• Zhang Dai (1597–1684?) lived the life of a well-to-do urban aesthete in Nanjing in the last decades of the Ming Dynasty, and then saw that life destroyed by the Manchu invasion. In later years, in much reduced circumstances, he wrote with nostalgia about the pleasures of his youth. His account of a popular storyteller can be compared to accounts of two foreign visitors to Japan and England: a German naturalist in Nagasaki, Japan, in 1690–1692, who described the performances put on as entertainment for the gods during a religious festival; and a Swiss visitor to London in 1599, who saw theater troupes.

Zhang Dai on a Nanjing Storyteller

“Pockmarked Liu of Nanjing . . . is an excellent storyteller.

He tells one episode a day, and his fee is one ounce of silver. To engage him you have to make your booking, and forward his retainer, ten days in advance, and even then you may be out of luck. . . . I heard him tell the story of Wu Song killing the tiger on Jingyang Ridge. His version diverged greatly from the original text. He will describe things in the minutest particular, but his choice of what to put in and leave out is nice and neat, and he is never wordy. His bellow is like the boom of a mighty bell, and when he gets to some high point in the action he will let loose such a peal of thunder that the building will shake on its foundations. I remember that when Wu Song goes into the inn to get a drink and finds no one there to serve him, he suddenly gave such a roar as to set all the empty vessels humming and vibrating. To make dull patches come to life like this is typical of his passion for detail.

When he goes to perform in someone’s house, he will not loosen his tongue until his hosts sit quietly, hold their breath, and give him their undivided attention. If he spots the servants whispering, or if his listeners yawn or show any signs of fatigue, he will come to an abrupt halt, and be impervious to persuasion to continue. He will often talk till past midnight, still keeping up an unhurried flow, while the servants wipe the tables, trim the lamp, and silently serve tea in cups of tasteful porcelain. His pacing and his inflexions, his articulation and his cadences, are exactly suited to the situation, and lay bare the very body and fibre of the matter. If one plucked all the other storytellers alive by the ear and made them listen to him, I do not doubt but they would be struck dumb with wonder and give up the ghost on the spot.”

Engelbert Kaempfer on Nagasaki Festival Plays

“The public spectacles shown upon this occasion are a sort of plays, or rather dramas, acted by eight, twelve, or more persons. The subject is taken out of the history of their gods and heroes. Their remarkable adventures, heroic actions, and sometimes their love intrigues, put in verse, are sung by dancing-actors, whilst others play upon all sorts of musical instruments. If the subject be thought too grave and moving, there is now and then a comical actor jumps out unawares upon the stage, with his gestures and merry discourse in prose, to divert the people. Some of their other plays are composed only of ballets, or dances, like the performances of the Mimic Actors upon the Roman Stage. For the dancers do not speak, but endeavor to express the contents of the story they are about to represent, as naturally as possible, both by their dress, and by their gestures and actions, regulated according to the sound of musical instruments. . . . The Actors are commonly young girls, taken out of the bawdy-houses, as also young boys and children out of those streets, at whose expense the solemnity is performed. They are all magnificently clad, in variously colored silken gowns, suitable to the characters which they are to represent.”

Thomas Platter on London Theater

“On September 21st after lunch, about two o’clock, I and my party crossed the water, and there in the house with the thatched roof witnessed an excellent performance of the tragedy of the first Emperor Julius Caesar with a cast of some fifteen people; when the play was over, they danced very marvelously and gracefully together as is their wont, two dressed as men and two as women. . . . Thus daily at two in the afternoon, London has two, sometimes three plays running in different places, competing with each other, and those which play best obtain most spectators. The playhouses are so constructed that they play on a raised platform, so that everyone has a good view. There are different galleries and places, however, where the seating is better and more comfortable and therefore more expensive. For whoever cares to stand below only pays one English penny, but if he wishes to sit he enters by another door and pays another penny, while if he desires to sit in the most comfortable seats, which are cushioned, where he not only sees everything well, but can also be seen, then he pays yet another English penny at another door. And during the performance food and drink are carried round the audience, so that for what one cares to pay one may also have refreshment.”

Sources: David Pollard, trans. and ed., The Chinese Essay (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000), pp. 89–90. Reproduced with permission of C. HURST & CO. LTD. in the format Book via Copyright Clearance Center; Engelbert Kaempfer, The History of Japan, vol. 2:143 (London: J. Mac Lehose and Sons, 1906), pp. 136–137, slightly modified; Clare Williams, trans., Thomas Platter’s Travels in England, 1599 (London: J. Cape, 1937), pp. 166–167.

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