[In this excerpt, Hessney considers the themes of love and courtship, poetry and wine, and Confucian morality in the novel genre of scholar-beauty romances. Works studied include Western Chamber Romance, The Green Peonies, Yü chiao li, and Haoch'iu chuan. Note that Chinese characters in this essay have been silently removed.]

In this chapter I propose to discuss the themes of scholar-beauty romances. Although the following chapter is devoted to characterization, one should realize that this arbitrary division between themes and characters is somewhat artificial in regard to these romances. This is because the characters are generally ideal types merely serving to reinforce the themes through their thoughts, speeches, and deeds. Thus the subsequent passages of translation are frequently illustrative of both themes and characters at the same time. The authors apparently found it unnecessary to draw a line between these two aspects of fictional narrative.

I have stressed in Chapter I that the abiding theme of the entire scholar-beauty tradition is love and courtship between young people who are highly conscious of beauty, talent and bravery. Regardless of the differing emphasis given to these traits, the overriding concern of the authors is romantic love. It has already been shown that changing attitudes towards love resulted in a virtual purging of passion between the heroines and heroes of the romances, or rather that their passions became directed towards more intellectual and moral concerns (such as poetry and individual integrity) at the expense of the more sensual aspects of love.

In addition to the theme of love and courtship there are several other important themes in the romances. They may be listed as sentimentalism, Confucian morality and etiquette, expediency, providential chance, poetry and wine, and (for the men) success in the official examinations. Obviously these themes are intimately related to the everyday life of the scholar-official class. As William Bruce Crawford has stated, “The ts'ai-tzu chia-jen novels portray the scholar-official class, whose way of life provided time for the pursuit of learning and aesthetic cultivation.”¹ In the following paragraphs I will treat these themes in turn at some length.

LOVE AND COURTSHIP

Let us begin with the three main traits of the lovers—talent, beauty, and bravery—without which their love cannot be fulfilled. What does it mean to be talented, to possess poetic genius? Perhaps the fullest expression of the meaning of talent comes from the mouth of the beauty, Leng Chiang-hsüeh, during her interview with Grand Secretary Shan Hsien-jen in Chapter 8 of P'ing Shan Leng Yen. The villains Sung Hsin and Tou Kuo-i purchase Leng Chiang-hsüeh and send her to Grand Secretary Shan to be a companion for his brilliant daughter, Shan Tai. When she meets the grand secretary and his wife, she does not pay them the proper respects because she is not certain of her exact relationship to them, and instead recounts all the types of propriety. Observing her boldness, Grand Secretary Shan then asks her about the meaning of genius:

Shan Hsien-jen said, “Since you call yourself a talented girl, let me ask you what you mean by genius?”

Leng Chiang-hsüeh replied, “The topic of genius is very broad and to discuss it would take a long time. If I answered you carelessly, it would never be a sufficient response to your question. And if I wished to set forth both its finer essences and meaner aspects in their entirety, I am afraid that is something I could not accomplish standing up.”

Shan Hsien-jen smiled and said to his wife, “This girl is so young, yet speaks such grand words. When she met me, she did not even bow once. Indeed her thoughts are reckless, and thus amusing.”

His wife, Lo-shih, responded, “From her appearance and behavior she does not seem to be a low person. It would not do any harm to let her sit with us and hear what she has to say.”

Shan Hsien-jen said, “Since you feel that way …” He told a concubine to move a chair next to theirs, and continued, “You may be seated. Now let me hear you discourse on the word ‘talent.’”

Leng Chiang-hsüeh heard him, and, without making further excuses, actually sat right down and began to speak.

“I have heard that heaven, earth, and man are called the Three Powers.² Thus as soon as you speak of genius, heaven, earth, and man are included therein. As far as heaven is concerned, the wind, the clouds, the snow, and the moon all manifest the glory it has had since the beginning of time. As far as the earth is concerned, the grasses, the trees, the mountains, and the rivers have shown the beauty and luxuriance that have been so for a myriad autumns. This is indeed owing to the good capabilities of the two vital forces yin and yang in shining their powers upon heaven and earth. Although you discussed it all day, even until late at night, you could not exhaust the subject. But let us set it aside for the time being and speak of man. The sage has the genius of the sage; the Son of Heaven has the genius of the Son of Heaven; the worthy has the genius of the worthy; the prime minister has the genius of the prime minister; heroes and adventurers have their respective geniuses. The genius of the divine is to blend, to assist, to transform, and to nourish; the genius of the sage is to establish human norms; the genius of the Son of Heaven is to rule the world peacefully; the genius of the prime minister is to glorify and assist the imperial programs; the genius of heroes and adventurers is to engage in great endeavors; the genius of the grand secretaries and great officers is to establish merit and fame. Thus we can deduce the meaning of genius by means of classification. Although there are many different kinds of genius, they all consist of genius that cannot be obliterated, and thus they made themselves known to the world.

“But that is not the main concern of your question today. The main concern of your question is the genius of a literary scholar and a poet. This type of genius is said to spring from man's nature. Genius is indeed included in human nature, but nature cannot adequately define its capacity. It is also said to be the product of learning. One's knowledge truly can encompass genius, but genius is not necessarily the result of learning. For we learn and accordingly give rise to the seeds of genius, and we exercise our nature so as to complete the divineness of genius. If one's learning is sufficient and one's nature becomes active, then there will be a gradual operation and extension of one's genius. The more it appears, the more amazing it becomes, until it seems capable of rushing down cliffs and coursing into the rivers.³ It will not stop of itself. Thus sometimes you have a man whose fame was formed in seven steps,⁴ or else you have a man who can write ten thousand words while leaning against a horse.⁵ Sometimes you have the man who, while intoxicated, wrote a letter to the barbarians,⁶ or sometimes you have a woman who embroidered characters on a piece of tapestry.⁷ Sometimes you have the poet who composed, while aloft, a ‘Preface to the Tower of the Prince of T'eng,’⁸ or sometimes there is the man who, in solitude, sings of the grass by the pool.⁹ As for Pan Chieh-yü's flute, the fragrance of its music has been transmitted for a thousand years, and Hsieh Tao-yün's poems received the highest praise for a period of time.¹⁰ Among women poets they are the heavenly endowed, and they have enhanced the beauty of boudoir poetry. This is because they alone were cherished by the flourishing spirits of the mountains and rivers. They were stars in the sky who fell to earth. Thus their feelings were as elaborate and refined as brocade, and their words like a beautiful embroidery. Their thoughts were divinely inspired, and, whenever they wrote, it was as if spirits were supporting their wrists. They wielded their brushes as fast as falling rain, and their splashings of ink looked like clouds. When they spoke, the wind arose; when they opened their mouths, pearls dropped therefrom. When they were at their best, a heroic and unconquerable spirit was directly revealed before princes, dukes, and other great men, and it was not dashed in the presence of such august company. Instead this spirit stripped the ministers of their rank and the kings and nobles of their wealth, while mediocre teachers and common scholars could only sigh to themselves that this spirit was something that cannot be accomplished by studying the classics until their hair turned white. If they were without genius, how could they reach such lofty heights in their time? Even so, Confucius sighed over the fact that genius was such a difficult thing to attain, and Empress Wu once lamented her inability to gather all the talents of her realm.¹¹

“Whenever I contemplate the past, I find there have been indeed few unusual geniuses. And when I scan my own generation, I do not see very many. Thus I, Leng Chiang-hsüeh, do not despise my own sex, and, forgetting my young age, dare to consider myself a female genius. I have accordingly sought out your Lordship and have attached myself to your exalted office, but do not know if your Lordship can take pity on me, and allow me to air my ambition and loose my spirit in his presence.”¹²

In the above passage, Leng Chiang-hsüeh speaks eloquently of the general nature of genius, and then specifically of the genius of a poet. She first refers to the genius or creative powers of nature, of heaven and earth, which stem from the two primal forces of the yin and the yang. In her view, genius is a mysterious, ineffable quality of divine origins. After enumerating the various types of genius in an almost catalogue fashion, she attempts to describe the genius of a poet. The most important aspect of literary genius is that it springs naturally from man's essence, and that it endures. Learning alone is not sufficient to achieve genius, although one can help to develop one's gifts through study and practice. Citing a host of allusions (from which we may infer that a broad knowledge of literature is an integral part of literary genius), Leng characterizes poetic genius as a kind of inner spirit which can cause the high and mighty to stand in awe of the person who possesses it. This genius is indeed a rare quality, as her mention of Confucius and Empress Wu implies. Moreover, its most precious manifestation is in the brilliance of such female geniuses as Su Hui, Pan Chieh-yü, and Hsieh Tao-yün.

The rarity of true literary genius is also emphasized in the speech of the heroine, Kan Meng, to her brother Kan I in Chapter 3 of Liang chiao-hun. Kan I hears from a friend that the girls of Yangchow are all gifted beauties and says that he intends to travel there to find a beauty for himself. However, Kan Meng cautions him saying, “I think that in the past as well as the present, geniuses must be suffused with the essences of heaven and earth before they are born. Yet, how can the essences of heaven and earth be produced everywhere, as if they were cloth, silk, beans, or grain? Perhaps there are one or two genuine talents among those beauties whose fame has spread. But how could it be that they exist in all the great and small families of Yang-chow?”¹³ In addition to pointing out the rarity of genius to her gullible brother, Kan Meng also affirms the concept of genius as a precious quality stemming from the infusion of divine essences prior to birth. This concept explains why so many of our scholars and beauties have strange, supernatural occurrences surrounding their births.

In a later chapter of Liang chiao-hun we find a further elaboration of the notion of genius—namely that poetic geniuses always exist in pairs and that only the truly gifted have the ability to recognize genius in others. When Kan I returns home to Szechuan after meeting the beauty Hsin Ching-yen and her brother Hsin Fa in Yangchow, he has another meeting with his sister Kan Meng:

When Kan I had informed his mother of his affairs, he subsequently took out each of the poems that were composed in Yangchow and gave them to his sister to read. Kan Meng also showed her brother the new poems she wrote after his departure.

Each praised the other's poems, then Kan I sighed and said, “Talent and beauty are indispensable in this world of ours. If you did not gain the respect of the magistrate because of the four poems you wrote, then Tiao Chih would have gotten you into deep trouble. It was only because of the brilliance of these four poems that this good match was achieved. Although one's fate in marriage is determined by heaven, if we carefully investigate the reason for this achievement, it was truly brought about by a flowering genius. …”

Kan Meng said, “The reason why talent moves people is that there are few people with a lot of it. If, as you say of this Hsin Ku-ch'ai's [Hsin Ching-yen] talent, her verses amaze people and her fame spreads throughout the entire commandery, then my rustic ability is not even worthy of mention.”

Kan I replied, “Genius must have its complement; it is difficult for one person to monopolize it. Without Li Po, who would have known of Tu Fu? Only with Yuan Chen around could there have appeared Po Chü-i.¹⁴ If Yangchow had no Hsin Ching-yen famous for her genius and beauty, people indeed would not know there was such a marvelous girl among the maidens of the city. Only because Hsin Ching-yen opened a special poetry society was poetry popular in the ladies' chambers. Though there were few as outstanding as Hsin Ching-yen, it was from this that Hsin Fa thought to seek a gifted wife. Only because Hsin Fa sought a talented wife did Magistrate Wang gladly act as a go-between after observing your genius. And only because Magistrate Wang gladly acted as a go-between did Hsin Fa happily agree to present a bethrothal gift, and my sister's beauty and genius were spread afar. If Hsin Ching-yen were without genius, then how could yours have been revealed? Thus I, your ignorant brother, said that because you were born, then the birth of Hsin Ching-yen could not have been lacking. Why? Because only genius can recognize genius, and only the gifted can love the gifted.”¹⁵

Perhaps it is owing to the Chinese belief that friends and lovers come in pairs that Kan I asserts genius must have its complement. Or perhaps the idea of complementary talents stems from the traditional association of a pair of famous writers to represent a period or movement in literary history (such as T'ao-Hsieh, Li-Tu, Yuan-po, Han-Liu, etc.). But whatever the reason, the essential point is that a single poetic genius remains unfulfilled unless there is another genius to match. Thus as in Wu Ping's play The Green Peonies, there are two matching scholar-beauty couples in P'ing Shan Leng Yen, Liang chiao-hun and Hua-t'u yuan. Moreover, the idea that only talent can recognize and fully appreciate others' gifts further distinguishes geniuses from ordinary people. A poetic genius is naturally very conscious of an obligation to people of his own kind, which is why our scholars and beauties frequently express the axiom that they “love talent as they love life” (“ai ts'ai ju ming”).

In fact, it may well stem from this idea of complementary talents that Liang chiao-hun was written as a sequel to P'ing Shan Leng Yen as has been observed in the Introduction. It would be useful to quote the anonymous author of Liang chiao-hun, Pu-yueh chu-jen, as further evidence of the importance of the theme of complementary scholars and beauties. Here are the opening words of Liang chiao-hun:

From ancient times genius has been a rare quality. In the past there have been beautiful women and men, but it was not easy for them to meet, and their union involved unusual occurrences. It was inevitable that they would be bound together by a lucky twist of fate, and just as assuredly undergo strange experiences which would then be passed along as a beautiful legend or romantic tale. Thus P'ing Shan Leng Yen previously has spread abroad the fragrance of four geniuses. However, such a fragrance has not been exhausted, and, exuding itself even from the tip of my brush, I selected scholars laying claim to the beauty of lovely girls, and pretty girls possessing the name of poets—both types as sweet as honey and as pungent as cinnamon, and wrote a sequel to it, which I now humbly submit to you, the reader.¹⁶

It is clear from the comments of Pu-yueh chu-jen that he felt only one scholar-beauty romance such as P'ing Shan Leng Yen was insufficient to give a proper treatment to the popular themes of love and courtship, and thus wrote Liang chiao-hun. In so doing he has followed a common tradition in Chinese vernacular fiction which calls for complementary sequels to popular works. The many sequels to Dream of the Red Chamber which appear in the first half of the nineteenth century are the most salient examples of this tendency.

A further ramification of this idea of complementarity is that the genuine scholar and beauty must possess outstanding good looks in addition to a prodigious literary talent. However, this trait of beauty, which is expressed in Chinese by the word mei, is something more than just a beautiful face or figure. To the Chinese mei means both a lovely appearance and a kind of inner beauty which stems from a virtuous character. While the deeper associations of mei are not explicitly discussed in any of our five romances, the concomitant emphasis on Confucian morality, virtue, and propriety allow us to deduce that mei connotes both an external and an inner beauty. If the heroes and heroines were only beautiful in appearance, then the word mei would not be used to describe them, and the authors would instead employ a word such as yen which denotes sensually appealing good looks. Thus the reader must bear in mind that the word “beauty” in the following passages of translation really means an inner goodness which manifests itself in a beautiful appearance.

If talent and beauty are inseparable qualities of our beauties and scholars, it follows that these qualities can overlap, and that one can give rise to the other. For example, in Chapter 14 of P'ing Shan Leng Yen the two scholars P'ing Ju-heng and Yen Po-han discuss together the relation of genius and beauty to love. After all, what is the point of being a genius and beautiful if one is not loved? P'ing and Yen travel to the capital under assumed names in hopes of locating Shan Tai and Leng Chiang-hsüeh and eventually marrying them. One day Yen Po-han takes a walk south of the capital and accidentally sees Shan Tai spying upon him from her tower in the garden of Shan's villa. He falls in love with her instantly, under the conventional assumption that if she is that good-looking, she must also be gifted in literary pursuits. Yen returns to his inn to tell P'ing Ju-heng about this wonderful girl he saw:

P'ing Ju-heng smiled and said, “You only know how to discourse on beauty, but you do not know that a rare beauty attains her very beauty from a rare genius. As for girls with an enticing appearance, we indeed speak of them as attractive. But if they have no talent or feelings to manifest the spirit of beauty then they are merely like flowers, willows, orioles, swallows, pearls, or jade. Even though you may favor them with love, it will only be for a period of time. When the flowers wither, the willows dry up, the orioles and the swallows grow old, the pearls turn yellow, and the jade breaks, where will their beauty be? But if their beauty be joined with literary genius, though they resemble flowers or willows, they will be famous flowers and unusual willows. There will be a kind of deep feeling visible when you look her in the eyes, and you will be silently moved by the excellence of her thoughts. Although she may age like orioles and swallows, or lose her lustre like a pearl, or be broken into pieces like jade, still the spirit of poetry and an elegant appearance and style will naturally remain with her. The reason why I cannot forget my love for Chiang-hsüeh is precisely that in her genius and beauty are both complete. If you are purely talking about a pleasing appearance, then among girls of good background there would probably be someone to satisfy your hunger.”¹⁷

It cannot be denied that P'ing Ju-heng gives very good counsel to his friend. If a man chooses a woman for his wife only because she has an exceptionally beautiful appearance, it will lead to unhappiness when her beauty fades and his love fades along with it. In P'ing Ju-heng's view, the ideal woman is one whose beauty is enhanced by literary genius and excellent thoughts.

The raison d'être of genius and beauty is for the purposes of love and marriage. The scholars and beauties of our romances take the subject of marriage extremely seriously. According to normal custom, it is the responsibility of the parents to choose a spouse for their child, and most couples in traditional societies, whether Chinese or Western, had little say in their marriages until comparatively recent times. However, our scholars and beauties are so extraordinary that their parents often let them choose their own spouse, or else they successfully rebel against their parents' choice of a mate. The reason for such great prudence in the choice of a spouse is not difficult to understand: in a society which frowns upon divorce and disdains adultery, a woman has only one chance at marriage. There is intense pressure on women to pick the right mate, since any second try at marriage would involve a degree of censure from the community. A man, on the contrary, has unlimited chances; he can acquire concubines.

As an example of the care with which the subject of marriage is approached, let us observe the speech of Su Yu-po to his friend Liu Yü-ch'eng in Chapter 5 of Yü Chiao Li. Wu Kuei, a scholar in the Hanlin Academy, discovers a poem of Su Yu-po written on a temple wall in Chin-ling and approaches Su with an offer to marry Po Hung-yü, whom Wu is taking care of in her father's absence. Su, however, insists on having a look at the girl before agreeing to marry her, and mistakenly spies upon Wu's real daughter Wu-yen, who is considerably less attractive than Po Hung-yü. When Wu Kuei sends Liu Yü-ch'eng to inquire as to the real reason for Su's refusal to marry Hung-yü, who has assumed the name of Wu-chiao as part of the pretense that she is the sister of Wu-yen, this is how Su responds:

Su Yu-po said, “Marriage is the most important thing in life. If a couple's talents and looks are not compatible, it will mean trouble for the rest of their lives. How can I agree to marry another person so casually? …”

Su Yu-po said, smiling, “You should not over-value wealth and rank and think so lightly of a beauty. From ancient times to the present all those whose authority was symbolized by a gold seal decorated with purple ribbons were considered men of wealth and rank, but how many extraordinary beauties have there been? If a woman has talent and no looks, she cannot be considered a true beauty. If she is good-looking but not talented, she cannot be considered a beauty either. And even if she is both beautiful and talented, she cannot be considered my beauty unless she feels some affinity for me.”

Liu Yü-ch'eng laughed and said, “You are mad! If you want this sort of beauty, you had better look for her among courtesans.”

Su replied, “Hsiang-ju at first enticed Wen-chün with his lute, and in the end they grew old together. Thus, theirs has become a beautiful story for all time. How could beauties be found nowhere else but among courtesans?”

Liu Yü-ch'eng said, “If you keep on talking about the legendary beauties of the past, you will neglect your quest for a wife here and now.”

Su declared, “Do not worry. I have sworn an oath that if I do not meet an extraordinary beauty, I would rather remain a bachelor to the end of my days.”¹⁸

While Su Yu-po displays an intention to exercise great care in the choice of a wife, indeed not to settle for anything less than an extraordinary beauty because marriage is the most important thing in life, he also corroborates our earlier statement that both poetic genius and good looks are the necessary traits of a genuine beauty. However, Su carries matters one step further by declaring that even if he finds an extraordinary beauty, she will have to demonstrate her love for him before he would think of marrying her.

The scholar-poet's preoccupation with finding an exceptionally gifted and beautiful wife is also evidenced by T'ieh Chung-yü's remarks at the beginning of Hao-ch'iu chuan. The narrator relates that when he was around the age of sixteen T'ieh's parents wanted to arrange a marriage for him:

Consequently, T'ieh Chung-yü said, “I by nature would not be happy with an ordinary wife. As far as friends are concerned, you can keep them if you get along and stay away from them if you do not. But the relationship of husband and wife is one of the five relationships, and once you are married, it is for life. If I were to make a careless match and if my wife were not a virtuous girl, then to force ourselves to stay together would be a crime against human nature, and to divorce or abandon her would be an injury to morality. How can we casually discuss such a topic?”¹⁹

As a result of T'ieh's reasonable protestations, his parents do not force him to marry, and he is still a bachelor at the slightly late age of twenty when the action of the romance begins. Although the emphasis from this passage of Hao-ch'iu chuan is more on the virtue of a wife than her talent and beauty, the similarity between the views of Su Yu-po and T'ieh Chung-yü concerning the critical importance of choosing a proper wife is unmistakable. Both would rather remain bachelors than make a careless match because they are fully aware that such a marriage would only lead to very serious problems. One may also detect here a note of criticism on the part of our authors towards the custom of arranged marriages.

If the condition for beauty and talent to blossom is love and marriage, it is natural that there were accepted means of determining whether a person actually possesses the requisite amounts of beauty and genius. The question of beauty is easily resolved—all a person need do is devise a scheme for observing, if only for a moment, the object of his or her interest, and the decision concerning beauty can be made directly. However, poetic genius is another matter: the criteria for evaluating talent are more complex, for they involve not only a person's ability to compose verse on the spur of the moment, but also the man's success in passing the official examinations and gaining an official post. A young man may be a good poet, but he ultimately cannot qualify as a genuine talent unless he places at or near the top of the list of successful examination candidates. Although a woman's heart may be won through the skillful composition of verse, her head reserves the final decision about marriage until she is certain of her fiancé being awarded a government post. While it is difficult to say which of these two criteria is the more important, poetic genius would probably come first. Usually a love affair cannot commence in the romances without scholars and beauties exchanging either complete poems or matching single lines of verse (lien-chü), and it cannot be consummated in a happy marriage without the scholar's recognition as an official. A scholar needs a beautiful wife and a government post to make life complete. Usually, however, it is the girl who actively encourages him to acquire a degree, in part motivated by the knowledge that it would make her parents happy. Since women were not allowed to hold government posts or even to take the official examinations, poetic skill was the major criterion in determining whether or not they were talented.

POETRY AND WINE

Poetry as a means of communication between individuals is now a widely accepted characteristic of the Chinese literary tradition, and we need not dwell on this purpose of poetry except to note that in the West poets tend more to speak to themselves or to a larger communal audience. Instead, it must be emphasized that poetry was also a means of testing someone's intelligence ever since the Spring and Autumn Period (722-481 B.C.), when The Book of Songs is believed to have assumed its present form. The wandering scholars and rhetoricians of subsequent eras whose speeches and stratagems are preserved in such works as the Chan-kuo ts'e (Intrigues of the Warring States) and the Kuo-yü (Conversations from the States) often employed quotations or allusions from The Book of Songs which were believed to contain moral lessons. Thus rhetoricians could embarrass, confound, and humiliate each other if they were unfamiliar with the poems of the anthology. As children of this tradition of testing by poetry, our scholars and beauties are incessantly exchanging occasional verses, answering imperial summons for verses to commemorate auspicious omens, opening poetry societies to hold informal competitions, and writing their verses on walls of temples, yamens, teahouses, and gardens from Peking to Canton. The fact that much of this poetry is plainly inferior comprises an ironic contrast to its thematic importance.

Rather than cite at length numerous instances of poetic testing which may be found in these romances, I prefer to direct the reader to the previous chapter and to the corresponding appendix on the plots. Instead I would like to discuss the story “Su Hsiao-mei san-nan hsin-lang” (“Su Hsiao-mei Thrice Stumps Her Bridegroom”) from Feng Meng-lung's Hsing-shih heng-yen as an example of the fact that the theme of poetic testing was not confined to seventeenth-century scholar-beauty romances.

The story of Su Hsiao-mei or Little Sister Su originally appeared in the collection Hsiao-shuo ch'uan-ch'i, published in the Wan-li period of the Ming (1573-1620). According to Patrick Hanan, the story was later substantially adapted by the San-yen editors Feng Meng-lung and the anonymous Mr. X.²⁰ Su Hsiao-mei is supposedly the younger sister of Su Shih and Su Ch'e, the famous Sung poets. However, she is partly a fictional character because Su Hsün's three daughters all died before his sons passed the official examinations. The story is primarily in praise of the poetic skill of women, as Su Hsiao-mei is compared to women poets like Li Ch'ing-chao and Chu Shu-jen of the Sung, and is interesting to us not only for its treatment of the theme of poetic testing, but also because, like Su Hsiao-mei, the beauties of our romances are depicted as superior in poetic skill to the scholars.

The narrator relates that Su Hsün often matches couplets with his young daughter, and educates her just the same as he did her older brothers. One day the prime minister, Wang An-shih, who is harboring a grudge against Su Hsün, visits him, and they drink together and brag about their children's literary abilities. Prime Minister Wang gives Su Hsün his son Pang's compositions and asks for Su's corrections. However, Su shows them to his daughter, who declares that although they are elegant, they augur a short life. Her criticism turns out to be true because P'ang, the chuang-yuan at age nineteen, dies shortly thereafter.

Su Hsiao-mei becomes enamored of Ch'in Kuan, the handsome poet and friend of Su Shih. Apprehensive because of rumors of her bad looks, Ch'in Kuan dresses up as a traveling Taoist monk and steals a look at her when she goes to the temple to burn incense. Discovering that she is not ugly but instead a graceful beauty, he proposes to her and is accepted, but their marriage is, of course, delayed until after the examinations. On their wedding night Su Hsiao-mei will not let her groom into bed until he passes three short poetry tests. The final test consists of composing a matching line to the first line of a couplet which reads, “Pi-men t'ui-ch'u ch'uang-ch'ien yueh” (“Shut the door and push forth the moon before the window).” Ch'in Kuan is bested by this line until Su Shih helps him think of a matching one, thereby allowing Ch'in Kuan to take his reward. Later in the capital she amazes her brother and husband by figuring out the puzzling acrostics of the Ch'an master Fo-yin. The narrator closes with the typical statement that Ch'in Kuan rises to great heights, and that husband and wife enjoy imperial favors for their brilliant poetic genius.

This story obviously belongs to the scholar-beauty tradition, and may well have been a model for the authors of our romances which appear several decades later than Hsing-shih heng-yen, written in 1526-7. The tone of the story is very light and humorous, and there is less emphasis on artifice and the intrigues of the villains than in these romances. At the same time, there is a greater stress on wit and intellect. Su Hsiao-mei's testing of her groom on their wedding night provides a humorous and skillful twist which is more imaginative than the prosaic tests of other scholar-beauty romances, which confine poetic testing to pre-wedding activities. Su Hsiao-mei's solving of Fo-yin's acrostic is also another feature that distinguishes this story from the romances, which rely solely upon normal poetry and the passing of the examinations as tests of talent. The story of Su Hsiao-mei is probably the finest example in comic fiction of the Chinese belief that a gifted and beautiful girl is more marvelous and precious than a handsome, young scholar-poet. Of the heroines in our romances, Shan Tai of P'ing Shan Leng Yen bears the closest resemblance to her, and may be regarded as Su Hsiao-mei's literary descendant.

A further aspect of the theme of poetic genius is the important role of wine as a catalyst for poetic inspiration. The association of wine and poetry is a very old one in Chinese literature, as it is in many other literatures. For example, the word “chiu” or “wine” appears over sixty times in approximately thirty-five poems of The Book of Songs, mostly from the Hsiao-ya, Ta-ya, and Sung sections.²¹ In these poems wine is considered a means of celebration, as in poem 165 from the Hsiao-ya entitled “Fa mu” (“Chopping Wood”). Later, prominent poets such as T'ao Ch'ien and Li Po extolled the virtues of wine in many of their poems, contributing to the tradition that a literary man had to display as much skill with the cup as he did with the brush. However, as pointed out in the opening paragraph to Chapter 1, Chinese wine was not as powerful as our modern counterparts. In moderate amounts it probably served well as a catalyst to inspiration for poets, calligraphers, and painters. One would have to drink a truly excessive amount of it to become drunk.

It is a convention that the literary man loves wine as much as he loves poetry. The influence of this conventional theme is very strong in our five romances, but, in its most common manifestation, it takes a slightly different form. In addition to wine serving to provide the inspiration to compose poetry, the drinking of wine is also a punishment for those who fail to compose verse at an informal gathering or formal poetry competition. This situation arises use of this conventional association of wine and poetry. While beauties are forbidden by propriety from drinking while writing poems, no self-respecting scholar-poet would think of writing a verse without first drinking in order to achieve “chiu-hsing” (“the inspiration of wine”).

In chapter 8 of Hua-t'u yuan the protagonist Hua T'ienho tries to press his friend Liu Ch'ing-yün into matching lines of verse because Hua doubts that Liu is seriously looking for a wife for Hua, as Liu promised he would. Yet Liu Ch'ing-yün is trying to avoid matching lines with Hua because he fears that Hua will discover Liu's reliance upon his sister Lan-yü to compose poems on his behalf. Hua is very annoyed with his friend's reluctance to match verses, and says to Liu, “I can excuse you on other matters, but when it comes to poetry, wine, and discussions of literature, they are the curricula of a scholar, and never can be wanting. How can I excuse you?”²² From this statement of Hua, we can clearly realize the inseparable relationship of poetry and wine. If a man aspires to be a scholar or poet, then his taste in wine is no less important than his taste in literature. Scholar-beauty romances make extensive use of this conventional association of wine and poetry. While beauties are forbidden by propriety from drinking while writing poems, no self-respecting scholar-poet would think of writing a verse without first drinking in order to achieve “chiu-hsing” (“the inspiration of wine”).

CONFUCIAN MORALITY

While the theme of Confucian morality permeates all of these romances, I will restrict most of my comments to Hao-ch'iu chuan because it it is the most overtly moralistic among the romances. Nevertheless, the following discussion of Confucianism in Hao-ch'iu chuan applies in a lesser degree to the four other romances.

An analysis of Confucian morality, virtue, and propriety, admittedly dull in comparison with the more exciting themes of love and marriage, is essential to an adequate interpretation of scholar-beauty romances because their attention to problems of morality are precisely one of their less-noted strengths, and, in my opinion, constitute a large measure of their appeal to their readers. We must remember that fiction in China was still in a period of development during the seventeenth century. Although great works such as The Romance of the Three Kingdoms, The Golden Lotus, Tale of the Marshes, and the San yen collections had already appeared, lesser works frequently encompassed moral themes from the Three Teachings (San-chiao) of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Taoism. The situation in seventeenth-century England is very similar when one recalls the didacticism of John Bunyan, Arthur Dent, and other Puritan writers. If it is true, as C. T. Hsia states, that no Ming novels are ideologically pure in the sense of The Pilgrim's Progress, we may add that Hao-ch'iu chuan appears to be the most ideologically pure work in Chinese fiction of the time because of its rigid attention to Confucian morality at the expense of Buddhism and Taoism.²³

As in other works of Chinese fiction, the virtues most extolled in Hao-ch'iu chuan are loyalty, filial piety, chastity, and selfless friendship (chung hsiao chieh i). These moral virtues, in turn, are set forth in the core of the Confucian canon, namely the Four Books (the Analects, Mencius, Doctrine of the Mean, and the Great Learning). Another important moral concept is that of the five relationships: the relation between ruler and subject; parents and children; husband and wife; brothers and sisters; and between friends. The author of Hao-ch'iu chuan, Ming-chiao chung-jen, whose very pseudonym reveals his adherence to Confucian morality, displays his concern with filial piety and the five relationships early in the romance by inserting the following short poem after his introduction of the hero T'ieh Chung-yü:

To die for the emperor is the wish of every loyal minister;
Only when one is anxious about one's father's welfare,
Does he become a filial son.
Though people may display feelings in a hundred ways,
In the final reckoning, the five relationships
Are the most binding.(24)

This is only one example of numerous quatrains on moral topics that interrupt the narrative. Such poems add nothing to the value of the work as fiction, but they do represent a conscious attempt to moralize on the part of Ming-chiao-chung-jen.

Another conspicuous element of Confucian morality which receives extensive treatment in Hao-ch'iu chuan is propriety or rules of etiquette and ritual (li). At the end of Chapter 6, the heroine Ping-hsin is confronted by her treacherous uncle Shui Yün, who informs her that the entire neighborhood is talking about the fact that she is harboring a man (T'ieh Chung-yü) in her house during her father's absence. Such an act is absolutely taboo for an unmarried woman. It is appropriate for us to pause here and observe Ping-hsin's response to her uncle concerning the propriety of her action:

Ping-hsin said, “I have heard that the sages instituted rules of propriety merely on behalf of the common people, and that originally they were never intended to be binding upon the true gentleman [chün-tzu]. Formerly when Duke Huan of Lu bestowed a jade pei upon Yen Ying, who knelt to accept it, that is what is called having propriety outside the bounds of propriety.²⁵ Similarly when Mencius spoke of the rule of propriety that ‘in giving and receiving a man and woman should not touch hands,’ he probably felt that people would stick to this small matter of propriety, and thus he quickly added the sentence, ‘but overriding conditions govern the rescue of a sister-in-law from drowning.’ He also explained this by saying, ‘Only a wild animal would refuse to do so [i.e., rescue his sister-in-law from drowning].’²⁶ Considering the above, we indeed know that the sages instituted propriety because they merely wanted to rectify people's hearts. And, if their hearts were rectified, there would be no harm if there were slight discrepancies in trivial matters of propriety. Thus the sages also taught the lesson that: ‘So long as in undertakings of great moral importance a man does not “cross the barrier,” in undertakings of little moral import he may “come out and go in.”’²⁷ I have also heard that the Grand Historian Ssu-ma Ch'ien put it well when he said, ‘People have emergencies at times,’ and ‘One must be fully mindful of his debt of gratitude or his duty to carry out an act of revenge.’²⁸ Thus the reason why courageous men of both the past and the present have often not cared whether they were decapitated or had their hearts cut out is that they wished to repay a kindness or take revenge upon an enemy. Although I am only a mere weak girl, I have admired such ideas in my heart. For example, the other day I was minding my own business in my chambers. Who could say I was unmindful of the imperial statutes or the admonitions of the town, since I hardly ever overstepped the bounds of propriety in my dealings with men? But some men's hearts were wicked. So, I suddenly encountered a treacherous bunch of rascals who formed a conspiracy against me, fabricated an imperial edict, and literally abducted me. At that time where was the imperial law? Where were the admonitions of the town? And where were even my own relatives? It says in the Book of Rites that ‘in giving and receiving a man and woman should not touch hands.’ But to whom could I go and speak of these plots against me? I was then facing mortal danger, and I harbored intense hatred for those who plotted against me. But, suppose there was someone to rescue me, should I feel his kindness in the very bones of my body? While this Master T'ieh is nothing but a stranger, a young man who is neither a friend nor relative of mine, judging by his lofty spirit of chivalry and his fiery temper of righteous indignation, he is a hundred times better than the men of this town and my closest relatives. He and I were complete strangers to each other. Only because he witnessed an injustice on the road did he act in such a rash manner before the magistrate and argue so boldly. It was owing to Master T'ieh that I did not die at the hands of those villains and was returned to my home with my fair name unsullied and my chastity preserved. Now, because he saved me, Master T'ieh has angered those rogues against him and fallen into a trap where he has been poisoned and is in a very critical physical state. If I were to avoid the petty criticisms of others and not save him, and therefore let a red-blooded man like him, who has been favored by the spirits of heaven and earth, die in a strange place, then my heart would be no different than that of a jackal or wolf. For these particular reasons I have received him in my home to cure his illness, and when he is better will send him home. In this way, both kindness and chivalry will be completely reciprocated. This is called repaying a kindness with a kindness. Although I may be accused before all the spirits of heaven and earth, I will feel no shame in my heart. What outsiders dare to discuss the propriety of my actions, so that you would have to cover up? If you really think of yourself as a father to me, you should have done something to investigate and punish those who falsified the edict and abducted me. You should have fought for the Shui household. Surely you are not like the others I know, who are intimidated by might and sit by with their hands in their sleeves. But since you, too, lectured me with words that smack of wisdom but are totally irrelevant, you appear also unkind and unreasonable—how can I take it?”

After listening to this sermon, Shui Yün was struck dumb with amazement.

Finally he said, “It is not that I did not try, but I am a small official and enjoy little power. I could do nothing. Although your words affirmed the principles of morality, you should know that true gentlemen are few, however, and petty men are many, and that those who understand the principles are few, and those who do not are many. They will be just saying that it does not look good for an unmarried girl to keep a young man at her house.”

Ping-hsin said, “External appearance is nothing but floating clouds. What day is without them? This is why your own mind is the root of your person, and you cannot lead it astray even for a moment. As long as I remain pure and unstained, as for the rest of it, I couldn't care less.”²⁹

This passage could equally be regarded as reflective of Shui Ping-hsin's character, but it is most appropriate to discuss it here because it effectively displays many of the more important Confucian moral precepts, especially those concerning propriety. The most striking feature of her long speech is the concept that propriety was never intended by the sages to be a hard and fast rule. Propriety was flexible, particularly when practiced by the superior man. It is on the basis of this flexibility that Ping-hsin justifies caring for the ill T'ieh Chung-yü in her residence at the risk of incurring moral censure from her relatives and the community. She is acting in accordance with the principles of benevolence and humanity that form the heart of Confucian teachings by trying to repay a kindness with a kindness. Her motives are completely altruistic, and although she recognizes that T'ieh is a much better man than the conniving villains led by Kuo and her own untrustworthy uncle, she has not revealed any desire to keep T'ieh for herself after he has recovered from the debilitating effects of the poison. In her concern for the true nature of propriety, her knowledge of the works of Confucius and Mencius, her sense of kindness and righteousness, and her disdain for malicious gossip, Shui Ping-hsin exhibits an ideal harmony with the loftiest of Confucian principles.

An equally refined sense of morality is displayed by T'ieh Chung-yü later in the romance. T'ieh returns home to prepare for the examinations and informs his parents of all that has befallen him previously. Having been convinced of Shui Ping-hsin's qualifications as the perfect wife for their son, Censor T'ieh and his wife tell Chung-yü that they want to marry him to Ping-hsin. However, as he does at the beginning of the narrative, T'ieh again declines, saying:

“I dare not conceal anything from you, mother and father. Now with Miss Shui's obvious sagacity and beauty, even if I were to aspire after her name both sleeping and awake, I would be afraid that I could not obtain her. Now that heaven seems to follow my wishes, why should I make pretenses about the way that I feel? I only regret that Miss Shui and I are not destined to be married. I met her in the midst of adversity, and we did not meet according to the rules of propriety. She received me at a time when she was subject to great suspicion, and yet she was even willing to commit suicide to prove her virtue. And now if we were to be married after all, then our earlier deeds of righteousness and chivalry will seem to stem from the fact that we were in love from the beginning. Thus I would rather lose this lovely partner than commit a crime against the Teaching of Names.”³⁰

T'ieh is torn by his conflicting sense of morality and feelings for Ping-hsin, and the former wins, at least for the time being.

The supreme role of Confucian morality in Hao-ch'iu chuan is best demonstrated in Chapter 15 when T'ieh and Ping-hsin, who have agreed to be married in order to prevent the evil Sha Li, Marquis of Ta-kuai, from marrying Ping-hsin by force, decide not to consummate their marriage. They swear on their wedding night to delay consummation until they have been completely absolved of suspicion regarding their previous relationship. Actually, since T'ieh deeply loves his bride, he would like to have sexual intercourse with her, but Ping-hsin's moral arguments persuade him that it would be wrong to do so, and he reluctantly agrees. The speech of Ping-hsin which convinces him of the righteousness of their unusual decision is given below:

Ping-hsin said, “… Today our parents have given their command, the go-betweens have testified, and our marriage is a legal fact. However, the propriety of our private feelings when we were together has not yet been vindicated publicly. Thus although our marriage is a fact, yet I dare not call it a fact, and although we are united, I dare not consummate that union with you. This is because I want to uphold my name and integrity so that I may be totally blameless in your presence. While this is my own estimate of things, we really are completing the design of heaven. And if, after we have completed heaven's design, heaven, on the contrary, should not follow through on its design, then would it not mean that it has given birth to us in vain? That is absolutely impossible. Yet the mind of heaven is very subtle and difficult to penetrate. The true gentleman can only be content to wait for it to manifest itself. When heaven clearly reflects its intentions, then our feelings will naturally be revealed to the world. And even if they are not, we can continue like this to the end, husband and wife in name, and friends in reality. Indeed, it would surely be a wonderful tale that would last for a thousand autumns if we thus could stay together until the end of our lives, rejoicing in the flowers by day and the moon by night.”³¹

The result of such devotion to moral principles is that Ping-hsin is vindicated in the final chapter when the empress is ordered to examine her to determine whether or not she is still a virgin.

It should be stressed that, in spite of direct references to Confucius and Mencius in the above quotations, the moral principles that comprise a major theme of our romances are products of Neo-Confucianism, which, after its development in the T'ang and Sung dynasties, became the dominant school of thought in the Ming and Ch'ing periods. Furthermore, these principles are related mostly to the Ch'eng-Chu School, also known as the School of Rationalism. This school advocated the study of principle (li-hsüeh) in contrast to the Lu-Wang School which propagated the study of the mind (hsin-hsüeh). It is not my intention to discuss here the complicated and often mystical tenets of New-Confucianism, but merely to point out that Chinese society became increasingly moralistic under its tremendous influence. This, along with the appearance of numerous pornographic narratives in the Ming and Ch'ing periods, would account for the highly moralistic tone of scholar-beauty romances.

There is evidence of the ideas of the Ch'eng-Chu School in Shui Ping-hsin's speech quoted above on page 190. The mention of her and T'ieh's relationship as one which completes the design of heaven not only suggests the author's belief in popular notions of providential chance or fate, which has been a strong current throughout the history of Chinese civilization, but also testifies to the author's allegiance to a fundamental concept of the Ch'eng-Chu School, namely that of heavenly principle (t'ien-li). While other Neo-Confucian thinkers such as Chou Tun-i, Shao Yung, and Chang Tsai mention the concept of principle, the Ch'eng brothers (Ch'eng Hao and Ch'eng I) and Chu Hsi were the first to accord real prominence to principle or heavenly principle in Neo-Confucian ideology.³² To them heavenly principle was not in the least deficient. In a quiescent state it was silently immovable, but when activated, it penetrated everywhere. In the words of Ch'eng I, “There being a thing, there must also be a pattern for it. Each individual thing must have its individual Principle … When anything exists, there must be a pattern for it. For a father, this consists of paternal affection; for a son, of filial piety; for a ruler, of benevolent love; for a subject, or respectfulness. There is no single thing or affair that does not have its own place.”³³ Or, to quote a further statement attributed to the Ch'eng brothers, “The relationships of father and son, ruler and subject, are constant Principles which remain unchanging.”³⁴ In other words, principle or heavenly principle is the basis for human relationships, morality, propriety, in fact, for everything that exists or does not exist. When Ping-hsin says that it is impossible that heaven would have given birth to her and T'ieh in vain, and that the mind of heaven is very subtle, she is echoing basic Neo-Confucian concepts. She believes that heavenly principle underlies her unusual relationship with her new husband. Thus the themes of morality and propriety in Hao-ch'iu chuan and the other romances must be understood in terms of the dominant Neo-Confucian ideology of the age, and not as merely the legacies of Confucius, Hsün Tzu, Mencius, and other early Confucian thinkers.

If we compare the serious didacticism of Ming-chiao-chung-jen with the morality of his contemporary Li Yü, the author of The Prayer Mat of Flesh and other scholar-beauty stories and plays, we can better appreciate the former's genuine sobriety in contrast to the latter's approach to moral questions. Li Yü's professed purpose in writing his pornographic masterpiece is to provide instruction in both moral and sexual matters, and he cites the examples of the sage-emperor Yü and Mencius in support of his method of reaching his readers. As indicated in Li Yü's preface to the novel, his method is to gain the reader's attention with “an entertaining, agreeable account of erotic adventures,”³⁵ after which Li Yü will deny the advantages of excessive sexual activity by offering salutary injunctions calling for moderation. In this respect Li Yü is similar to his counterpart in Japan, the novelist Ihara Saikaku (d. 1693). The reason for Li's distinctive method is that he believes the reading public was tired of overtly moralistic books like Hao-ch'iu chuan and instead favored wild accounts of sensuality. Li Yü states, “What they [the readers] like, on the contrary, is an imaginative and detailed account of erotic behavior which deviates—the more the better—from the strict, officially sanctioned norm. It is no exaggeration to say that certain parts of our society have today attained the peak of amorality, not to say laxity and license.”³⁶ While Ming-chiao-chung-jen would certainly agree that the mores of society experienced a great decline in the late Ming period, he would not support Li Yü's method. Ming-chiao-chung-jen might well have wondered if Li was not more interested in sex than virtue, and if he merely used the pretense of being a moralist to defend himself against his puritanical contemporaries. While Li Yü's technical prowess as a writer of fiction and drama is superior to that of our authors, Li Yü is open to the charge of ambiguity concerning his true moral stance. Without therefore implying that Ming-chiao-chung-jen, T'ien-hua-tsang chu-jen, and other anonymous authors of the romances are “better” writers, we can say that, unlike Li Yü, they exhibit a totally unambiguous Neo-Confucian attitude towards matters of ethics and morality, and consequently are more conscious of morality as a crucial theme in their respective works.

Before leaving altogether the theme of morality, it would be convenient here to mention a related theme of expediency (ch'üan) versus the norm (ching). Just as propriety was seen above to be flexible in matters of lesser import, the heroines and heroes of these romances frequently adopt expedient measures which normally would be considered violations of accepted customs and standards. As an illustration of this theme, let us again turn to the opening chapter of Hao-ch'iu chuan. After introducing T'ieh in a glowing description, the narrator presents him engaged in the favorite occupations of a young scholar:

One day he was at home drinking wine and reading when he suddenly came across the story of the minister Pi Kan who was put to death for his remonstrances. T'ieh thought to himself, “While it is right for a minister to exemplify utter loyalty, he must also possess the ability to adapt to circumstances. A minister's true ability is only displayed when the sovereign can be awakened to the sense of his errors, while the minister can preserve himself. If one is merely doggedly forthright and does not know what to avoid, not only will he fail in his objective, but also will often incur his sovereign's wrath and bring about his wrongdoing. As for himself, he will be killed. Although he is loyal, what advantage is there?”

He drank a few more cups of wine and thought, “My father occupies the post of a remonstrating official and is by nature an obstinate man. If he does not know how to adapt to the situation, then he will probably get involved in this kind of trouble.”³⁷

T'ieh's father is a censor. Concerned about his father's inability to adapt expedient measures when the situation demands, he leaves home and travels to the capital to see if he can be of assistance. Arriving in the capital, he learns that his father has been imprisoned on the charge of falsely accusing Sha Li of kidnapping a beautiful girl. Putting into practice the theory of expediency outlined above, T'ieh absolves his father by exposing Sha Li and rescuing the girl. The ability to take expedient measures was considered a virtue and a necessary characteristic of scholars and beauties. We will encounter further illustrations of this theme in the subsequent discussion of Ping-hsin's character, which displays the intelligence and cleverness required to adapt to unforeseen circumstances.

Notes

1. Crawford, P. 15.

2. The Three Powers (san-ts'ai) are mentioned as early as the Appended Words section of the I Ching. “Ts'ai” also carries the meaning of “resources, natural endowment,” in addition to its meaning of “talent” or “genius.” Hence James Legge's translation of “ts'ai” as “power.” The relevant passage says, “The Yi is a book of wide comprehension and great scope, embracing everything. There are in it the way of heaven, the way of man, and the way of earth. It then takes the lines representing those Three Powers, and doubles them till they amount to six. What these six lines show is simply this—the way of the Three Powers.” See James Legge, trans., The Sacred Books of China, The Texts of Confucianism, Pt. II, The Yi King, vol. XVI of Sacred Books of the East, ed. F. Max Müller (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1882), p. 402.

3. An allusion to Su Tung-p'o's likening of his creative powers to a “spring of inexhaustible water which pours down into the plains, its course conforming to the obstacles in its path.” See Cyril Drummond Le Gros Clark, The Prose-Poetry of Su Tung-p'o (Shanghai: Kelly & Walsh, Limited, 1935), pp. 24-25.

4. A reference to the well-known story of how Ts'ao Chih was tested by his brother under threat of strong punishment. Ts'ao P'ei, Emperor Wen of the Wei dynasty (r. 220-227), forced Ts'ao Chih to compose a poem in the time it takes to walk seven steps. Ts'ao Chih completed the poem, which contained a reprimand of Ts'ao P'ei.

5. A proverbial expression for literary skills.

6. An allusion to the story of how Li Po wrote on behalf of T'ang Hsüan-tsung an answer to the demands contained in a letter from the chief of the Po-hai state, a country to the north. Li Po was the only member of the court who understood the language of the Po-hai, and his intimidating letter, which caused them to surrender and pay tribute, gained him great favor with the emperor. See the story “Li Che-hsien ts'ui ts'ao ho-man-shu” in Feng Meng-lung's Ching-shih t'ung-yen. A recent English translation may be found in The Perfect Lady by Mistake and Other Stories By Feng Menglong (1574-1646), trans. with an Introd. William Dolby (London: Paul Elek, 1976), pp. 57-86.

7. This refers to Su Hui, wife of Tou T'ao, an official of the fourth century. Resenting her husband for abandoning her in favor of a new concubine, Su Hui embroidered 841 characters in a square pattern on a piece of silk tapestry with 29 characters to a side. This acrostic, an amazing example of female intelligence, is said to yield over 200 poems when read in all different directions. Tou T'ao finally took Su Hui back again because of her poetic genius.

8. An allusion to Wang Po (647-675), one of the greatest of the early T'ang poets. Wang composed this preface while visiting the famous Tower of the Prince of T'eng in Kiangsi province on his way to see his father. This tower was built by a son of T'ang Kao-tsu (r. 618-627), who was enfeoffed as the prince of T'eng.

9. An allusion to a poem of Hsieh Ling-yün entitled “Teng ch'ih-shang lou” (“Ascending the Pavilion Above the Pond”), which contains the lines: “Ch'ih-t'ang sheng ch'un-ts'ao, yuan-lin pien ming-ch'in” (“The pond is alive with the grasses of spring, the gardens and woods are transformed with the singing of birds”). See Wang Yün-wu, ed., Hsieh K'ang-lo chi (Taipei: Shang-wu, 1968), chüan 3, pp. 34-5.

10. Pan Chieh-yü (c. 20 B.C.), a concubine of Emperor Ch'eng of the Han (r. 32-6 B.C.), was known for her poetic talents and moral purity. Her personal name is unknown; chieh-yü was the title of one particular rank of imperial concubines during the Han dynasty. Hsieh Tao-yün (c. 375), niece of the powerful aristocrat Hsieh An and wife of Wang Ning-chih, is a well-known woman poet who lived at the end of the Eastern Tsin dynasty.

11. Analects, VIII, 20. Empress Wu is Wu Tse-t'ien (r. 864-705).

12. P'ing Shan Leng Yen, chüan 2, pp. 23a-24a.

13. Liang chiao-hun, chüan 1, p. 19a.

14. Yuan Chen's name is erroneously given here as Yuan Tz'u-shan, which is the tzu of Yuan Chieh (723-772), an earlier T'ang poet. This demonstrates that our author is not quite as learned as he would like us to believe. The author must have meant Yuan Chen, who is traditionally associated with Po Chü-i.

15. Liang chiao-hun, chüan 3, pp. 26b-27a.

16. Liang chiao-hun, chüan 1, p. 1a. The words “sweet” and “pungent” are also puns on surnames of the pair of brothers and sisters that are the heroes and heroines of the romance, Kan and Hsin respectively.

17. P'ing Shan Leng Yen, chUan 3, pp. 32a-32b.

18. Yü Chiao Li, Chap. 5, pp. 2a-b.

19. Hao-ch'iu chuan, p. 2.

20. Patrick Hanan, The Chinese Short Story, Studies in Dating, Authorship, and Composition (Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press 1973), p. 75.

21. Concordance to Shih Ching, Harvard-Yenching Institute Sinological Index Series, Supplement No. 9 (Peking: 1934).

22. Hua-t'u yuan, Chap. 8, p. 4a.

23. For a valuable discussion of Confucianism in Chinese fiction, see Hsia, The Classic Chinese Novel, p. 20 ff.

24. Hao-ch'iu chuan, p. 3.

25. This is an allusion to Yen-tzu ch'un-ch'iu (The Spring and Autumn of Master Yen), Nei-p'ien tsa chang (Miscellaneous Inner Writings), Pt. I, Chap. 21 entitled “Yen-tzu shih Lu yu shih-chi, Chung-ni i-wei chih li” (“Master Yen is Despatched to Lu on a Private Matter, and Confucius Considers that He Knows Propriety”). This chapter relates that Yen Ying of Ch'i was considered to lack propriety by Confucius' disciple Tzu-kung because Yen knelt down to accept a gift of jade when he did not have to. Questioned by Confucius, Yen Ying replied, “I have heard that in great matters a man does not cross the barrier, but in small matters it is permissable for him to go out and come in.” See Chang Chün-i, ed., Yen-tzu ch'un-ch'iu chiao-chu (Shanghai: Shih-chieh shu-chü, 1935), p. 141. Master Yen's meaning is that a man may not infringe against propriety in matters of great import (such as loyalty to one's lord or filial piety), but in lesser matters he is permitted a certain flexibility in his conduct. Virtually the same statement appears in the Analects, XIX, 11, where it is attributed to Tzu-hsia.

26. These quotations are found in Mencius 4A, 18. See W. A. C. H. Dobson, trans., Mencius (Toronto: Univ. of Toronto Press, 1963), p. 122.

27. Shui Ping-hsin here cites the Analects, XIX, 11. See Arthur Waley, trans., The Analects of Confucius (New York: Vintage, 1965), p. 226.

28. I have been unable to determine the exact location of these two quotations, but there is every reason to suspect that they appear in the Records of the Grand Historian.

29. Hao-ch'iu chuan, pp. 87-88.

30. Hao-ch'iu chuan, p. 201.

31. Hao-ch'iu chuan, p. 218.

32. Fung Yu-lan, A History of Chinese Philosophy, trans., Derk Bodde, Vol. II, The Period of Classical Learning (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1953 p. 501. I am greatly indebted to Fung Yu-lan in my comments about Neo-Confucianism.

33. Fung, p. 503 (quoted from Erh-ch'eng i-shu).

34. Fung, p. 502.

35. Li Yü, The Before Midnight Scholar [Jou Pu Tuan], trans., Richard Martin from the German version by Franz Kuhn (London: A. Deutsch, 1965), p. 6.

36. Li Yü, pp. 5-6.

37. Hao-ch'iu chuan, pp. 2-3.

Bibliography

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Ch'eng, Po-ch'üan, ed. Hao-ch'iu chuan (The Fortunate Union). Rpt. Shanghai: Wen-hua ch'u-pan-she, 1956.

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