M. Butterfly

by David Henry Hwang

  scene 5

  M. Gallimard’s cell.

  GALLIMARD: Next, Butterfly makes her entrance. We learn her age—fifteen ... but very mature for her years.

  Lights come up on the area where we saw Song dancing at the top of the play. She appears there again, now dressed as Madame Butterfly, moving to the “Love Duet.” Gallimard turns upstage slightly to watch, transfixed.

  GALLIMARD: But as she glides past him, beautiful, laughing softly behind her fan, don’t we who are men sigh with hope? We, who are not handsome, nor brave, nor powerful, yet somehow believe, like Pinkerton, that we deserve a Butterfly. She arrives with all her possessions in the folds of her sleeves, lays them all out, for her man to do with as he pleases. Even her life itself—she bows her head as she whispers that she’s not even worth the hundred yen he paid for her. He’s already given too much, when we know he’s really had to give nothing at all.

  Music and lights on Song out. Gallimard sits at his crate.

  GALLIMARD: In real life, women who put their total worth at less than sixty-six cents are quite hard to find. The closest we come is in the pages of these magazines. (He reaches into his crate, pulls out a stack of girlie magazines, and begins flipping through them) Quite a necessity in prison. For three or four dollars, you get seven or eight women.

  I first discovered these magazines at my uncle’s house. One day, as a boy of twelve. The first time I saw them in his closet .... all lined up—my body shook. Not with lust—no, with power. Here were women—a shelfful—who would do exactly as I wanted.

  The “Love Duet” creeps in over the speakers. Special comes up, revealing, not Song this time, but a pinup girl in a sexy negligee, her back to us. Gallimard turns upstage and looks at her.

  GIRL: I know you’re watching me.

  GALLIMARD: My throat ... it’s dry.

  GIRL: I leave my blinds open every night before I go to bed.

  GALLIMARD: I can’t move.

  GIRL: I leave my blinds open and the lights on.

  GALLIMARD: I’m shaking. My skin is hot, but my penis is soft. Why?

  GIRL: I stand in front of the window.

  GALLIMARD: What is she going to do?

  GIRL: I toss my hair, and I let my lips part ... barely.

  GALLIMARD: I shouldn’t be seeing this. It’s so dirty. I’m so bad.

  GIRL: Then, slowly, I lift off my nightdress.

  GALLIMARD: Oh, god. I can’t believe it. I can‘t—

  GIRL: I toss it to the ground.

  GALLIMARD: Now, she’s going to walk away. She’s going to—

  GIRL: I stand there, in the light, displaying myself.

  GALLIMARD: No. She‘s—why is she naked?

  GIRL: To you.

  GALLIMARD: In front of a window? This is wrong. No—

  GIRL: Without shame.

  GALLIMARD: No, she must ... like it.

  GIRL: I like it.

  GALLIMARD: She ... she wants me to see.

  GIRL: I want you to see.

  GALLIMARD: I can’t believe it! She’s getting excited!

  GIRL: can’t see you. You can do whatever you want.

  GALLIMARD: I can’t do a thing. Why?

  GIRL: What would you like me to do ... next?

  Lights go down on her. Music off. Silence, as Gallimard puts away his magazines. Then he resumes talking to us.

  GALLIMARD: Act Two begins with Butterfly staring at the ocean. Pinkerton’s been called back to the U.S., and he’s given his wife a detailed schedule of his plans. In the column marked “return date,” he’s written “when the robins nest.” This failed to ignite her suspicions. Now, three years have passed without a peep from him. Which brings a response from her faithful servant, Suzuki.

  Comrade Chin enters, playing Suzuki.

  SUZUKI: Girl, he’s a loser. What’d he ever give you? Nineteen cents and those ugly Day-Glo stockings? Look, it’s finished! Kaput! Done! And you should be glad! I mean, the guy was a woofer! He tried before, you know—before he met you, he went down to geisha central and plunked down his spare change in front of the usual candidates—everyone else gagged! These are hungry prostitutes, and they were not interested, get the picture? Now, stop slathering when an American ship sails in, and let’s make some bucks—I mean, yen! We are broke!

  Now, what about Yamadori? Hey, hey—don’t look away—the man is a prince—figuratively, and, what’s even better, literally. He’s rich, he’s handsome, he says he’ll die if you don’t marry him—and he’s even willing to overlook the little fact that you’ve been deflowered all over the place by a foreign devil. What do you mean, “But he’s Japanese?” You’re Japanese! You think you’ve been touched by the whitey god? He was a sailor with dirty hands!

  Suzuki stalks offstage.

  GALLIMARD: She’s also visited by Consul Sharpless, sent by Pinkerton on a minor errand.

  Marc enters, as Sharpless.

  SHARPLESS: I hate this job.

  GALLIMARD: This Pinkerton—he doesn’t show up personally to tell his wife he’s abandoning her. No, he sends a government diplomat ... at taxpayer’s expense.

  SHARPLESS: Butterfly? Butterfly? I have some bad—I’m going to be ill. Butterfly, I came to tell you—

  GALLIMARD: Butterfly says she knows he’ll return and if he doesn’t she’ll kill herself rather than go back to her own people. (Beat) This causes a lull in the conversation.

  SHARPLESS: Let’s put it this way ...

  GALLIMARD: Butterfly runs into the next room, and returns holding—

  Sound cue: a baby crying. Sharpless, “seeing” this, backs away.

  SHARPLESS: Well, good. Happy to see things going so well. I suppose I’ll be going now. Ta ta. Ciao. (He turns away. Sound cue out) I hate this job. (He exits)

  GALLIMARD: At that moment, Butterfly spots in the harbor an American ship—the Abramo Lincoln!

  Music cue: “The Flower Duet.” Song, still dressed as Butterfly, changes into a wedding kimono, moving to the music.

  GALLIMARD: This is the moment that redeems her years of waiting. With Suzuki’s help, they cover the room with flowers—

  Chin, as Suzuki, trudges onstage and drops a lone flower without much enthusiasm.

  GALLIMARD:—and she changes into her wedding dress to prepare for Pinkerton’s arrival.

  Suzuki helps Butterfly change. Helga enters, and helps Gallimard change into a tuxedo.

  GALLIMARD: I married a woman older than myself—Helga.

  HELGA: My father was ambassador to Australia. I grew up among criminals and kangaroos.

  GALLIMARD: Hearing that brought me to the altar—

  Helga exits.

  GALLIMARD:—where I took a vow renouncing love. No fantasy woman would ever want me, so, yes, I would settle for a quick leap up the career ladder. Passion, I banish, and in its place—practicality!

  But my vows had long since lost their charm by the time we arrived in China. The sad truth is that all men want a beautiful woman, and the uglier the man, the greater the want.

  Suzuki makes final adjustments of Butterfly’s costume, as does Gallimard of his tuxedo.

  GALLIMARD: I married late, at age thirty-one. I was faithful to my marriage for eight years. Until the day when, as a junior-level diplomat in puritanical Peking, in a parlor at the German ambassador’s house, during the “Reign of a Hundred Flowers,” I first saw her ... singing the death scene from Madame Butterfly,

  Suzuki runs offstage.

  scene 6

  German ambassador’s house. Beijing. 1960.

  The upstage special area now becomes a stage. Several chairs face upstage, representing seating for some twenty guests in the parlor. A few “diplomats”—Renee, Marc, Toulon—in formal dress enter and take seats.

  Gallimard also sits down, but turns towards us and continues to talk. Orchestral accompaniment on the tape is now replaced by a simple piano. Song picks up the death scene from the point where Butterfly uncovers the hara-kiri knife.

  GALLIMARD
: The ending is pitiful. Pinkerton, in an act of great courage, stays home and sends his American wife to pick up Butterfly’s child. The truth, long deferred, has come up to her door.

  Song, playing Butterfly, sings the lines from the opera in her own voice—which, though not classical, should be decent.

  SONG: “Con onor muore/ chi non puo serbar/ vita con onore.”

  GALLIMARD (Simultaneously): “Death with honor/ Is better than life/ Life with dishonor.”

  The stage is illuminated; we are now completely within an elegant diplomat’s residence. Song proceeds to play out an abbreviated death scene. Everyone in the room applauds. Song, shyly, takes her bows. Others in the room rush to congratulate her. Gallimard remains with us.

  GALLIMARD: They say in opera the voice is everything. That’s probably why I’d never before enjoyed opera. Here ... here was a Butterfly with little or no voice—but she had the grace, the delicacy ... I believed this girl. I believed her suffering. I wanted to take her in my arms—so delicate, even I could protect her, take her home, pamper her until she smiled.

  Over the course of the preceeding speech, Song has broken from the upstage crowd and moved directly upstage of Gallimard.

  SONG: Excuse me. Monsieur ... ?

  Gallimard turns upstage, shocked.

  GALLIMARD: Oh! Gallimard. Mademoiselle ... ? A beautiful...

  SONG: Song Liling.

  GALLIMARD: A beautiful performance.

  SONG: Oh, please.

  GALLIMARD: I usually—

  SONG: You make me blush. I’m no opera singer at all.

  GALLIMARD: I usually don’t like Butterfly.

  SONG: I can’t blame you in the least.

  GALLIMARD: I mean, the story—

  SONG: Ridiculous.

  GALLIMARD: I like the story, but ... what?

  SONG: Oh, you like it?

  GALLIMARD: I ... what I mean is, I’ve always seen it played by huge women in so much bad makeup.

  SONG: Bad makeup is not unique to the West.

  GALLIMARD: But, who can believe them?

  SONG: And you believe me?

  GALLIMARD: Absolutely. You were utterly convincing. It’s the first time—

  SONG: Convincing? As a Japanese woman? The Japanese used hundreds of our people for medical experiments during the war, you know. But I gather such an irony is lost on you.

  GALLIMARD: No! I was about to say, it’s the first time I’ve seen the beauty of the story.

  SONG: Really?

  GALLIMARD: Of her death. It’s a ... a pure sacrifice. He’s unworthy, but what can she do? She loves him ... so much. It’s a very beautiful story.

  SONG: Well, yes, to a Westerner.

  GALLIMARD: Excuse me?

  SONG: It’s one of your favorite fantasies, isn’t it? The submissive Oriental woman and the cruel white man.

  GALLIMARD: Well, I didn’t quite mean ...

  SONG: Consider it this way: what would you say if a blonde homecoming queen fell in love with a short Japanese businessman? He treats her cruelly, then goes home for three years, during which time she prays to his picture and turns down marriage from a young Kennedy. Then, when she learns he has remarried, she kills herself. Now, I believe you would consider this girl to be a deranged idiot, correct? But because it’s an Oriental who kills herself for a Westerner—ah!—you find it beautiful.

  Silence.

  GALLIMARD: Yes ... well ... I see your point ...

  SONG: I will never do Butterfly again, Monsieur Gallimard. If you wish to see some real theatre, come to the Peking Opera sometime. Expand your mind.

  Song walks offstage.

  GALLIMARD (To us): So much for protecting her in my big Western arms.

  scene 7

  M. Gallimard’s apartment. Beijing. 1960.

  Gallimard changes from his tux into a casual suit. Helga enters.

  GALLIMARD: The Chinese are an incredibly arrogant people.

  HELGA: They warned us about that in Paris, remember?

  GALLIMARD: Even Parisians consider them arrogant. That’s a switch.

  HELGA: What is it that Madame Su says? “We are a very old civilization.” I never know if she’s talking about her country or herself.

  GALLIMARD: I walk around here, all I hear every day, everywhere is how old this culture is. The fact that “old” may be synonymous with “senile” doesn’t occur to them.

  HELGA: You’re not going to change them. “East is east, west is west, and ...” whatever that guy said.

  GALLIMARD: It’s just that—silly. I met ... at Ambassador Koening’s tonight—you should’ve been there.

  HELGA: Koening? Oh god, no. Did he enchant you all again with the history of Bavaria?

  GALLIMARD: No. I met, I suppose, the Chinese equivalent of a diva. She’s a singer in the Chinese opera.

  HELGA: They have an opera, too? Do they sing in Chinese? Or maybe—in Italian?

  GALLIMARD: Tonight, she did sing in Italian.

  HELGA: How’d she manage that?

  GALLIMARD: She must’ve been educated in the West before the Revolution. Her French is very good also. Anyway, she sang the death scene from Madame Butterfly.

  HELGA: Madame Butterfly! Then I should have come. (She begins humming, floating around the room as if dragging long kimono sleeves) Did she have a nice costume? I think it’s a classic piece of music.

  GALLIMARD: That’s what I thought, too. Don’t let her hear you say that.

  HELGA: What’s wrong?

  GALLIMARD: Evidently the Chinese hate it.

  HELGA: She hated it, but she performed it anyway? Is she perverse?

  GALLIMARD: They hate it because the white man gets the girl. Sour grapes if you ask me.

  HELGA: Politics again? Why can’t they just hear it as a piece of beautiful music? So, what’s in their opera?

  GALLIMARD: I don’t know. But, whatever it is, I’m sure it must be old.

  Helga exits.

  scene 8

  Chinese opera house and the streets of Beijing. 1960. The sound of gongs clanging fills the stage.

  GALLIMARD: My wife’s innocent question kept ringing in my ears. I asked around, but no one knew anything about the Chinese opera. It took four weeks, but my curiosity overcame my cowardice. This Chinese diva—this unwilling Butterfly—what did she do to make her so proud?

  The room was hot, and full of smoke. Wrinkled faces, old women, teeth missing—a man with a growth on his neck, like a human toad. All smiling, pipes falling from their mouths, cracking nuts between their teeth, a live chicken pecking at my foot—all looking, screaming, gawking ... at her.

  The upstage area is suddenly hit with a harsh white light. It has become the stage for the Chinese opera performance. Two dancers enter, along with Song. Gallimard stands apart, watching. Song glides gracefully amidst the two dancers. Drums suddenly slam to a halt. Song strikes a pose, looking straight at Gallimard. Dancers exit. Light change. Pause, then Song walks right off the stage and straight up to Gallimard.

  SONG: Yes. You. White man. I’m looking straight at you.

  GALLIMARD: Me?

  SONG: You see any other white men? It was too easy to spot you. How often does a man in my audience come in a tie?

  Song starts to remove her costume. Underneath, she wears simple baggy clothes. They are now backstage. The show is over.

  SONG: So, you are an adventurous imperialist?

  GALLIMARD: I ... thought it would further my education.

  SONG: It took you four weeks. Why?

  GALLIMARD: I’ve been busy.

  SONG: Well, education has always been undervalued in the West, hasn’t it?

  GALLIMARD (Laughing): I don’t think it’s true.

  SONG: No, you wouldn’t. You’re a Westerner. How can you objectively judge your own values?

  GALLIMARD: I think it’s possible to achieve some distance.

  SONG: Do you? (Pause) It stinks in here. Let’s go.

  GALLIMARD: These are the smells of you
r loyal fans.

  SONG: I love them for being my fans, I hate the smell they leave behind. I too can distance myself from my people. (She looks around, then whispers in his ear) “Art for the masses” is a shitty excuse to keep artists poor. (She pops a cigarette in her mouth) Be a gentleman, will you? And light my cigarette.

  Gallimard fumbles for a match.

  GALLIMARD: I don’t... smoke.

  SONG (Lighting her own): Your loss. Had you lit my cigarette, I might have blown a puff of smoke right between your eyes. Come.

  They start to walk about the stage. It is a summer night on the Beijing streets. Sounds of the city play on the house speakers.

  SONG: How I wish there were even a tiny cafe to sit in. With cappuccinos, and men in tuxedos and bad expatriate jazz.

  GALLIMARD: If my history serves me correctly, you weren’t even allowed into the clubs in Shanghai before the Revolution.

  SONG: Your history serves you poorly, Monsieur Gallimard. True, there were signs reading “No dogs and Chinamen.” But a woman, especially a delicate Oriental woman—we always go where we please. Could you imagine it otherwise? Clubs in China filled with pasty, big-thighed white women, while thousands of slender lotus blossoms wait just outside the door? Never. The clubs would be empty. (Beat) We have always held a certain fascination for you Caucasian men, have we not?

  GALLIMARD: But ... that fascination is imperialist, or so you tell me.

  SONG: Do you believe everything I tell you? Yes. It is always imperialist. But sometimes ... sometimes, it is also mutual. Oh—this is my flat.

  GALLIMARD: I didn’t even—

  SONG: Thank you. Come another time and we will further expand your mind.

  Song exits. Gallimard continues roaming the streets as he speaks to us.