The Butterfly Lovers: Chinese Romeo and Juliet
- Calvin Stevens
- Feb 10
- 9 min read
Updated: Feb 12
This is the tragic love-story of Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai.
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If you’ve ever been to fair, sweet Verona — that is, the literary hometown of Shakespeare’s beloved Romeo and Juliet — then you may have come across a rather peculiar statue.
Sculpted from pristine, white marble, the statue stands on a black podium poised near the Tomba di Giulietta, seemingly depicting two intertwined lovers with their arms outstretched in the shape of a butterfly. It might look, at first glance, to be the two star-crossed lovers whom we are all familiar with — and I can’t blame anyone, really, because this is Verona after all. But, on closer inspection, the truth becomes clear: this is neither Romeo nor Juliet.
As it turns out, the marble lovers are a Chinese couple.
Just last year, my two sisters happened upon this statue during a tour through Italy. Knowing I was the family’s literary nerd — a title I proudly covet — they sent me some photos and asked if it had anything to do with Romeo and Juliet and, if not, what it was.
Naturally, my answer was no; I had no idea. Yet my confusion led me towards curiosity.
I took note of the Romanised names upon the base…
Liang Shanbo | Zhu Yingtai
…and endeavoured to ask my Mandarin teacher if she knew anything about the two.
Amazingly, she knew right away. There was a story behind those frozen faces of marble.
A story not too unlike the one I knew.
Background
The story of Liang Shanbo (梁山伯) and Zhu Yingtai (祝英臺) has become a legend, an age-old folktale, amongst Chinese culture. The legend, commonly referred to simply as Liang-Zhu (梁祝), is believed to have originated from the Eastern Jin Dynasty, roughly between the years 314–420 CE. The oldest textual proof of the story’s narration, however, only dates as far back as the Tang Dynasty (618–907).
The original author, or more likely orator, remains unknown.
At its core, the story is about the affection between two students, a boy and a girl, Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai, respectively. Yet, despite the simple visage it masks itself behind, the story has captivated a wide audience ever since. Wherever the Chinese diaspora has gone, the story has followed.
It gained popularity during the Song Dynasty (960–1279) and subsequently began spreading, mostly through oral storytelling, to neighbouring countries including Korea, Vietnam, Malaysia, and Indonesia.
Hundreds of versions of the story were in circulation by the time of the Ming Dynasty. From this period till the end of the Qing Dynasty (1368–1911), however, the legend took on a new life: it was written down in vernacular Chinese and began appearing in the form of plays, musicals, and operas. And this proceeded right through to the modern era where it made further appearances in ballet, film adaptations, television, and even a violin concerto.
In the 1920s, it was deemed one of China’s Four Great Folktales alongside Legend of the White Snake (白蛇傳), Lady Meng Jiang (孟姜女), and The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl (牛郎織女). Lauded for it’s “Chineseness”, it became a national symbol of Chinese culture and heritage.
Now the tale is most popularly known as The Butterfly Lovers for it’s tragic yet heartfelt ending.
The Story
As mentioned above, there are numerous iterations of the story; while the fine details may differ, the core narrative is almost universal. The following is one such iteration told by my teacher.
Zhu Yingtai was one of many children born to the wealthy Zhu family of Shangyu. Notably, however, she was the youngest and the only daughter. All her preceding brothers attended a prestigious school in Hangzhou, but for Zhu Yingtai, this was not possible. As with most societies at the time, the path of the scholar was seen as unbefitting for a woman; and yet Zhu Yingtai was determined to satisfy her curiosity.
So, she devised a plan.
One day she fell ill and called upon her parents to seek out a doctor.
Doctor after doctor came, but none were able to figure out what was wrong with Zhu Yingtai. That is, until a rather peculiar man came by, dressed in bizarre, overly baggy attire. Much to the Zhu family’s delight, however, he proclaimed to know what ailed their daughter and how to cure it. This wasn’t ailment of the body but rather one of the mind.
And the cure?
Let her satiate her burning dreams and desires by allowing her to go to school.
It was at this moment that the doctor revealed himself to be none other than Zhu Yingtai herself. A long conversation ensued thereafter in which the young girl convinced her parents to let her go to school disguised as a boy. But it came with a caveat: she would return after three years and marry the son of the Ma family.
Reluctantly, Zhu Yingtai agreed and began her journey to Hangzhou.
Along the way, she bumped into a fellow prospective scholar, a young Liang Shanbo.
The two, feeling a strong mutual connection after chatting, decided to take an oath of fraternity before entering the school. Thereafter, they studied together for three years. Liang, being a young man of simple principles and a complete bookworm, never once suspected Zhu’s deception, failing to notice the subtle feminine characteristics of his sworn brother and classmate.
Zhu, meanwhile, tried hard to keep up her persona but found herself falling in love with Liang.
After three years, Zhu was summoned back home to attend her arranged marriage. Conflicted by her feelings, she grappled with wanting to reveal her true identity to Liang as he accompanied her home. She gave him subtle hints, even going so far as to compare them to two mandarin ducks (a symbol of lovers in Chinese culture), but Liang’s innocence kept him from making the connection. Finally, Zhu decided to play matchmaker, suggesting Liang marry “Zhu’s little sister”; and she reminded him to visit her residence to propose.
During his next visit, Liang discovered that Zhu Yingtai was a woman; she was the little sister.
Liang immediately rekindled old yet new feelings for Zhu, and the two devoted their love and passion to one another. But the reunion was short-lived, for Zhu was set to marry Ma. The devastation wrought by this news caused Liang’s health to deteriorate, and eventually he died of a deep depression.
Fate seemingly played its hand, however, as Zhu’s wedding procession was coincidentally halted near Liang’s grave on the path to the Ma family’s household. Bad weather set in, and Zhu steered herself towards the tomb to say her final goodbyes. There, she wept profusely for Liang and begged the heavens to open the tomb. And, miraculously, she was answered as a mysterious, rolling thunder forced a gap to appear.
Zhu, without hesitation, flung herself at Liang’s grave.
Lightning struck, and the tomb began to seal.
But not before a pair of butterflies could be seen flitting out and into the distance.
Exploring the salient gap between gender and sexuality
As an outsider, I feel it is not my place — and certainly beyond my depth of knowledge — to comment on the story’s significance and connection to the Chinese community. Where I do find comfort in offering my perspective, however, is in one of the story’s literary themes; I am a literary nerd, after all.
What I found most interesting about the story is what I like to call its “Mulan dilemma”.
Coincidentally, the original story of Hua Mulan (花木蘭) was composed not long after Liang-Zhu, taking place somewhere between 386–535 CE. So, the close emergence of both stories, I imagine, has a lot to do with some of the important social issues Chinese culture faced at the time.
Like Hua Mulan, Zhu Yingtai is faced with the challenge of suppressing her femininity while, altogether, confronting her very real sexuality. Her desire to partake in a “strictly masculine” aspect of society comes to clash with her feelings for Liang Shanbo. As Sookja Cho writes of Zhu Yingtai:
“Her female sexuality, which she has once denied, is rekindled by her emotions but remains suppressed by her false identity.”
But the bridging of that salient gap between gender and sexuality doesn’t stop at Zhu Yingtai; it also speaks to Liang Shanbo’s own struggle through the rigid confines of their society.
For reasons unbeknownst to him, Liang’s affection for his classmate runs deep, seemingly prodding his innocent sexuality. Yet he tries to hide his full affection for Zhu behind his simplicity; the idea that affection for his classmate could go beyond the brotherly was a notion he dared not test. Even the mere expression of intense emotions was seen as unmanly at the time — Zhu, herself, in some iterations faces a similar dilemma when wanting to cry, only to realise that “boys do not cry”.
And it has brought some scholars to wonder whether Liang really was oblivious to Zhu’s mandarin duck remark.
Nonetheless, the story’s final culmination, the resounding breath that sent the butterflies into the wind, is one that breaks convention. Ironically, that which kills Liang is a deep depression — an overwhelming flood of emotion deemed unmanly and effeminate; that which kills Zhu is her final defiance, no longer disguised by a false identity but fully embracing her true self.
Unlike the tragedy that befalls Romeo and Juliet, however, Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai never truly die. Rather, their love metamorphosises and transcends death.
“Legend says that these [butterflies] areThe transformations of the souls of the couple,The red one being Liang Shanbo and the black one being Zhu Yingtai.This kind of butterfly is ubiquitous,Still being called Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai.” — Feng Menglong (17th-century China)
Generally, couples in China are likened to a flower and a butterfly. The woman takes the form of the flower, elegant, enticing, immobile; while the man plays the role of the butterfly, free-spirited, caring, yet ungrounded.
But as Liang-Zhu ends in the emergence of two butterflies, the ultimate affection beheld by the two lovers speaks to a much more dynamic, fluid, and nuanced perspective of gender and sexuality.
“Chinese Romeo and Juliet”
I thought long and hard about the title of this article. The original draft was simply titled “The Chinese Romeo and Juliet”, but I thought it a little problematic and naïve.
You see, the thing is, while the two tales certainly share similarities, they are also wildly different. So, to call Liang-Zhu “Chinese Romeo and Juliet” is disingenuous, I feel. It presumes that the Liang-Zhu tale is somehow inspired by — or worse, inferior to — Shakespeare’s story; and this couldn’t be further from the truth. Not only does Liang-Zhu predate the famous Western lovers by several centuries, but the narrative is unique in its own right.
And, realistically, both stories remained entirely unaware of the other’s existence for many centuries thereafter.
So, I decided to add “The Butterfly Lovers” to the fore of the title. This way, the tale feels more like its own story, its own identity. I am, however, still conflicted with the additional “Chinese Romeo and Juliet” thereafter; but considering Medium’s demographic is mostly Western-orientated, I felt keeping it would only help to serve as an added descriptor; I don’t suppose many people have heard of Liang-Zhu, so this may be the best way to have its narrative spread.
But I caution the reader, who may now be enlightened of the story, against using the Romeo and Juliet descriptor without good reason. Perhaps some may disagree with me, but I believe it pertinent that Liang-Zhu retains its true self.
It certainly feels fitting out of respect for the two lovers.
The Sino-Italian love culture festival
To avoid ending on a cautionary note, I would like to regroup at the ultimate question invoked right at the beginning of this article.
What was the Liang-Zhu statue doing in Verona?
Well, it turns out that both the Eastern and Western couple have gone on a double date, figuratively speaking.
In 2005, Ningbo (the recognised city of the Butterfly Lovers) and Verona (Romeo and Juliet’s hometown) were declared sister cities. A delegation from Verona visited Ningbo in 2007 and gifted the city with a bronze statue of Juliet, much like the one in the Italian hometown. In response, the citizens of Ningbo presented Verona with a statue of their own, and in 2008 fifteen Chinese couples got married in Verona and were blessed by the locals.
Ever since, it has become a tradition of sorts for the two cities to exchange theatrical plays of the two tales as well as romantic festivities. Ningbo has become a popular honeymoon destination for Italians and vice versa with Verona.
The cultural and literary diffusion created by the two tales is one of the more heartwarming aspects created by our globalising world. While they may differ in perspective and ideas, both stories express universal human experiences that transcend societal boundaries. Whether as butterflies or star-crossed lovers, the very essence that makes us human will never be divided. Neither east-west nor north-south.
So, if you ever travel through Verona, don’t forget to complete the experience by visiting the Liang-Zhu statue yourself.
References and further reading:
Cho, S. (2018). Transforming Gender and Emotion: The Butterfly Lovers Story in China and Korea. University of Michigan Press. http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt22727dr
Li, X. (2024). Love, Defiance, and Tradition: Examining Zhu Yingtai’s Challenges to Conventional Marital Norms in The Butterfly Lovers. Journal of Research in Social Science and Humanities, 3(2), 29–35.
Liu, Z., & Yu, M. (2020). A Comparative Study of Romeo and Juliet and The Butterfly Lovers. International Communication of Chinese Culture, 7(3), 379–394.
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