The Chinese theater

During the last decades of the Ch’ing Dynasty, that is to say about forty years ago, many of the idle and rich members of the ruling class, the Manchus, developed an interest in the theater. The government provided these men with an income but imposed no duties on them; and while a large number filled the time that hung heavy on their hands by smoking opium, others imitated the work of the socially disinherited actor. Sometimes princes of the royal family appeared on the stage in much the same spirit of a search for new sensations in which others impersonated beggars on the streets. Naturally enough, such undignified behavior was highly disapproved of in government circles, and therefore the idlers who spent most of their time in the theaters found it more expedient to perform in private when their artistic natures felt the itch for self-expression. For this purpose clubs were formed called p’iao yu, friends of the theater or amateurs. It is interesting to note that many of the palaces of the princes of the Manchu Dynasty in the vicinity of Peking are provided with stages where the theater lovers could perform in private. Many wealthy merchants followed this fashion set by the princes, and in recent years also a large number of students have devoted their leisure time to the study of acting. To-day the number of amateurs in Peking is enormous; there is such a craze for acting that every photographer’s shop is provided with costumes and other theatrical paraphernalia in order that the p’iao yu may have his picture taken in the rôle of his favorite character.

Among this class of amateurs the tendency is to be very conservative. When a club is formed the members hire an old and experienced actor who teaches them to sing and to act in the traditional manner. Once a month performances are given at which the amateurs show what they have learned. Frequently, too, these tyros are given opportunities to act at weddings, funerals, or other festivities held in private homes or in restaurants. To belong to such a club is within the reach of even the ordinary clerks, for the dues are about four dollars a year. I have known former members of the diplomatic corps who had spent many years abroad as well as ten-dollar-a-month clerks among the ranks of the amateurs.

When an amateur goes over to the professional stage the Chinese call it “hsia hai”, going down to the bottom of the sea, an expression that indicates the low esteem in which the professional actor is held. However, in these days of the Republic, when the social disqualification of the actor counts for very little, and what is more important, a good actor can command the equivalent of a princely income of the days of the Empire, the actor is no longer despised so thoroughly as in former days. Formerly an actor who could read and write was a notable exception, while now occasionally a fairly well-educated man goes on the stage.

I know, for example, a youth of twenty who had been carefully trained by a devout American lady in the Christian way in which he was to go. She had taught him stenography and typing, and Percy, as all Americans called him, worked in an office in a modest but useful capacity. Suddenly rumor had it that he was going to go on the stage and, to be sure, an enterprising manager had offered him about forty times the sum the office was paying him. Many of the pious folk felt grieved when Percy accepted.

Percy’s going on the stage was perhaps more of a surprise to some other people than to me, for I had not only seen him perform several times with other amateurs at weddings, but I had also observed him during office hours studying Mei Lan-fang’s acting in the Market Theater. One hot summer night I went to a feast where Percy had told me that he was going to play. In the first courtyard of the host’s large residence a score of guests were eating delicious Chinese food and drinking cool beer, while a temporary stage had been erected in the second courtyard. Accompanied by loud music from the orchestra an indifferent play was going on; therefore I set out to find my hero of the evening. I found Percy seated at a table back of the stage busy with his make-up. On his head he was wearing a wig, his eyebrows were penciled, his cheeks rouged, and he was busy painting his eyeballs.

“Good heavens, Percy,” I said. “What are you doing to your eyes?”

“I have to put Chinese ink into them to make my pupils large and black.”

“Doesn’t it hurt like the very Satan?”

“Oh, yes, it hurts pretty badly, but when it’s done it looks lovely.”

How I wished that Percy’s missionary sponsors might have seen the show! As imitator of Mei Lan-fang he played the rôle of the maid, and he certainly looked beautiful. The maid in this particular farce (“Yi Tsai Hua”, one of the plays forbidden by the police!) is sent by her mistress—who is minded to improve her husband’s absence—to induce a handsome young man to come to the lady’s boudoir. But the maid prefers, unlike John Alden, to speak for herself! So she sets about destroying the young man’s virtue, while the efforts of the youth to escape her coquettish wiles supply the comic element. It was a bedroom farce, and I noticed with pride the effects of Percy’s Christian training—he used sheets on his bed!

But in recent years other groups of amateurs have arisen with the definite purpose of reforming the Chinese theater. In 1915 a group of returned students from Japan who had derived their inspiration from modern European dramas they had seen in Tokyo founded a dramatic club in Shanghai called “The Spring Willow Dramatic Society.” Their aim was to educate the taste of the public both as regards modern drama and modern staging. They introduced non-musical, spoken drama acted on a stage with footlights and scenery. “La Dame aux Camélias” and “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” formed part of their repertoire. But they found only a small following composed of students and people who had been abroad, and therefore this effort was discontinued after one year. Shanghai is the logical spot for such modern theaters—there have been quite a number of others since—because Occidental influence is stronger in this city than anywhere else in China, and the Southerners on the whole are less conservative than the Northerners.

One of the idealists of the “Spring Willow Society”, on finding that the audiences were not yet ready for drama in the European style, began to act in the Chinese theater the rôle of the ingénue (Ch’ing-I and Hua-tan). However, he made the reform of avoiding all plays that taught superstitions and of turning to social plays with a purpose. But this experiment did not succeed very well either, and therefore in 1920 he accepted the position of director of the dramatic club in Nantun, in the province of Kiangsi, endowed by Mr. Chang Chien, one of the wealthiest business men in China. This gentleman believes that the theater is an instrument of great potential force in making over society and that through the proper kind of theater his fellow countrymen can be made honest and patriotic. Nantun is an industrial city and an educational center with ten middle schools and three colleges, and therefore a favorable location for an experimental theater. Moreover, through Mr. Chang Chien’s influence, a course in dramatics has been made a part of the curriculum in all the schools, in order that every student may learn to act. The students, Mr. Chang Chien hopes, will spread the message of the modern drama far and wide by giving performances in their native towns and villages.

Such a tour of student actors, from quite another educational center, to be sure, was described to me by one of my students, Mr. Jung Tu-shan. The lad undoubtedly had considerable talent as an actor—I remember particularly a performance of “Maître Patelin” given at the Peking Union Medical College in which he played the leading part with great success. In the year 1917, thirty-six students, all from the vicinity of Wusih, set out to perform plays in all the villages in the district. They carried with them some painted scenery and each student supplied his costumes and traveling expenses. The families of different students acted as hosts to the whole company in the various villages visited. Performances were given in the afternoon. In the course of the morning the stage was gotten ready—usually the stage at the village temple. Four coppers admission fee was charged to pay for the cost of transporting the scenery, and the surplus was given to various charitable enterprises. The audiences numbered from two hundred to eight hundred spectators. The plays were propaganda against opium smoking and foot binding or—as this was the time of the patriotic fervor of the students—anti-Japanese agitation. The most popular play was “The Sorrowful Korean”, in which the maltreatment of Koreans by the Japanese was graphically portrayed, together with the warning that the same thing would happen to the Chinese if they did not show more patriotism. After the representation of the pulling out of finger nails or other tortures, the cry of “boycott the Japanese” would arise among the spectators, and those who had had the forethought to provide themselves with Japanese-made umbrellas would start a bonfire with them. Next, everybody would swear never again to buy Japanese goods. At times, too, improvised plays would be given in which the foibles or crimes of certain natives of the village would be castigated. Some professional blackmailers whose machinations were publicly exposed became very angry at the students, but since they were sons of wealthy and influential men they could not harm them. It is quite a favorable testimonial for the native ability of the Chinese as actors that such plays could be gotten up at a moment’s notice; the method of the students was for one of the members to tell the story in the morning, while in the afternoon those who had been awarded the various parts would act it out. Mr. Jung Tu-shan is of the opinion that for his illiterate countrymen such performances are of vast educational value, especially since newspapers are few and travel is rather restricted.

It would lead too far afield to enumerate even a small number of the professional companies and student clubs now presenting “modern drama”, i.e. drama in imitation of the present-day drama of the West. Moreover most of these undertakings are very short-lived. The professional companies are generally found in Shanghai where many a modern European or American drama has been presented for better or for worse. The best work among the student dramatic clubs has been done by the one at Nankai College, Tientsin. In the Quarterly of that institution many plays have been published dealing with Chinese life in imitation of the manner of Ibsen, Tolstoy, Shaw, and other moderns. One play from this school, “The New Mayor”, was singled out for particular praise by a revolutionary critic, because it overthrew one of the ancient traditions of the Chinese drama—the villain is not punished at the end of the play. This play too is quite realistic and “peculiarly” Chinese.

Mr. Tsao, the mayor of a village, together with three other unscrupulous men, agrees to sell to a European company the land around the village temple on which are situated the huts of many poor people. The agents of the foreign company begin to drive off the poor people and cause untold suffering among them. At this point a nephew of the mayor appears on the scene. He has been studying in a “modern” school in Shanghai and has acquired some conceptions of honesty and pity. He takes the matter of the illegal sale to court and when he appears followed by a mob of the poor the court annuls the contract of sale. There is even some talk of punishing the four guilty scoundrels. In this crisis the son of the mayor rushes to one of the three other villains, named Hou, in order to plan for his father’s safety. Mr. Hou tells him that the only thing to do is to bring him $4000 for bribes, with which he says he can save the situation. The family of the mayor sell all their property in order to raise this large sum, so that only the hope of future extortions stands between them and absolute poverty. After what has passed the mayor is forced to resign, but Mr. Hou promises to do all he can to influence the election to the effect that the son succeed his father as mayor and the office remain in the family. With this understanding the mayor’s family pay out the $4000. But when the votes are counted it is found that the new mayor is none other than Mr. Hou!

It may be worth while briefly to summarize the views of two critics on how to reform the Chinese theater. Professor Soong Tsung-faung of the National University, Peking, for many years a student in France, Germany and Switzerland, in his book “La Littérature Chinoise Contemporaine” makes suggestions as follows: 1. Music and drama should be separated, performances of operas and plays should be made as distinct genres; 2. An approach should be made to the Aristotelian unities; 3. The false morality of the stage should be replaced by a realistic presentation of life; 4. More attention should be paid to effective dialogue; 5. Male and female rôles should be played by actors of the two sexes respectively; 6. The stage and auditorium of the Chinese theater should be reformed to resemble that of the modern European theater.

“Europeanize the theater” is, in short, what Professor Soong suggests. Much the same thing, from a somewhat different angle, is said by Doctor Hu Shih, professor of philosophy in the same university. He argues that literature is constantly changing and that such a change is a gradual progress from low origins to classical perfection. The history of Chinese drama represents a continuous struggle against formal restrictions which have been gradually overcome. But in the course of this advance useless survivals remained intact owing to the conservatism of the Chinese. As such survivals he mentions ballad singing, military plays (acrobatics), a conventional manner of walking on the stage, facial painting in a highly unnatural manner, use of falsetto speech, and musical accompaniment. These ought to be eliminated, just as the chorus, the mask, and the aside have long gone out of style in the Western theater. Furthermore, since progress in literature generally comes about through contact with foreign literatures (he quotes here the influence of Ibsen on the English stage), China ought to learn from the Occidental drama. Two things especially China is in need of: first, the conception of tragedy to take the place of the eternal happy ending; and second, a conception of dramatic economy.

This same critic has himself written a play, which he modestly calls a farce. It has been acted very successfully by student dramatic societies in Peking and other cities. Doctor Hu Shih does not pride himself particularly on this effort of his, yet, in my opinion, it is by far the best “modern” play written by a Chinese under the influence of the Western drama, including some published in American magazines. I shall reprint it here as an index, showing the direction the Chinese drama of the future may take. The influence of Mei Lan-fang, as Professor Soong notes in his book, is in the direction of art for art’s sake, while the drama of the students and reformers is the play with a purpose.

THE GREATEST EVENT IN LIFE

A Farce in One Act by Doctor Hu Shih

MRS. TIEN—I don’t quite understand what you say. Tell me, what do you think of this match.

FORTUNE-TELLER—I only speak the truth, Mrs. Tien. We all speak the truth. You see—

MRS. TIEN—But what is the truth?

FORTUNE-TELLER—I am sorry to say that this match is undesirable. It would be a very unhappy marriage if your daughter should marry this young man.

MRS. TIEN—Why so?

FORTUNE-TELLER—Well, you see, I only speak the truth. This young man was born in the year of the Tiger and your daughter was born in the year of the Rabbit. In the books of fortune-telling, this is called “conquering the rabbit by the tiger.”

The wife would live in constant fear of being swallowed up. And, as the conquest is complete, the wife will probably die long before her husband. I have examined the Month and the Day and the Hour, and found no way to escape it. Of course I am only telling the truth: please don’t blame my frankness.

MRS. TIEN—Not at all. I like truth spoken in frankness. I know what you said is true. For the Goddess of Mercy said the same thing yesterday.

FORTUNE-TELLER—So the Goddess of Mercy also disapproved of this union?

MRS. TIEN—Yes, she said that this couple, if married, will not live long together.

FORTUNE-TELLER—That’s exactly what I said.

MRS. TIEN—What the Goddess said must be true. But you see, this is a very important matter; it is the greatest event in my daughter’s life. We parents cannot take too much care in selecting the best possible mates for our children. So, having known the Goddess’s opinion, I sent for you to see if there is any possible escape. You know the words of the gods are always very brief: one may not be sure of their exact meaning.

FORTUNE-TELLER—Quite so, quite so.

MRS. TIEN—I am glad that you have confirmed the Goddess’s judgment. (Rises and hands him some money) Thank you; here is your pay.

FORTUNE-TELLER—(Groping for the money) No, no, that is not necessary. Thanks, thanks. I am glad that the Goddess has confirmed my truth. (Rises)

MRS. TIEN—Lee Fuh! (Enter Lee Fuh from the right-hand door) Show him out. (The fortune-teller goes out led by Lee Fuh)

MRS. TIEN—(Taking up the red paper on which are written the dates of the young couple, folds it and puts it back into a drawer of the writing desk) It’s a pity!—it’s a pity!—

(Miss Ah-may Tien enters by the right-hand door. She is a young woman of about twenty-four, tastefully dressed and wearing a rather anxious look on her face)

MISS TIEN—Mother, are you consulting fortune-tellers again? I met one at the gate. Have you forgotten that father had forbidden fortune-telling in our house?

MRS. TIEN—Just once more, my dear.

MISS TIEN—But you have promised father never to call fortune-tellers into our house.

MRS. TIEN—I know that. But you see I can’t help doing it just once more. I have sent for him to see if you and Mr. Chen—

MISS TIEN—Oh, Oh!—

MRS. TIEN—You see this is the greatest event in your life, and you are my only child. I can’t let you marry a man with whom you can’t live long.

MISS TIEN—But we can!

MRS. TIEN—No, you can’t. The fortune-teller says so.

MISS TIEN—What does he know about us?

MRS. TIEN—And the Goddess of Mercy says so, too.

MISS TIEN—So you have asked the Goddess too? What would father say to this?

MRS. TIEN—I know your father would object to this, as he always objects to everything I do. But how can we old folks decide a matter which concerns your entire life? We are liable to make grave mistakes. But the gods cannot deceive us. Moreover, the fortune-teller has confirmed what the goddess said. (Going to the desk and opening the drawer) Let me show you what the goddess said.

MISS TIEN—Oh, no! I don’t want to see it!

MRS. TIEN—(Closing the door reluctantly) My dear, don’t be too obstinate. I like your young man whom you have known during your stay in Japan. He seems to be a fine fellow. You say you know him well. But you are young and inexperienced. Even we old folks dare not trust our own judgment in such important matters. That’s why I went to the Goddess of Mercy and sent for the fortune-teller. They both said that this match would be undesirable. It must be true. The fortune-teller said that this is a case of conquering the rabbit by the tiger, because you were born in the year of—

MISS TIEN—Please don’t say any more of it. (Sobbing) I don’t want to hear it. I know father will not agree with you. I know he will not.

MRS. TIEN—I will tell him what I have done. He must not give away my daughter against my wish. (Approaching her daughter and trying to dry her tears with a handkerchief) Now, don’t cry. I’ll leave you to think it over. Your father will be back soon; I go to see if dinner is ready. Be a good child and cry no more. (Goes by the door leading to the dining room.

A pause. As Miss Tien looks up, Lee Fuh appears at the door. She beckons him to come near)

MISS TIEN—Lee Fuh, I need your help. (Lee Fuh bows amicably) My mother does not want to let me marry Mr. Chen.

LEE FUH—It’s a pity, a great pity. He is such a fine gentleman. He even bowed to me when I met him this morning at the street corner.

MISS TIEN—Yes, he saw you bring in the fortune-teller and he was afraid of any sudden change. So he telephoned to me at the school and followed me back in his motor-car. He may still be waiting at the street corner. Go and tell him that my mother has made up her mind not to let us marry. Of course father will help us. Tell Mr. Chen to move his car to the next street and wait for further news. Go quickly. (Lee Fuh bows to go) Come back. Tell him—tell him—not to be anxious. (Lee Fuh bows smilingly and goes by the right-hand door)

MISS TIEN—(Goes to the desk and opens the drawer; looks at its contents without taking it out. Then looks at her watch) Father ought to be back now; it is almost twelve. (Mr. Tien, a man of about fifty, enters by the right-hand door)

MISS TIEN—(Quickly closes the drawer and rises to meet him) Oh, father, you are back! Mother was—(hesitates) mother has something to say to you,—something very important.

MR. TIEN—What’s that? Tell me first what it is.

MISS TIEN—Mother will tell you. (Runs to the dining-room door and calls) Mother, mother, father is back.

MR. TIEN—What’s in this now? (Sits down in the armchair. Mrs. Tien enters) Ah-may told me that you have something very important to say to me.

MRS. TIEN—Yes, something very important. Now don’t contradict me. (Sitting down by the table) It is about Mr. Chen’s proposal to marry Ah-may.

MR. TIEN—Yes, I have been thinking about it too.

MRS. TIEN—Good, we all ought to be thinking about it. It is the greatest event in her life. I was simply overawed at the idea of its importance. It is true that Ah-may has known this young man for some years during their stay in Japan. But we don’t know him. How can we be sure of his character? He is wealthy, but many wealthy young men are simply awful. He is well-educated, but I have heard many returned students abandon their wives.

MR. TIEN—What are you driving at?

MRS. TIEN—My point is this. We should not trust our own poor judgments. At least I can’t, I dare not trust myself in this matter. So I went yesterday to the Temple of the Goddess of Mercy.

MR. TIEN—What! Have you forgotten what you promised me?

MRS. TIEN—I can’t help it. I did it merely for the sake of our daughter.

MR. TIEN—Pooh, pooh! Go on.

MRS. TIEN—I went there and asked for a Divine Stick. It says that this match is undesirable. Let me show you the poem on the Stick. (Going to the desk)

MR. TIEN—Pooh, pooh! I don’t want to see it. I’ll have nothing of this stuff! If you don’t trust yourself, how can you trust such an important matter to wooden images and clay idols?

MISS TIEN—(Cheering up) I know father doesn’t believe in all this. (Going to him) Thank you, father. We should trust our own judgment, should we not?

MRS. TIEN—But it isn’t the Goddess alone that says no.

MR. TIEN—Who else then?

MRS. TIEN—I still had my doubts, so I sent for the best fortune-teller in this city.

MR. TIEN—Ahem! You have broken another promise to me.

MRS. TIEN—I know it, but you see this is the greatest event in Ah-may’s life, and I want to clear up every little doubt in my mind.

MR. TIEN—But, for heaven’s sake, why did you create the doubt by going to the Goddess? Why didn’t you come to me?

MRS. TIEN—Don’t be blasphemous. Well, the fortune-teller said exactly the same thing as the Goddess of Mercy. Wasn’t that wonderful?

MR. TIEN—Oh, come. Don’t be foolish. You have no confidence in your own eyes, so you go and put complete confidence in those who have no eyes at all!

MISS TIEN—I quite agree with you, father. I knew you would be on our side.

MRS. TIEN—(To her daughter) How dare you talk in that manner about your own marriage? “Our” side? Whose side is “our” side? For shame! You all conspire against me! (Putting her face into her handkerchief and sobbing) Have I no right to decide my own daughter’s greatest event in life?

MR. TIEN—Just because this is our daughter’s greatest event in life, we must go about it in a sane and intelligent manner. We must not be deceived by wooden images and clay idols,—and blind fortune-tellers. Am I not right, Ah-may?

MISS TIEN—You are quite right, father. I knew you would not believe in all this.

MR. TIEN—Now, let us talk seriously. (To Mrs. Tien) Don’t cry. No more childish superstitions! (To Miss Tien) Sit down and we’ll have a serious talk. (She seats herself on the sofa. A pause)

MR. TIEN—Ah-may, I don’t want you to marry Mr. Chen.

MISS TIEN—(Greatly agitated) Oh, father, you don’t mean it!

MR. TIEN—Yes, I do mean it. This union is impossible. I am sorry.

MISS TIEN—Have you found anything against him?

MR. TIEN—No, I like him very much. I could not possibly choose a better son-in-law. So much the more I am sorry.

MISS TIEN—(Puzzled and grieved) And you don’t believe in the gods and fortune-tellers?

MR. TIEN—Oh, no.

MRS. TIEN AND MISS TIEN—(At the same time) What is it then?

MR. TIEN—(To Miss Tien) My child, you have been abroad for so long that you have forgotten our own custom and etiquette. You have even forgotten the law of our ancestors.

MISS TIEN—What is the law of our ancestors that forbids our marriage?

MR. TIEN—Let me show you. (Goes out by the dining-room door)

MRS. TIEN—What could it be? But I am glad that he is opposed to this union.

MISS TIEN—(Reflecting, then suddenly showing determination) I know what to do.

MR. TIEN—(Enters with a set of big folio volumes) Here is our genealogy. (Turning over the leaves) Look at this long line of our ancestors and see if there has been any marriage between the Chens (陈) and the Tiens (田).

MISS TIEN—Why couldn’t there be any marriage between the two families?

MR. TIEN—Because it is the custom of the country to forbid intermarriage between persons bearing the same family name.

MISS TIEN—But our family is Tien and Mr. Chen’s family name is Chen: we are not of the same family name.

MR. TIEN—Yes, we are of the same family name. About two thousand five hundred years ago, these two words, Tien and Chen, were pronounced in the same way, and our family name was sometimes written in the form of Chen and sometimes in the form of Tien. As the ages passed by, these two words came to be pronounced quite differently, and the two branches of our family had all the appearances of a separate origin. But the philologists know it, and our family records show that the two families have sprung from one and the same stock. The law of both the Chen family and the Tien family forbids intermarriage between them.

MISS TIEN—Does this prohibition apply to persons whose relationship dates back two thousand five hundred years?

MR. TIEN—Unfortunately it does.

MISS TIEN—Oh, father, surely you don’t believe in the reasonableness of such a custom.

MR. TIEN—I don’t, but society does and the old scholars do. A story was told of a peasant woman of the Tien family who married a Mr. Chen by mistake. But after her death, she was not allowed to occupy a seat in the ancestral temple until her name was changed into Shen (申) by prolonging the middle stroke of the word Tien (田).

MISS TIEN—I am willing to prolong the middle stroke of my family name, if that is the only objection.

MR. TIEN—You are willing, but I am not. I don’t want to be criticized by the old scholars of our clan on your account.

MISS TIEN—(Sobbing) But we are not of the same family!

MR. TIEN—Our genealogy says we are, and the old scholars say we are. I have consulted a number of scholars on this point, and they all oppose this union. You see, in a matter of such importance, although one must not be deceived by the wooden gods and blind fortune-tellers, one must respect the opinion of old scholars. And then, your young man is from a very wealthy family. I don’t want people to think that I sold my daughter to a rich man at the cost of sacrificing my family name.

MISS TIEN—(In despair) Oh, oh! Father! You have destroyed the idols of superstition, but you bow to the idols of tradition!

MR. TIEN—You are angry with me? Well, I don’t blame you. I understand your feelings. (Lee Fuh enters)

LEE FUH—Dinner is ready. (All rise except Miss Tien)

MR. TIEN—Let us talk it over after dinner. Come, I am hungry. (Goes into the dining room)

MRS. TIEN—(Going to her daughter) Don’t cry now. We all wish for your best. Compose yourself and come to dinner.

MISS TIEN—I don’t want dinner.

MRS. TIEN—Don’t be obstinate. We’ll wait for you. (Goes into the dining room. Lee Fuh closes the door after her)

MISS TIEN—(Looks up and sees Lee Fuh standing) Is Mr. Chen still waiting in his car?

LEE FUH—(In a low voice) Yes, here is a note for you. (Hands her a note)

MISS TIEN—(Reads) “This concerns us alone. Decide for yourself.” (Repeating the last sentence) “Decide for yourself.” Yes. I must decide for myself. I must! (To Lee Fuh) Tell father and mother not to wait for me. I’ll join them after dinner. (Lee Fuh bows knowingly and retires. Miss Tien rises and puts on the cloak which she had taken off when she first entered. Goes to the desk and writes a note which she leaves under the flower vase; then she hurries out by the right-hand door. A pause)

MRS. TIEN—(From within) Ah-may, you must come and have dinner with us. (Enters) Where are you? Ah-may!

MR. TIEN—(From within) Leave her alone for a while: she is angry with us. (Enters) Where is she?

MRS. TIEN—Where is she? She has gone with her cloak on.

MR. TIEN—(Seeing the note under the vase, takes it and reads) “This is the greatest event in my life. I must decide for myself. I am gone with Mr. Chen in his car. Good-by!”

(Mrs. Tien sinks into the armchair. Mr. Tien rushes to the door and then hesitates. Curtain.)