是那十八拍胡笳還無一半也! (3937) Like Chen’s miniature play on Wang Zhaojun, Wenji Entering the Pass only dramatizes the sentiment, not the actual action of border crossing. Like Wang Zhaojun, Cai Yan displays her double ethnic identity through costume change before her journey, but the emphasis is placed on her motherly love, not on her feminine beauty. She explains in vain that motherly love should transcend all boundaries, and her futile struggle against the strong cultural and patriarchal traditions becomes the central dramatic action and reinforces both traditions. The Daughter of Zhonglang (Zhonglang nü 中郎女), written by a Qing literatus under the pseudonym Nanshan Yishi 南山逸史, was collected in The Newly Edited Zaju (printed ca. 1661) by Zou Shijin. Nanshan Yishi pre­ sents an interesting challenge to the dramatic conventions of border crossing by introducing troubled gender. This four-­act zaju has a formal title:

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The old crafty man who values literature helps friend by spending gold. Handsome Wenji, who studies father’s works, is a woman doing a man’s job. The coward Lord Zuoxian, left alone, loses wife and love. Poor Dong Si, taking advantage of wife’s eminence, gains glory. 重文學的老奸瞞輕財全友， 讀父書的俊文姬女作男工， 受孤恓的懦賢王拋妻割愛， 落便宜的窮董祀婦貴夫榮。36 Cao Cao, the King of Wei (wai, with white beard, golden official cap, python robe, and jade belt),37 opens the first act (“Ransoming Wenji”) by proclaiming the need for an official history of the Later Han dynasty, the dynasty that has just fallen: The national history has not been completed; it has been interrupted ever since the time of Mengjian [Ban Gu]. If I don’t select talented literati and scholars with seniority to compile an authentic history, not only will the two hundred years of war and peace, sages and traitors since Guangwu [the first emperor of the Later Han dynasty] fade away, but the pains I took in helping the Han will also be destroyed by later incompetent scholars (I, 2). He has sought among all his subjects and, finding no suitable historian, laments, “If my old friend Cai Bojie [Cai Yong] were still alive, I would not have to worry about this!” (I, 4).38 He asks about Cai Yong’s great book collection and learns that it has been scattered during the war. But Wang Can (xiaosheng), a court official and poet himself, reminds Cao Cao that although Cai Yong has no sons, his daughter survives. Cai Yan is “truly intelligent, and has memorized all her father’s writings. Besides, she has learned everything from her father and can carry on his scholarship. If we could have her compile the court history, her writing would definitely illuminate both ancient times and the present day” (I, 4). Cao Cao then sends Wang Can to bring Cai Yan back, with gold as a ransom, and with military threats if persuasion fails. In the beginning of the second act (“Returning to Han”), Cai Yan (dan, in Xiongnu costume) laments her fate: raised in a scholarly family without



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mother and brothers, she has suffered the ill fate of Wang Zhaojun 厄比王 嬙. “Can my two barbarian children guard my Green Mound for a hundred years?” 兩兩胡雛，豈作百年守青塚？ (II, 7). There are further allusions to Wang Zhaojun: Cai Yan explains that it is not that she could not throw herself into the water to wash off the dirt, but “how could I cut off the vein of scholarship?” 豈容斬一脈書香 (II, 7). She states that she has memorized four hundred volumes of her father’s books and further argues for herself: “I wanted to be a heroic lady, gentleman-­like woman 思量做個 巾幗男兒，衣冠女子. Who knew that I would have to surrender my will and stain my body?” (II, 8). In this play, Cao Cao’s true motive in ransoming Cai Yan is not, as Fan Ye suggested, to produce a son for her father’s family, but to reproduce her father’s scholarship, a symbolic heir; this scholarly continuation is presented as her only excuse for survival. More important than her womb is her body as a vessel of literary procreation, with her womanly and motherly jouissance negated, though not before they have evoked appropriate dramatic pathos. Cai Yan’s husband Lord Zuoxian (jing, with white beard) objects to Cai Yan’s return, since the Han have “three thousand beauties, eight hundred ladies. How can they be short of just one woman and want to take my queen?” (II, 8–­9). Wang Can, the envoy sent by Cao Cao, replies, “If you can do no more than desire your love and cling to your spouse, I’m afraid that tens of thousands of soldiers will crush and shake your ramparts.” Lord Zuoxian cries with his two sons (played by xiaodan and chou, with untied hair and gold crowns): “Whether the queen of the Heavenly State [China], or a concubine in a lower country [the Xiongnu], it is one’s own match. How can you kidnap my wife with your power?” (II, 10). It is interesting to see how this section is shaped by the border-­crossing dramatic tradition; Cai Yan’s homecoming is almost like a reversed peace-­alliance marriage. Cao Cao does not ransom Cai Yan to be his own wife, but Wang Can’s threat to Lord Zuoxian closely resembles the Chinese ministers’ remonstrance with Emperor Yuan in the Wang Zhaojun drama tradition. Lord Zuoxian cannot bear to leave his wife, but he is as pitiful as Emperor Yuan in Mourning the Pipa, who can do nothing but cry “like a little girl” (I, 3). Cai Yan is hurried to mount her carriage and returns to China, leaving her Xiongnu family behind. The poor scholar Dong Si (sheng, in scholar’s outfit) opens the third act (“Getting Married”) by introducing himself. Formerly he studied under Cai Yong and was engaged to Cai Yan. Unfortunately, his marriage was interrupted after the father’s death and the daughter’s abduction. Wang Can then

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brings him the great news: The king of Wei will soon marry Cai Yan to him, with silver, silk, servants, and a house as dowry, along with an official position. Different from Fan Ye’s historical account—­as the third husband of Cai Yan, Dong Si is to provide an heir for the Cai family—­Dong Si here becomes Cai Yan’s original betrothed, with a claim to share her glory as her rightful husband. Cai Yan’s literary talent is not enough to redeem her. Before she pursues her position in the Symbolic Order as a historian, her Chinese womanhood needs to be properly restored through a wedding. Unlike traditional Chinese comedies, the marriage is not the climactic ending but the entryway to the main plot; the compilation of the history of the Later Han is a consummation and happy ending of a more elevated sort. Two pages are missing from the original text, so we do not know the title of the final act. Cai Yan is in the midst of compiling the history when we first see her in the fourth act. Though often criticized for her shameful survival, the restored domesticated Cai Yan here takes extra caution to follow the conventional Confucian gender decorum obeyed by real ladies: “Men and women should be separate, without giving and receiving from each other.”39 Cai hands what she has written to a maid, who then gives it to a male clerk to copy. She sometimes laments the fate of patriotic but ill-­fated heroes and at other times scolds corrupt officials of the past. She writes so quickly that the scribe cannot keep up. Ironically, instead of creating her original literary work, here she is situated in the middle of the production line; she is like a vessel through which her father’s Word is spilling out and reproduced. The final product still needs to be retouched by male hands. Although her literary value is recognized, she has to be reminded constantly of her troubled gender. After she finishes writing, she is challenged by two drunken court officials. Yang Dezu (chou) says, “Compiling the court history is our responsibility. But now Cai Wenji is in charge. It really makes us historians ashamed.” Liu Zhonggan (jing) adds, “She is an abandoned Chinese woman and a ruined barbarian lady 中華棄媍，胡地殘花. What does she know?” He humiliates her: “Madam Dong, what a great history have you written! Let me just ask you, is this ‘writing history’ [xiushi 修史] or ‘dying of shame’ [xiusi 羞死]?” Yang Dezu further challenges her: You have abandoned the dead Wei Zhongdao, remarried, and then left the live Lord Zuoxian.40 You stained your family name and your chastity. You are a blight on the world. What right do you have to write history?

Fig. 6. Cai Yan continues her father’s unfinished scholarship in The Daughter of Zhonglang 中郎女 by Nanshan Yishi 南山逸史. Seated in the middle, wearing an official cap as the male clerks do, she hands her writing to the maids to be passed on to the male scribes, observing the Confucian rule of proper separation between men and women. From a facsimile (Wujin: Songfenshi, 1941) of Newly Edited Zaju (Zaju xinbian 雜劇 新編, edited by Zou Shijin, ca. 1661).

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既已死拋衛仲道，再投衾枕，又復生撇左賢王。家門玷辱，名 節殘污，已成天地廢人，修什麼史？ Cai Yan defends herself: I did not survive in the Xiongnu court to enjoy my life. Because I am the only heir of this family and cannot bear to see this scholarship extinguished, I had to endure the shame. She goes on, attacking their narrow-­mindedness: As long as I still have my body, I can pass the scholarly tradition on to my descendants; as long as I still have my tongue, I can illuminate the past and its history. You are so narrow-­minded; are high-­flying clouds to be stained by you? 此身未盡，下以續一脈箕裘。吾舌猶存，上以光千秋史冊。公 等自是眼界不寬，難道浮雲足玷? Her identity and legitimacy are most severely attacked: “Neither Chinese, nor Xiongnu. Just a woman! 非漢又非胡一女娘!” (VI, 21–­22). Similar to Wang Zhaojun’s double appraisal from both Chinese and Xiongnu sides before her suicide in The Mourning of the Pipa, the mocking of Cai Yan here foregrounds her ubiquitous liminality that has resulted from her portable gender border, which can be seen as the real reason for her feminine allure. She is neither Chinese nor Xiongnu, because she is both Chinese and Xiongnu, and this hybridized ambiguity is exactly her attraction: the neither/nor liminality makes her “just a woman.” She is endowed with but also stripped of both ethnic identities. Her body is doubly stained with her multiple border-­crossings and marriages; she has never been so feminine as when she is confined in this liminal state. And yet, like Wang Zhaojun, the harsher the borderland is, the louder she sings; Cai Yan’s forceful words really shine through the dark cloud of lowliness. These clownish comments do not affect the emperor’s appreciation of her. She is given a new title and awarded annual rice emoluments. Her husband, and even her late father and mother, also share in her glory and are granted titles and money. The play ends with a song of praise: “The husband follows the wife in receiving glory. Now they know, a woman Zhonglang is



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a general of the literary arena. 受榮華，夫隨婦唱。纔曉得女中郎做一 個文壇將。” (VI, 24). Viewed in the larger social context of the time (mid-­seventeenth century), Cai Yan deserved serious blame from moralists, since she did not kill herself as a widow of Wei Zhongdao or after being captured by the Xiong­nu. However, Nanshan Yishi makes it clear that since it is her mission to reproduce her father’s scholarship, she has to survive, even in shame. Now her humiliation transforms into a way of bringing glory to her family; by surviving, she achieves what women were achieving through public suicide. Since having a son who fails the examinations is like having no son at all, daughters, whether through public suicide or by surviving public shaming, might offer an alternative way to glorify the family name.41 You Tong’s zaju Mourning the Pipa (Diao pipa 弔琵琶) is another surviving seventeenth-­century play on Cai Yan. Like Chen Yujiao, who paired Wang Zhaojun and Cai Yan in his two short zaju, You Tong also made an explicit connection between the two women in the last act and, most intriguingly, presented a moral judgment. I have discussed the first three acts and the wedge of the traditional Wang Zhaojun story in chapter 1. But the last act, in which Cai Yan appears, is a surprise to audiences who are accustomed to the conventions of Wang Zhaojun drama. The Qing drama critic Jiao Xun thinks the combination of the traditional Wang Zhaojun and Cai Yan is just “a cunning literary device, but it is unique and truly worth seeing.”42 On a beautiful night, Cai Yan (dan’er) secretly packs good food and wine and sets out for the Green Mound, which is close to her residence among the Xiongnu. She says: “From ancient times till now, only the peacemaker Zhaojun and I are a pair. What I am ashamed of is that I did not die.” 我 想自古及今，惟有昭君和番與我為二，所愧者，只欠一死耳。 The commentary in the top margin of the page reads: “Jia [Yi] mourned Qu [Yuan] and Lady Cai mourned for Zhaojun. Those who suffer the same illness sympathize with each other. It was the same in ancient times as now.” (IV, 14)43 She performs a series of commemorative rituals and mourns Wang Zhaojun’s miserable fate in songs: Your bones had to be buried by the Green River, Your spirit was destroyed on top of Black Mountain! . . .  Your suffering was greater than that of the envoy Su Qing; Your injustice was like that of Qu Zi in Huaisha.44

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She goes even further to defend the dramatic convention of Wang Zhaojun. Performing the last set of commemorative rituals, she says: Zhaojun, you threw yourself into the water. You lived as a Chinese imperial concubine and died as a Chinese spirit 生為漢妃，死為漢 鬼. Some people of later generations said that you married Huhanye first, then remarried Zhulei.45 How they ruined your name by saying you were shared by both father and son! She sings: Sima Qian and Ban Mengjian failed to live up to their reputation. . . . How could they force Han court ladies into the chapter on the Xiongnu?46 枉叫做司馬遷班孟堅！ . . . 怎將漢宮人扭入匈奴傳？(IV, 15–­16) Once again, You Tong uses the dramatic persona to quote and comment on both historical and dramatic conventions. As a celebrated historian, You Tong is a master of orthodox history, but here he deliberately has Cai Yan defend the Wang Zhaojun dramatic convention and criticize the historical canon. As I pointed out in the previous chapter, Mourning the Pipa was written in 1661, when You Tong was disillusioned about the imperial examination system and even doubtful about the so-­called historical and literary canon. Jia Yi mourns Qu Yuan and Cai Yan commemorates Wang Zhaojun. Is You Tong’s drama an elegy for the lost decayed canon or the deceased China? Despite his frustration, his protest against Ban Gu’s account of Wang Zhaojun is nevertheless a way of exercising his power: power of a playwright to correct history, power of a male literatus to safeguard the patriarchal tradition, and power of a patriot to insist on ethnic purity. As the national border weakened after the Manchurian reign was established, the gender border became the last line of defense for an otherwise impotent Chinese male scholar and a demasculinized nation. History had to be replaced by the alternative history: gendered nationalism, whose border became absolutely sacred. It is especially convincing to have Wang Zhaojun’s gender border upheld by Cai Yan, a woman who regrets having violated the gender code herself.



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After burning some paper money, Cai Yan says, Barbarians here rolled up reeds to make pipes. When I heard the sorrowful sound, I wrote it into qin music of eighteen stanzas. I’ve never met anyone who could truly understand the music; now I will play it for Zhaojun. Please listen (She acts playing). The barbaric sorrow of reed pipe, written into Chinese qin music, is the hybridized tune that only border crossers like Wang Zhaojun and Cai Yan can truly understand. When Cai Yan explains that no one could understand her music, she uses the term zhiyin 知音 (understanding music) to refer to Wang Zhaojun. Zhiyin is a term to describe someone who can truly understand or appreciate another person, a soulmate of a sort, as if they can both genuinely understand each other’s music, feeling each other’s rhythm. Music adds a new dimension to the relationship between these two women: beyond the usual bodily shame determined by Chinese patriarchy, Cai Yan is able to use music, cognitively and affectively, to build a deeper connection and understanding of these fated women. She is so sad that she throws the qin on the ground and destroys it. When her maid reminds her that she has broken the qin, she sings: Let me let me throw the strings on the ground. One day [the qin] will die with the pipa, And be buried by the ancient tomb. 我待我待摔這琴弦， 有一日殉琵琶， 埋向古墳邊。(IV, 16–­17) The destruction of the qin is like a symbolic suicide ritual. Destroying her Chinese ethnic identity, she imagines it will be buried with Wang Zhaojun’s pipa in the liminal space between China and the Xiongnu and will be mourned by both sides. The destruction of the qin also alludes to an ancient legend about zhiyin: Zhong Ziqi was good at qin playing, and only his friend Boya could truly understand the meaning of his music. When Zhong learned of Boya’s death, he destroyed the qin and vowed that he would never play again, because it was meaningless to play music when no one could truly “understand music” (zhiyin).47 The play is called Mourning the Pipa, and

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since the pipa (Zhaojun) is dead, the destruction of the qin is the mourning ritual of the highest reverence. The stage direction indicates that a sudden wind brings the spirit of Wang Zhaojun with her pipa and a procession of horses; they circle the stage and then exit. The apparition of Wang Zhaojun, caused by Cai Yan’s musical offering, shows a tacit understanding between these two women: though generations apart, they are bonded by their similar sufferings in Chinese patriarchy and now by their music in the borderland. As Wang Zhaojun’s pipa is the last instrument needed to complete the heavenly orchestra in The Words of the Pipa (chapter 1), here You Tong also ingeniously presents a unique soundscape in which the pipa, qin, and reed pipe are calling, listening, responding, and accompanying each other: whereas women’s border crossings ought to be stopped, music can always transcend cultures, geography, time, and genres, as long as there is true understanding (zhiyin). Cai Yan concludes the play by lamenting in song: Today I pour a libation. I am worried that none of the drops will reach the underworld. In the future, where will I find someone Who will have the sympathy to mourn for me? 我今番漫把椒漿薦， 怕不到一滴重泉， 則下回來，那得有心人再向文姬唁？(IV, 17) Nanshan Yishi redeems Cai Yan through the Word and allows her to contend in the very literary arena where many contemporary male literati were failing. Here You Tong clearly demonstrates that Wang Zhaojun’s courageous sacrifice is the model to emulate and Cai Yan’s shameless survival the example to be avoided; the iconography even suggests that Wang Zhaojun occupies a much higher position, as Cai Yan is on the ground, kneeling and looking up to her. Cai Yan’s symbolic suicide perhaps had good instructive effects in the period when female public suicide was prevalent.48 On the other hand, only someone like Cai Yan, a talented composer and writer who shared a similar experience with Wang Zhaojun, can genuinely expresses the sentiments of their stories effectively. The connection between these two legendary border-­crossing heroines is brief in Mourning the Pipa but will be fully explored in later dramatic works, especially in The Dialogue at the Green Mound in chapter 4.



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Fig. 7. Cai Yan visits the tomb of Zhaojun and the spirit of Wang Zhao­jun appears. Mourning the Pipa 弔 琵琶 by You Tong 尤 侗. Cai Yan is kneeling in front of the Green Mound with offering; the zither is carried by her maid. From a facsimile (Wujin: Songfenshi, 1941) of Newly Edited Zaju (Zaju xinbian 雜劇新編, edited by Zou Shijin, ca. 1661).

Cao Yin’s 曹寅 (1658–­1712) The Pipa, Continued (Xu pipa 續琵琶 or Hou pipa 後琵琶) is a two-­volume, thirty-­five-­scene chuanqi. The only surviving version is a fragmentary manuscript. The plot generally follows that of The Daughter of Zhonglang by Nanshan Yishi. Cao Yin, also named Zi­qing 子清 or Lianting 楝亭, was of Han descent but registered as a Manchu Bannerman. Because his mother was the wet nurse of Emperor Kangxi (r. 1662–­1722), he became a close friend of the emperor. He had a successful official career, and Emperor Kangxi even visited him at home twice during imperial tours of the south. He was famous in his own time for his poetry and drama, and he cut new blocks for and reprinted The Register of Ghosts in his own collection. Besides The Pipa, Continued, his extant plays include Peace and Happiness (Taiping leshi 太平樂事), The Story of Northern Hongfu (Bei Hongfu zhuan 北紅拂傳), Praising the Loyal (Biaozhong ji 表忠記),

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and Escaping from the Tiger’s Mouth (Hukou yusheng 虎口餘生). He was the grandfather of the famous Cao Xueqin 曹雪芹 (1715?–­1763?), whose The Dream of the Red Chamber (Honglou meng 紅樓夢) is one of the best known and beloved Chinese classical novels. The introduction to The Pipa, Continued both connects the play with other pipa-­related plays and notes its uniqueness: “The pipa is not this pipa, but it is still about moral enlightenment” 琵琶不是這琵琶，到底有關 風化. This pipa reference directs the readers’ attention to the famous Yuan nanxi The Story of the Pipa by Gao Ming (ca. 1305–­?), whose introduction states “If it is not about moral enlightenment, even a good [play] is in vain” 正是不關風化體，縱好也徒然. Comic business does not matter, nor do music and meters. The important thing is “to watch filial sons and good wives” 只看子孝共妻賢.49 A reference to Wang Zhaojun, however, gives the pipa another meaning in Cao Yin’s play: “Replay a few stanzas of reed pipe. . . . Make a libation at the tomb of Zhaojun” 重彈幾拍胡笳. . . . 洒 酒昭君塚下 (i).50 Now The Pipa, Continued is not only a continuation of Cai Yong’s story, but also a tribute to Wang Zhaojun; most importantly, its theme is moral enlightenment. Unlike other plays on Cai Yan, which usually start with her return to China, this play covers a longer span of time and includes the late years of Cai Yong’s life. When the play opens, Dong Si (sheng, in civil costume)51 gives a brief introduction to his own background and that of his teacher, Cai Yong. Due to the political turmoil of the end of Later Han dynasty, Cai Yong has quit his official position to concentrate on writing the history of the previous dynasty. Having learned that Cai Yong has recently acquired a wonderful qin (the Burned-­Tailed Zither), Dong Si expresses his desire to visit his teacher (ii). This play includes the only extant dramatization of our heroine Cai Yan as an innocent young girl who has not met her tragic destiny. Cai Yan (dan), only seventeen, opens the third scene with a little poem about herself: “Hurrying to Father’s study with lotus steps, I’m a maiden scholar.52 How I pity my own slenderness—­partly it is for the spring, and partly it is for books.” She then tells the audience how she spends her daily life with her retired father, compiling the Han history, playing the qin, and singing for leisure. Cai Yong (wai, with white beard and civil outfit) is now at home playing the qin with his daughter, but she hears a bad omen in the sound he produces.53 Knowing that disasters are near, Cai Yong entrusts to his daughter his unfinished work (the official history of the Later Han dynasty) and bids her



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follow the career of Ban Zhao (sister of the historian Ban Gu who helped finish Ban Gu’s work). Dong Si delivers the news that the ambitious rebel Dong Zhuo, having taken control in the capital, wants to invite Cai Yong to work for him. Dancing, falling, drooling, and speaking nonsense in front of Dong Zhuo’s messenger, Cai Yong manages to feign madness in order to avoid Dong Zhuo’s summons (iii). Scenes 4 through 13 summarize the complicated late Han power struggles that eventually brought the fall of the dynasty and the beginning of the Three Kingdoms Period. Dong Zhuo has gained power by kidnapping the emperor and once again orders Cai Yong to work for him. Before Cai Yong leaves, he gives his daughter the work he has accomplished so far (v). The prime minister Cao Cao (no role specified) leads a troop to challenge Dong Zhuo’s power (vi). After battles among various powers, Dong Zhuo is finally slain, but Cai Yong is accused of collaborating with Dong Zhuo and sent to prison (vii–­xiv).54 In prison, Cai Yong entrusts his qin and his daughter to Dong Si; he also asks Dong Si to bury him. Without a brush or paper, he writes down the marriage arrangement hastily with his own blood on a piece of cloth torn from the robe. Cai Yong is later hanged and his body exposed in public. Dong Si takes the risk of being killed to mourn for him and to retrieve his body for burial (xv–­xvi). In scene 18, Lord Zuoxian (no role specified) introduces the Xiongnu characteristics: “Golden eyes, high cheekbones, and red nose. Thousands of iron soldiers in the battlefield. Milk quenches my thirst and fur keeps me warm. I will not allow Zhaojun to become homesick.” 金眼高顴赤鼻樑, 千群鐵騎出沙場，酪漿解渴氈裘暖，不放昭君憶故鄉. Because of the lack of women and treasure among the Xiongnu, Lord Zuoxian intends to invade China. In scene 19, Cai Yan learns of the death of her father and receives the letter he has sent her. She reveals his concern about the unfinished history of Han in the letter. Knowing that the Xiongnu marauders are in town, Cai Yan takes her father’s beloved Burned-­Tailed Zither and tries to flee. Two Xiongnu soldiers see her with a qin and say, “Oh, this woman knows how to play the qin. I remember our lord saying that he wants a beauty who knows how to play the qin, chess, write and paint to be his queen. This one must be the type. Let’s take her to the lord.” Thus begins the tragic life of Cai Yan. Missing from the extant edition are three pages, the end of scene 20 and the first part of scene 21, recounting the siege of the town and her journey

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north.55 We only see Cai Yan commemorating Wang Zhaojun in front of her tomb. She cries: Bright Consort, you were married away to a foreign place because of an unfavorable portrait, but the peace-­alliance marriage for the sake of the country has won a place for your name in history. You were buried in the desert and the grass on your tomb remains green. They thought no one would follow your footsteps. Who knew that I, Wenji, would be captured here for no reason. I’d rather throw myself into the Black River and be buried with you, so that I will not be humiliated (She acts as throwing herself into the river but is stopped by others). She sings: My body was captured by the marauding soldiers; My breast is full of resentment and sorrow, As when Su Wu was forced to surrender. My ill-­fate is like morning dew. I’d rather accompany the Bright Consort in the underworld. (xxi) Although her suicide is interrupted, her sorrow reaches the spirit of Wang Zhaojun in the underworld, and Wang visits her in a dream. Knowing that she is “the contemporary soulmate of Wang Qiang of Han” 漢王嬙 曠世的知心友, Wang Zhaojun (xiaodan, in Xiongnu outfit with a pipa) says to Cai Yan: Wenji, Wenji, I am buried in this cold and desolate place and I truly appreciate your visit. But you should not sacrifice yourself. It would not have been hard for me to die when I married Huhan[ye], but I was afraid that the peace-­alliance marriage would fail, and I would have violated the emperor’s order, and been called disloyal 不忠.56 Now it is your father’s will that you finish writing the history of the Later Han. If you kill yourself and the book is discontinued, it will be unfilial 不孝. Please endure staying among the Xiongnu. Ten years from now you will be able to return to your homeland. (xxii) Stressing that suffering is a prerequisite for Cai Yan’s accomplishment, she sings: “Please remember my words: if you don’t marry the chieftain, how can



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you finish writing the history 若不嫁單于， 怎得你史編成就?” Cai Yan therefore decides to live on (xxii). Besides sympathizing with her “soulmate” who is caught in a similar dilemma, Wang Zhaojun appears to encourage Cai Yan to think beyond female suicide embraced by patriarchy, refuting her own dramatic suicide assigned by literati. Cai Yan should consider sacrifice on a larger scale: loyalty, filial piety, and continuing history writing, all of which require her strong will to live on. The play’s title The Pipa, Continued seems to suggest that Cai Yan continue with the task of pipa and the lineage of female virtue: Wang Zhaojun, Zhao Wuniang (The Story of the Pipa), and Cai Wenji. Dong Si brings back the skeleton of Cai Yong and learns about the tragedy of Cai Yan (xxv). In the Xiongnu land, the sad sound of reed pipes reminds Cai Yan of her own misery. In order to relieve her sorrow, she writes her “Poem of Lament and Resentment” and composes “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe.” She sings the latter (the first three stanzas) with the qin (xxvii). The invasion of Wuhuan, another tribe, has caused the death of Lord Zuoxian and the threat of a second abduction of Cai Yan. She manages to flee, taking the qin along, and writes a letter to the Chinese court asking for help (xxix). While celebrating his success at court, Cao Cao (now the prime minister) recalls his old friend Cai Yong. Cai Yan’s letter arrives just as someone suggests to Cao Cao that he bring her back to continue her father’s task. Cao Cao sings: How is this different from Su Wu, Entrusting the letter to the wild goose from dungeon in the snow? Unlike Wang Qiang [Wang Zhaojun] of Han, Who disappeared without a trace. Who would expect that after sacrificing her virtue to appease the barbarians, Must she still suffer? Even if I had an iron heart, I would still feel sad. (xxxi)57 With Dong Si as envoy, an imperial mandate comes from China decreeing Cai Yan’s return. Even though her Xiongnu husband is dead, she still has to follow the tradition of leaving her children (here a son and a daughter) behind. She bids her Xiongnu followers to preserve and disseminate her

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“Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe.” She travels to the Green Mound again on her way back to China, bidding farewell to Wang Zhaojun: “Now we part forever. So be it. I will express your feelings when I write my history” 是今番成永別休休， 待修史時表白你心事也 (xxxiii). The next scene brings Cai Yan to her father’s tomb. The loneliness of Cai Yong is pitied by a grave keeper (chou): even a commoner can receive a libation after death, but poor heirless Cai Yong has no one to mourn for him. Now Cai Yan comes to her father’s tomb, changes into her mourner’s clothes, and finally performs a proper mourning ritual with offerings. Dong Si enters to commemorate his teacher and to greet her. An imperial mandate arrives for Cai Yan: Our Han empire has no historical record for the period since the Guangwu Restoration [AD 25]. The world lacks a Dong Hu and there are no good historians nowadays.58 It is said that Ban Gu’s history project was finished by his sister Ban Zhao. You, Cai Yan, are the daughter of the late official historian Cai Yong, and are familiar with his scholarship. Now I appoint you to the position of jiaoshu so that you can accomplish your father’s will and propagate our imperial plan.59 (xxxiv) Cai Yan receives the order and puts on her official cap, robe and belt.60 In The Daughter of Zhonglang, she is humiliated by other officials when she writes history; in this play, however, the domestic Cai Yan, represented earlier as her father’s daughter, has achieved national rank as an official historian appointed by the emperor. The scene ends with a song praising the “female scholar” 女儒: “Hurrying to the imperial court in purple robe and official cap.61 The hairpin pen [feminine pen] is as good as the Han male officials’.” (xxxiv).62 Scene 35 starts with the entrance of Cao Cao, but the rest of the scene is lost. Presumably Cai Yan completes her task of history writing as the scene is titled “Following Mandate.”63 Both The Daughter of Zhonglang and The Pipa, Continued place a great deal of emphasis on Cai Yan’s ability to undertake her father’s unfinished task, but they deliberately tone down the conventional tragic elements, minimizing the pathos of the parting scenes. The young Cai Yan of The Pipa, Continued is the typical young maiden of Chinese fiction and drama, but the mature Cai Yan in both plays is depicted as a strong woman who skillfully uses language as cultural capital, as a weapon, and as a means to transcend and create history: her ability to memorize her father’s works brings



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her home and wins her an official position, where she argues fiercely with those who consider her survival shameful, praises sages and condemns evils of past, and gives voice to Wang Zhaojun’s sorrow and resentment in history (although we do not witness her history writing). Both Nanshan Yishi and Cao Yin seem to ignore her reproductive value, focusing instead on her writing, which is the true continuation of her father’s family name. Her position as a “father’s daughter” is elevated to a higher level and confirmed by national fathers—­the prime minister and the emperor—­when she is appointed to write the dynastic history, ultimately honoring History, the Chinese Father. Despite her possession of the Word, this “national daughter,” the scholar with a hairpin pen, still has to fulfill her ethnic and gender role in order to function in the male Symbolic Order.64 Nevertheless, this is probably the most progressively feminist portrayal of a woman in premodern Chinese society. Emotionally and spiritually, the Cai Yan character in both The Pipa, Continued and Mourning the Pipa has a deep connection with Wang Zhaojun through music. While Wang Zhaojun is referred to as zhiyin (understanding music) in Mourning the Pipa, here Cai Yan calls her zhixin (understanding heart). Yin (music) and xin (heart) not only share similar phonemes, the yin/xin connection also explains the ancient Chinese philosophy that music reflects and regulates the pulsation of heart. This music can only be truly understood by the two women with similar heartbeats; they are each other’s best zhiyin (performer and audience) and zhixin (soul mate). The connection between these two women through music goes deeper than the celebrated friendship between Ziqi and Boya in ancient times, because it transcends time and space, cognition (music) and emotion (heart). Such a connection invites women from later generations to join in the listening and understanding of these women’s stories. The Ballad of Reed Pipe (Jiasao 笳騷), written in 1742 by the Qing literatus Tang Ying 唐英 (1682–­1755?), is the next extant Cai Yan play. Also named Jungong 俊公, Shuzi 叔子, Taoren 陶人, and Guaji Jushi 蝸寄居士, Tang Ying was from Shenyang in Liaoning. He had a successful bureaucratic career as well as a wide range of interests including poetry, drama, painting, and ceramics. He was actually better known for his “Tang pottery” than for his dramatic works, which he describes as “pageantry for drinking parties, not literary work on the desk” 酒畔排場, 莫作案上文章. It is believed that he wrote plays mainly for his own family kunqu troupe. With stage production and even specific actors in mind, he often provides detailed directions

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for music, costume, and special effects. Seventeen of his plays (both zaju and chuanqi) are extant and collected in the Gubotang anthology.65 Tang Ying’s one-­act zaju, also called Entering the Pass (Rusai 入塞), focuses on Cai Yan’s return to China and her composition of the “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe.”66 He pays special attention to musical effects in this play: he specifies that a flute should be used for the first few songs and big drums for the moment of “entering the pass,” and “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe” is intertwined with other songs in the play. Cai Yan (dan) opens the play with a description of her miserable life. The sad and beautiful sound of a shepherd’s reed pipe corresponds to her inner sorrow, and she incorporates it into her qin music to make “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe.” Though it generally follows the structure of the original song, Tang’s version is much more concise. The sadness of the reed pipe song is juxtaposed with farcical language and songs of minor characters. Two clownish Xiongnu characters (za) break the somber mood by singing a “Xiongnu Song” (huge) in the question-­answer form, which contains these lines: “Who plays the pipa to appease the barbarians? .  .  .  Consort Zhao­jun appeases the barbarians” (8). This song appears to have come from the nanxi tradition of the Yuan dynasty (see nanxi The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep below). The good news of Cai Yan’s return is brought in by Doggie (Agou, played by chou), a Chinese who has been captured by the Xiongnu and is in charge of her stationary. Her two barbarian sons want to go with her when they learn the sad news, but she says, “You two are Northerners. How can you go to the southern country?” She writes the last part of the reed pipe song for her sons and defends herself: “It is not that Mother’s love is shallow. Blame my father, who had no sons!” (9–­10). An order comes from the Xiongnu chieftain to ask Cai Yan to change into Han attire before she returns. The distinction between Han and the Xiongnu is further foregrounded here with the clownish characters: Doggie’s barbarian buddies Tasiha and Niuhe (two Xiongnu officials, played by za) present some farewell gifts to him, and Doggie returns their favor by singing a song from The Story of the Pipa.67 After changing into Han clothes, Cai Yan says, “Now I believe that one should never be a woman, whose hundred years of happiness and sorrow are all generated by others” 始信婦人身莫作，百年苦樂任他人.68 Mother and sons cry in each other’s arms, but the two officers drag the sons away. Cai Yan finally mounts her carriage and enters the pass. All sing together,



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Native accent in my ears, the noisy native accent is in my ears. Peach blossoms, my face is like shy peach blossoms. Afraid to return home, I’m afraid to tell neighbors and in-­laws about my past. 鄉音耳邊，嘈雜雜鄉音耳邊。 桃花人面，羞答答桃花人面。 怕歸家，對鄰姑話昔年。(12) Although the plot and sentiment of The Ballad of Reed Pipe generally follow those in earlier Cai Yan dramas, Tang Ying demonstrates an intercultural and hybridized borderland that reflects the larger sociopolitical and artistic contexts. The coexistence of Han Chinese and Manchu barbarians was a norm after a century of the establishment of the Qing dynasty. In previous border-­crossing drama, it was not uncommon to use tokenized barbarian language to present Xiongnu characters’ foreignness. This is seen in the two Xiongnu officers in The Ballad of Reed Pipe, who speak in a mixture of Chinese and barbaric words, a conventional stage language featuring Mongolian (and sometimes Manchurian) and gibberish, such as nonsensical sounds like yi-­li-­wu-­lu-­you-­wa-­la (7). Here, however, Cai Yan also shows certain degrees of assimilation: besides being dressed in the Xiongnu outfit, she also smokes, drinks milk tea, and uses certain barbarian words in her speech. Tang Ying also crossed the musical borders himself: not only did he show the characters incorporating other music (such as from Eighteen Stanzas and The Story of the Pipa), he adapted popular tunes from regional dramas (such as luantan), unlike many other literati of his era who guarded the purity of the kunqu canon and deliberately excluded popular songs. Note that this was the beginning of the decline of kunqu and the rise of multiple regional operas, and eventually regional dramas would dominate traditional theater, what we know today as “Chinese opera” (more details in chapter 3).69 His embrace of popular tunes and interculturalism offered a glimpse of the contemporary hybridized life in the mid-­eighteenth century. Compared with Wang Zhaojun, Cai Yan is a less central and less favorite figure in border-­crossing drama, and none of the plays about her has the status of Autumn in the Han Palace. With Wang Zhaojun as a referent and definite model, Cai Yan’s position in the border-­crossing economy is troubled: she is always reminded of the suicide act that she failed to perform.

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Her hard-­earned survival through the most heart-­wrenching human tragedy and the most debased humiliation grants her a space in the traditional Chinese patriarchal society. Her Word barely defends herself against the most humiliating attacks, and her insurmountable power to (re)write history gives Wang Zhaojun a voice but does not guarantee her own redemption in history. On the other hand, as a talented composer and musician who shares with Wang Zhaojun a resentment against patriarchy, Cai Yan connects such lineage of feminine resistance through her true understanding of music. Despite her damaged body, Cai Yan’s fecundity is the reason for her participation in the nationalist dialogue. She reproduces the nation “biologically, culturally and symbolically,” and it is her reproductive power that gives her mobility.70 Her mixed-­race children in the Xiongnu (which becomes a fascinating symbol in the modern era), the heir she intends to produce for her father, and the pages and pages of historical knowledge reproduced by her all speak to her symbolic and literal uterine power.

The Iconography of Cai Yan Iconography related to the story of Cai Yan has been popular since the Song dynasty. According to Sugimura Toh, there are approximately sixty paintings of her story from various historical periods, about eleven of which survived. Generally following the story line of the “Poem of Lament and Resentment” and “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe,” these pictures include depictions of her journey across the border (both her abduction and her homecoming) and her life in the Xiongnu land. A number of “Paintings of Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe” are attributed to Chen Juzhong 陳居中 (fl. 1201–­ 1204) or are imitations of his work.71 Unlike Wang Zhaojun’s one-­way border crossing, the iconography of which needs no further explanation, a picture of Cai Yan’s journey often creates ambiguity. Abduction and homecoming share the same elements: they are generally presented as a woman on horseback, in the procession with both Chinese and Xiongnu people, thus the direction of the procession signifies the nature of her journey. As historians were unable to give a full description of her abduction, and dramatists preferred to catch the moment of her parting from her children, many of the extant paintings focus on the homecoming.



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A famous painting “The Scroll of Wenji Returning to Han” 文姬歸漢 圖卷, which was probably painted in the thirteenth century by Zhang Yu 張瑀, depicts a procession of twelve people, both in Xiongnu and in Han attire, on their way to China.72 Cai Yan is composed, looking ahead with hands relaxed and in Xiongnu costume. A pony is following the mare that leads the procession, a feature Guo Moruo points to as a foil for Cai Yan’s parting with her children: even a mare can take her child along, but Cai Yan has to leave hers behind.73 The relevance of this painting is its connection with “The Painting of the Bright Consort Leaving the Pass Behind” by Gong Suran, discussed briefly in chapter 1. Gong Suran’s painting depicts a similar procession, but supposedly in the opposite direction, northward. Also in contrast to Cai Yan’s calm demeanor, Wang Zhaojun is obviously in distress. Extremely similar in composition to Zhang Yu’s painting but artistically less successful, Gong Suran’s is sometimes considered a copy of “The Scroll of Wenji Returning to Han.”74 Except for the pipa that can be identified as a definite part of the Wang Zhaojun legend, everything else (including the pony) better fits the description of “Cai Yan entering the pass” than “Wang Zhaojun leaving the pass behind.” It is quite possible that both paintings are modeled on an old painting which has been lost, but this confusion explains the uncanny connections between these two characters: Wang Zhaojun, the moral model for Cai Yan in the dramatic tradition, does not necessarily occupy a superior position in the tradition of iconography. The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York claims to own the best handscrolls on the Cai Yan story. These are probably copies of a twelfth-­ century original (of which only four badly damaged leaves survive, in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston) and were probably not made before the fourteenth century. These eighteen well-­preserved scrolls follow the account given in Liu Shang’s “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe” of the abduction, life among the Xiongnu, and her homecoming, in which she reunited with her family and is clothed again in Chinese attire. Exotic appeal—­expressed in heroines’ foreign outfits—­is as important in these border-­crossing paintings as in drama. Whether it is Wang Zhaojun or Cai Yan, whether she is leaving the pass behind or entering the pass, the foreign outfit increases her hybridized exoticism. In the original paintings in the Boston Museum, instead of the Xiongnu outfit, the attire is identified as that of the Khitan, a northern ethnic group that ruled parts of north Asia and China during the Liao dynasty (916–­1125).75 The Khitan

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elements not only help determine the date of the original paintings, but also demonstrate that border-­crossing paintings, like border-­crossing drama, conveniently marginalize the local and contemporary “barbarians.” Whether Khitans, Mongols, or Manchus, all can be easily understood as the contemporary equivalent of the Xiongnu to form a political allegory. The connection between the paintings and drama (or its illustrations) is not certain. The woodblock prints in dramatic works on Cai Yan are much simpler than the handscroll paintings; usually a touch of fur or pheasant feather is enough to denote the heroine’s exoticism. On the other hand, the intertextual connections or parallelism among the plays are apparent in the illustrations. The print for Mourning the Pipa in Newly Edited Zaju (printed around 1661) presents the final scene of the play, the interaction between Wang Zhaojun and Cai Yan: Cai Yan is paying tribute at Wang Zhaojun’s tomb while the spirit of the latter appears in the sky to show her appreciation (fig. 7). Both women are dabbed with their exotic tokenism and identified with their distinctive instruments. The parallelism and distinction of these two characters are nicely captured in the picture. Moreover, the apparition of Zhaojun’s spirit in Mourning the Pipa is almost identical to the Zhaojun in the dream from Dream of Zhaojun by Xue Dan (fig. 4, also from in Newly Edited Zaju in 1661): the attire and the flying horse are extremely similar, except for the direction they are traveling. The elevated position of Wang Zhaojun as a spirit/dream figure further demonstrates the third dimension of border crossing, which is often generated by hegemonic or supernatural powers. Wang Zhaojun’s legendary suicide has granted her supernatural power to comfort future border crossers like Cai Yan. Literary talent, one of Cai’s recognizable characteristics, is harder to portray visually. But the illustration of The Daughter of Zhonglang in Newly Edited Zaju clearly shows Cai Yan both as a literata and as someone who holds an official position at court. With official cap, jade belt, and robe, the official outfit usually reserved for men, Cai Yan occupies the focal point, sitting in front of the desk on which her books and pen brushes are displayed. Two maids (also with official caps) appear to be passing her manuscript to two male clerks for copying. Her barbarism, music, and femininity have receded into the background; her ability to compile history is what makes her special in this play (fig. 6). The homecoming procession is on a smaller scale in dramatic prints as well. In the edition of Zaju of the High Ming Period (printed in 1629), a print for Chen Yujiao’s Wenji Entering the Pass shows a miniature procession leav-



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ing the pass behind; an officer with an envoy staff prepares to welcome Cai home. The second print shows a Han officer greeting the crying Cai Yan, who is saying goodbye to her kneeling child. A carriage is waiting for her homecoming (fig. 5). The iconography of Cai Yan has also entered other cultures. Torii Ryuzo points out an early iconographical source for Cai Yan in the field of archaeology: he identifies the Cai Yan story on four sculptured stones excavated from Liao (Khitan) tombs in the Anshan area (Liaoning, northeast China) in the 1920s.76 He believes these four stones correspond to Cai Yan’s life among the Xiongnu and part of her journey back to China. These stones prove that her story was popular among the Khitan as early as the tenth century and that it even found a way into the fine arts. These sculptured stones might be the earliest extant examples of iconography of Cai Yan. Cai Yan’s abduction seems to have inspired paintings in the Middle East, such as the two procession scenes in fifteenth-­century Persian miniature paintings held in Istanbul, both discussed in Sugimura’s dissertation. In these two paintings, the Chinese woman on horse or mule seems to be in distress, suggesting that she has been abducted. Although it is still uncertain whether the procession painting is really a narrative of Cai Yan’s abduction, it shows that the theme of a Chinese woman captured by foreign forces was as attractive a theme for painters in the Middle East as it was for Chinese playwrights. The “Chinese” elements in the paintings—­Han clothing and tiny feet (bound feet?)—­demonstrate that tokenized exoticism has a universal appeal. While the beautiful female suicide has generated great Chinese literary works, the abduction of a woman seems a more captivating motif for non-­Chinese artists. It is worth noting that Cai Yan’s literary or musical talent is not captured in these foreign paintings; other ethnic groups were more fascinated with her intercultural experience, both her life among the Xiongnu and her crossing and recrossing of the border.

Su Wu 蘇武 (?–­6 0 BC) Gendered nationalism and gendered writing determine the literary space that a person occupies. Unlike Wang Zhaojun and Cai Yan, for whom we have colorful legends but scant historical records, male characters Su Wu and Li Ling are given detailed biographical accounts with dramatic narra-

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tive in orthodox historical texts. With eloquence and theatricality, men are alive in History; women, on the other hand, are at the mercy of dramatists’ invented history.

The Historical Accounts of Su Wu In the chapter of The History of the Han Dynasty devoted to Li Guang 李 廣 (a famous general, grandfather of Li Ling, ?–­119 BC) and Su Jian 蘇建 (father of Su Wu, ?–­?), Su Wu’s biography is as follows: Wu, also named Ziqing 子卿, was given the title of Gentleman (lang 郎) along with his brothers because of his father’s official rank, and was appointed Supervisor of Yizhong Stable. It was the time when the Han had continuous wars with the Hu [the Xiongnu], and both countries often sent envoys to spy on each other. The Xiongnu detained the Han envoys Guo Ji, Lu Chongguo, and others for more than ten years. When the Xiongnu sent their envoys to the Han, the Han did the same in return. In the first year of Tianhan (100 BC), the Xiongnu chieftain Judihou 且鞮侯 had just ascended the throne and was afraid that Han might attack. He said, “The Chinese emperor is my senior [my father’s generation],” and returned Lu Chongguo and all other Chinese envoys. In order to reward his righteousness, Emperor Wu (r. 140–­87 BC) sent Su Wu, with the title of Gentleman of the Household (zhonglang) and with an envoy staff [as the symbol of his official power] to escort the Xiongnu envoys in China back to the Xiongnu. He also gave money to the chieftain to thank him for his kindness. Wu went with Zhang Sheng (vice zhonglang), Chang Hui (a temporary officer), and about a hundred followers. When he arrived in Xiongnu territory, he gave the money to the chieftain. Contrary to Han expectations, the chieftain behaved very arrogantly. The peaceful diplomatic mission turned sour when certain Xiongnu aristocrats hatched a plot involving Zhang Sheng, Su Wu’s companion from China. The scheme failed and some people were executed. When Zhang Sheng told Su Wu about this, Su Wu said, “This will definitely involve me. Complicity is death for ingratitude to my country.” He wanted to commit suicide but was stopped by Zhang Sheng and Chang Hui. The chieftain



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was angry and wanted to kill the Chinese envoys, but was convinced that it would be better to make them surrender voluntarily. He sent Wei Lü to persuade Su Wu.77 Su Wu’s virtue and bravery are apparent in Ban Gu’s narration: Wu told Hui and others, “I would have to compromise my virtue and violate the emperor’s command in order to survive. Even though I would be alive, how ashamed would I be to return to Han?” He drew his dagger and stabbed himself. Shocked, Wei Lü held Wu and sent for a doctor immediately. He dug a hole on the ground, made a smokeless fire and put Wu on it. He struck Wu’s back lightly till he bled. Wu stopped breathing, but started again after half a day. . . . The chieftain admired his virtue and sent people to visit him day and night. Unlike Wang Zhaojun, whose suicide was anticipated and applauded but never stopped on stage, both suicide attempts by Su Wu were successfully interrupted. After Su Wu recovered, the chieftain again had Wei Lü persuade Su Wu and Zhang Sheng to surrender. Lü said, “The Han envoy Zhang Sheng murdered an official of the chieftain and should be executed. Those who surrender to the chieftain can be pardoned.” He raised his sword and was going to strike Zhang Sheng, and Sheng surrendered. Lü told Wu, “Your subordinate committed the crime and you too should bear the guilt.” Wu said, “I was not involved, nor am I his kin. Why do you say that I am guilty?” Wei Lü raised his sword again and threatened to strike, but Wu did not move. Lü said, “Mr. Su, I betrayed Han and surrendered to the Xiongnu. Thanks to the chieftain’s favor, I am now a lord and have tens of thousands of soldiers and hillsides full of horses. Such prosperity! If you surrender today, you will be like me tomorrow. Otherwise, you are wasting yourself in the barren field; who is going to know about it?” . . . Wu scolded Lü: “You were the subject of the Chinese emperor and betrayed him, disregarding his favor. You surrendered to barbarians. Why would I want to see you?” Su Wu rejected Wei Lü, so the chieftain had to try another strategy. Su Wu was imprisoned in a dungeon without food and drink, and the harsh survival was depicted in vivid language:

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As it snowed, Wu swallowed snow and blanket felt together and survived several days. The Xiongnu people thought he was a god. [The chieftain] sent him to the desolate North Sea and had him tend male sheep.78 He would be allowed to return as soon as the ram produced milk. 天雨雪，武臥齧雪與旃毛并咽之，數日不死。匈奴以為神， 乃徙武北海上無人處，使牧羝，羝乳乃得歸。79 But Su Wu would not give in: Wu was at the North Sea and the government food supplies could not reach him, so he dug out wild rats and stored seeds and ate them. He held his envoy staff day and night to tend the sheep, and all the tassel on the staff fell off 杖漢節牧羊，臥起操持，節旄盡落. After five or six years, Lord Yujian, the younger brother of the chieftain, went hunting and fishing there. Su Wu could fix harpoons and bows, so Lord Yujian liked him and gave him food and clothes. Three years later, the lord was sick and gave Wu animals, jars and tents. After the lord’s death, everyone was gone. That winter, Wu’s cattle and sheep were stolen by the Dingling and he became poor and desperate again.80 The chieftain continued to urge Su Wu to give his allegiance. Li Ling 李 陵 (?–­74 BC), a Chinese general who had surrendered to the Xiongnu, was sent by the chieftain to speak to Su Wu.81 Li Ling set up a banquet for him and said to him: The chieftain knows that we have been good friends, and therefore sent me to persuade you. . . . You will never get a chance to return to China, so your suffering in the barren land is in vain. Who is going to see your good faith and righteousness? Li Ling further recalled Su Wu’s family tragedy, which reminded him of his own: Your older brother was in charge of the emperor’s carriage  .  .  . [the carriage] accidently hit a pillar and the shafts broke. This was a great discourtesy, so he killed himself with a sword.  .  .  . When Ruqing [Su Wu’s younger brother] was with the emperor at the Earth God tem-



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ple in Hedong, a eunuch cavalier had an argument with the Attendant Cavalry of the Yellow Gate. The eunuch cavalier pushed the latter and he fell from his horse into the river and drowned. The eunuch cavalier fled. The emperor ordered Ruqing to capture the eunuch cavalier, but Ruqing failed. Frightened and anxious, he drank poison and died. Your mother had already passed away; I accompanied the funeral procession to Yangling. I have heard that your young wife has remarried already. There are only two younger sisters, two daughters and a son, but it has been more than ten years and who knows if they are still alive? Life is as ephemeral as morning dew: why torture yourself this way? When I had just surrendered, I was being driven mad for being ungrateful to China, while my old mother was put into jail [because of me]. Your unwillingness to surrender is no greater than mine was. And Emperor Wu is old and often changes the laws capriciously. Dozens of innocent subjects and their families were killed. It is impossible to predict safety and danger. Who are you suffering for? Please listen to me and don’t say anymore. Su Wu said: We father and sons had no merits but were favored by the emperor. . . . We were willing to make sacrifices for him anytime. . . . Even if we were beheaded with great axes and boiled in caldrons, we should feel happy about it. Subjects serving the emperor are like sons serving fathers. A son will die for his father with no regret. Please don’t say anymore. Li Ling’s persuasion was in vain after all: Ling drank with Wu for a few days and said to him again, “Please listen to me.” Wu said, “I consider myself long dead. If the chieftain must make me surrender, let’s finish today’s joy and I’ll die in front of you.” Ling saw his sincerity and sighed, “Alas, a truly righteous man! Wei Lü’s guilt and my own can reach heaven!” As he cried, his tears soaked his shirt. He bid farewell to Wu and left.82 Su Wu’s loyalty to the Chinese emperor was vividly presented when he was informed of the emperor’s death: “When Wu heard about it, he faced south and cried. Spitting blood, he wept day and night.” Finally his hardship came to an end. Emperor Zhao (r. 86–­74 BC)

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arranged a peace-­alliance marriage with the Xiongnu a few years after succeeding Emperor Wu. When asked about Su Wu by the Chinese envoy, the chieftain pretended that Su Wu was dead. Chang Hui went to see the envoy at night and told him the truth. Chang also taught the envoy a trick to make the chieftain confess: He should claim that “the Chinese emperor shot a wild goose in the Shanglin Palace, which carried a letter on its foot. The letter says that Su Wu and his followers are in a certain swamp.” Shocked, the chieftain admitted that Su Wu was still alive. The time finally came for Su Wu’s glorious return and for the famous farewell scene between Su Wu and Li Ling: So Li Ling held a banquet to congratulate Wu: “Now you are going back. Your reputation is known among the Xiongnu and your merit is prominent in China. What was written in history and painted in paintings cannot compete with you. I am a coward, but if the emperor had pardoned my crime and forgiven my old mother, I would have turned my humiliation into determination and followed Cao Mo’s example.83 This is what I can never forget. But the emperor killed my whole family and all my kinsmen. What else do I have to look for in the world? So be it. I hope you can understand my heart. I will always be a man in foreign land, and this parting will be forever” 已矣！令子卿知吾心耳。異域 之人，壹別長絕！ Li Ling performed a dance, sang and cried before they parted. Nine people returned with Wu. . . . Wu reached the Chinese capital in the spring of the sixth year of Shiyuan [81 BC]. . . . He was appointed Director of Dependent States [dianshuguo 典屬國]. . . . Wu had stayed among the Xiongnu for nineteen years. He left when he was strong; when he returned, his hair and mustache were all white 武留匈奴凡十 九歲。始以彊壯出，及還，須髮盡白。84 Like Cai Yan’s homecoming, Su Wu’s return to China did not guarantee a happy ending. The year after he came back, his son was implicated in accusations of treason and was executed, and Su Wu was stripped of his official title. Even though he was awarded a great deal of money and land, he gave away most of his fortune. When he was old and heirless, Emperor Xuan (r. 73–­49 BC) felt pity for him and asked, “Wu was among the Xiongnu for a



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long time. Does he have a son there?” Wu revealed the truth: “When I was among the Xiongnu, my Xiongnu wife (hufu 胡婦) gave me a son named Tongguo 通國. I’ve heard news from him. I would like to send someone to ransom him with gold and silk.” The emperor agreed and sent for his son. Tongguo later became a court official. Su Wu died in the second year of Shenjue (60 BC). He was over eighty years old.85 Ban Gu’s extensive narrative on Su Wu presents a number of vivid vignettes of his life at the North Sea, which will become essential elements for later fictional or dramatic works, such as “holding the envoy staff ” 持 節, “tending the sheep” 牧羊, “swallowing blanket felt” 吞旃, and “drinking melted snow” 飲雪. The envoy staff (jie 節) is also an important metaphor: Jie can mean both staff and integrity, so “holding the staff ” 持節 can also mean keeping one’s integrity, and “losing the staff ” 失節 means compromising one’s virtue. Unlike Wang Zhaojun and Cai Yan, whose drama often focuses on moments of border crossing hardly mentioned in historical texts, Su Wu’s experiences among the Xiongnu are well documented and dramatically compelling even in the earliest orthodox historical writing. The Su Wu character in later fictions or drama does not deviate much from the model Ban Gu has created.

Su Wu in the Literary Tradition Seven pentasyllabic poems attributed to Su Wu and Li Ling are collected in The Literary Anthology of Prince Zhaoming (Zhaoming wenxuan) from the sixth century. These poems, in the style of “ancient poetry” (gushi 古詩), are sometimes understood as parting poems they wrote to each other. Three of them are by Li Ling and the remaining four are by Su Wu. Except for one poem by Su Wu, which is clearly a parting poem between man and wife, all the others can be read as general farewell poems for friends, family, or even lovers.86 The poems themselves do not show any particular association with either Su Wu or Li Ling; it is possible that the story of their friendship was so powerful that this set of anonymous parting poems was drawn into the context of these two heroes of the Han dynasty. Some of the language and imagery of the poems—­“ brothers,” “flesh and bones,” “mandarin ducks,” “double dragons,” “two yellow swans,” and “connected branches”—­are common figures for describing close friendship, or even the greater intimacy of (homo)erotic love. References to “Hu and Qin”

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(northern and southern geographical reaches), “Shen and Shang” (two stars that do not appear in the same sky), and “Hu horse” (a horse from the north) belong to the frontier poetry tradition and indicate the parting is at the border. As in other texts, border crossing in these poems tends to bring issues of gender to the surface. Although this set of poems is supposed to be by and about male friends, one party seems inevitably to be feminized. This eroticized dimension in their friendship is intriguing, as it reflects the gender conventions of border-­crossing drama, which will be discussed in length shortly. A couplet from Li Ling’s last poem reads: “Holding hands, we ascend the Heliang Bridge. Wanderer, where are you going this evening” 攜手上 河梁，遊子暮何之? Heliang, the bridge where the legendary parting between these two friends was supposed to have taken place, becomes a famous site in dramatic works on Su Wu and Li Ling, like “Green Mound” or “Black River” is for Wang Zhaojun.87 Three letters are also attributed to Su Wu and Li Ling.88 Su Wu wrote his “Letter to Li Ling” (Bao Li Ling shu 報李陵書) after returning to China. In it, he described his hardships among the Xiongnu and lamented Li’s change of allegiance. The political situation and cultural differences between China and the Xiongnu made their parting as final as if one of them had died. In “Letter to Su Wu” (Yu Su Wu shu 與蘇武書), Li Ling defended himself: He was forced to surrender because the emperor had killed his aged mother. In “Another Letter to Su Wu” (Chongbao Su Wu shu 重報蘇武書), much longer than the first and more fiercely critical in tone, Li explained his helpless situation again and expressed his dissatisfaction with the treatment Su Wu had received after his nineteen years of suffering. This letter, however, is generally thought to have been forged sometime during the Song dynasty, long after the time of Su Wu and Li Ling.89 Both historical accounts and literary works discussed so far have painted a general picture of the importance of the friendship of Su Wu and Li Ling. Among the bianwen collection of Dunhuang, there is a story about the parting between Su Wu and Li Ling, which I will discuss later in the section of Li Ling. In the frontier poetry tradition, Su Wu is often mentioned along with Wang Zhaojun and Cai Yan. But while Wang and Cai embody a feminine grief, Su Wu’s hardship and endurance contribute a kind of austere heroism to this tradition. “Listening to the Reed Pipe at the Border” by the famous Tang poet Du Mu (803–­852?) is a good example:



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Where is the reed pipe blowing at the dusk? Birds fly by the Great Wall, disappearing into the wolf beacon smoke. When travelers hear it, the sad sound turns their hair grey. How could Su Wu stand being imprisoned for nineteen years? 何處吹笳薄暮天？ 塞垣高鳥沒狼煙。 游人一聽頭堪白， 蘇武爭禁十九年？90 Basically, literary works on Su Wu simply recreate the somber sentiments and desolate environment Ban Gu wrote into his narrative. Although interesting innovations in the Su Wu story can be found in some of the dramatic works, especially in local drama (chapter 3), Ban Gu’s historical account remains powerful in any work on Su Wu.

The Dramatic Works on Su Wu A few early plays on Su Wu have been lost. Of the earliest one, Su Wu Appeasing the Barbarians (Su Wu hefan 蘇武和番), an anonymous yuanben 院本 from the Jin dynasty (1115–­1234), only the title survives.91 It is also said that Ma Zhiyuan, author of the famous Autumn in the Han Palace, had a play called The Story of Su Ziqing Tending the Sheep in the Wind and Snow (Su Ziqing fengxue muyang ji 蘇子卿風雪牧羊記), but it too has been lost. The earliest extant play is the fragmented scenes and songs of the anonymous nanxi, The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep (Su Wu muyang ji 蘇武 牧羊記), from the late Southern Song or early Yuan dynasty. Nanxi 南戲 (southern drama), also called xiwen 戲文, developed in the south and probably began to flourish during the Xuanhe reign (1119–­1125) of the Song dynasty.92 It used southern music and was not strictly limited in its length. Generally speaking, southern music is softer and more delicate, in contrast with the pomp and excitement of northern music. When the Mongols ruled China in the Yuan dynasty, the northern dramatic form zaju became more popular and nanxi gradually lost its appeal. Not until the Ming dynasty was nanxi revitalized in the form of chuanqi. Most of the early nanxi we have now are fragmentary; only three early plays survive in their

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entirety. Since the earliest extant nanxi editions are from the Ming dynasty, scholars suspect that this so-­called Yuan (or even late Song) southern drama has been altered by Ming anthologists.93 Nine scenes and miscellaneous songs from The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep have survived; however, none of them can be said from the original Song or Yuan texts. Qian Nanyang collects the scenes and songs scattered in several late Ming and early Qing anthologies and rearranges them in a logical narrative order. The nine scenes are “Celebrating the Birthday,” “The Imperial Mandate,” “Against the Traitor,” “The Great Force,” “Tending the Sheep,” “Viewing the Homeland,” “Sending the Prostitute,” “Cajoling,” and “Entrusting a Letter to the Wild Goose.”94 In “Celebrating the Birthday,” Su Wu (sheng) makes a brief self-­ introduction and declares his intention to celebrate his mother’s birthday today. He is grateful for the imperial favor for his family and thinks that “there is no way to repay the emperor’s favor during times of peace” 太平 無以報君恩. At the peak of the birthday celebration, an imperial mandate arrives: because the Xiongnu are powerful and often invade the borderland, the emperor has summoned Su Wu, who is “virtuous, honest, determined, loyal and eloquent,” to be the envoy for the peace mission to the Xiongnu (182–­183). In “The Imperial Mandate,” Su Wu and his family bid farewell in songs. Su Wu: Bidding farewell to my mother in a rush. . . . I hope to stabilize the frontier and bring peace one day. I’m forced to abandon my mother and wife. Su Wu’s Mother (laodan): Sacrifice yourself for the country and don’t delay. . . . Succeed soon, and don’t make your mother worry day and night. Su Wu’s Wife (dan): The hair of my aged mother-­in-­law is already white. I will take care of her morning and night, Serving meals and medicine. Don’t you worry.



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May you accomplish your task and return home. Pacifying the chieftain is your ambition. (184–­85) Wei Lü (jing) states his goal of persuading Su Wu to surrender to the chieftain at the opening of “Against the Traitor.” Su Wu refuses him immediately: “I’d rather starve to death, I’d rather starve to death than taste stinking mutton. . . . I will surrender to the chieftain when the sun rises in the west!” He further scolds Wei Lü: “Your foul name will be remembered for ten thousand years! I cannot stop scolding you!” (188–­89). In retaliation for Su Wu’s insult, Wei Lü schemes to make Su Wu tend male sheep and to make his wife and mother suffer. In “The Great Force,” General Baihua (wai) tries to persuade Su Wu after Wei Lü’s failure. Su Wu resolutely withstands his threats; he even expresses his wish for suicide. Baihua says, “What a man of iron, with no fear of death! Now I strip him of his official cap and gown and put him in the dungeon without food and drink. Even a piece of raw iron would be melted by my fire, not to mention someone like Su Wu” (194). “Tending the Sheep” departs more remarkably from history than do the previous scenes. Su Wu, suffering cold and hunger, is tending rams at the North Sea. When he asks how rams can ever produce milk, the response is “How can the sun rise in the west?” (194). While Su Wu sleeps, Yellow Stone (wai), a deity, reviews the long list of loyal subjects and martyrs in history with his disciple (xiaosheng). Finding out that Su Wu is an honest and loyal Han subject, Yellow Stone gives him divine pills that restore his energy. When Su Wu asks whether he can purchase these pills, Yellow Stone says they can only be obtained in return for Su Wu’s envoy staff. Su Wu replies: “I’d rather starve to death than lose my staff/virtue” (196). Afterwards, these two deities transform into white cranes and fly away, but not before guiding Su Wu to his next destiny. Su Wu sees two savages (za) leaping and running.95 Following them, he discovers an earthen vault that is warm and full of food. Thanking heaven for his fortune, Su Wu immediately assumes a colonizer’s superiority over these natives and occupies their residence (the earthen vault): Wild beasts, listen to my command. Follow my orders and don’t be disobedient. One [person] come with me to tend the sheep, the other [person] go find food for me. . . . If you disobey, if you disobey, I will certainly beat you. If you are diligent, if you are diligent, I will give you sour pears to eat. (197–­98)

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Li Ling (xiaosheng, in Xiongnu outfit) visits Su Wu at the North Sea.96 He invites Su Wu to the Terrace for Viewing the Homeland (wangxiang tai 望鄉臺), where they can look south and see China. Meanwhile, Wei Lü sends singing girls for entertainment and Li Ling tries to persuade Su Wu to surrender. It ends with Su Wu scolding Li Ling and threatening to end their friendship. Li Ling leaves in shame (“Viewing the Homeland”). Wei Lü forms another scheme: Since Su Wu has been alone for quite a while, he must long for women; the prostitute Zhang Jiao 張姣, disguised as a woman from a good family, takes up the mission to seduce him. If Su Wu is willing to take her in, then she will have a chance to persuade him (“Sending the Prostitute”). Back home, Su Wu’s wife, after the long absence of her husband, tries to cajole her mother-­in-­law to eat and not to worry. But the old mother laments her old age and the absence of her only flesh and blood. Su Wu’s wife also expresses her loneliness and hopes for a reunion with her husband (“Cajoling”).97 In “Entrusting a Letter to the Wild Goose,” Su Wu sees a lone wild goose and thinks about sending a letter to the emperor to express his feelings. Without paper and a brush, he tears his clothes for paper, pierces his skin, and mixes his blood and tears as ink. “The mixture of blood and tears looks even brighter.” With a grass stalk, he writes how he survived these years: “What fills my stomach is wild plants, and apes are my companions” 充 飢皆草子，相親是猩猩 (208).98 He also tells the emperor about how he cried until his eyes bled when the previous emperor died and how he has stayed loyal despite suffering for nineteen years. After the letter is written, he ties it to the foot of a wild goose and sends it off toward the capital. This is the earliest extant example in border-­crossing drama of this type of letter writing. It usually involves blood drawn from the figure as ink, cloth torn from the shirt as paper, and a wild goose as the carrier of the letter. While wild goose cries are heard in Autumn in the Han Palace, no letter is mentioned. According to Ban Gu, the letter carried to the emperor by the wild goose was a fiction designed to make the Xiongnu chieftain release Su Wu. In border-­crossing drama, this fiction is realized; Wang Zhaojun commonly entrusts a letter to a wild goose before her suicide. While Su Wu writes to the emperor to express his loyalty to the country, Wang Zhaojun writes to the emperor, her husband, to show her love and chastity. The sentiments are different but the actions are similar. With death only moments away, Wang Zhaojun’s letter from the borderland arouses more dramatic pathos than Su Wu’s. Urgency or not, the migration pattern of the birds



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make them the most reliable messengers: they fly south based on their natural instinct, which transcends the artificial borders of nation and ethnicity; their hearts know where home is. Moreover, the interspecies collaboration—­ between human and wild goose—­similar to the divine intervention in Wang Zhaojun stories, complicates the two-­dimensional border crossing. There are also twenty miscellaneous songs that do not fit into any scenes. They are generally arranged in the order of the plot: Su Wu’s farewell to his mother, his journey, his suffering in the dungeon, his wife’s filial piety, the song of the prostitute, and eight songs whose singers are not identified. Two songs by Su Wu’s wife are worth mentioning here. In one song she mentions that her husband has not come back and that his mother has now been put in prison to await trial. Qian Nanyang speculates that the emperor imprisoned Su Wu’s mother because he thought Su Wu had changed his allegiance, just as Emperor Wu imprisoned Li Ling’s family in Ban Gu’s account. Here we can see another close connection between Li Ling and Su Wu. The other song seems to indicate that Su Wu’s wife practices self-­immolation (gegu 割 股) for filial reasons. She sings: The sharp golden knife cuts my flesh. My heart softens before I raise the knife. . . . Mother-­in-­law is gravely ill and cannot find cure. . . . I’d rather die to save her life. I will sacrifice a piece of my flesh to sustain her life. Don’t linger. I cut my flesh to cure Mother-­in-­law. (212) This kind of self-­immolation—­cutting one’s own flesh for medicinal use—­is a practice usually linked to filial piety. When an elder family member (parents or parents-­in-­law) suffers a fatal illness, gegu is used as the magical cure. “Cutting the flesh” accentuates filial piety and also evokes sadomasochistic theatrical pleasure.99 The Chinese Penelope, a virtuous wife who waits patiently at home for her husband’s return, is a recurring theme in many plays. In later Su Wu drama, this virtuous Chinese wife often highlights a contrast either with the Chinese prostitute who is sent to seduce Su Wu, or with Su Wu’s barbarian wife. It is worth noting that one of the anonymous songs (“Huihui Song”) consists of a series of questions and answers and contains the lines, “Who appeases the northern barbarians? . . . Wang Zhaojun appeases the northern barbarians” (213). This song and its variants seem to represent a form of

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barbaric entertainment and appear in many later border-­crossing plays.100 Note that Su Wu’s story predates Wang Zhaojun by decades, so this song signifies that all border-­crossing characters are tightly connected through dramatic (not historical) logic as well as through their encounter with barbarians. A satirical song about Wang Zhaojun connects both Cai Yan and Su Wu stories. Although The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep is fragmentary, it clearly acquires its basic story line from The History of the Han Dynasty, but interesting dramatic inventions are added to enhance its theatricality. The women in Su Wu’s family (mother, wife, sister, barbarian wife) are only mentioned in Ban Gu’s narration, but here we find women playing important roles: the kind mother who bids him to serve his country, the chaste and filial wife who takes care of his mother when he is away, and the flirtatious prostitute who contrasts with the virtuous domestic women. These female characters not only offer the audience new perspectives on the Su Wu character, they also add more spice to the play and make the story of the national hero more appealing. Su Wu’s mother’s and wife’s sufferings at home parallel Su Wu’s in the foreign land, and his wife’s filial piety gives the audience a mixed feeling of respect and sadistic pleasure. The self-­immolation of the virtuous wife is another way to evoke pathos, just as a melodramatic suicide would. Although Su Wu’s barbarian wife is not mentioned here (at least in the extant passages), we learn from some of the later versions that an ape becomes his wife during his stay among the Xiongnu and bears him a son. The part of the prostitute is also incomplete, but later plays indicate that this character also presents a great opportunity to add an erotic dimension to the play. Both the divine help and the wild goose are reminiscent of other border-­ crossing plays. Though fragmentary, this play can be seen as a prototype for later dramas on Su Wu. From Ban Gu’s narrative of a stiff national hero to the man surrounded by interesting female characters, savages (or beasts), and deities, the first extant dramatic rendering of Su Wu has already advanced far beyond the historical character. Also fragmentary is the earliest extant zaju on Su Wu, Holding the Han Envoy Staff, Su Wu Returns Home (Chi Hanjie Su Wu huanxiang 持漢節 蘇武還鄉), by Zhou Wenzhi 周文質 (?–­1334) of the Yuan dynasty. Zhou Wenzhi, also named Zhongbin 仲彬, was from Jiande in Zhejiang province but later moved to Hangzhou. He was erudite, talented at music, singing, dancing, and painting, and was for twenty years a good friend of Zhong



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Sicheng, author of The Register of Ghosts. According to Zhong, Zhou wrote four zaju, but only parts of Holding the Han Envoy Staff, Su Wu Returns Home have survived.101 Zhao Jingshen, the author of Remnants of Yuan Zaju, has edited the songs scattered in various Ming and Qing anthologies and rearranged them in the order of the plot.102 As with the nanxi The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep, although this play originates from the Yuan dynasty, we cannot be sure that the Ming and Qing editors have not altered the original arias. No dialogue has survived for the play. From the extant arias we know that this zaju is a moben (male play), in which all the songs are sung by the mo, Su Wu. We do not know if there was a xiezi or not, as there is not even a first act, and only one song survives from the second act. In the second act, Su Wu refuses to eat the food that the Xiongnu prepare for him. The third act covers Su Wu’s time in the North Sea: his suffering in the cold while tending the sheep, sending a letter to the Chinese emperor by a wild goose, and his proud rejection of Li Ling’s arguments for surrendering to the Xiongnu. Act 4 is the happy ending, when Su Wu finally returns home after nineteen years of suffering. As he travels south to the border, he sings, “I face the majestic Green Mound, flat sand desert. . . . I am sad about the gurgling water in the Black River.”103 The diachronic reference of Wang Zhaojun adorns Su Wu’s bleak frontier with familiar border-­crossing scenery. The earliest complete extant play on Su Wu is an anonymous Ming chuanqi The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep (Su Wu muyang ji 蘇武牧 羊記), hand copied by a theater troupe during the Daoguang reign period (1821–­1850) of the Qing dynasty.104 Collected Early Editions of Ancient Dramas, a modern compilation of a great number of rare ancient plays, includes a facsimile version of this manuscript.105 From the scribbles in the text, circle marks, corrections of lines, and musical notations accompanying certain passages, this copy appeared to be used by actors for rehearsal purposes, rather than for reading. This play contains twenty-­four scenes in two volumes. Some of the songs are almost identical to those in the nanxi The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep. The first scene, Jiamen 家門, outlines the story.106 The second scene, “Celebrating the Birthday,” is almost identical to the one in the nanxi: Su Wu (sheng) and his family are celebrating his mother’s birthday when he is suddenly summoned to appease the Xiongnu. Scene 3, “Sand Bank,” presents a typical Chinese portrayal of barbarians. While drinking on a sand bank, Wei Lü (jing) and General Buhua (wai) are boasting of their bravado and their

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intention to invade Chinese cities. The “Huihui Song,” as discussed above, again appears in this act. The curious thing here is that although the barbarian characters use Mongolian words, following the theatrical convention,107 the stage directions indicate that they greet each other in the Manchurian fashion. The conflation of Mongols, Manchus, and Huihui—­all distinctive ethnic groups—­is intriguing here. The stage direction was likely added by copyists of the Qing period, when the Manchus were in fact the powerful contemporary barbarians, while the original Ming text preserved the convention of border-­crossing drama by identifying Mongols with barbarians in general. The Manchu greeting custom provides a visual identification of the contemporary barbarians in the late Qing, but the linguistic elements and the song title remind the audience of old theatrical conventions. For contemporary Qing audiences, the “updated” stage direction was a subversive reminder of the foreign regime that had been occupying Han China for over a century. The fourth scene, “Farewell,” is similar to “The Imperial Mandate” of the nanxi, the scene in which Su Wu bids farewell to his mother and wife. Scene 5, “Parting Banquet,” is a farewell scene between Su Wu and Li Ling (xiao­ sheng). Knowing that Su Wu is setting out on a peace mission, Li Ling holds a farewell banquet for him and gives him a sword as a parting gift. Su Wu asks Li Ling to take care of his old mother and departs on his mission. The sixth scene, “Crossing the Border,” provides another view of the barbarians: clownish and lazy, the soldiers spend their day drinking and hanging around instead of guarding the frontier. As seen in many later border-­crossing plays, the barbarians at the borderland sometimes provide comic relief or spectacle. Su Wu reaches the border at the end of the scene. Scene 7, “Cajoling,” contains the same song as “Cajoling” in the nanxi. Missing her son terribly, Su Wu’s mother (lao[dan]) falls ill, while his wife (dan) cooks some congee and tries to cajole her mother-­in-­law to eat some. This is the first time Su Wu’s wife is given a name, her maiden name, Li. Unlike Qian Nanyang’s arrangement of the nanxi, this version puts “Cajoling” before the scenes of persuasion and Su Wu’s time in the North Sea.108 There is extensive musical notation written beside the lyrics of Li, which might indicate the script belonged to the actor who played Li. Scene 8, “Persuasion,” is similar to “Against the Traitor,” in which Wei Lü fails to persuade Su Wu to surrender and schemes for revenge. Wei Lü tells Su Wu that he was once an iron-­like man, just like the stubborn Su Wu, unwilling to surrender, but he is unable to persuade Su Wu. He wants



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to forge a letter informing China that Su Wu has already surrendered, so that his family will suffer the consequences. In scene 9, “Coercing Surrender,” General Buhua also fails to convince Su Wu. Wei Lü asks Su Wu to put aside his envoy staff before entering the court to see the general, but the latter refuses, as it is the symbol of the Chinese empire. Wei Lü says, “I remember I had a stick like this when I arrived. I don’t know where it is now!” (vol. 1, ix, 21). A sexual overtone can be detected here: now Wei Lü has lost his stick/staff (jie 節; phallus), he has also lost his virtue (jie 節). This sexual joke suggests that betraying one’s own country is not only immoral but also unmanly. Su Wu’s masculinity is further demonstrated when he tries to kill himself with a sword and announces that the whole Chinese court is full of men of iron like himself. Su Wu is stopped, but is stripped of his official clothes and sent to the dungeon without food or drink to test the endurance of this “raw iron.” His staff (integrity), however, always remains with him, as he is the most uncompromising of heroes. In the south, Su Wu’s mother and wife burn incense and pray to heaven for his return (vol. 1, x, “Burning Incense”), while in the north, Su Wu suffers from hunger and cold. He says: Let me just eat some earth to fulfill my empty stomach. Wait, the earth is a Xiongnu product. I shouldn’t eat it. I remember that Boyi and Shuqi would rather die than eat the grain of Zhou.109 Oh, I know. My felt shirt was brought from China. Let me just chew some felt to ease my hunger.  .  .  . [Finding that felt is hard to swallow, he wants to mix it with snow.] The snow falls on the Xiongnu land, but it is sent by heaven. I guess it is all right to eat some (He eats snow). (vol. 1, xi, 26)110 Knowing that Su Wu has survived without food and drink for three days, Wei Lü asks Chang Hui to deliver food and drink to the dungeon to test Su Wu’s will (vol. 1, xii, “Sending Food” [?]). The prime minister of China, Huo Guang (wai), asks Li Ling to take a troop of five thousand to attack the Xiongnu (vol. 1, xiii, “Dispatching Troops” [?]). In the dungeon, Su Wu refuses to take the clothes and food sent for him (vol. 1, xiv, “Sending Food” [?]). On the battlefield, General Buhua of the Xiongnu leads a force of ten thousand against Li Ling’s five thousand soldiers. Li Ling is captured by the Xiongnu army (vol. 1, xv, “Defeat”). The sixteenth scene, “Tending the Sheep,” opens the second volume of the play. It is similar to the corresponding scene in the nanxi, in which Su

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Wu receives divine help and tames the two savages. The stage directions read: “Clown (chou) and minor male (fu) enter, dressed as apes” (vol. 2, xvi, 4).111 The indication of roles for the ape characters here largely eliminates the possibility that Su Wu might take one of them as his wife; Su Wu’s barbarian wife in later plays is usually a huadan (flower female; chapter 3). In the seventeenth scene, “Marriage,” the chieftain (mo) appreciates Li Ling’s talent and marries his own daughter Flower Princess (huahua gongzhu 花 花公主) to him. The princess (tie) says, “Look at him, a talented hero like Wu Qi.112 I am ashamed that as a barbarian woman, I do not know about the four virtues and the three obediences (side sancong 四德三從)” (vol. 2, xvii, 5–­6).113 On the other hand, Li Ling is ashamed of himself; he is inferior to Su Wu, who can endure hunger. The wedding ceremony follows the Chinese custom, and Flower Princess is described as someone with “golden lotuses” and “arched shoes,” both synonyms for bound feet. Note that foot binding is not a Xiongnu practice (as the character in the play), a Manchu custom (the contemporary barbarian), or an early Han custom (during Su Wu’s time). Acquiring Chinese femininity and acknowledging her own ethnic and cultural inferiority is the first step toward the sinicized “good” barbarian woman character, according to the Han Chinese in the Qing dynasty. The full-­fledged barbarian wife of Su Wu (ape woman) will appear in later local drama. In scene 18, “Viewing the Homeland,” Li Ling, now dressed in Xiongnu costume, fails to convince Su Wu to surrender to the Xiongnu at the Terrace for Viewing the Homeland. Wei Lü sends Zhang Jiao 張嬌 (tie), a “Southern” (Chinese) prostitute, with whom he has spent the night, to seduce Su Wu. The cute and vivacious Zhang Jiao and her comic father Pimp (chou) provide a vulgar spectacle that certainly increases this play’s popular appeal. Zhang Jiao warns Wei Lü that tempting Su Wu will be a difficult task, since a loyal and righteous man has no weakness for women. She obliges only because he has threatened to kill her father (vol. 2, xix, “Sending the Prostitute”). By now Su Wu has been at the North Sea for nineteen years and has not sent a letter home. He writes a letter to the emperor with the same instrument (blood and torn shirt) as in the Yuan nanxi and entrusts it to a lone wild goose. In the letter, he describes his hardship and the ape companion(s) (vol. 2, xx, “Entrusting a Letter to the Wild Goose”). In scene 21 (“Righteous Suicide”), the prostitute Zhang Jiao visits Su Wu at the North Sea. Su Wu imagines that the woman who appears at his door in the desert is a “ghost” or “witch.”114 Pretending to be a married woman



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who has lost her way, she tries to convince Su Wu to let her stay for one night. When she starts flirting with him, however, he scolds her fiercely and asks her to leave immediately: “My heart is on my emperor and my country. I have no desire for women!” (vol. 2, xxi, 17) He even threatens to kill her. Zhang Jiao, touched by his virtue, finally reveals her true identity, saying, Although I am a prostitute, I still know a little about loyal subjects and martyrs. . . . Today I received an order from my master and could not carry it out. It is not wise (buzhi 不智). Licentious conduct and behavior which stain loyal subjects and filial sons are not humane (buren 不仁). Unwise and inhumane, what ground do I have to stand on in the world? She then asks to borrow Su Wu’s sword. Su Wu: This is a harmful thing. Why do you want it? Zhang Jiao: I have my own use. Please do not worry. (Su Wu gives her the sword) . . . Zhang Jiao: My name is Zhang Jiao. Please remember it, Sir. Su Wu: Why should I remember your name? Zhang Jiao: So my fragrant name will be preserved forever. (She kills herself with the sword.) Su Wu: Alas, what a good Zhang Jiao! You were a prostitute but had your mind set on loyalty and martyrdom and killed yourself. Wei Lü, you are a minister but cannot match Zhang Jiao! . . . I will record your name in history. . . . Wei Lü, you are a full-­grown man, but inferior to this little prostitute, who was born in dust and dirt. . . . (vol. 2, xxi, 17–­19) The dramatic death of Zhang Jiao is the pinnacle of feminine virtue in the play. Though a prostitute, she demonstrates the high morals of a Chinese woman who would rather kill herself than live in shame. As in Wang Zhaojun’s suicide tradition, a woman’s dramatic suicide to avoid shame is expected and appreciated, but rarely stopped. We do not know whether she kills herself in the Yuan nanxi version since that section is lost. But her death certainly transforms a lowly prostitute into a virtuous woman. While other characters always intervene with Su Wu’s numerous suicide attempts, leaving him to survive under the harshest circumstances, a woman like Zhang Jiao dies easily because her death is beautiful, pitiful, and anticipated. She

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exists solely for the sake of her pathetic death. Committing suicide in front of a powerful man whose sword is lent to her as the weapon is a familiar theatrical trope; the man’s witnessing of the suicide and his failure to stop it generate great theatrical pathos. Yu Ji’s death after a virtuoso sword dance and the king’s highly theatricalized reaction in jingju Hegemon King Says Farewell to His Queen (bawag bieji 霸王別姬) are still considered one of the best classics. Ironically, the sword Su Wu has been carrying with him becomes the weapon for killing his own countrywoman. Moreover, a prostitute like Zhang Jiao is not allowed to enter the Symbolic Order, and it is only through the man and witness who possesses the “brush” (pen) can her death be recorded and become part of the history. As we have seen in numerous examples so far, the gender border is a portable one, and can be re-­enacted easily, anytime and anywhere. The national border, made concrete in the sword, is transformed into a gender border to kill a Chinese woman. The staging of a woman’s death is always a convenient and sensational dramatic device. In scene 22 (no title given here), Huo Guang (wai), the prime minister of China, informs the audience that Su Wu’s letter has reached the palace and that he has been summoned by the emperor to rescue Su Wu. Taking five hundred thousand soldiers to attack the Yanmen Pass (on the border between China and Xiongnu territory), Huo Guang intends to capture Wei Lü and rescue Su Wu. When the Xiongnu are defeated, the time has finally come for Su Wu’s homecoming. He invites Li Ling to accompany him, but the latter, ashamed of his own cowardice, bitterly recalls the emperor’s cruelty and refuses to go. He drinks a last cup of farewell wine with Su Wu and says, “I’d rather die as a loyal and righteous ghost than return to the south” (vol. 2, xxii, 19). Knowing that Su Wu will inscribe his story on a stone tablet for him, Li Ling kills himself (vol. 2, xxiii, “Death of Ling” [?]). Wei Lü is later captured by the Chinese troops (vol. 2, xxiv, “Returning to the Court”). The last scene is the happy ending. Su Wu returns home and his whole family receives glorious rewards and titles from the emperor (vol. 2, xxv, “Reunion”). Although it is sometimes difficult to decipher the handwriting, due to the age and poor quality of the manuscript, this play nonetheless provides a first complete retelling of the Su Wu story. It illuminates the old miscellaneous nanxi songs scattered in various anthologies and has had an important influence on later dramas on Su Wu. A few anthologies also contain scenes/songs from Su Wu plays. The



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Complete Story of the Loyal and Righteous Su Wu Tending the Sheep (Daquan zhongyi Su Wu muyang ji 大全忠義蘇武牧羊記) consists of fourteen songs, generally following the order of Su Wu’s mother’s birthday, the farewell between Su Wu and Li Ling, Su Wu’s wife’s burning incense, tending the sheep, viewing the homeland, and the suicide of Li Ling. This set of songs is collected in Romances from the Brocade Bag (published in 1553). A number of scenes/songs (two “Entrusting a Letter to the Wild Goose,” “Tending the Sheep,” “Viewing the Homeland,” “Cooking the Congee,” “Returning Home,” and “The Little Force”) and their scores are also collected in The Nashu­ying Song Scores (Nashuying qupu 納書楹曲譜, published in 1792). White-­Fringed Fur (published in 1770) collects several scenes/songs from The Story of Tending the Sheep (Muyang ji 牧羊記), which are almost identical to the same scenes from the nanxi: “Celebrating the Birthday,” “The Imperial Mandate,” “The Little Force,” “The Great Force,” “Tending the Sheep,” “Viewing the Homeland,” “Sending the Prostitute,” and “Entrusting a Letter to the Wild Goose.”115 In the plays examined above, the image of Su Wu is as a stiff “man of iron,” with plenty of patriotic fervor but little romantic passion. He is the typical national hero in Chinese literary and dramatic tradition, a man whose loyalty (zhong 忠), filial piety (xiao 孝), integrity (jie 節), and righteousness (yi 義) are the important dramatic elements. Although female characters are added in these plays, they only surround Su Wu to provide interesting subplots and perspectives. The main emphasis is still on Su Wu’s suffering, and the interaction between Su Wu and women is minimized. Not until the turn of the twentieth century did the story of Su Wu and his barbarian wife become the drama of his stories.

Li Ling 李陵 (?–­74 BC) In historical, literary, and dramatic writings, Li Ling’s stories are often intertwined with Su Wu’s. As mentioned earlier, Ban Gu’s chapter on Su Jian (Su Wu’s father) and Li Guang (Li Ling’s grandfather) in The History of the Han Dynasty is seen as the official source for the biographies of the Su Wu and Li Ling. The rich and detailed description of their lives—­whether separate or together—­marvelously provides a solid foundation for all later literary, fictional, or dramatic compositions.116 The set of parting poems and letters to each other discussed above already demonstrate that the profound friend-

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ship in the unusual circumstances (hence the heartrending parting sentiment) is a universal theme throughout history. While the cross reference is almost inevitable in any stories of Su Wu or Li Ling, their dramatic paths are often very different. Su Wu’s destiny is fixed: despite wildest digressions (such as marrying an ape), he always comes home with glory. Li Ling, on the other hand, depending on dramatists’ mercy, can end his story in positive, ambiguous, or tragic ways. In the border-­crossing dramatic economy, Wang Zhaojun and Su Wu are the stable characters who represent the ultimate Chinese gendered nationalism, even the sixteen-­year delay at the borderland or interspecies marriage (chapter 3) does not stop them from completing their journey. In the case of Li Ling, similar to the one of Cai Yan, even with the general sympathy that history and literature bestow on him, the moral deviation (change of allegiance) makes him a difficult character to portray on stage. Besides the interactions between Su Wu and Li Ling in The History of the Han Dynasty, Li Ling’s multiple battles, including his heroic fighting and the inevitable final defeat and surrender, and meetings with Han envoys are also detailed in Ban Gu’s writing. After Li Ling’s loss, there were rumors that he had helped the Xiongnu train their soldiers, which enraged the Han emperor, who ordered Li’s family killed. Li Ling’s mother, sibling, wife, and children were all the casualties of the imperial ire. Highly regarding Li Ling’s military talent, the Xiongnu chieftain married his daughter to Li Ling and gave him a high position. After Emperor Zhao (r. 87–­74 BC) ascended the throne and changed the national policy, he sent Ren Lizheng and other envoys to the Xiongnu to bring Li Ling home. They explained, “Han has instituted amnesty and China is now peaceful” so there will not be any repercussions. Li Ling responded, “I’m already in Hu attire 吾已胡服矣.” Ren tried again to persuade him to return home but the latter said, “It’s easy to return. But what if I’m humiliated again? What should I do then?” His final words were “A true gentleman should not be humiliated twice 大丈夫不能再辱.”117 From the earlier historical material and literary imagination of Li Ling (and his connection with Su Wu), a dramatic character is already in the making: his bravery, the injustice, his irreversible mistake and forced compromise, his eternal guilt, his marriage to the Xiongnu princess, his friendship with Su Wu, and the ultimate tragedy. The sympathetic views from historians (both Sima Qian and Ban Gu) have given playwrights some excuse to overlook his betrayal and theatricalize his heroism, but in the border-­



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crossing economy strictly regulated by gendered nationalism, Li Ling’s story always seems troubled. Two transitional pieces from the Dunhuang bianwen collection (chapter 1)—­“ Farewell between Su Wu and Li Ling” (Su Wu Li Ling zhibie ci 蘇武 李陵執別詞) and “Li Ling Bianwen” 李陵變文—­predate any Li Ling or Su Wu drama. Generally following the storyline in The History of the Han Dynasty, both works retell the story of Li Ling’s battles against the Xiongnu, with fantastic fighting scenes, animated dialogues, and a great deal of local color and popular rigor. This is very different from what portrays in the conventional border-­crossing drama of Li Ling (or Cai Yan): they almost always have already crossed the border when the story begins; what the audience expects from them is not the border-­crossing action but the regret, guilt, and shame experienced by the non-­hero(ine). Like “Wang Zhaojun Bianwen” that provides a missing link from the literary to dramatic traditions, the detailed and imaginative accounts from the populace about Li Ling’s Chinese past also explain why Li Ling is always represented as a sympathetic character despite his change of allegiance. As many works in the Dunhuang collection, these two pieces are also fragmentary and filled with many errors. The short “Farewell between Su Wu and Li Ling” narrates and dramatizes the parting scene between the two. Drinking a cup of farewell wine with Su Wu, Li Ling vividly remembers his multiple battles and dramatic loss. He describes the unjust horror inflicted upon his family: “Ling had an old mother, eighty-­five years of age. Walk, she needed to lean on someone; eat, she needed to be fed. What crime did she possibly commit? She was executed too!” It is not hard to imagine even this short work can give birth to a fantastic martial play with sensational theatricality.118 Li Ling Bianwen 李陵變文, which shares some linguistic similarities with Wang Zhaojun Bianwen, is probably written around the same period.119 The first part of the work is lost and the bianwen starts in the middle of a fighting scene between Li Ling’s troops and the Xiongnu solders. Similar to, but on a much grander scale than the storyline in “Farewell,” “Li Ling Bianwen” contains multiple characters (Li Ling and his chief assistant, the Xiongnu chieftain, soldiers from both sides, the emperor, and Sima Qian). With valor and wit, Li Ling’s troops of five thousand were able to sustain the multiple battles against the Xiongnu army of a hundred thousand; without any backup force from China, eventually Li’s troops exhausted their supply of food and arrows and lost many lives. In the final battle, as the last resort, Li Ling ordered the soldiers to break the chariots

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and use the spokes as weapons to fight the Xiongnu soldiers. Desperate, Li Ling feigned a temporary surrender, hoping that the emperor would send troops to rescue them. Unfortunately, the emperor executed his family, and even the grand historian Sima Qian was implicated because he expressed his belief in Li Ling’s innocence. Li Ling’s reaction to his mother’s death is vividly presented in the song: Hearing the old mother’s death, Ling was Screaming, howling, breathless, with tears streaming down. He felt his life was coming to an end, as if Innards were sliced by knife inch by inch.120 All the rich material prior to Li Ling drama helps elucidate the reasons for some of the most drastic dramatic action, such as his suicide before Su Wu returns home, in the chuanqi The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep discussed above. At the first glance, his suicide resembles that of Yu Ji (the concubine of Xiang Yu, the king of Chu) as well as that of the Chinese prostitute and the barbarian wife in Su Wu’s stories (more in chapter 3); the suicide does not seem to have the urgency or magnitude of Wang Zhaojun’s but serves as a way to bring a closure to a scene. On the other hand, while Li Ling has many chances to kill himself, he waits for Su Wu’s testimony so his pain and injustice can be properly recorded in history. Perhaps by changing his allegiance, Li Ling too has lost his staff/brush/phallus and the right to speak and write for himself. His masculine heroism in the bianwen, which lives in the popular imagination, however, becomes obscured in border crossing drama. It seems that at the moment of border crossing, some life has to be sacrificed in order to enhance the action of crossing. Wang Zhaojun kills herself to avoid crossing, and Cai Yan sacrifices her flesh and blood to buy her way across. Since Su Wu does not kill himself (or his suicide is always stopped), women kill themselves for him, and in this play, we even see a man—­an effeminized one, his close friend Li Ling—­assume a feminine position to kill himself upon Su Wu’s return. Although the national border never functions as a gender border to prevent Su Wu or Li Ling from going north, gendered suicide still finds its way into an otherwise happy border-­ crossing drama. Blood—­whether it is suicide or in letter writing—­always strengthens the statement about nationalism. Li Ling’s forced change of allegiance, though sympathetic, is nevertheless as shameful as Cai Yan’s forced marriage to the Xiongnu. His dramatic



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suicide, therefore, can eliminate any moral qualms about his character; it is the step that Cai Yan should have taken. His memorial tablet 李陵碑 (Li Ling bei), as a male counterpart of Wang Zhaojun’s Green Mound, is an important visual image and symbol of ecological colonialism in the border landscape, designed to evoke the sympathy of later generations. The tablet becomes a site to inspire suicides in later dramas (chapter 4). Without killing Li Ling, Zhou Leqing 周樂清 (fl. 1801–­1830) finds a way in the zaju Returning to Heliang (Heliang gui 河梁歸) to reverse the tragic ending of the Ming chuanqi The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep. The new ending is a way to alter the regrettable past, as his treatment for other plays in The Chuanqi of the Sky-­Mending Stone (published in 1830), such as The Words of the Pipa. Since Zhou Leqing’s intention is to do justice to all the historical characters who he thinks have been wronged, he must challenge Ban Gu’s authority and revise the well-­known story of Su Wu and Li Ling. Their friendship is the focal point of the play. The main action is Su Wu’s efforts to avenge the injustice done to Li Ling and to help him return home. Here “misunderstanding” is used as the main plot device to solve the logical problems of the story. Not only has Zhou Leqing reversed Li Ling’s story and turned Su Wu into a loyal friend, he has also ingeniously done justice to the grand historian Sima Qian. With the restorative power of Nüwa, not only has he reversed History, he has also reversed the historian’s life and created a new history.121 The formal title of the play is Bright Moonlight and Reed Pipes: The Returning of the Han General 明月胡笳歸漢將. It consists of four acts: “A Letter” 報書, “Dispelling Suspicion” 釋疑, “Victory at the Pass” 關凱, and “Enfeoffing the Tomb” 墓封. In the first act, Su Wu (wai, with official outfit and white beard), speaks briefly of his nineteen years in Xiongnu territory. With an official position and comfortable life in his old age, Su Wu nevertheless feels sorry for his good friend Li Ling, a brave but modest general, who cannot return to his homeland because of the injustice done to him. Su Wu has sent Li Ling a letter to encourage his return, but the latter angrily refuses. With mother and wife executed, Li Ling can do nothing but remain among the barbarians. Su Wu explains the misunderstanding: Gongsun Ao, Li Ling’s rival, has spread rumors of Li Ling’s change of allegiance. Thanks to the court historian Sima Qian and the prime minister Huo Guang, who believe in Li’s innocence and plead with the emperor on his behalf, Li’s family is pardoned. But in trying to secure a surrender, the Xiongnu chieftain lies to Li Ling about the emperor’s cruelty to the Li family. Here Li Ling’s

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story is modeled on Su Wu’s: though imprisoned by the Xiongnu, he refuses to take an official position and remains loyal to China. Knowing that the emperor is sending Ren Lizheng as an envoy to the Xiongnu, Su Wu writes a letter to Li Ling to be delivered by Ren Lizheng, advising Li Ling to seize an opportunity to return to China. Li Ling (sheng, in civilian outfit) opens the second act with a brief introduction of himself and his current misfortune.122 He understands Su Wu’s kindness in inviting him home, but “[my] family and flesh and blood are gone; who can stand returning to an overturned nest?” (II, 7). Wei Lü (jing, in Xiongnu attire) laughs at Li Ling’s stubbornness: “I think as long as there’s a good official position, who cares if it’s in China or in a foreign country? [Li Ling is] such a fool! No wonder he’s a good friend of Su Wu’s.” But he also worries that the chieftain might favor Li Ling over himself: “But I’m afraid that once he decides to change his allegiance, there will be no position for me. I have to make plans in advance” (II, 8). Both Wei Lü and Li Ling have learned of Ren Lizheng’s arrival and come to see him. Under the supervision of Wei Lü, Ren Lizheng (xiao­sheng) has no chance to deliver Su Wu’s letter but can only chat with Li Ling pointlessly; meanwhile, Ren Lizheng keeps looking at the rings on his knife during the conversation. Li Ling finally gets the message: “rings” (huan 環) means “return” (huan 還), so that Ren Lizheng must have a plan for Li Ling’s homecoming.123 It happens that the chieftain summons Wei Lü at this very moment, and Ren Lizheng brings out the letter from Su Wu. Li Ling reads it in tears: “Thanks to this, I do not have to be a sinner forever.” He sings: For years I had hatred and bitterness, and I had lived my poor and unstable life like floating bubbles. A letter wipes away all my worries. My brow is no longer furrowed. Today I can finally smile. (II, 10–­11) Li Ling informs Ren Lizheng of the chieftain’s intention to invade China and his own plan: he will pretend to surrender to the chieftain and to join the Xiongnu troops in their invasion. When the time is right, he will capture the chieftain and prepare China for victory. The third act, “Victory at the Pass,” opens with Wei Lü’s monologue on how smart and greedy he is in using Li Ling to achieve victory against China. He also laughs at Li Ling’s earlier pretense of refusing to surrender;



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now Li has accepted the official position offered by the chieftain and taken charge of military arrangements. Li Ling enters and explains his own plan to work with the Chinese troops from the Xiongnu side at Yanmen Pass. The evil and cowardly character Gongsun Ao (fujing) leads the Chinese troops, but his army is soon defeated and he is captured by Wei Lü at the Yanmen Pass. Li Ling, on the Xiongnu side, corresponds with Ren Lizheng and Li Yu (mo), on the Chinese side, by means of arrows. Li Ling, famous for his archery, successfully communicates his plan to initiate an attack at night from within the Xiongnu camp, and the Chinese will respond. At the height of the banquet, the drunken Wei Lü is captured, and with the coordination of the Chinese troops, the Xiongnu are defeated. In the final act, “Enfeoffing the Tomb,” Su Wu awaits Li Ling’s return at Heliang, where they parted years ago. Reminiscing about their past together and lamenting their time apart, they are happy finally to have met again. Li Ling receives greetings from his family (mother, wife, son, and maids) and expresses his gratitude toward Su Wu: “Thanks to the friendship of ten years, I was able to reverse the injustice, transform defeat into success and return home” (IV, 24). An imperial mandate arrives to announce the poetic justice of the play: The Li family is glorified and treacherous subjects such as Gongsun Ao and Wei Lü are executed. Not only is Li Ling given the rank of duke, but even his late grandfather, the famous Li Guang, is also given the posthumous title of duke. The family is given an imperial ceremony at the ancestral tomb to “commemorate loyal souls and to glorify ancestral virtue” (IV, 25). The play ends with a song that celebrates Li Ling’s achievement and will “certainly make the historian Sima Qian very happy” 喜煞了例變春秋 的太史公 (IV, 26). The dramatization of the friendship between Su Wu and Li Ling allows for multiple interpretations. As seen in earlier discussion, erotic metaphors like “mandarin ducks” and “connected branches” often occur in the poetic tradition of Su Wu and Li Ling. The celebration of their close friendship in plays also raises issues of border crossing and gender to another dimension. In chapter 1 I pointed out that Zhou Leqing’s way of reversing the deplorable historical account of Wang Zhaojun is to place her in a Taoist temple, an all-­female haven. Here we see that the celebration of homosocial friendship is again used as a way to correct history. Li Ling is often portrayed as a younger man than Su Wu: Li Ling is a xiaosheng (young male) while Su Wu is a sheng (male) in the chuanqi The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep, and in Returning to Heliang, Su Wu has a “white beard” to indicate his old age.

Fig. 8. Li Ling (bottom left corner) communicates with Chinese troops with archery. “Victory at the Pass,” Returning to Heliang (Heliang gui 河梁歸) by Zhou Leqing 周樂清 (fl. 1801–­1830), in The Chuanqi of the Sky-­Mending Stone (Butianshi chuanqi 補天石傳奇, 1830).



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Fig. 9. Su Wu (right side with official cap and gown) and Li Ling (next to him in martial outfit) happily meet again at Heliang. “Enfeoffing the Tomb,” Returning to Heliang (Heliang gui 河梁歸) by Zhou Leqing 周 樂清 (fl. 1801–­1830), in The Chuanqi of the Sky-­Mending Stone (Butianshi chuanqi 補 天石傳奇, 1830).

Compared to Su Wu’s roughness and stubbornness, Li Ling appears more feminine, perhaps because of his change of allegiance and implied sacrifice of manhood. Although he is supposed to be a brave general, in the context of Su Wu’s drama, he rarely appears as tough as Su Wu. The effeminacy of Li Ling serves as a foil to Su Wu’s manliness and makes a better pretext for Li Ling’s “successful” suicide, like all other female characters. My study of border-­crossing drama demonstrates that Chinese nationalism is not only gendered, but strictly heterosexual. Although Zhou Leqing’s border-­ crossing plays do not explicitly present romantic relationship among these characters, by teasing out the potential homoerotic relationship among historical characters, a queer reinterpretation of the border-­crossing economy presents an alternative way to counter gendered nationalism. Queerness saves lives.

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It is significant that the play ends with a declaration that the outcome of Li Ling’s story will “certainly make the grand historian Sima Qian very happy” 喜煞了例變春秋的太史公. Sima Qian (145 BC?–­?) is lauded as “the grand historian” (taishi gong 太史公), whose work Records of the Grand Historian (Shiji 史記) is the paradigm of history writing. Sima Qian’s work covers histories from antiquity until the reign of Emperor Wu; therefore, Li Ling is only mentioned briefly in his biography of “General Li” (Li Guang, the grandfather of Li Ling). According to The History of the Han Dynasty, however, Sima Qian, the court historian for Emperor Wu, was punished for his plea for Li Ling by being castrated.124 In Zhou Leqing’s play, the capricious Emperor Wu listens to Sima Qian’s plea and pardons Li Ling, contrary to Ban Gu’s account. Instead of presenting what history was, Zhou presents what history ought to be, which in this case is to challenge Ban Gu’s authority but to grant Sima Qian’s wish. Sima Qian’s manhood is intact and Li Ling’s integrity is preserved. Wang Zhaojun, Li Ling, Sima Qian, and even Emperor Wu are all given a second chance to “mend the sky.”

The Iconography of Su Wu and Li Ling The iconography of Su Wu often focuses on his suffering in the Xiongnu land (tending the sheep in the snow) rather than his border-­crossing journey. Just as a wailing woman in fur with a pipa can be easily identified with Wang Zhaojun, Su Wu is easily recognized by his long beard and his envoy staff, such as “Su Ziqing, the Director of the Dependent States” 典屬國蘇 子卿 by Jin Guliang 金古良 of the early Qing dynasty.125 Sometimes sheep can be seen surrounding him or in the background. The landscape is usually a bleak snowy scene. Torii Ryuzo has also discovered a Su Wu figure in a sculptured stone excavated from the Liao tombs of the Anshan area. The stone is broken, but the remaining part shows a man in long gown sitting on a stool, with a staff in his right hand. Below the staff is a sheep. Torii believes that this man is Su Wu.126 Like the excavated Cai Yan figures discussed earlier, this may show that Su Wu’s popularity reached foreign groups as early as in the tenth century. Other than the Li Ling tablet, the iconography of Li Ling always seems to be associated with Wu Su; their interaction is often the theme. For instance, “The Scroll of the Farewell between Su and Li” 蘇李別意卷 by Zhou Wenju 周文矩 (Southern Tang, 937–­975) depicts the parting scene.127 Two



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men facing each other and holding hands occupy the central position of the painting. The man on the right, dressed in luxuriously red attire, appears to be Li Ling. The man on the left is Su Wu; he is obviously older and more haggard, clad in coarse clothing and fur and carrying a staff in his hand. Behind Li Ling are two horses and two Xiongnu attendants with a banner; on Su Wu’s side is a human-­sized ape (whose gender cannot be determined) in a fur cape, with a shepherding stick in hand and with some sheep in the background. The right side of the painting represents the fame and fortune that Li Ling acquires after his surrender, and the left side is the rough life of the bleak North Sea, the price that Su Wu has to pay for his loyalty. The moment captured in the painting is probably the moment when Li Ling fails to convince Su Wu to change his allegiance and realizes his own guilt at having surrendered to the Xiongnu. Both Li Ling and Su Wu seem to be weeping in the painting, because they know they have chosen opposite paths and will never meet again. The painting captures the sense of sorrow and heroism in the moment of parting; it is highly possible that some dramatic works were inspired by the contrasting images in this painting. This is also the first time when an ape is presented in the border-­crossing iconography. Returning to Heliang has four woodcut prints, among which two are significant in terms of border crossing. “Victory at the Press” shows Li Ling using archery to communicate with Chinese troops. The border landscape is familiar, complete with the Great Wall, mountains, and a river. But the dangerous border that kills Wang Zhaojun or tears Cai Yan’s family apart is easily penetrable with arrows; without any mercy from deities or help from a wild goose, Chinese heroes break the border spells with their masculine alliance (see fig. 8). The print for the last act, “Enfeoffing the Tomb” presents the meeting of Su Wu (in official outfit) and Li Ling (in armor) at Heliang, the legendary parting place for these two characters (see fig. 9). Banners, attendants, and horses surrounding these two men indicate the grandeur of Li Ling’s troops, while mountains and a river in the background contribute to the frontier flavor. By returning Li Ling’s armor, Zhou Leqing restores Li Ling’s original official status, his integrity in Chinese society, and most importantly, his manhood. The dramatic character of Wang Zhaojun is sacrificed for the sacredness of the national and patriarchal border, and the popularity of her suicide makes her an indispensable referent in border-­crossing drama. She is like an insatiable phantom who lingers on the borderland and haunts anyone who

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intends to cross. Since both Cai Yan and Su Wu have managed to cross the border and survive, they have necessarily encountered the spirit of Wang Zhaojun. Gender inequality plays the crucial role in determining the right to cross the border. While men are immune from the patriarchal judgments surrounding border crossing, women have to follow the Wang Zhaojun model and stand in awe of the sacred border. While Su Wu celebrates his glorious homecoming and enjoys his peaceful late years, Cai Yan has to live in shame and suffer eternal separation from her children. Li Ling, on the other hand, opens up a queering opportunity to offer alternative interpretation of the stymied gendered border crossing.

Chapter Three

Popular Theater Rescues the Nation Remapping and Redefining Borders at the Turn of the Twentieth Century Use barbarians to defeat barbarians . . . use barbarians to handle barbarians . . . learn from the strengths of the barbarians to control barbarians. 以夷攻夷 . . . 以夷款夷 . . . 師夷長技以制夷。 —­I llustrated Treatise on the Maritime Kingdom We shouldn’t foolishly copy barbarians. It is like trying to draw a tiger but failing, so that it turns out to be a dog. 不通學番這行宜。 榇像畫虎不成樣, 反成畫狗一般年。 —­T he Whole Song of Wang Zhaojun Appeasing the Barbarians, Part II (minge)

Zaju, chuanqi, and nanxi, though considered inferior to classics or historical texts, nevertheless are legitimate forms of drama in premodern China. Orthodox knowledge, which intertwines historical and literary traditions and political powers, dominates the border-­crossing discourse throughout the premodern era. Most plays analyzed in previous chapters are written by renowned literati in high poetry and with numerous literary and historical allusions. The multilayered referencing to previous works, itself a required literary skill, solidifies the dramatic history, which can be further cited as History, the Truth. Such border-­crossing canon, reinforced by the exam system, creates a watertight logic that can be adapted transhistorically to respond to any national urgencies. The adaptation also operates at the personal level as many plays are also invested with playwrights’ own anxieties and frustration or their own idealism. Nevertheless, the familiar formula of border-­crossing drama confirms the hegemony of gendered nationalism advocated by male elites and the genre’s lofty status in the literary canon.

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Although we are almost certain that the popularity of the traditional border-­crossing themes and characters have extended to the realm of le savoir des gens, it is difficult with a limited record to assess the influence of the genre among the populace.1 It was not until the late Qing/Early Republic period (approximately mid-­1800s to early 1900s), when the “brush” (pen) of creation was in the hands of local artists of popular theater, did we begin to see a major shift of the narrative power. The multiple subaltern discursive and dramatic border crossings helped contextualize an important part of Chinese history, the Chinese modernity. As many elites during this time were distracted by China’s modernity projects and veered away from the traditional canon building, it was up to the subaltern theater artists to rescue the nation in border-­crossing drama. In this chapter, I pay special attention to a group of plays from the tradition of regional drama in this period.2 Most of these plays, composed anonymously with popular audiences in mind, belong to various local traditions and are probably rendered illegitimate by scholars from the orthodox literary tradition. Instead of referencing historical texts or classical poetry, these writers based their works on other popular drama, novels, and contemporary events. I, however, consider these “lowly” artists the true avant-­gardists as they occupied the political and artistic frontier at the time when China faced the most unthinkable transition: Westernization and modernization, along with a fundamental regime change from the millennia-­old imperial system to a constitutional modern nation. The multiplicity of regional voices and the universal impact from the West at the local level inspire me to take a different approach in this chapter: by breaking down the borders between these characters and genres, I will take a thematic approach in analyzing plays and characters, contrary to the chronological and linear approaches in chapters 1 and 2.

Theoretical Considerations of Border-­C rossing Drama at the Turn of the Twentieth Century Deterritorialization and Reterritorialization of the Borderland As explained in the introduction, every border-­crossing action can be seen as accompanied by an act of deterritorialization because the border might be shifted and borderland expanded. Deterritorialization inevitably leads to reterritorialization and even to the formation of portable borders. In the



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context of premodern border-­crossing drama, however, the borders between China and the northern Other are fairly stable and sedentary; the sorrow, loneliness, and the bleakness of the northern desert near the Great Wall are all the sediments of the long literary tradition. There was little surprise; as a matter of fact, one might consider the familiar dramatic trope a bit boring. The established framework with recognizable emotions of border-­crossing drama could be plugged into any temporal and cultural dimensions and miraculously provide a solution to the most complicated political problems; that is, up until the dawn of Chinese modernity. Similarly, despite the regime change from Yuan to Ming to Qing, the image and narrative of the northern barbarians did not alter much. During the late Qing, although the traditional border-­crossing stories were still being told, new concepts of national borders and foreign barbarians were introduced because of the impact of Western imperial power. The new national border in danger was the coastal areas. China was made aware of a brand-­new type of ocean-­born, bizarre, unfathomable, and yet extremely powerful barbarians with unconventional mighty weaponry. With more and more Western barbarians pounding the shores and penetrating some coastal regions, borders and borderlands became multiple and kept multiplying; they were erratic and ambulatory with every movement of deterritorialization and reterritorialization. Creative wisdom was desperately needed to deal with such eccentric and rhizomic new borderlands.

Subaltern Resistance from the Borderland For the first time in Chinese history, border-­crossing plays were created within the borderland, the intercultural frontier where local artists lived. Iani del Rosario Moreno cautions us that the modern academic discourse tends to focus on the metaphorical aspect of crossing, normalizing the transnational hybridity in borderland while downplaying the intense differences that separate cultures and nations.3 The local artists, who were rendered insignificant by the elite of the power center and the local new barbarians, suffered from a kind of double subalternity. While the court and many elites were promoting modernization and Westernization, traditional values, including traditional theater forms, were seen as obstacles to China’s progress. Border crossing was no longer metaphorical, as cautioned by Moreno, because the threats were real. The hybridized existence in the new border-

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land on a daily basis, and the anxiety of losing traditional values and livelihood, helped create a distinctive new form of border-­crossing drama. While it appears much more tolerant with new social ideas and staging techniques, it upholds the ultimate conservative values by vehemently defending the gender border. The subaltern voices became the force to save the nation.

Theater as Living Newspapers and News Media Liang Qichao 梁啟超 (1873–­1929), an eminent scholar in the Chinese modernity movement, points out three important ways of “disseminating civilization”: school, newspaper, and lecture.4 Shun Pao (shenbao 申報), one of the most influential Chinese modern newspapers, was founded in 1872, and The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio (Dianshi zhai huabao 點石齋畫報), the earliest pictorial news journal in China, began in 1884. Local popular theater, along with textual and pictorial journalism, formed the “news media” of the late 1800s: they documented (often with sensationalism) and commented on current newsworthy affairs, prescribed solutions and “disseminated civilization”; moreover, they satisfied the curiosity and craving for novelty in the fast-­changing China. The bizarre Westerners, along with their peculiar behavior and curious technology, were often the news headlines as well as the focus of social commentary of these publications. By constantly crossing the boundaries between genres and cultures, the performative news media wrote part of the borderland’s history.

Sensual and Affective Border Crossing Border-­crossing drama during this period relies a great deal on sensuality and affect. Although sound, such as the cries of wild geese, and smell, such as the pungent odor of goats, are sometimes used as a standard dramatic trope in earlier border-­crossing repertoire, there is an undeniable emphasis on a type of sensual border crossing in this era: the increasing intrusion of sound, smell, or taste—­all affects of visceral border crossing—­make a true impression of the hybrid borderland experience of the local artists. The Great Wall or the Black River, the esteemed traditional borders, cannot prevent the intrusion of sound or smell, even though it might stop military advances or kill a Chinese woman. The sensual invasion is a different form



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of violence because it disrupts the sensual systems that have no ready-­made defense mechanism. The vulnerability against the sensual border crossing reflects the daily affective existence of Chinese border dwellers as Westerners fully infiltrate the borderland.

The Definition of Regional Drama Regional drama, or local drama (地方戲 difang xi), is a loosely defined term that includes all kinds of popular regional dramatic genres whose authors are for the most part local theater practitioners rather than highly renowned literati. It is difficult to trace a linear history for regional drama because of its folk origin, but it is clear that by the middle to late Qing many genres were well established. Most of the plays discussed in chapters 1 and 2 were formally published, and a number of them had introductions or prefaces written by the author and colophons, postscripts, or printed marginalia by other literati. Many of these authors held government positions through the imperial examination system, and You Tong’s plays even received personal attention from the Qing emperor. These are the plays that were circulated, commented on, and most importantly, read in literary circles. Every transhistorical and intertexual citation, reference, or comment reaffirmed the lineage created by the exam system and further legitimized the literary canon. Regional plays, on the other hand, belong to a very different tradition. Compared with chuanqi, whose highly refined language is intelligible only to intellectuals, these plays usually eschew literary pretensions but are full of local color and contemporary references. Canonical allusion is seen in these plays, but it sometimes appears erroneous; typographical or scribing errors are fairly common. Moreover, these plays were performed with local musical traditions and dialects, and some of the parochial references would present challenges for nonlocal readers. Instead of being written by literati with the canon and literary circle in mind, these plays were probably box-­office driven, created based on the needs and capability of a theater troupe or actors. The multiplicity of voices and rhizomic development perhaps reflected an internal and subaltern desire for a fundamental change to allow local participation in the national dialogue. Met with external force from Western imperialism and the top-­down modernization policy advocated by the elite, such desire of the populace ultimately changed the fate of the nation, but not without significant dilemma and compromise at the local

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level. Along with nascent journalism, these local plays are valuable sources for sociological studies for that period. I have collected a few dozens of regional dramatic pieces on Wang Zhaojun, Cai Yan, and Su Wu from the turn of the twentieth century; Li Ling’s stories are usually intertwined with others. A “piece” refers to one entry in library catalogues, or any independent work identifiable in other collections; it could be any complete or fragmentary song, scene, or play. Some are duplicates or near-­duplicates, as authorship is not important in regional drama. A great number of the works are from the archives of the Fu Ssu-­nien Library at Academia Sinica in Taipei, where they are categorized as “popular songs and drama” (suqu 俗曲).5 My collection of regional border-­crossing drama is far from complete, but it is large enough to represent a distinctive type of rarely heard local voices. This group of precious and yet largely unknown material documents contemporary ideologies and complicated borderland experience in the transitional time. Popular theatrical performances at the local level had naturally coexisted with zaju, nanxi, and chuanqi in previous periods, but it was not until the decline of kunqu (the major music form for chuanqi since the late sixteenth century) did regional drama begin to gain significance and grow rapidly.6 The general audience’s craze for a new form, its growing taste for less refined fare, and northerners’ dislike for southern drama all contributed to the decline of the canonical kunqu and the rise of the “lowly” local forms.7 The visit of the local troupe from Anhui to the capital Beijing in 1790 for the eightieth birthday of Emperor Qianlong, the new style’s winning over other forms (including kunqu) and contribution to the genesis of Beijing opera, and the loss of commercial viability of kunqu by the early nineteenth century were in all, as Wing Chung Ng put it, the story of traditional theater in the late imperial era.8 Although popular drama thrives in every region of China, the border-­ crossing plays I have studied are mostly from southern coastal areas such as the Guangdong and Fujian provinces, and Beijing (the capital) and its vicinity. The rise of urban culture and increasing mobility had close links to theater formation in the nineteenth century.9 Coastal cities, where border crossing was experienced as actual contact with foreigners, are the geographical focus of this chapter. Among the plays discussed in this chapter are yueju 粵劇 (Cantonese opera, Guangdong province), minge 閩歌 or gezai 歌仔 (Min opera, Fujian province), Fuzhou pinghua 平話 (storytelling from Fuzhou, Fujian province), dagu 大鼓 (storytelling accompanied by



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drums, from the Beijing area), zidishu 子弟書 (storytelling from the Beijing area), gaojiaxi (gaojia opera 高甲戲, Taiwan), chegu (車鼓or cheguxi 車鼓 戲, chegunong 車鼓弄, cheguzhen 車鼓陣, dramatic procession, Taiwan), and miscellaneous songs.10

The Late Qing Historical and Political Background The late Qing period (roughly from the second half of the nineteenth century to the early twentieth century) was another period of complicated political transitions and provided excellent conditions in which border-­crossing drama could thrive. It was the end both of the second long period of foreign rule and of an imperial tradition over two millennia. Furthermore, China’s destiny was tangled in the whirlwind of Western imperialism at the global level. While premodern Chinese were accustomed to dynastic changes and even barbarian regimes, the impact of Western imperialism and colonialism in the form of modernity was unprecedented. For the first time in history, China was seen as falling behind the times. For centuries, border-­crossing drama had been used as a mechanism to normalize the foreign regime through theatrical marginalization of barbarians, but as the foreigner/barbarian situation became more complicated, we began to see a sort of dramaturgical confusion in these local plays. The flame of ethnic hatred toward Manchu rulers was reignited when the corrupted Qing imperial court failed to protect its people and territory from the Western invasion. Restoring a Han China might present a solution. On the other hand, relying on the domestic barbarians (the Manchu court) to fight the powerful combined force from Western countries, a sort of atypical but ferocious barbarians, might be a safer solution at this point.11 Who were the real barbarians for the Han China? Who were the lesser of two evils? What was the new mechanism that could curb the new barbarians, even if only symbolically? From the legendary adventurer Marco Polo (1254–­1324) to the famous Jesuit missionary court painter Giuseppe Castiglione (1688–­1766), Westerners had made contacts with China centuries before the late Qing. Despite their access to the political power, however, they hardly made any ripples in Chinese people’s daily lives because of the small scale of the foreign visitors. China was, for the most part, exempt from the Western imperial vio-

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lence until the mid-­nineteenth century. In 1842, after China’s loss in the first Opium War, the shockingly humiliating Treaty of Nanking was signed. Besides giving the British various privileges, it also opened five important ports to the British for commerce and residence: Canton (Guangzhou), Amoy (Xiamen), Foochow (Fuzhou), Ningpo (Ningbo), and Shanghai. For the first time, China was formally “opened” to Westerners and the barbarians were here to stay. More wars, more defeats, more humiliations ensued: the Treaty of Tientsin was signed in 1858 and the Convention of Peking in 1860; in 1900, an alliance of foreign troops marched on Beijing and even forced the imperial court into exile. The establishment of foreign concessions within Chinese coastal cities created small pockets of colonies and patches of borderland within China. A number of more extreme cases of colonialism involve Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Macau, which were under direct colonialism from decades to more than a century. After the first Opium War, what we consider as Hong Kong today (the Hong Kong Island, Kowloon, and the New Territory) all gradually came under British control and remained a British colony, despite multiple regime changes in China, until 1997. Macau had a similar colonial history under the control of the Portuguese until 1999. While Hong Kong and Macau were seen as part of the humiliation brought by the Opium Wars, the loss of Taiwan was a total surprise, as the Qing focus on the Western barbarians made them neglect the rising power of the East, Japan. The defeat in the first Sino-­Japanese War in 1895 resulted in a Japanese colonization of Taiwan for fifty years (until 1945). The second half of the nineteenth century was a history full of loss: money, territory, national pride, and a sense of national orientation. Historically, seeking a balance between militarism and bribery (money and women) was the way Han Chinese coexisted with the northern barbarians. The combination of the quasi-­Orientalism (the marginalization of ethnic minorities as foreign barbarians) and the Confucian patriarchy (female suicide to comply with the chastity code) established the foundation of border-­crossing drama. It was a formula that worked for centuries, and a sense of national pride was always restored when the play ended. But when the linear history and traditions were interrupted by Western imperialism, and when the multiple subaltern voices demanded a solution, would the simple-­minded gendered nationalism still work? The wavering and negotiating among multiple political positions seemed to loosen or obscure the national border; the gender border, which often became portable, seemed to be the last line of



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the national defense system. Were there other self-­reaffirming strategies for this transitional era? Along with peace-­alliance marriage, “learning from the strengths of the barbarians in order to control barbarians” (shi yi changji yi zhi yi 師夷長計以 制夷) had been a practical way to strengthen the national border in previous dynasties.12 The threat of statehood by the Western powers prompted many political reforms, among which were the famous Self-­Strengthening Movement (ziqiang yundong 自強運動) of the 1860s and the One-­Hundred-­Day Reform (bairi weixin 百日維新) in 1898. Those reforms, which were administered by the court and supported by many young intellectuals, adopted the notion of “learning from barbarians” to a certain extent. In other words, the best way for China to defend itself against the powerful global trend of Western imperialism was to catch up with the West, to modernize itself through serious Westernization efforts, such as modernizing military, economic, political, and educational systems. To a certain extent, it is to learn to be “barbarians” themselves. Perhaps the educational reforms had the largest impact on theater. Setting up schools to teach Western languages and Western technology, as well as sending students abroad to study, were practical ways to Westernize and modernize the Chinese mind. The millennium-­old imperial examination also faced ontological challenges at this point. To reform the exam system, it was advocated that students be tested on Western languages, mathematics, science, technology, world geography, and history as well as current affairs instead of on memorizations and interpretations of classics.13 After all, how would Confucian philosophy protect China from the British gunboats? Confucianism so far was only efficacious for killing virtuous Chinese women. Note that some scholars believed that abolishing the imperial examination in the Yuan dynasty had a direct correlation with the rise of zaju and the beginning of the first golden age of Chinese theater.14 It is believed that the well-­qualified scholars needed an outlet for their literary talent, which could not be translated into political capital without the exam system; theater, therefore, provided the emotional, political, literary, and perhaps monetary satisfactions for the Yuan scholars. Although writing plays was a favorite form of elite pastime and some scholars even owned family theater troupes, the ultimate purpose for literary knowledge was still deeply connected with political power. In the late Qing, when modernization and Westernization became the national discourse, a drastic

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change in China’s intellectual bloodline and an overhauling of the entire millennia-­old Chinese value system seemed inevitable. The exam was not officially abolished until 1905, but the fear for losing the traditional value system created insurmountable anxieties long before then. It was up to the local artists to ease the anxiety in popular drama. Many local theaters, especially those in coastal cities, embraced technological advances during this time. Western musical instruments such as the violin, piano, and saxophone became part of the orchestra; sequins and beads sewn onto costumes created striking visual effects; Western machinery and more realistic staging approaches were common.15 The undeniable universal truth is that in any nineteenth-­century colonial situation it is almost impossible to distinguish modernization from Westernization. Technology that improves lives or enhances box-­office draws can also be seen as a betrayal of traditional values. “Modern” itself is also a confusing concept for Chinese: Does it simply mean anything trendy and fashionable? Does it mean contemporaneity or a civilization ahead of Chinese time? We see the term “civilized” (wenming 文明) used as indication of modern, Western, and fashionable during this period. If “Western” equates modern/civilized/fashionable, then, what should the synonym for “Chinese” be during this time? Such quandaries pertaining to modernity can be detected in regional drama in this period.

The State of Regional Border-­C rossing Drama at the Turn of the Twentieth Century Among the dramatic works I have collected for this chapter, Wang Zhaojun remains the most popular dramatic figure (about fifty pieces), with Su Wu a distant second (more than a dozen). As music, performance style, and language vary widely among the diverse genres and geographical locations discussed in this chapter, my focus is on the local reinventions of the deep-­rooted tradition and sentiment of border crossing. I find that there was much more freedom to digress into contemporary topics, to insert local references, and to challenge audience’s imagination about border, landscape, and barbarians. An affective border crossing, which appealed to senses, became prominent during this period. The local variations, like a combination of jazz improvisation based on classical music and contact improv in dance, allowed for wild experimentations that challenged audiences’ knowl-



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edge of the classics without a complete severing from the original. The contexts/contacts of borderland that both the artists and audience shared in this transitional time were the foundation of this new type of border-­ crossing drama. The freedom to deviate (without completely losing contact with the original), I believe, was partly inspired by a type of cross-­genre fertilization. A popular novel from the early nineteenth century, The Wonderful Karma of Double Phoenixes (Shuangfeng qiyuan 雙鳳奇緣), seemed to be a major inspiration for border-­crossing drama during this time. The novel is itself an elaborate expansion of the sixteenth-­century chuanqi Appeasing the Barbarians.16 Besides traditional plot components such as Mao Yanshou’s scheme, Cold Palace, the farewell scene, and the wailing and lamentation on the border, the eighty-­chapter novel provides the opportunity for plot expansion, subplots involving secondary characters, and the inclusion of a great deal of supernatural and other nontraditional elements. The simple border-­crossing “moment” now stretches to sixteen years and the bleak border landscape becomes much more fantastical in the new imagination. The pieces on Su Wu generally follow the pattern of the aforementioned nineteenth-­century novel and the nanxi The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep. Standard scenes such as Su Wu’s refusal to surrender and his sheep tending remain in the local drama repertoire, and his virtue is sometimes seen as a model for modern patriotism. The greatest departure from the earlier tradition of Su Wu drama is the sensational elaboration of the ape woman character, which had no significance in the nanxi or chuanqi plays of Su Wu. Only a handful of local plays on Cai Yan have been found, and all of them are yueju, Cantonese opera. In contrast to all earlier Cai Yan stories, which dramatize her painful survival, the yueju tradition has her commit suicide after her return. Her barbarian children, who had no dramatic significance other than providing a source of sorrow in earlier works, now become important secondary characters who represent a voice of the younger generation and multiculturalism in the new China. I have only discovered one stand-­alone piece on Li Ling, a song (or a short scene) of yueju dramatizing Li Ling’s replying to a letter from Su Wu after Su’s return to China; most of the Li Ling drama happens within the border-­crossing stories of other characters. Despite the multiplicity of regional styles, music, language, and local affairs, there is surprisingly a sense of thorough integration of the entire border-­crossing genre in the Chinese popular psyche during this time. In earlier periods, although Wang Zhao-

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jun often appears as a referent in other border-­crossing plays, these characters are still separated by their own place and time. In the regional plays it is impossible to separate the stories of the various border-­crossing heroes: transcending space and time, the lives of Wang Zhaojun, Su Wu, and Li Ling are intertwined and their fates connected. For instance, Wang Zhaojun would ask the chieftain to release Su Wu after their marriage, or Su Wu and Li Ling would be sent to the Xiongnu to rescue her.17 Cai Yan, although remaining in her own place and time, follows the model of Wang Zhaojun more closely than ever. From a transhistorical perspective, the combined residue of the longue durée evolution of border-­crossing stories from multiple origins is the source material for the local artists, who largely disregard the orthodox historical and literary traditions maintained by the literati but instead select the components needed for telling local stories of the time. Throughout history, border-­crossing drama encompasses, twists, rejects, and invents various narratives, and finally develops into an ideal genre that solve all kinds of intercultural conflicts and national crises with a beautiful woman’s pathetic suicide.

Resistance within and under: New Characteristics of Late Qing Local Border-­C rossing Drama Compared with border-­crossing drama in zaju or chuanqi, the late Qing local drama preserves the armature of this genre from earlier periods but seems much freer in both form and content and more closely connected with contemporary issues. Local and contemporary references, along with any tactics that might boost ticket sales, are incorporated. Despite the centuries-­old stories, some of these plays seem to function like newspapers where current issues are debated and new trends are recorded. There is also a surge of youthful and novel energy and a higher degree of sensationalism in the new border-­crossing drama. The post–­Opium War border-­crossing drama by local artists was composed from a very different position compared to the previous ones. The coastal region “opened” by the treaties is essentially turned into borderland with a mixed population of Westerners and local Chinese. The borderland, according to Gloria Anzaldúa, is “a vague and undetermined place created by the emotional residue of an unnatural boundary. It is in a constant state



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of transition. The prohibited and forbidden are its inhabitants.”18 Regional border-­crossing drama was created within the borderland, by the “prohibited and forbidden.” Étienne Balibar’s analysis of the porous borders in the context of the European Union describes the late-­Qing situation well: We are living in a conjuncture of the vacillation of borders, both of their layout and their function—­that is at the same time a vacillation of the very notion of border, which has become particularly equivocal.19 How did the local artists negotiate a new theatrical borderland between the dramatic canon and their own daily border-­crossing experience? How did they define a nation when the notion and the function of the national border were in flux? What were the new tactics of inventing a Chinese nation when China did not really exist?

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly: Redefining Barbarians Historically, border-­crossing drama was a privileged vehicle for the dissemination of Chinese nationalist objections to foreign/barbarian dominance. The late Qing Western imperial powers created the new borderland, a hybrid land of conflicts and stimulations, a new fertile ground of theatricalization; therefore, new barbarians needed to be written in order for the genre to work at its best. The rough, uncouth nomad troops from the north were the default barbarians in earlier border-­crossing drama. The occasional pirate attacks around the Korean peninsula or the eastern coast did not change the conception of traditional land barbarians. With easy access to Southeast Asia, people from these southern coastal cities encountered foreign cultures much earlier than did other inland cities. Portuguese ships arrived in Canton harbor as early as 1514, and both traveling to and trading with people from Southeast Asia were fairly common. In general, however, foreigners were kept at a safe distance, since strict Chinese laws limited their movements.20 Late Qing was the first time when the Western water barbarians made significant impact on local lives. Residents of southern coastal cities such as Fuzhou, Xiamen, and Guangzhou were most directly affected, as the southern coastal line forms part of the important modern borderline. As the affluence of these areas attracted Western imperial invasion, a new

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national border was formed and the geography of the frontier also changed. In local border-­crossing drama at the turn of the century, although the frontier is still set in inland northern China, following the traditional story line, a sort of new border(land) and barbarians are evolving: maritime imagery and references to the south often appear to signify a distinctively local and contemporary border; descriptions of the peculiar physicality and behavior also suggest a different type of barbarians as the new dramatic personae. The real depictions of the new barbarians and borderland experience of these local playwrights are integrated into the imagined traditional border-­ crossing stories up north. The Good Barbarians are the ones whose skills can be emulated to modernize China. For instance, there is a proposal for a comprehensive reform in the minge The Whole Song of Wang Zhaojun Appeasing the Barbarians, Part II (Wang Zhaojun hefan quange xiaben 王昭君和番全歌下本). After Wang Zhaojun has already been sent to the Xiongnu, one subject advises the emperor: “The old policies are not appropriate. If we want to be rich and powerful, we have to learn from the new policies of the foreign countries.” He urges steps toward comprehensive modernization and Westernization, including a constitution, autonomy, elections, a new education system, sending students to the West to learn about the Western legal system and officially employing them upon return, building a new military and navy and training soldiers rigorously, building battleships and firearms, setting up a police system, constructing a railroad and establishing rapid transportation system, combining government and private money to excavate coal and metal mines, opening banks and using bank notes . . . (4–­5).21 It is clear that the long list of reform ideas in his proposal are familiar to the emperor and need no explanation, and it is equally assumed that they are not concepts that alienate the audience. Secure employment with foreign education seems to be the new exam system that will produce the new elite crop for the modern nation. In the yueju Cai Wenji, Cai Yan tells her children before returning to China: “Mother is traveling abroad (going to the West) for three or five years” (22).22 Traveling abroad, especially by educated women, was a trendy way to pursue self-­betterment and independence. While Cai Yan’s erudition was seen as unusual during her own lifetime, her intellectual status works like a fashion statement in the yueju. The Western notion of courtship and autonomy in marriage also seems attractive to local artists. Note that romantic courtship in traditional elite Chinese society was almost nonexistent, as marriages were usually arranged



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by parents. Polygamy was also common, especially for upper-­middle-­class families. In the yueju Cai Wenji, Cai Yan’s son and daughter are young adults and in love with the brother and sister of a Chinese family. This is the first time when young lovers are featured in border-­crossing drama. These mixed-­race youths (half-­barbarians, half–­Han Chinese) and their interracial love affairs represent a new breed in the new multicultural borderland in modern China. Moreover, the mixed-­race youngsters are autonomous in their own love and feelings without parents’ blessings or curse. As a matter of fact, the “freedom to love” (ziyou lian’ai) becomes a new dramatic theme and symbolizes the longing for a new era. After Cai Yan returns to China, she finds that her original betrothed, Dong Zi 董自,23 remains faithful to her because of his deep belief of “single-­wife-­ism” (yiqi zhuyi 一妻主義). Remaining faithful to a husband is not a new concept, since a woman is required to remain chaste after her husband’s death, but for a man to stay loyal for a long time to a woman (not to a country or emperor) is novel romanticism. Furthermore, the wording is significant: zhuyi is clearly a newly acquired term from the elite, a translation of “-­ism” or some types of doctrine or belief. The freedom to choose love, autonomy in marriage, and monogamy must have been very attractive new ideas learned from barbarians.24 Perhaps the hybridized border culture made it possible to imagine peaceful coexistence with barbarians, even interracial marriage at this point. The barbarian spouse (or potential spouse) began to appear as sympathetic characters. In both the minge The Whole Song of Wang Zhao­ jun Appeasing the Barbarians, Part II and the yueju Zhaojun Throwing Herself over the Riverbank (Zhaojun touya 昭君投涯),25 Wang Zhaojun postpones her suicide sixteen years later, following the tradition of The Wonderful Karma of Double Phoenixes. The chieftain does everything she desires, such as building a bridge across the large body of international waters. In the minge play, the construction of the bridge is described as such a difficult task that the chieftain exhausts the national treasury and has to borrow foreign money.26 After her death, he performs an extravagant memorial service for her. His love for her, however, is satirized as the folly of a “great stupid pig” (9–­10). In previous Cai Yan plays, her Xiongnu husband Lord Zuoxian is nothing but a name as her drama centers on her recrossing the border. In the yueju Cai Wenji, realizing she is leaving him forever, he drinks a cup of farewell wine and sings,

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The bitterest thing in life is separation. . . . After your return, there’s no date for reunion. . . . As for our children, don’t worry. . . . On your long trip home, take good care of yourself. When cold wind blows, remember to add a blanket, Eat more rice and don’t go hungry. Today we are a world apart and it’s hard to meet again. . . . Endless words cannot express my heartbreak, I cannot bear to swallow this fine parting wine (he pours the wine as libation instead). (19) The loving and heartbroken Lord Zuoxian is almost like the Xiongnu version of the Han emperor of Autumn in the Han Palace. The sympathetic portrayal of the barbarian spouses also reflects the possibility of imagining intercultural marriage in a positive light. Contrary to the sad and pitiful good barbarians, there is another tradition of happy and friendly barbarians whose main purpose is to provide merriment in the otherwise somber border-­crossing stories. This is often done in the form of comical and exaggerated singing and dancing of minor characters. As early as in the nanxi tradition, Huihui song appeared in Su Wu plays (The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep), and minor Xiongnu characters provided comic relief in the eighteenth-­century Cai Yan play (The Ballad of Reed Pipe), as seen in chapter 2. Such comical elements are heightened in some of the regional drama. In the gaojiaxi Wang Zhaojun, the performance often finishes with a “happy ending,” which mainly consists of barbarian men and women singing and dancing cheerfully, as a friendly gesture to welcome Zhaojun.27 Another example of merry barbarians happens in chegu: it is suggested that in order to cheer up Zhaojun during her border-­ crossing journey, barbarian women sing and dance along the way in a style of procession.28 Both the gaojiaxi and chegu examples above are from Taiwan. Although most early Taiwan dramas can find traces linking their origins from southern China, they have also developed into unique local forms, thanks to the separation by the waters (the Taiwan Strait) and by colonialism ( Japanese occupation). Some editions of the minge mentioned above are published in Taiwan, they appear to be reprints from the original Xiamen version. On the other hand, the gaojiaxi Wang Zhaojun incorporates distinctive local color, faster performing tempo, and more local language in script-­writing, although



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the general story line follows The Wonderful Karma of Double Phoenixes and ends tragically.29 Chegu, whose origin is unclear but perhaps more closely related to folk dances than dramas from southern China, belongs to the category of “minor drama” (xiaoxi 小戲) in traditional Taiwanese drama.30 Minor drama is a general term including folk performances that often take place outdoors (on streets or in temple plazas) with local language and simple plot (often improvisation based), small cast (as small as two) of stock characters and exaggerated movements. If regional drama is seen as inferior because of its nonelite origin, minor drama with its humble folk origin, is definitely rendered vulgar and illegitimate from the elite point of view. How does Wang Zhaojun’s border crossing, such a lofty theme of nationalism and chastity, become the context for the standard chegu “Barbarian Woman Skit” (fanpo nong 番婆弄) with vulgar jokes and bodily humor? Who are the harmless and funny barbarians here? Taiwan’s racial and colonial history is complicated; it is even more appropriate to consider the definition of barbarian as a temporal matter. There is a long history of foreign occupation and colonization. Part of Taiwan was occupied by the Dutch (1624–­1662) and the Spanish (1626–­1642) before the Japanese occupied and governed the entire island for fifty years (1895–­1945). The Dutch were referred as hongmao fan (red-­hair savages), and that stereotypical description can certainly be extended to all late Qing Western imperialists. The Han Chinese in Taiwan, on the other hand, after many centuries of immigration and cultivation, assumed the positions as colonizers and deemed the aboriginal Taiwanese, whose ethnicities are close to Austronesian peoples, as fan (savages 番) or shengfan (raw savages 生番). Records show that serious conflicts between Han Chinese and the aboriginal Taiwanese were common in the Qing dynasty.31 The Zhaojun Temple in Miaoli—­the original site was probably from the late eighteenth century and the renovation started in 1921—­indicates Han people’s desperate need for peace, both with the aboriginals and with other Han groups.32 Perhaps the diasporic Han people identified with Wang Zhaojun’s border-­crossing sentiments in a foreign land, or perhaps by immortalizing her they wished that intercultural conflicts could be eliminated as easily as in border-­crossing drama. The coexistence of religious belief, local custom and superstition, traditional dramatic theme, and the local skits explains why the comical good barbarians were deeply appreciated in a time and place ridden with intercultural conflicts and violence. Instead of emphasizing the fundamental racial differences, the human-

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ity (marital, parental, and romantic love and friendship) of the good barbarians is a novel concept, which will be developed (and co-­opted) much more in modern border-­crossing plays in the second half of the twentieth century (chapter 4). Moreover, while strict decorum is placed on Chinese women, the barbarian characters offer an opportunity for comic relief, spectacle, and even a carnivalesque rupture. It is highly possible that the spectacle of barbarians is more dramatic than the Wang Zhaojun tragedy in the popular setting. The Bad Barbarians are the norm in the old border-­crossing tradition: always men, greedy and lascivious, ugly and stinky, uncivilized and unintelligent; they demand the hand of Wang Zhaojun, kidnap Cai Yan, and torture Su Wu. Only a Chinese woman’s suicide can enlighten them to give up war for peace. The late Qing barbarians, who arrived in gunboats and penetrated China, were the most terrifying and invincible enemies China had ever seen. As a result, the description of barbaric cruelty in border-­crossing drama is scaled up exponentially. For instance, in the dagu Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai 昭君出塞), the chieftain “leads the Tartar barbarian soldiers to besiege China. They slaughter Chinese civilians and even the elderly and children have no place to hide; no one within China is able to fight back in such massacre.” (6)33 Another story describes the extreme brutality against women: the enraged chieftain punishes the fake Zhaojun (the Zhaojun proxy) with “knife slicing” (lingchi) tens of thousand times,34 and further threatens to capture all the women of the thirty-­six palaces and seventy mansions from the Chinese imperial court if the real Zhaojun is not submitted to him (2).35 The famous contemporary pictorial news journal, The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio (Dianshi zhai huabao, 1884–­1908), records many accounts of extraordinary behaviors of Westerners in China, with vivid illustrations. Some of the documents are about unusual customs, bizarre spectacles, peculiar technology, and sometimes about the annoyance and even violence brought by the Westerners. I have discussed elsewhere the picture of “They Dare Not Befriend Them” (Bugan yujiao 不敢與交), which depicts the terrified prostitutes trying to flee the advances of British men.36 The incident took place in a brothel in the territory of the British Concession. The implication is that even prostitutes, who the Chinese society considers the lowest on the morality scale, cannot tolerate the vulgarity of Western barbarians. A picture titled “The Cruelty of French” portrays the savage French suppression of Chinese demonstrators after the forceful demoli-



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tion of the Siming Guild in the French Concession in Shanghai, resulting “twenty-­four injured and up to seventeen dead.”37 Another vivid portrayal of the French is “An Accident Caused by the French Soldier” (Fabing zhaoshi 法兵肇事, fig. 10). Sailors from a French battleship at Tianjin Harbor often get drunk and ride their horses around wildly among the crowds. The picture depicts the moment of an old man being trampled on by such a soldier in front of a hospital. The caption explains that the old man’s face was turned into a “bloody pie” and died at the scene. Since French laws do not require a death sentence for such a crime, there is no justice for the victim. “Different ethnicity, different heart 非我族類, 其心必異” is the helpless outcry one can manage to utter on such inhumane behavior of foreign barbarians.38 All the savage behaviors happened in the borderland, the concessions outside of Chinese jurisdiction. The contemporary news journal and local plays speak to each other to reaffirm a type of anxiety in borderland experience for both the creators and the audience of local border-­crossing drama. The more realistic portrayal of barbarians, whether it is about technological amazement or unimaginable atrocity, is a result of the close observation and actual experience within the borderland. The physical emphasis of the ugly barbarians in traditional border-­ crossing drama is usually the darker skin and facial hair, such as “hair as dry as pine needles, a face as black as ink, a nose like an eagle’s beak, and a mustache as curly as a mountain donkey’s.”39 (See fig. 3 in chap. 1.) The new water barbarians, who have different national and ethnic origins, however, appeared to be much more grotesque in terms of their height and colors. In the drawings of The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio, Westerners always appear in small numbers but stand towering over Chinese crowd. The new barbarians also have strange colorization: they might have “green sideburns, red and yellow hair,”40 “yellow beards and golden eyes, red mustaches and purple faces.”41 In minge The Whole Song of Wang Zhaojun Appeasing the Barbarians, Part II, when Wang arrives in the Xiongnu land, “barbarians fight for a chance to view her. Crowded barbarian men look like ghosts, barbarian women are born without any beauty” (7). Compared with earlier periods, a closer affinity between the contemporary barbarians and animals is suggested in news journals and in local plays. Often both Westerners and trained animals are juxtaposed to form a novel spectacle in The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio, such as animal fight (ser. 2, vol. 1:11), trained elephants (ser. 2, vol. 6:11, and ser. 3, vol. 6:2), circus pigs (ser. 2, vol. 7:8), and a dog playing piano (Ser. 4, vol. 1:8). In

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Fig. 10. The wild behavior of drunken French soldiers. “An Accident Caused by the French Soldier” (法兵肇事 Fabing zhaoshi) from The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio (點石齋畫報 Dianshizhai huabao, 1884–­1908). Courtesy of Stanford Auxiliary Library.

border-­crossing drama, sometimes the barbarians themselves are described as animals or even supernatural beasts; a tiger, monkey devil, and a turtle monster with special magic to make wild wind are part of Wang Zhaojun’s border experience in the minge The Whole Song of Wang Zhaojun Appeasing the Barbarians, Part II. Words like dogs, wolves, pigs, and jackals are also common dramatic descriptions of the ferocious barbarians.42 The aforementioned picture of “Western Dog Playing Piano” (ser. 4, vol. 1:8) is worth a closer look. The caption explains that people gather to watch this amazing Western dog that can play the piano. When an audience member yells, “mouse, mouse,” the dog drops the piano and goes for the mouse.



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When the music, however, continues, people realize it is fake. “Well-­clad monkeys” (muhou erguan 沐猴而冠) is a phrase that is commonly used as a way to show that elegant and civilized veneer cannot change the true lowliness underneath. The Westerners in these pictures always appear very well-­ dressed (three-­piece suit, bow tie, and hats) with elegant stances, but are they no better than the well-­clad monkeys or the philistine dog who prefers a mouse to music? Is it worth “learning from barbarians” and abandoning traditional values if all we can see is the veneer? The elegant appearance, fancy technology, but often uncivilized behavior of the Westerners create another form of borderland confusion.

Wet, Smelly, and Bloody: Affective Borders, Borderlands, and Border Crossings As the water barbarians replaced the land barbarians in this time, the dramatic border landscape became wet and messy. Although a river always acts as the ruthless killer that takes Wang Zhaojun’s life in border-­crossing drama, it sits aloof on the margin of the play; it conveniently appears to end the play but never gets tangled in characters’ lives. In the new borderland created by the water barbarians, water is no longer metaphorical, and characters get into the water and get wet. Sometimes the water is where the drama happens but not where it ends. The new water image is often vast and unfathomable; the powerful ocean-­like border reflects the impotent feeling against the new water invasions. On the other hand, southern coastal communities are familiar with water dwelling and water traveling; boating becomes a new staging technique of border-­crossing drama. The new border landscape requires new techniques of embodiment; getting on a boat, rowing, sailing, and chasing are the new stage business, which both incorporates local theatrical practice and reflects the new national borders. Water brings good tidings but also calamities; water flows and renews, but also kills. The troubled water is both the new border and borderland. If it takes sixteen years and the entire national treasury to build a suspended bridge, the water must be incredibly formidable. As a matter of fact, the water now is referred to as “ocean” (yang 洋), not river (he 河 or jiang 江) as in earlier plays. When the bridge is eventually complete, her final time has come, as depicted in the minge The Whole Song of Wang Zhaojun Appeasing the Barbarians, Part II:

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Zhaojun comes to the new bridge. Seeing the ocean water rushing and rushing, She sheds tears, drop after drop . . . Clenching her teeth tight She leaps into the water in tears. Whirling wind with big shadowy cloud Sending her to Hades. . . . Search after search, her body cannot be found. (9) 昭君來到新橋頭， 看見海水直直流。 目滓卜流格落去 . . . 咬定牙嘈嚼齒根， 隨時跳落淚紛紛。 一陣大風共大影， 送去性命見閻君。 In the dagu Zhaojun Appeasing Barbarians, the “black water lake” (heishui tan 黑水潭) is described as “muddy water rolling, bottomless.” A luxurious dragon-­head, phoenix-­tail boat carrying the chieftain, sailors, and maids sails to the shore. With lotus feet, Wang Zhaojun can hardly stand and needs help boarding the boat. It is from the boat that she commits suicide by jumping into this bottomless water (20–­21).43 Yueju is famous for the boat-­chasing scenes, especially those between Su Wu and his barbarian wife, the ape woman. The ape woman is a curious development during this period, and there are small traces of similar characters in earlier Su Wu plays, such as the savage (yeren) in the nanxi The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep (chapter 2). A closer connection is from the novel The Wonderful Karma of Double Phoenixes: a monster (guaiwu 怪 物) “covered with black hair, with eyes like brass-­bells and sharp teeth” saves Su Wu in the harsh snow. The ape leads him to a cave, cares for him, tends his rams, and bears him two children. At this point, this ape woman is completely beast-­like and cannot speak a word of human language (chap. 32, 189–­90). After sixteen years, she has learned the human language. When Su Wu plans to leave without her, the ape woman chases the boat on foot. When she catches up with the boat, she “is screaming and jumping on the riverbank” to get Su Wu’s attention. Wiping her tears, she points at their



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children and says to him: “Taking them or not?” After thanking her, Su Wu eventually leaves without taking any of his family members (chap. 58, 347–­ 48). Their grown children are later sent to Su Wu (chap. 79, 478–­80). In the local drama tradition, she seems to have evolved into a beautiful barbarian woman, and the boating scene becomes a stylized theatrical double boat chase. Note that “chasing the boat” in the novel describes the ape’s running along the shore, but her chasing is transformed into a highly specialized stage technique in yueju. In yueju The Ape Woman Chasing the Boat (Xingxingnü zhuizhou 猩猩女追舟), knowing that Su Wu is leaving for China without her, she boards a boat to chase him; the boat sails into the ocean and she asks the boatman to speed up after spotting him. The stage direction specifies that the ape woman “gets on the boat,” intentionally “bumps into his boat,” “the maid ties the two boats together,” and the ape woman “crosses over to the other boat.”44 Note that all the complicated boating business is embodied with stylized movement, without any help of stage machinery (even the boat is embodied). Yueju scholar Lai Bojiang praises Xinhua’s innovation in singing and stage movements: Xinhua and Lanhuami each holds an oar to represent the boat. When the boats bump, they cannot stand still. As the boats move with the waves, their bodies sway left and right, going up and down. These beautiful body movements can be compared with the traditional yueju repertoire Miss Chen Chasing the Boat (Chengu zuizhou 陳姑追舟) or Autumn River (qiujiang 秋江) of the chuanju (Sichuan opera) tradition.45 Lanhuami, the male actor specializing in female impersonation, played the ape woman. Note that the specified role for the ape woman is flower female (huadan 花旦), which suggests vivacious and flirtatious body movement. Displaying a sexualized female body in extreme hardship in an animated way is extremely tantalizing, especially when it is in contrast to the stern Su Wu character (wusheng, martial male); Zhaojun’s horseback riding in the sandstorm provides the similar sensation in later border-­crossing drama (chapter 4). In the yueju Cai Wenji, Cai Yan’s grown children also travel to China by boat, and their betrothed chase them in a separate boat. The stage direction specifies “river scenery” and stage action such as sailing and chasing the boat, two boats bumping, and jumping from one boat to another. On the boats, the young lovers express love for each other (34–­35). “Boat chasing” (zhuizhou

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追舟) was originally a favorite local theatrical element. Yueju flourished in the Pearl River Delta region and troupes often traveled by boat. The “red boat” (hongchuan 紅船) served as the actors’ living quarters, theater storage space, and transportation. “Red boat” thus becomes the synonym for yueju. It is no surprise that “chasing the boat” is a favorite regional theater tradition because of the vicinity of water. Now this local practice is embodied with new meanings, as the friendly local water for daily transportation has become international water that is often violent and unpredictable. The new water border also creates geographical confusion. North Sea (traditionally associated with Lake Baikal, Siberia), river, vast ocean (the Pacific Ocean?) are all mentioned as part of water routes of Su Wu’s homebound journey, but it is impossible to connect these imaginary bodies of water on an imaginary map. With the introduction of a flower female as Su Wu’s wife and young characters as Cai Yan’s children, the sailing and chasing are endowed with new vitality and local theatricality. Other than “getting wet,” a type of sensual and affective border crossing also takes place in these plays. Traditionally, the borderland is a liminal space that features the either/or intercultural elements but emphasizes on the neither/nor sentiment: it is after Wang Zhaojun has denounced her Han ethnicity but before she is officially tainted with barbarism. The sacred land of nowhere appears sterile and bleak. It is safeguarded by the centuries-­old ideologies and predictable outcome, and little outer interference will distract the climactic solo show. In this group of plays, a form of sensual border crossing, both consciously and unconsciously, sometimes creeps into or out of the sacred borderland. While border-­crossing drama largely follows the conventional script, the affect of these sensual crossings reveals a subtext. Smell and sound quickly trigger our sensual response, often by surprise, and cannot be completely blocked by a wall or a river. They are effective and affective border crossings. The odor of barbarians, usually associated with the smell of animals of the nomad lifestyle, is much more intensified in this period. In the zidishu New Zhaojun (Xin Zhaojun 新昭君), Wang Zhaojun describes the felt tents, horses, and barbarian female companions whose “bodies smell of dung stench that can kill people” (566). In another zidishu, Zhaoun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai 昭君出塞), she remarks on the savage behaviors, such as eating raw beef and cooking with horse dung, and the free mingling of men and women, young and old. “There’s no fragrance of powder and rouge, only fowl smell shooting into my nose” (513).



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She misses all the luxurious lifestyle in the past, but now “milk washes off the rouge on my lips, mutton stinks my jade flesh. Nostalgic tears roll down my cheeks, soaking layers of my embroidered robe” (518). By bringing the attention to her sensual reaction and the possible bodily harm, border crossing is felt at a much more visceral level. Body fluid—­blood and tears—­play an important part in sensual border crossing. The letter-­writing convention becomes much more “gory” during this time. In the zidishu Zhaoun Leaving the Pass Behind, she writes the letter with blood on a handkerchief, but “the letter cannot truly express all the bitterness, sorrow and resentment. She tears off a piece of undershirt and wraps the letter in it. She also cuts a lock of hair [to be included in the package] and ties the letter on the neck of the wild goose” (548). In the zidishu New Zhaojun, she remembers the parting scene with the emperor: “When we parted, dragon tears (the emperor’s tears) soaked my sleeves. How can I face the barbarian king now? I’d rather die in the fish belly to stay clean” (581).46 In the dagu Zhaojun Appeasing Barbarians, after Wang Zhaojun boards the boat, a wild goose lands on the boat, ready to carry the letter for her. Despite the lavishly decorated boat with large entourage, she reverts to the most primitive letter-­writing method, as if she is alone in the desert: She tears half of her silk skirt. Imitating chaste women, she puts the jade fingers into her phoenix mouth. Holding a fist (with four fingers pointing inwards) she bites the middle finger. With the sound “ke-­zhi” the blood flows like river. It’s so painful that the queen’s phoenix eyes glare. It is true that ten fingers are connected to the heart. The blood is gushing out from the middle finger, and she will use the bleeding finger as the brush. (21–­22) From describing the smell of her flesh, the sound of biting her finger, the sight of gushing blood, and the feeling of excruciating pain, to imagining her flesh being consumed by fish, the sensual appeal is much more intense in these plays. The aspects of bodily production and consumption are fully exploited in the stories of the ape woman. The curious ape woman, the perfect hybridity of civilization and barbarism, humanity and bestiality, is the intercultural borderland to be explored and exploited in border-­crossing drama. She is

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beautiful, fertile, and kind; she rescues Su Wu and raises their children and is willing to sacrifice herself for her Chinese man and be consumed by Chinese morals. In the yueju Su Wu Tending the Sheep 蘇武牧羊,47 an ape woman of the Seven-­Star Cave has acquired the Way of humans after a thousand years of Taoist cultivation on Mount Qixia in the country of the Western Barbarians (Xifan guo 西番國). She has saved the “virtuous loyal subject” Su Wu from cold and starvation and raised two sons for him. When Su Wu is returning home without bidding farewell, she catches up with him and gives him their sons. Su Wu says, “A man who does not return a favor is not a gentleman. That even an ape should know righteousness! I will report to the emperor: she should be given the title of Lady” (IV, 7). In the yueju The Ape Woman Chasing the Boat, she has given Su Wu a son and is pregnant with their second child. She is heartbroken when she hears the news: “For eighteen years, we spent every day together, eating at day, sleeping at night in the cave. In the fourth year I gave birth to a child. Now you are taking my son to China, severing the love between mother and son. How ungrateful you are!” Su Wu promises her that he will ask the emperor to send for her so they can be husband and wife forever (2). But in the yueju The Ape Chasing the Boat (Xingxing zhuizhou 猩猩追舟), Su Wu takes their first son with him and makes her promise him the second child if it turns out to be a boy. He does not promise to send for her (15–­16).48 The historical record indicates that Su Wu had a son by a Xiongnu wife (胡婦); the son was later brought back to China and given an official position.49 We do not know whether Su Wu had any daughters. Similar to Cai Yan, the ape woman has to give up her sons because they belong to the father. Other than taking care of Su Wu and producing heirs for him, the ape woman is also being consumed in other ways: her magical feminine power can restore Su Wu’s virility (see the next section); she also submits completely to the Chinese notion of patriarchy by giving up her children. The traditional association of an ape being a sensual animal makes perfect sense for the new invention. The Commentary on the Water Classic (Shuijing zhu 水經注) explains that “their voices are beautiful, like those of women and pretty girls. Listening to them talking to each other makes one sad.”50 The sorrowful ape cries is a standard trope used in classical Chinese poetry. It is also said that ape’s blood is used to dye blankets red, and their meat (especially the lips) is considered one of the top rare delicacies.51 Perhaps through the fantasy of consuming exotic delicacies, a form of pseudo-­cannibalism,



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the ferocious but uncivilized new barbarians are both feminized and commodified, and Chinese superiority is celebrated. Internal colonialism over ethnic minorities becomes a wishful anticolonial trope to fight the Western invasion.

Rejuvenation with Youthful Action and Romance Feminine pathos or the sentiment of injustice and patriotism, sung in high poetry, are the highlights of border-­crossing drama of the elite class. Other than Appeasing the Barbarians, the Ming chuanqi with multiple martial scenes, border-­crossing plays demand little rigorous stage action; even male dominant plays such as Autumn in the Han Palace or Su Wu Tending the Sheep are done in a quiet way. For the local plays of this period, however, one can see a surge of youthful energy through added characters and actions. Perhaps the younger genres are endowed with more vitality and spontaneity; perhaps it is a response to the contemporary popular taste that prefers action to poetry; perhaps the newly added youthfulness and adventure reflect the desire to transform China from a “sleeping lion” to a powerful dragon with vitality and determination. The versatility and adaptability of border-­crossing drama allows stories two millennia old to be renewed and adjusted to satisfy contemporary tastes. As the main plot line stays on course, most exciting novel inventions happen in the subplot and minor characters. The newly added sweet romance became a box-­office draw during this time. In traditional Wang Zhaojun stories, her lamentation and the emperor’s sorrow overshadow the brief happiness they have enjoyed. The weariness, sadness, and suffering of careworn Cai Yan and exhausted Su Wu can hardly evoke any romantic interest. In local dramas, however, characters and incidents are added to assure that the audiences have a chance to indulge in romantic fantasies. For example, Liu Wenlong, Wang Zhaojun’s sworn brother, is often depicted as a handsome young man who has just won the title of “First-­Place Scholar” (zhuangyuan). In order to accompany her to the Xiongnu, he has to leave his wife of only three days. For sixteen years, it is Liu Wenlong who listens to her sorrow and responds with his own loneliness, although the ostensible kinship, the relation between sworn brother and sister, prevents any kind of love affairs. The sexual tension between the two young lonely souls can serve an intense sexual undertone, which is

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heightened by the incest taboo (minge: The Whole Song of Wang Zhaojun Appeasing the Barbarians, Part II). In the courting scene of the yueju Cai Wenji, in order to express their love for each other, Cai Yan’s children and their Han lovers imitate the Han custom (arm biting and kowtowing to heaven and earth) and the Western custom (exchanging rings and raising their hands to swear). These lovers’ joyful courting and lively boat chasing are full of romantic sentiments and youthful playfulness that are completely alien to the conventionally sad and haggard Cai Yan (vii, xviii, xix). The typically stoic gray-­haired Su Wu character now has a barbarian wife that is young and charming, and capable of flirting with this iron hero (yueju: Su Ziqing Returning to Han; yueju: The Ape Chasing the Boat; yueju: The Ape Woman Chasing the Boat). In the yueju Su Ziqing Returning to Han, after spending time with his ape wife, the Hundred-­Year-­Tao-­Cultivating Illusionary Pretty Peach 百年修道幻嬌桃, Su Wu appears a transformed man. Liu Wenlong teases him, “No wonder you are still a gray-­sideburned youth, and your mustache is still black.”52 The youthful energy and passion, like the magical “Pretty Peach” who is capable of restoring Su Wu’s virility, reinvigorated the aging genre at the time when new blood and energy were desperately needed. Perhaps the youthful vitality can also rejuvenate the nation. Su Wu’s suffering is reimagined in a different context of modernity. The traditional depiction of Su Wu is as a stubborn old man who suffers extreme hardship; his will is strong but body frail. In “The Song of Su Wu Staying among the Xiongnu” (Su Wu liuhu ge 蘇武留胡歌), Su Wu seems to embody physical strength and nationalist fervor. The short song outlines Su Wu’s days among the Xiongnu, but interestingly, it is classed as unaccompanied song (tuge 徒歌) or military song (junge 軍歌) and matched with other songs—­like “The Song of Training Citizens as Soldiers” (Guomin lianbing ge 國民練兵 歌)—­advocating modern weaponry and strengthening military force for the sake of recovering from the humiliation of the 1900 occupation of Beijing. These morale-­boosting, patriotism-­generating songs perhaps were taught in schools or could be used for military recruits. Standard phrases for Su Wu like “drinking melted snow when thirsty” and “swallowing felt when hungry” now appear side-­by-­side with “May our determination is as strong as tiger and leopard. Join the army so we can avenge for our country.”53 Here we see that suffering of an old man is transformed into modern patriotism to inspire the young nation. Part of the self-­strengthening wish always involves a dream of physi-



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cal strengthening. “Sick men of East Asia” (dongya bingfu 東亞病夫) was a derogatory and self-­reflective term at the turn of the twentieth century to describe the plight of the Chinese population. The loss of the Opium Wars was an alarm to both the national defense system and national health. The “strengthening,” therefore, should include some measure of physical strengthening of the general population. At the level of the population, there is always, at least tenuously, a connection between martial arts and super power. For instance, the “invincible” Boxers promoted themselves with rhetoric combining martial arts (boxing) of a secret society and cult-­like superstition. People were made to believe that the magical bodies of the Boxers could withstand bullets, which would be the most effective way to fight Western imperialism.54 The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio captures the contemporary amazement of the physicality and physical activities of Westerners. “The Westerners are active instead of sedentary, competitive instead of yielding” (Xiren haodong buhaojing, haozheng buhaorang 西人 好動不好靜，好爭不好讓) describes the fundamental differences of the newcomers.55 There are also numerous portrayals of novel physical activities, such as a trapeze performance, a baseball game, and cycling competition.56 The long tradition of the imperial examination created a tendency of belittling both practical and physical education, but the physical strength and competitive power of the new barbarians was a wakeup call. Although Western-­style military drill and exercise were adopted as part of the military reform in the late Qing, physical education for the general public developed slowly. It was not until the beginning of the Republic did physical education become part of regular education, and Chinese athletes compete in the international arena.57 The injected youthful energy in these regional plays represented a desperate wish for a healthy new nation. The positive bodily traits—­strength, health, youthfulness, activeness, virility—­are all linked to foreign ethnicity or species. Revisiting the connection between sex and nation as discussed in introduction and the notion of hybridity in the context of botany, there seems a secret wish for an interracial or even interspecies new breed, a strengthened new genetic makeup, a better and more modern ethnicity that can save the old China from decay. Traditional border-­crossing drama, though reflecting hybridity in terms of music and custom in the borderland, has never seriously addressed issues of miscegenation because the border-­crossing action is supposed to be stopped. The barbarian women, the wives of Su Wu and Li Ling, are either abandoned or trapped in the Chinese suicide mode; the barbarian men, hus-

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bands of Wang Zhaojun or Cai Yan, are barely visible; Cai Yan’s mixed-­race children never have a chance to grow into adulthood. Here the full-­fledged offspring of miscegenation have crossed the international border to pursue their own intercultural affairs. This is the first time interracial marriage is presented as romantic and positive, as the new borderland might offer countless possibilities. While the traditional gendered nationalism was still strong in regional drama in this period, hybridity—­cultural or ethnic—­was no longer a metaphor. A hybridized body/society might be a better fit for Chinese modernity.

Unconventional Conservatism Rescues the Nation As discussed above, the turn of the twentieth century was an exciting time in Chinese history; the weakening and the final disintegration of the old China, as an indirect result of the Western imperial violence, pushed China toward modernity. The road to modernity was bumpy: from jettisoning the old and useless, experimenting with reforms through Westernization and modernization, to the total overhaul of the imperial system, the fundamental change of national status and belief system was not embraced by everyone. Some local artists might have enjoyed experimenting with Western staging innovations and incorporating certain modern thoughts in the plot, and some might have welcomed the beginning of the new era, but the imminent threat was real: their livelihood, the traditional theater itself, was about to be replaced. Part of the modernity master plan advocated by the elite was to “update” China’s education system, including modern language (vernacular) and modern theater (Western-­style theater). Western-­style theater is referred to as “spoken drama” (huaju 話劇) because of its lack of music and singing. Its language is in vernacular Chinese, not rhymed verse, and the topics often cover current affairs or social issues. The first such attempt was done by students studying in Japan in 1907. The debut of Chinese spoken drama, the performances of translated texts of La Dame aux Camellias by Dumas Fils and Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe, was inspired by shinpa (modernized kabuki), a theatrical modernization attempt in Japan. This type of theater, advocated by intellectuals and theater amateurs, soon gained footing in China, as it created the perfect platform for disseminating revolutionary thoughts or promoting modernity.58 As in other non-­Western countries that went through



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the modernization/Westernization process, this type of spoken drama has become the norm since the mid-­twentieth century and almost completely replaces the traditional forms today. One can imagine the threat that traditional theater artists experienced in the late Qing was as real as what scholars felt about the abolishment of the imperial examination in the Yuan dynasty. As seen above in the minge The Whole Song of Wang Zhaojun Appeasing the Barbarians, Part II, a comprehensive modernization plan is proposed to the Chinese emperor after the loss of Zhaojun. One would imagine after the humiliating treaties, local artists would advocate for a complete reform to save China. But surprisingly, Prime Minister Li deems such modernization steps inappropriate. He says, “We shouldn’t foolishly copy barbarians. It is like trying to draw a tiger but failing, so that it turns out to be a dog” (5). “Trying to draw a tiger but failing, so that it turns out to be a dog” is a common saying that depicts a kind of blind and pathetic mimesis without understanding one’s own capability. In other words, the whole concept of modernization, which is based on the notion of “learning from barbarians,” is condemned by many as an ideology unfit for the Chinese context. At the local level, The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio shows plenty of examples of such bad mimesis. For instance, “Self-­Killing by the Western Gun” (洋槍自斃 yangqiang zibi, fig. 11) depicts a death of a lover and collector of Western guns. The obsession for Western novel oddities literally “backfired” and killed the man.59 Conservatism was strong in this period, from numerous participants in local rebellions, the mob-­like Boxers, many high-­ranking officials, to Empress Dowager.60 Empress Dowager represented the ultimate conservative power that crushed the reform led by the young Emperor Guangxu (the short-­lived One Hundred Day Reform in 1898). Perhaps the attempts to “learn from barbarians” could strengthen China to a certain degree, but by giving up many traditional values, China risked the danger of “turning out to be a dog,” an inferior hybrid product of the failed modernization attempt. The local artists’ resistance within the borderland was an even harder fight, as such hybridization happened on a daily basis and had already crept into the practice of local drama. What kind of mechanism did these local artists have to adapt to defend themselves against all forms of Westernization, including the total elimination of traditional drama? The exam-­deprived Yuan scholars turned to drama for national beliefs and emotional outlet; the local artists fought against Western artistic invasion with more spectacular and sensational gendered nationalism in traditional opera. More women were enlisted to defend the nation by sacrificing them-

Fig. 11. The obsession for Western novel oddities “backfires.” “Self-Killing by the Western Gun” (洋槍自斃 Yangqiang zibi) from The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio (點石齋畫報 Dianshizhai huabao, 1884–­1908). Courtesy of Stanford Auxiliary Library.



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selves in most unconventional ways. Wang Zhaojun continued to kill herself without fail, only with more elaborate pre-­and postsuicide rituals. For instance, in the Fuzhou pinghua The Former Appeasing the Barbarians, Part II, after Wang’s suicide, her body is retrieved, dressed, and placed in a gold coffin with an outer silver casket. The chieftain wants her body escorted into his territory, but no matter how many Xiongnu soldiers act as pallbearers, the coffin cannot be lifted. The chieftain sighs, “she’s the queen of the south and would not enter the north.” Finally he has to let the Chinese soldiers carry the coffin back to China (8). In the yueju Zhaojun Throwing Herself over the Riverbank, her death is an excuse for spectacle: for the suicide scene, it is specified that there be “scenery of river and bridge” (IV, 7), and after her death, the stage direction notes, “Water scenery. Enter the floating body [of Wang Zhaojun], covered with flowers carried in the mouths of hundreds of birds” (V, 4). But even the more spectacular death does not seem to satisfy audiences in this era; her death does not always solve the intercultural conflicts or end the play. For instance, in the pinghua The Former Appeasing the Barbarians, Part II, the death does not bring peace; it takes some bandit heroes and other complicated plot twists to end the play. It is clear that something else was needed to satisfy the nearly insatiable new taste: any plot twists that offered a chance to have a more astonishing, spectacular, and sensational suicide helped to fortify the traditional beliefs of gendered nationalism. The ultimate conservatism was surprisingly expressed through Cai Yan and Su Wu’s barbarian wife. In earlier border-­crossing plays, Cai Yan is always a survivor, no matter how she is despised by moralists in drama; she lives on to complete her father’s unfinished task or to continue with the interrupted history writing, or she survives simply because of human instinct. The bitterness and sorrow she endures is insurmountable, although it appears less dramatic compared with Wang Zhaojun’s pathetic yet beautiful suicide. In the yueju Cai Wenji, she finally gets her wish to die. On her homeward journey, she visits the tomb of Wang Zhaojun and commemorates her as in the zaju Mourning the Pipa; she even attempts to kill herself “to show the same determination as Zhaojun’s, to amend the previous mistake and to assuage the underworld” (xiii, 28). She is stopped by her companion; a more dramatic suicide is yet to come. The most interesting plot twist is the scene between Cai Yan and Dong Zi, her original betrothed. When Dong Zi proposes that they fulfill their original marriage agreement after her return, she refuses: “I was lost in the

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barbarian land for more than ten years. My desire to survive was a great mistake. Now I have returned but am ashamed to face you. Please marry someone else.” Dong Zi explains that he has remained faithful to her because he honors their original marriage contract; he also declares his faith in his idea of “single-­wife-­ism” and demonstrates his determination by feigning suicide. There seems to be a gender role reversal here: Dong Zi is the one who emphasizes fidelity to one spouse and is willing to kill himself to show his determination. Cai Yan stops him and promises to give him an answer the next day (xxi, 38–­40). Alone, she says: If I agree [to marry him], that means one woman for two husbands, and I will be the world’s laughingstock. If I don’t agree, he will die for me. What should I do now? (Sighs) Moreover, I’ll never see my barbarian husband and children again. It is useless to live in the world. I’d rather write a letter and throw myself into the river, so I will be able to stay chaste and face the spirit of Zhaojun. She leaves the letter at home and goes to the river. Leaving her clothes by the river bank, she sings: “With all my heart, I’m throwing myself into the river. Sacrificing my life, bidding farewell to the world.” (She throws herself into the river and dies) (xxi, 41). The next scene opens with river scenery and a boat retrieving her corpse from the river, along with all the family members mourning for her (xxii, 41–­42). Cai Yan’s suicide is indeed curious because it lacks dramatic urgency, as this dramatic world appears to be much more friendly and tolerant. Intercultural marriage and interracial children are accepted; no one regards her survival as shameful and no one criticizes her harshly; she is loved by her Xiongnu husband and her betrothed, and her father is still alive.61 Note that Cai Yan kills herself after she has already returned home, not in the liminal no-­man’s land, during the border-­crossing action; the river is not marked as the border and thus presents no urgency. In other words, home has already been transformed into a hybridized borderland with disintegrated national and cultural borders. Nevertheless, the portable gender border, which only Cai Yan carries and highly regards, eventually kills her. Can Yan has survived shamefully for centuries, and she dies for the first time on the eve of Chinese modernity, voluntarily. When the whole of China was crazy about Westernization, modernization, and interculturalization, local artists demonstrated that women would never cross the gender border despite the brave new



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world that did not care about the old moralities anymore. It is only through these female suicides that the true Chinese values are preserved. Another surprise comes from Li Ling and his barbarian wife. Like Cai Yan, Li Ling is a survivor. The unjust treatment from the Chinese court after his forced surrender and the nostalgia and loneliness he suffers in the foreign land all become the essential elements attributed to his dramatic persona. But without the border-­crossing action or suicide, Li Ling’s story appears static or incomplete compared with other border-­crossing characters. The new twist of his story makes him a more favorable character on the transitional stage. In the yueju Zhaojun Throwing Herself over the Riverbank, Li Ling is captured but refuses to surrender. Goldflower Princess (Jinhua gongzhu, minor huadan), the chieftain’s sister, tries to persuade him, but he humiliates her: “Don’t you try to seduce me! I am a man. I will never behave like a beast, following your brother’s command to marry you!” The princess expresses her will: I am a chaste woman. Why does my brother want to give me away like a prostitute? I am truly ashamed. . . . I’d rather die to avoid blame and bad repute. In order to preserve my chastity, I cannot survive (She kills herself with a sword). (III, 4–­5) Li Ling is moved: “The princess is so chaste that I genuinely admire her. I will celebrate her chastity in poetry.” He writes a poem to praise her beauty, ice-­like chastity, and good reputation, and he writes another one to describe his own feeling: “I am a seven-­foot man but with whom can I express my hot-­blooded patriotism? Swallowing miseries and tears, I am a righteous subject, from beginning to end.” He kowtows to heaven and earth, bids farewell to the Chinese emperor and China, and kills himself by striking his head against a pillar (III, 6–­7). The double suicide, presented in such a short scene, has a sensational effect. In traditional border-­crossing stories, it is always the Chinese woman’s death that brings enlightenment to the barbarian chieftain; now the barbarian woman is advanced enough to die for chastity, and her determination even inspires the great Chinese general to emulate her! Another interesting yueju play, The Ape Woman Washing the Li Ling Tablet with Blood (Xingxingnü xiexi Li Ling bei 猩猩女血洗 李陵碑), features Li Ling, Su Wu, Wang Zhaojun, and Su Wu’s ape wife. Su Wu entrusts Li Ling to the care of the ape woman after he returns to

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China. Noticing that Li Ling seems to waver in his loyalty to China, the ape woman erects a tablet for him and washes it with blood to encourage him. Later, knowing that Wang Zhaojun has committed suicide, Li Ling also kills himself.62 In the yueju Cai Wenji, when Dong Zi threatens to commit suicide because of his belief in single-­wife-­ism, Cai Yan has no choice but to match up with his moral high ground by demonstrating her own belief in “single-­ husband-­ism.” Throughout history, the survival of Cai Yan and Li Ling, two truly worthy good human beings forced into unfortunate situations, is perhaps one of the most regrettable situations in drama because survivals alone don’t make good theater. These sophisticated characters with complicated sentiments, cannot satisfy traditional dramatists due to their ambivalent situations: neither a marriage-­like happy ending nor an elegy-­induced suicide is appropriate for their stories. Finally, in the regional drama tradition, these ambiguous characters become morally lucid by choosing death; the intercultural muddy situation in the borderland becomes clear once the traditional values are reasserted by shedding blood. During the transitional time, while modernity and Westernization threatened not only the nationhood but also the livelihood of regional drama, the extreme sensationalism and increased suicides can be seen as an ingenious way to rescue traditional theater: the wailing and mourning before and after the suicide (usually done in singing) as well as retrieving the corpse or burial rituals (usually done in dancing) require theatricality that only traditional theater can offer. Spoken drama might be a good tool for social reform, but only traditional operatic and dancing aesthetics can effectively and affectively narrate the nation. In this chapter, I analyze border crossing in a transitional moment in Chinese history that was both destructive and heartbreaking, messy and bloody, and yet, out of the involuntary interculturalism and hybridization, new intriguing innovations were made to renew this old genre. The liberties the local dramatists took in their wild variations signaled a desperate cry for help to rescue the nation, patriarchy, and traditional theater on the eve of modernity.

Chapter Four

The State of the Art Border-­Crossing Drama in Chinese Modernities and Transnationalities Historical drama needs to be faithful to historical truth, faithful to historical materialism, but it also needs to have “drama.” People will fall asleep if there is no theatricality. 寫歷史劇， 要忠於歷史事實， 忠於歷史唯物主義， 同時還要有 【劇】。 如果沒有戲劇性， 別人就會打瞌睡。 —­C ao Yu, “On the Creation of ‘Wang Zhaojun’” Li Ling: I have a country that I cannot devote myself to; I don’t have a home that I can return to! 有國難投, 無家可歸! —­H ero of Half a Lifetime, Li Ling

Giovanni Arrighi’s influential book The Long Twentieth Century examines the correlation between capital accumulation and state formation as well as a number of significant shifts that have helped shape “our times.”1 “The long twentieth century” perfectly depicts the struggles that various Chinese nations went through as they strove toward modernity in the previous century. Modern China, modern Chinese, modern Chinese theater, and modern Chinese opera could all be said to be byproducts of state-­manufactured modernity. A woman’s body, like Wang Zhaojun’s or Cai Yan’s, which had been politicized by literati for the sake of patriotism and patriarchy throughout history, was even more controlled under the state-­sanctioned “revolutionary machine.”2 I have already explained in the introduction chapter the controversy and fluidity of any identities associated with “China” in our times. Here is a quick review for the long “Chinese” twentieth century to remind us of the

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intricacies presented by different sides of the story of modernity. The beginning of the twentieth century was also the end of the millennia-­old imperial China: waves of Western imperialism pounded Chinese shores and stimulated the desire to save the country through modernization and Westernization, namely through “learning from the strengths of the barbarians in order to control barbarians,” as discussed in chapter 3. After many failed reforms and revolutionary attempts, the Republic of China (ROC) was founded by Dr. Sun Yat-­sen and the Nationalist Party (Kuomintang, KMT, Guomindang 國民黨) in 1912. The early decades of the Republic, however, were filled with warlord rivalries and political factions. The young democracy never had a chance to establish its firm footing. The unsettling situation was worsened by the Japanese invasion (1937–­1945), which traumatized the population and depleted resources. The war also provided a space for the growth of KMT’s major rivalry, the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), which had been formed in 1921. After losing the Civil War to the Communist Party, the Nationalist Party government, led by Chiang Kai-­shek, retreated to Taiwan and the People’s Republic of China (PRC) was established by Mao Zedong in 1949 in the mainland. The two “Chinas”—­the “democratic” ROC in Taiwan3 and the communist PRC in the mainland—­coexisted but were backed by the two world superpowers representing opposite sides of the Cold War. As the PRC gradually established its international position, the United States shifted its official recognition of “China” to the PRC, and Taiwan/ROC had to give up its UN membership in 1971. By the end of the long century, the ROC had established itself as an independent entity with strong democracy and economy, but had lost most of its official diplomatic relations in the world; it existed in a liminal state between independence (as a new nation completely separated from any forms of China) and reunification (as part of the PRC). The situation persists till today. Locally, the Mainland-­Taiwan situation changes constantly. The “relationship” is generally referred to in Chinese, as haixia liang’an 海峽兩岸 (Two Shores of the Strait) or simplified liang’an 兩岸 (Two Shores), as part of the liang’an sandi 兩岸三地 (Two Shores and Three Places). In English, however, “cross-­strait” is often used as a translation for “two shores,” which suggests an action of border crossing. After decades of non-­communication, nonofficial interaction started in the 1980s. In 1992, an agreement, “The 1992 Consensus” (Jiu’er gongshi 九二共識), was reached between the two sides on the basic principle of “One China, Perspective Interpretations” (yige zhongguo, gezi biaoshu 一個中國，各自表述). “One China” is the absolute

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boundary one cannot cross, whereas the definition of China is open to individual interpretations; the “one China” is the border of ideological demarcation, whereas “perspective interpretations” create a fecund borderland of hybridity where (almost) everything is negotiable as long as the border is absolutely respected. The deliberate ambiguity was to allow for maximum cultural and economic exchange, provided Taiwan did not claim itself as China (Republic of China) or declare independence (Republic of Taiwan).4 Meanwhile, Hong Kong and Macau also rid their status as colonies and became the “Special Administrative Regions” (SARs) of the PRC in 1997 and 1999 respectively, with the Chinese government’s promise of maintaining the status quo for fifty years. In other words, the political turmoil of the long twentieth century has led to the current state of “peaceful” present but unknown future, with the prerequisite that the definition of China/ Chinese is suspended in liminality.5 The current Chinese problem has created an either/or and neither/nor borderland where all the residents’ lives are economically interconnected but politically separated. The formidable ideological border between division and unification is like Janus, who sits between Taiwan independence/SAR autonomy and the PRC’s assertion of total sovereignty, with eyes open on both sides and mind shifting on past, future, and transition. Janus might appear to be resting, but he is vigilant because of the constant vacillation of both local and global politics. It is fair to say that in the early decades of the millennium, there is no consensus about the definition of such terms as China, Chinese, or Chineseness, be it a noun or adjective, indicating nationality, ethnicity, culture, or ideology. Newly coined terms such as sinophone or pan/transnational Chinese do not offer lucidity either. The “Chinese” problem itself is a borderland of confusion and contestation. The focus of this chapter will be on border-­crossing drama in the twentieth century and the beginning of the new millennium, and the genre’s close relationship with the state, either as a service to the state or as a disclaimer against the state. Unlike the previous chapters, in which theatrical activities are mostly confined in the mainland by the Han Chinese, this chapter covers what I call “Chinese nations” today: Mainland China, Taiwan, and Hong Kong. Colonialisms, the Civil War, political factions, and ethnic conflicts—­ all the hardship (self-­)inflicted upon the general Chinese population of the long twentieth century—­make it absurd for today’s Chinese nations to romanticize a “China” like the one in premodern border-­crossing stories. The “state,” therefore, operates on a different model of distinctive geogra-

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phy and temporality. Chronologically, this chapter continues after chapter 3; artistically, it covers performances in the forms of traditional opera, modified and innovated opera, and opera-­inspired modern theater; ideologically, the role of the state is crucial, as many plays are either co-­opted by the state or acting as a performative critique of the state; transnationally, these plays constantly re-­evaluate and reconstruct the borders between today’s Chinese nations, and they readdress transnational “Chinese problems.”6

The State-­Sanctioned Wang Zhaojun in the Twentieth Century In the modern era, drama on Wang Zhaojun generally falls into two categories. The first type is the traditional theater based on either the traditional repertoire from the Yuan zaju Autumn in the Han Palace to the Ming chuanqi Appeasing the Barbarians, or on the nineteenth-­century novel The Wonderful Karma of Double Phoenixes. The story can be simple, with dramatization leading to the climax scene of “leaving the pass behind” (impending suicide), or complex, with multiple characters and twisted plots but usually without sparing her life. The second type is done in the form of modern/Western theater with period costumes and naturalistic style; it usually is on a grand scale with multiple characters, subplots, and perhaps singing and dancing, and the goal is to promote state-­sanctioned multiculturalism. In other words, the first type sees border crossing as taboo while the second type sees the border as open access. While the sacrifice of a beautiful woman had established the border-­crossing dramatic tradition of gendered nationalism in previous centuries, traditional operas in the twentieth century with similar themes appeared to be less political, in comparison with the ideology-­ driven modern drama. The deconstruction of the suicide tradition with the replacement of happy marriage-­alliances oddly supported even stronger political purposes in the new era.

Traditional Zhaojun in Jingju in the Modern Era As part of the regular jingju repertoire, there were numerous versions of the Wang Zhaojun story: one example is The Bright Consort of the Han (Han Mingfei [another name of Zhaojun] 漢明妃, or sometimes titled Zhaojun

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Leaving the Pass Behind), adapted by Li Shoumin and performed in Beijing (1935). This was a special version for the famous actor Shang Xiaoyun (尚小雲) (1900–­1972), one of the Four Great Divas (Sida mingdan 四大 名旦), along with Mei Lanfang 梅蘭芳 (1894–­1961), Cheng Yanqiu 程硯 秋 (1904–­1958), and Xun Huisheng 荀慧生 (1900–­1968).7 All of them were male actors specializing in impersonating women. Shang Xiaoyun’s The Bright Consort is based on the scene of “Leaving the Pass Behind” of the fragmented The Story of the Green Mound (Qingzhong ji 青塚記) of the Ming dynasty.8 The entire play is about the journey to the Xiongnu land, the action within the liminal space; Wang Zhaojun (dan) has left the court but not yet reached the border. She is accompanied by Wang Long (chou) and Horseman (wusheng) and some soldiers. She gets on the carriage and sings about her pathetic fate: “My heart is at the south but body at north. Zhaojun is going to appease the barbarians. Meeting the Emperor again will be harder than ever.” Later in the scene Wang Long reports that they have reached the desert land and cannot use the carriage any further. Horseman enters with a horse (symbolized by a whip), which needs to be tamed first in order for her to ride. A horse-­taming series always presents an opportunity for actors to display their virtuosity (224–­25). Shang Xiaoyun was often praised for his versatility because of his training for both martial male and civil female characters. Unlike earlier Wang Zhaojun plays, this version was written as a “civil play in martial style.” In other words, Shang Xiaoyun incorporated a great amount of dance and martial movements along with his traditional feminine singing. For instance, in the horse-­riding scene (matangzi) alone, Shang ingeniously integrated rigorous movements such as circling stage (yuanchang), lying fish (woyu), hawk flipping (yaozi fanshen), and slipping steps (huabu), all in the traditional feminine costume. Along with the horsewhip in hand and pheasant feather and cape as costume,9 he successfully embodied the rugged terrain and desolate landscape, harsh weather, and dusty wind.10 In 1962, a film of Shang Xiaoyun’s performance, Zaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai) was made.11 Thanks to the 1962 film, we can see how this play is designed to be a quasi-­martial play (a movement piece). Contrary to the conventional Zhaojun, who depicts her misery in her pathetic wailing or pipa singing, this corporeal Zhaojun portrays her suffering in a much more physical way. With dance movements, she embodies the bumpy and arduous horse riding caused by the horse’s resistance:

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Wang Zhaojun: Why doesn’t the horse move? Horseman: Southern horses don’t want to cross the pass into the northern land. Wang Zhaojun: More whipping then. . . . (sings) Men miss homeland. How can horses not miss the country? . . . . Even a horse hesitates to move when he’s at the pass. The sound of drums and gongs remind them that they are near the Xiong­nu land. Wang sings her impressions of the barbarians, comparing them to tigers and goats as in earlier plays: “hair as dry pine needles, face as black ink, nose as eagle’s beak, beard curly.” The welcoming soldiers are dismissed because of their offensive animal odor. With the border in sight, she ends the play with her song: Today I sacrifice my body And the emperor will be ashamed for ten thousand years. . . . I’d rather be a guest of the Hades of the South Than a queen of the barbarian country.12 The New Bright Consort of the Han (Xin Han Mingfei 新漢明妃) is a revision of the aforementioned famous play The Bright Consort of the Han. The new version was adapted by Li Fusheng and published in 1970 in Taiwan.13 It has eight scenes, and the first six scenes dramatize the events leading to the “leaving the pass behind” climax. The play begins with Mao Yanshou’s visit to Wang Zaojun’s home and his failure to secure bribery from her; she paints a portrait herself and this action further agitates him, and he in turn submits to the emperor an ugly portrait he paints as revenge. The emperor summons Wang Zhaojun for the peace-­alliance mission, not knowing her true beauty. Despite her plea, the emperor says “an emperor cannot give false promises and a country needs to keep its credibility. Please prioritize the national affairs and follow my order. Tens of thousands of people and I will appreciate your sacrifice forever.” Wang is persuaded: Even though I am only a woman, my patriotic heart is the same as others. Your Highness should not lose credibility to the barbarian country so I will obey your order. After I am gone, my body will be in the North but my heart in the South. I was born a Han person, and will die as a Han ghost.

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The emperor is moved by her patriotism, grants her the title “The Bright Consort” and orders Mao beheaded (vi, 26–­28). Scene 7 follows the famous scene of The Bright Consort of the Han above to dramatize the difficult journey, with her typical wailing and lamenting, singing famous arias from the Zhaojun canon, such as “Wang Zhaojun, ocean’s drying, rocks crumbing, holding a pipa with gold and jade trimming.”14 A long sequence of horse taming and horse riding symbolize the difficult border-­crossing journey. Finally, scene 8 features the meeting between Wang Zhaojun and Huhanye (fujing). Huhanye is amazed by her beauty: “She is indeed the number one beauty in the world!” His attitude is courteous and they greet each other in a ceremonial way. The play ends with Hu­hanye’s welcoming her into their camp (36–­37). Even though this play still ends with the moment before the peace-­ alliance marriage, there is less resistance to the interracial marriage. Huhanye appears civil and cordial. The editor Guo Xiaonong explains the reason for writing this new edition: “The old Bright Consort of the Han distorted history and humiliated our nation, hence it was banned from performance by [Taiwan’s] the Ministry of Education in 1963.”15 As we can see in this revised play, the first few imaginary scenes about Mao Yanshou’s visit and conversations at the Wang residence can be counted equally as “distorting history.” Guo Xiaonong’s comments are obviously politically motivated. The reason why The Bright Consort of the Han was banned was probably not because of the centuries-­old lies retold in the 1930s Republic era but because the 1962 film reminded the Taiwan government that the jingju superstar Shang Xiaoyun was now on the other side of the Taiwan Strait, working on the construction of the new China. Shang Xiaoyun’s virtuoso performance, which was highly praised in the 1930s, was now condemned, as he was the national treasure of the adversary. Rewriting a well-­known play was to reclaim the legitimacy of being Chinese on the island. As a matter of fact, this new jingju is only one of the multiple “invented traditions” that the ROC government installed after their retreat from the mainland in 1949.16 It was indeed a challenging task for the defeated KMT administration to establish legitimacy in the chaos of postwar and postcolonial Taiwan. The early southern Chinese immigrants who went through the fifty-­year Japanese colonization (1895–­1945), the aboriginal Taiwanese who endured oppression from multiple colonizers, and the new immigrants (and refugees) from all over China who fled the communists all lived in a state of confusion between Chinese/mainlander (later immigrants of Han and multiple minorities), Taiwanese (earlier Han immigrants), Japanese,

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aboriginal/native, or hybridized identities, and all of them had to coexist on this small island, negotiating their daily lives with different cultures and languages. One can easily understand why the official Chinese rhetoric encountered difficulties during this time. Mao Zedong’s use of arts and literature as revolutionary weapons was seen as a practical method to stabilize the mind. From as early as 1950, the “Chinese Literature and Arts Awards Committee” (Zhonghua wenyi jiangjin weiyuanhui) was set up to encourage the creation of anticommunist and patriotic drama and literature.17 Perhaps one can see this award as the new exam system hastily set up during the transitional time; it was never too late to enlist drama and intellectuals for the task of nation building. In the 1960s, the rhetoric shifted both domestically and diplomatically. With almost no hope of restoring the homeland with military or political effort, and with the increasing pressure to withdraw from the UN, the government focused on increasing its Chinese cultural capital. As the “China” they had carried with them in the hasty retreat was fragmented and gradually fading away, it took some wild imagination to recreate a full picture of “Chinese culture” on the island. “Chinese dance” (minzu wudao 民族舞蹈), for instance, was invented and promoted as early as in the 1950s.18 Jingju, a favorite entertainment for the soldiers, naturally moved to Taiwan along with the troops. This piece of broken relic from home now took up a grand mission as the national opera (guoju 國劇) to represent the true China metonymically. Jingju troupes, training schools, and performances were all sponsored by the government during this time.19 Nevertheless, it probably still took great effort to cultivate the jingju taste among the multicultural populace, for most of whom Japanese music or Taiwanese folk opera were the most familiar tunes. In the script of The New Bright Consort of the Han, we see a detailed list of the dramatic personae, with the role type, makeup style, and individual costume pieces for each character, which is an indication of the unfamiliarity of jingju to the general public during this transitional time. Conventionally, there is little description of such production-­related details unless a practice is out of ordinary; the transmission of performance knowledge is organic, perhaps largely done in the form of oral tradition. Furthermore, there is a note explaining that in scenes 6 and 7 the pipa is needed as Zhaojun’s prop and “absolutely cannot be substituted with a yueqin.” The yueqin 月琴, a major stringed instrument used in Taiwanese opera and local tunes, was probably a more familiar instrument than the pipa to many people. The need to declare the absolute need to have the pipa is to defend

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the orthodox Chinese tradition from local multiculturalism; it also indicates that there might already have been a theatrical trend of localizing the Wang Zhaojun stories. After all, the Zhaojun Temple suggests that her story had taken roots prior to the arrival of the KMT government (chapter 3). As the PRC was immersed in the Cultural Revolution (1966–­1976), the ROC launched the Cultural Restoration Movement (wenhua fu­xing yundong). The Cultural Restoration Movement also presented Chiang Kai-­shek as the official successor of the founding father Sun Yat-­sen, who inherited the long lineage from ancient kings (such as Yao and Shun) and sages (such as Confucius). While the PRC was focusing on internal political struggles and deconstructing the old China, the ROC was trying to claim international recognition of their version of the orthodox Chineseness with invented Chinese arts and symbols.20 Both condemning The Bright Consort of the Han and writing The New Bright Consort of the Han are actions of self-­ legitimization as the orthodox China. Chinese history (History) continued in Taiwan.

The Cantonese Opera’s Red Journey Hongxiannü (Hong Sin Neui 紅線女, Red-­Thread Girl, 1924–­2013), one of the most popular yueju (Cantonese opera) actresses in the twentieth century, was famous for her Zhaojun character.21 Her unique voice—­referred to as the “Red voice” (Hongqiang) or the “Feminine voice” (nüqiang)—­was characterized as “sweet, crisp, smooth, rich, coquettish, and charming.”22 The extremely feminine singing often reached insanely high notes and yet appeared effortless. She was a yueju legend and well loved by her fans. Her “Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind” scene (1954) has become one of the most favorite pieces of modern Cantonese opera. Adapted by Ma Shizeng 馬師 曾 (Ma Si Tsang), this version starts with the Han general Han Chang, who escorts her and her entourage to the border. After expressing her sorrow and bidding farewell in a legendary song, she is welcomed by the Xiongnu chieftain. Similar to the version of Shang Xiaoyun’s The Ming Consort of the Han (1935), in which Shang Xiaoyun’s virtuosity is displayed in his dance movements, Hong’s production is loaded with even more lively and faster dance movements, through both solo dances and group choreography. The border-­ crossing scene is filled with youthful energy. The beautiful and ecstatic dance breaks the monotony of Wang Zhaojun’s long wailing and also accentuates

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the force of nature of the desolate borderland and intensifies her loneliness and sorrow.23 Wang Zhaojun sings, “All alone, holding the pipa. Singing my sorrow, bidding farewell to my home.” Cai Yan and Su Wu are both referenced here: “The sound of reed pipes drowns out the melody of the pipa” and “Today I’m traveling to the world’s end. Who will collect my white bones tomorrow? Unlike Su Wu, I’m afraid I won’t be able to return home.” She addresses the court (remotely), “from now on there should be no more selection of young women . . . please consider citizens’ welfare.” The 1959 film shows that the last note stretches a few more beats and the section ends as in a grand finale. A gong strikes to indicate a string breaking. She says, “The string is broken, my connection with home is broken too” 弦斷了， 故國的緣也 斷了. When Huhanye urges her to start the journey, she says farewell to Han Chang, “Wang Zhaojun is apprehensive, the future unknown.” 王昭 君心惶意亂， 前路茫茫. The Xiongnu chieftain Huhanye escorts her into his territory. The stage direction reads, “Music. Big dusty wind blows. Zhaojun falls off the horse. Huhanye takes off his cape to protect Zhaojun from the wind. Dance. Sandstorm gradually subsides.”24 The film also shows a sandstorm presented in a fantastic dance sequence: as the wind is howling (fast percussion), Wang Zhaojun, Huhanye, and the entourage are circulating the stage with fast whirling and turning. She drops her cape and whip to symbolize her falling off the horseback, and Huhanye takes off his cape to cover her. It is indeed intensely dramatic. When the wind finally stands still, she continues with her standard singing about resenting Mao Yanshou and missing her family. When she sings, “I’m afraid I will never see them again! How can Wang Qiang’s heart not be broken?” 怕只怕這一生不得見, 王嬙能不斷柔腸?! her voice reaches exceptionally high notes when she extends the sound “Qiang” as if she uses all her might to pronounce her Chinese name one last time before she takes on a new identity; she faints out of desperation right after the line. The theatrical pathos has reached its climax. She continues with her journey after she is revived and the scene ends in a celebratory tone.25 By the mid-­twentieth century, yueju already developed“self-­consciousness as a performance tradition,” and it grew into a distinctive local genre. The lack of autonomy under the British control did not prevent Hong Kong from developing a free market for the arts and entertainment industry. Yueju thrived, even after the threat of jingju as “national opera,” the rise of spo-

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ken drama in the early twentieth century, and the direct British colonization and Japanese occupation (since the Opium Wars and during World War II, respectively).26 In the early 1950s, many yueju artists, Hongxiannü included, were inspired to “go up north” to join in the mission of building a new China. Unfortunately, unstable political situations directly affected the lives and arts of the artists, especially after the launch of the Cultural Revolution, when traditional arts were almost all strictly banned. Some artists managed to flee back to Hong Kong, some were sent to labor camps, and some even committed suicide. In Hongxiannü’s case, after a brief period of favoritism by the party, she too was afflicted by political turmoil and sent to a labor camp. From 1966 to 1979 (age forty-­one to fifty-­four), Hongxiannü was not allowed to use her stage name and to perform yueju; even singing practice was forbidden.27 Many Hong Kong critics shamed her for her affiliation with the Communist Party and for her participation in the “model drama” performances, because her political move was also seen as an artistic betrayal by the Hong Kong Cantonese opera circle.28 On the other hand, her glorious artistic past and commercial success in Hong Kong gave her the bad name “Black-­Thread Girl instead of “Red-­Thread Girl.”29 The trauma that traditional arts/artists experienced during the Cultural Revolution had a long impact on the development of the arts. Chinese nations outside of the mainland, such as Hong Kong or Taiwan, became the refuge for traditional arts and artists to recuperate and preserve their art. But, as indicated earlier in this chapter, Taiwan jingju, for instance, was built on fragmented memories carried by the KMT government and troops fleeing home. Therefore, wild imagination was needed to reconstruct/reinvent a full jingju repertoire. Hong Kong was a different story. Despite the brain drain from these artists who “went up north” in the mid-­twentieth century, Hong Kong continued to be the home for the most vibrant and organic yueju culture. Wang Zhaojun stories were celebrated on stage and screen and recorded in vinyls and other media, most of which told the traditional stories.30 After returning to Hong Kong in 1980, Hongxiannü performed a new version of Wang Zhaojun, Princess Zhaojun (Zhaojun gongzhu 昭君公主), a yueju adapted by Hongxiannü and Qin Zhongying, based on Cao Yu’s Wang Zhaojun (detailed discussion later).31 This new version follows Cao Yu’s “politically correct” plot, with multiple minor characters and subplots and a generally positive tone of ethnic harmony without the traditional

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tragic ending. As a masterpiece to reestablish her stage name and signature role, Princess Zhaojun attempted to restore the theatrical essence of yueju in a number of scenes. For instance, the crucial border-­crossing scene in traditional repertoire, “leaving the pass behind” with her dramatic wailing and singing, is completely cut in Cao Yu’s spoken drama version, since Wang Zhaojun is no longer portrayed as a pathetic victim. On the other hand, the high theatricality for Hongxiannü’s signature Zhaojun performance is in her embodiment of the rough border landscape and harsh weather: she has to give up the carriage and learns to ride the horse in the rugged terrain, and both the resistance of the horse and the sandstorm interfere with the border-­crossing action. In Princess Zhaojun, the arduous physicality remains but the sentiment is adjusted according to the political climate: Wang Zhaojun, Huhanye, and their entourage still go through an elaborate dance sequence to portray the challenges of horse riding in the sandstorm. Instead of lamenting her own pathetic fate as in traditional repertoire, however, her weeping here is for the lost lives and torn families due to war violence in the past. This sentiment is endorsed by Huhanye: “Rivers and mountains do not separate the Xiongnu and Chinese, but for generations we were enemies. How much misery is there in the world? It’s all because we mistook brothers for rivals.” Together, Wang Zhaojun and the chieftain perform a libation to appease the lonely souls in the borderland and wish for peace (“Leaving the Pass Behind”).32 The traditional Wang Zhaojun often has a chance to shed a little blood during her one-­woman show at the borderland, such as writing a letter with blood to be carried by a wild goose to the emperor. The symbolic bleeding is presented as the highest pathos of border-­crossing drama. Since modern nationalism does not allow for seeing interracial marriage as a form of sacrifice, the threat or violation of her body has lost its significance. Alternative ways will have to be invented to reinsert a woman’s body into the new nationalist discourse and to restore its theatricality. The little prince of the Xiongnu (the only son of Huhanye) is poisoned, and the remedy requires fresh human blood. It is suggested that a little Xiong­nu boy be killed so his blood can be used to mix with the herbal medicine. Wang Zhaojun objects: “A prince’s life, a commoner’s life, both are given by father and mother.” She understands, however, the compelling reason for having fresh human blood to save the life of the chieftain’s heir, and, as a new queen and stepmother of the prince, she needs to act quickly. She dismisses everyone by lying to them that she will pray to the gods for a

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miracle. When she is alone (with only the unconscious prince) on stage, she takes out a dagger and as the fast percussion music indicates the urgency she sings with determination: “My heart might not deserve to be sacrificed to gods, but my body can save the royal son. I will cut my body to get the crimson red, to exchange for the health of the prince” (“Sacrificing the Body”).33 When the dramatic emotion reaches its pinnacle, she cuts herself, mixes her blood with the medicine, and feeds the medicine to the prince. He miraculously wakes up and everyone rushes in to witness the wonderful recovery.34 For audiences familiar with Hongxiannü’s signature performance of Wang Zhaojun, the restoration of such high theatricality is essential: it is a form of redemption for Hongxiannü, reversing her “betrayal” both to Hong Kong and to the yueju tradition, and it proves that such alluring operatic quality is irresistible and will never die out, even with political persecution. Without violating any official rhetoric on ethnic harmony of the state, the restoration of the operatic body and traditional theatricality can be seen as a form of resistance; it is also a form of mourning for her own lost years and the broken artistic tradition. Wang Zhaojun’s body has been politicized and its pathos distilled through poetry, music, and exquisite body movements throughout premodern history; propagandistic modern versions have saved her life but robbed her of her theatricality. Hongxiannü gives the theatrical body back to Wang Zhaojun; she proves that a woman does not have to die in order to be theatrical.

New Operatic Cai Wenji In 1926, a jingju version of Wenji Returning to Han (Wenji guihan 文姬歸 漢) was written by Jin Zhongsun for the famous actor Cheng Yanqiu, one of the Four Great Divas. This play starts with Cai Yan’s fleeing with her maid during the wars at the end of the Han Dynasty. They are captured by the Xiongnu soldiers, but Lord Zuoxian intervenes and proposes marriage. She responds, “My country is ruined and family broken. I have no desire to live. If you want to kill me, that will be a great favor” (scene 3–­4). Despite her initial reluctance, she marries the lord and has two sons with him, but she is homesick. When Cao Cao sends Zhou Jin to bring her back home, she is happy to go home, but it is difficult to leave her children. She entrusts the children to her maid and sings, “Going home and parting are both difficult. I’d rather abandon my Xiongnu children and return home” (scene 10). Scene

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12 begins the scene of entering the pass. On horseback, she travels slowly, describing the bleak desert landscape and recounting her life in songs: I’m fortunate to return home alive, though my journey is hard. I regret giving birth to my children that I have to abandon. Each step away is one step farther. My feet are too heavy to move. This parting is like life and death 雖然是行路難卻幸生歸， 悔當日生胡兒不能捐棄。 到如今行一步一步遠， 足重難移。 從此後隔死生， 永無消息 (scene 12)35 Scene 14 opens with a comic character Li Cheng, who has been captured during the late Han turmoil but is spared of his life. He is ordered to be the watchman for the tomb of Wang Zhaojun. Knowing that Cai Yan is returning home, he hopes that he can go along. Cai Yan visits the tomb of Zhaojun and sings the sad signature arias: Your pathetic life was resulted from the ill painting, Mine was also caused by my handsomeness. You lost to me—­I am going home while still alive; I lost to you—­you kept your flesh and blood with you. I ask heaven, why do we both have the same fate?! 你本是誤丹青畢生飲恨， 我也曾被蛾眉累苦此身。 你輸我及生前得歸鄉井， 我輸你保骨肉倖免飄零。 問蒼天何使我兩人共命？ Another minor character, Zhang Si, also enters begging Cai Yan to take him home with her. Both Li and Zhang say, “I am also Chinese. I heard that

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you’re going home. Please take me with you!” Cai Yan says, “You are both Chinese. Do you know the person in the tomb is also Chinese? Please stay here and take care of her for a few more years” (scene 15). The play ends with her meeting with Cao Cao (scene 16). Cheng Yanqiu was famous for his portrayal of Cai Yan’s sorrowful parting with her children and her sympathy with Wang Zhaojun.36 Cheng’s version is regarded as the modern classic in the long evolution of Cai Yan in the operatic tradition. There is a 1960 jingju version that was modeled on Guo Moruo’s spoken drama Cai Wenji (see the section below). The writers/adapters Yang Yuming and Zhang Yinde even sent the draft to Guo Moruo for comments. With more dialogue and less singing than traditional operas, the play generally follows the plot of Guo Moruo’s play with a happy ending. Two scenes are added to include Cao Cao’s reasoning and arrangements for bringing Cai Yan home. Having Cao Cao as a major character to open the play follows the tradition of the Qing zaju The Daughter of Zhonglang by Nanshan Yishi.37 As seen in the discussion below about Guo Moruo’s spoken drama version, adding these two scenes makes this jingju version comply with the state policy of that time even more. In 1979, when working at the Beijing Jingju Academy, famous actress Li Shiji asked Fan Junhong to modify the Cheng Yanqiu version from the 1920s to promote the “grand unification of all ethnicities.” In this new version, after Cai Yan pays tribute at the tomb of Zhaojun on her journey home, Lord Zuoxian actually delivers their children to her. In other words, Cai Wenji returns home with her children happily; the conventional heartbreaking “entering the pass,” therefore, is a happy homecoming. Wang Yinqiu, a disciple of Cheng Yanqiu, criticized the revision: the old version requires actors to embody the harsh border crossing on horseback, but the new version has Cai Yan riding in the carriage with a procession. The specific jingju movement is replaced with spectacle. Later Cheng Yongyuan, the son of Cheng Yanqiu, also criticized the new version. Reciting the famous lines of the heroine—­“ I regret giving birth to my children that I have to abandon. Each step away is one step farther. My feet are too heavy to move”—­he concluded, “No sadness, no Cai Wenji!”38 The arduous embodiment of border crossing itself is the physicalization of the most heart-­wrenching human emotion, the separation of mother and children. The “grand unification of all ethnicities” political mission seems to have killed all the theatricality of the border-­ crossing drama. The desire to restore traditional aesthetics and theatricality began to emerge after the dust of the Cultural Revolution gradually settled.

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Modern Deconstruction of Wang Zhaojun Two most representative “modern” Wang Zhaojun plays—­a short piece by Guo Moruo and a grand epic by Cao Yu—­are discussed in this section. Free from the constraints of traditional operatic music or arias, these newly constructed plays are written and staged in modern/Western style and in vernacular Chinese.

Wang Zhaojun (published in 1924) by Guo Moruo 郭沫若 (1892–­1978) Guo Moro was an instrumental writer in the early Chinese new literary movement, which is generally believed to have coincided with the May Fourth Movement (1919).39 The literary movement included innovation both in form and content; it advocated vernacular literature (vs. the stiff and obscure classical writing) and modern thoughts (such as social justice, women’s issues, democracy). One of his most famous early works, Three Rebellious Women (Sange panni de nüxing), deconstructs the lives of three famous historical women, among whom is Wang Zhaojun.40 Guo Moruo takes great liberty in inventing new characters and altering the personalities of familiar characters. He rejects the traditional interpretation that fate determines Wang Zhaojun’s tragedy; instead he emphasizes the tragedy of her personality; her tragedy results from her own stubbornness. Her rebellious character is distinctive from the conventional “characterless” Zhaojun, who has the mentality of “servitude.” As stubbornness easily leads to self-­ destruction, Guo points out that this defiant Wang Zhaojun might even commit suicide at the borderland.41 The short play contains two scenes. It begins with a conversation between a young woman, Mao Shuji, and her father, Mao Yanshou, the evil painter. Shuji criticizes her father for bullying people with his “art.” Because Wang Zhaojun (already a court lady) is not willing to pay a fee, he has painted an ugly portrait of her. The unfortunate news arrives: the Xiongnu chieftain visits the Han court and asks for a peace-­alliance marriage; based on the portraits, the emperor chooses the ugliest woman (Wang Zhaojun) to be given to the chieftain. The greedy painter, however, thinks he can still reverse the situation by submitting a new portrait, as long as Wang Zhaojun is will-

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ing to pay up. Meanwhile, Emperor Yuan arrives at the Mao residence and Mao Shuji explains the false painting of Zhaojun. The emperor sympathizes with Wang Zhaojun and decides to visit her himself. In act 2, Mao Yanshou visits Wang Zhaojun at her quarters. He tries to frighten her by describing the miserable life among the Xiongnu but she still refuses to bribe him. He advances to touch her and kiss her, wanting her to pay up with her body, something “more precious than gold.” She resists fiercely and the emperor walks into this indecent scene. He orders Mao Yanshou to be beheaded, and the latter accuses the emperor of being lascivious himself: “Emperor of Han, you are killing me? When you wanted to have pornography painted, you needed me. Now you have a beautiful lady and you want to kill me? You have a kind face—­under your kind face is a true lecher” (II, 65–­67). After Mao Yanshou is beheaded, Wang Zhaojun’s mother is so happy that she suddenly drops dead. After losing her mother, her only blood relative, Wang Zhaojun is completely disillusioned about court life and volunteers to go to the Xiongnu, even though the emperor promises to send another woman for the mission and make her the queen. She says: You don’t want me to go. I still want to go. I have nothing left, neither happiness, nor sadness. . . . Only my flesh is left. I wish this piece of flesh could be scorched by hot sand and torn apart by hyenas and wolves. If I could see my intestines chewed by wolves’ white teeth, my eyes picked out by crows and dropped on the icy island in the Northern Sea, perhaps I could feel a little pain or a little happiness. (II, 70) Wang Zhaojun is not planning to kill herself here, but her description of the imaginary suffering is even more graphic than the ones in regional operas discussed in chapter 3. Without poetic opera singing or recitation, modern vernacular language that “spells out” everything sounds vulgar. The emperor warns her about the harshness of the Xiongnu land, but she fires back with fierce social criticism: You are high up. Do you know people suffer in the barren North? You are high up. To satisfy your sexual desire, you abuse good women for your own pleasure! To keep your kingdom, you force good men to fill wolves’ caverns. Now you don’t have enough men and you’re using women. . . .

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Your power can create lives and destroy lives. When you don’t like me today, you can send me to the North; when you like me tomorrow, you’ll use me for your sexual pleasure and send another woman to the North. . . . How can you be so different from others that only you could indulge in such tyrannical impulses over people? You are ugly. You must know you are ugly! Hyenas are not as ugly as you; your court is more stinky than the den of hyenas. (II, 70–­71) Saddened and disillusioned, both Wang Zhaojun and Mao Shuji volunteer to go to the Xiongnu at the end. The final monologue of Emperor Yuan provides a ludicrous portrayal of the Han emperor. Holding the portrait of Wang Zhaojun and the head of Mao Yanshou, he says: Huyanye, you are so lucky! . . . Yanshou, my old friend. After all, you are luckier than I am! You painted a portrait of the beauty and your name will be remembered forever. . . . She slapped you. Was it the right cheek or the left cheek? .  .  .  There’s some fragrance left on your cheeks. Let me have some (he kisses the cheeks of Mao’s head). . . . I will hang up the beauty’s portrait and put your head on my desk. . . . (He exits with the portrait under his arm and Mao’s head in hand, kissing it again and again. (II, 72) This ending, though satirical and ludicrous, actually follows the tradition of Autumn in the Han Palace, in which the emperor tries to satisfy his longing for Wang Zhaojun by appreciating her portrait. It is the emperor’s sorrow that ends the play on a romantic note in Ma Zhiyuan’s classic. In Guo Moruo’s version, the emperor character is deconstructed and his emotion ridiculed. He is presented as a perverted lecher, not a romantic lover; he is also a selfish ruler whose carnal desire takes priority over national matters. In the afterword, Guo Moruo states that most characters and plot are his own imagination, and the main motivation for writing this play is to imagine Wang Zhaojun’s rebellion against the emperor’s wish by volunteering herself. To paint most characters as caricatures is his own rebellion against the border-­crossing canon. Under the May Fourth climate, traditional moralities could be seen by young intellectuals like Guo Moruo to be as nonsensical as the emperor’s absurd behavior.

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Wang Zhaojun (published in 1978) by Cao Yu 曹禺 (1910–­1996) It was not until the happy-­ending Wang Zhaojun (1978) by Cao Yu 曹禺 did interracial marriage—­the actualization of the peace-­alliance marriage—­ occur on stage. According to Cao Yu, it was the prime minister Zhou Enlai (1898–­1976) who entrusted him with a grand mission to write a story of Wang Zhaojun in order to promote interracial harmony in the early 1960s. Because of the delay caused by the Cultural Revolution (1966–­1976), the play was not published until 1978.42 Westernization and modernization had been an inevitable global force for China since the late Qing. One of the most fundamental differences in terms of modern nationalism was the redefinition of “Chinese people” and “Chinese ethnicity” in modernity. The redefinition of zu 族 or minzu 民族 (ethnicity) was introduced into China as part of the perception of a modern nation; the distinctive premodern ethnic/barbaric nations were now transformed into ethnic minorities under the grand “Chinese ethnicity” (zhonghua minzu 中華民族) which encompassed the Han and others.43 Dr. Sun Yat-­sen’s republican revolution against the Manchu regime adopted this narrative to signify a new era. The new China (the ROC, established in 1912) was no longer seen as a dynastic transition; it proposed a brand new national concept that included all ethnicities under the grand banner of new Chinese nationalism. A comprehensive process of sinicization—­a form of internal colonization and reeducation—­had to be employed to transform the old barbarians into the modern ethnic minorities. Modern border-­crossing drama, therefore, had trouble portraying ethnic conflicts or resistance from the minority groups. Cao Yu’s modern Wang Zhaojun is to respond to such new Chinese nationalism, under a different political regime (PRC, established in 1949). It is marked as a “five-­act historical play,” in the form of spoken drama, with period costume and some chorus singing and choreographed dancing.44 Wang Zhaojun volunteers to take on the peace-­alliance mission and remains happily married throughout the play. In order to present ethnic harmony as part of human nature, both the Han emperor and the Xiongnu chieftain are portrayed as positive and kindhearted men who sincerely believe the meaning of peace-­alliance marriage. Wang Zhaojun, who volunteers to go, is also depicted as the ultimate good-­natured woman who wholeheartedly loves the chieftain and the Xiongnu people. There is no suspicion or doubt from

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either leader, nor is there resentment or regret from Wang Zhaojun herself. With such one-­dimensional main characters, Wang Zhaojun could easily turn out to be a very tedious propaganda play if not for Cao Yu’s newly invented secondary characters, who carry out most of the dramatic conflicts. The play starts with the nineteen-­year-­old Wang Zhaojun, who has been in the court for three years without having a chance to meet the emperor. An old woman, Beauty Sun, who has been there for decades, has already gone insane because of her endless waiting. Believing herself still young and beautiful, she is dressed up every day anticipating the emperor’s visit. When she is finally summoned, it is for serving as the bride of the deceased former emperor: the emperor has dreamt that the former emperor is feeling lonely in his grave and wants to choose a “beauty” from the previous era to accompany him. Partly because of her witnessing of the pathetic fate of Beauty Sun and partly because of her own pride, Wang Zhaojun volunteers her name when she learns about the Xiongnu chieftain’s visit. She says, “A woman is so unfortunate, who depends on others from birth to death. Why can’t a woman be like a roc, soaring up ninety thousand miles high?” (I. 14). Though in vernacular language, this speech is a direct reference to the famous line “One should never be a woman, whose happiness and sufferings are all generated by others!” (Ming chuanqi Appeasing the Barbarians, chapter 1); however, the modern Wang Zhaojun aspires to seek opportunities for herself instead of accepting her tragic fate. The second act introduces the actual peace-­alliance encounter and the background of the dramatic conflicts carried out by secondary characters. Wendun, brother of Xiongnu chieftain Huhanye’s former wife, is depicted as brave, proud, ambitious, and handsome. He is defiant and extremely unhappy about the peace-­alliance arrangement because he is suspicious of the sincerity of the Han court and despises Han culture (II, 35). He wants to persuade Huhanye to abandon the peace-­alliance plan, but the latter stresses the importance of peace, which is finally obtained after Huyanye’s countless battles for twenty years to unite all the Xiongnu tribes. He also values the kinship between the Han and the Xiongnu: Wendun, you know, the Xiongnu and the Han are both descendants of the ancient Emperor Yu of the Xia Dynasty. We are brothers, the same family.45 This laid the true foundation for tens of thousands of generations. I will not change my decision of having a Han princess to be the Xiongnu queen. (II, 44)

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Another important secondary character is Wang Long, the brother of the queen of Emperor Yuan. Wang Long is depicted as a spoiled young man, arrogant and vain. He has just received the order to accompany Wang Zhaojun to the Xiongnu. Like Wendun, he also does not trust the policy of peace alliance. Wang Zhaojun, radiant and beautifully dressed, enters to meet both Emperor Yuan and the Xiongnu chieftain. Seeing the two superpowers at court, she calms herself: “I’m just a Han girl. I walk slowly and calmly; my future is set and I dare to take all the responsibilities myself. I am not afraid!” (II, 54). Both the emperor and the chieftain are astonished by her beauty and amazed with her singing and eloquence. The conventional border-­crossing scene is completely eliminated, since the happy interracial marriage significantly dilutes the original theatricality. The rest of the play takes place in the Xiongnu land. Act 3 is set on the eve of the ceremony when Wang Zhaojun is officially received into the Xiongnu ancestral temple, a happy celebration for the whole nation. After three months’ residing in the Xiongnu, she has made great adjustment: she has made friends with the Xiongnu people, and Atingjie, Wendun’s wife, becomes her best friend; she learns to ride horses, use rouge, and drink milk tea; she truly enjoys the majestic natural scenery and her new life here. Under the apparent happiness are secret conspiracies against the peace alliance, led by Wang Long (the Han side) and Wendun (the Xiong­nu side). Wendun convinces Wang Long of Huhanye’s scheme to invade China; together they should form an alliance to defeat Huhanye and to get rid of Wang Zhaojun. Multiple schemes are developed: the fake invasion of the Han troops, the disturbance at the frontier, the poisoning of the Xiongnu crown prince (to frame Wang Zhaojun as the evil stepmother), rumors about Wang Zhaojun’s treason, and even a dangerous situation where Huhanye is almost killed. Nevertheless, all problems are miraculously resolved, mainly because of the unwavering trust and kindheartedness of both Huhanye and Wang Zhaojun. A poor Xiongnu boy named Little Mana, who has received favor from Wang Zhaojun, actually saves the life of Huhanye. In the form of spoken drama, this play employs naturalistic staging and vernacular language, but curiously has an ending in the style of magical realism. A silk quilt, handmade by Wang Zhaojun for her Xiongnu husband, is given to a poor old man. She explains the reason: “This is our happy nuptial quilt. May it bring warmth to tens of thousands of Han and

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Xiong­nu people” (V, 188). The old man, after receiving the quilt, transforms into a golden wild goose, soaring into the sky with the quilt. The quilt becomes colorful clouds covering the endless sky and earth. Wang Zhaojun ends the play with a good wish: “May no one in the world will ever be cold again” (V, 190). The two Wang Zhaojun spoken dramas, half a century apart, express very different concepts of Chinese modernity. Guo Moruo’s Wang Zhaojun is labeled as a “rebellious woman” who chooses her own destiny. Feminist and proletariat thinking—­as liberation from the centuries-­old patriarchal and feudal tradition—­are presented as part of the modernity by some Chinese elites in the early twentieth century. As early as 1921, Guo wrote in the preface of his poetry collection The Goddess (Nüshen 女神), “I’m a proletariat: I have no property but my own naked self. The ‘Goddess’ is created by me, my private property; however, I’m willing to become a communist, and I will share her with you.”46 Similarly, Wang Zhaojun is a spokesperson for the newly imported feminist and proletariat thinking that inspired many young elites during this time. She does not sacrifice herself for the country; her journey is a gesture of rebellion and of taking control of her own body and destiny, even though it might mean self-­destruction. The caricature of the emperor and Mao Yanshou, on the other hand, reveals that class struggle is essential for Chinese modernity. Although the imperial China had fallen, the historical inequality in gender and class was still one of the most urgent issues that many intellectuals wanted to confront with. Intercultural conflict or ethnic harmony does not seem to play a part in Guo Muoro’s play. Cao Yu’s Wang Zhaojun is a spokesperson from a different era and on a grand scale. Commissioned by the state, his Wang Zhaojun needs to reflect the state’s ideology of modernity, the multiethnic and multicultural harmony in the new China (the PRC). Distinctive from traditional border-­crossing plays, Wang Zhaojun has a cheerful tone and optimistic ending in an almost mythical aura. Even though the young China has been terribly bruised by the Cultural Revolution, the message presented in the play is uplifting. The happy coexistence of various ethnic groups presents the new China as a modern nation: after going through the typical process of modernization, after having forgiven and forgotten all the historical trauma and errors, China has been reborn as a peaceful modern multiethnic nation-­state.47 Cao Yu states: “There is one thing that is clear and positive: the Xiongnu is one of our own ethnicities, not a foreign barbarian nation.” Struggling between “history” and “drama,” Cao Yu explains his dilemma:

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Historical drama needs to be faithful to historical truth, faithful to historical materialism, but it also needs to have “drama.” People will fall asleep if there is no theatricality. . . . As for Wang Zhaojun, the prime minister gave me the basic principle—­ethnic harmony and cultural exchange. I wanted to write a play that would better present the historical truth (Of course it cannot completely follow it. Historical drama is not just ‘history;’ it needs to have ‘drama,’ it needs to have theatricality). This is a smiling Wang Zhaojun, not a weeping Wang Zhaojun. This is a Wang Zhaojun that promotes ethnic union, a Wang Zhaojun that can be possibly accepted by Prime Minister Zhou.48 It seems that the double historical truth endorsed by the state—­the intercultural marriage that happened in the Han dynasty and the whole-­ hearted celebration of ethnic harmony in the new China—­is so overwhelming that the “drama” of the minor characters cannot rescue the theatricality of the play. Without the impending war with foreign barbarians, Wang Zhaojun’s border-­crossing has lost its urgency; without the suicide or martyrdom, her interracial marriage is stripped of its theatricality; without any critique toward the ruling class or any resentment toward state politics, the characters are dull, one-­dimensional mouthpieces of the state. Scholar Liu Shao­ ming (1934–­) thinks the magical ending is Cao Yu’s attempt to bring “drama” back, but he ultimately fails because this absurd ending echoes the feudal thoughts of superstition and mysticism, something that Cao Yu has tried hard to deconstruct. The failure of the play is due to the motif—­the official commission—­for constructing the play, even though Wang Zhaojun voluntarily enlists as a revolutionary. “The so-­called literature of national policy is also the literature of obeying orders (zunming wenxue 遵命文學).”49 The production of Cao Yu’s Wang Zhaojun went to Hong Kong in 1980 and was well received. A collection of essays Cao Yu, Wang Zhaojun, and Others was published in 1980.50 Despite criticism on the form and literary value, this state sanctioned border-­crossing play became the new History, from which many new plays derive, including traditional operas like The Princess Zhaojun discussed above.

The Modern Reconstruction of Cai Wenji Rewriting Cai Wenji is another part of the Chinese modernization. Since her marriage and homecoming already symbolize racial harmony, the reconstruction of her story takes a different bent.

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The most famous modern adaptation of the Cai Wenji story is by Guo Moruo: Cai Wenji (Five-­Act Historical Comedy) (蔡文姬 [五幕歷史喜 劇], 1959).51 Similar to Cao Yu’s Wang Zhaojun, this play is clearly based on communist ideology; nevertheless, this modern play (naturalistic styled spoken drama) uses period costume, music, and singing to heighten theatricality. Guo Moruo is both praised by the party officials as a national hero and condemned by scholars as the “Shameless No. 1 (diyi buyaolian 第一不 要臉);”52 his versatility as well as his chameleon-­like life reflect the tumultuous history of modern China. As a medical student studying in Japan, Guo Moruo was inspired by the modern literature movement and gradually shifted his focus to creative writing. His early works such as The Goddess (1921) and The Three Rebellious Women (1926) made him a star in the new literary circle. Even though his early works are also left-­leaning and proletariat, they express a sense of romanticism and individualism of a rebellious youth, not the complacency of state policy. After he fervently embraced communist ideology and actively participated in political activities in the 1920s, he was eventually advised to leave for Japan for his own safety; he was to establish himself a scholar and leader for the cultural circle abroad to lead a different kind of fight. While the communist revolution was taking place domestically, he would be launching an alternative revolution overseas, a revolution of the mind. His diligent study made him an expert on archeology and ancient Chinese text (oracle bones and bronze inscriptions), as well as historical materialism; he published a great amount of scholarly and literary works during this time, including interpretations of China’s histories using Marxist theories. After the new China was established in 1949, he was appointed to important official positions; he indeed became a leader in academic and literary circles, ensuring that the country’s literary and scholarly development aligned with the party’s desire.53 Ironically, his exile in Japan was like his years preparing for the imperial examination as a traditional scholar, and he was rewarded with fame and fortune based on his literary achievement. The five-­act play begins with the eve of Cai Yan’s return; she has already learned about the invitation from the prime minister, Cao Cao, but still needs to make a final decision. Her two children—­an eight-­year-­old son and a girl of eighteen months—­are not permitted by Lord Zuoxian to leave because they are considered Xiongnu. Her son argues: “Daddy is not reasonable! The Xiongnu and the Han are the same family!” (I. 7) Auntie Zhao (Zhao Siniang), an older woman who accompanied Cai Yan from China, is willing to stay behind to take care of the children for her.

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It is worth noting that Cai Yan’s son is named after the son of Wang Zhaojun and Huhanye, Yituzhiyashi, according to The History of the Han Dynasty. Guo Moruo explains that “to name the Xiongnu boy Yituzhiyashi is to show Cai Yan’s admiration for Wang Zhaojun” (Dramatis Personae, 1). In traditional border-­crossing stories, Wang Zhaojun’s interracial marriage and offspring are never recognized by Cai Yan; it is the suicide that makes her superior to Cai Yan’s shameful survival. Cai Yan’s acknowledgment of Wang Zhaojun’s mixed-­blood offspring and Cao Cao’s acceptance of Cai Yan’s own interracial children symbolize that China is in a new era of interracial tolerance. Similar to Cao Yu’s strategy in Wang Zhaojun, Chinese nationalist multiculturalism deems all major characters free of racial prejudice. The elimination of the historical Han-­Xiongnu conflicts is compensated by new dramatic situations with invented characters. Dong Si, a scholar and former student of Cai Yan’s father and old friend and distant cousin of hers, acts as the ambassador to bring her back to China. Zhou Jin, an assistant to Dong Si, on the other hand, is an arrogant troublemaker who almost spoils the peaceful relationship between the two countries. Dong Si finally convinces Lord Zuoxian of the peace intention of Cao Cao. At the farewell banquet, the Xiongnu chieftain says, “I have heard that we Xiongnu are the descendants of the ancient King Yu of the Xia dynasty. The Xiongnu and the Han are brothers.” Lord Zuoxian reaffirms, “From now on, all brothers will keep peace forever!” (II, 28). The border-­crossing scene—­entering the pass—­comes next. At night, the exhausted, haggard, and heartbroken Cai Yan, dressed in her traveling outfit (cape), is alone visiting her father’s tomb. She expresses her sorrow of leaving her children behind and her self-­doubt about finishing her father’s grand task. Overtaken by sorrow, she faints and then a dream-­like sequence is played, a scene of her wondering around aimlessly with Auntie Zhao during the war and their acceptance of Lord Zuoxian’s kindness by following him to the Xiongnu; another scene of her fleeing the Xiongnu with her little daughter and Auntie Zhao, with her son chasing after them. After she awakes, a chorus sings “Eighteen Stanzas of the Reed Pipe” (the fourteenth stanza) from backstage to express her lingering sadness from the dream; she plays her zither and sings about her sad feelings (a combination of stanzas 16 and 18).54 Dong Si enters, trying to comfort her (III). Act 4 presents Cao Cao’s kindness, modesty, literary talent, humor, and humble lifestyle (“like common folks,” IV, 1, 45). He is enjoying reading Cai

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Yan’s poems, which have been sent to him prior to her return. Zhou Jin enters, reporting that Dong Si has to stay behind because he has injured his leg falling from a horse. Zhou Jin also insinuates that there has been an improper night rendezvous between Cai Yan and Dong Si during their journey. Cao Cao is angry and orders Dong Si arrested. After learning about the unjustified criminal charges against Dong Si, Cai Yan rushes in, underdressed, with disheveled hair and bare feet. She explains that there was nothing improper between them; however, if Cao Cao believes that they have committed sins she will ask for punishment. For her improper attire, she explains: “Sinners do not dare to dress up.”55 Cao Cao is furious with Zhou Jin’s insinuation: “It was not easy to obtain peace between the Xiongnu and us, and we almost lost it because of you!” He is going to punish Zhou Jin but Cai Yan asks for leniency (IV, 3, 62–­73). Act 5 takes place eight years later, when Cao Cao has already ascended the throne to be the king of Wei. The Xiongnu chieftain comes to congratulate Cao Cao’s coronation and he also brings Cai Yan’s children (age sixteen and nine) with him. Lord Zuoxian and Auntie Zhao both have passed away and now the children are to stay with their mother. The chieftain also brings with him a bronze mirror, a parting gift from Cai Yan to Lord Zuoxian. The chieftain explains that Lord Zuoxian wants to pass the mirror on to Dong Si, who in turn expresses his gratitude to Cai Yan for saving his life years ago. At the end of the play, Cao Cao decides to follow Lord Zuoxian’s wish and marry Cai Yan to Dong Si; their union is celebrated at a banquet. In order to deconstruct the Cai Yan dramatic canon, in which the heroine is constantly reminded of her shameful survival after the abduction and the loss of her children, she is now properly married to Lord Zuoxian by her own free will, and properly remarried to Dong Si following the wish of her late husband. In historical writing, Cai Yan was married to Dong Si after her return, but here she has to wait for the approval of her late husband for eight years. The ownership of Cai Yan and her children is passed on to Dong Si from the leader of one state to another; the peace alliance based on the transaction of a woman’s body manifests itself in a different form. One might ask, how is Guo Moruo’s treatment of Cai Yan different from the Confucian “Three Obediences” (obedience to father at home, husband after marriage, and son after husband dies), which would be considered as feudal thoughts? We are reminded of Wang Zhaojun’s lamentations in the Ming chuanqi Appeasing the Barbarians: “One should never be a woman,

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whose happiness and sufferings are all generated by others!” (vol. 1, x, 22). To rebel against History, Cai Yan is further confined in her portable gender border. As the portrait that commodifies Wang Zhaojun, a mirror now is used as the token for the marriage transaction for Cai Yan. As discussed in the introduction, a woman’s body already functions as a symbolic object for exchange in a marriage, whose main purpose is to establish male alliance between two families. Both Wang Zhaojun and Cai Yan are doubly objectified because the woman’s fate literally depends on a token. Wang Zhaojun’s portrait, like Desdemona’s handkerchief, plays a crucial part dramaturgically; Cai Yan’s mirror, which symbolizes the patriarchal sanction, ensures a traditional happy ending in marriage. Unfortunately, even the most drastic revolution does not alter the stubborn gendered nationalism: whereas the elimination of class distinction and ethnic conflict can be imagined as part of Chinese modernity, a woman’s body and female virtue must be properly restored into the traditional Chinese patriarchal system to allow for a plausible happy ending. Cai Yan’s first intercultural marriage was unintentional, so the second one needs to function as the real peace-­alliance marriage in order to glorify the state policy of multiculturalism and to praise the sage-­like national leader. From the naive and defiant Zhaojun in the new ROC (1924) to the proper and obedient Cai Yan of the new PRC (1959), Guo Moruo’s heroine has lost her feisty dramatic power as he himself has been co-­opted into the state system. The deconstruction of Cai Wenji is not complete and the solution is tremendously troubling. One of the major goals for Guo Moruo’s rewrite of history is to “reverse the verdicts for Cao Cao” (wei Cao Cao fan’an 為曹操翻案), whose portrayal in traditional theater is almost always negative. The familiar dramatic persona of Cao Cao is based on the character developed in The Romance of Three Kingdoms (Sanguo yanyi 三國演義), a grand novel about the power struggles among the Three Kingdoms and a rich source for many dramatic works in all genres.56 Among the three states (Wei, Shu, and Wu), Shu, whose leader Liu Bei is identified as a rightful heir of the fallen Han dynasty, holds the favorable position in the narrative. Cao Cao, the leader of Wei, the winner of the three-­kingdom struggle, is always portrayed as evil and calculating in the novel, and this negative illustration has taunted his stage presence ever since. As a matter of fact, Cao Cao’s distinctive whiteface makeup (as jing) in the Chinese opera tradition is a sign for his unique cun-

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ningness and treachery. Guo Moruo explains the powerful semiotics in the Chinese opera makeup tradition: “Even a three-­year old hates Cao Cao.”57 Any deconstruction of his character in Chinese opera tradition would start with the makeup. Guo Moruo’s Cao Cao has natural makeup because the play is staged in Western naturalistic style; therefore, even the first glance of the Cao Cao character offers a strong revolutionary message. The thought of “reversing the verdicts for Cao Cao” started with Mao Zedong’s comments. After his praise for Cao Cao’s political achievements (farming system, stabilizing and unifying China in the tumultuous Three Kingdoms period), Mao Zedong criticized the traditional negative depiction of Cao Cao as something “written in books, played on stage, believed by people—­the injustice produced by the feudal society” and said that all the writers were trying to “maintain the orthodox tradition of feudalism.”58 The state-­sanctioned deconstruction of History (old, orthodox, feudal, traditional) is in fact a construction of a new official history, with the crucial elements contributed by Guo Moruo’s Cai Wenji, Cao Yu’s Wang Zhaojun, and Guo Moruo’s writings in historical materialism. Through Mao Zedong’s thought, Guo Moruo’s pen, and Cai Wenji’s stage action, a new History of China is written. Guo Moruo is famous for his acclamation, “Cai Wenji is me!”—­a reference to Flaubert’s “Madame Bovary, c’est moi” in his preface to the play.59 Scholars in general believe that his diaspora in Japan and his homecoming are the basis for this sentiment: he left his first wife, married a Japanese woman and had five children, and left his Japanese family and had multiple relationships and produced more children after he returned to China. Both his diaspora and homecoming are tightly related to the wish of the state; therefore, Guo Moruo perhaps could sympathize with Cai Yan’s helpless feeling, even though he (like Cai Yan) was rewarded with glory by the state. Despite his “Cai Wenji is me” rhetoric, almost his entire preface is devoted to Cao Cao’s merits. Taking this allegory a bit further, Mao Zedong in this context is the commoner-­like kind patriarch and wise leader of the country who brings peace and happiness to people, just like Cao Cao. Guo Moruo’s own sacrifice and exile, his abandonment of family, and his devoting his literary talent to the party are all identical to the life of Cai Yan. He believes all the sacrifice is necessary for building a new nation, just like Cai Yan, whose feelings and body are all decided by others for the sake of completing the national history!

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Performing the Millennial Chineseness: Hegemony or Ambiguity? Hegemony “China is a dragon. America is an eagle. Britain is a lion. When the dragon wakes up, the others are all snacks.” The New York Times quoted this remark at the end of 2016, when US interference caused tension in the Taiwan Strait.60 The rise of the Chinese economy has made China one of the world’s superpowers, and the twenty-­first century is often called “the Chinese century.” Chinese national pride is probably at its peak since the Opium War. The 1992 Consensus has temporarily created peace and allowed for many fruitful nonpolitical exchanges across the Taiwan Strait; however, the arrogant nationalist rhetoric, the increasing maritime military “exercise” activities near Taiwan,61 along with certain economic restraints62 are the PRC’s most recent declarations of hegemony over all Chinese nations. There is no ambiguity in this type of modern Chinese nationalism. A good example of modern Chinese nationalism in the international context is displayed in a recent grand-­scale musical Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai 昭君出塞) by Li Yugang 李玉剛 (premiered in April 2015 in Beijing). After Cao Yu’s Wang Zhaojun, ethnic harmony and multiculturalism have been the focus of Wang Zhaojun in China, so her “leaving” (chu 出, exiting) can no longer be imagined as an effort to appease the internal “barbarians” with the superior morality of the Han Chinese; it is instead fantasized as a new way of conquering the world with Chinese/ Oriental aesthetics. The production is directed and performed by Li Yugang, a singer famous for his “female impersonation” in the popular realm. Covering Wang Zhaojun’s life from age sixteen to sixty, the production is a cross between Chinese costume dance drama and Broadway-­style musical and is widely praised for its grandiose pageantry. The meeting between Wang Zhaojun and the Xiongnu chieftain at the border opens a window for extra spectacle or entertainment, such as the barbarian woman skit in the Taiwanese minor drama tradition or the new sandstorm dance in Hongxiannü’s Cantonese opera version. The meeting here is presented as a fantastical dance number, with lavishly and exotically clad Xiongnu people dancing in athletic style with special lighting effects; the chieftain appears in an extravagant, larger-­than-­life costume of black and

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Fig. 12. The spectacular border crossing of the modern Wang Zhaojun. Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai 昭君出塞) by Li Yugang 李玉剛 (Beijing, 2015). Courtesy of Zhang Nan 張楠 (photographer).

gold, moving pompously with the ensemble. Wang Zhaojun, played by Li Yugang, appears delicate and feminine, a bit more subdued compared with the high-­energy dance of the Xiongnu.63 The producer, Huang Xing, speaks of the significance of the play: “through Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind, we hope to promote the exchange of culture, friendship, peace, and economy between China and the world.” Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind is to be made into a “world-­class cultural brand.” Using the musical Mamma Mia! as a model, she discusses the future plans to develop commercial products from the Zhaojun brand, such as anime, video games, TV dramas, and movies.64 The “power of leaving” is also seen as a timely subject today, as many Chinese “left the pass behind” (left home) in order to pursue their dreams.65 Though marked as historical, traditional, Chinese, or Oriental, the production is best described as a hybridized musical performance to be contextualized in the intercultural and international setting. Instead of Chinese aesthetics, the term “Oriental aesthetics”

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(dongfang meixue 東方美學) appears in many writings on this production. The emphasis on “Oriental” suggests that this production is created with an international and intercultural perspective in mind; furthermore, it demonstrates a concept of intra-­Asian imperialism, the Orient = China. What is the Oriental aesthetics of the twenty-­first century? The high-­ tech, lavishly costumed large-­cast Zhaojun resembles a Broadway musical, or rather, a Las Vegas–­style extravaganza, with strong Oriental flavor, both in visual and sound effect. The wild ethnic exoticism becomes an essential part of the Chinese brand of multiculturalism in the international context. The concept of “brand China” started around the 2008 Beijing Olympics when China treated the world to a dazzling pageant of multiculturalism, self-­Orientalization, and techno-­nationalism at the opening ceremony. The children in colorful costumes of ethnic minorities (apparently Han children in disguise) were first exoticized for Chinese internal Orientalism and then displayed as an integral part of the self-­Orientalized “brand China” for the world’s consumption. It is a process of double Orientalization. In reality, the socioeconomic disparity and political conflict between Han and ethnic minorities today are not as pretty as the beautified doubled Orientalism on stage. In the tradition of border-­crossing drama, the “barbarians” (ethnic minorities) have gone through the long marginalization process from being cruel and ugly, to silly and funny, to playing a major role of the new exotic China/Orient. The extravaganza of the Xiongnu in the 2015 production followed the model of double Orientalization. Moreover, the unique gender performance of Li Yugang adds an alluring dimension to the performative Chinese nationalism. Wang Zhaojun’s story might be familiar, but the art of female impersonation in traditional theater has been largely forgotten in the new millennium. Throughout history, gender performance of actors, both on and off stage, was not unusual, since cross dressing was a common practice. The best modern example is Mei Lanfang’s deliberate separation between his artistic femininity and real-­life masculinity, especially in the context of nationalism and patriotism.66 Li Yugang’s gender performance—­a beautiful and delicate pop/opera female singer on stage and a cultivated gentleman in “real” life (reality TV)—­though follows a long tradition in Chinese opera, appears novel and intriguing to the millennial audiences. Through pompous pageantry, gimmicky gender performance, techno-­ nationalism, or multicultural/multicolor Orientalism, the concept of “brand China” continues: the “classy” new brand replaced the old “made in China”

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concept, so to “win China respect on the global stage.”67 By “exiting” (exporting) the Chinese brand of musical, China wishes to appease the world with its soft power: arts and culture with the Chinese branded “Oriental aesthetics.”

Ambiguity It is a totally different story across the Taiwan Strait. The majority of residents today were born and raised in Taiwan and have no nostalgia for Mainland China as the “homeland”; as a matter of fact, many young Taiwanese would consider China as a new territory for business exploration, instead of a home to return to. The four-­decade separation has created a large cultural, economic, linguistic gap across the strait, but with the re-­established nonofficial transnational connections, increasing economic ties, frequent cultural and academic exchange, shared pop cultures, and thriving tourism, the cultural distinctions are gradually disappearing. The “Chinese” identity, therefore, is a term loaded with contention and ambiguity, not an organic concept at all. The major differences across the Taiwan Strait these days are political and ideological, the results of the redrawn national borders. As the whole world is growing more and more the same in the age of globalization, what does border crossing even mean, especially for these Chinese nations with the redrawn borders? If the 1992 Consensus is the operational system for the transnational master plan in the Chinese region, how does one even begin to explain the concepts of nation, nationalism, and citizenship, whether as Chinese or Taiwanese? When nationalism itself is in doubt, why is border crossing still attractive to artists today? The two plays below—­The Dialogue at the Green Mound and Hero of Half a Lifetime, Li Ling, both as experimental Chinese opera from Taiwan—­ offer unique interpretations of border-­crossing drama in the new millennium. The Dialogue at the Green Mound (Qingzhong qiande duihua 青塚 前的對話, which is also translated as Whispers at a Tombstone), a very intriguing play by Wang An-­Ch’i 王安祈, was premiered in 2006 in Taipei. Experimental in nature, jingju in form, this story tells the encounter of Wang Zhaojun and Cai Yan from a perspective of a fisherwoman. One interesting aspect of this play is the “dialogues” among women: sometimes as girlish chitchat, sometimes as fierce catfights, these private dialogues successfully deconstruct the notion of gendered nationalism that has been the backbone

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for all the border-­crossing stories.68 The play opens with a fisherwoman with no known name or age. She explains that she has just read the stories of Cui Yingying and Li Yaxian, two legendary but controversial beauties of the past.69 Fisherwoman settles for a nap and the following scene occurs in her dream. Cui Yingying and Li Yaxian start an argument and attack each other; both are accused of seducing men immorally. Li is blamed for being a prostitute, while Cui is not morally superior either with her premarital sexual relationship. Their maids also join in the catfight (272–­82). Fisherwoman awakes and savors the dream she has just had. She opens another book and shifts her attention to two other women. She recites, “Vast heaven and grand earth allow no space for my body. Hands are attached to strings—­manipulated by others.” She praises Cai Wenji’s literary talent, which is the reason she is brought back: “even though the strings are controlled by others. Wenji finally comes home, finally comes home!” (282–­83). Wang An-­Ch’i interweaves traditional arias with new writings. The next scene features Cai Yan, entering on horse, singing “Each step away was one step farther; my feet could hardly move.”70 She goes to the Green Mound to pay tribute and Wang Zhaojun’s spirit walks out of the tomb, singing the familiar aria “Wang Zhaojun, ocean’s drying, rocks crumbing, holding a pipa with gold and jade trimming” (from The Green Mound). Cai Wenji speaks to Wang Zhaojun: “Your pathetic life was resulted from the ill painting, mine was caused by my handsomeness. You lost to me—­I am going home while still alive; I lost to you—­you kept your flesh and blood with you” (from Wenji Returning to Han, the Cheng Yanqiu version). Zhaojun: Where do you come from? Wenji: From the end of the yellow sand. Zhaojun: Where are you going? Wenji: To the capital. Zhaojun: Your destiny is my point of departure. Wenji: My destiny was once my point of departure. (285–­86) They exchange their sorrowful experience of leaving homeland. Cai Yan says, After a month, I missed my mother, heart broken; After six months, I gradually adapted to the nomad lifestyle; Three or five years later, I could not even remember Mother’s face;

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Eight or ten years later, I no longer dreamed of my mom . . . How do I dare to think about it after twenty years? (289) They also discuss their “love life.” Cai Yan says to Wang Zhaojun: “But you still won. After you left, the Han emperor missed you day and night.” At this point, the emperor enters and sings his sorrow on the side, with the arias adapted from Autumn in the Han Palace. Cai Yan is moved by his singing: “Such deep love! Such magnificent poetry!” Wang Zhaojun argues, This magnificent poetry is the imagination of the literati, not mine at all! The literati used me as their topic and wrote about my love life. . . . My love life? . . . What I wanted was just to have someone having tea and rice, sitting at a table, sharing a life with me. . . . My parents were gone . . . . my elder siblings left home. (292–­94) Both agree, however, that children are the best remedy for their misery and homesickness in the foreign land. Wang Zaojun says, “After having children, my heart, like growing some roots, found peace.” Cai Yan agrees: “Yes, taking roots. After I reached the northern land, I cried day and night, but after having children, I didn’t think of anything else.” She describes how she and Lord Zuoxian rocked their babies to sleep on a night with wild howling wind: “It was the first night I slept so peacefully. After I woke up. I gave up the thought of going home. I put away my father’s zither and learned to play the reed pipe from my husband.” They also talk about adjusting to the alien lifestyle and the strange taste of yogurt. The two women, two centuries apart, bond over their shared experience in a home away from home but also with their motherly jouissance and their feminine surplus value.71 In traditional border-­crossing drama, Wang Zhaojun’s body is a prize to the Xiongnu, and Cai Yan’s body is seen as a reproductive vessel to generate an heir for her father. Their bodies, functional for patriotism and patriarchy, never bring joy to themselves, and their children only give them sorrow or shame. The unique feminine joy and ecstasy, the jouissance derived from motherly love, or simple domestic delight, something so basic and common to humanity, has never been explored in border-­crossing drama, not until finally a female writer came along.72 With Spivak’s theory on women’s surplus value and womb envy, the discussion of their children and motherly joy are not only lovingly beautiful but also extremely powerful.

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Fig. 13. The heart-­to-­heart dialogue between Wang Zhaojun (right) and Cai Yan (left). Cai Yan (on horse) visits the Zhaojun Tomb, and the spirit of Zhaojun (with her pipa) appears. Both clad in the Xiongnu outfit (pheasant feather and fur) and traveling clothes (cape). The Dialogue at the Green Mound (Qingzhong qiande duihua 青塚前 的對話, 2006). Courtesy National Center for Traditional Arts GuoGuang Opera Company.

They go on to further deconstruct history. Zhaojun: Why do you have to go back? Wenji: Didn’t I tell you? It’s the cultural mission! Zhaojun: Nonsense! Wenji: Nonsense yourself! Tell me, did you kill yourself or not? Zhaojun: How would I have fulfilled other people’s wishes? Pooh! Suddenly, the tone of the dream changes. Zhaojun: What a grand historical task, cultural mission! Wenji: Literati’s imagination, paradigm for people! . . . Wenji: All the poetry is to cover up your shame! Zhaojun: You pretend to mourn for me, borrowing my pipa to express your sorrow!

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Wenji: I have my own reed pipe. Why do I need to borrow your pipa? Zhaojun: It’s obvious that you want to go home because you can’t stand the life in the Xiongnu. You desire fine food and decent clothes! Wenji: It’s obvious that you have barbaric taste so you want to stay in the Xiongnu and eat raw steaks and muttons all your life. . . . Wenji: You are unethical . . . marrying father and son . . . Zhaojun: You marry Dong Si after you return home—­enjoying both Xiongnu and Han. Wenji: I had a husband before going to the Xiongnu. . . . I had three husbands, better than you. Zhaojun: But both my husbands are the chieftains! The play ends with the fisherwoman waking up and dismissing the nonsensical dreams, which she thinks are due to her own restless thoughts: What use is it to talk big and small? Truth and illusions will all be gone. Can anyone distinguish zither sound from literary heart? At this moment, silence is better than words. (297–­300) The Chinese theatrical convention encourages the adaptation of earlier versions, recycling both music and arias. The integration (allusion or direct quotation) of familiar lines is an important part of the writing process, which reflects the erudition of the playwrights. Wang An-­Ch’i’s ingenious incorporation of arias from previous versions, however, goes beyond showing off her literary talent; she deconstructs all the clichés by having the characters question all the empty words that describe the women’s emotions. All the plays of Wang Zhaojun and Cai Yan, from the Yuan to modern China, were all written by men, for men. Even The Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe and “The Song of Resentment and Nostalgia” are possibly by male hands. The interracial marriage of a Chinese woman to a Xiongnu man is so unthinkable in the Chinese patriarchal thought that numerous poems and dramas have been generated to alter their stories, even to the extent of suicide. The jouissance of having mixed-­race children, the feeling of sharing life with a man of a different race in a foreign land, the complicated emotion and struggle between love for a country and love for a family; all this complicated “feminine” pathos has never been explored in the countless writings of their

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stories. The female playwright, the female narrator, and all the female characters (except for the brief appearance of the emperor) give the old story a fresh interpretation. Among all the modern plays of Wang Zhaojun and Cai Yan, The Dialogue at the Green Mound depoliticizes a woman’s body and returns the right of the body to the women themselves. Another significant innovation for this play is the “dialogue” between women. Most of the play is presented as vignettes of two-­woman dialogues (Cui Yingying and Li Yaxian, Cui’s maid and Li’s maid, Wang Zhaojun and Cai Yan). The historical moments of border crossing—­“leaving the pass behind” or “entering the pass”—­typically features a lone woman (with or without entourage) in the desolate borderland. Han entourage or Xiongnu soldiers can never comprehend her sorrow; sometimes she even expresses her deepest emotion to a wild goose or in a letter written with blood. In the non-­Han, non-­Xiongnu liminal space, no one listens because no one understands. Even though moments of interaction or even mutual understanding (zhixin) take place in certain premodern plays, often through music (zhiyin), they are brief instances and Wang Zhaojun still holds a moral high ground. In Mourning the Pipa, for instance, Wang Zhaojun is up in the sky while Cai Yan is kneeling on the ground (see fig. 7). They never had a chance to have an equal dialogue. Wang An-­Ch’i’s women are different; they listen to and understand each other. The verbal fights demonstrate the equal status they hold in the new history created in this play. The cover of the book shows the hierarchical distinction between the traditional Zhaojun/Wenji iconography in Mourning the Pipa and the equitable situation in The Dialogue. The two iconic women of the border-­crossing tradition can finally be placed side by side in the twenty-­first century, instead of in a hierarchical situation throughout history (cover). The camaraderie among women is also extremely important in reviving Chinese opera today. Professional or amateur, at home or in diaspora, Chinese opera today deeply depends on the artistic, literary, administrative, technical, educational, and financial support of women. Women dominate both the production and consumption sides of the art. Wang An Ch’i, arguably the most significant female playwright in Chinese opera today, has been an instrumental figure in promoting innovative jingju in Taiwan in the past two decades. The staging of The Dialogue at the Green Mound is the so-­called “little theatre” approach. “Little theatre” (xiao juchang) in Taiwan is a term usually associated with Western-­style spoken drama but implies experimental spirit and low-­cost production. Like the

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spoken drama movement in the early twentieth-­century China, “little theatre” is usually associated with Western-­educated elite or college students. As traditional opera in Taiwan went through different reforms for the sake of survival, “little theatre” was one of the chosen forms for experimental jingju. The first production of The Dialogue took place in the “Experimental Theatre” space in the National Theatre in Taipei in 2006. There is a low curved ramp upstage, a full moon hanging in the sky with its reflection on the center floor. Two glass cubes downstage can be adapted freely as the Green Mound, mirrors, location markers, or entrances/exits. The characters from different dramatic and literary traditions flow in and out freely, breaking the boundaries of time and space, history and imagination, all congregating in the fisherwoman’s dream. All the interwoven histories and dramatic works, which appear as dialogues in nonsensical dreams, are the new écriture féminine created by Wang An-­Ch’i for these female characters, who “have been driven away as violently as from their bodies.” It is as if Wang An Ch’i is telling these women, “Your body is yours. Take it!”73 Wang An-­Ch’i returns the voice and biopower to these women, who, through dialogue, demystify and deconstruct their lives in the dramatic canon and restore their bodies as the production site of jouissance for themselves, not just a reproductive vehicle for gendered nationalism. For the first time in theater history, border-­ crossing drama is taken out of the frame of traditional political ideology, such as patriotism, patriarchy, and the concept of Chinese vs. barbarians. The director Li Hsiao-­Ping says in an interview: “This play does not take a hegemonic way to give a singular interpretation of the text, but to leave it in a loose and obscure state; audiences receive some information, incorporate their own emotions, and experience the emotions of the characters in a dark space.”74 The apparently frivolous “private dialogues” (whispers) of these female characters are the most powerful rewriting of border-­crossing drama. Hero of Half a Lifetime, Li Ling (Banshi yingxiong: Li Ling 半世英雄, 李陵) is another millennial play that deconstructs the conventional border-­ crossing economy and gendered nationalism.75 1/2 Q Theatre (Erfen zhiyi Q 二分之一Q), a small unique troupe in Taiwan with a peculiar name, is devoted to experimental works on hybrid forms of Chinese opera. The founding members—­Dai Junfang (director), Yang Hanru (kunqu actress specializing in male roles), and Shen Huiru (playwright and adapter)—­ started collaborating in 2004 and the troupe was officially founded in 2006. With kunqu (represented by the letter “Q” in its name) as its basic form,

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their works also incorporate other performing arts and operatic traditions, installation arts, and multimedia. The “1/2” of their name speaks of the hybridity of their productions. While actors are dressed in traditional costume and perform in operatic style(s), the mise-­en-­scène is usually modern. Most scripts are based on one or more stories from the traditional repertoire but with new imagination; therefore, extracted operatic scenes/songs are interpolated with newly created works from multiple performing arts genres and languages.76 Usually with only one creation a year, and with the “little theatre” experimental spirit as their goal, 1/2 Q has maintained its freshness and significance in the theater scene in Taiwan for a decade. Hero of Half a Lifetime, Li Ling premiered in 2008 and was restaged in 2015 with modifications. The anonymous nanxi The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep (chapter 2) is a major source for later dramatic works on Su Wu or Li Ling. The few scenes that dramatize the meetings between Su Wu and Li Ling from Tending the Sheep offer the basic plot and characterization for Hero of Half a Lifetime, but the emphasis is shifted and now Li Ling is the protagonist, the “Hero of Half a Lifetime” (banshi yingxiong). Like all the previous productions, 1/2 Q challenges the visual conception of traditional opera by incorporating installation art. The ingenious scene design features mainly a large centerpiece, a platform in the shape of a spinning top, which can stay perfectly horizontal or lean toward any direction or turn like a turntable. The angle and light suggest different mood, situation, time, location, and state of mind. It could be a terrace, a battlefield, or any specific or neutral space. Projections also contribute to the fluidity of the transitions among dream, memory, imagination, and cruel reality. Similar to The Dialogue at the Green Mound, Hero of Half a Lifetime also starts with minor characters, and the whole play could be interpreted as a dream or imagination of this minor character. When the play begins, Su Da, the servant of Su Wu, meets Old Man (played by Sword Spirit, Jianhun) in a deserted old battlefield of Li Ling. Sword Spirit, sometimes as Li Ling’s alter ego, sometimes as his spokesperson, transforms into different minor characters throughout the play, and here he is disguised as an old man. Su Da offers wine to Old Man, and they discuss Li Ling’s legendary battle and whether he surrendered to the Xiongnu voluntarily or by force. The play focuses on Li Ling’s ambiguous identity and ambivalent feelings. Is he a hero, loser, traitor, opportunist, or merely a survivor in a confused world? How is his survival different from Cai Yan’s? His helpless situa-

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tion is explored from different angles in the play: his lack of backup military support, the mistrust and injustice from the Han court, his disillusion for the Han emperor because of the cruelty inflicted on his family, his love from the beautiful Xiongnu princess, the appreciation from the Xiongnu chieftain, and the very basic human instinct: survival. The nuptial bliss is therefore bittersweet. Li Ling rejects the name “hero”: “a loser at the battlefield, merely surviving, how can I deserve the word ‘hero’?” His sweet bride replies: “Hero or loser, who cares? (Smiles) From now on you’ll just be my husband” (scene 2).77 The princess also plays an important part in saving Li Ling’s life: when all his troops are gone and he is lost in the desolate desert, he draws the sword when he hears the thundering drums: Li Ling: Kill myself and my name will be glorified; at the end of the road, the breeze is cool and moon is bright. Princess (who has caught up with him): Wait! Winning and losing are normal affairs for soldiers. General, why do you need to die? Li Ling: If I don’t die, I am not a man. Princess: Li Ling! You are a general. You’ve exerted yourself and shouldn’t feel ashamed. Why die? (Provoking) Perhaps you can’t afford to lose? Li Ling: Nonsense! Fallen tiger just wants to die as soon as possible! (He raises the sword) (Sword Spirit enters) Sword Spirit: General, this sword is the heirloom of your family. Your grandfather expected your military victory would glorify the family name. . . . Your grandfather did not fulfill his dreams and died in injustice. Are you also going to die in such ambiguity? A series of video projections of the Fortune Teller, the Xiongnu chieftain, and the Han emperor—­all played by Sword Spirit, are shown to express various views on Li Ling’s suicide intention. The sword in Li Ling’s hand drops, making a loud sound. Li Ling exits and sings off stage while the princess dances. Li Ling: Mockery and accusation are up to others, all narrated arbitrarily by History 笑談罪愆皆由天, 任青史漫編.

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A chorus sings “Marionette,” a song from the nanxi The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep, indicating Li Ling’s fate is controlled by others. A number of scenes of Su Wu and Li Ling on the Terrace for Viewing the Homeland, following the Tending the Sheep tradition, dramatize Su Wu’s “iron” loyalty to the Han and show Li Ling’s forced surrender and resentment toward the Han court. As explained in chapter 2, the injustice done to him and his family is a major reason for his disillusionment towards the Han. When Su Wu asks why Li Ling is willing to live here in shame, the latter explains, “I have a country that I cannot devote myself to; I don’t have a home that I can return to” 有國難投, 無家可歸! (scene 3). At their parting scene, before Su Wu’s return after nineteen years, Li Ling performs a sword dance for Su Wu. Half drunk, Li Ling is stumbling and dancing wildly with a sword and Su Wu stops him, fearing Li Ling is going to commit suicide. Li Ling laughs: “Killing myself? My biggest failure is that I didn’t kill myself!” (scene 5). Various projections also indicate the nonsensical nature of historical and dramatic discourse, the irony of allegiance to a capricious emperor, and the hopelessness of the corrupt political state. For instance, a projection shows a brief scene of General Yang Linggong in a desperate situation similar to Li Ling’s defeat. General Yang is from the famous Yang family devoted to the Song court (more than a thousand years after Li Ling’s time). After losing the entire troop, General Yang wanders in the desert and sees the Tablet of Li Ling (played by Sword Spirit).78 He wishes to kill himself to show his loyalty, but after striking his head three times on the tablet, he does not manage to die. The personified Tablet says (holding his hurt head): “Alas! What grants his heroism is I, the Li Ling Tablet. What a tra-­, tragic, tragedy!”79 General Yang exits after the failed suicide attempt. A number of slides also narrate Su Wu’s story: In 87 BC, Emperor Wu died and Emperor Zhao succeeded the throne. The Han and the Xiongnu wanted to establish peace and Su Wu was welcomed home. Su Wu received gifts and official titles after returning to Han. Soon he was falsely accused and lost his official position. His son was executed. Ironically, Li Ling’s story has a happier ending. A slide reads,

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Fig. 14. The legendary meeting between Su Wu (left) and Li Ling (right). Li Ling (young) is luxuriously dressed (in Xiongnu outfit, indicated by the pheasant feathers and fur), while Su Wu (old) is in plain Han clothes, holding his envoy staff. From Hero of Half a Lifetime, Li Ling (Banshi yingxiong: Li Ling 半世英雄, 李陵, 2008) by ½ Q Theatre. Courtesy of ½ Q Theatre.

The descendants of Li Ling and the princess made marriage alliance with the Xianbei [another ethnic tribe] and grew very strong. They established the Northern Wei dynasty in 386 AD, 460 years after Li’s death. At the end of the play, the stage returns to the situation in the first scene and Su Da enters. He says, “I searched everywhere. Ah, my wine flask is here! . . . How peculiar! How strange!”

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Throughout history, in both historical and literary narratives, there is a clear split between China, a romantic and timeless notion of the ideal Han Chineseness, and the real, contemporary China, which, perhaps for the most part of its history, was ruled by capricious emperors and corrupt court officials. The ideal situation is that the two types of China are in sync, as often imagined in dramatic works of wise rulers and loyal subjects; martyrdom therefore makes sense in romantic nationalism. Li Ling is an exception: despite his change of allegiance, he is nevertheless depicted, both in historical texts and on stage, as a fallen national hero whose ill fate is out of his control. The sympathy for Li Ling itself creates a rupture between the two types of China, the one Li Ling represents and the one he betrays. The sympathy itself is a form of political critique. In Hero, Li Ling is a disillusioned survivor who has lost faith in Su Wu’s blind patriotism to the current nation-­state; therefore he is only qualified to be a hero of half a lifetime, a half hero, from the Chinese point of view. 1/2 Q’s 2008 and 2015 productions of Hero offer a reading of the current Chinese problems. With the PRC as an economic and military power center, Taiwan and Hong Kong would be in a defenseless situation if China were to make a move toward hardline unification. Therefore, Hong Kong autonomy or Taiwan independence is a defiant and even heroic gesture but probably a hopeless dream and futile martyrdom, unless the world superpowers would intervene. In the case of Taiwan, the political voice and power are divided along party lines between “independence” (which would be economic suicide) or “maintaining the status quo” (which is a survivor’s strategy of extending a peaceful present). As the democratic process makes possible the change of administration every four years, the frequent alteration of national policy toward China does not offer the stability that many people long for. In other words, the ontology of the nation as well as the national borders are always in flux. Some pro-­independence voice argues that “Taiwanese” (those who emigrated to Taiwan before 1949) belong to a different ethnicity, completely denouncing the Chinese (Han) ethnicity, which belongs to the “Mainlanders” (those who came with the KMT in 1949). On the other hand, the small number of elderly “Mainlanders” who have lived on the island for nearly seven decades, have no other homes to return to. Those who were born in Taiwan after 1949 are caught in the “Taiwanese vs. Mainlander” rhetoric of the last generation. What kind of resonance does it have when Li Ling says, “I have a country that I cannot devote myself to; I don’t have a home that I can return to!”? Is

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national loyalty still relevant since the change of ruling party might alter the fate of Taiwan? Does the idea of the romantic and eternal China and Chineseness still make sense to the current Taiwanese population that feels so alienated from the current Chinese nation-­state? If the eternal Chineseness and sacred national borders are no longer attainable, all the traditional stories of loyalty and righteousness seem absurd and the whole border-­crossing genre can simply be interpreted as blind patriotism to the current capricious nation-­state. The ironic ending of Hero explains that neither allegiance nor treason determines the fate. Like marionettes, all Chinese are suspended in the liminality created by various borders and historical narratives, and yet their hands and feet are tied and their fate is controlled by others. Chinese have gone through a long twentieth century of political and ideological fractures, calamities, and tragedies, and amazing recoveries and rebirth. Today’s Chinese are suspended in liminality, as it is impossible to agree on what it means to be Chinese anymore, and yet the Chinese hegemony or international demand leaves little choice. Some cannot be the Chinese they want, while some cannot not be the Chinese they don’t want. From the perspective of border-­crossing drama, this is the first time in history that China cannot be easily narrated by the “self vs other” rhetoric, as the borders among different Chinese nations and ethnicities are constantly redrawn and redefined. Throughout history the imagined bleak borderland, the sacrifice of pathetic women, and the dramatic pathos resulted from gendered nationalism have created insurmountable power in the history of Chinese theater. The modern, alternative, deconstructed border-­crossing drama relies on violent erasure of existing borders by the state, be it the state-­sanctioned multiculturalism or the deliberately ambiguous 1992 Consensus. The hegemonically imposed border crossings have created more confined borderlands of unsolvable grievances and confusion.

Conclusion The resentment of the pipa song is everlasting! 一曲琵琶恨正長！ —­“Wang Zhaojun,” a popular song sung by Yang Yan

Taipei, 2015. At a cheerful birthday celebration in a luxurious hotel suite, in front of plush furniture sat a giant TV equipped with surround sound and multiple microphones for any aspiring revelers to challenge the virtuosity of the singer on the screen. The song on screen is a miniature modern version of the traditional border-­crossing scene, in which Wang Zhaojun recounts her misery, describes the borderland, and expresses her deep resentment. The heavy makeup and outdated hairstyle of the singer did not affect our appreciation for her artistry. We followed the dramatic twist and turn, climb and drop of her voice, which peaked at the word hen (恨, resentment), just a few notes before the end of the song. Her voice lingered and eventually died down. Big applause! Big relief! Big laugher! Singing the song “Wang Zhaojun” is always a tremendous challenge: the frequent change of tempo, the wide range of voice register, the classical lyrics, and the length of the song (about seven minutes) make it one of the most virtuoso pieces of modern Chinese popular music. I knew this song as a child growing up in Taiwan and was surprised to see it still in regular circulation of karaoke repertoire decades later.1 I can imagine for someone who grew up in Hong Kong, the karaoke version of Hongxiannü’s Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind in Cantonese opera would offer the same affective gratification; perhaps literati and their close friends also enjoyed singing along the “fashionable tunes” of Zhaojun in the Ming and Qing dynasties. From the thirteenth century until today, from the capital city to remote villages, from aristocrats’ banquet halls to market places, from stage to screen, border-­crossing drama has remained popular, transcending divisions of time, space, and class throughout Chinese history and in different transnational Chinese regions. Through the distillation process, border-­ crossing drama has for centuries become a well-­tested formula and “perfor-

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mative discourse that narrates the nation.”2 Today, no matter which form it takes, the performance of border-­crossing drama still contains a classical and operatic aura. Despite the seeming lack of strict national, cultural, and gender borders, especially on the World Wide Web, border-­crossing drama nevertheless proliferates and continues its implication in gendered nationalism. Each viewing or singing reinforces the ideology of border crossing in the collective memory. The border in border-­crossing drama is rhetorical and performative, acquiring its significance against the background of the contemporary political milieu and sociological conditions. It multiplies to encompass a number of ideologies and exercises its Chinese nationalist and patriarchal power by constantly defining and redefining China and its Other. As a unique genre that deals with gender and intercultural conflicts in the borderland, border-­ crossing drama resolves discordances through the marginalization of the Other and the suicide of a woman. The drama creates a liminal space where the ideology of borders is underscored and feminine pathos is displayed. Starting with Wang Zhaojun’s suicide on the Yuan stage, and forever after, border-­crossing drama turns upon the question of gender. Depictions of female suicide are universally used as a means of achieving dramatic pathos, but in border-­crossing drama, besides providing sensual pleasure, suicide also confirms Chinese notions of ethnic and gender hierarchy. A woman’s sedentary subjectivity3 and frontier positionality4 indicate that any border-­crossing attempt by women might disturb the stability of patriarchy. Wang Zhaojun, therefore, is the virginal martyr who protects Chinese men from the outer chaos, while Cai Yan, conceived of as a whore, is mixed with the chaos. Cai Yan’s return and her task to compile history provide her an entry ticket into the Symbolic Order, so a new border—­the portable gender border—­immediately arises to position her at the frontier of marginality. The women who kill themselves on the other side of the border are already tainted by outside chaotic elements, but their suicide brings them closer to the status of virginal martyrdom. A woman is neither inside nor outside, but on the margin of both inside and outside. Her neither/nor situation not only confines her in the liminal space, it also provides the either/or staging possibilities. This liminal space ostensibly lies between Chinese civilization and Xiongnu barbarism; in fact, however, it is located between Chinese patriotism and gendered nationalism. Femininity is heightened both by Chinese female virtue (or the imitation of it or shame at lacking it) and by flirtation with exotic barbarism. Intense

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dramatic pleasure is achieved either through commendation of Wang Zhaojun’s death or through condemnation of Cai Yan’s survival. As a male general, Su Wu appears to be invulnerable to gender judgment. His marriage to a barbarian wife does his reputation no harm. A woman, however, often has to die to give Su Wu’s border crossing its significance. The melodramatic death of a woman at the border, whether it is a Chinese prostitute or Su Wu’s barbarian wife, accentuates Su Wu’s masculinity; it is partly for this reason that such deaths became a popular element in Su Wu plays of late imperial and early modern times. Li Ling’s situation is unique; his change of allegiance and survival surprisingly did not incite public shaming. By queering the nationalist reading, I find that Li Ling’s ambiguity offers an alternative view to gendered nationalism. Reiterating Muñoz’s concept of queer futurity, we might be able to imagine a potential border crossing that goes beyond the prison house of here and now.5 By appropriating orthodox accounts of history and using literary allusions in drama, literati empowered themselves by including themselves in the orthodox historical and literary tradition. By possessing the freedom to cross the borders between orthodox and invented histories, between high-­and low-­ranking knowledges, they further affirmed their hegemony. The waves of Western imperialism in late imperial China was destructive but simultaneously inspirational; it also redefined the national and ethnic borders and transformed the entire China into a confused and hybridized borderland. While the elite shifted their focus to China’s modernity project and spoken drama, the savoir des gens embodied in border-­crossing drama was returned to the populace. As the hybrid borderland experience was a reality to the local theater artists, new forms of gender borders were formed to provide more sensualized and affective gendered nationalism. Regional border-­crossing plays might reflect popular resistance to Western colonization or the elite classes and might defend the imagined versions of China or traditional art, but “internal colonialism” still required an act of stage violence against women. In modern China, when the definition of Chinese and China changed to include all ethnicities and cultures, border-­crossing drama took on the political mission to demonstrate the state policy of multiculturalism, which can be interpreted as an updated form of sinicization. With the elimination of female suicide, playwrights appeared lost and struggled to find new ways to generate effective theatricality and affective pathos. Exoticizing ethnic minorities to form the multicultural spectacle hence became a new way to

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theatricalize border-­crossing drama. In recent years, through the process of double Orientalization, the newly branded opulent China presented to the world its soft power in multicultural Chinese/Oriental extravaganza. On the other hand, with the increasing transnational exchange and collaboration among Chinese nations today, the cultural and economic borders are disappearing while political borders still stand firmly. The intervention of international powers complicates the “local” Chinese problems. The anxiety and confusion of the transnational Chinese borderlands are the new features of border-­crossing drama in the new millennium. The linear orthodox history and linear literary tradition ensure the continuation of the narrative of gendered nationalism in border-­crossing drama. The act of writing history or being written into history is the concept that is ingrained in characters’ psychology. Since the “brush” has been in the possession of men throughout most of our history, women often have had to rely on extreme measures (such as suicide) in order to be written into history. Even the talented Cai Yan has difficulties obtaining the right to hold the brush. Here I propose to consider music as an alternative form of feminine writing and feminine resistance. Even though music is an integral part of Chinese theater, the creators of music (composer, arranger, musician, and others) are rarely named in premodern times. On the other hand, in plays, both Wang Zhaojun and Cai Yan are constantly referenced and defined by their music. While Cai Yan’s legitimacy is challenged as a writer, she is never questioned as a composer/musician. Music is a tool for the female character to have effective and efficacious communication with higher power, to affectively touch people’s hearts, and to have a telepathic connection with women through time, forming an alternative lineage of all the women whose suffering and voices have been erased by the male brush. Cai Yan’s intercultural Eighteen Stanzas can even be considered a form of metaphorical pacification without involving bloodshed or the death of a woman. Her resistance—­ disguised under the most feminine voice—­is sung and heard again and again throughout history. I propose to consider that it is through attentive and creative listening, appreciating, and even singing along (it is not uncommon that the audience might hum along during an operatic performance) that the female voice is heard, understood, and even embodied and passed on by female audience members from generation to generation. The attentive and creative listening, which also includes listening to silence and deliberate imagination when the

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music is only presented in dialogue or as a visual sign, could identify a distilled feminine voice that transcends theatrical genre and casting convention. All the continuous effort of finding and reaffirming that feminine voice has set the foundation for later female writers for border-­crossing drama.

Nondramatic Reiteration of Border-­ Crossing Rhetoric This section briefly demonstrates how the peace-­alliance marriage theme—­ two millennia after its inception—­has penetrated many levels of transnational Chinese lives and manifests itself in many dimensions today. Wang Zhaojun still comes out as the prevalent symbol among all the reiterations. The old border-­crossing rhetoric is recycled and reappropriated in different realms in contemporary lives, such as tourism, consumerism, politics, religion, and popular culture. Both the supposed birthplace and tomb of Wang Zhaojun are ubiquitous, and local Zhaojun legends have multiplied throughout history, especially in the modern era with the development of modern nationalism and tourism.6 Kwong Hing Foon points to a “Wang Zhaojun Movement,” when old Wang Zhaojun legends were highly valued by modern intelligentsia and artists as their way of responding to the political slogan “ethnic union.” In other words, Wang Zhaojun was once again appropriated and turned into a “product” to “serve politics.”7 The Green Mound is probably the earliest product under the Zhaojun “brand.” With the opening of internal borders between ethnic regions and the rise of tourism, the Wang Zhaojun brand has generated countless localized merchandise. In Hohhot, Inner Mongolia, the Zhaojun Tomb and Zhaojun Museum are the typical local attractions. There is also a grand Zhaojun Hotel built in 1987, with the “Arch of Peace-­ Alliance Marriage” as the entrance. Other Zhaojun products include Zhaojun yellow rice wine, Zhaojun cigarettes, Zhaojun camel-­hair quilts,8 and Zhaojun powder.9 Other than literature and dramatization (plays, films, TV series), border-­crossing stories are also disseminated in the form of comic books and graphic novels. Meng Qingjiang (1937–­) has produced more than a hundred stories on historical and legendary figures in this genre. Some of them are published in simple, black and white, palm-­sized comic-­book-­style (such

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as two volumes of Wang Zhaojun, originally published in 1980), and some are elaborate, colorful, and luxuriously printed large-­size books (such as Cai Wenji, which was awarded a national prize; originally published in 1981). His works represent the voice of the party and follow the modern storyline of Cai Wenji (Guo Moruo) and Wang Zhaojun (Cao Yu). He also has works glorifying revolutionary heroes of the Chinese Communist Party.10 Transhistorical and cross-­references are common in border-­crossing plays, but most of the time the characters maintain their distinctive conventional characteristics so even the “errors” seem logical because of the writers’ familiarity with the canon. A recent report shows that such a “mix-­up” at the popular level has deviated greatly from the elite logic. In the city of Chong­ qing (Sichuan province), a cluster of sculptures at a popular shopping plaza caught the attention of a college student; this Chinese major intuitively felt “something’s wrong!” In the busy shopping plaza, there are a few life-­sized metal sheep sculptures and a tall tablet; on the tablet is a standing figure of a classical beauty with some texts next to her: “Zhaojun Tending the Sheep” (Zhaojun muyang 昭君牧羊). The college student’s report immediately invited online ridicule: “If Zhaojun is tending the sheep, what’s Su Wu doing, leaving the pass behind?” The local residents were satirized as not having enough “culture” to understand the classical allusions, as they simply treated this landmark as a “place name” for a popular meeting spot.11 Perhaps “Zhaojun tending the sheep” seems a laughable error at first glance; on the other hand, is having her tending sheep more absurd than making her kill herself? Such local knowledge, “located low down on the hierarchy, beneath the required level of cognition or scientificity,”12 is naturally rendered illegitimate by the elites. If the theme of border-­crossing drama has already permeated every tier of the society, however, why do the elites believe they have the exclusive ownership of distorted history? Such “confusion” is not uncommon in folk traditions, which are often combined with local beliefs and customs and orally transmitted without Han literati’s “supervision.” A glance of the “God of Riches” (Caibao shen 財 寶神) ritual performance of the Tu 土 ethnic group (in Qinghai) reveals the versatile utility and charm of border-­crossing stories. The ritual performances—­a combined spectacular procession and theatricalized singing and dancing by villagers—­are outdoor performances in the winter, for the sake of praying for peace among villages and prosperity for all. The origins of the rituals are unknown. Instead of the benevolence of the deities, the local traditions emphasize the fear for the vengeful supernatural power because

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of the injustice he suffers. The “pacification” is not a simple-­minded gesture but a complex negotiation of various powers and belief systems. Despite variations, the main story line goes like this: Wang Zhaojun goes on her peace-­alliance mission, escorted by Su Wu, who refuses the Xiongnu chieftain’s invitation to change his allegiance and is banished to tend rams in the desolate land. A female yeti (the local savage, ogre, ape equivalent) tricked Su Wu into her cave; she took care of him but also forced him to have sex with her. They had a son named Su Jin, a clever mixed-­blood covered with body hair. Su Wu fled back to China without taking the son, but later Su Jin joined him. One legend had it that his mother tore him apart, separating body and soul, so it was only his soul that traveled to China. Su Jin was resentful and caused a lot of troubles because of his father’s abandonment and the discrimination he suffered in the Han society (his hairy appearance terrified Han people). Various methods of appeasement were tried but failed, including putting him under a large golden bell. Eventually the emperor granted him the title “God of Riches” and he became a deity worshiped by people. Peace and prosperity finally were restored.13 The performances nowadays involve all male performers who wear sheepskin outfits inside out (showing the fur), and the god has a chicken-­ feather duster as his mane. Another legend about the sheepskin explains that Wang Zhaojun had a miscarriage during her border-­crossing journey (she was pregnant with the emperor’s son Liu Yulong) and she covered the dead baby with sheepskin. The spirit of the dead boy haunted both the Xiongnu and the Han, so rituals were established by both sides to appease the soul and to pray for peace and prosperity.14 It is fascinating to see how terrifying the result of border crossing could be without a beautiful woman’s suicide. The miscarriage incident presents the peace-­alliance marriage and the border-­crossing journey as a cruel and inhumane practice. The God of Riches—­hybrid of human and beast or miscegenation of Han and barbarian—­encounters injustice because he represents a new species, the ethnic and cultural misfit. Unlike the earlier border-­crossing stories imagined by literati in their luxurious studios, these local legends were created in the borderland and truly reflect the utility and horror of border crossing. I have already discussed the peculiar Zhaojun Temple in Taiwan and its local significance for the early immigrants in Taiwan (chapter 3). Both the Zhaojun Temple in Taiwan and the God of Riches in Qinghai remind us that despite the high rhetoric of diplomacy by the government or lite-

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rati, people of the borderland truly understand that peace, which might be obtained through bloodshed and suffering, cannot be taken for granted. The sense of awe and fear is always present in these local rituals because the deities might be vengeful or unpredictable. A divination poem in Taiwan further confirms that the ill-­fated Zhaojun reflects such anxiety in local life. Seeking advice through divination rituals (qiuqian 求籤) at temples is a popular practice, and the drawn divination stick is accompanied by a poem which requires interpretation by specialists. “Wang Zhaojun Appeasing Barbarians,” a sign (qian 籤) which is interpreted as the “worst sign” (xiaxia qian 下下籤), predicts illness and death, dangerous journey, loss of fortune, and unhappy marriage. Generally following Wang Zhaojun’s life, the divination poem explains that despite the apparent good fortune and happiness today, disaster will strike and everything will dissipate; only loneliness and sadness remain.15 While Wang Zhaojun’s peace mission is lauded and herself worshiped as a goddess, her personal suffering and sacrifice are seen as the worst possible fortune. Loneliness, sadness, miscarriage, illness, and death—­we all need a Wang Zhaojun to bring us peace and prosperity, but no one would ever desire to have her misfortune. The folk beliefs perfectly explain the Two-­Shore situation today. In the Zhaojun Temple in Taiwan, the original statue of Zhaojun holds a scepter instead of a pipa. In 2009, the temple administration decided to replace the scepter with a pipa, and a new statue was made to be given to the Xingshan County of Hubei province, the supposed birthplace of Wang Zhaojun. The gifting of the “Taiwan version of Zhaojun” is promoted as her “homecoming” (hui niangjia) and intercultural exchange between the Two Shores. The voluntary “regifting” or “returning” Zhaojun, in a pseudo-­official manner, reminds us of Guo Moruo’s Cai Wenji, in which Lord Zuoxian “gives” Cai Yan to Dong Si. This gesture also indicates that Taiwan voluntarily takes on a subordinate position as “barbarians” in the premodern border-­crossing mindset. Zhaojun had crossed the dangerous waters of the Taiwan Strait to appease the barbarians on this island; she was allowed to go home after her task was accomplished. Such old-­fashioned peace-­alliance marriage concepts also creep in from time to time in political rhetoric during today’s transnational Chinese transactions. In 2006, China gave Taiwan a gift of two pandas (Tuantuan and Yuanyuan). The vice president of Taiwan, Lü Xiulian, called the gesture “propaganda” (for the sake of reunification), and the two pandas as “the modern Wang Zhaojun.”16 She lamented the fate of the cute pandas who

Fig. 15. Wang Zhaojun, appearing in a manner of a goddess (along with Goddess of Mercy and Mazu), holds a pipa. Zhaojun Temple (Zhaojun miao 昭君廟, also named Xinlian Temple [Xinlian si 新蓮寺], Miaoli, Taiwan, 2017). Courtesy of Lu Peng-­ Chung 盧本中 (photographer).

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were forced to come to Taiwan, put on Taiwanese clothes, and listen to the Taiwanese language.17 By taking on such border-­crossing rhetoric, Vice President Lü cast the Taiwanese as the animal-­like barbarians (a species lower than pandas) to be appeased. In a speech at the conference “Exchange of Higher Education of the Taiwan Strait” (2012), a high-­ranking official from China encouraged Chinese students to date Taiwanese students during their exchange opportunity. His speech was immediately interpreted as “Chinese men should date Taiwanese women for the sake of peace and reunification.” The peace-­alliance marriage was on everyone’s mind, as one reader responded, “patriotic Chinese men should try to date the daughter of Ma Yingjiu (the president of Taiwan)!”18 If we follow the gender/ethnicity/nation implications in the traditional border-­crossing logic, peace would be established between the Two Shores if the “princess” of Taiwan (the daughter of the Taiwan president) were to cross the Strait and to be married to a Chinese man. A question arises: which is the barbarian side of this story then?

Performative Being as the Eternal Border I was surprised to learn that the idea of gendered border-­crossing goes beyond the “Two Shores.” As the dramaturg of I Dream of Chang and Eng,19 I was doing research on Afong Moy, a character in the play and one of the first Chinese women in the nineteenth-­century American spotlight, and I came across this passage in an 1838 newspaper: Chinese Tradition.—­The reason that the Chinese permit no woman of their nation to leave the country, or marry a “foreign barbarian,” is a tradition, that when China is conquered, it will be by the son of a barbarian, by a Chinese woman. Afong Moy can never return home in safety.20 Little is known about Afong Moy other than her bound feet, “four inches and an eighth in length,” “about the size of an infant’s of one year old.”21 Her “performance” mainly involved sitting and walking (to display her bound feet), eating with chopsticks, and speaking and singing in Chinese. In other words, being a Chinese woman was the show. Antebellum society, decades before the Page Act and Chinese Exclusion Act, was a relatively friendly period for “Orientals.”22 And yet Afong Moy, after crossing the national

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border, was confined by the footlights and the gendered and Orientalist gaze. Although Afong Moy did not come to the States in a peace-­alliance marriage, the gendered rhetoric worked the same: She was not allowed to recross the border because of her tainted identity. Wang Zhaojun struggled with Chinese patriarchy and gendered nationalism, Afong Moy with an American gendered and racialized gaze, transnational Chinese today with an identity crisis, and an immigrant scholar like myself with the bamboo ceiling and ethnic siloism in American academia—­we cannot not be “Chinese” (or Chinese women). The gendered and racialized performative being is what the world expects from us. As my study shows, the Wang Zhaojun legend has been on the collective Chinese psyche for more than two millennia, first in poetry and later in drama and other media. My analysis of gendered nationalism and institutionalized multiculturalism helps explain the sociopolitical masterminds behind the continuation of the border-­crossing dramatic tradition. But what is the real draw for her story in every tier of the society, all over Chinese regions, in multiple languages and performance styles for centuries? Returning to the birthday celebration, the prolonged high-­pitched sound hen (resentment) lingers in the air as long as the singer wishes, as the entire orchestra is holding the breath waiting for her fingers to guide the next move: the completion of the border-­crossing action. It is exactly the intense pathos of the hen, the sense of resentment of being trapped in a helpless and confused state—­the dilemma between patriarchy and patriotism, between race and gender, between personal will and state hegemony, between crossing and uncrossing borders—­that creates the ultimate theatricality and popularity of border-­crossing drama. With her feminine soaring voice, she takes everyone’s breath with her while she hovers with rubato before she gives it satisfactory closure. Since she cannot cross the border, she takes everyone with her into the stymied borderland to experience the intense pathos. Her theatricality to suspend everyone in the limbo, even only for a few extra seconds, is the intense catharsis one goes to theater for. While a female suicide seems to offer a quick way out of the troubled situation in premodern times, what happens when such a simple-­minded solution no longer works? Like marionettes, whose bodies are suspended and whose fate is controlled by others, the characters in border-­crossing drama today experience the same situation; the resentment of being suspended in the “status quo” with an unknown future (1992 Consensus and

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SAR)23 and the secret wish that some magical power (like the body of Wang Zhaojun) would provide the ultimate solution are the new readings of border-­crossing drama today. The unpredictable transnational superpower (such as the United States), the vertical kind of intervention in a borderland defined by constant lateral crossings, increases the anxiety and resentment for today’s Chinese problems. When the borders are in flux, any crossing and uncrossing actions seem to lose their original meaning. The rise of conservative power and anti-­globalization rhetoric in the West today reflects the nostalgia for the strict ethnic, gender, and national borders of the past. The nineteenth-­century footlights are ready to be reinstalled to intensify the gendered, racialized, and xenophobic gaze. Uncrossing the borders is a new world order that awaits us.24

Glossary bairi weixin 百日維新: One-­Hundred-­Day Reform, a political reform in 1898. biansai shi 邊塞詩: frontier poetry, a poetic genre that depicts the frontier landscape and war-­related sentiment. Caibao shen 財寶神: God of Riches, who was the son of Su Wu and a Xiongnu female yeti (ape-­like creature). The ritual performances for the God of Riches in the Tu ethnic tradition involves several border-­ crossing characters. chadan 搽旦: painted-­face female, similar to jing, usually a wicked female (a role type). chang 場: a scene. chegu 車鼓 (cheguxi 車鼓戲, chegunong 車鼓弄, cheguzhen 車鼓陣): a form of dramatic procession in Taiwan. chongmo 沖末: minor male, who usually opens the play (a role type). chou 丑: clown (a role type). chu 齣: a scene. chuanju 川劇: Sichuan opera. chuanqi 傳奇: marvel tales or plays. ci 詞: lyric poetry. dagu 大鼓: big drum; storytelling accompanied by drums, from the Beijing area. daizhao yeting 待詔掖庭: the Expectant Woman of the Inner Palace; title for a type of court lady. dan 旦: female (a role type). danben 旦本: female play; a zaju play whose sole singer is a female character. dongfang meixue東方美學: Oriental aesthetics. dongya bingfu東亞病夫: sick men of East Asia. fanli 凡例: rules for reading. fumo 副末: minor male (a role type).

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262 glossary

Fuzhou pinghua 福州平話: storytelling form from Fuzhou, Fujian province. gaojiaxi 高甲戲: gaojia opera from Taiwan. gezaixi 歌仔戲: song drama; Taiwanese opera; an operatic form popular in Taiwan and Fujian. gongti shi 宮體詩: palace-­style poetry; a poetic genre centering on lives of the inner court. hangdang 行當: role type, such as sheng, dan, jing, and chou. heqin 和親: peace-alliance marriage. hongchuan 紅船: red boat; the boat that Cantonese opera troupes travel in; the synonym of Cantonese opera. huabu 滑步: slipping steps; a specialized movement of Chinese opera. huadan 花旦: flower female (a role type), with coquettish and vivacious body movements. huaju 話劇: spoken drama; Western-­style non-­music-­based theater. hujia 胡笳: reed pipes (musical instrument). jiamen 家門: a brief introduction scene in nanxi or chuanqi; prologue. jiaose 角色: role type, same as hangdang 行當, such as sheng, dan, jing, and chou. jing 淨: painted face (a role type). jingju 京劇: Beijing opera, Peking opera. Jiu’er gongshi 九二共識: the 1992 Consensus between China and Taiwan. juan 卷: a volume. junge 軍歌: military song. keju 科舉: the imperial examination. kunqu 崑曲: Kun opera; with tunes originated in Kunshan, kunqu became synonymous with chuanqi and the national music form by mid-­Qing. laodan 老旦: old female (a role type). laosheng 老生: old male (a role type). liang’an 兩岸 or haixia liang’an 海峽兩岸: Two Shores, or Two Shores of the Strait (Taiwan Strait); transnational matters related to Taiwan and China. lingchi 凌遲: an extreme form of punishment involving slicing the flesh with a knife. matangzi 馬趟子: horse riding; Chinese opera movement. minge 閩歌: Fujian opera; also called gezai 歌仔. minzu 民族: ethnicity.



glossary

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minzu wudao 民族舞蹈: a general term for Chinese dance in Taiwan; an “invented tradition” of classical, folk, and ethnic dances from China. mo 末: male (a role type). moben 末本: male play; a zaju play whose sole singer is a male character. nanxi 南戲: southern drama, southern plays; also called xiwen 戲文, Wenzhou zaju, or Yongjia zaju based on its origin. It was originally developed in the south in the Song dynasty. pipa 琵琶: a stringed musical instrument with a pear-­shaped body. qin 琴: a general term for stringed instrument. qu 曲: songs; a Yuan play. sheng 生: male (a role type). shi yi changji yi zhi yi 師夷長計以制夷: learning from the strengths of the barbarians in order to control barbarians; a strategy used during the modernization movement. shinpa 新派: new school; modernized kabuki. Sida mingdan 四大名旦: Four Great Divas; the four famous female impersonators of the twentieth century, including Mei Lanfang (1894–­ 1961), Cheng Yanqiu (1904–­1958), Shang Xiaoyun (1900–­1976), and Xun Huisheng (1900–­1968). Sida meinü 四大美女: Four Great Beauties; Xishi, Wang Zhaojun, Diao­ chan, and Yang Yuhuan (Yang Guifei) are the four legendary beauties. In literary tradition, the fate of all these women is entangled with state affairs. suqu 俗曲: popular songs and drama. tiedan 貼旦: or tie, minor female (a role type). timu 題目: title-­name. tuge 徒歌: unaccompanied song. waidan 外旦: minor female (a role type). waijing 外淨 (or fujing 副淨): minor painted face (a role type). waimo 外末 (or wai 外): minor male (a role type). wenxi 文戲: civil plays; civil plays emphasize singing, speaking, and miming. wenhua fuxing yundong 文化復興運動: Cultural Restoration Movement; a major effort of the ROC government to establish Chinese culture in the 1960s and 1970s. It was a counter movement of the Cultural Revolution of the PRC. woyu 臥魚: lying fish; a specialized movement of Chinese opera. wusheng 武生: martial male (a role type).

264 glossary

wuxi 武戲: martial plays. Martial plays value dancing and acrobatic fighting skills more than singing. xi 戲: drama, theater. xiaodan 小旦 (or dan’er 旦兒): young female (a role type). xiaomo 小末: young male (a role type). xiaosheng 小生: young male (a role type). xiezi 楔子: wedge; a demi-­act in zaju, which functions as prologue or an interval. xiqu 戲曲: a modern way to refer to the music-­based traditional Chinese theater. yangbanxi 樣板戲: model drama; the state sanctioned drama/opera during the Cultural Revolution. yaozi fanshen 鷂子翻身: hawk flipping; a specialized movement of Chinese opera. yige zhongguo, gezi biaoshu 一個中國, 各自表述: One China, Perspective Interpretations; the basic principle of the “1992 Consensus.” yuanben 院本: a dramatic style popular during the Jin 金 dynasty (1115–­ 1234), whose structure is similar to the zaju of the Song dynasty (960–­1278). yuanchang 圓場: circling stage; Chinese opera movement. yueju粵劇: Cantonese opera. yueqin 月琴: moon qin; stringed musical instrument with a round body. za 雜: miscellaneous roles (a role type). zaju 雜劇: variety play; the dominant dramatic form in the Yuan dynasty, usually in four zhe 折 (acts) and one xiezi 楔子 (a demi-­act). Many plays by known playwrights survived, although there is little record of music. zhe 折: an act in the zaju. zhengdan 正旦: major female (a role type). zhengming 正名: formal title of a Yuan zaju. zhengmo 正末: major male (a role type). zhonghua minzu 中華民族: Chinese ethnicity. zhuizhou 追舟: boat chasing; specialized stage movements in Chinese opera portraying being on a moving boat pursuing another. zidishu 子弟書: storytelling from the Beijing area. ziqiang yundong 自強運動: Self-­Strengthening Movement, a political reform during the 1860s.

Notes Introduction 1. The strike was an avoidable human error by the US military personnel. See Jamie Crawford, Barbara Starr, and Jason Hanna, “U.S. General: Human Error led to Doctors Without Borders Strike,” in CNN Politics, November 25, 2015. Although the Obama administration officially acknowledged and apologized for the error, this incident/accident nevertheless demonstrates the inequality of world powers in a border-­crossing situation. See also Michael D. Shear and Somni Sengupta, “Obama Issues Rare Apology Over Bombing of Doctors Without Borders Hospital in Afghanistan,” New York Times, October 7, 2015. 2. Rey Chow, The Protestant Ethnic and the Spirit of Capitalism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), 7. Foucault’s seminal work The History of Sexuality is the basic inspiration here. 3. Robert J. C. Young also reminds us of the biological and botanical origin of the term “hybrid” in the nineteenth century. See Robert J. C. Young, Colonial Desire: Hybridity in Theory, Culture, and Race (London: Routledge, 1995), 5–­6. For biopower, see Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, vol. 1, An Introduction, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Vitae, 1980), 84. 4. Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger (New York: Routledge, 2002). This book was originally published in 1966. 5. Ksenija Vidmar Horvat, “Engendering Borders: Some Critical Thoughts on Theories of Borders and Migration,” Klagenfurter Geographische Schriften 29 (2013): 106–­13. 6. Toril Moi, “Feminist, Female, Feminine,” in The Feminist Reader: Essays in Gender and the Politics of Literary Criticism, ed. Catherine Belsey and Jane Moore (New York: Basil Blackwell, 1989), 117–­32. 7. “Two shores” means the two sides of the Taiwan Strait, which separates Taiwan and Mainland China. “Two shores” functions as a synonym of “Taiwan-­China”; Hong Kong and Macau (Gang-­Ao 港澳) are often considered as one in this type of rhetoric because of their similar status as SARs. It is occasionally referred as “two shores and four places.” 8. This study focuses on the transnational Chinese locally, the Two Shores and Three Places. Other regions with a high Chinese population, such as South and Southeast Asia (especially Singapore) and Chinese diaspora in the United States, Canada, Europe, and Australia are not included in my study. 9. Sinophone studies is a recent, rising field. Although it seems less politically contentious based on its inclusivity, the definition of “sinophone” is debatable and even controversial. Sinophone can mean Chinese-­speaking, Chinese-­writing, and sometimes even Chinese-­related subjects. Note that “Chinese” in this context means multilingualism and multiculturalism as there are vastly different language systems under the term “Chinese language.” See Shu-­Mei Shih, Chien-­Hsin Tsai, and Brian Bernards, eds., Sinophone Studies: A Critical Reader (New York: Columbia University, 2013).

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Notes to Pages 4–6

10. For definitions of Chinese opera, see Daphne P. Lei, Operatic China: Staging Identity across the Pacific (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 8–­11. In the United States, the naming of Chinese “opera” (in the 1920s) coincided with the rise of American “musical,” which marked the beginning of American musical modernity. The term “opera” suggests archaic, quaint, and unpopular. From a comparative point of view in the West, Chinese opera’s nonrealistic and music-­based presentation is considered outside the “norm” or somehow behind the (Western and modern) times. The taxonomy of Chinese opera and Chinese theater goes beyond the popular (mis)conception of the two terms. According to the system of the Library of Congress, for scholarly works on Chinese traditional theater, if the term “opera” appears in the title, the book will most likely be categorized under “literature on music” (ML), as part of the collection of Music (M); if the word “theater” is used, it will be categorized as “drama” (PN), as part of Liteture (P). The Western epistemological hegemony continues to work at the bookshelves in the library. 11. Lei, Operatic China, and Daphne P. Lei, Alternative Chinese Opera in the Age of Globalization: Performing Zero (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011). 12. For instance, when writing a character, the playwright assigns the role type to this character, which requires extensive knowledge of music and performance style related to such specific role type. 13. Jill Dolan identifies “utopian performatives” as profound moments in live performances that lift the audience slightly above the present into a more hopeful future. She emphasizes the “performative” (doing) rather than utopia (no place): by believing in doing magic in performances and in a brighter future, utopian performatives might inspire social change. Jill Dolan, Utopia in Performance: Finding Hope at the Theater (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2005). 14. For the concept of invitation and bridge, see Cecil Robinson, No Short Journeys: The Interplay of Cultures in the History and Literature of the Borderlands (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1992), xii, xxiii. 15. Josette Féral, “Every Transaction Conjures a New Boundary,” in Critical Theory and Performance: Revised and Enlarged Edition, ed. Janelle G. Reinelt and Joseph R. Roach (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2007), 49–­66. While drawing borders is about territorialization, border crossing, which leads to pushing the boundaries and expanding the frontier, is indeed a movement of deterritorialization and reterritorialization. 16. Vladimir Kolossov and James Scott credit Hegel’s notion of border as a contradiction and paradox of discreteness and continuity (Science of Logic) for inspiring border discourse. Vladimir Kolossov and James Scott, “Selected Conceptual Issues in Border Studies,” Belgeo no. 1 (2013). 17. Ila Nicole Sheren, Portable Borders: Performance Art and Politics on the U.S. Frontera since 1984 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2015). 18. Aihwa Ong, Flexible Citizenship: The Cultural Logics of Transnationality (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1999). 19. Kolossov and Scott, “Selected Conceptual Issues,” trace border studies to the nineteenth century. Other economic-­based alliances such as ASEAN (Association of Southeast Asian Nations) and EU (European Union) also contribute to the multiplicity of border discourse. 20. For instance, in 1995, the Society of Dance History Scholars (SDHS) held a joint conference with the ADUCC (Association for Dance in Universities and Colleges in Canada) in



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Toronto, Canada, with “Border Crossings” as the conference theme; in 1996, the American Society for Theatre Research (ASTR) held its annual conference in Pasadena, California, and titled it “Border-­Crossings”; the theme of the 1999 conference of the Association for Theatre in Higher Education (ATHE) in Toronto was “Crossing Borders.” There were (and still are) numerous panels with “border crossing” as the theme in many conferences. 21. Gloria E. Anzaldúa, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza (San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books, 2007). Anzaldúa’s book, originally published in 1987, can be seen as the seminal work in the frontera border studies. Scholarship on performances in la frontera is a rich growing field. Here are only some representative works: Ramón Rivera-­Servera and Harvey Young, eds., Performance in the Borderlands (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011); Iani del Rosario Moreno, Theatre of the Borderlands: Conflict, Violence, and Healing (New York: Lexington Books, 2015); Alejandro L. Madrid, ed., Transnational Encounters: Music and Performance at the US-­Mexico Border (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011); Sheren, Portable Borders; Olga Nájera-­Ramírez, Norma E. Cantú, and Brenda M. Romero, eds., Dancing across Borders: Danzas y Bailes Mexicanos (Urbana: University of Illinois Press 2009); Alturo J. Aldama, Chela Sandoval, and Peter J. García, eds., Performing the US Latina & Latino Borderlands (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2012). Guillermo Gomez-­Peña is probably the most prolific writer-­artist whose works center around the US-­Mexico borders. See, for instance, The New World Border: Prophecies, Poems & Loqueras for the End of the Century (San Francisco: City Lights, 1996). 22. The current US-­Mexico border is the result of the Treaties of Guadalupe Hidalgo (1848) and Gadsden (1853). The border region was divided into the Southern Border (US) and la Frontera Norte (Mexico), but the border was porous and not seriously patrolled until after the Chinese Exclusion Act in 1882. See Moreno, Theatre of the Borderlands, xi–­xix. The Chinese immigrants, who sought entries from the Canadian or the Mexican borders after the Chinese Exclusion Act, according to Erika Lee, are America’s first illegal immigrants. See Erika Lee, “Enforcing the Borders: Chinese Exclusion along the US Borders with Canada and Mexico, 1882–­1924,” Journal of American History 89, no. 1 ( June 2002): 54–­86. 23. Rivera-­Servera and Young, Performance in the Borderlands, 1–­16. Their definitions of space and place are different from (and almost the reverse of ) de Certeau’s (see discussion below). They write in the introduction, “Border Moves,” that “A border defines. It structures space by establishing a point of reference that immediately and consequently positions people and objects in relation to itself. . . . A border transforms a space into place. It creates relations and states in addition to smaller and less formalized social units.” 24. Kolossov and Scott, “Selected Conceptual Issues.” No page numbers are available. The nature of border crossing in the European context is very different from the one of la frontera. The Association for Borderlands Studies (with its publication Journal of Borderlands Studies) is one of the major societies focusing on border studies. Though outside of their study, “Brexit” (the UK’s exit from the European Union) could be seen as a reactionary “rebordering” to the borderless optimism. 25. For instance, Marcel Cornis-­Pope, ed., New Literary Hybrids in the Age of Multimedia Expression: Crossing Borders, Crossing Genres (Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing, 2014); Daniel Fischlin, ed., OuterSpeares: Shakespeare, Intermedia, and the Limits of Adaptation (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2014). 26. Numerous WikiLeaks and hacks, as well as people masquerading on social media to spread falsified information during the American presidential campaign of 2016, have exac-

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erbated the situation. The revelation of the Russian government’s possible intervention in the American presidential election was probably the most disturbing news in American history because such transnational “border crossing” undermined the foundation of American democracy. 27. Josh Kun, “Playing the Fence, Listening to the Line: Sound, Sound Art, and Acoustic Politics at the US-­Mexico Border,” in Rivera-­Servera and Young, Performance in the Borderlands, 17–­36. 28. RMB is recently included as the fifth currency in the SDR (Special Drawing Rights) basket, along with the British pound, euro, Japanese yen, and the US dollar. International Monetary Fund, “Press Release: Statement by Ms. Christine Lagarde on IMF Review of SDR Basket of Currencies.” International Monetary Fund Press Release No. 15/513,” November 13, 2015, https://www.imf.org/external/np/sec/pr/2015/pr15513.htm 29. Twelve countries signed TPP on October 5, 2015 (United States, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Chile, Peru, Mexico, China, Singapore, Vietnam, Japan, and Malaysia). The United States withdrew its participation in TPP in early 2017. A new trade treaty, CPTPP (Comprehensive and Progressive Agreement for Trans-­Pacific Partnership), was signed by the remaining eleven countries in March 2018. 30. By rhetoric I am referring to the diatribe between Donald Trump and Kim Jong-­Un about their nuclear capability. 31. From the earthquakes caused by nuclear testing to the imminent danger caused by the firing of ballistic missiles, Eastern Asia is constantly under an actual environmental and security threat. 32. There are studies on individual characters, plays, or playwrights from the border-­ crossing tradition, but no one has thoroughly investigated the entire genre with border crossing as the conceptual frame, both in English and in Chinese. My dissertation is the most comprehensive study of premodern Chinese border-­crossing drama as of today, but it does not cover dramatic works of the modern era nor the border theories of the last two decades. Daphne Pi-­Wei Lei, “Performing the Borders: Gender and Intercultural Conflicts in Premodern China” (PhD diss., Tufts University, 1999). 33. Michel de Certeau, Practice of Everyday Life, trans. Steven F. Rendall (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 117. 34. Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 2005), 10. 35. Frederic Jameson, Postmodern, or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism (London: Verso, 1991), 16. 36. I discuss “temporal disjunction” between East and West, and as a way of viewing theater and survival strategy in the nineteenth-­century California, in Lei, Operatic China, 71–­ 75. The best way for American and European audiences to comprehend Chinese theater in multicultural California was to render Chinese theater as ancient and exotic, like Elizabethan theater. Chinese theater adopted such self-­Orientalizing measures to promote itself and to survive in the hostile environment. 37. Una Chaudhuri and Elinor Fuchs, “Introduction: Land/Scape/Theater and the New Spatial Paradigm,” in Land/Scape/Theater, ed. Elinor Fuchs and Una Chaudhuri (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2002), 1–­7. 38. Jane Palatini Bowers, “The Composition That All the World Can See: Gertrude Stein’s Theater Landscapes,” in Fuchs and Chaudhuri, Land/Scape/Theater, 121–­44.



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39. Antonin Artaud, The Theatre and Its Double, trans. Mary Caroline Richards (New York: Grove Press, 1958), 33–­47. 40. Frontier poetry (biansai shi 邊塞詩) is a distinctive genre throughout Chinese literary history. It depicts the harsh weather, barren landscape, haunted old battlefields, and hardship and nostalgia of soldiers; it can also be uplifting when it glorifies wars or praises the gallantry of war heroes. 41. Lawrence Buell, Environmental Imagination: Thoreau, Nature Writing, and the Formation of American Culture (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1995), 6–­14. 42. The term zhongguo 中國 is used in earlier works such as The Book of Documents (Shangshu 尚書, dated to the first half of the first millennium BC) and The Zuo Tradition (Zuozhuan 左傳, dated about fourth century B C). See Gu Jiegang, ed., A Concordance to the Book of Document (Shangshu tongjian 尚書通檢) (Beijing: Shumu wenxian, 1982), 15; and Yang Bojun, ed., Annotated Zuo Tradition on the Spring and Autumn Annals (Chunqiu Zuozhuan zhu 春秋左傳注) (Taipei: Hongye, 1993), 249. 43. Ernest Renan, “What Is a Nation?” (Qu’est-­ce qu’une nation?), trans. Martin Thom, in Nation and Narration, ed. Homi K. Bhabha (New York: Routledge, 1990), 8–­22. This article was originally a lecture delivered at the Sorbonne in 1882. 44. Here I am dialoguing with Benedict Anderson and Ernest Gellner. Gellner writes, “nationalism is not the awakening of nations to self-­consciousness: it invents nations where they do not exist.” See Ernest Gellner, Thought and Change (London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1964), 168. For Benedict Anderson, see Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (New York: Verso, 2006). 45. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities, 7. 46. Nationalism and Enlightenment share a faith in reason, liberty, and progress. Partha Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World: A Derivative Discourse (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993), 3. 47. Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Vintage Books, 1979), 1–­2. 48. I have discussed both the definition of China as “central state” as well as the nationalist mentality of premodern China in my earlier work. See Lei, Operatic China, 6–­8. 49. For historical accounts of the Xiongnu in the Han dynasty, see the chapters devoted to them in Sima Qian’s 司馬遷 (145 BC ?–­?) Records of the Grand Historian (Shiji 史記) (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1995), 9:2879–­2920; Ban Gu 班固 (AD 32–­92), The History of the Han Dynasty (Han shu 漢書) (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1983), 11:3743–­3835; and Fan Ye’s 范曄 (AD 398–­445) The History of the Later Han Dynasty (Hou Han shu 後漢書) (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1991), 10:2939–­78. 50. This type of forced sinicization, or internal colonization of the non-­Han ethnic groups, partially explains the frequent conflicts between the PRC government and people in Tibet or Xinjiang today. 51. Marcel Mauss, The Gift: The Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies, trans. W. D. Halls (New York: W. W. Norton, 1990), 3. The original publication was in 1925. 52. Engels indicates that the taboo on incest and the practice of exogamy of primitive societies are inventions for building connections with other communities. Friedrich Engels, The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State in the Light of the Researches of Lewis H. Morgan, with an introduction and notes by Eleanor Burke Leacock (New York: International Publishers, 1972; originally published in 1884), 94–­146. Levi-­Strauss emphasizes the value

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of exchange and male alliance in exogamy; in his view, social advantages, not a fear of the biological dangers of consanguineous marriage, account for the practice of exogamy. Exogamy can therefore be seen as the archetype of all manifestations based on reciprocity. Claude Lévi-­Strauss, The Elementary Structures of Kinship, trans. James Harle Bell and John Richard von Sturmer (Boston: Beacon Press, 1969), 479–­81. He also draws a linguistic connection between marriage and exchange: the term “gift” in Germanic languages has two meanings—­ “present” and “betrothal”—­while in English one speaks of “giving away” the daughter/bride (63). The relationship between brothers-­in-­law as allies (or even homoerotic partners) established by the exchanged sisters in marriage is also important in basic kinship structures (483–­85). 53. Gayle Rubin, “The Traffic in Women: Notes on the ‘Political Economy’ of Sex,” in Toward an Anthropology of Women, ed. Rayne R. Reiter (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1975), 157–­210. 54. For symbolic capital, see Pierre Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1980), 112–­21. 55. Lydia Liu, “The Female Body and Nationalist Discourse: The Field of Life and Death Revisited,” in Scattered Hegemonies: Postmodernity and Transnational Feminist Practices, ed. Inderpal Grewal and Caren Kaplan (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1994), 37–­62. 56. I borrow the term “portable border” from Ila Nicole Sheren’s book Portable Borders. 57. Hayden White, “The Historical Text as Literary Artifact,” in Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990), 81–­100. 58. Michel de Certeau, The Writing of History, trans. Tom Conley (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), 1–­16. 59. There are numerous examples that show that historians would rather sacrifice themselves than record untruthful history. One of the most famous examples is from The Zuo Tradition. Cui Zhu, a duke of Qi, murdered the king during the Spring and Autumn period (771–­476 BC), and the incident was recorded by the court historian. Enraged, Cui killed the historian, and his younger brother succeeded to the position and recorded the same incident again. The second historian was killed, and his younger brother became the new historian and repeated the writing. Eventually, Cui Zhu gave up and the record remained as “history.” This is recorded in 546 BC in The Zuo Tradition. See Yang Bojun, Annotated Zuo Tradition, 3:1099. 60. The last imperial examinations held before the Yuan dynasty were in 1237. Numerous people suggested that Yuan emperors revive the system, but it was not until 1314 that the examinations were given again. The examinations were abolished again in 1335, but the reasons for this are unknown. See Liu Chongwen, “A Study of the Status of Han Chinese in the Yuan Dynasty” (Yuan Hanren diwei kao) (MA thesis, Chinese Culture University, Taiwan, 1968), 333–­35. Different testing criteria were set for the Han Chinese: They were tested on more subjects and the testing procedure was longer. See Song Lian, et al., The History of the Yuan Dynasty (Yuanshi 元史) (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1976), 7:2019. 61. Wang Guowei 王國維 is among the scholars who support this theory between the abolishment of the imperial examination and the rise of drama. Wang Guowei, The History of Song and Yuan Drama (Song Yuan xiqu shi) (Taipei: Shangwu, 1986), 97–­98. The book, which is often considered one of the first histories of Chinese threater, was first published in 1915. 62. Prasenjit Duara, Rescuing History from the Nation: Questioning Narratives of Modern China (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 4.



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63. Eric Hobsbawn, “Introduction: the Invention of Tradition,” in The Invention of Tradition, ed. Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 1–­14. 64. Michel Foucault, Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings 1972–­1977, ed. Colin Gordon, trans. Colin Gordon et al. (New York: Pantheon Books, 1980), 78–­92. 65. See the introduction to Homi K. Bhabha, ed., Nation and Narration (New York: Routledge, 1990), 3. 66. Rubin, “The Traffic in Women,” 179. 67. Judith Butler, Gender Trouble (New York: Routledge, 1990), vii. 68. Rey Chow also points out that the term for becoming a monk or a nun in Chinese is chujia 出家, meaning “going out of home” or “leaving home.” Abandoning family, the foundation of Chinese society, violates Confucian values and is therefore considered “trouble.” Rey Chow, Woman and Chinese Modernity: The Politics of Reading Between West and the East (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991), 57–­58. 69. Gayatri Spivak, “Feminism and Critical Theory,” in The Spivak Reader, ed. Donna Landry and Gerald MacLean (New York and London: Routledge, 1996), 53–­74. 70. Jouissance, with no exact equivalent in English, is usually left untranslated. It conveys a sense of enjoyment, ecstasy, or total joy, but it has a strong sexual connotation. For the definition of jouissance, see the translator’s note in Jacques Lacan’s Ecrits: A Selection, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: W. W. Norton, 1977), x. A girl faces a choice, identifying either with the mother (vagina and jouissance) or with the father (to gain a position in the Symbolic Order). In this sense, Cai Yan is like Electra, “the father’s daughter,” sacrificing her motherly jouissance. See Julia Kristeva, “The Virgin of the Word,” in About Chinese Women, trans. Anita Barrows (from French [Des Chinoises]) (New York: Urizen Books, 1977), 25–­33. While Kristeva places the notion of jouissance and Father in the Christian Symbolic Order, we can equate History as the Chinese Symbolic Order and Cai Yan’s double identification with the father/ Father. 71. Generally speaking, in patrilineal societies, it is believed that man possesses his children and has legal rights over them (even if the children might be his wife’s from another marriage). This explains why Cai Yan has to abandon her children, who are considered barbarians because of their father’s ethnicity; she does not possess them. Her future Chinese children, on the other hand, through an uxorilocal marriage (in which the man marries into the woman’s family, acting as an adopted son), can be considered her father’s heirs. Su Wu’s son by his barbarian wife is thus considered Chinese for the same reason. See the chapter on heirship in Jack Goody’s Production and Reproduction: A Comparative Study of the Domestic Domain (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 86–­98. 72. José Esteban Muñoz, Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity (New York: New York University Press, 2009), 1. Also see note 13 on Jill Dolan’s idea on utopia. 73. Hélène Cixous, “Castration or Decapitation?” trans. Annette Kuhn, Signs 7, no. 1 (1981): 41–­55. 74. Hélène Cixous, “The Laugh of the Medusa,” trans. Keith Cohen and Paula Cohen, Signs 1, no. 4 (Summer 1976): 875–­93. The writers of écriture feminine, according to Cixous, include Jean Genet, Marguerite Duras, and others. 75. Volker Klöpsch, “‘Bird in a Cage’, ‘Jade in the Mire’. Images of Women in Chinese Poetry as reflected in Poems by and on Cai Wenji,” Bulletin of the College of Liberal Arts, National Taiwan University, no. 33 (1984): 3–­25. 76. Anthropologist Steven Feld explores the complicated relationship between listening (acoustic experience) and knowing and coins the term acoustemology to refer to a sonic way of

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knowing the world. See Steven Feld, “Acoustemology,” in Keyword in Sound, ed. David Novak (Durham: Duke University Press, 2015), 12–­21. 77. Galit Saada-­Ophir, “Borderland Pop: Arab Jewish Musicians and the Politics of Performance.” Cultural Anthropology 21, iss. 2 (2006): 205–­33. 78. Roberto D. Hernández, “Sonic Geographies and Anti-­Border Musics: We Didn’t Cross the Border; the Border Crossed Us,” in Performing the US Latina & Latino Borderlands, ed. Arturo J. Aldama, Chela Sandoval, and Peter J. Garcia (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2012), 235–­57. Marcus Cheng Chye Tan’s Acoustic Interculturalism: Listening to Performance (London: Macmillan, 2012), which emphasizes deep listening in intercultural performances (a theatrical borderland) also offers insight on sonic border crossing. 79. Mhoze Chikowero, African Music, Power, and Being in Colonial Zimbabwe (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2016). 80. I have written on such subject of the tokenization and colonization of local tunes in a national music discourse, such as in Tan Dun’s Symphony 1997: Heaven, Earth, Man. The grand symphony celebrates the “return” of Hong Kong and Chinese nationalism by appropriating and marginalizing local Cantonese opera songs. See Lei, Alternative Chinese Opera (2011), 88–­92. 81. There is much scholarship on aural and musical aspects of Chinese traditional theater, usually with the focus on a single genre. For important scholarship in English, for instance, see Elizabeth Wickmann, whose Listening to Theatre: The Aural Dimension of Beijing Opera painstakingly analyzes the sound, voice, aesthetics, music (systems, compositions, instruments, and orchestra), and other aspects related to aural performances of Beijing opera (jingju) (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1991). Nancy Guy also discusses many musical aspects of jingju, with the focus on twentieth-­century Taiwan and its unique relationship between politics and art. See Peking Opera and Politics in Taiwan (Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 2005). Bill Yung writes about tunes, arias, script, language, and instruments of Cantonese opera in Cantonese Opera: Performance as Creative Process (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989). Joshua Goldstein discusses how the evolution of performance venue of jingju (from teahouse to proscenium theater) shifts the focus from listening to seeing. See “From Teahouse to Playhouse,” in Drama Kings: Players and Publics in the Re-­creation of Peking Opera 1870–­1937 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), 55–­88. Colin Mackerras’s Chinese Theater: From Its Origins to the Present Day (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1983) is probably one of the most cited English texts on Chinese theater. Hsu Tao-­Ching’s Chinese Conception of the Theatre (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1985) also covers sections on the music of Chinese theater. 82. Topic theory was developed by Leonard Ratner to analyze classical music of the eighteenth century across styles and genres in Europe. See Leonard Ratner’s Classic Music: Expression, Form, and Style (New York and London: Schirmer Books and Collier Macmillan Publishers, 1980). For its influence, see for instance Danuta Mirka’s The Oxford Handbook of Topic Theory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014). 83. While cross dressing is a common practice, it is usually not shown in the script. The role type (such as dan, female role) is indicated in the script, but the gender of the actor is not specified. 84. Catherine Clément, Opera, or the Undoing of Women (L’opéra ou la défaite des femmes), translated by Betsy Wing with a foreword by Susan McClary (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988). The work was originally published in 1979. Marcia J. Citron, Gender and the Musical Canon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993).



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85. Naomi André, Voicing Gender: Castrati, Travesti, and the Second Woman in Early-­ Nineteenth-­Century Italian Opera (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006). 86. The English translation is quoted from a newly published bilingual edition. See Zuo Tradition/Zuozhuan: Commentary on the “Spring and Autumn Annals,” trans. Stephen Durrant, Wai-­yee Li, and David Schaberg (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2016), 1586–­87. 87. The basic categories in the Mongolian hierarchical order were, in descending order, Mongols, colored-­eyes (ethnic groups west of China), Han (Han Chinese in the north, under the rule of Jin or Liao), and southerners (Han Chinese from the Southern Song dynasty, the last Chinese reign before the Yuan dynasty). Mongols, though they accounted for a very small percentage of the entire population, enjoyed privileges over Han Chinese, such as civil employment. See Liu Chongwen, “A Study of the Status of Han Chinese,” 48, and Song Lian, The History of the Yuan Dynasty, 7: 2120. 88. Xie Fangde states that literati were lower than prostitutes in the ten professions, just above beggars. See Liu Dajie, The History of the Development of Chinese Literature (Zhongguo wenxue fada shi) (Taipei: Huazheng, 1985), 794. 89. Originating from the southern drama in the Yuan dynasty, chuanqi (marvel plays) first appeared at the end of the Yuan dynasty and flourished in the fifteenth century. Chuanqi remained the major dramatic form throughout the Ming dynasty. 90. Cixous writes, “It is always necessary for a woman to die in order for the play to begin. . . . She is loved only when absent or abused . . . that is why I stopped going to the theatre; it was like going to my own funeral.” “Aller à la mer,” trans. Barbara Kerslake, Modern Drama 27, no. 4 (December 1984): 546. English domestic tragedies and American melodrama are also dramatic genres that are full of examples of pathetic female suicide. 91. See T’ien Ju-­k’ang’s detailed study of female suicide in the Ming (mainly late Ming) and Qing dynasties, Male Anxiety and Female Chastity: A Comparative Study of Chinese Ethical Values in Ming-­Ch’ing Times (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1988), 5. 92. See Katherine Carlitz’s articles on this subject: “The Social Uses of Female Virtue in Late Ming Editions of Lienü Zhuan,” Late Imperial China 12, no. 2 (December 1991): 117–­ 48; and “Desire, Danger, and the Body: Stories of Women’s Virtue in Late Ming China,” in Engendering China: Women, Culture, and the State, ed. Christina K. Gilmartin et al. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994), 101–­24. A typical book on virtuous women is The Biographies of Notable Women (Lienü Zhuang 列女傳) by Liu Xiang (劉向,77–­76 BC). 93. T’ien Ju-­k’ang, Male Anxiety and Female Chastity, 112. 94. T’ien Ju-­k’ang, Male Anxiety and Female Chastity, 48–­56. T’ien calls this “exhibitionism.” 95. There are numerous plays dramatizing virtuous women’s suicide in this period. For instance, the chaste maiden Zhao refuses the marriage proposal of a rich man during the absence of her betrothed, to whom she was engaged even before her birth. She kills herself after the death of her fiancé. See Zhu Youdun (1379–­1439), Chaste Maiden Zhao Unites with Her Betrothed after Death (Zhao Zhenji shenhou tuanyuan meng), in Zaju of the Yuan and Ming Dynasties (Yuan Ming zaju), ed. Zhongguo xiju chubanshe (Beijing: Xinghua, 1958). Zhu was the grandson of the first emperor of the Ming dynasty, and according to T’ien Ju-­k’ang, this play had a strong didactic influence on the imperial family. In the decades after the play was written, several “virtuous” wives of Zhu’s clan committed suicide after the deaths of their husbands; his own wife and concubines were among them. Zhu’s work was probably inspired by a maiden’s suicide a few years earlier. See T’ien Ju-­k’ang, Male Anxiety and Female Chastity,

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Notes to Pages 32–41

61–­62. In Qiu Jun (1418–­1495)’s “The Story of Five Relationships Complete and Perfected” (Wulun quanbei ji), a concubine kills herself when she is captured by an invader. See Collected Early Editions of Ancient Dramas (Guben xiqu congkan), ed. Guben xiqu congkan bianji weiyuanhui (Shanghai: Shanghai guji, 1985), ser. 1, vol. 4, no. 10–­11. 96. Duara, Rescuing History from the Nation, 67. 97. Foucault, Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings 1972–­1977 (1980), 81. 98. According to Cynthia Enloe, women are urged to take roles as “ego-­striking girlfriend, stoic wife or nurturing mother” and women’s own liberation is delayed: “not now [when the country is undergoing an anticolonial struggle], later [after the whole country is liberated].” See Cynthia Enloe, Bananas, Beaches & Bases: Making Feminist Sense of International Politics (London: Pandora Press, 1989), 62. 99. Ernest Renan writes, “forgetting, I would even say historical error, is an essential factor in the creation of a nation and it is for this reason that the progress of historical studies often poses a threat to nationality.” See Bhabha, Nation and Narration, 8–­22. 100. Mao Tsetung (Mao Zedong), “Talks at the Yenan Forum on Literature and Art,” in Selected Readings from the Works of Mao Tsetung (Peking [Beijing]: Foreign Language Press, 1971), 250–­86. 101. The Hong Kong Occupy Movement or the Umbrella Movement (2014) was a clear “vote” of no confidence for the PRC regime. The basic issue about the protest was universal suffrage and the freedom to choose candidates. In 2017, the voter committee elected the pro-­ Beijing candidate Carrie Lam Cheng Yuet-­ngor as the chief executive-­designate of Hong Kong. It was in general considered a “regress” in terms of democracy, as the small committee’s choice did not reflect the popular desire and the process was called as “selection, not an election.” See Benjamin Haas, “Hong Kong Elections: Carrie Lam Voted Leader amid Claims of China Meddling,” The Guardian, March 26, 2017.

Chapter One 1. For modern editions, see Sima Qian, The Records of the Grand Historian; Ban Gu, The History of the Han Dynasty; and Fan Ye, The History of the Han Dynasty. (See Introduction, note 49, this vol.) 2. Sima Qian, The Records of the Grand Historian, 8:2719. 3. Sima Qian, The Records of the Grand Historian, 9:3754. 4. In 1954, in a tomb at Zhaowan in the city of Baotou, Inner Mongolia, some wadang (tiles with a circular face at one end used along the edge of eaves) were found with inscription of “peace-­alliance marriage to the chieftain” (chanyu heqin 單于和親). The term chanyu heqin was used with other formulaic auspicious phrases such as “a thousand autumns and ten thousand years” (qianqiu wansui; longevity) and “endless happiness” (changle weiyang) in architectural decoration. Lin Gan et al., A Collection of Historical Material on the Xiongnu (Xiongnu shiliao huibian) (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1988), 11–­12. 5. It is sometimes written 呼韓邪, with the same pronunciation. 6. For the translation of official terms, I have consulted H. H. Dubs, Official Titles of the Former Han Dynasty (Canberra: Australian National University Press, 1967); and Hans Bielenstein, The Bureaucracy of Han Times (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980). Daizhao yeting is the official title for a court lady who has not been visited by the emperor. A personal visit from the emperor, called xing 幸, meant a great honor to all court ladies, because this was their only chance to be elevated to the position of imperial concubine.



Notes to Pages 41–45

275

7. “Qiang” and “Zhaojun” seem to be used interchangeably as her first name. There are numerous arguments over which is the real name and which is the assumed name. Zhang Shoulin believes that neither is her name but both are titles for court ladies in the Han dynasty. Zhang Shoulin, “Every Little Drop of the Evolution of the Wang Zhaojun Story” (Wang Zhaojun gushi yanbian de diandian didi), Chinese Literature Annual (Wenxue nianbao), no. 1 (1932):1–­25. Other names such as Mingjun 明君, Ming Fei 明妃, Shuzhen 淑貞 are also used in literary or dramatic works. Among all the names, Zhaojun is the most commonly used. 8. Ban Gu, The History of the Han Dynasty, 1:297. 9. The word used here is liangjiazi 良家子, “a woman from a good family.” 10. Ninghu 寧胡 literally means “appeasing the Hu (Xiongnu).” Hu is also a general term indicating northern barbarians. Yanzhi means queen, the wife of the chieftain. 11. Ban Gu, The History of the Han Dynasty, 11:3803–­7. 12. The birthplace of Wang Zhaojun is as mysterious as her name. Zhang Shoulin lists five possibilities for her birthplace. See Zhang Shoulin, “Every Little Drop,” 3–­4. 13. Fan Ye, The History of the Later Han Dynasty, 10:2941. 14. Cui Mingde lists all the political marriages that fall into the category of heqin. He records twenty-­three cases from the first heqin to Wang Zhaojun’s marriage. See Cui Mingde, The History of Peace-­Alliance Marriage in Premodern Chinese History (Zhongguo gudai heqin shi) (Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 2005), 647–­97. 15. Emperor Wu (r. 141–­87 BC) married Xijun 細君, an aristocratic woman, to the chieftain of the Wusun 烏孫 during the years of Yuanfeng (110–­103 BC). Not accustomed to the hardships of life among the Wusun, and unable to communicate with the aging chieftain, Xijun passed her days in depression and wrote a song expressing her nostalgia. Due to his old age, the chieftain wished to marry Xijun to his grandson, but she was reluctant and petitioned Emperor Wu. The emperor told her: “Follow the custom of the country. We want to join with the Wusun to defeat the Xiongnu.” Xijun had to follow the order and marry the grandson. See Ban Gu, The History of the Han Dynasty, 12:3902–­4. 16. Hu Fengdan’s The Records of the Green Mound (Qingzhong zhi 青冢志) is collected in Xiangyan congshu, ed. Guoxue fulun she (Shanghai: Shanghai shudian, 1991), 9:429–­626. 17. Lu Ge et al., An Annotated Selection of Poetry on Wang Zhaojun throughout History (Lidai geyong Zhaojun shici xuanzhu) (Wuhan: Changjiang wenyi, 1982), 10. Other modern collections include Peng Ziyi’s Wang Zhaojun (Shanghai: Chaofeng, 1940) and Ye Wanzhi’s Annotated Poems on Zhaojun (Zhaojun shiping) (Taipei: Taiwan shangwu, 1976). 18. “The Song of Resentment and Nostalgia” (Yuankuang siwei ge 怨曠思惟歌) is from Qincao 琴操, a song collection from the Han dynasty. Qincao is usually attributed to Cai Yong 蔡邕 (AD 132–­192), the father of Cai Yan, who probably wrote the short biography of Wang Zhaojun. Another possible compiler of this song collection is Kong Yan 孔衍 (fl. ca. AD 317–­322). 19. An ethnic group west of China. 20. “The Song of Resentment and Nostalgia,” in The Poetry of the Pre-­Qin Period, Han, Wei, Jin, and Northern and Southern Dynasties (Xianqin Weijin Nanbeichao shi), ed. Lu Qinli (Taipei: Muduo, 1982), 1:315–­16. 21. Ban Gu, The History of the Han Dynasty, 11:3743. 22. Miscellaneous Anecdotes from the Western Capital (Xijing zaji 西京雜記) is said to be compiled by Liu Xin (ca. 50 BC–­AD 23) or Ge Hong (AD 283–­343). See Miscellaneous Anecdotes from the Western Capital, in Han Wei congshu, ed. Cheng Rong (Changchun: Jilin daxue chubanshe, 1992), 304.

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Notes to Pages 45–50

23. The New Accounts of Tales of the World (Shishuo xinyu 世說新語) is attributed to Liu Yiqing (403–­444). It is a collection of witty tales and anecdotes from the Han through the Eastern Jin periods (ca. AD 220–­419). For the story of Wang Zhaojun, see The New Accounts of Tales of the World (Shishuo xinyu 世說新語) (Hong Kong: Zhonghua, 1987), 363. For an English translation of Shishuo xinyu, see The New Accounts of Tales of the World, trans. Richard B. Mather (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1976). 24. Lu Ge et al., An Annotated Selection of Poetry, 30–­33. 25. Lu Ge et al., An Annotated Selection of Poetry, 111. 26. Lu Ge et al., An Annotated Selection of Poetry, 55–­56. Bai Juyi’s own suffering makes him identify with Wang Zhaojun. One of his most famous long poems, “The Song of the Pipa” (Pipa xing) expresses through a female character the loneliness and pain he felt in exile. 27. “Han Palace” (Han gong), in Lu Ge et al., An Annotated Selection of Poetry, 65. 28. “The Green Mound” (Qingzhong), by Wang Yuanjie. See Lu Ge et al., An Annotated Selection of Poetry, 114. 29. “Dispelling the Resentment of Zhaojun” (Jie Zhaojun yuan), in Lu Ge et al., An Annotated Selection of Poetry, 63. 30. “Wang Zhaojun,” in Lu Ge et al., An Annotated Selection of Poetry, 206. 31. “Zhaojun” in Feng Menglong’s The History of Love (Qingshi 情史), in The Complete Works of Feng Menglong (Feng Menglong quanji), ed. Wei Tongxian (Shanghai: Shanghai guji, 1993), vol. 20, no. 2: 943–­46. His tale on Wang Zhaojun generally follows Miscellaneous Anecdotes from the Western Capital and “The Song of Resentment and Nostalgia.” There is another “Zhaojun” tale that is based on Niu Sengru’s “An Unusual Tale of Zhaojun” (vol. 20, no. 2: 1780–­89). More details on Niu Sengru’s account are in the following section. The History of Love contains a few hundred tales related to various aspects of love. 32. “Rebuking the Resentment of Zhaojun” (Fan Zhaojun yuan), Lu Ge et al., An Annotated Selection of Poetry, 173. 33. In his theory, works like “The Song of Resentment and Nostalgia” (attributed to Wang Zhaojun), “The Song of Eighteen Stanzas” (attributed to Cai Yan), Qin Cao (attributed to Cai Yong), and the poems between Su Wu and Li Ling (see chapter 2), are all created/faked in this period. See Zhang Shoulin, “Every Little Drop of the Evolution,” no. 1 (1932): 1–­25. 34. Niu Sengru, “An Unusual Tale of Zhaojun” (Zhaojun yiwen), in Wang Zhaojun, eds., Peng Ziyi (Shanghai: Chaofeng, 1940), 48–­54. 35. Eugene Eoyang, “The Wang Chao-­chün Legend: Configurations of the Classic,” Chinese Literature: Essays, Articles and Reviews 4, no. 1 (1982): 3–­22. 36. Lu Ge et al., An Annotated Selection of Poetry, 30–­33. To show respect, it is common for Chinese to avoid using characters in names that are the same as in the names of their ancestors or emperors. 37. See “The Record of Music” (Yueshu 樂書) in Liu Xu et al., The History of the Tang Dynasty (Tang shu) (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1975), 4:1063. 38. See the preface to “The Song of Wang Mingjun,” in Guo Maoqian, ed., The Collection of Ballads and Poems (Yuefu shiji) (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1979), 2:424–­26. A reed pipe is an instrument often associated with Cai Yan, and the Zhaojun song for a reed pipe is an uncanny connection between Wang Zhaojun and Cai Yan outside of drama. 39. See Liu Xi, “On Musical Instruments” (Shi yueqi), in On Terms from the Later Han dynasty (approximately 190–­210). On Terms (shiming 釋名) is an early dictionary of the etymology and meaning of names and terms based on sounds (not ideographs). The sound of pi and pa is explained as two opposite ways of plucking and strumming the stings. “Hu”



Notes to Pages 51–53

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refers to the general regions of today’s central Asia, and places north and northwest of China. On Terms is collected in Qingshu sizhong hekan (Shanghai: Shanghai guji, 1989), 1084. 40. Lu Ge et al., An Annotated Selection of Poetry, 30–­33. Although Shi Chong does not specify the name of the princess, it is generally believed that he drew a connection between Princess Xijun and Wang Zhaojun. Xijun, who expresses her nostalgia in songs with the pipa, might be the model for Wang Zhaojun in some legends. See note 15. 41. For studies on the Wang Zhaojun bianwen, see Hsu Wan-­hua W., “Wang-­Chao-­chün Pien-­wen,” in “A Study of Four Historical Pien-­wen Stories” (PhD diss., Ohio State University, 1984), 118–­61, and Kwong Hing Foon, “La Wang Zhaojun Bianwen,” in Wang Zhaojun: une héroïne chinoise de l’histoire à la légende (Paris: Collège de France, Institut des hautes études chinoises, 1986), 373–­78. “Wang Zhaojun bianwen” is collected in Pan Chonggui, The New Collection of Bianwen of Dunhuang (Dunhuang bianwen ji xinshu) (Taipei: Zhongguo wenhua daxue Zhongwen yanjiusuo, 1983–­1984), 911–­23. 42. The prosimetric form probably came from India and was popular in the Tang dynasty. It was often used for Buddhist scripture reciting or Buddhist storytelling, but it was also used for secular purposes. With bianwen as the missing link between the literary forms and dramatic forms, the theory of the evolution of Chinese drama seems more complete. See Zheng Zhenduo, The History of Chinese Popular Literature (Zhongguo suwenxue shi) (Taipei: Zhongguo xueshu mingzhu. n.d.), 180–­270. 43. These scrolls were first discovered in 1899. In 1907, Aurel Stein started shipping them to London, sending about eight thousand scrolls in total. Western scholars continued removing those works from the caves in the next few years, until they finally attracted scholarly attention in China. Luo Zhenyu and Wang Guowei were among the earliest Chinese scholars to study these scrolls. In 1954, the British Museum made all their Dunhuang collection available to the world on microfilm. Important scholars on the Dunhuang collection include Ren Bantang, Xiang Chu, Pan Chonggui and others. Victor Mair’s Tun-­Huang Popular Narratives is the authoritative work on this subject in English (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1983). 44. Pan Chonggui, “Wang Zhaojun Bianwen,” 911–­12. 45. The Turkish chieftain refers to the Xiongnu chieftain. 46. Pan Chonggui, “Wang Zhaojun Bianwen,” 914. 47. The line reads “it is the painter who caused my suffering” 良由畫匠捉妾陵持(凌遲). No painter’s name is specified here. 48. Emperor Shun from the early Chinese legend had two wives, Ehuang and Nüying, also called Queen Xiang and Madame Xiang respectively. After Shun’s death, the legend says, their tears fell on bamboos and left spots on them. A kind of speckled bamboo is thus called Lady Xiang bamboo. The wife of Qiliang (or Xiliang) was Lady Mengjiang. Qiliang was summoned to build the Great Wall by the First Emperor of the Qin dynasty (221–­206 BC) but died and was buried on the site. Lady Mengjiang traveled to the site. Her sorrowful cries moved Heaven, and the Great Wall collapsed, revealing her husband’s corpse. Both stories of chaste women, though they have pseudo-­historical connections, belong to the popular realm and prefigure the later Wang Zhaojun dramas in which female chastity is highly emphasized. 49. Pan Chonggui, “Wang Zhaojun Bianwen,” 916–­17. 50. Wei Lü lived in the era of Emperor Wu (r. 140–­87 BC), much earlier than Wang Zhao­jun. Wei Lü plays an important role in the stories of his contemporary Li Ling and Su Wu, the two male characters in border-­crossing drama (chapter 2).

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Notes to Pages 54–56

51. Pan Chonggui, “Wang Zhaojun Bianwen,” 917–­18. 52. Daji was the concubine of Emperor Zhou (r. 1154–­1122 BC), the last emperor of the Shang dynasty. She is remembered as a typical femme fatale figure who brought the downfall of Shang dynasty. The idea of Wang Zhaojun as the opposite of Daji often appears in later dramatic works. 53. Wei Qing 衛青 and Huo Qubing 霍去病 are two well-­known generals who fought great wars with the Xiongnu in the Han dynasty. 54. Pan Chonggui, “Wang Zhaojun Bianwen,” 920. 55. See the last passage of the seventh chapter in the collection of the works of Mengzi, Mencius (Mengzi), in Zhuzi jicheng (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1954), vol. 1. For English translation, see D. C. Lau’s Mencius (New York: Penguin Classics, 1970), VII.B.38: 204. Mencius is the second most important philosopher in the Confucius school, after Confucius himself. 56. For a study of the form and history of Yuan zaju in English, see J. I. Crump, Chinese Theater in the Days of Kublai Khan (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1980). 57. For a modern edition of the only thirty Yuan zaju from the Yuan edition, see Xu Qinjun, ed., Newly Revised Thirty Yuan Edition Zaju (Xinjiao Yuankan zaju sanshi zhong) (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1980). 58. Stephen West, “A Study in Appropriation: Zang Maoxun’s Injustice to Dou E,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 111, no. 2 (1991): 283–­302; Wilt L. Idema, “Why You Never Have Read a Yuan Drama: the Transformation of Zaju at the Ming Court,” Studi in onore di Lionello Lanciotti 2 (1996): 765–­91. 59. Several other contemporary Yuan zaju, such as Zhaojun Flees at Night (Yeyue zou Zhaojun 夜月走昭君) by Wu Changling 吳昌齡, Zhaojun Leaves the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai 昭君出塞) by Zhang Shiqi 張時起, and Emperor Yuan of the Han Weeps for Zhaojun (Han Yuandi ku Zhaojun 漢元帝哭昭君) by Guan Hanqing 關漢卿, are now lost. We can only assume from the titles that they were telling a more or less similar sad story of peace-­alliance marriage. 60. Ma Zhiyuan, Autumn in the Han Palace (Hangong qiu 漢宮秋), The Selected Yuan Plays (Yuanqu xuan 元曲選), ed. Zang Jinshu [Zang Maoxun] (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1989), 1:1–­ 13. The most cited English translation, Autumn in the Han Palace, is by Liu Jung-­en. See Six Yuan Plays (New York: Penguin Books, 1977), 189–­224. There is an older translation titled Hān Koong Tsew, or The Sorrows of Hān: A Chinese Tragedy, by John Francis Davis (London, 1829). In “The Hero of a Hundred Plays,” published by Charles Dickens, The Autumn is introduced and summarized, with some diaglogue and singing translated. See Household Words (September 18, 1858), 324–­27. The author is unknown, but the weekly magazine is “conducted by Charles Dickens.” 61. Yoshikawa Kojirô, The Study of Yuan Zaju (Gen zatsugeki kenkyu), translated into Chinese (Yuan zaju yanjiu) by Zheng Qingmao (Taipei: Yiwen, 1987), 22–­42. Some of the songs from Autumn in the Han Palace appear in Shengshi xinsheng (1517), Cilin zhaiyan (1525), and Yongxi yuefu (1566), song collections earlier than Zang Maoxun’s version. Four Ming play collections also include the entire play: the Gumingjia edition (in Zhao Qimei’s [1563–­1624] Mowangguan collection), the Guquzhai edition, which was published during the Wanli period (1573–­1619), the Leijiangji edition by Meng Chengshun, which was published in 1633, and the Yuanqu xuan edition by Zang Maoxun (1615–­1616). 62. For a study on stage direction, see Min Tian, “Stage Directions in the Performance of Yuan Drama,” Comparative Drama (Fall/Winter 2005–­2006): 397–­443.



Notes to Pages 56–58

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63. For modern scholarship, for example, see Chen Anna, “The Study of Ma Zhiyuan” (Ma Zhiyuan yanjiu), in Essays on Song, Yuan, Ming and Qing Drama (Song Yuan Ming Qing juqu yanjiu luncong), ed. Zhou Kangxie (Hong Kong: Dadong, 1979), 3:102–­80; and Barbara Kwan Jackson, “The Yuan Dynasty Playwright Ma Chih-­yuan and His Dramatic Works” (PhD diss., University of Arizona, 1983). 64. Three editions (simplified, complete, and supplement) of this book survive. The publication date is probably between 1330 and 1340. The modern edition includes all three aforementioned editions. See Zhong Sicheng, Three Annotated Register of Ghosts (Jiaoding Luguibu sanzhong), ed. Wang Gang (Zhengzhou: Zhongzhou guji, 1991). 65. Zhong Sicheng, Three Annotated Register of Ghosts, 136. 66. Chen Anna, “The Study of Ma Zhiyuan” 107–­9. 67. Pear garden is a term generally used as a synonym for theater. The Tang emperor Xuan­zong (r. 713–­755) loved music and established the Pear Garden in the palace to train his royal musicians and singers. 68. Zhong Sicheng, Three Annotated Register of Ghosts, 136. 69. Ma Zhiyuan’s entry comes first in the 187 Yuan writers in Zhu Quan’s work. Zhu Quan (1376–­1448) compares Ma Zhiyuan’s works to “a divine phoenix flying and singing in the sky,” unlike the other “ordinary birds” (the other Yuan writers). Zhu Quan, Taihe zhengyin pu (Taipei: Xuehai, 1991), 11. 70. For instance, Yuan scholar Zhou Deqing (1277–­1365) expresses such a view in his Chinese Phonology (Zhongyuan yinyun, 1324). See Zhou Deqing, Chinese Phonology (Zhongyuan yinyun) (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1978), 4. 71. Autumn in the Han Palace is also one of the most studied works and it remains popular even in modern English scholarship. See, for instance, Kimberly Besio, “Gender, Loyalty, and the Reproduction of the Wang Zhaojun Legend: Some Social Ramifications of Drama in the Late Ming,” Journal of Economic and Social History of the Orient 40, no. 2 (May 1997): 251–­82. 72. In general, there are three modes of delivery: speaking (unrhymed prose), reciting (more stylized speaking with verse, usually rhymed, often used when quoting poetry or classics), and singing (highly stylized singing of arias of heighted rhymed verse). More specified substyles depend on distinctive role types and plays. Singing is considered the most important among the three in premodern times, and the names of the tunes are often included in the text. Even without the marked tunes, one can usually discern the different modes of delivery from the texts because of the language style. When possible, I indicate the mode of delivery when quoting the play to help the readers “hear” the play. 73. I indicate act, scene, and page number in accordance with traditional Chinese drama and publication practice. For texts that have not been edited by modern editors, page number is often unavailable. In general, I use capital Roman numerals for zhe 折 (act), small Roman numerals for chu 齣 or chang 場 (scene), and Arabic numerals for page number. Exceptions are noted as they occur; for example, a play is sometimes divided into juan 卷 (volume) in addition to scenes. In the case of chuanqi, a play is usually only divided into scenes. When translating dramatic texts, I try to reflect the difference between verse (singing or recitation) and prose (speaking), high poetry (major characters) and vernacular or vulgar language (lower class or minor characters). Unfortunately, the English translation cannot reflect the original rhymes. 74. This might be another connection to “Ming Fei” (the Bright Consort). This moonlight legend and the naming taboo (Mingjun instead of Zhaojun) in the Jin dynasty are both believable reasons for using the word “Ming” to refer to Wang Zhaojun. See note 36. My other

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Notes to Pages 58–69

suspicion is that the similarity of the two ideographs, 昭 (zhao) and 明 (ming), can easily cause confusion of the two during the transcribing process. 75. Goujian, the king of Yue (r. 496–­464 BC), had been defeated by Wu. He chose the beautiful woman Xishi 西施 and gave her music and dance training for three years before sending her to Fuchai, the king of Wu. Fuchai fell in love with Xishi and ignored his state affairs, giving Yue a chance to take its revenge by defeating Wu. Fuchai also spent a lot of money and time building the Gusu Terrace, a symbol of his power and extravagance. Zhao Ye, Annals of Wu and Yue (Wuyue chunqiu), annotated by Xu Tianyou (Taipei: Shangwu, 1978), 187–­89. Legend says Xishi was drowned in the river after the ruin of Wu. 76. Note that throughout the play, the word “barbarian” (fan 番) is used to refer to the Xiongnu, such as barbarian king (fanwang 番王), barbarian envoy (fanwang 番使), barbarian soldier (fanbing 番兵). Huhanye even calls himself barbarian and his land barbarian land. 77. See note 52. 78. In this passage, the images of both the Green Mound and the Black River foreshadow her suicide. This kind of anachronistic allusion, though it seems premature, is nevertheless a common practice among Chinese playwrights. See Jackson, “The Yuan Dynasty Playwright Ma Chih-­yuan,” 54. This is a good example of literary allusions overpowering narrative logic. 79. It is not clear how many portraits Mao Yanshou has produced originally, or if there is a perfect portrait to be taken to the chieftain or to be left with the emperor. 80. Xiang Yu (232–­202 BC), the king of Chu, with his favorite concubine Yu Ji 虞姬, were besieged near the Black River (Wujiang) by the troops of Liu Bang, the first emperor of the Han dynasty. See Sima Qian, The Records of the Grand Historian, 1:333. Later legends make Yu Ji commit suicide so she will not be a burden to Xiang Yu. Her final moments become the climax scene of the popular jingju (京劇) Hegemon King Says Farewell to His Queen (Bawang bieji 霸王別姬), which is one of Mei Lanfang’s signature pieces. 81. The term for in-­law is shengjiu 甥舅, which also means nephew-­uncle relationship. As seen in the original peace-­alliance situation (marrying a Chinese emperor’s daughter to a Xiongnu chieftain), Chinese always assume a superior situation. 82. Gaotang indicates a dream of lovemaking, and “clouds and rain” is a euphemism for sex. The preface to “Rhapsody on Gaotang” (Gaotang fu) by Song Yu (fourth or third century BC) describes that the king of Chu dreams of making love with a goddess from Wu Mountain on the Gaotang Terrace. See Song Yu, “Rhapsody on Gaotang” (Gaotang fu), in The Literary Anthology of Prince Zhaoming (Zhaoming wenxuan), edited by Xiao Tong (501–­531) and annotated by Li Shan (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1977), 1:264–­67. 83. See Du You’s Tongdian in Wenyuange siku quanshu (Taipei: Taiwan Shangwu, 1971), 605:413; and Yue Shi’s (930–­1007) Universal Geography of the Taiping Era (Taiping huanyu ji) in Wenyuange siku quanshu (Taipei: Taiwan Shangwu, 1971), 469:327. 84. See note 80. 85. Lin Gan et al. trace the records of Wang Zhaojun’s journey and the Green Mound in historical and literary documents throughout history. See Zhaojun and the Zhaojun Tomb (Zhaojun yu Zhaojun mu). Hohhot, Inner Mongolia: Neimenggu Renmin, 1979). 86. Naomi André writes about the gendered opera voice, which is not dependent on biological sex but on social construction in the nineteenth-­century opera. Inspired by Michael Baxandall’s “period eye” (for fifteen-­century Italian paintings) and Clifford Geertz’s “collective experience” in cultural system, she invites us to listen with the “period ear” as the nineteenth-­ century audience would have. There is an uncanny resonance between her analysis of the nineteenth-­century opera and mine of border-­crossing drama, both on the socially construct-



Notes to Pages 69–73

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ed listening (and seeing) and on the prevalent female death. See “Sounding Voices: Modeling Voice and the Period Ear,” in André, Voicing Gender, 1–­15. 87. Women were active on the premodern Chinese stage, despite the common Western misconception of premodern Chinese theater’s lack of female players. There are many famous actresses recorded during this period. 88. See note 31. 89. Appeasing the Barbarians is actually missing four half-­pages, but this matters little in a play of thirty-­six scenes; therefore, it is often considered a complete play. 90. The Ming anthology The Brocade Bag of Romances contains the songs “Kuadiao Shanpoyang,” “Wang Zhaojun Expressing Her Feelings to the Emperor,” and “Newly Added Wang Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind,” as well as eleven songs from Wang Zhaojun of The Brocade Bag for the Whole Family. The Brocade Bag of Romances (Fengyue jinnang 風月錦囊) was edited by Xu Wenzhao of the Ming dynasty and published in 1553. A facsimile of the 1553 edition was published by Taiwan xuesheng, 1987. The Anthology of New Ballads (Yuefu wan­xiang xin) contains songs from Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind. The anthology was published during the Wanli period (1573–­1619) and collected in Three Selected Overseas Sole Copies of Late Ming Drama (Haiwai guben wan Ming xiju xuanji sanzong), ed. Li Fuqing and Li Ping (Shanghai: Shanghai guji, 1993). Two scenes of The Story of the Green Mound (Qingzhong ji 青塚記) in a Qing anthology White-­Fringed Fur (published in 1770) are believed to be from the Ming as well. See White-­ Fringed Fur (Zhuibai qiu 綴白裘), ed. Wanhua Zhuren (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1955). All the surviving songs of the Ming dynasty are anonymous, belonging to the same tradition of Appeasing the Barbarians, and some of them are probably from Yuan nanxi (southern drama). 91. As mo in Yuan zaju, sheng 生 (male) is a male role type in nanxi, chuanqi, and later Ming zaju. Subcategories include xiaosheng 小生 (young male), laosheng 老生 (old male), and wusheng 武生 (martial male). 92. The greedy wolf refers to Mao Yanshou. In this play, after the emperor realizes that it is because of Mao Yanshou’s scheme that Wang Zhaojun has not had a chance to meet him earlier, he orders Mao Yanshou executed. 93. See note 48. Speckled bamboos here remind the audience of her chastity. 94. The red cinnabar mark (shougong sha 守宮砂) testifies to her virginity. It is said that after feeding a lizard with cinnabar, one can use the powder from the ground dried lizard to make a mark on a maiden’s arm. The mark will not fade away as long as she remains a virgin. The mark is a public and visible hymen. The chapter on Dongfang Shuo in the History of the Han Dynasty is one of the sources of this myth. Ban Gu, The History of the Han Dynasty, 3:2843–­44. 95. See note 75. 96. Chen Yujiao, Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai), in The Complete Ming Zaju (Quanming zaju 全明雜劇), ed. Yang Jialuo (Taipei: Dingwen, 1979), 7:3903–­18. 97. Jiao Xun, About Drama (Jushuo 劇說) (Taipei: Taiwan Shangwu, 1973), 92. Yumen Pass, situated in today’s Gansu province, is historically considered an important pass on the northwestern frontier for China. 98. Developed in the south in the Song dynasty with anonymous writers, nanxi or xiwen 戲文 became less popular after the rise of Yuan zaju. Though most plays are lost, many songs remain in the repertoire. I will discuss the nanxi/zaju transition in chapter 2. 99. The first page of the play contains the only information we have on publication: “Print-

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Notes to Pages 73–83

ed at Fuchuntang by the Tang family of Jinling” 金陵唐氏富春堂梓. A facsimile copy of this edition can be found in Collected Early Editions of Ancient Dramas. Series Two (Guben xiqu congkan erji), ed. Guben xiqu congkan bianji weiyuanhui (Shanghai: Shanghai Shangwu, 1954). 100. Kwong Hing Foon, “Le Wang Zhaojun chusai herong ji,” in Wang Zhaojun: une héroïne chinoise, 351–­68. 101. James J. Y. Liu, “The Fêng-­yüeh Chin-­nang” 風月錦囊, Journal of Oriental Studies 4, no. 1 and 2 (1957 and 1958): 98. 102. The word used here is zhe (act) rather than chu (scene), but I still think “scene” is a better translation. 103. Yaoqin 瑤琴 (zither) is the musical instrument here, which is shown in the illustration (vol. 1, x, 21). In the later part of the play, however, when she is on her way to marry the chieftain, Wang plays the pipa as in other plays. Although it is rare for Wang Zhaojun to be endowed with both the Chinese yaoqin and the exotic pipa, Cai Yan stories frequently feature two instruments (the zither and the reed pipe). It is possible that the author was inspired by Cai Yan’s hybrid ethnicity and musicality. 104. It is worth paying some attention to the various names used in this play for Wang Zhaojun. Before meeting the emperor, she is called Qiang 嬙 or Shuzhen 淑真. Zhaojun is the name given by the emperor when he makes her queen. In other words, it is the emperor who transforms her into “Zhaojun” and includes her in the border-­crossing tradition. The full title of the play is “The Newly Cut, Illustrated, Phonetically Annotated Story of Wang Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind and Appeasing the Barbarians.” 105. The Shatuo 沙陀 were an ethnic group to the northwest of China. Here they are the equivalent of the Xiongnu. 106. Yellow Springs means the world of the dead. 107. A historical connection of wild goose and letter writing in a border-­crossing story is from The History of the Han Dynasty, in connection with Su Wu. See Ban Gu, The History of the Han Dynasty, 8:2466. I will cover this matter in the next chapter in my discussion of Su Wu. 108. The stage direction indicates the chieftain exits after his speech. Since the next page is missing, it is not clear whether he actually throws himself into the river. However, from Wang Long’s report and from the happy ending of the play, we know that the crisis is resolved. 109. Civil plays (wenxi 文戲) and martial plays (wuxi 武戲) are the two general categories of traditional Chinese plays according to acting techniques and performance styles. Civil plays emphasize singing and miming while martial plays value dancing and acrobatic fighting skills. For a brief introduction to civil and martial plays, see Hsu Tao-­Ching, The Chinese Conception of the Theatre, 313. 110. You Tong, The Complete Works of Xitang [You Tong] (Xitang quanji, originally printed between 1694 and 1722), 10:1. 111. Here the xiezi, the wedge, is a transitional demi-­act instead of a prologue. 112. Shi Kefa’s letter to Dorgon (October 15, 1644). Works of Sir Shi Zhongzheng (Shi Zhongzheng gong ji), 2:2. Shi’s works are collected in Baibu congshu jicheng, ser. 94 (Taipei: Yiwen, 1966). Shi Zhongzheng is another name of Shi Kefa. 113. Famous plays such as the Qing chuanqi The Peach Blossom Fan (Taohua shan 桃花扇) by Kong Shangren 孔尚任 (1648–­1718) and the modern Cantonese opera The Flower Princess (Dinühua 帝女花) by Tang Disheng (Tong Dik Sang 唐滌生, 1917–­1959) dramatize



Notes to Pages 83–87

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the downfall of the Ming, and the transitional Ming/Qing political turmoil. 114. These lines are from a famous poem by the renowned Tang poet Wang Wei (692–­761), which are often cited in a farewell situation. 115. You Tong’s preface to Reading the Lisao and Mourning the Pipa, in You Tong, The Complete Works of Xitang, 10:1. 116. T’ien Ju-­k’ang, Male Anxiety and Female Chastity, 83. 117. You Tong wrote Juntian Yue, a play that dramatizes the darkness and corruption of the imperial examination system. It is said that numerous people involved in the injustice of testing were punished because of this play. This play is collected in The Complete Works of Xitang, vol. 20. 118. It is clear that Reading the Lisao and Mourning the Pipa should be read together, as indicated in You Tong’s preface (note 115). Both Wang Zhaojun and Qu Yuan express their injustice and resentment through the act of drowning. Besides Mourning the Pipa, You Tong also wrote a number of poems about Wang Zhaojun, her tomb, and even her clothes (Zhaojun tao). 119. Carlitz, “The Social Uses of Female Virtue,” 117–­48, and Carlitz, “Desire, Danger, and the Body,” 101–­24. For various elaborate later editions with illustrations, see The Illustrated Biographies of Notable Women (Huitu Lienü zhuan), edited by Wang Geng and illustrated by Qiu Ying (Taipei: Zhengzhong, 1971); Newly Supplemented Fully Illustrated Biographies of Notable Women (Zengbu quanxiang Lienü zhuan), supplemented by Mao Kun (Taipei: Guangwen, 1981); and Annotated Biographies of Notable Women (Lienü zhuan jiaozhu), edited by Liang Duan (Taipei: Taiwan shangwu, 1987). Also see introduction, note 92. 120. A broken string is often a bad omen; here it is also a reference to Cai Yan (see chapter 2). Finding her sorrow unbearable on the isolated borderland, Wang Zhaojun seeks company with women with similar fate—­Xijun (before her) and Cai Yan (after her)—­in history. This is also a way to connect her music with the larger context of the border-­crossing theme. 121. A record from the local gazetteer of Fujian gives a general idea of the spectacle of this kind of public suicide for a childless widow: “An open space several hundred feet in width is selected and a platform built. From a wooden beam overhead a red cord is suspended. When the widow ascends the platform, her relatives and clan members fall down on their knees and bow to her in respect. Then she scatters some grain around the platform and lets herself be supported by others for the hanging. When all is finished, the spectators cheer uproariously in praise of her virtuous deed. The corpse is then taken home, paraded through the streets with music.” See T’ien Ju-­k’ang, Male Anxiety and Female Chastity, 48. Like Wang Zhaojun, this poor woman can only enjoy her spotlight moments before her death. 122. A similar study of female suicide with a different approach is by Guo Qitao. He writes about the connection between the female chastity cult with mercantile lineage in Huizhou in the mid-­sixteenth century. The sojourners (merchants who left home for long business trips) needed an effective way to control the fidelity of the wives left at home. The prevalence of female suicides and the formation of the female chastity cult are results of the control of larger lineage of the mercantile class. See Guo Qitao, “Engendering the Mercantile Lineage: The Rise of the Female Chastity Cult in Late Ming Huizhou.” Nan Nü 17 (2015): 9–­53. 123. T’ien Ju-­k’ang, Male Anxiety and Female Chastity, 36–­37. 124. T’ien Ju-­k’ang, Male Anxiety and Female Chastity, 128. 125. In Flower Princess, Emperor Chongzhen also intends to kill his daughter upon the invasion; he has only wounded her instead of taking her life. See note 113.

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Notes to Pages 87–94

126. Xue Dan, The Dream of Zhaojun (Zhaojun meng), in Newly Edited Zaju (Zaju xinbian), ed. Zou Shijin (ca. 1661), 4:1–­13. 127. Being a ghost or in a dream are two ways a woman in premodern China can transgress her gender limits and enjoy sexual pleasure without receiving moral blame. Famous plays that feature such female characters’ ghostly or dreamy adventures are Zheng Guangzu’s Qiannü Leaves Her Body Behind (Qiannü lihun 倩女離魂; Yuan zaju) and Tang Xianzu’s The Peony Pavilion (Mudanting 牡丹亭; Ming chuanqi, 1598). 128. See note 34. 129. For instance, in Appeasing the Barbarians, “golden lotus” and “lotus steps,” both commonly used kennings for bound feet, appear numerous times to refer to both the real and fake Wang Zhaojun characters. 130. See Wang Gulu, ed., The Collection of Miscellaneous Songs of Hui-­tuned Drama in the Ming Dynasty (Mingdai huidiao xiqu sanchu jiyi) (Shanghai: Shanghai guji, 1956), 45–­46. 131. Although he calls his plays chuanqi, they are actually in the form of zaju. The word chuanqi, however, also conveys the sense of marvel or wonder for these happy-­ending plays. The Chuanqi of the Sky-­Mending Stone was published in 1830 (n.p.). 132. Mao Jin’s introduction is collected in Hou Baipeng, ed., The Collected Materials of The Story of the Pipa (Pipa ji ziliao huibian) (Beijing: Shumu Wenxian, 1989), 276–­88. 133. Zhou Leqing said he had searched in vain for Mao Jin’s book for thirty years and suspected that the writing plan had never been carried out. See his own introduction to The Chuanqi of the Sky-­Mending Stone. No page number is available here. 134. Nüwa was the sister and successor of the legendary emperor Fuxi (ca. 2852–­2738 BC). The sky collapsed after a chaotic battle between two gods, and Nüwa, by refining five-­colored stones to patch it, restored order in the universe. 135. The former name for Iron-­Pipe Blower is Tan Guanghu 譚光祜 (1772–­1813), a scholar who was also known for his music expertise. It is said that Zhou Leqing was not particularly good at music, hence he sought help from Iron-­Pipe Blower. See the preface by Zhu Wanshu for Li Xiaohong’s The Study of the Chronicle of the Three Kingdoms (Dingzhi chunqiu yanjiu) (Beijing: Bejing chubanshe, 2017), 1–­15. It is uncommon to see someone credited for music for a specific play in premodern theater. 136. No page number is available here. Both The Comprehensive Mirror of Self-­Governing (Zizhi tongjian 資治通鑑) by Sima Guang (1019–­1086) and The Twenty-­one Histories (Ershiyi shi 二十一史) by Shen Bingzhen (1679–­1738) are seen as orthodox historical texts. 137. The stage direction specifies that “a carriage woman, played by za, pushes the carriage” (I, 1). As a carriage is usually symbolized by two parallel flags, the za probably holds the two flags with Zhaojun standing between them as if riding the carriage. The “driver” allows Zhaojun to use her hands freely while speakimg and singing; they will be moving in sync during the journey. 138. Dongfang Shuo is a subject of Emperor Wu of the Han dynasty (r. 141–­87 BC), who was famous for his wittiness, humor, and clever remonstrance. 139. This scene alludes to Li Fang’s (925–­996) Extensive Records of the Taiping Era (Taiping guangji), in which Emperor Wu (r. 141–­87 BC) of the Han dynasty, who was devoted to Taoism, had a divine visit by the Queen Mother. She set up a banquet and ordered a heavenly orchestra to play music for him. See the chapter on Emperor Wu of Han in Li Fang’s Extensive Records of the Taiping Era. Note that the Queen Mother orders only female fairies to play with Wang Zhaojun in The Words of the Pipa, unlike the mixed-­sex orchestra in Li Fang’s writing. Li Fang, “Emperor Wu of the Han (Han Wudi),” Extensive Records of the Taiping Era (Taiping guangji), vol. 3 (Deity Three) (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1961), vol. 1, 13–­23.



Notes to Pages 95–103

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140. See note 68 of the introduction. 141. See Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire (New York: Columbia University Press, 1985), 1–­15. 142. White-­Fringed Fur, 169–­78. 143. These songs are collected in The Nashuying Song Scores (Nashuying qupu 納書楹曲 譜, published in 1792), edited by Ye Tang, in Shanben xiqu congkan, edited by Wang Qiugui (Taipei: Xuesheng, 1984), vol. 82–­86. 144. Here I refer to Féral’s concept of a parallel action between opening and closing spaces or territorialization and deteritorialization during border crossing. See introduction, note 15. 145. Sugimura Toh, “The Chinese Impact on Certain Fifteenth Century Persian Miniature Paintings from the Albums (Hazine Library Nos. 2153, 2154, 2160) in the Topkapi Sarayi Museum, Istanbul” (PhD diss., University of Michigan, 1981), 239–­44. The number of paintings here takes into account only paintings in the historical canon. Countless artworks in the folk and popular tradition also incorporated the image of Wang Zhaojun. 146. Gong Suran cannot be identified. Some scholars believe Gong was a nun; some think Gong was a craftsman rather than an artist. Sugimura thinks Gong was active at the beginning of the twelfth century, but Guo Moruo believes the painting cannot be earlier than the Ming dynasty. This painting is now in the Abe Collection, Osaka Municipal Museum of Art. For further studies, see I Lo-­fen 衣若芬, “Gong Suran’s ‘Painting of Wang Zhaojun’ and the Inscribed Poetry: Theorizing from the Perspective of Visual Culture” (Gong Suran ‘Mingfei chusai tu’ ji qi tishi—­shijue wenhua jiaodu de tuixiang) in Proceedings of International Conferences in Recent Years, no. 2 (Integrated Studies of Jin, Yuan and Ming Literature [Jin Yuan Ming wenxue zhi zhenghe yanjiu]), ed. by Zhang Gaoping (Taipei: Xinwenfeng, 2007), 67–­124. 147. Chen Yujiao’s Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind and Wenji Entering the Pass are both collected in Shen Tai’s Zaju of the High Ming Period (Shengming zaju, printed in 1629). There are two illustrations for each play in this edition. A modern reprint of these plays and prints can be found in Yang Jialuo, ed., The Complete Ming Zaju (Quanming zaju) (Taipei: Dingwen, 1979), 7:3903–­37. 148. See Introduction, note 41.

Chapter Two 1. An entire chapter is devoted to Cai Yong in The History of the Later Han Dynasty. Cai Yong, also named Cai Bojie 蔡伯喈, was an important scholar. Cai Yan is not mentioned in his chapter, but both father and daughter share similar characteristics in Fan Ye’s narration: erudite, filial, and musically talented. See Fan Ye, The History of the Later Han Dynasty, 7:1979–­2013. 2. Lord Zuoxian is the second in command in the Xiongnu military rank, next only to the chieftain. See Hans H. Frankel, “Cai Yan and the Poems Attributed to Her,” Chinese Literature: Essays, Articles and Reviews 5, no. 1: 133–­56. 3. Fan Ye, The History of the Later Han Dynasty, 10:2800. 4. Fan Ye, The History of the Later Han Dynasty, 10:2800–­2801. 5. These dates are the approximate estimations of scholars. Guo Moruo thinks Cai was born in 177, married to Wei in 192, and returned to Han in 208, while Hans H. Frankel believes these dates should be 178, 192, and 206 respectively. See Guo Moruo’s “On Cai Wenji’s ‘Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe’” (Tan Cai Wenji de ‘Hujia shiba pai’) and “Once Again

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Notes to Pages 103–11

on Cai Wenji’s ‘Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe’” (Zaitan Cai Wenji de ‘Hujia shiba pai’), in Collected Essays on “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe” (Hujia shibapai taolun ji), ed. Wenxue yichan bianjibu (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1959), 1–­13, and Frankel, “Cai Yan and the Poems Attributed to Her.” 6. Fan Ye, The History of the Later Han Dynasty, 10:2801. 7. Two names, Yang Gu and Cai Mu, are given as Cai Yong’s grandsons, but they are not identified as Cai Yan’s children and their real connections to Cai Yong are doubtful. Liu Yi­ qing, The New Accounts of Tales of the World, 444–­45. Besides Cai Yan’s two sons among the Xiongnu, no other children have been linked to her. 8. Liu Zhao, Book on Children (Youtong zhuan 幼童傳), cited in Fan Ye, The History of the Later Han Dynasty, 10:2800. 9. Li Fang, Imperial Readings of the Taiping Era (Taiping Yulan 太平御覽) (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1960), 2:1993. 10. Diaoyu ji 琱玉集 (anonymous fragment collected in Guyi congshu 古逸叢書 in 747 and reprinted in 1884), in Guyi congshu, ed. Li Shuchang (1837–­97) (Yangzhou: Jiangsu Guangling guji, 1994), 109. 11. Anonymous, The Alternative Story of Cai Yan (Cai Yan biezhuan 蔡琰別傳), quoted in Ouyang Xun (557–­641), Yiwen leiju 藝文類聚 (Hong Kong: Zhonghua, 1973), 44:782. Ji Zha of the Wu visited the State of Lu and was treated with various music and dance performances. He analyzed the politics and rise and fall of the state based on the performances. By testing the airs with his pitch pipes, Music Master Kuang was able to predict that a military campaign by the southern state of Chu would fail. This is another incident in ancient China when music was imagined as having sociopolitical functions because of its close connection with heart/humanity. 12. Ouyang Xun, Yiwen leiju, 44:795. 13. Tan Qixiang, “Cai Wenji’s Life and Her Works” (Cai Wenji de shengping ji qi zuopin), in Wenxue yichan bianjibu, 244. 14. Li Fang, Imperial Readings of the Taiping Era, 4:3584. 15. Ouyang Xun, Yiwen leiju, 30:542. 16. Fan Ye, The History of the Later Han Dynasty, 10:2801–­2. 17. Fan Ye, The History of the Later Han Dynasty, 10:2803. 18. Fan Ye, The History of the Later Han Dynasty, 10:2802. 19. Guo Maoqian, ed., The Collection of Ballads and Poems, 3:860–­65. 20. See Frankel, “Cai Yan and the Poems Attributed to Her,” for scholarly debate on the authorship of these poems, 133–­56. I have consulted Frankel’s translation when quoting from the poems. 21. For the comparison between Cai Yan’s and Liu Shang’s poems, see Dore J. Levy, “Transformation Archetypes in Chinese Poetry and Painting: The Case of Ts’ai Yen,” Asia Major, third series, vol. 6, no 2 (1993): 147–­67. 22. Guo Maoqian, ed., The Collection of Ballads and Poems, 3:866–­69. 23. Wang Shupan et al., eds., A Selection of Frontier Poetry throughout History (Lidai saiwai shi xuan) (Inner Mongolia: Renmin, 1986), 510. 24. Guo Maoqian, The Collection of Ballads and Poems, 4:1301. 25. Fan Ye, The History of the Later Han Dynasty, 7:2004–­5. 26. More details on Sima Qian are in the discussion of Li Ling below. 27. Emperor Wu is the posthumous title of Cao Cao. After his death, his son Cao Pi usurped the throne and founded the Wei dynasty. Cao Pi became Emperor Wen and named



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his late father Emperor Wu. Cao Cao is an important character in Cai Yan drama, especially in the modern era. 28. See Guo Maoqian, ed., The Collection of Ballads and Poems, 3:860–­61. 29. Such as in the song collection The Zither Score of Wenhuitang (Wenhuitang qinpu), ed. Hu Wenhuan (printed in 1596). For a modern facsimile, see Hu Wenhuan, ed., The Newly Printed Zither Score of Wenhuitang (Beijing: Zhonghua, 2016). 30. Zhonglang, “Gentleman of the Household,” was Cai Yong’s official title. 31. This passage alludes to lines from Shi Chong’s poem on Wang Zhaojun (chapter 1), “The Song of Wang Mingjun”: “Once a precious jade preserved in a casket, I am now a flower on the dung-­heap.” See Lu Ge et al., An Annotated Selection of Poetry, 30–­33. 32. Chen Yujiao, Wenji Entering the Pass (Wenji rusai), in Yang Jialuo, ed., The Complete Ming Zaju (Quanming zaju) (Taipei: Dingwen, 1979), 7:3919–­38. 33. An allusion to the fourteenth stanza of Liu Shang’s “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe.” 34. A line from the eighteenth stanza of Liu Shang’s “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe.” 35. This is another reference to the blood letter carried by the wild goose from the north in border-­crossing drama. In Chinese writers’ imagination, even a barbarian child follows such convention. 36. Nanshan Yishi, The Daughter of Zhonglang (Zhonglang nü 中郎女), in Newly Edited Zaju (Zaju xinbian), vol. 3, ed. Zou Shijin (ca. 1661), 1. 37. Cao Cao’s costume is specified as gold putou (a square official cap) and mang (python robe, a round-­necked official robe, usually worn by officials or emperors) and yu (jade belt, which usually goes with the python robe). This is his conventional costume as a prime minister, although he is specified as the king of Wei in this play. The Qing critic Jiao Xun points out that in The Daughter of Zhonglang, Cao Cao was played by wai, not the conventional white-­faced jing (which symbolizes his cunning and evil character), because he was partially good. See Jiao Xun, About Drama, 92. In the formal title, “the old crafty man” refers to Cao Cao. There has been a drastic change in modern Chinese plays to portray Cao Cao as a positive character. More discussion is in chapter 4. 38. It is said that Cai Yong had compiled the history of the Later Han dynasty, but what he had done was lost. Cai Yan’s contribution is also not clear. The history of the Later Han was not completed until Fan Ye (398–­445) finished The History of the Later Han Dynasty, two centuries after Cai Yan’s time. 39. See Fan Ye, The History of the Later Han Dynasty, 10:2801. 40. This is the only time that the name Wei Zhongdao is mentioned in this play. No other dramatic characters seem to acknowledge the historical account and Dong Si claims to be her original bethrothed. This is another example of the clash between dramatic logic and history. 41. There is another play of the same title, The Daughter of Zhonglang, written by Zhang Shoutong 張瘦桐 of the Qing dynasty. Not much is known, however, about the play. 42. Jiao Xun, About Drama, 92. 43. Jia Yi (201–­169 BC), a Han dynasty scholar, wrote a lament for Qu Yuan in which he expressed his own resentment and dissatisfaction. Qu Yuan (ca. 340–­ca. 278 BC) was a legendary poet who expressed in “Huaisha” his intention to drown himself in the River Xiang in order to avoid succumbing to dishonesty and corruption. Qu Yuan’s integrity is often used as exemplary model for Wang Zhaojun’s suicide. Also see chapter 1, note 118 for the connections between the two. 44. “Suffering” in the original text is “felt-­swallowing,” an essential part of the story of Su

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Wu (Su Qing or Su Ziqing). The felt-­swallowing reference will be discussed later in the chapter. “Injustice” in the original text is “drowning.” Qu Zi is Qu Yuan. 45. See Fan Ye, The History of the Later Han Dynasty, 10:2941. 46. Ban Mengjian is another name of Ban Gu. Sima Qian and Ban Gu, important Chinese historians, are often figures for historians in general. Sima Qian actually lived prior to Wang Zhaojun’s time and could not have distorted her story. 47. The story is in Lü Buwei’s (291–­235 BC) Master Lü’s Spring and Autumn Annals (Lüshi Chunqiu), ed. Zhu Yongjia et al. (Taipei: Sanmin, 1995), 2:682–­84. 48. In the gazetteer of Nan’an of 1624, a record shows that an old woman specially took her daughter-­in-­law to see a suicide act. She told people, “We are in a hurry to see Mrs. So-­ and-­So die for her husband.” See T’ien Ju-­k’ang, Male Anxiety and Female Chastity, 49. A mother-­in-­law usually takes on the duty of teaching her daughter-­in-­law about the propriety and morality of women. 49. Gao Ming, The Story of the Pipa (Pipa ji 琵琶記) (Taipei: Huazheng, 1994), 1. The Story of the Pipa is a story of Cai Yong [Cai Yan’s father] and his chaste wife Zhao Wuniang. This Cai Yong character (a younger man), however, seems to have little in common with the Cai Yong character associated with Cai Yan’s legends. Zhao Wuniang plays the pipa, which does not have any association with borders or frontier. 50. Cao Yin, The Pipa, Continued (Xu pipa), in Collected Early Editions of Ancient Dramas, series five (Guben xiqu congkan wuji), ed. Guben xiqu congkan bianji weiyuanhui (Shanghai: Shanghai guji, 1985), ser. 5, vol. 38. This is a facsimile from the old hand-­copied version in the Beijing Library. Since pages are not numbered in this version, I indicate only scene numbers (with small Roman numerals) when quoting. 51. The term here is jinfu 巾服, a kind of male costume that is usually for scholars or leads in love stories. The actor wears a male civil headdress and sometimes carries a fan. 52. The original word for Father’s study is “the hall of carp” (liting 鯉庭), which is the place where one takes the lessons from one’s father. Lotus steps refer to Cai Yan’s bound feet, as the symbol for Han femininity and the portable gender and ethnic border. Note that foot binding was not practiced during Cai Yan’s era. 53. To be able to hear the bad omen in zither music is a legendary talent of Cai Yong. See Fan Ye, The History of the Later Han Dynasty, 7:2004–­5. 54. When Cai Yong saw Dong’s body, he sighed. He was accused of sympathizing with Dong Zhuo because of that sigh. 55. It is said that The Chronicle of the Three Kingdoms (Dingzhi chunqiu 鼎峙春秋), a large ten-­volume chuanqi (240 scenes total) from the mid-­eighteenth century, preserves some of the missing songs/scenes of The Pipa, Continued. This gigantic work was commissioned by Emperor Qianlong (r. 1735–­1795) of the Qing dynasty, who asked Zhou Xiangyu and Zou Jinsheng to compile a historical drama based on the novel The Romance of the Three Kingdoms. By comparing The Chronicle of the Three Kingdoms with other plays, Li Xiaohong discovered that volume 2 of The Chronicle of the Three Kingdoms contains scenes 14 to 24 of The Pipa, Continued, with almost identical songs. See Zhang Xiaohong, “The Chronicle of the Three Kingdoms and Pipa, Continued,” in “The Study of the Chronicle of the Three Kingdoms (“Dingzhi Chunqiu” yanjiu) (Beijing: Beijing chubanshe, 2016), 91–­102. If the above theory holds true, scene 16 of volume 2 (“Wenji Stops the Carriage to Mourn for the Green Mound”) in The Chronicle of the Three Kingdoms has preserved the missing part of scene 21 of The Pipa, Continued. The missing part shows that Cai Yan is on her way to the Xiongnu land after being abducted by the Xiongnu troops. Hearing the sound of wild geese



Notes to Pages 128–32

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and seeing the barren landscape, she sings sorrowfully. She asks the carriage to stop when she sees the Green Mound, so she can mourn for Zhaojun. This is a rare scene of Cai Yan’s journey of “leaving the pass behind” (chusai) as most drama only depicts her homecoming (rusai). See Zhou Xiangyu and Zou Jinsheng, eds. The Chronicle of the Three Kingdoms (Dingzhi chunqiu 鼎峙春秋) (Beijing: Beijing University Press, 2016), 1:137–­38. 56. From both Cai Yan’s and Wang Zhaojun’s own accounts that this Wang Zhaojun did not commit suicide before marrying the chieftain. Lord Zuoxian’s remark “I will not allow Zhaojun to become homesick” indicates that Zhaojun did live among the Xiongnu. 57. Here Cai Yan’s abduction is seen as peace-­alliance mission, with Su Wu and Wang Zhaojun as comparison. This is another example of where the dramatic tradition trumps the logic of the play. 58. Dong Hu was a historian in the state of Jin during the Spring and Autumn period (eighth to fifth century BC). He is considered the ideal historian, because he would rather sacrifice his own life than lie. 59. The word here is jiaoshu 較書, which should probably be jiaoshu 校書, the title of the official in charge of editing and compiling books during the Han dynasty. Interestingly, jiao­ shu is also a euphemism for prostitute. See Ji Yougong, ed., Tangshi jishi (Shanghai: Zhong­ hua, 1965), 2:1132–­33. It is said that people from Sichuan call prostitutes “female jiaoshu.” 60. The text specifies “female” official cap, robe, and belt. 61. The word here is queting 闕庭, which means the imperial court. This phrase clearly corresponds to the line “hurrying to Father’s study (liting) with lotus steps” from Cai Yan’s first appearance in scene 3. From liting (Father’s study) to queting (imperial court), Cai Yan has gone through a double border-­crossing journey and is certainly elevated from a domestic level to the national one. The purple robe and official cap now replace the image of the lotus steps. 62. The word for hairpin pen is zanbi 簪筆. 63. Unfortunately, The Chronicle of the Three Kingdoms does not contain this missing scene. 64. Although the wedding that restores Cai Yan as a proper Chinese woman is not included in the extant version of the play, it is clear from the beginning that she will marry Dong Si, the person her father has chosen for her. 65. Tang Ying was called Mr. Gubo 古柏先生 by his contemporaries. See Zhou Yude’s introduction in Tang Ying, The Collection of Gubotang Plays (Gubotang xiqu ji) (Shanghai: Shanghai guji, 1987), 1–­4. Kunqu 崑曲 tunes originated in Kunshan ( Jiangsu province), went through a series of changes and improvement by Wei Liangfu (1522?–­1573?) and became the major music form for chuanqi from the late sixteenth century onward. With its popularity and success, kunqu became synonymous with chuanqi and the national music form by mid-­Qing. 66. The definition of zaju and chuanqi here is by its length: when the play has four acts or fewer, it is listed as zaju; otherwise, it is a chuanqi. See Zhou Yude’s introduction. Tang Ying, The Collection of Gubotang Plays, 4. 67. The song he sings here is “Rhapsody on Falling off a Horse” (Zhuima fu) from The Story of the Pipa by Gao Ming (scene 10). The original mock rhapsody is recited by a clownish character who has just fallen off his horse. By having Agou sing the song from Gao Ming’s play in the southern drama (nanxi) tradition, Tang Ying connects these two plays on the Cai family centuries apart. 68. This is clearly from the Ming chuanqi Appeasing the Barbarians, when Wang Zhaojun laments her fate: “One should never be a woman, whose happiness and sufferings are all gen-

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erated by others” 為人莫作婦人身，百般苦樂由他人. See Appeasing the Barbarians, vol. 1, x, 22. 69. Kunqu still plays an important role in Chinese opera today. There is a deliberate transnational effort to revive kunqu in the new millennium with innovative staging and marketing methods. For example, see Lei, Alternative Chinese Opera in the Age of Globalization, 98–­141. 70. Horvat, “Engendering Borders,” 106–­13. 71. For a list of selected paintings of Cai Yan, see Sugimura Toh, “The Chinese Impact,” 292–­93, Shen Congwen, “On ‘The Painting of Wenji Returning to Han’” (Tantan ‘Wenji gui Han tu’), Wenwu, no. 6 (1959): 32–­35, and Liu Lingcang, “‘The Painting of Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe’ in Chinese Paintings” (Zhongguo hua li de ‘Hujia shibapai tu’), Wenwu, no. 6 (1959): 3–­6. 72. The artist’s name is uncertain. For scholarly debate on this issue, see Su Xingjun, “On ‘The Scroll of Wenji Returning to Han’ by the Jin Painter” (Ji Jinren ‘Wenji gui Han tujuan’), Wenwu, no. 3 (1964): 34–­35, and Guo Moruo, “On ‘The Painting of Wenji Returning to Han’ by Zhang Yu of the Jin” (Tan Jinren Zhang Yu de ‘Wenji gui Han tu’), Wenwu, no. 7 (1964): 1–­6. A reprint of this thirteenth-­century painting can be found in Wenwu, no. 3 (1964). 73. See Guo Moruo, “On ‘The Painting of Wenji Returning to Han,’” 3. 74. See Guo Moruo, “On ‘The Painting of Wenji Returning to Han,’” 2–­3. For Gong Suran, see chapter 1, note 146. I Lo-­fen compares multiple paintings and prints and analyzes the complicated relations of these two characters in iconography. See I Lo-­fen, “Leaving the Pass Behind or Returning to Han—­the Overlapping and Intersection of the Images of Wang Zhaojun and Cai Wenji” (Chusai huo guihan—­Wang Zhaojun yu Cai Wenji tuxiang de chongdie yu jiaocuo), Forum in Women’s and Gender Studies (Fuyan zongheng) 74 (April 2005): 1–­16. 75. All eighteen paintings are reprinted with commentary in Robert A. Rorex and Wen Fong, eds., Eighteen Songs of a Nomad Flute: The Story of Lady Wen-­chi (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1974). See the introduction for the Khitan discussion (pages are not numbered). 76. Torii Ryuzo, Sculptured Stone Tombs of the Liao Dynasty (Beijing: Harvard-­Yenching Institute, 1942), 74–­85. According to Torii’s study in the 1920s and 1930s, these tombs had long been known to local villagers, who had emptied them. He thinks these tombs belong to the golden age of the Liao, from Emperor Shengzong to Daozong (988 [sic]–­1100). Torii Ryuzo, Sculptured Stone Tombs, 89–­93. Emperor Shengzong acceded in 983, not 988. 77. Wei Lü, whose father was Xiongnu, grew up in China and was favored by Li Yannian, the brother of Emperor Wu’s favorite concubine, Lady Li. Li recommended Wei as the Chinese envoy to the Xiongnu. After the Li family lost the emperor’s favor and Li Yannian himself was executed, Wei was afraid of being implicated and fled to the Xiongnu. He was employed by the chieftain and given the title Lord Dingling. See Ban Gu, The History of the Han Dynasty, 8:2457. Like Mao Yanshou, the designated villain in Wang Zhaojun drama, Wei Lü is a traitorous character who makes for an obvious contrast with the loyal Su Wu in drama. 78. The North Sea is Lake Baikal in Siberia. 79. The line reads 羝乳乃得歸. The word ru 乳 can be interpreted as to produce milk or to produce offspring. 80. Dingling was a small tribe north of the Xiongnu. 81. See later part of this chapter and chapter 4 for more historical accounts and dramatic works on Li Ling.



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82. Ban Gu, The History of the Han Dynasty, 8:2459–­64. 83. Cao Mo (or Cao Gui) was a general of Lu during the Spring and Autumn period. His troops were defeated three times by Qi’s army and Lu had to give land in exchange for peace. At a banquet where the peace treaty was going to be made, Cao took a dagger and threatened the Duke of Qi (Qi Huangong). With the dagger and an eloquent speech, he convinced the Duke to return the land to Lu. See Sima Qian, The Records of the Grand Historian, 8:2515–­ 16. 84. Ban Gu, The History of the Han Dynasty, 8:2465–­67. 85. Ban Gu, The History of the Han Dynasty, 8:2467–­68. 86. Poem Three by Su Wu has lines as follows: “As man and wife, there’s no doubt about our love. . . . Live, I’ll definitely return; die, you’ll miss me forever.” 87. For all seven poems, see Literary Anthology of Prince Zhaoming (Zhaoming wenxuan), ed. Xiao Tong (501–­531) and annotated by Li Shan (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1977), 2:412–­14. 88. For complete texts of the three letters, see Yan Kejun, ed., Complete Prose of Ancient Times, Three Dynasties, Qin, Han, Three Kingdoms and Six Dynasties (Quan shanggu Sandai Qin Han Sanguo Liuchao wen) (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1958), 1:280–­83. 89. Hans H. Frankel, in his article on the authorship of Cai Yan poems, also raises suspicions of the authorship of the poems and letters of Li Ling and Su Wu. See Frankel, “Cai Yan and the Poems Attributed to Her,” 154. K. P. K. Whitaker thinks these works belong to the tradition of imitation literature, which could be for literary exercise and other reasons. K. P. K. Whitaker, “Notes on the Authorship of the Lii Ling/Su Wuu Letters—­I, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London 15, no. 1 (1953): 113–­39, and “Notes on the Authorship of the Lii Ling/Su Wuu Letters—­II, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London 15, no. 3 (1953): 566–­87. Also see Zhang Shoulin’s reasoning for “faking” literary works on border-­crossing topics during turbulent times (chapter 1, note 33). 90. Wang Shupan, et al., A Selection of Frontier Poetry, 152–­53. 91. Yuanben was a dramatic style popular during the Jin dynasty (1115–­1234). It was similar to the zaju of the Song dynasty (960–­1278), and seems to have been a kind of transitional dramatic form before the advent of the Yuan zaju. Unfortunately, only titles survive for both Song zaju and Jin yuanben. None of the play scripts are extant. 92. One Hundred and One Southern Plays of the Song and Yuan Dynasties (Song Yuan nanxi baiyi lu 宋元南戲百一錄), ed. Qian Nanyang (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Yenching Institute, 1934), 2–­3. 93. The earliest extant complete nanxi are First-­Place Scholar Zhang Xie (Zhang Xie zhuangyuan 張協狀元), The Young Man of Good Family Gets off to a Bad Start (Huanmen zidi cuolishen 宦門子弟錯立身), and Little Sun Tu (Xiao Sun Tu 小孫屠). These plays were collected in Yongle dadian 永樂大典, originally compiled from 1403 to 1408, but the original text of Yongle dadian is fragmentary and the extant editions of these three plays come from the edition of the Jiajing period (1522–­1566). First-­Place Scholar Zhang Xie, the earliest of the three, was probably written as early as late Song (ca. 1234–­1280). See Qian Nanyang, ed., Three Annotated Xiwen from the Yongle Dadian (Yongle dadian xiwen sanzhong jiaozhu) (Taipei: Huazheng, 1985), 1–­3. 94. Qian Nanyang thinks the titles of the nine scenes are inventions of the Ming editors. See Qian Nanyang, Three Annotated Xiwen, 209. 95. The word here is yeren 野人, wild person or savage. Su Wu also uses the word hu’er 胡兒 (Xiongnu/barbarians), and yechusheng (野畜生, wild beast) to refer to them in this

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Notes to Pages 148–51

scene. Su Wu seems to suggest that yeren and hu’er are the same, and he addresses them as “one person” (yiren 一人). The way he describes their movement (cuantiao 躥跳, leaping), however, seems to indicate that these creatures are not humans, but beasts. Perhaps yeren refers to some kind of indigenous people near the North Sea who might be seen as a species even lower than the Xiongnu, the barbarian of the barbarians. Perhaps this is the connection with the story of the ape woman, which I will discuss in chapter 3 and the conclusion. 96. According to The History of the Han Dynasty, Li Ling’s battle with the Xiongnu took place a year after Su Wu’s peace mission, but they did not see each other until more than ten years later. In this play, these two characters’ stories are directly connected: Trying to avenge Su Wu, Li Ling led a troop of five thousand but lost the battle and was forced to surrender. To punish him, the Chinese emperor moved his ancestors’ tombs and executed his whole family. 97. Singers are not specified in “Cajoling.” From the content of the arias, it should be sung by Su Wu’s wife and mother. 98. The second phrase, “apes are my companions” is problematic. Since the play is fragmentary, we do not know whether the apes here might refer to the two savages Su Wu has met earlier in the play. Also, the number or gender of the apes is not reflected in this line. In some of the later Su Wu local drama, he marries an ape woman, so “apes are my companions” can also be translated as “what’s intimate to me is the ape [woman].” It is not clear, however, if the ape woman character originated in earlier sources like this one or a later local invention. 99. I have written on the topic of “bodily writing,” linking various forms of self-­ immolation—­flesh cutting for medicinal purpose, blood letter writing, tattooing, or other forms of bodily cutting—­to virtue. Such virtuous acts, especially done by women, whether in literary texts or on stage, create sensational affect while providing moral teaching. See Daphne P. Lei, “The Blood-­Stained Text in Translation: Tattooing, Bodily Writing, and Performance of Chinese Virtue,” Anthropological Quarterly 82, no. 1 (2009): 99–­127. 100. Huihui, or Hui, is a general term for ethnic groups west and northwest of Han China, such as the Uyghur; it is sometimes used to indicate the general Muslim population. A similar song called huge (Hu/Xiongnu song) also appears in other plays, such as in The Ballad of Reed Pipe (1742), see Tang Ying, The Collection of Gubotang Plays, 8. In other words, Huihui and Hu (Xiongnu) are interchangeable barbarians from the Han point of view, and their ethnic song and dance, usually performed by minor characters, add a form of exotic merriment in the largely gloomy border-­crossing stories. 101. See Zhong Sicheng, Three Annotated Register of Ghosts, 162–­63. 102. Zhao Jingshen, ed., Remnants of Yuan Zaju (Yuanren zaju gouchen 元人雜劇鉤沈) (Shanghai: Shanghai gudian wenxue, 1956), 87–94. 103. Zhao Jingshen, Remnants of Yuan Zaju, 92. 104. This is the account according to Zhuang Yifu. See Zhuang Yifu, ed., The Dictionary of the Extant Classical Play Titles (Gudian xiqu cunmu huikao) (Shanghai: Shanghai guji, 1982), 1:89–­90. But at the end of the handcopied script, a line reads, “Copied on the first day of the twelfth month in the year of wuwu” 戊午. The closest year of wuwu should be 1798 or 1858, which would be the reign of Jiaqing (1796–­1820) or (Xianfeng (1851–­1861) instead of Daoguang (1821–­1850). 105. See Collected Early Editions of Ancient Dramas, ser. 1, vol. 3, no. 3. 106. Jiamen is a dramatic term used in connection with nanxi and chuanqi. Similar to a prologue, the jiamen functions as a brief introduction of the plot to attract the audience’s attention.



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107. Most of the words can be identified as typical Mongolian used by barbarian characters in Yuan or Ming plays. See Fang Linggui’s Mongolian Expressions in the Yuan and Ming Dramas (Yuan Ming xiqu zhongde Menggu yu) (Shanghai: Hanyu dacidian, 1991). 108. The jiamen (the prologue) indicates that during Su Wu’s absence, his wife Li takes care of her parents-­in-­law and even practices gegu to cure them 機房妻受苦，求醫割股，獨 奉姑嫜. This is similar to the song Su Wu’s wife sings in the nanxi version. But the actual scene of gegu is not found in this handcopied version, nor is Su Wu’s father. This jiamen is almost identical to an opening song collected in The Brocade Bag of Romances (1553). The gegu part might have been cut while the old jiamen remained when the theater troupe copied the play in the nineteenth century. 109. Boyi and Shuqi were brothers in the Shang dynasty. When Emperor Wu (r. 1122–­ 1116 BC) overthrew the Shang and established the Zhou dynasty, they took refuge in the Shouyang Mountains. Unwilling to eat the grains from the Zhou, they ate only ferns and finally starved to death. Confucius praised their loyalty and righteousness. See Sima Qian, Records of the Grand Historian, 7:2122–­23. 110. The title of this scene is indecipherable. In this version, all the scene titles are nearly effaced by circles written over them. I use a question mark [?] to indicate uncertain words. 111. The characters here are 星星 (xingxing, stars) rather than 猩猩 (xingxing, apes), but I believe it means “apes” here. 112. A general during the Warring States period, Wu Qi ate the same food and wore the same clothes as soldiers in the lowest rank and won many battles. See Sima Qian, Records of the Grand Historian, 8:2515–­16. 113. The three obediences and four virtues are ideals for Chinese women as prescribed by Confucian standards. The three obediences are obeying the father at home, the husband after the marriage, the son in the widowhood. The four virtues are fidelity, proper appearance, propriety in speech, and efficiency in needlework. 114. The fox spirit in the form of a beautiful woman who visits a lonely man at night is a common theme in classical Chinese ghost stories. 115. The Story of Tending the Sheep (Muyang ji) in White-­Fringed Fur (Zhuibai qiu), ed. Wanhua Zhuren (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1955), 1:1–­25, 2:66–­80. 116. Ban Gu, The History of the Han Dynasty, 8:2439–­59. 117. Ban Gu, The History of the Han Dynasty, 8:2450–­58. 118. Anonymous, “Farewell between Su Wu and Li Ling” (Su Wu Li Ling zhibie ci 蘇武李 陵執別詞), in The New Collection of Bianwen of Dunhuang (Dunhuang bianwen ji xinshu), ed. Pan Chonggui (Taipei: Zhongguo wenhua daxue Zhongwen yanjiu suo, 1983–­84), 907–­10. 119. Through the comparison of various theories on authorship and textual analysis, Wang Weiqin concludes that this bianwen was probably written around the same time as Wang Zhaojun Bianwen and its earliest date could not be earlier than 786 AD. The author was probably a Han Chinese living in the Dunhuang area (not within Han territory). See Wang Weiqin, “An Investigation of the Time and Authorship of ‘Li Ling Bianwen’” (‘Li Ling Bianwen’ zuoshi zuozhe kaolun), Knowledge of Language and Literature (Yuwen zhishi), 2012 (no. 2): 6–­8. “Li Ling Bianwen” is also collected in Pan Chonggui, 893–­905. 120. Pan Chonggui, 904. 121. The goddess Nüwa repaired the heavenly vault with five-­colored stones. See chapter 1, note 134. 122. Li Ling’s costume is to indicate he has not surrendered to the Xiongnu; this is a direct contradiction of the historical account: “I’m already in Hu attire.” See note 117.

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Notes to Pages 162–74

123. This “ring-­return” episode is from the Li Ling chapter in Ban Gu, The History of the Han Dynasty, 8:2458. 124. See Ban Gu, The History of the Han Dynasty, 8:2455–­56. 125. The portrait is in Jin Guliang’s Wushuang pu 無雙譜, originally printed in 1694. A modern reprint is published by Zhongguo wenlian chuban gongsi in 1997, 17. 126. Torii Ryuzo, Sculptured Stone Tombs, 87–­88. 127. The painting is in the National Palace Museum, Taipei, Taiwan.

Chapter Three 1. As discussed in previous chapters, a number of examples show that the border-­ crossing theme and peace-­alliance marriage were widespread. For instance, some Ming border-­crossing songs were marked as “fashionable tunes,” and Tang Ying was known for adopting popular tunes in his plays. Archeological findings in China’s northern frontier also find decorative architectural pieces with phrases referencing peace-­alliance marriage. 2. I have discussed some of the plays in this chapter along with a fiction in “Envisioning New Borders for the Old China in Late Qing Fiction and Local Drama,” in Political Frontiers, Ethnic Boundaries, and Human Geographies in Chinese History, ed. Nicola Di Cosmo and Don Wyatt (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), 373–­97. This collection contains studies of Chinese frontiers of different periods, including analyses of various barbarians. Also see Lei, Operatic China, 109–­31. 3. See Moreno, Theatre of the Borderlands, 3. 4. Liang Qichao, “The Three Sharp Weapons for Dissemination of Civilization” (Chuanbo wenming san liqi), Yinbingshi zhuanji 2 in Yinbingshi heji (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1989), 41–42. The context is the Meiji Restoration, the successful Westernization and modernization movement in Japan (1868). 5. Little is known about the publication of these late Qing/early Republic dramas. Some of the plays were handcopied, and some printed (woodblock, lithography, or lead plate). Names of publishing houses, theater troupes and leading actors are sometimes provided, but never authors’ names. Liu Fu in his Draft of the Complete Catalogue of Chinese Popular Songs (Zhongguo suqu zongmu gao) (Beijing: Guoli zhongyang yanjiuyuan lishi yuyan yanjiusuo, 1932), states that although scholars (Liu Fu, Li Jiarui, Gu Jiegang, Ma Yuqing, et al.) began collecting popular plays and songs in 1917, this catalogue was not complete until 1932. There are more than six thousand pieces in the collection, of which I have identified about a few dozens as examples of border-­crossing drama. The National Taiwan University also has a digital archive on southern regional dramas (such as Taiwanese gezaixi). Some of the editions published in Taiwan appear to be similar to the ones published in Xiamen (Fujian province). The Chinese University of Hong Kong has a great collection of Cantonese opera material, but most material belongs to later periods. 6. Scholars hold different views of the exact timing of the kunqu/regional drama transition: Tanaka Issei thinks the transition took place from the late Ming through the mid-­ Qing (seventeenth to eighteenth century); Aoki Masaru uses the end of the reign of Emperor Qianlong (r. 1736–­1795) as a marking point for the decline of kunqu. See Tanaka Issei, “Development of Chinese Local Plays in the 17th and 18th Centuries,” Acta Asiatica 23 (1972): 42, and Aoki Masaru, History of Chinese Theater in Recent Times (Zhongguo jinshi xiqu shi), trans. Wang Gulu (from Japanese: Shina kinsei gikyoku shi) (Hong Kong: Zhonghua, 1975), 376, 468.



Notes to Pages 174–80

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For a general introduction to early development of regional drama, besides the two sources above, see also the works of Colin Mackerras: “The Drama of the Qing Dynasty,” in Chinese Theater: From its Origins to the Present Day, ed. Colin Mackerras (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1983), 92–­117; “The Growth of the Chinese Regional Drama in the Ming and Ch’ing,” Journal of Oriental Studies IX, no. 1 ( January 1971): 58–­91; and the introduction to The Rise of the Peking Opera 1770–­1870 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), 1–­15. 7. Aoki Masaru, History of Chinese Theatre, 447. 8. Wing Chung Ng, The Rise of Cantonese Opera (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2015), 1. 9. Wing Chung Ng, The Rise of Cantonese Opera, 2. 10. Among the regional dramas, yueju is probably the most studied subject. Mai Xiaoxia’s (1903–­1941) The General History of Guangdong Drama (Guangdong xiqu shilüe) (n.p. 1940) is considered the seminal work on the study of Cantonese opera. Ouyang Yuqian, Liang Peijin, Lai Bojiang, and Huang Jingming are also important scholars of the history of Cantonese opera. Wing Chung Ng’s recent publication, The Rise of Cantonese Opera, which has chapters on the early history and the urbanization (early twentieth century) of Cantonese opera, is useful for the period I analyze in this chapter. Gezaixi has also attracted great scholarly attention, especially in Taiwan, in recent years. Zeng Yongyi, Lin Heyi, and Cai Xinxin are among the most important scholars on Taiwan gezaixi today. Jingju (Beijing opera, Peking opera), despite its regional origin, ascended to the level of capital opera and national opera. Because of its close connection with the state, I discuss the jingju performances in chapter 4. 11. I have written elsewhere about the phenomenon of treating domestic barbarians (Manchus) as Chinese during this period. The iconography of local drama shows that the Manchu officials (identified by their specific outfit) are placed in the position of Chinese subjects who bid farewell to Wang Zhaojun (fig. 12.3). See Lei, “Envisioning New Borders,” 373–­97. 12. King Wuling of Zhao (r. 325–­299 BC) made his soldiers learn to ride horses and adopt the Hu outfit for better mobility and agility, and he was able to strengthen the military force tremendously and won many battles. This was probably the earliest example of “learning from the strengths of the barbarians in order to control barbarians.” For the legend of King Wuling, see Sima Qian, Records of the Grand Historian, 6:1805–­15. Wei Yuan, the author of Illustrated Treatise on the Maritime Kingdom, made clear in the preface: “For what purpose did I write this book? To use barbarians to defeat barbarians, to use barbarians to handle barbarians, and to learn from the strengths of the barbarians to control barbarians 為以夷攻 夷而作， 為以夷款夷而作， 為師夷長技以制夷而作.” Wei Yuan, Illustrated Treatise on the Maritime Kingdom (Haiguo tuzhi) (Taipei: Chengwen, 1966), 1:5–­6. The original was published in 1842, with expanded version in 1847. 13. For a more detailed description of the late Qing reforms led by the court and intellectuals, see Lei, Operatic China, 93–­101. 14. See introduction, note 61. 15. For instance, Mai Xiaoxia gave an example of staging a flood scene with real water in 1898. See Mai Xiaoxia, The General History of Guangdong Drama, 23–­28. Western scenery seemed to be part of the local practice as seen in some of the plays in this chapter. 16. Xueqiao Zhuren, The Wonderful Karma of Double Phoenixes (Shuangfeng qiyuan 雙鳳 奇緣) (Taipei: Shuangdi, 1995). The earliest extant edition is in 1809. 17. According to Ban Gu, Su Wu was released a few years after Emperor Zhao (r. 86–­74 BC) took the throne and established a peace alliance with the Xiongnu, about half a century

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Notes to Pages 181–83

before Wang Zhaojun’s marriage (33 BC). But in both the yueju plays Zhaojun Throwing Herself over the Riverbank and Su Wu Tending the Sheep, Wang Zhaojun has the chieftain promise her to release Su Wu before she consents to marry him. In the minge The Whole Song of Wang Zhaojun Appeasing the Barbarians, Li Ling and Su Wu are sent to the Xiongnu after the chieftain demands her. These plot innovations were inspired by The Wonderful Karma of Double Phoenixes. 18. Anzaldúa, Borderlands/La Frontera, 25. 19. Étienne Balibar, “The Borders of Europe,” in Cosmopolitics: Thinking and Feeling Beyond the Nation, ed. Peng Cheah and Bruce Robbins (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1998), 216. 20. By the middle of the nineteenth century, about five hundred foreigners lived in all the cities that were open to the foreigners; about half of them were British. See Denis Twitchett and John K. Fairbank, eds., The Cambridge History of China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 10:228. 21. There is another minge titled The Song of Wang Zhaojun in the Cold Palace, Part I (Wang Zhaojun lenggong ge shangben 王昭君冷宮歌上本). This section covers Mao Yanshou’s scheme and Wang Zhaojun’s days in the Cold Palace. It was also published by Bowenzhai in Xiamen, the same company that published The Whole Song of Wang Zhaojun Appeasing the Barbarians, Part II. From the plot, print, and publication information, I believe both plays are supposed to be read/seen together. The publishing dates for both plays are not available. The title on the cover of Part II reads: “The Newest Whole Song of Wang Zhaojun Appeasing the Barbarians, Part II,” which indicates a newer edition of an earlier play. The library of National Taiwan University collects a few editions of The Song of Wang Zhaojun in the Cold Palace, Part I. Among the editions are the ones published by Huiwentang (Xiamen, 1921); by Huangtu huobansuo (Taipei, 1926); there is also a version by Kaiwen (Shanghai, 192?), which breaks The Song of Wang Zhaojun in the Cold Palace into two parts. Similarly, various editions of The Whole Song of Wang Zhaojun Appeasing the Barbarians, Part II by the same publishers above are also in the collection. The earliest edition is published by Huiwentang (Xiamen, 1914). The 1921 reprint by Huiwentang is collected in Folk Literature: Materials in the Collection of the Institute of History and Philosophy (Suwenxue congcan), ed. Zhongyang yanjiuyuan Lishi yuyan yanjiusuo Suwenxue congkan bianji xiaozu (Taipei: Zhongyang yanjiuyuan Lishi yuyan yanjiusuo and Xinwenfeng, 2001), vol. 362. 22. The yueju Cai Wenji is a complete play with twenty-­three scenes and a full character and cast list of seventeen characters. The cover of the script advertises it as the great play of the Renshounian Theatre Troupe, whose leading actors were Qianliju (1886–­1936) and Jingshaofeng (?–­?). The dramatis personae indicate that Qianliju 千里駒, the famous female impersonator, played Cai Wenji. 23. A variation of Dong Si 董祀. 24. Chen Qiushan studies marriages of Western women based on the multiple examples recorded in The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio. Marriage autonomy for women seemed inspiring for young people of this period in China. See “Disguised Image: The Investigation of the Perspectives of Western Women’s Marriage Choices in The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio” (Bei fenshi de xingxiang: ‘Dianshizhai huabao’ kaocha xifang nüxing ze’ou zhi shiye) (BA honors thesis, Universiti Tunku Abdul Rahman, 2014). 25. The play is in five volumes/acts, covering from Wang Zhaojun’s leaving the pass to the emperor’s marriage to her sister. It was a special version for lead actors Qianliju 千里



Notes to Pages 183–86

297

駒 (1886–­1936) and Chang’eying 嫦娥英 (?–­?), both famous female impersonators. It was published by Wuguitang in Guangzhou. New page number starts with each act. 26. Here we are reminded of the Gusu Terrace built by the King of Wu for his beauty Xishi. See note 75 in chapter 1. 27. Shi Guangsheng, “The Evolution of the Text of the Story of Wang Zhaojun in Taiwanese Drama” (Wang Zhaojun gushi yu Taiwan xiju wenben shuxie zhi yibian), in The Collection of Essays of the Conference of Gaojiaxi of the Taiwan Strait (Liang’an gaojiaxi yantaohui lunwen ji), ed. Guoli chuanyi zhongxin (Yilan: Chuanyi zhongxin, 2003), 29–­54. 28. Huang Lingyu, “The Study of Chegu in Taiwan” (Taiwan chegu zhi yanjiu) (MA thesis, Taiwan Normal University, 1986), 21. This viewpoint is from two traditional performing artists, recorded by Huang during her field research. Here we are reminded of one of the early references of pipa—­to entertain the princess during her journey for the peace-­alliance marriage. See note 40 in chapter 1. 29. An existent script of gaojiaxi from the troupe Shengxinle (fl. prior to mid-­twentieth century) shows fourteen scenes: the familiar parts of the journey of Zhaojun accompanied by Wang Long (lamenting her fate, describing the barren landscape and her homesickness, resenting the treacherous painter, and entrusting a letter to a wild goose). According to a senior actor Huang Meiyue, a “full” Wang Zhaojun play usually ends this way: Zhaojun sets up the condition that Huhanye has to meet, such as digging a canal that goes to the Han territory, killing Mao Yanshou, and retaliating for her. After the canal is complete, Zhaojun would jump into the water and kill herself. See Shi Guangsheng, “The Evolution of the Text,” 29–­54. 30. Yang Fuling, “Investigations about Taiwan Chegu Drama” (Youguan Taiwan cheguxi zhi jidian kaocha). In Conference Proceeding of the Cross-­Strait Minor Drama Conference (Liang’an xiaoxi xueshu yantaohui lunwenji), ed. Zeng Yongyi and Shen Dong (Taipei: Chuanyi zhong­ xin choubeichu, 2001), 232–­57. 31. The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio records a number of incidents of fan or shengfan of Taiwan. Guangdong renmin, ed., The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio (Dianshi zhai huabao) (Guangzhou: Guandong renmin, 1983). 32. The site for the temple was also settled by different Han groups, Hakka, Pingpu, and Minnan. See Liu Shu-­Hsuan, “The Expansion of Sin-­Lian Temple and the Change of Local Society in Houlong Township, Miaoli, Taiwan” (Miaoli xian Houlong Xinlian si zhi xinyang kuozhang yu difang shehui bianqian) (MA thesis, National Chiao Tung University, 2013), 49–­ 58. The displays in the Zhaojun Temple contains many historical records and folk legends about the serious racial conflicts and aboriginal custom of headhunting. For instance, local Han people did not offer food for the dead since the headless ghosts could not eat. The local aboriginals are identified as headhunters. I visited the temple in July 2017. 33. Dagu (big drum), storytelling accompanied by drums, is a very popular form of entertainment from the Beijing area. I have collected more than a dozen dagu pieces on Wang Zhaojun. This particular piece is also from the Fu Ssu-­nien Library without much publication information (except for page numbers). 34. “Knife slicing” (lingchi 凌遲) is one of the extremely cruel punishments in premodern China. It is a slow and painful death sentence involving cutting and slicing flesh in small quantity. 35. From the minge The Whole Song of Wang Zhaojun Appeasing the Barbarians, Part II (Wang Zhaojun hefan quange).

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Notes to Pages 186–94

36. Lei, “Envisioning New Borders for the Old China,” 376 and 378. The picture is from ser. 5, vol. 2:3. 37. The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio, ser. 5, vol. 4:11. 38. The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio, ser. 1, vol. 5:6. 39. This phrase is from the late sixteenth century chuanqi Appeasing the Barbarians (vol. 2, xxix, 24), but it becomes one of the set phrases describing barbarians in later plays. See chapter 1. 40. Xueqiao Zhuren, The Wonderful Karma of Double Phoenixes, 135–­36. 41. The Fuzhou pinghua The Former Appeasing the Barbarians, published by Yiwen in Fuzhou (publishing date not available), is in two parts. The first part covers Mao Yanshou’s plot, Wang Long’s adventure, Wang Zhaojun’s days in the cold palace, and her meeting with the emperor, and the second part includes the war, her suicide, and the final peace. No information on The Latter Appeasing the Barbarians (Hou hefan 後和番) is available. The cited description is from Part II, 4. 42. For more examples, see Lei, Operatic China, 117–­18. 43. The Dagu play Zhaojun Appeasing Barbarians (Zhaojun hefan 昭君和番) is collected in Civilized Dagu Song Book (Wenming dagushu ci). Beijing (?): n.d., 16–­24. Zhaojun’s lotus feet movement on boat is a new form of sensational femininity created by the new water border. 44. The Ape Woman Chasing the Boat is a short play (or rather a scene), which appears in the collection Guangdong youjie suijin 7 (printed by Yiwentang in Guangzhou; date not available). Xinhua (wusheng) and Lanhuami (male huadan) were the leading actors. 45. Lai Bojiang, “Kuang Xinhua, the Great Contributor to the Yueju Restoration” (Zhong­ xing yueju de gongchen Kuang Xinhua), in Wang Wenquan et al., eds., Yueju Chunqiu (Guangzhou: Guangdong renmin, 1990), 153–­60. 46. Both zidi pieces New Zhaojun and Leaving the Pass Behind are collected in Folk Literature (Suwenxue congcan) (2004), 387:511–­584. The original source is The Song Collection of Qing Mongol Lord Che (Qing Menggu Chewang fucang quben), a vast collection of over a thousand hand-­copied plays/songs of various dramatic genres from the middle to late Qing period. It is believed that the collector was a Mongol aristocrat in late Qing period (copied in 1858). This collection was discovered in 1925 in Beijing. See Shoudu tushuguan, ed., The Song Collection of Qing Mongol Lord Che (Qing Menggu Chewang fucang quben) (Beijing: Beijing guji, 1991), ser. 291, vol. 1534. No page number is available. 47. The play is in four volumes/acts. It was published by Wuguitang in Guangzhou (date unknown). Pagination begins anew with each act. According to the brief introduction by the publisher, this play was by the Guofengnian Theater Troupe, with leading actors Xinhua (1850–­1923, wusheng, martial male) and others. The publisher obtained the play from the theater and then cut the woodblock, printed it, and distributed it. 48. The Ape Woman Chasing the Boat is from a yueju collection Biebutong suijin quanji, vol. 2, 14–­16. It was printed by Yiwentang in Guangzhou (date not available). 49. Ban Gu, The History of the Han Dynasty, 8:2467–­68. 50. Cited in The Classic of Mountains and Seas (Shanhai jing 山海經), collated and annotated by Yuan Ke (Chengdu: Bashu, 1992), 325–­26. The Water Classic was written by Li Daoyuan (?–­527). 51. The original story comes from The Notation Book of Yuewei Cottage (Yuewei caotang biji) by Ji Yun (1724–­1805), who also writes about receiving a gift of a pair of ape lips (considered delicacy). A modern version of The Notation Book of Yuewei Cottage is translated and edited by Bei Yuan et al. (Beijing: Xinhua, 1994).



Notes to Pages 196–204

299

Yang Hezhi’s “The Study of Apes” (Xingxing kao) analyzes many ancient texts and discusses aspects such as apes’ ability to speak, love for wine, apes’ blood as dye, and lips as food; he cannot, however, determine which animal actually corresponds to the mythical xingxing. One of the possible connections is the “savages” or “aboriginals” of the south or southwest China. “The Study of Apes” is in The Collection of the Seventh Conference of Science History (Diqijie kexueshi yantaohui huikan) (Taipei: Zhongyang yanjiuyuan kexueshi weiyuanhui, 2007), 188–­99. The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio has an entry, “Savages outside the Pass” (Saiwai yeren), which retells a story of two men’s encountering “savages” during a trading trip to Tibet. The picture shows two Chinese men surround by several apes in the mountains. This is the contemporary pictorial imagination of yeren 野人 as apes; maoren 毛人 [hairy man] is another term used in this picture. See series 2, vol. 6:11. For more about apes and ape women, see Lei, “Envisioning New Borders for the Old China,” 385–­87. Local folk traditions also tell fascinating stories of ape/savage with vengeful super power, such as in the God of Riches rituals in Qinghai. See the concluding chapter for more details. 52. This play is also from Guangdong youjie suijin. 53. These songs are collected in Army Three National Songs (Lujun san guoge) (Beijing: Xuegutang, n.d.). “Republic of China” (Zhonghua minguo) is mentioned in “The Song of Training Citizens as Soldiers,” which means the publication date is after 1912. 54. For a fuller description of how Boxers used their magic and theatricality in their anti-­ Western rhetoric and action, see Lei, Operatic China, 154–­58. Many people were convinced of their invincibility, including Empress Dowager. The belief in the ultimate Chinese nationalism (strong anti-­Western stance) with magic and superstition, instead of a realistic appraisal of the current political situation, led to the chaos of 1900. 55. The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio, ser. 2, vol. 1:11. The caption is for a picture that shows Westerners’ engagement of both human athletic games such as tug of war and animal races. 56. The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio, ser. 2, vol. 6:11, ser. 2, vol. 12:1, ser. 5, vol. 1:8. 57. Cheng Dengke, The Outlines of the History of World Physical Education (Shijie tiyushi gangyao; originally published in 1948), in Collections of the Republic (Minguo congshu) (Shanghai: Shanghai shuju, 1989), 50:210–­26. 58. For details on the beginning of Chinese spoken drama and a top-­down approach by elites, see Lei, Operatic China, 101–­7. 59. Although the text speculates the death might be caused by a revenge of a ghost, the title of the picture indicates the death is caused by himself (zibi, self-­killing, self-­shooting). See The Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio, ser. 1, vol. 12:90. 60. For the Boxers’ anti-­Western uprisings, see Lei, Operatic China, 154–­58. 61. After losing his daughter, Cai Yong is so sad that he turns down Cao Cao’s offer to work for him. Cao Cao ransoms Cai Yan with gold and jewelry so her father will return to the political arena. 62. The summary of the play is collected in A Catalogue of Yueju Titles and Plots (Yueju jumu gangyao), ed. Zhongguo xijujia xiehui Guangdong fenhui (Hong Kong?: Zhongguo xijujia xiehui Guangdong fenhui, 1982?), 2:625. This fascinating play is unfortunately not found in any known collection. It is not clear whose blood the ape woman uses to wash the tablet. The erection of the Li Ling tablet before his death has an uncanny similarity to the reference of the Green Mound before Wang Zhaojun’s suicide. Though both Li Ling and

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Notes to Pages 205–9

Wang Zhaojun established their lives among the Xiongnu according to the historical record, in drama, there has been a collective desire wishing for their suicide throughtout history.

Chapter Four 1. Giovanni Arrighi, The Long Twentieth Century: Money, Power, and the Origin of Our Times (New York: Verso, 1994). 2. In the famous talk at Yan’an in 1942, Mao Zedong stressed the need to “ensure that literature and art fit well into the whole revolutionary machine as a component part, that they operate as powerful weapons for uniting and educating the people and for attacking and destroying the enemy, and that they help the people fight the enemy with one heart and one mind.” Mao Tsetung (Mao Zedong), “Talks at the Yan’an Forum on Literature and Art” (translated from Zai Yan’an wenyi zuotanhui shangde jianghua), in Selected Readings from the Works of Mao Tsetung (Peking: Foreign Languages Press, 1971), 250–­56. 3. The KMT government (ROC in Taiwan) had a well-­established democratic constitution and government structure; however, the “real” democracy was not actualized until the last decade of the twentieth century because of the postwar martial law for about four decades (1949–­87). The Democratic Progressive Party (Minjindang 民進黨, DPP), the major oppositional party to KMT was established in 1986 and the martial law finally ended the following year (1987). The “one person one vote” for presidential election was implemented in 1996; the presidents were elected by a small number of representatives in earlier decades. The political power shifts between the two major parties based on elections, both at local and national levels. 4. This ambiguity creates a naming absurdity and nightmare during international meetings or sports competitions. For instance, in the Olympics, Taiwan cannot participate as either ROC (another China) or Taiwan (an independent country). “Chinese Taipei,” an awkward name that does not signify anything accurately, becomes the quasi-­official title for Taiwan in the international arena today. 5. In 2016, however, the Xinhua News Agency, the official state-­run press agency of the PRC banned the usage of “three/four places” in news reports because the SARs should not be considered as a separate “place.” “Perspective interpretations” from the 92 Consensus was also banned. For the entire 2016 list of banned terms, see “Xinhua News Agency Announced the Banned Terms in Reports: The ‘Republic of China, Taiwan Government’ Are Not Allowed, ‘92 Consensus’ Cannot Mention ‘One China, Different Perspecives’” (Xinhuashe fabu baodao jinyongci: ‘Zhonghua minguo,’ ‘Taiwan zhengfu,’ tongtong buzhunyong, ‘Jiuer gongshi’ buketi ‘yizhong gebiao’), Storm Media ( July 20, 2017), https://www.storm.mg/article/301816 6. In Alternative Chinese Opera (2011), I discuss how Chinese opera performances in the “peripheries” (Taiwan, Hong Kong, California) construct an ideal “China” in performance that does not coincide with the current political realities; in this configuration, the center (PRC) is imagined as a zero institution whose meaning is given by the peripheral performances. 7. For a brief biography of the four female impersonators, see Beijingshi yishu yanjiusuo and Shanghai yishu yanjiusuo, eds., The History of Chinese Jingju (Zhongguo jingju shi) (Beijing: Zhongguo xiju chubanshe, 1990), 2:104–­12. 8. See chapter 1, notes 90 and 142. 9. A horsewhip represents a horse on the traditional Chinese stage. Various ways of handling a whip along with body movements can indicate riding or galloping on horseback or taming or struggling with a wild horse.



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Long pheasant feathers are part of the headdress of martial characters. Handling the feathers by hand or controlling the motion of the feather by moving the head are part of the training of a martial actor. A cape indicates traveling. 10. Beijingshi yishu yanjiusuo and Shanghai yishu yanjiusuo, The History of Chinese Jingju, 2:111. 11. The film was directed by Sang Fu and produced by Xi’an dianying zhipianchang. It is about forty minutes long. 12. Li Shoumin, The Bright Consort of the Han (Han Mingfei 漢明妃). This version (titled as Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind) is later collected in The Great Collection of National Drama (Guoju dacheng), ed. Zhang Bojin (Taipei: Guofangbu zongzhengzhi zuozhanbu zhen­ xing guoju yanjiu fazhan weiyuanhui, 1969), 2:223–­27. 13. The play is collected in Selected Revised National Drama (Xiuding guoju xuan) (Taipei: Guoli bianyiguan, 1978), 1:2–­38. 14. From The Green Mound of the Ming dynasty. 15. Guo Xiaonong, “Notes from the Editor,” in Selected Revised National Drama, 38. 16. Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, eds., The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 1–­14. 17. For an English study on such literary awards, censorship, and political propaganda, especially on modern drama in Taiwan during the Cold War era, see Li-­wen Wang, “Politicizing Nostalgia: Cold War Theater in Taiwan and the US from the 1950s to the 1960s” (PhD diss. University of California, Irvine, 2013). 18. “Chinese” dance (minzu wudao 民族舞蹈) in Taiwan includes both classical Han dance (with classical dance movements extracted from traditional theater and Han folk dance) and “ethnic” dance, such as invented Mongolian and Uyghur dance. For an English study on the history of “Chinese” dance in Taiwan in the 1950s and 1960s, see Szu-­Ching Chang, “Chinese Nationalism, Anti-­Communism, and Restorative Nostalgia: Chinese Min-­Zu Dance in 1950s-­1960s Taiwan,” in “Dancing with Nostalgia in Taiwanese Contemporary ‘ Traditional’ Dance” (PhD diss., University of California, Riverside, 2011), 27–­91. 19. For a fuller description of the early history of government’s cultivation of jingju in Taiwan, see Lei, Alternative Chinese Opera, 27–­32. There were also mainland jingju troupes performing regularly in Taiwan before 1949. A famous actress, Gu Zhengqiu 顧正秋 (1933–­ 2016), was performing with her troupe in Taiwan when the border was closed down. She remained in Taiwan for the rest of her life and became one of the most important actors in early Taiwan jingju. 20. This effort includes strengthening the connections with the Chinese overseas communities by sending artists abroad to perform and constructing cultural icons. The famous Dragon Gate in San Francisco Chinatown, a symbol of orthodox Chineseness, was a gift from the ROC government in 1969. For a brief discussion of the gate and a picture, see Lei, Operatic China, 179–­81. 21. Her original name is Kwong Gin Lim (Kwang Jianlian 鄺健廉). 22. Wang Houwei, “Water Parts from the Red High-­Ridged Divide” (Yixian fen gaolinghong). Hong Kong Opera Newsletter (Xianggang xiqu tongxun) 19 ( June 6, 2008): 1–­3. 23. The following discussion on the production is based on the published script Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind by Ma Shizeng and a film of the same title from 1959. See Ma Shi­ zeng (Ma Si Tsang), Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai), ed. Yang Zijing, in Selected Plays Performed by Hongxiannü (Hongxiannü yanchu juben xuanji), ed. Hongxiannü yishu congshu bianweihui (Guangzhou: Guangzhou chubanshe, 1988), 416–­24. Hong­xiannü

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Notes to Pages 214–18

has made over ninety films over her entire career and the 1959 one is widely available online today. More details below. 24. Ma Shizeng, Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind, 416–­22. 25. Ma Shizeng, Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind, 422–­26. The performance of the 1959 film was by the Guangzhou Cantonese Opera Troupe (Guangzhou yuejutuan), directed by Li Feilong. Huang Zhiming (Wong Chi-­Ming) played Huhanye. The description of her voice and performance in this section is based on this production. Hongxiannü’s singing is reproduced in numerous video and audio recordings as well as karaoke “accompany tapes,” which are still popular today. Karaoke plays an important role in the dissemination of Cantonese opera, especially in diaspora. See Lei, Operatic China, 30, and Casey Man Kong Lum, In Search of a Voice: Karaoke and the Construction of Identity in Chinese America (Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1996), 34–­53. 26. See Ng, The Rise of Cantonese Opera, 99–­106. 27. According to the interviews, in the labor camps, she would practice singing during thunderstorms or when she was tending chickens or ducks so no one could hear her. The only time she was allowed to perform was to record a movie of a model drama. See Xie Binchou and Xie Youliang, eds., The Records of Interviews with Hongxiannü on Her Career of Seventy Years (Hongxiannü congyi qishinian fangtanlu) (Guangzhou: Guangzhou chubanshe, 2011), 247–­48. 28. During the Cultural Revolution, all traditional operas were banned except for those newly written “model drama/opera” (yangbanxi 樣板戲), which helped promote party ideology. 29. In the Chinese communist vocabulary, “red” means good and politically correct, such as peasant and laborer class, and “black” indicates the bad and corrupt, such as bourgeoisie and capitalists. 30. The Chinese Opera Information Center in the Chinese University of Hong Kong, which I visited in 2002, collects numerous scripts (scenes or full-­length plays), arias, and music of Cantonese opera of the Wang Zhaojun stories from the second half of the twentieth century. Most of them highlight the border-­crossing moments; some include the suicide. 31. Princess Zhaojun is collected in Selected Plays Performed by Hongxiannü, 335–­74. 32. This section is based on the video recording of the 1981 production by the Guangzhou Cantonese Opera Troupe, which is slightly different from the published script (1988). The production is directed by Li Zigui, and Huhanye is played by Chen Xiaofeng. 33. This section is also based on 1981 the video recording. 34. While a few drops of blood might highly enhance theatricality, too much unnecessary “bloodshed” becomes absurd. The 1981 recording contains a brief scene that parallels “Sacrificing the Body,” which is later eliminated in the printed script. Zhaojun falls down after drinking the poisoned milk tea and Huhanye quickly takes his own blood to revive her (the cutting happens off stage). After Zhaojun wakes up, they compare their wounds on the wrists and sing a love song together, celebrating the matrimonial love and racial harmony. This scene is criticized as a ridiculous distortion of historical truth. As a matter of fact, at the moment when the couple compares their wounds, there is audible laughter from the audience. For the criticism, see Fuhai, “On the Adaptation of the Yueju Princess Zhaojun” (Tan yueju Zhaojun gongzhu de gaibian) in Materials of Drama Studies (Xiju yanjiu ziliao) 4 ( June 1981): 76–­80. 35. The famous line “Each step away is one step farther / My feet are too heavy to move” is slightly altered from “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe,” stanza 13.



Notes to Pages 219–27

303

36. The script by Jin Zhongsun is available in the online source The Study of Chinese Jingju (Zhongguo jingju xikao). The text is based on the audio recording of Cheng Yanqiu’s performance in 1953, http://scripts.xikao.com/play/80000021 37. Cai Wenji, adapted by Yang Yuming and Zhang Yinde into jingju from Guo Moruo’s Cai Wenji (spoken drama version) (Beijing: Baowentang, 1960). 38. Zhong Zheping, “The Depth of Wenji Returning to Han Is in Her Choices” (‘Wenji gui Han’ de shenke jiuzai qushe zhijian), Xinkuaibao, May 26, 2014. 39. Started as a youth protest against government’s mishandling of the result of Paris Peace Conference after World War I, the May Fourth grew from a political protest to inspiration for pursuing modern knowledge in many fields, including government, science, democracy, arts and literature. May Fourth was a milestone for Chinese modernity. 40. Guo Moruo’s Wang Zhaojun is collected in The Classics of Guo Moruo (Guo Moruo zuopin jingdian), edited by Guo Pingying (Beijing: Zhongguo huaqiao, 1997), 2:45–­75. Three Rebellious Women was originally published in 1926. 41. “Afterword,” in Guo Moruo, The Classics of Guo Moruo, 2:73–­74. 42. Cao Yu, “The Longevity of Zhaojun: Why I Wrote Wang Zhaojun” (Zhaojun ziyou qianqiu zai—­wo weishemo xie Wang Zhaojun), in Selected Essays on Zhaojun (Zhaojun lunwen xuan), ed. Bateer (Hohhot: Nei Menggu Renmin, 2003), 26–­29. Cao describes the situation: A local official from Inner Mongolia told the prime minister that it was difficult for Mongolian men to date Han women. Zhou Enlai wanted to abolish Han chauvinism and encourage Han women to marry minority men. He mentioned Wang Zhaojun as an example and told Cao Yu to write a play on her story. 43. The term zhonghua minzu was proposed by Liang Qichao (1866–­1925). See Lei, Alternative Chinese Opera, 2–­3. 44. Cao Yu, Wang Zhaojun: Five-­Act Historical Play (Wang Zhaojun: Wumu lishiju 王昭 君: 五幕歷史劇) (Chengdu: Sichuan renmin, 1979). 45. Both Records of the Grand Historian and The History of the Han Dynasty have such writings: “Xiongnu, whose ancestor Chunwei, was descendant of Xiahoushi (夏后氏).” Xiahoushi, commonly known as Yu (禹), was a sage king famous for his ability to control floods and the founder of the first Chinese (Han) dynasty Xia (夏). Without much archeological evidence, however, such “history” of early China is often treated as mythology or legend. See introduction, note 49. 46. Guo Moruo, The Classics of Guo Moruo, 1:5. Communism/communist is translated into Chinese as the doctrine or person of “property sharing” (gongchan). 47. Renan emphasizes the importance of forgetting, even to the extent of forgetting historical errors, as a crucial factor in creating a nation. See Renan, in Bhabha, Nation and Narration, 6–­22. 48. Cao Yu, “On the Creation of ‘Wang Zhaojun’” (Guanyu ‘Wang Zhaojun’ de chuangzuo), in Cao Yu, Wang Zhaojun (1979), 192–­95. 49. Liu Shaoming, “Wang Zhaojun—­Cao Yu’s Third ‘National Policy Literature’” (Wang Zhaojun—­Cao Yu disanbu ‘guoce wenxue’), originally published in Chung Wai Literary Quarterly [Zhongwai wenxue], 8. no. 6 (1979) and selected in Cao Yu, Wang Zhaojun, and Others (Cao Yu, Wang Zhaojun, ji qita), ed. Editing Committee (Hong Kong: Liangyou, 1980), 100–­ 102. For some other criticism, see “Cao Yu and the Symposium on His New Work Wang Zhaojun (Cao Yu yu qi xinzuo ‘Wang Zhaojun’ zuotanhui,” in Editing Committee, ed., Cao Yu, Wang Zhaojun and Others, 109–­26. 50. See note 49.

304

Notes to Pages 228–34

51. Guo Moruo, Cai Wenji (Beijing: Zhongguo xiju), 1959. 52. Dongxi, “Shameless No. 1 Guo Moruo” (Diyi buyaolian Guo Moruo), Open (Kaifangwang), June 9, 2014, http://www.open.com.hk/content.php?id=1888#.W8PHRi-ZNE4. This article explains how Guo Moruo sways between opposite political parties and ideologies throughout his life. 53. There are many articles and books on the biographical accounts of Guo Moruo, for instance, Fang Rennian’s The Biography of Guo Moruo (Guo Moruo zhuan) (Beijing: Xinhua, 1988). 54. The score (in numbered notation system) of all the music and songs are included in the published script (1959). There are thirty pieces; some are overture, transitional, or background music; some are songs sung by the chorus off stage or by Cai Wenji. Contrary to the premodern tradition, finally Jin Ziguang, Fu Xueyi, and Fan Buyi are credited as music writers. 55. Cai Yan’s rescuing effort here is similar to the account in The History of the Later Han Dynasty, but the latter describes the incident after their marriage. We know little about Dong Si from historical records before he married Cai Yan. Fan Ye, The History of the Later Han Dynasty, 10:2800–­2801. 56. The novel is usually attributed to Luo Guanzhong (ca. 1280–­1360). The earliest existing edition is from the Ming Dynasty. 57. See the preface to Cai Wenji in The Complete Works of Guo Moruo: Literature Collection (Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 1987), 8:3–­12. Other than the reprint of the script (without musical scores), this collection also contains a number of short articles on the play. 58. Many scholars have written about Mao Zedong’s intention to deconstruct the traditional image of Cao Cao (“reverse the verdicts for Cao Cao”). Mao Zedong expressed his opinions in multiple occasions in the 1950s, and in 1959, Guo Moruo joined in the discourse by linking Cai Wenji with the verdict-­reversal (fan’an) mission. For the history of the “verdict reversal for Cao Cao,” see, for instance, Wang Yonghua, “The Beginning and End of the Discussion of the Evaluation for Cao Cao in 1959” (1959 nian Cao Cao pingjia wenti taolun shimo), Art China (Yishu Zhongguo), February 13, 2012, http://www.artx.cn/artx/lishi/114498.html 59. Guo Moruo, The Complete Works of Guo Moruo, 3. 60. This rather arrogant remark was made by Ji Canrong at a forum in Beijing, which was intended to warn the United States not to interfere with Chinese “domestic” matters. The forum was triggered by a brief, “friendly” phone conversation between President Tsai of Taiwan and the president-­elect of the United States on December 1, 2016. This was the first direct contact between the leaders of the United States and Taiwan since 1970s, which in the PRC’s mind suggested the United States’s official recognition of Taiwan as a separate entity from China. This act also challenged the original 1992 Consensus and added anxiety and tension in the “Two Shore” situation. Chris Buckley, “Trump’s and Xi’s Differences Magnify Uncertainties Between U.S. and China,” New York Times, December 19, 2016, http://www. nytimes.com/2016/12/19/world/asia/-china-donald-trump-power.html?_r=0 61. Both Japan and Taiwan dispatched fighter jets to monitor the activities of these exercises. See Charmaine Lomabao, “Taiwan and Japan Tense as Chinese Aircraft Carrier Wanders Pacific,” Newsline, December 29, 2016, https://newsline.com/taiwan-japan-tense-chineseaircraft-carrier-wanders-pacific/ 62. Such as tightening the reins on transnational tourism (reducing the quota for Chinese citizens to visit Taiwan), which significantly damages the tourist industry in Taiwan. 63. The production premiered on April 1, 2015, in the Baoli Theatre in Beijing. Because of



Notes to Pages 234–38

305

his pop singer celebrity status, Li is interviewed on TV frequently, and many videos are available online. For the meeting scene, see https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJhD_c3gomA 64. Anonymous, “Huang Xing: The Chinese Culture and Significance behind Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind” (Huang Xing: Zhaojun chusai beihou de Zhongguo wenhua ji yiyi), (April 20, 2015). 65. Anonymous, “Good Reception for Li Yugang’s Zhaojun Premiere: Extravagant Banquet of Oriental Aesthetics” (Li Yugang Zhaojun shouyan huohaoping: Dongfang meixue jizhi shengyan). Tengxun Yule, April 17, 2015, http://ent.qq.com/a/20150417/025316.htm 66. For Mei Lanfang’s gender performance on and off stage, see Lei, Operatic China, 236–­ 37, and Lei, Alternative Chinese Opera in the Age of Globalization, 203–­4. 67. For more details about “brand China,” especially for the use of Chinese opera as a way of promoting the concept, see Daphne P. Lei, “Dance Your Opera, Mime Your Words: (Mis) Translate the Asian Body on the International Stage,” in The Oxford Handbook of Dance and Theatre, ed. Nadine George (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 669–­90. 68. Wang An-­Ch’i, The Dialogue at the Green Mound (Qingzhong qiande duihua), in Rouge Lips and Pearl-­Sewn Sleeves, Both Lonely (Jiangchun zhuxiu liangjimo) (Taipei: INK Publishing, 2008): 277–­300. The English title for the play is Whispers at a Tombstone in the company’s publicity. I chose “dialogue” over “whispers” to give a stronger voice to the women in the play. 69. Cui Yingying is the heroine of The Story of Yingying (Yingying zhuan) by Yuan Zhen (779–­831), which later was written into the famous zaju play The Western Wing (Xixiang ji) by Wang Shifu (ca. 1260–­1336) in the Yuan dynasty. Yingying’s father has just passed away and the family takes a temporary lodging at the temple during their journey escorting the coffin to the burial destination. At the temple, she meets a young man and falls in love with him before he leaves for the imperial examination. Their courtship under the unusual circumstances, and their romantic forbidden rendezvous in the garden, are favored by lovers for many generations to come. The story/play is embraced as a lovers’ bible. Different versions, however, suggest different endings, and since Cui Yingying has committed a moral crime by having a premarital affair, she depends on a traditional wedding to restore her name. Stephen West and Wilt Idema translate the classic into English: The Story of the Western Wing (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995). The Tale of Li Wa (Li Wa zhuan) by Bai Xingjian (776–­826) tells this story: Li Yaxian, or Li Wa, a beautiful prostitute, falls in love with a young man who is on his way to the examination. After exhausting his fortune on Li Wa, this young man is disowned by his father and ends up as a beggar. Li rescues him with her own savings and convinces him to study for the exam. The story ends happily. See Bai Xingjian, “The Tale of Li Wa” (Li Wa zhuan), in The Collection of Tang and Song Marvel Tales: Tang and Five Dynasties (Tang Song chuanqi zongji: Tang Wudai), edited by Yuan Lükun and Xue Hongji (Zhengzhou: Henan renmin, 2001), 1:183–­97. 70. This is from “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe,” stanza 13. 71. See Introduction, notes 69 and 70. 72. We can credit Hongxiannü’s contribution, both in coauthorship and performance of Zhaojun in the 1950s and Princess Zhaojun in 1980, as the first significant female intervention of the genre. The former one, however, was written by the famous actor and her husband Ma Shizeng, and the latter was coauthored with Qin Zhongying, with emphasis on following Cao Yu’s Wang Zhaojun. I would say the reclaiming of her singing and dancing body in the politicized Zhaojun performances was her greatest feminine intervention of the genre.

306

Notes to Pages 242–50

73. Hélène Cixous, “The Laugh of the Medusa,” trans. Keith Cohen and Paula Cohen, Signs 1, no. 4 (Summer 1976), 875–­93. 74. Li Hsiao-­Ping speaks in the video, which was produced to introduce the play when it was nominated for the Taishin Arts Award in 2006. The video is on the website of “Taishin Arts Award Archive,” http://artsawardarchive.taishinart.org.tw/work/id/223 75. The play title is translated as “Li Ling, the Abandoned Hero” by the company. My translation, Hero of Half a Lifetime, follows the Chinese title, because I believe it is important to express the notion of “halfness”: hybridity and incompleteness. 76. Chinese regional dramas are distinguished not only by their music and local color, but also by their languages. A typical 1/2 Q production might incorporate kunqu and gezaixi (Taiwanese opera) singing and Mandarin dialogue. It means three distinctive languages are used in the same production. 77. The script is not yet published. The analysis is based on the company’s script and video recording of the 2008 production, both were shared with me by the company. 78. Li Ling Tablet (Li Ling bei) is a famous jingju play in which General Yang is trapped in the battle against the Xiongnu. Helpless and disillusioned, both by the lack of supplies and the misunderstanding of the court, he kills himself by hitting his head on the tablet. This is a famous scene for the old male character roles. The insertion of this story, which happened more than a thousand years after Li Ling’s time, has similar effect as the reference of Cai Yan in Wang Zhaojun stories. Similar to Li Ling’s family, the Yang family (Northern Song dynasty) is a multigenerational military family. The stories of many of the Yang family members (historical and fictional) become part of the popular Chinese opera repertoire. The script based on the 1955 audio recording of Yang Baosen is available in the online source The Study of Chinese Jingju (Zhongguo Jingju xikao). http://scripts.xikao.com/ play/80000007 79. This is pun here—­the word “tragic” or “sadness” (bei 悲) has the same sound as the word “tablet” (bei 碑); “tragedy” (drama of sadness) sounds the same as “drama of the tablet.” It is the tragedy of the tablet because his head hurts very much.

Conclusion 1. Li Jinguang, popular and prolific songwriter from the 1940s in Hong Kong, composed the song “Wang Zhaojun” based on old Cantonese tunes and wrote the lyrics. It was originally for the singer Liang Ping in 1946. The famous director Li Hanxiang directed Wang Zhaojun, starring Lin Dai as Wang Zhaojun, and used this song in the movie. The movie was released in 1964 after Lin Dai’s suicide at age twenty-­nine. See Dongxi’s “The Timeless Songs of Song King Li Jinguang” (Gewang Li Jinguang de buxiu mingqu), in Open (Kaifang wang), March 26, 2015, http://www.open.com.hk/content.php?id=2334#.WLmvfhiZNE5, and Zhang Quan, “Old Song, Old Sentiment: A Pipa Song Expresses the Feelings of ‘Wang Zhaojun’ (Laogequ, jiushiqing, ‘Wang Zhaojun’ yiqu pipa qing zhengchang,” China Daily News (Zhonghua ribao), August 26, 2015. The song I was familiar with as a child and saw in the karaoke version is sung by Yang Yan, a singer in Taiwan who has made this song her signature piece since the 1970s. 2. Bhabha, Nation and Narration, 3. 3. Horvat, “Engendering Borders,” 106–­13. 4. Moi, “Feminist, Female, Feminine,” 117–­32.



Notes to Pages 251–58

307

5. Muñoz, Cruising Utopia, 1. 6. For recent studies of folk material, see Wu Yihong and Wu Biyun’s Wang Zhaojun Legends (Wang Zhaojun chuanshuo) (Lanzhou: Gansu Xinhua, 1983); and Kwong Hing Foon’s “The Wang Zhaojun Legend in the Modern Folklore” (Xiandai minjian chuanshuo de Wang Zhaojun), Chinese Studies (Hanxue yanjiu) 8, no. 1 (1990): 461–­87. 7. From the 1950s through the 1980s, there were numerous conferences, publications and even drama contests on the topic of Wang Zhaojun and ethnic union. See Kwong Hing Foon, “The Wang Zhaojun Legend,” 461–­87. 8. See Li Shixin, ed., The Pictorial Volume of Zhaojun (Zhaoju tuce) (Hohhot: Neimenggu renmin, 2003). 9. Wu Yihong and Wu Biyun, Wang Zhaojun Legends, 106–­8. Seeing the plainness of the Xiongnu women, Wang Zhaojun encourages them to use the facial powder she has brought from China, but they refuse. Wang Zhaojun then buries her powder under Rouge Mountain, where numerous white powder beads appear in the earth the next day. Xiongnu women collect the beads and make them into facial powder. Thanks to the Chinese court lady, the Xiongnu women become beautiful and radiant. 10. Meng Qingjiang, Wang Zhaojun, in Old Editions of Famous Comic Books (Mingjia laoban lianhuanhua), vol. 5–­6 (Beijing: Haitun, 2007); and Cai Wenji (Beijing: Zhongguo shudian, 2008). 11. Zhou Jinjin, “Zaojun Tending the Sheep, What’s Su Wu Doing?” (Zhaojun muyang, na Su Wu gansha) China.com, May 23, 2016, http://news.china.com/so cial/1007/20160523/22714824.html 12. Foucault, Power/Knowledge, 78–­92. 13. See “The Origin of the God of Riches,” a story told by Wen Xiangcheng (Tu ethnicity), reported and translated by Kevin Stuart, in “Stories of Tu Ritual,” in The Columbia Anthology of Chinese Folk and Popular Literature, ed. Victor H. Mair and Mark Bender (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011), 75–­79. Stuart also explains the ape woman equivalent in the Tu folk tradition as “wild, dull-­witted, hairy ogress, or yeti—­the local version of the Abominable Snow/woman, or Bigfoot.” 14. Different versions of the origin stories give different explanations of the rituals. This account is from Bi Yanjun’s “The Interpretation of the Cultural Meaning of ‘God of Riches’ in the Hehuang Area of Gan-­Qing” (GanQing Heguang diqu ‘Caibao shen’ wenhua neiyun chanshi), Studies of Ethnic Literature (Minzu wenxue yanjiu) no. 1 (2007). 15. This is a common sign (qian 籤) in temples and depends on the advices one seeks from deities, the interpretation could vary. Nevertheless, the “worst sign” provides a strong warning for those who seek advices and predictions in general. The earliest record I could find about this sign is from Minmiantang, a temple that worships Guangong 關公, in Luodong, Taiwan. The temple was built in 1882, and the poem was dated 1935, while Taiwan was still under Japanese occupation. The poem is in the archive at the National Taiwan University. 16. If we combine the names of the two pandas, Tuantuan and Yuanyuan, it becomes “tuan­yuan 團圓,” which means reunion (of a family), but can be interpreted as “reunification” of the two sides. 17. Huang Yashi et al., “Interview with Lü Xiulian: Chinese Communists Gifting Pandas, Modern Version of Zhaojun Appeasing Barbarians” (Lü Xiulian zhuanfang: Zhongguo song xiongmao xiandaiban Zhaojun hefan), United News, January 26, 2006. 18. “Mainland High Rank Official Encourages Students from Two Shores to Date Each Other” (Lugaoguan cu liang’an xuesheng tan lian’ai), Apple Daily, May 29, 2012.

308

Notes to Pages 258–60

19. I Dream of Chang and Eng, a story about the original Siamese twins, Chang and Eng Bunker, is written by Philip Kan Gotanda. The production I was involved in was directed by Ricardo Rocha and produced by the Department of Drama, University of California, Irvine (2017). 20. Anonymous. “Chinese Tradition,” Democrat and Herald (Wilmington, Ohio), November 16, 1838. 21. Advertisement for Afong Moy’s appearance at Peale’s Museum, New York Times, July 9, 1836. 22. The Page Act (1875) was mainly targeting Chinese women, who were suspected as prostitutes. The Chinese Exclusion Act (1882) banned Chinese immigration except for a small number of skilled workers. 23. In a speech on January 2, 2019, the PRC president Xi Jinping added new interpretations to the original 1992 Consensus. New rhetoric such as “one country, two systems” and “peaceful reunification” has caused uproars in Taiwan and is jeopardizing the ostensible peaceful status quo of the Two Shores. The ROC president has rejected Xi’s speech and many political leaders in Taiwan also have made statements to show support or to clarify their own political stance. Scholars and journalists have joined in the debate to offer more interpretation and theorization of the Two Shore situation. The discursive history of the 1992 Consensus since 1992 can be best summarized as “a history of no consensus.” 24. In the United States, building a wall in la frontera, travel bans for citizens from certain “terrorist” nations, “cleansing” of immigrants are ways of strengthening the national borders by the current US administration. Many women who crossed the border into the United States long ago, either illegally or as recipients of temporary humanitarian visas, are forced to return to a home they no longer recognize, leaving their American children behind. Recent asylum seekers also see their family separated at the border as children are detained in a different facility from their parents. Cai Yan’s heartbreaking story two millennia ago is the daily norm today.

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II. Dramatic Works On Wang Zhaojun Anonymous. Appeasing the Barbarians (Herong ji 和戎記). Chuangqi. In Collected Early Editions of Ancient Dramas (Guben xiqu congkan古本戲曲叢刊), ser. 2, edited by Guben xiqu congkan bianji weiyuanhui. Shanghai: Shanghai Shangwu, 1954. A facsimile from the Ming Edition, printed ca. 1600. Anonymous. Entrusting the Letter to the Wild Goose (Dayan shaoshu 大雁捎書). Dagu. Hand-­copied manuscript. n.p., n.d. Anonymous. The Former Appeasing the Barbarians (Qianhefan 前和番). Pinghua. Fuzhou: Yiwen, n.d. Anonymous. New Zhaojun (Xin Zhaojun 新昭君). Zidishu. Collected in Folk Literature: Materials in the Collection of the Institute of History and Philosophy (Suwenxue congcan), edited by Zhongyang yanjiu yuan Lishi yuyan yanjiusuo Suwenxue congkan bianji xiaozu, vol. 387:555–­584. Taipei: Zhongyang yan jiu yuan Lishi yuyan yanjiusuo and Xinwenfeng, 2004. Anonymous. “Seeing Zhao[jun] off ” (Song Zhao 送昭) and “Leaving the Pass Behind” (Chusai 出塞) from The Story of the Green Mound (Qingzhong ji 青塚記). In White-­Fringed Fur (Zhuibai qiu 綴白裘, originally published in 1770), edited by Wanhua Zhuren, 6:169–­78. Beijing: Zhonghua, 1955. Anonymous. Songs from Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind, collected in The Anthology of New Ballads (Yuefu wanxiang xin 樂府萬象新). The anthology was published during the



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Wanli period (1573–­1619) and collected in Three Selected Overseas Sole Copies of Late Ming Drama (Haiwai guben wan Ming xiju xuanji sanzhong), edited by Li Fuqing and Li Ping. Shanghai: Shanghai guji, 1993. Anonymous. Songs on Wang Zhaojun: “Kuadiao Shanpoyang,” “Wang Zhaojun Expressing Her Feelings to the Emperor,” “Newly Added Wang Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind,” and eleven songs from Wang Zhaojun of The Brocade Bag for the Whole Family. In The Brocade Bag of Romances (Fengyue jinnang 風月錦囊, the facsimile of the 1553 version). Edited by Xu Wenzhao. Taipei: Taiwan xuesheng, 1987. Anonymous. Songs on Wang Zhaojun: “Zhaojun” (昭君), “Little Wang Zhaojun” (Xiao Wang Zhaojun 小王昭君), and “Pipa Song” (Pipa ci 琵琶詞). In The Nashuying Song Scores (Nashuying qupu 納書楹曲譜, published in 1792), edited by Ye Tang. In Shanben xiqu congkan, edited by Wang Qiugui, vol. 82–­86. Taipei: Xuesheng, 1984. Anonymous. The Song of Wang Zhaojun in the Cold Palace, Part I (Wang Zhaojun lenggong ge shangben 王昭君冷宮歌上本). Minge. Various editions are from the following publishers: Xiamen: Bowenzhai, n.d.; Xiamen: Huiwentang, 1921; Taipei: Huangtu huobansuo,1926; Shanghai: Kaiwen, 192? (printed in two volumes). The one from Huiwentang (Xiamen, 1921) is also collected in Folk Literature: Materials in the Collection of the Institute of History and Philosophy (Suwenxue congcan), edited by Zhongyang yanjiu yuan Lishi yuyan yanjiusuo Suwenxue congkan bianji xiaozu. Taipei: Zhongyang yan jiu yuan Lishi yuyan yanjiusuo and Xinwenfeng, 2001. Anonymous. The Whole Song of Wang Zhaojun Appeasing the Barbarians, Part II (Wang Zhaojun hefan quange xiaben 王昭君和番全歌下本). Minge. Various editions are from the following publshers: Xiamen: Bowenzhai, n.d.; Xiamen: Huiwentang, 1914 and 1921; Taipei: Huangtu huobansuo, 1926; Shanghai: Kaiwen, 192?. The one from Huiwentang (Xiamen, 1921) is also collected in Folk Literature: Materials in the Collection of the Institute of History and Philosophy (Suwenxue congcan), edited by Zhongyang yanjiu yuan Lishi yuyan yanjiusuo Suwenxue congkan bianji xiaozu. Taipei: Zhongyang yan jiu yuan Lishi yuyan yanjiusuo and Xinwenfeng, 2001, vol. 362. The word quan 全 (whole) sometimes is not included in the title. Anonymous. Wang Zhaojun. Gaojiaxi. Shengxinle Troupe. Taiwan: n.d. Anonymous. Wang Zhaojun. Chegu. Taiwan: n.d. Anonymous. The Wonderful Karma of Double Phoenixes (Shuangfeng qiyuan 雙鳳奇緣). Dagu. Beijing: Baowentang, n.d. Anonymous. Zhaojun Appeasing Barbarians (Zhaojun hefan 昭君和番). Dagu. In Civilized Dagu Song Book. (Wenming dagushu ci), 16–­24. Beijing (?): n.d. Anonymous. Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai 昭君出塞). Dagu. N.p., n.d. Anonymous. Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun Chusai 昭君出塞). Zidishu. In The Song Collection of Qing Mongol Lord Che (Qing Menggu Chewang fucang quben), edited by Shoudu tushuguan, ser. 291, vol. 1534. Beijing: Beijing guji, 1991. Anonymous. Zhaojun Throwing Herself over the Riverbank (Zhaojun touya 昭君投涯). Yueju. Guangzhou: Wuguitang, n.d. Cao Yu 曹禺. Wang Zhaojun: Five-­Act Historical Play (Wang Zhaojun: Wumu lishiju 王昭君: 五幕歷史劇). Huaju. Chengdu: Sichuan renmin, 1979. Chen Yujiao 陳與郊. Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai 昭君出塞). Zaju. The Complete Ming Zaju (Quanming zaju 全明雜劇), ed. Yang Jialuo (Taipei: Dingwen, 1979), 7:3903–­37.

324 Bibliography Guo Moruo 郭沫若. Wang Zhaojun (王昭君). Huaju. Originally published in Three Rebellious Women (Sange panni de nüren, 1926). Collected in The Classics of Guo Moruo (Guo Moruo zuopin jingdian), edited by Guo Pingying, vol. 2, 45–­75 (huaju). Beijing: Zhongguo huaqiao, 1997. Hongxiannü 紅線女 and Qin Zhongying 秦中英. Princess Zhaojun (Zhaojun gongzhu 昭 君公主). Yueju. In Selected Plays Performed by Hongxiannü (Hongxiannü yanchu juben xuanji), edited by Hongxiannü yishu congshu bianweihui, 335–­74. Guangzhou: Guangzhou chubanshe, 1988. Li Fusheng. The New Bright Consort of the Han (Xin Han Mingfei 新漢明妃). Jingju. In Selected Revised National Drama (Xiuding guoju xuan), 1:2–­38. Taipei: Guoli bianyiguan, 1978. Li Shoumin, The Bright Consort of the Han (Han Mingfei 漢明妃) or Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai 昭君出塞, adapted in 1935). Jingju. Collected in The Great Collection of National Drama (Guoju dacheng), edited by Zhang Bojin, 2:223–­27. Taipei: Guofangbu zongzhengzhi zuozhanbu zhenxing guoju yanjiu fazhan weiyuanhui, 1969. Ma Chih-­yüan (Ma Zhiyuan). Autumn in the Han Palace (Hangong qiu 漢宮秋). In Six Yuan Plays. Translated by Liu Jung-­en, 189–­224. New York: Penguin Books, 1977. Ma Shizeng 馬師曾. Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai 昭君出塞). Yueju. Edited by Yang Zijing. In Selected Plays Performed by Hongxiannü (Hongxiannü yanchu juben xuanji), edited by Hongxiannü yishu congshu bianweihui, 416–­24. Guangzhou: Guangzhou chubanshe, 1988. Ma Zhiyuan 馬致遠. Autumn in the Han Palace (Hangong qiu 漢宮秋). Zaju. In The Selected Yuan Plays (Yuanqu xuan 元曲選, 1615–­1616), edited by Zang Jinshu (Zang Maoxun), 1:1–­ 13. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1989. Other Ming editions include the Gumingjia edition (in Zhao Qimei’s [1563–­1624] Mowangguan collection), the Guquzhai edition (published in 1573–­1619), and the Leijiangji edition by Meng Chengshun (published in 1633). Ma Zhiyuan. Hān Koong Tsew, or The Sorrows of Hān: A Chinese Tragedy. Translated by John Francis Davis. London, 1829. Wang An-­Ch’i 王安祈. The Dialogue at the Green Mound (Qingzhong qiande duihua青塚前 的對話). Experimental jingju. In Rouge Lips and Pearl-­Sewn Sleeves, Both Lonely (Jiangchun zhuxiu liangjimo), 277–­300. Taipei: INK Publishing, 2008. Xue Dan 薛旦. The Dream of Zhaojun (Zhaojun meng 昭君夢). Zaju. In Newly Edited Zaju (Zaju xinbian), edited by Zou Shijin, 4:1–­13. ca. 1661. You Tong尤侗. Mourning the Pipa (Diao pipa 弔琵琶, 1661). Zaju. In The Complete Works of Xitang [You Tong] (Xitang quanji) (originally printed between 1694 and 1722), vol. 10. Zhou Leqing 周樂清. The Words of the Pipa (Pipa Yu 琵琶語, printed in 1830). Zaju. In The Chuanqi of the Sky-­Mending Stone (Butianshi chuanqi). n.p., 1830.

On Cai Yan Anonymous. Cai Wenji 蔡文姬. In Banri liangxin deng shisi zhong. Yueju. Guangzhou (?): Renshounian, n.d. Cao Yin 曹寅. The Pipa, Continued (Xu pipa 續琵琶 or Hou pipa 後琵琶). Chuanqi. In Collected Early Editions of Ancient Dramas (Guben xiqu congkan), edited by Guben xiqu congkan bianji weiyuanhui, ser. 5, vol. 38. Shanghai: Shanghai guji, 1985. Chen Yujao 陳與郊. Wenji Entering the Pass (Wenji rusai 文姬入塞). Zaju. In The Complete



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Ming Zaju (Quanming zaju 全明雜劇), edited by Yang Jialuo, 7: 3923–­38. Taipei: Ding­ wen, 1979. Guo Moruo 郭沫若. Cai Wenji 蔡文姬. Huaju. Beijing: Zhongguo xiju, 1959. Jin Zhongsun 金仲蓀. Wenji Returning to Han (Wenji guihan 文姬歸漢), with text based on the audio recording of Cheng Yanqiu’s performance in 1953 (written in 1926). Jingju. In The Study of Chinese Jingju (Zhongguo Jingju xikao). http://scripts.xikao.com/play/80000021 Nanshan Yishi 南山逸史. The Daughter of Zhonglang (Zhonglang nü 中郎女). Zaju. In The Newly Edited Zaju (Zaju xinbian, printed ca. 1661), edited by Zou Shijin, 6:1–­24. Tang Ying 唐英. The Ballad of Reed Pipe (Jiasao 笳騷). Zaju. In The Collection of Gubotang Plays (Gubotang xiqu ji), edited by Zhou Yude. Shanghai: Shanghai guji, 1987. Yang Yuming and Zhang Yinde. Cai Wenji 蔡文姬. Jingju (adapted from Guo Moruo’s spoken drama version). Beijing: Baowentang, 1960. You Tong尤侗. Mourning the Pipa (Diao pipa 弔琵琶, 1661). Zaju. The Complete Works of Xitang [You Tong] (Xitang quanji) (originally printed between 1694 and 1722), vol. 10.

On Su Wu Anonymous. The Ape Chasing the Boat (Xingxingnü zhuizhou 猩猩追舟). Yueju. In Biebutong suijin quanji, vol. 2. Guangzhou: Yiwentang, n.d. Anonymous. The Ape Woman Chasing the Boat (Xingxingnü zhuizhou 猩猩女追舟). Yueju. In Guangdong youjie suijin. Guangzhou: Yiwentang, n.d. Anonymous. Songs/scenes from The Complete Story of the Loyal and Righteous Su Wu Tending the Sheep (Daquan zhongyi Su Wu muyang ji 大全忠義蘇武牧羊記). In Romances from the Brocade Bag (published in 1553). Anonymous. Two “Entrusting a Letter to the Wild Goose 告雁,” “Tending the Sheep 牧 羊,” “Viewing the Homeland 望鄉,” “Cooking the Congee 煎粥,” “Returning Home 還朝,” and “The Little Force 小逼” (Scenes/songs on Su Wu with score). In The Nashuying Song Scores (Nashuying qupu 納書楹曲譜, published in 1792), edited by Ye Tang. In Shanben xiqu congkan, edited by Wang Qiugui, vol. 82–­86. Taipei: Xuesheng, 1984. Anonymous. “The Song of Su Wu Staying among the Xiongnu” (Su Wu liuhu ge 蘇武留胡 歌). Tuge. In Army Three National Songs (Lujun san guoge). Beijing: Xuegutang, n.d. Anonymous. The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep (Su Wu muyang ji 蘇武牧羊記). Nanxi. Handcopied version collected in Collected Early Editions of Ancient Dramas (Guben xiqu congkan 古本戲曲叢刊), ser. 1, vol. 3, no. 3. Anonymous. “Celebrating the Birthday 慶壽,” “The Imperial Mandate 頒詔,” “The Little Force 小逼, “The Great Force 大逼,” “Tending the Sheep 看羊,” “Viewing the Homeland 望鄉,” “Sending the Prostitute 遣妓,” and “Entrusting a Letter to the Wild Goose 告雁,” Scenes from The Story of Tending the Sheep (Muyang ji). Kunqu. In White-­Fringed Fur (Zhuibai qiu 綴白裘), edited by Wanhua Zhuren, 1:1–­25, 7:66–­80. Beijing: Zhonghua, 1955. Anonymous. Su Wu Tending the Sheep (Su Wu muyang 蘇武牧羊), Guofengnian Theater Troupe version. Yueju. Guangzhou: Wuguitang, n.d. Anonymous. Su Wu Tending the Sheep (Su Wu muyang ji 蘇武牧羊記). Nanxi. In One Hundred and One Southern Plays of the Song and Yuan Dynasties (Song Yuan nanxi baiyi lu 宋元南 戲百一錄), edited by Qian Nanyang. Cambridge, MA: Harvard-­Yenching Institute, 1934. Anonymous. Su Ziqing Returning to Han (Su Ziqing guihan 蘇子卿歸漢). Yueju. In Guangdong youjie suijin. Guangzhou: Yiwentang, n.d.

326 Bibliography Guoli bianyi guan, ed. Su Wu Tending the Sheep (Su Wu muyang 蘇武牧羊). Jingju. In Selected Revised National Drama (Xiuding guoju xuan), vol. 2. Taipei: Guoli bianyiguan, 1979. Lingyin Guanzhu, ed. Su Wu Tending the Sheep (Su Wu muyang 蘇武牧羊). Jingju. Masterpiece of Drama (Xidian), vol. 3. Taipei: Diyi wenhuashe, 1976. Zhou Wenzhi 周文質. Holding the Han Envoy Staff, Su Wu Returns Home (Chi Hanjie Su Wu huanxiang 持漢節蘇武還鄉). Zaju. In Remnants of Yuan Zaju (Yuanren zaju gouchen 元人雜劇鉤沈), edited by Zhao Jingshen, 87–94. Shanghai: Shanghai gudian wenxue, 1956.

On Li Ling Anonymous. “Li Ling’s Response Letter to Su Su 李陵答蘇武書.” Yueju song. In Famous Songs (Mingqu daquan). n.p. Baidai, n.d. Shen Huiru 沈惠如 and Dai Junfang 戴君芳. Hero of Half a Lifetime, Li Ling (Banshi ying­ xiong: Li Ling 半世英雄, 李陵). Experimental kunqu. Unpublished script for 2008 production by 1/2 Q Theatre in the Experimental Theatre, Taipei. Zhou Leqing 周樂清. Returning to Heliang (Heliang gui 河梁歸). Chuanqi. In The Chuanqi of the Sky-­Mending Stone (Butianshi chuanqi). n.p., 1830.

Other Anonymous. First-­Place Scholar Zhang Xie (Zhang Xie zhuangyuan 張協狀元), The Young Man of Good Family Gets off to a Bad Start (Huanmen zidi cuolishen 宦門子弟錯立身), and Little Sun Tu (Xiao Sun Tu 小孫屠). In Three Annotated Xiwen from the Yongle Dadian (Yongle dadian xiwen sanzhong jiaozhu), edited by Qian Nanyang. Taipei: Huazheng, 1985. Anonymous. The Tablet of Li Ling (Li Ling bei 李陵碑), with text based on the audio recording of Yang Baosen’s performance in 1955. Jingju. In The Study of Chinese Jingju (Zhongguo Jingju xikao). http://scripts.xikao.com/play/80000007 Gao Ming 高明. The Story of the Pipa (Pipa ji 琵琶記), edited by Yu Weimin. Taipei: Huazheng, 1994. Gotanda, Philip Kan. I Dream of Chang and Eng. Unpublished script (2016) for the production by the Department of Drama, University of California, Irvine, 2017. Kao Ming (Gao Ming). The Lute (P’i-­p’a chi). Translated by Jean Mulligan. New York: Columbia University Press, 1980. Tang Xianzu 湯顯祖. The Peony Pavilion (Mudanting 牡丹亭). Taipei: Liren, 1986. Wang Shifu 王實甫. The Western Wing (Xixiang ji 西廂記). Translated by Stephen West and Wilt Idema into English: The Story of the Western Wing. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995. You Tong 尤侗. Juntian Yue 均天樂. In The Complete Works of Xitang [You Tong]. Xitang quanji, vol. 20. Zheng Guangzu 鄭光祖. Qiannü Leaves Her Body Behind (Qiannü lihun 倩女離魂). In The Selected Yuan Plays (Yuanqu xuan 元曲選), edited by Zang Jinshu (Zang Maoxun), 2:705–­19. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1989. Zhou Xiangyu and Zou Jinsheng, eds. The Chronicle of the Three Kingdoms (Dingzhi chunqiu 鼎峙春秋), originally compiled during the Qianlong reign period (1735–­1795). Beijing: Beijing University Press, 2016.



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III. Film, Video, and Other Media Anonymous. “Wang Zhaojun Appeasing Barbarians” (Zhaojun hefan). A temple divination sign from Minmiantang (Luodong, Taiwan), 1935. Interview with Li Hsiao-­Ping. “Taishin Arts Award Archive.” Online video. http://artsawardarchive.taishinart.org.tw/work/id/223 Li Hanxiang (director). Wang Zhaojun, a film starring Lin Dai as Wang Zhaojun and produced by Shaw Brothers Pictures, 1964. Li Feilong (director). Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai), a film of the yueju performance of Zhaojun chusai by the Guangzhou Cantonese Opera Troupe, with Hong­ xiannü as Wang Zhaojun and Huang Zhiming (Wong Chi-­Ming) as Huhanye, 1959. Li Jinguang. “Wang Zhaojun.” Popular song. 1946. Li Yugang (director and actor). “Meeting with the Xiongnu and the Wedding Ceremony,” from the musical Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind. Video recording of the 2015 production. Online video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJhD_c3gomA Li Zigui (director). Princess Zhaojun (Zhaojun gongzhu), video recording of the production by the Guangzhou Cantonese Opera Troupe, with Hongxiannü as Wang Zhaojun and Chen Xiaofeng as Huhanye, 1981. Sang Fu (director). Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai), a film of the jingju performance of Zhaojun chusai, starring Shang Xiaoyun. Xi’an: Xi’an dianying zhipianchang, 1962. Shen Huiru and Dai Junfang. Hero of Half a Lifetime, Li Ling (Banshi yingxiong: Li Ling 半世英雄, 李陵). Experimental kunqu. Video recording of the 2008 production in the Experimental Theatre, Taipei.

Index acoustemology, 27, 271–­72n76 affective border crossing, 8, 11, 18, 66, 172–­73, 178, 189–­95; smell, 192–­93; sound, 28–­29, 51, 65–­66, 74, 93–­95, 111–­12, 193, 272n78. See also acoustemology; border-­crossing; listening Afong Moy, 258–­59 André, Naomi, 29, 280–­81n86 ape, 148, 154, 167, 194–­95, 291–­92n95, 292n98, 298–­99n51; ape woman, 150, 154, 158, 190–­ 91, 193–­94, 196, 203–­4, 255, 291–­92n95, 292n98, 299–­300n62, 307n13 Appeasing the Barbarians (Herong ji, or Wang Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind and Appeasing the Barbarians [Wang Zhaojun chusai herong ji], Ming chuanqi, anonymous), 39, 73–­80, 76, 96–­97, 99, 208, 224, 230–­31, 281n89, 282n104, 284n129, 289–­90n68, 298n39 Artaud, Antonin, 11 Autumn in the Han Palace (Hangong qiu, Yuan zaju by Ma Zhiyuan), 30–­31, 39, 55–­69, 63, 73–­75, 78–­79, 81–­83, 88, 98, 133, 148, 184, 195, 208, 222, 238, 278n61; English translations, 278n60 The Ballad of Reed Pipe (Jiasao, Qing zaju by Tang Ying), 131–­33, 184, 292n100 Ban Gu, 40, 116, 122, 127, 130, 143, 145, 158, 161, 166, 288n46 barbarian, 8, 10–­14, 16, 34, 49, 64, 171, 175, 181–­ 89, 197, 201, 258, 275n10, 280n76, 291–­92n95, 292n100, 294n2, 295n11; animal association, 75, 187–­89, 192–­95, 258, 291–­92n95 (see also ape, ape woman); comical, 132, 149–­50, 152, 184–­85, 292n100; customs, 133, 152; iconography, 76, 99, 295n11; indigenous population, 147, 185, 291–­92n95, 297n31, 298–­99n51;

internal, 14, 35–­36, 223, 233; language, 133, 152, 293n107; learning from, 169, 177–­78, 182–­83, 199, 206, 263, 271n71, 295n12; perspectives of, 5; physical traits, 55, 75, 76, 127, 181, 186–­87, 197, 210; spectacle, 233–­35, 234; sympathetic spouse, 53–­55, 183–­84; Westerners, 34–­35, 171, 175–­76, 181–­83, 186–­89, 188, 194, 197, 296n20; women, 17–­18, 22, 154, 191, 193, 196, 201, 203–­4, 233, 251; yeti, 255, 261, 307n13. See also mixed-­race (interracial) children Bhabha, Homi K., 21, 249–­50 bianwen, 51–­52, 277nn42–­43. See also “Li Ling Bianwen”; “Wang Zhaojun Bianwen” Black River (Black Dragon River, Big Black River, heihe, heijing, wujiang, Heilongjiang, daheihe), 39, 57, 60, 62, 63, 67–­69, 78, 89–­91, 90, 128, 144, 151, 172, 280n78, 280n80 Boating (stage technique), 189–­94, 196, 202, 294 border, 1–­2, 6, 14, 63, 72, 90, 250, 281n97; la frontera, 7, 267nn21–­22; geographical, 67–­68, 181–­82, 192 (see also Black River); internal, 35; permeable border, 101–­68 (chap. 2); portable border, 6, 17, 112, 170, 176–­77, 202–­3, 231, 250, 258–­59, 270n56, 288n52; violence, 64, 100, 160, 250. See also border crossing; borderland border crossing, 1–­2, 14, 250; economic alliance (NAFTA, ASEAN, EU), 6, 266n19 (see also TPP); iconography, 63, 72, 90, 98–­99, 114, 134–­37; re-­crossing, 88–­91, 93–­94, 101–­68 (chap. 2); spectacle, 219, 233–­36, 234; staging, 11–­12, 88–­91, 219, 284n137 (see also embodied landscape); suspended time, 10, 17, 100, 259; Taiwan, 184–­85; territorialization (deterritorialization and reterritorialization), 6, 97–­98, 170–­72, 266n15; theories,

329

330 Index border crossing (continued) 6–­9, 268n32 (see also gendered nationalism); three-­dimensional, 1–­2, 29, 66, 90, 97–­98, 136, 149, 260; trans-­action, 6, 11; uncrossing, 6, 260; virtual, 7, 267–­68n26; water (crossing), 90, 189–­92. See also Cai Yan; Li Ling; Su Wu; Wang Zhaojun border-­crossing drama, 5, 8–­9, 14, 249–­50, 268n32; contemporary, 36, 233–­48; definition, 1–­2, 8, 13–­19; female playwrights (see Wang An-­Ch’i); modern, 208–­32 (chap. 4); regional drama, 34–­35, 169–­204, 294n2, 294n5; utopia, 5 borderland, 7–­8, 10–­12, 17–­18, 35–­36, 55, 64, 74–­76, 80, 89, 95, 100, 110, 120, 124, 133, 167–­68, 170–­73, 176, 180–­83, 186–­87, 193, 198, 202, 207, 216, 248, 251–­52, 255–­56, 259, 267n21, 272n78; as stage, 18, 64; water, 189–­92; women’s position, 2. See also China-­ Taiwan relations bound feet, 89, 126, 137, 154, 190, 258, 284n129, 288n52, 289n61, 298n43 The Bright Consort of the Han (Han Mingfei, jingju, Shang Xiaoyun version), 208–­10 Buell, Lawrence, 12 Butler, Judith, 21–­22 Cai Wenji (or Wenji). See Cai Yan Cai Wenji (by Guo Moruo), 219, 227–­32, 254, 256, 304n54, 304n58 Cai Wenji (by Yang Yuming and Zhang Yingde, jingju), 219 Cai Yan (Cai Wenji), 16–­17, 22–­26, 28, 36–­37, 47, 102–­37; biographical information, 105, 285–­86n5, 286n7; comic, 253–­54; drama, 82, 101, 112–­34, 179, 182–­84, 191–­92, 195–­96, 201–­4, 217–­19, 227–­232; 296n22; historical accounts, 102–­3; iconography, 114, 119, 125, 134–­37, 290n74; literary talent, 103–­5; music, 104, 110–­12, 134 (see also zither); suicide, 201–­3; works by, 106–­10. See also “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe” (Hujia shiba pai); “Poems of Lament and Resentment” (Beifen shi) Cai Yong, 23, 44, 49, 102–­5, 110–­11, 126–­30, 275n18, 285n1, 286n7, 287n30, 287n38, 288n49, 288nn53–­54, 299n61 Cao Cao, 102–­3, 219, 231–­32, 286–­87n27, 287n37, 304n58. See also Cai Wenji (by Guo Moruo); The Daughter of Zhonglang (Zhonglang nü

by Nanshan Yishi); Wenji Entering the Pass (Wenji rusai by Chen Yujiao) Cao Yu, 205, 215–­16, 223–­27, 303n42. See also Wang Zhaojun (by Cao Yu) CCP (Chinese Communist Party), 2–­3, 35–­36, 206, 215, 226, 228, 254, 302nn28–­29, 303n46 chegu (cheguzhen, chegunong), 175, 184–­85, 297n28 Chen Yujiao, 70, 72, 121, 285n147. See also Wenji Entering the Pass (Wenji rusai by Chen Yujiao); Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai by Chen Yujiao) Cheng Yanqiu, 209, 217, 219, 237, 263 Chiang Kai-­shek, 3, 206, 213 China, 246–­47; brand China, 234–­36, 305n67; definition, 3; modern, 14–­15; in performance, 300n6; reimagined in Taiwan, 211–­13; as zhongguo (central state), 12, 13, 15. See also Chinese ethnicity; PRC China-­Taiwan (Taiwan-­China) relations, 2–­3, 15, 36, 206–­8, 247, 256, 258, 265n7, 307n16. See also 1992 Consensus; Two Shores Chinese (people), definition, 3–­4, 15, 223. See also Han (Chinese ethnicity) Chinese dance (minzu wudao), 212, 262, 301n18, Chinese ethnicity, definition, 3–­4, 223; under Mongol government, 31, 273n87, 303n43; modern (Zhonghua minzu), 14, 35, 264, 303n43. See also Han Chinese nationalism, 12–­13, 223, 235, 247 Chinese opera (traditional Chinese theatre, xiqu), convention, 11–­12, 18, 29, 30, 56, 98, 240; definition, 4, 266n10; modes of delivery, 4, 279n72; performance styles, 282n109; scholarship, 272n81; staging techniques, 91, 209, 284n137, 300–­301n9; taxonomy, 266n10; total theater, 4, 266n12 Chineseness (Chinese identity), 3–­4, 212–­13, 236, 247–­48, 301n20 Chow, Rey, 2, 22, 95, 271n68 The Chronicle of the Three Kingdoms (Dingzhi chunqiu by Zhou Xiangyu and Zou Jin­ sheng), 284n135, 288n55 chuanqi, 73, 80, 261, 262, 273n89, 279n73, 281n91, 284n131, 288n55, 289nn65–­66, 292n106 The Chuanqi of the Sky-­Mending Stone (Butian­ shi chuanqi by Zhou Leqing), 91–­92, 161, 164, 165, 284n131, 284n133

Citron, Marcia J., 29 Cixous, Hélène, 26, 31, 271n74, 273n90, 306 Clément, Catherine, 29 colonialism, 33, 175, 207; internal (toward women, minority, or indigenous population), 35, 147, 194–­95, 223, 251, 269n50, 274n98, 298–­99n51; music (see music, musical colonialism); Taiwan, 176, 184–­85; Western (over Hong Kong and Macau), 175–­76 Confucianism, 22, 31–­32, 54, 85–­86, 95, 118, 119, 176–­77, 213, 230, 271n68, 278n55, 293n109, 293n113 conservatism, 35, 172, 198–­204, 200, 260, 299n54 costume, 99, 126, 178, 208, 209, 212, 233–­35, 234, 243, 288n51, 300–­301n9; Cai Yan, 130, 135–­36, 289nn60–­61; Cao Cao, 116, 232, 287n37; ethnicity, 13, 67, 85, 88–­89, 90, 99, 113, 115, 135–­36, 230, 300–­301n9; Li Ling, 154, 293n122 cross dressing, 25, 29, 56, 191, 235, 272n83. See also Li Yugang; Mei Lanfang; Shang Xiaoyun The Cultural Restoration Movement, 213, 263, 301n20 The Cultural Revolution, 213, 215, 219, 223, 226, 263–­64, 302n28 dagu, 174–­75, 261, 297n33 Daji, 54, 60, 69, 278n52 The Daughter of Zhonglang (Zhonglang nü by Nanshan Yishi), 22–­23, 101, 115–­21, 119, 130, 136, 219, 287n37 de Certeau, Michel, 9, 11, 19, 267n23 The Dialogue at the Green Mound (Qingzhong qiande duihua, Whispers at a Tombstone, modern jingju by Wang An-­Ch’i), 22, 24, 124, 236–­42, 239, 305n68 Dolan, Jill, 266n13 The Dream of Zhaojun (Zhaojun meng, Qing zaju by Xue Dan), 87–­91, 90, 97, 99, 136 Duara, Presenjit, 20 ecological colonialism, 12, 28, 99–­100, 161. See also Green Mound “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe” (Hujia shiba pai by Cai Yan), 106–­9, 112, 134, 240, 252, 276n33

Index

331

“Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe” (Hujia shiba pai by Liu Shang), 109–­11, 135 Engels, Friedrich, 16, 269–­70n52 environmental text, 12. See also borderland; ecological colonialism; landscape, embodied landscape feminine listening, 27, 69, 131, 241, 252–­53 feminine writing (écriture feminine), 25–­27, 271n74, 242, 252 femme fatale, 54, 59, 60, 69, 278n52. See also Daji; Xishi Foucault, Michel, The History of Sexuality, 20, 242, 265nn2–­3; le savoir des gens (popular knowledge), 20–­21, 34, 254 Four Great Divas (Sida mingdan), 209, 263. See also Mei Lanfang; Shang Xiaoyun frontier poetry, 11, 110, 144, 261, 269n40 Fuzhou pinghua, 174, 262 gaojiaxi, 175, 184–­85, 262, 297n29 Gellner, Ernest, 13, 269n44 gendered nationalism, 1–­2, 5, 10, 15–­18, 21, 27–­28, 31, 36, 39, 95, 97, 101–­2, 122, 137–­38, 158–­59, 165, 169, 199, 201, 231, 236–­37, 242, 248, 250–­52, 259 gendered writing, 25–­27, 48, 137–38. See also feminine writing gezai (gezai xi), 174, 262; Fujian (see minge); Taiwan, 294n5, 295n10, 306n76 gifting (women as object of the exchange), 15–­ 16, 42–­44, 55, 64, 69, 95, 97, 230–­231, 256, 258, 269–­70n52 God of Riches (Caibao shen), 254–­55, 261, 307nn13–­14 Green Mound (qingzhong; Zhaojun Tomb), 12, 28, 39, 44, 48, 54, 55, 62, 67–­69, 99–­ 100, 125, 144, 151, 161, 242, 253, 280n78, 280n85, 299–­300n62. See also ecological colonialism Guo Moruo, 219, 220, 222, 226, 228–­32, 254, 285n145, 285–­86n5, 304n58. See also Cai Wenji (by Guo Moruo); Wang Zhaojun (by Guo Moruo) ½ Q Theatre (Erfen zhiyi Q), 242–­48, 306n76. See also Hero of Half a Lifetime, Li Ling

332 Index Han (Chinese ethnicity), 1–­2, 5, 11–­14, 16–­17, 27–­28, 31–­35, 49, 55, 67, 133, 137, 175–­76, 183, 185, 211, 223, 228, 235, 247, 254–­55, 269n50, 270n60, 273n87, 288n52, 292n100, 297n29, 297n32, 301n18, 303n42 health (national), 196–­98 Hero of Half a Lifetime, Li Ling (Banshi yingxiong: Li Ling by Shen Huiru), 205, 236, 242–­48, 246, 306n75 history, 18–­21, 166, 226–­27, 252, 287n38; conflict with drama, 122, 205, 287n40, 289n57; historian, 111, 166, 270n59, 288n46, 289n58 (see also Ban Gu; Sima Qian); historiography, 19–­20; orthodox history (History), 19–­20, 232, 252. See also Symbolic Order Holding the Han Envoy Staff, Su Wu Returns Home (Chi Hanjie Su Wu huanxiang by Zhou Wenzhi), 150–­51 homoeroticism, 24, 96, 143, 165, 269–­70n52 Hong Kong, 2–­3, 15, 176, 207, 214–­17, 227, 247, 249, 265n7, 272n80, 274n101, 300n6. See also Hongxiannü; SAR; Two Shores and Three Places; yueju Hongxiannü (Hong Sin Neui, Red-­Thread Girl, Kwong Gin Lim, Kuang Jianlian), 213–­17, 233, 249, 301n21, 301–­2n23, 302nn25, 302n27, 302n34, 305n72 huaju (spoken drama), 4, 34–­36, 198–­99, 241–­ 42, 251, 262, 299n58 hybridity, 2, 4, 7, 8, 12, 36, 96, 111, 120, 133, 135, 171–­72, 181, 183, 193, 197–­99, 202, 204, 206–­7, 211–­12, 234–­35, 242–­43, 251, 255, 265n3, 282n103, 306n75; music, 27–­28, 112, 123, 282n103 imperial examination (keju), 19–­20, 26, 31, 32, 47, 84, 86, 121–­22, 169, 173, 177–­78, 182, 197, 199, 212, 228, 262, 270n60, 283n117; male anxiety and female suicide, 32, 84–­86 (see also T’ien Ju-­k’ang); rise of theater, 19–­20, 31,177–­78, 270n61 imperialism, intra-­Asian, 235; Western, 3, 14, 33–­34, 37, 173–­77, 185, 197, 206, 251 interculturalism, 5, 28, 112, 133, 184, 193, 202 intercultural (interracial) marriage, 14, 17, 198, 211, 216, 223, 225, 229, 240. See also Cai Yan; Li Ling; peace-­alliance marriage; Su Wu; Wang Zhaojun

indigenous (aboriginal, native), 147, 185, 211–­12, 291–­92n95, 297n32 Jiao Xun, 71, 121, 287n37 jingju (Beijing opera, Peking opera, guoju, national opera), 208–­9, 211–­15, 219, 262, 272n81, 295n10, 301n19; experimental, 241–­42 jouissance, 23–­24, 117, 238, 240–­42, 271n70 KMT (Kuomintang, Guomintang, Chinese Nationalist Party), 3, 206, 211–­13, 215, 247, 300n3 Kristeva, Julia, 2, 271n70. See also jouissance kunqu, 131, 133, 174, 262, 289n65, 290n69, 294–­ 95n6; experimental, 306n76. See also Hero of Half a Lifetime, Li Ling Lacan, Jacques, 2, 23, 271n70. See also jouissance; Symbolic Order landscape, 11; border landscape, 18, 55, 89, 99–­100, 161, 166–­67, 178, 189; embodied landscape, 9, 11–­12, 189–­92, 209–­11, 213–­14, 216; frontier poetry, 261, 269n40; Gertrude Stein, 11 letter-­writing, 77–­79, 93–­94, 142, 148–­49, 193, 241, 287n35, 292n99; from children, 115. See also wild goose Lévi-­Strauss, Claude, 16, 269–­70n52 Li Ling, 17, 24, 102; drama on, 179–­80, 203–­4, 242–­48, 299–­300n62 (see also Hero of Half a Lifetime, Li Ling; Returning to Heliang, Li Ling Tablet); historical account, 140–­42, 157–­59; iconography, 164, 165, 166–­67, 246; literary works by, 143–­44; literary works about, 159 (see also “Li Ling Bianwen”); with Su Wu, 157–­59, 163, 165–­66, 242–­48, 292n96; suicide, 156, 160–­61, 203–­4 “Li Ling Bianwen,” 159–­160, 293n119. See also bianwen Li Ling Tablet (Li Ling bei), 161, 245, 306n79; jingju, 245, 306n78; yueju, 203–­4, 299–­ 300n62 Li Yugang, 233–­36, 234, 304–­5n63 liminality, 17–­18, 64, 120, 192, 241; iconography, 63, 72, 99, 250; Taiwan, 206–­7, 248. See also border crossing; borderland listening, 8; feminine listening, 27–­28, 69, 124,

131, 252–­53; period ear, 280–­81n86. See also acoustemology Liu, Lydia, 16 Ma Shizeng (Ma Si Tsang), 213–­14, 301–­2n23, 305n72. See also Hongxiannü Ma Zhiyuan, 30–­32, 56–­57, 279n63, 279nn69–­70. See also Autumn in the Han Palace Macau (Macao), 2–­3, 15, 176, 207, 265n7. See also SAR; Two Shores and Three Places makeup, 212, 231–­32 Manchu, 14, 32–­34, 81, 84, 133, 152, 175–­76, 223, 295n11 marriage, autonomy, 182–­83, 296n24; monogamy, 183. See also gifting; intercultural marriage masculinity (demasculization, emasculation), 17, 21–­23, 26, 32, 122, 153, 235, 251; Li Ling, 160, 165, 167; male anxiety (see T’ien Ju-­k’ang) Mauss, Marcel, 15–­16 Mao Yanshou (wicked painter), 45, 47, 50, 53–­ 55, 290n77. See also Wang Zhaojun Mao Zedong (Mao Tse-­tung), 2–­3, 206, 212, 232, 300n2, 304n58. See also CCP Mei Lanfang, 209, 235, 263, 280n80, 305n66 Mencius (Mengzi), 54, 278n55 minge (or gezai, gezaixi), 174, 262. See also gezai minor drama (xiaoxi), 185, 233 mixed-­race (interracial) children, 23, 134, 183, 197–­98, 202, 229, 240, 255 modernity, 4, 14, 34–­35, 170, 172, 175, 178, 182, 198–­99, 202, 204–­6, 223, 226, 231, 303n39 Moi, Toril, 2 Mongol, 14–­15, 19–­20, 25, 31–­32, 63, 136, 145, 152, 298n46, 303n42; dance, 301n18; ethnic hierarchy, 273n87; language, 133, 152, 293n107 motherhood, 23–­24, 26, 114, 271n71. See also Cai Yan Mourning the Pipa (Diao pipa by You Tong), 24, 81–­88, 117, 121–­25, 125, 131, 136, 201, 241, 283n118 Muñoz, José Esteban, 24, 251 music, 27–­30, 132, 152, 252, 284n135, 284n139, 304n54; borderland (hybridity, intercultural), 27–­28, 110, 112, 124, 133; Cai Yan, 104,

Index

333

110–­12, 134; Chinese philosophy, 30, 96, 123–­24, 131, 286n11; dramaturgical function, 27–­29, 51, 112; feminine resistance, 29, 252; misogyny in Western music, 29; musical instruments (see pipa; reed pipe [jia]; zither [qin]); musical colonialism, 27–­28, 112, 272n80; queerness, 96 multiculturalism, 12, 14–­15, 18, 35, 179, 212–­13, 265n9; nationalist spectacle, 35 (see also Li Yugang); state-­sanctioned, 21, 35–­36, 208, 226, 229, 231, 233, 235, 248, 251–­52, 259 nanxi (southern drama), 28, 73, 145–­46, 281n98, 291n93 NAFTA (North American Free Trade Agreement), 6 The New Bright Consort of the Han (Xin Han Mingfei, Taiwan modern jingju), 210–­13 Ng, Wing Chung, 174, 295n10 1992 Consensus (Jiu’er gongshi), 36, 206–­7, 233, 236, 248, 259, 262, 264, 304n60 Nüwa, 92, 161, 284n134, 293n121. See also Zhou Leqing Orientalism, 13; double Orientalism, 235, 252; internal Orientalism (quasi, Chinese version), 13, 176, 235, 250; self-­Orientalization, 235, 268n36 Oriental aesthetics, 234–­35, 261 Pacific Rim, 8–­9, 268n31. See also TPP palace-­style poetry (gongtishi), 25, 48, 262 patriarchy, 2, 15–­16, 21–­22, 26, 29, 32, 42, 63–­ 64, 86–­87, 89, 94, 100, 123, 134, 167–­68, 176, 194, 231, 238, 242, 250, 259, 271n71 peace-­alliance marriage (heqin), 14, 15, 40–­42, 51, 55, 223–­24, 231, 255–­56, 258, 262, 274n4, 275n14, 280n81, 289n57; origin, 40–­41; reversed, 117 Pictorial News Journal from Lithography Studio (Dianshi zhai huabao), 172, 186–­89, 188, 197, 199, 200, 296n24, 298–­99n51, 299n55 pipa, 8, 27–­29, 50–­51, 63, 67–­69, 72, 85, 90, 93–­95, 99, 125, 212–­13, 239, 257, 263; 276–­77nn39–­40, 282n103. See also Wang Zhaojun The Pipa, Continued (Xu pipa or Hou pipa, Qing chuanqi by Cao Yin), 22–­23, 125–­31, 288n50, 288–­89n55

334 Index “Poems of Lament and Resentment” (Beifen shi by Cai Yan), 106–­7 PRC (People’s Republic of China), 2–­3, 8, 15, 206–­7, 213, 233, 247, 269n50, 274n101, 300n6, 304n60. See also China; China-­ Taiwan relations; Taiwan Princess Zhaojun (Zhaojun gongzhu, yueju by Hongxiannü and Qin Zhongying), 215–­17, 227, 302n34, 305n72 Qu Yuan, 84, 121–­22, 283n118, 287–­88nn43–­44 Queerness (and queering), 24, 96, 98, 102, 165, 168, 251 rape, 16, 86, 95; rape potential, 18, 24, 64, 94 reed pipe (jia of hujia), 8, 28, 50, 105, 111–­12, 238, 262, 276n38. See also Cai Yan; “Eighteen Stanzas on the Reed Pipe” regional drama (local drama, difangxi), 28, 34, 133, 169–­204 (chap. 3), 251, 294–­95nn5–­6, 306n76; definition, 173–­75. See also chegu; dagu; gaojiaxi; gezai; minge; pinghua; yueju; zidishu Renan, Ernest, 13, 274n99, 303n47 Returning to Heliang (Heliang gui, Qing zaju by Zhou Leqing), 24, 161–­67, 164, 165 ROC (Republic of China), 2–­3, 15, 206–­7, 211–­13, 223, 231, 263, 266n12, 272n83, 281n91, 300nn3–­4; invented traditions, 210–­13, 215, 301n18. See also China; China-­Taiwan relations; Taiwan role type (hangdang or jiaose), 4, 18, 30, 37–­38, 56, 68, 212, 261–­64, 281n91 Rubin, Gayle, 16, 21 SAR (special administrative regions), 2–­3, 207, 259–­60. See also Hong Kong; Macau (Macao) Said, Edward, 13. See also Orientalism Shang Xiaoyun, 209, 211, 263 Shi Chong, 50–­51, 277n40 Sima Qian, 39–­40, 92, 111, 122, 158–­63, 166, 288n46 sinicization (hanhua), 32, 34–­35, 154, 223, 251, 269n50 Sinophone, 3, 207, 265n9 “The Song of Resentment and Nostalgia,” 43–­ 45, 49, 240, 275n18

singing, 4, 10, 12, 18, 51, 56, 66–­67, 69–­71, 83–­ 84, 204, 209, 221, 252, 279nn72–­73, 282n109, 302n27; Hongxiannü, 213–­15; Wang Zhaojun, 50–­51, 66–­67, 249, 259, 276n38 spoken drama (huaju), 4, 34–­36, 198–­99, 204, 241–­42, 262. See also Cao Yu; Guo Moruo Spivak, Gayatrti, 23, 238 Stein, Gertrude, 11 The Story of the Pipa (Pipa ji, Yuan nanxi by Gao Ming), 92, 126, 129, 132–­33, 288n49, 289n67 The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep (Su Wu muyang ji, Yuan nanxi, anonymous), 145–­50, 157, 179, 184, 190, 243 The Story of Su Wu Tending the Sheep (Su Wu muyang ji, Qing chuanqi, anonymous), 151–­ 56, 160–­61, 163 Su Wu, 17, 101, 287–­88n44; drama on, 145–­157, 178–­204 (chap. 3); God of Riches story, 254–­55; historical account, 138–­143; iconography, 165, 166–­67, 246; with Li Ling (see Li Ling); literary works about, 144–­45; literary works by, 143–­44, 291n89; with Wang Zhaojun, 295–­96n17. See also Hero of Half a Lifetime, Li Ling suicide, barbarian women, 203; Cai Yan, 201–­3, female cult, 86–­87, 283nn121–­122; female suicide, 2, 18, 31–­32, 64, 85–­87, 273n90; Li Ling, 156, 160, 203–­4; plays about, 273–­ 74n95; prostitute, 154–­56; public spectacle, 32, 273n94, 288n48; Qu Yuan, 281n43; stage spectacle, 201; Su Wu, 138–­39, 251; symbolic, 22, 95, 123. See also Wang Zhaojun Sun Yat-­sen, 3, 33, 206, 213, 223 Symbolic Order, Lacan, 2, 23, 271n70; Chinese, 23–­24, 26, 30, 118, 131, 156, 250, 271n70 Taiwan, 15, 36, 176, 184–­85, 206–­8; independence, 206–­7, 247; Taiwanese (ethnicity), 247; Taiwanese vs. Mainlander, 211–­12, 247 Tang Ying, 131–­33, 289n67, 294n1 time, 5, 9–­10; tempo rubato (stolen time), 10, 17–­18, 89, 100; temporal disjunction, 10, 268n36; woman’s time, 10 T’ien Ju-­k’ang, 32, 86–­87, 273–­74n95, 283n121, 288n48 troubled gender, 21–­24, 37, 271n68. See also The Daughter of Zhonglang; The Dialogue

at the Green Mound; The Pipa, Continued; Returning to Heliang; The Words of the Pipa TPP (Trans-­Pacific Partnership), 8, 36, 268n29 Two Shores (Liang’an), 2, 206, 256, 258, 262, 265nn7–­8. See also China; China-­Taiwan relations; PRC; ROC; Taiwan Two Shores and Three Places (Liang’an sandi), 206, 265nn7–­8. See also China; China-­ Taiwan relations; Hong Kong; PRC; ROC; SAR; Taiwan; Two Shores United States, 1, 6–­8, 206, 260, 265n1, 266n10, 267–­68n26, 268n29, 304n60. See also la frontera utopia, 5, 266n13; music, 96; queer utopia, 24, 95–­96. See also Returning to Heliang; The Words of the Pipa virtuous women, 5, 16, 31–­32, 36, 53–­54, 64, 85–­ 87, 129, 149–­50, 154–­56, 231, 250, 273–­74n95, 277n48, 293n113; biographies, 85, 273n92, 283n119; prostitute, 155–­56; self-­immolation, 292n99, 293n108. See also suicide Wang An-­Ch’i, The Dialogue at the Green Mound, 24, 236–­42, 305n68 Wang Guowei, 270n61, 277n43 Wang Zhaojun, 15–­18, 22, 25, 31, 36, 39–­100 (chap. 1), 253–­58; birthplace, 275n12; comic, 253–­54; drama on, 55–­98, 178–­204, 208–­17, 220–­27, 233–­36, 281n90, 303n42; God of Riches story, 254–­55; historical accounts, 41–­43; iconography, 63, 72, 90, 98–­100, 285nn145–­46, 290n74, 234, 257; literary works on, 43–­50; modern jingju, 208–­13, 236–­42; music, 50–­51 (see also pipa); name, 41, 50, 58, 68, 275n7, 276n36, 279–­80n74, 282n104; religion (folk belief ), 255–­58, 257, 307n15; with Su Wu and Li Ling, 295–­ 96n17; tourism, 253; Wang Zhaojun movement, 253, 307n7; yueju, 213–­17; Zhaojun (brand) product, 234, 253, 307n9 Wang Zhaojun (huaju by Guo Moruo), 220–­ 22, 226 Wang Zhaojun (huaju by Cao Yu), 48, 215–­16, 220, 223–­29, 232–­33, 254, 303n42, 305n72 “Wang Zhaojun” (modern popular song), 249, 259, 306n1

Index

335

“Wang Zhaojun Bianwen,” 51–­55, 277n41, 293n119 Wang Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind and Appeasing the Barbarians (Wang Zhaojun chusai herong ji). See Appeasing the Barbarians water, border: borderland, 189–­90, 192; staging, 189–­92 (see also boating); scenery, 201. See also Black River Wei Lü, 53, 139, 141, 147, 148, 151–­55, 162–­63, 277n50, 290n77 Wenji (Cai Wenji). See Cai Yan Wenji Entering the Pass (Wenji rusai, Ming zaju by Chen Yujiao), 112–­15, 114, 136–­37, 285n147 Wenji Returning to Han (Wenji guihan, jingju by Jin Zhongsun, Cheng Yanqiu version), 217–­19, 237 Wenji Returning to Han (Wenji guihan, jingju by Jin Zhongsun, Li Shiji version), 219 Westernization (and anti-­Westernization), 33-­ 34, 170–­71, 177–­78, 182–­83, 200, 202, 206, 223, 294n4; staging, 178, 198–­99, 295n15 White, Hayden, 19 wild goose, 226; letter-­carrier, 75, 77–­79, 115, 142, 148–­51, 154, 167, 241, 282n107, 287n35, 297n29; sound effect, 8, 57, 65–­66, 68 The Wonderful Karma of Double Phoenixes (Shuangfeng qiyuan, Qing novel, anonymous), 179, 183, 185, 190, 208, 295–­96n17 The Words of the Pipa (Pipa yu by Zhou Le­qing), 22, 24, 91–­97, 102, 124, 161, 284–­ 85n139 Xijun (Princess Xijun), 43, 70, 85, 275n15, 277n40, 283n120 Xiongnu, 11, 14, 40–­45, 49, 138, 140, 303n45 xiqu (Chinese opera), 4, 264. See Chinese opera Xishi, 58–­60, 69, 71, 73, 263, 280n75 xiwen. See nanxi Xiang Yu, 62, 68, 160, 280n80 Xue Dan, 87. See also The Dream of Zhaojun (Zhaojun meng) You Tong, 81–­85, 87, 92, 122, 283n117. See also Mourning the Pipa (Diao pipa) Yu Ji, 62, 68–­69, 71, 73, 156, 160, 280n80

336 Index yueju (Cantonese opera), 174, 179, 191–­92, 201, 203–­4, 213–­17, 264, 272n81, 295n10, 301–­2n23, 302n25, 302n30, 302n34. See also Hongxiannü; regional drama yueqin, 212–­13, 264 zaju (variety play), 28, 55–­57, 66–­67, 73, 145, 169, 174, 177, 180, 261–­64, 281n98, 289n66, 291n91, 305n69 Zhaojun. See Wang Zhaojun Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai, Ming zaju by Chen Yujiao), 70–­73, 72, 98, 121, 285n147 Zhaojun Leaving the Pass Behind (Zhaojun chusai, modern musical by Li Yugang), 233–­ 36, 234, 304–­5n63

The Zhaojun Temple (Zhaojun miao), 185, 213, 255–­56, 257, 297n32 “Zhaojun Tending the Sheep” (Zhaojun muyang), 254 Zhong Sicheng, 56–­57, 112 Zhou Leqing, 24, 91–­92, 102, 161, 163, 166, 284n133. See also The Chuanqi of the Sky-­Mending Stone; Returning to Heliang (Heliang gui); The Words of the Pipa (Pipa yu) Zhou Wenzhi, 150–­51 zidishu, 175, 192, 264 zither (qin), 28, 74, 104, 110–­12, 125, 282n103, 288n53; Burned-­tailed Zither, 110–­11. See also Cai Yan; Cai Yong