A DEMI-MONDAINE
Chinese Character Type
For some of the best make-ups and the most natural action on the Chinese stage one ought to see men playing the part of lao-tan, or old woman. I have frequently found it difficult to believe that it was a man who appeared with the sorrowful, lined face, the black headdress, tottering along with the stiff walk engendered by bound feet, leaning on a tall staff with a carved handle, and all in all giving a perfect representation of a lao-t’ai-t’ai (old lady). Very touching bits often appear in plays in which an old woman in her broken voice bewails the loss of a son, her only support in life. Among other minor types are found the lao-sheng (old man), the ta-ching (male part, either wicked or honest—his character is indicated by the style of face-painting he wears), and the er-hua-mien (usually a robber). In addition to these there are an infinite number of other possible parts; for example one sees not infrequently various wild and domestic animals interpreted in very droll make-ups that recall Shakespeare’s “Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
A very important type is the ch’ou, the clown, as much an institution on the Chinese stage as he was on that of our Middle Ages. It is very difficult, Chinese critics say, to become a famous clown. The part of the clown consists largely of improvisation, but it is quite risky for him to be as funny as he can. He is permitted topical allusions, but he must gauge carefully the mood of the audience. I remember one quite successful hit. In a certain play a husband returns after an absence of ten years and finds his wife and son in good health, but with an added blessing of Heaven in the shape of a one-year-old boy. He berates his wife for her infidelity and exclaims, “Who could have done me such a turn?” At that moment the clown leaped to the edge of the stage shouting, “It was he!” and allowed his pointing finger to sweep slowly across the sleek, blushing faces of the row of rich merchants in the front seats.
It may seem surprising that I speak so glibly of the “best” actors among the various types, but I should hasten to state that this is a matter in which I do not give my own judgment but the result of popular balloting. A Peking newspaper holds an annual vote for the best actors among each rubric, and the judgment of the readers of this journal is generally accepted among theatergoers. Although the daily papers are an innovation in Peking, perhaps less than twenty years old, yet many of them have their theatrical critics who “puff” actors and more often actresses for other reasons than for art’s sake. Press-agenting is far from being an unknown art in the Middle Kingdom. Much of the writing is done by students of the National University who earn a little extra money by this means. The most picturesque among the Peking critics is a Japanese called by his Chinese name, T’ing Hua. For the last twenty years he has devoted himself to the Chinese theater heart and soul, and shows his devotion by adopting orphans whom he gives a schooling as actors. T’ing Hua has over twenty such “sons”, one of whom is becoming very famous, especially in the Shun T’ien Shih Pao, the paper for which father writes. Yet in spite of all touting the vote reflects the popular feeling, especially as regards Mei Lan-fang and Yang Hsiao-lou, the most famous interpreters of the rôles of young girl and military hero respectively.
Theaters on a commercial basis are also practically a new thing in China; that is to say something that has developed on a large scale only within the last twenty years. Before that time theatrical performances were given mostly at temples or harvest festivals, at the houses of rich men, and, most elaborately, at the imperial court. As a sign of the times I should like to quote an item clipped from the Peking Daily News of June 28, 1922. The article tells of a meeting of the representatives of Peking’s five thousand blind men held in a temple. The end of the paragraph I shall quote verbatim in the English of the Chinese translator:
Among the business matters discussed was the organization of a blind man’s association for the purpose of carrying on their trade effectively. The usual crafts of the blind men in Peking are singing and fortune telling, but conditions have gradually changed, whereby theaters are established everywhere, popular education has paralyzed superstition, so now their crafts are generally getting out of date, and thereby need reformation.
But the Peking police force, perhaps the best in the world, has drawn up full regulations, which are adequate for preserving order in the playhouses that have multiplied so rapidly in the capital. Each company must be registered, must pay a tax of five dollars for each performance, must reserve certain seats for policemen who keep order, must not crowd extra seats into the aisles, must avoid immoral plays, must submit all new plays to the police, and must apprise the police beforehand of every performance to be held. The ordinance requiring the separation of the sexes in the theater is an Eastern touch that is sure to impress Occidentals—who have forgotten that in Shakespeare’s day also women were confined to the gallery. Peking police rules demand that the ushers and tea-venders in the galleries must also be women and that these galleries must have their separate exits. The rule that spectators are forbidden to sit on the stage also recalls Elizabethan manners. One can read in these police regulations:
If the program has been changed and the spectators start a protest by throwing teacups at the actors, these disturbers of the peace must be arrested and conducted to the nearest police station.
There is, however, very little disturbance in the theaters; at least I have never seen the least sign of a fight or quarrel among the spectators. Actors on the stage are forbidden to curse and are fined if they do so. The hours for the performances are fixed from twelve noon to five in winter and spring, and from noon to six in summer and fall, while all evening performances must end at midnight. The latter are an innovation at Peking and are taxed more heavily than the regular daytime performances. There is also a ruling aimed against “claques” which forbids too boisterous applause.