Flying Peacock: Yuan Changying

Author: Yang Jingyuan (Editor) / Country:
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2002-01-01
Features: On the very day I was about to join the queue for registration, an urgent telegraph arrived from Liling: "Mother passed away, come quickly to Liling." I can no longer recall the feelings that telegraph brought me, nor do I wish to relive them. I remember only that I didn’t cry—I couldn’t cry. Amidst the chaos of countless emotions, one feeling was clear: she was free, nothing could ever hurt her again. I sent back a telegraph: "Unable to travel due to illness, will be buried immediately. Awaiting further news." The next day, April 30th, a letter from Xingshan arrived. It was long, written a few days before her passing (I later forwarded it to my younger brother, but he did not return it, and thus I lost this important letter). The gist of the letter was that the higher authorities had reviewed my mother’s case and settled her policy, classifying it as a contradiction among the people. Although the official document had not yet been issued, she had received individual notice. My mother was overjoyed upon hearing the news, saying, "Now I am free, I can go to Jingyuan." She also mentioned that she had caught a cold and was receiving medical treatment. Yet within just a few days, her condition worsened, and she left this world with beautiful aspirations. At the very end, she was left alone. Fate plays tricks on people—truly to the extreme. When I thought that all the pain, suffering, worries, blows, grief, and disasters had passed, that nothing could ever harm us again, a cruel, vicious, and malicious blow struck us. I don’t understand why, precisely when she regained her freedom, after enduring seven years of hardship and finally finding the chance to reunite with her family and enjoy her later years, death reached out to her with its claws! Why couldn’t I have at least compensated for all the suffering she endured, even for a year, even half a year, allowing her to leave this world with a smile, in the arms of her loved ones—why did it have to cut off all hope, depriving us of any chance to make amends at that very moment! How cruel, how vicious, how malicious! This time, I cried—my insides seemed to turn inside out. I cried not upon receiving the news of her death, but upon receiving the "good news" of her freedom! My mother has gone, resting forever at my grandfather’s feet, no longer troubled by the joys and sorrows of this world. She left us to bear this eternal sorrow, this lifelong regret.
A year later, my mother’s savings of 12,000 yuan were unfrozen. I allocated 1,000 yuan to Xingshan’s family and 4,000 yuan to Luojiao Production Team, who used the money to buy a hand tractor.
Yuan Changying, styled Lansi, was a professor of theater in the foreign language department. She was likely a student in both Britain and France, as she taught not only two theater courses but also a French course. She was a stern teacher, extremely serious and meticulous in her teaching, rarely smiling, yet on the other hand, she was deeply emotional, caring greatly for her students. I remember at the memorial service for a fellow student, Wang Menglan, in our department, she choked up while delivering the eulogy, unable to speak.
After the war, I intended to return to my alma mater to teach. At that time, Wu Mi was the department head. Wu didn’t know me, and everything was arranged by Professor Yuan. I began studying under Professor Lansi in my sophomore year, taking "Modern Drama."
Regarding Professor Yuan’s appointment as a theater professor, there is an interesting anecdote that must be mentioned. In the early days of Wuhan University, Wen Yiduo served as the head of the College of Arts for a very short time, perhaps only a year. Later, Chen Tongbo took over and served until two years before the war began. When Chen was looking for a theater professor, his good friend Xu Zhimo recommended a certain individual who had taught English at Beijing Normal University and translated the Complete Works of the British playwrights, Berry. Chen visited the man at his address and, after their conversation, found that although the man had translated Berry’s works, his knowledge of Western theater was not extensive, let alone deep. During their discussion, it was also discovered that the man had never been to Europe, leading to the predictable outcome: the man was not suitable for the position. Yet, this man harbored a lifelong grudge against Chen Tongbo, attacking him at every opportunity, always circling back to the topic of "not being a European graduate," as if Chen only valued appearance over substance. If this were today, the man could likely sue Chen for "discrimination."
Professor Yuan’s appointment as a theater professor was also influenced by a geographical factor—"the advantage of being close to the water tower." Her husband, Mr. Yang Duanliu, was an authority in monetary and banking studies and had served as the head of the Law School at Wuhan University for a period. He was also a British graduate. The early days of Wuhan University were dominated by scholars who had studied in Britain. With the combination of geographical advantage, personal connections, and academic credentials, there was really no one else but Yuan who could fit the role. The Berry expert, who had never stepped foot outside China, could only resent Chen Tongbo.
"Modern Drama" was a required course for sophomores in the foreign language department, focusing on reading and analyzing plays by Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Shaw, Chekhov, Molière, and others. At first, I found her pace too slow, as she often used diagrams to explain the structure of a play, even for very basic and simple knowledge, which she would explain in detail without getting tired. Why didn’t I drop her class? If I were to analyze it mercilessly, it was entirely due to my vanity.
In addition to classroom lectures, Professor Yuan required each student to submit a monthly reading report. The assigned readings were mostly other plays by the dramatist being discussed in class. I had always enjoyed theater and film, and during the year I stayed at home after graduating from middle school, I occasionally wrote reviews for newspapers in Shanghai, exchanging small amounts of money for my articles and then buying theater tickets. Therefore, my reports on a play were quite different in scope from those of a sophomore who had just begun to explore Western drama. Every time Professor Lansi returned the reports, she would generously praise my mediocre efforts with beautiful words. Vanity is human nature, and how could I be an exception? She was extremely careful and thorough in grading, and it could take a week or even two or three weeks to receive the corrected reports. I didn’t want to miss the honor of being praised and thus made sure to attend class on time, eagerly awaiting her praise. Professor Yuan had a strong Hunan accent and would always mispronounce my given name "Hongzao" as "Fensao."
A classmate slightly older than me couldn’t help but be annoyed by her praise. Once, before class, he said with great indignation, "During the Qin Dynasty, Qin Shi Huang 'burned books and buried scholars,' but in these two classes, we have to listen to the burning of Fensao like it’s a feast! It’s truly 'burning Fensao and burying people'!"
Professor Yuan taught "The Development of European Drama" in our junior year. The entire semester was dedicated to Greek tragedy. Due to our weak foundation in mythology, both the students and the teacher found it challenging. My reading reports on the plays of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides naturally did not flow as smoothly as those on Ibsen or Shaw, but that was not a major issue. Professor Lansi continued to praise me, and some classmates called her an "impressionist master," citing examples of how students in higher grades, even if they just drew a few circles on an exam paper, would still receive top marks. This was, of course, an exaggeration, but for me, at least part of it was due to her impressionistic scoring. Later, due to my poor health, I believe another part was due to sympathy and encouragement. Both she and two other teachers were deeply afraid that I might die young.
Professor Yuan Changying published relatively few works, and the only ones I read were The Peacock Spring (a play), Mountain Residences (an essay collection), and some other scattered writings. One of her satirical pieces on Hong Shen, titled "Zhao Yanwang," criticized him for plagiarizing The Emperor Jones in many places. She started by saying that The Emperor Jones was not Zhao Yanwang’s father, but Zhao Yanwang was actually The Emperor Jones’s son—a rather amusing piece. Overall, she was like most scholars, able to write with weight but not lightness; when she tried to be light, it only seemed more laborious. Mr. Zhu Mengshi was the same. She was a scholar, a foreign literature expert, and an art historian. As early as the late 1920s, she published French Literature (1929, edited a series, Commercial Press), and later introduced Shakespeare, Ibsen, and Hardy to Chinese readers. In the 1940s, she wrote French Literature (1944, Commercial Press), and also authored A History of Western Music.
She was a university professor, teaching courses on theater, French, Greek mythology, Greek tragedy, Shakespeare, and modern European drama for decades on the lecture hall. She was a writer, with works including the play collection The Peacock Spring and Other One-Act Plays (1930, Commercial Press), the play Drinking Horses at the Great Wall (1947, Zhengzhi Book Company), the essay collection Mountain Residences (1937, Commercial Press), Forty Years of Life (1945, Commercial Press), and the novel The Ox.
She was a translator, having translated plays by French playwrights such as Matin, the Soul in Pain (1930, Commercial Press), among others, and also wrote Chinese Patriotic Literature in English. Her name was Yuan Changying, styled Lansi and Lansizi.