Added Scene 21: Solitary Chant

Volume Three, Second Half

Scene Twenty-One: Solitary Chant

【Tianxia Le】 (The supporting male role, wearing a felt cap and a Daoist robe, playing the old Master of Ceremonies, enters.)

Autumn rains have washed the streets, leaving not a speck of dust; green hills and red leaves make the whole city fresh and new. Who still has idle gold powder left, to scatter for the singing girls before their mirrors?

I, this old wanderer, have no home to cling to; in a famed garden I pour my own wine and drink alone, celebrating peace day after day, and come to watch The Peach Blossom Fan performed. (From offstage, a voice asks:) "Old sir, have you come again to the Peaceful Garden to see The Peach Blossom Fan?" (He replies:) "Exactly so." (The voice asks:) "Yesterday you finished the first half—how was the performance?" (He replies:) "It was thrilling to watch, heartbreaking to watch—laughing for no reason, and tears streaming unbidden. Sima Qian wielded his historian's brush, and Dongfang Shuo was the actor on stage. I fear that worldly affairs are vague eight or nine times out of ten, and human feelings are veiled two or three parts out of ten." (He walks and sings.)

【Ganzhou Ge】 Time presses on like a flying arrow—just now in the willow grove the cicadas chirp, and in the lotus pond fragrance bursts forth. In light clothes and a cool hat, I walk to the water's edge, weary; suddenly startled by the sound of rain through the night by the western window, and once again in the northern quarter the soul lost on the pillow fades away. In the courtyard of wutong trees, amid the sound of washing mallets on the fulling block, the chirping of insects on the moss is unbearable to hear. In leisure, I lean on my staff and stroll out the gate; the palace locust trees line the road, their leaves falling in profusion.

【Qian Qiang】 Skin loose and wrinkled, body withered and thin, I have weathered wind and frost, rain and snow, until my temples are like silver. In this autumn of grief, I lean on my sick body and walk, burdened with the sorrows of travel; in the midst of pleasure grounds, who knows that only I remain? In old age, I rather resent this surplus body. The entanglements of children and grandchildren, the toil for fame and profit—all flow away like water, given to the drifting clouds. Princes rage, ministers scowl; boundless withered grass faces the lingering glow of the setting sun.

【Qian Qiang】 (Change of tune) I long for spring, but spring does not come; I think of the paintings in the Han palace, already scattered into ashes with the wind. The guests have left the chessboard; black and white pieces, victory and defeat, are hard to distinguish. The ancient temple of the Southern Dynasties, the graves of the Wang and Xie families; in the remnant mountains by the river, the ranks of flowers and willows. People are gone, mist and smoke darken; striking the zhu and playing the sword, with whom can I speak? Yellow dust shifts and changes, the red sun rolls on; a single poem or tale can easily sink and vanish.

【Qian Qiang】 (Change of tune) Hard to find the old dancing mats of the Wu palace; asking about the forgotten events of the Kaiyuan era, the white-haired ones have all died. The Cloud Pavilion poet, laying down his brush, often feels bitterness; the song issues from white teeth, the tune not yet finished, tears fall on the red plate, the candle burnt to an inch. The appearance of robes and tablets, the traces of ink and powder—each new adornment brings a fresh novelty. Writings are false, achievements are absurd; playing a part in a game, one should only wet one's lips with wine.

【Yu Wen】 Old but not ashamed, I am still romantic and elegant, secretly using my staff to nudge a red skirt. What do I care if the fan-bottom peach blossom knows how to mock people?

In those days it was truly a play; today the play seems real.

A bystander twice over, Heaven has left a cold-eyed man.

And now Ma Shiying has already taken the stage once more. Gentlemen, please watch. (He bows and exits.)