But this rare jewel was discovered and polished almost by accident.

Wang Hai-ling's father was a soldier, with no connection whatever to Chinese opera. When the ROC government moved to Taiwan in 1949, he followed the army to a base in Tsoying, in the south of the island. An only daughter, Wang Hai-ling liked to watch opera and act as far back as she can remember. At that time the Flying Horse Honan Opera Troupe of Chang Hsiu-yun, an earlier "empress of Honan opera," which was based in Tsoying, happened to be looking for trainees, and Wang Hai-ling's parents gave into her entreaties and let her study there. In this somewhat muddled manner, Wang Hai-ling, a Hupei girl, came to sing Honan opera.

As a child, Wang Hai-ling was not blessed with a particularly outstanding voice, but she was nimble and strong and had a pair of moist black eyes that could captivate an audience.

What's more, she was a quick study, and no matter what the opera, her teacher would take her off to the side and teach her first, so she could then train her fellow students herself. In this way she became practiced in nearly every role in the repertoire.

Wang Hai-ling's first appearance in a lead role was another stroke of fate. In 1967, Chang Hsiu-yun, her teacher, left the company in a fit of pique. The opera Hua Mu-lan, about a legendary woman warrior, was scheduled next, and with no one to be found for the lead role, the lively and nimble Wang Hai-ling, who was skilled at both singing and kungfu parts, was picked to fill in. She had just one week to prepare, but her Hua Mu-lan was a resounding success.

She was just fifteen years old at the time, and has never stopped playing lead roles since.

Although opera fans consider Wang Hai-ling a "master of every part," some roles are more suited to her temperament than others.

"I love the hua-tan roles best," confesses the full-figured Wang, in her early thirt she has "loved to laugh" ever since she was a girl, and the pert and winning hua-tan roles naturally come easiest to her. "I'm afraid of the ch'ing-yi k'u-tan roles the most," she says. "I can't cry!"

In one k'u-tan role she acted as a child, she was supposed to kneel down in front of Chang Hsiu-yun and weep as Chang patted her head. When Chang saw that no tears were forthcoming, she wrenched the girl's hair, instantly producing the desired effect.

In fact, "not being able to cry" was far from the only misdemeanor that earned one a beating. Chinese opera apprentices at the time can be said to have practically been "brought up by the paddle." Training was a round-the-clock affair, and beatings were meted out regularly. "Spare the rod and spoil the child" was definitely the watchword.

The regimen was rigorous, but looking back on it today, Wang Hai-ling feels nothing but gratitude. "A child won't listen to reason," she says, "and if you don build a solid base when you're young, it doesn't matter how bright and hardworking you are when you're older."

A teacher of opera herself now, Wang comforts children who must cry onstage beforehand so they won't be too nervous, and then cries herself to help them get into the mood naturally.

Wang is, however, concerned that opera students today are too soft, and she worries about the future. Traditional Chinese opera, she feels, is purely an "art of performance." The scripts are neither good or bad in themselves; everything depends on the actors' ability to "bring the play out." In particular, Honan opera on Taiwan is only one of several minority forms of operas. Lacking the resources of Peking opera and the appeal to the younger generation of the dramatic theater, Honan opera is sustained today through the efforts of a handful of outstanding performers. If no one can be found to take their place, what then?

In fact, the road to acclaim for Honan opera on Taiwan has not been easy. Soon after coming to the island, two other Honan opera troupes, associated with the army and the air force, folded, leaving only the Flying Horse Troupe, which was associated with the marines, remaining. To survive, the troupe eliminated some of the most rustic and provincial language from its scripts and adopted some of the techniques of Peking opera, without sacrificing the lively, down-to-earth qualities that make local opera so appealing.

In Honan opera, Wang Hai-ling says, movements and expressions must be fresh, bold, and unrestrained, the performance convincing and full of vitality. In her view, Peking opera actors, who smile without showing their teeth and weep without dropping a tear, merely "act out" their performances instead of "entering into them." This method she finds insipid and unsatisfying. "It doesn't scratch the itch," she quips.

In the Flying Horse Troupe, every role is equally important onstage. In comparison, the supporting actors in Peking opera today are generally reserved in their performances, so as not to steal the scene from the leads. This has tended to stiffen the whole atmosphere.

Although Honan opera has never received anywhere near the same amount of attention as that given to Peking opera, Wang Hai-ling is grateful that she learned it. "Local opera is much more free!" she exclaims. In the past few years, the Flying Horse Troupe has experimented with lighting, Western orchestral instruments, dried ice, and other creative effects.

Tsoying, where the troupe is still based, is a quiet town, and the actors are a dedicated, hardworking bunch; "the public servants of the opera world," they are called by some. Another characteristic of the troupe is the close family ties of many of its members: husbands and wives, sisters, and in-laws. No one fights for roles or recognition. "We're all one family," Wang Hai-ling explains, "and success or failure is shared by all."

Wang Hai-ling's husband, Liu Sung-p'u, is a marine. Although he doesn't sing himself, he is his wife's most faithful fan and--he's a genuine Honanese! Liu was originally in the army, but he asked to be transferred to the marines so his wife could concentrate on her career. Mentioning this, Wang Hai-ling is half apologetic and half proud. "If he'd stayed in the army," she says, "he'd have been a colonel long ago!"

But Liu Sung-p'u is quite clear in his thoughts: "Military rank is no big deal. My wife has a talent for Honan opera and a sense of mission. As her husband, how can I fail to help her fulfill her heart's desire? What's more, husband and wife are one flesh; aren't her successes something for me to be proud of, too?"

Wang Hai-ling is naturally grateful for her husband's supportiveness. On the stage, she is the "empress of Honan opera," the focus of all attention; at home, she handles the household chores herself. "You've got to try to do your best," she says.

Onstage or off, Wang Hai-ling gives her all. Maybe this is why she is so unaffected by her fame.

[Picture Caption]

Exquisitely made up, Wang Hai-ling prepares herself for a performance.

At age ten, with her parents. (courtesy of Wang Hai-ling)

(Left) Playing the character of Mistress Ch'eng the Seventh in Wang Yueh-ying Disturbs the Palace.

(Right) Clubs in hand, eyes popping, Wang Hai-ling acts the shrew.

Wang Hai-ling gets excited just talking about Chinese opera.

A student of the opera at the age of eight, Wang Hai-ling is now a teacher herself.

Brushing up on a script while limbering up.

Dashing, bold, and energetic--this is the real Wang Hai-ling.

Wang Hai-ling's six-year-old daughter treats visitors to a passage from Honan opera.

At age ten, with her parents. （courtesy of Wang Hai-ling）

（Left） Playing the character of Mistress Ch'eng the Seventh in Wang Yueh-ying Disturbs the Palace.

（Right） Clubs in hand, eyes popping, Wang Hai-ling acts the shrew.

Wang Hai-ling gets excited just talking about Chinese opera.

A student of the opera at the age of eight, Wang Hai-ling is now a teacher herself.

Brushing up on a script while limbering up.

Dashing, bold, and energetic--this is the real Wang Hai-ling.

Wang Hai-ling's six-year-old daughter treats visitors to a passage from Honan opera.