Gwan Han-ching: An Operatic Scene
An illustration for: Nine Maxims On Translation
E Bruce Brooks / University of Massachusetts / 5 Dec 2002This is the second of two poems which together constitute an exceptional difficulty of translation.
An opera is a whole evening's entertainment, and the prospective translator of an opera libretto is looking at a lot of work. But not all the work is of equal importance. There are low spots, connective tissue, where the audience may take a sandwich break or talk to its neighbors. At such moments, the libretto, whatever its literary merits or literary difficulties, is not going to be followed very closely. Then there are the high spots, the moments of extreme and defining dramatic tension, where absolutely everybody out there in front is hanging onto every syllable, and where every syllable in the script thus has to be right. Or the translator, rashly taking a curtain call, will be greeted with jeers and pelted with leftover sandwiches.
Here, then, is one of those make-or-break places. Just to make it more challenging, it is based on the famous poem by Lyou Yung that we looked at a moment ago. Everybody in the audience knows that poem by heart. There is absolutely no room to wiggle in. This is tour-de-force territory.
The Ywaen dynasty put an end to Sung. China was now ruled by the conquering Mongols. The state exams had been abolished, and even the most literarily skillful of Chinese young men had little hope of official jobs under the Mongol emperors. Chinese literary culture, which had always included the demimonde, was now almost confined to the demimonde. In that constrained and resentful demimonde culture, opera appeared, and enjoyed its huge first popularity. Its first great master was Gwan Han-ching (c1230-c1320). One of his preserved works is called Sye Tyen-syang ("Heavenly Fragrance"), the name he gives to Lyou Yung's courtesan lover. Lyou Yung is the technical hero, but Sye Tyen-syang is the actual hero: the character who embodies the hope of the Chinese populace for career, for success, for happiness, all now denied.
In the first act of the opera, Lyou Yung has been admonished by Governor Ti for neglecting his studies to dally with his love, Sye Tyen-syang. Yung departs for the capital, and Tyen-syang sees him off. Moved at the parting, she composes for him the song we know so well, to the A minor tune "Stilling Windblown Waves." The parting is observed by Governor Ti's spy, Jang Chyen, who writes down the poem. Intent on getting rid of this floozy, this impediment to Lyou Yung's career, the Governor summons her, in her role as an officially recognized courtesan, to perform for him. She has no choice but to do so. We join the audience, in progress, to see what happens next.
Scene from "Sye Tyen-syang"
Gwan Han-ching
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Governor Ti: Jang Chyen, bring wine; I'll have a cup. And let's have Sye Tyen-syang, here, sing us a song.
Tyen-syang [it is of course for him to choose the mood]: What key?
Governor Ti: A minor.
Tyen-syang [professionally proud of her wide repertoire]: What tune?
Governor Ti: "Stilling Windblown Waves."
Tyen-syang [knows a score of songs to that tune, but of course the recent parting is fresh in her mind, and she begins to sing her recently composed parting-song, unconscious of the trap that has been set for her. The first rhyming word in her song violates the taboo on speaking the name of an exalted person]:
Since the spring has come,
[The audience holds its collective breath; she is about to fall into the trap. But Jang Chyen, a low fellow and therefore at heart on her side, gives a warning cough. Instantly seeing her peril, she improvises a different ending to the line]:
[Everyone breathes in relief. She has dodged the trap!]
Governor Ti [aside, impressed in spite of himself, he recites a throwaway couplet as the cheers die down]:
Wise and resolute: that we call "genius"
Upright and steady: that we call "talent."[Quiet has been restored; the audience can now hear him. He recapitulates the situation]: I had her sing "Since the spring has come / I sorrow at greens and sigh for reds; My fragrant heart finds everything is vanity." Had she sung the -ty of "vanity," she would have violated the taboo on pronouncing my official name Ti, and I could have sentenced her to forty strokes. But she heard Jang Chyen cough, and changed "vanity" into "lost its hue." [Puzzled for a moment, but now he sees another way]. Aha! "-ty" is in the -i rhyme, "hue" is in the -u rhyme. [He addresses her]: All right, Sye Tyen-syang, I have a copy of the verse right here in front of me. If you miss a rhyme or fault a tone or scant a note, I'll sentence you to forty strokes. Go on, sing it in the -u rhyme, and if you make a single mistake . . . Jang Chyen! Prepare the heavy cudgel!
[The audience gasp. They know Lyou Yung's verse by heart. They know how intricately words and music interdepend in these verse forms. To improvise on the spot a prosodically perfect counterpart, in a different rhyme, is all but impossible. The vulgar hearers forget their sandwiches, curious to see how the stage crew will manage the inevitable scene of the fatal beating. The elite hearers, for whom Tyen-syang represents talent wasted in captivity - in short, themselves - concentrate intensely as the doomed heroine goes back to the beginning]:
Tyen-syang:
Since the spring has come,
[This is the theme she had set herself by her substitution. Now she must continue it]:
[She doesn't just think of an -u word, she reshapes the whole line. In so doing, she makes Yung's verse truly her own, and avows her hope, and that of every frustrated person - everyone - in the audience. Doomed, but plucky. There is applause, but no great optimism. There is a lot of poem still to go]
The ointment dried away,
I hate,
[My God, she is halfway through! Is it just remotely possible that she might after all make it? There is a little musical interlude, and then she starts the second stanza]:
[Parting sorrow is socially acceptable. But now she defies social convention, the Governor, and the Mongols backing up the Governor, with a vision of permanent happiness for her and her socially higher lover]:
By the study window,
[Tremendous excitement, It is beautiful, and it is coming out!]:
Always near at hand,
[A chastely sweet version of the line that had scandalized Yen Shu]:
[Zowie! Never mind waiting for the last rhyme; she has done it! Onstage, she turns for the first time to face the audience, and tumultuous applause begins to well up]:
[Uproar! Young love! Dreams of office! Thoughts of a place of dignity, in their own society and their own country! The crowd goes wild! Let's get out of here, before the police come in and break it up]
Fadeout, to the present. The act ends as the Governor, impressed, not only lets Tyen-syang off the fatal beating which has been hanging over her through the preceding scene, but takes her into his own household as a subordinate wife. Creating instant plot problems, just when it seemed that the problems had been brilliantly solved. What will the next three acts bring? If the reader is not at least a little bit curious, the above specimen of translation, whatever its dexterity in technical matters, has completely failed at its job.
From Other Mountains, Copyright © 1995 by E Bruce Brooks.
5 Dec 2002 / Contact The Project / Exit to Lectures Page
