[In this essay, Liu provides an overview of the major novels of the late Ming and early Ch'ing dynasties: Journey to the West, The Golden Lotus, Dream of the Red Chamber, and The Scholars. With the exception of Journey to the West, Liu finds that an unflinching, even graphic realism characterizes the masterworks of the early Chinese novel.]

Contemporaneous with the short story, the Chinese novel flourished from the middle of the Ming dynasty to the end of the Ch'ing (sixteenth to early twentieth century). Many writers devoted their time and energy to the writing of fiction and their output was impressive, particularly in the late Ch'ing period. This effort was noteworthy because, in spite of the recognition of the novel as an established literary genre, it was still considered a minor art form compared with poetry and nonfictional prose. For this reason as we have seen earlier, the authors preferred to remain anonymous and used only their pseudonyms; of the known novelists, almost all lived obscure lives unrecorded in dynastic history. The most recognition they achieved was minor official positions and local fame among small groups of friends. An undertone of frustration and bitterness seems to have prevailed in their writings. It is no coincidence that realistic descriptions and satirical expositions of contemporary life have characterized Chinese fiction since the Ming period.

Among the bulk of Chinese fiction written in the last several centuries, four novels stand out as the most important, if not also the greatest. These are Journey to the West (Hsi-yu chi), Gold Vase Plum (Chin P'ing Mei), Dream of the Red Chamber (Hung-lou meng), and Informal History of the Literati (Ju-lin wai-shih); the first being a supernatural novel, the second and third realistic novels of society and family, and the last a satirical novel. In the meantime, the historical romance continued to be popular; in the novel of adventure, brave chivalrous swordsmen, counterparts of medieval knights in Western literature, replaced the bandit-leaders as heroes;¹ “the novel of beauty and genius,” a typical Chinese love romance, had its vogue not only in China but in Europe as well.² All these types have enriched Chinese fiction and each has its own outstanding examples, but our discussion, brief and only introductory, has to be confined to the four major works mentioned above.

The supernatural novel, represented by the Journey to the West (known to English readers as Monkey³), is as much the product of folk tradition as of the author's creative imagination. It contains a world of fantastic invention, in which gods and demons loom large and vie for supremacy. The supernatural beings are of many varieties: a hierarchy of celestial deities under the Jade Emperor of the Taoist cult; a shadowy world of ghosts and spirits presided over by the King of Hades; a host of local divinities, dragon kings, monsters and goblins. There is also an array of Buddhist saints and arhats headed by Sakyamuni (Buddha) in the Holy Mountains of the West. Most popular among them is the Bodhisattva, Kuan-yin, sometimes called the Goddess of Mercy. The Buddhist idea of retribution and the Taoist search for gold and the elixir of life have further nourished popular belief, to which Confucianism contributed the cult of heroes and ancestors. This polytheistic pantheon has provided Chinese novelists with ample material for supernatural tales.

The evolution of the Journey to the West is as complicated and fascinating as that of the Three Kingdoms and the Marshes. Like them, it has passed through a series of oral and written stages before attaining its present form. Its most important author, but not its sole creator, was Wu Ch'eng-en (1500?-1582), a scholar-official in the Yangtze region. Before the publication of Wu's novel in 1592, there existed a number of earlier works on the same subject: a poetic novelette, a six-part drama, and a crude colloquial story. Other versions have appeared since 1592, including two adaptations, one in a four-part book entitled The Four Journeys.⁴

The Journey to the West is divided into three parts: (1) an early history of the Monkey Spirit; (2) a pseudo-historical account of Tripitaka's family and life before his trip to fetch the sutras in the Western Heaven; (3) the main story, consisting of eighty-one dangers and calamities encountered by Tripitaka and his three animal spirit disciples—Monkey, Pigsy, and Sandy (a fish spirit). In the first part are related the birth of Monkey from a magic rock, his coronation as the monkey king, and his attainment of magic powers. The latter include the ability to turn a somersault of 108,000 li; the mastery of seventy-two kinds of transformation; the use of a mighty iron cudgel which can be changed into a small needle to be placed behind the ear; and the trick of turning his hair, when pulled out, into thousands of little monkeys. Armed with these abilities, Monkey extended his sway over earth and sea; but he also coveted an official position in Heaven. Among the riots which he subsequently caused in that celestial sphere, the theft of the immortal peaches in the garden of the Heavenly Queen and the wreck of Lao-tzu's Crucible of the Eight Trigrams are especially well told. In the latter story, Monkey, who had been smelted in the crucible after his capture by the Heavenly Host, was thought to have been burned to death in the fiery flames, but actually he suffered only from smoky red eyes; finally he made good his escape, as described in the following passage:

Time certainly passed fast and it was already the end of the forty-nine day period when Lao-tzu's alchemic process was consummated.

One day he came to open the crucible to take out the elixir of life. Monkey was covering his eyes with both hands, rubbing them and shedding tears, when he heard a noise atop the crucible. Suddenly he opened wide his eyes and saw a light. Without waiting any longer, he jumped out with one leap. As he rushed outside, he gave the crucible of the eight trigrams such a kick that it fell with a crashing sound. Greatly flustered, Lao-tzu's servants, who had been watching the fire under the crucible, all came out, as did the other celestial guards and attendants, to drag Monkey back, but he tripped up every one of them like an epileptic white-browed tiger or a mad one-horned dragon. When Lao-tzu himself rushed forward to grab him, Monkey gave him such a push that he fell head over heels. After making good his escape, Monkey took out from behind his ear the magic cudgel, which, when swung against the wind, grew into the size of a bowl in its diameter. Thus armed once more and striking out indiscriminately here and there, he caused again a great uproar in the celestial palace. The Nine Planets were so frightened that they locked themselves in and the Four Heavenly Kings fled without a trace.

(Chapter 7)⁵

The mighty Monkey was finally subdued by the Buddha, who had him sealed inside the Mountain of the Five Elements until such time as he would be set free by Tripitaka in his journey westward.

In addition to the pseudo-historical tale of Tripitaka's life, the second part contains the supernatural stories of the execution of the dragon king for disobeying Heaven's command and of the T'ang Emperor's trip to the underworld, where he had to bribe his way out from the clutches of hungry ghosts. This led to the celebration of the great Mass for the Dead, the choice of Tripitaka as its officiator, and his mission to fetch Buddhist scriptures at the emperor's command. History tells us, however, that instead of being regally equipped for the trip, Tripitaka to make the pilgrimage⁶ actually had to brave the persecutions of an imperial ban against travelling abroad.

The bulk of the novel,⁷ to which the first two parts are mere introductions, deals with the numerous calamities Tripitaka had to suffer on his westward journey at the hands of monsters, ghosts, and demons, who all clamored to eat him alive. But through the efforts of his animal-spirit escorts, especially Monkey, and with the aid of Buddhist and Taoist gods, who now ranged themselves on Monkey's side, Tripitaka succeeded in overcoming the dangers and reached the Western Heaven, where he later became a Buddhist saint together with his three disciples.

The adventures of the Buddhist pilgrims are related in a way that is not only hair-raising, but also immensely witty and amusing. Pigsy, noted for his stupidity, gluttony, and lecherous desires, became the butt of Monkey's raillery. The latter had a native instinct for mischief and pleasantry, and poked fun at all and sundry, his master not excepted. Thus the novel contains many jocular and exciting stories that fire the imagination of young and old alike. As an illustration is told briefly here the episode of a series of Buddhist-Taoist contests in the Kingdom of Cart Slow, situated along the route of the Chinese pilgrims.

This kingdom was dominated by three animal spirits in human shape who styled themselves Taoist immortals. With the king's connivance, they set out to persecute Buddhist monks and made them do the meanest labor under the supervision of Taoist taskmasters. It happened that at the time of Tripitaka's arrival there was a great drought in the land. So instead of maltreating the Buddhist pilgrims as urged by the pseudo-Taoist immortals, the king ordered a rainmaking contest between the Buddhists and Taoists, promising better treatment for the Buddhists in the kingdom and passports for the visiting monks, if they won. One of the Taoist Immortals was given the honor of starting. Sword in hand, his hair loosened, he mounted a high altar erected in the palace compound for the contest. As he recited his spells, he burned Taoist images, texts, and yellow papers; he also banged his tablet on the altar to summon the spirits. At his repeated bidding came the Old Woman of the Wind, hugging her bag; her boy holding tight the rope at the mouth of the bag; Cloud Boy and Mist Lad; Thunder God and Mother of Lightning. They were all about to perform their tasks when they were stopped by Monkey, and no rain fell. Then came the turn of the Buddhists. Armed with neither sword nor tablet, Tripitaka went up the altar to pray and recite the sutras. At this moment, Monkey displayed his mighty cudgel, pointing it toward the sky. Immediately, the Old Woman of the Wind brought out her bag, the boy loosened the rope at its mouth, and with a great roar the wind rushed out. Bricks hurtled; sand and stones flew; dark clouds covered the city and the palace.

Presently Monkey pointed again, and deafening peals of thunder shook the earth. It was as though a hundred thousand chariots were rolling by. The inhabitants of the town were frightened out of their wits and one and all began burning incense and saying their prayers. “Now Thunder God,” screamed Monkey, “do your work! Strike down all greedy and corrupt officials, all disobedient and surly sons, as a warning to the people!” The din grew louder than ever. Then Monkey pointed again, and such a rain fell that it seemed as if the whole Yellow River had suddenly fallen out of the sky. This rain fell from early morning till noon. The town was already one vast swamp when the king sent a message saying, “That's enough rain. If there is much more it will ruin the crops and we shall be worse off than ever.”

(Chapter 45)⁸

This was followed by other contests: an endurance test in meditation; a guessing game; and the last, a competition in head-cutting, belly-ripping, and bathing in boiling oil, in which the three Taoist Immortals ultimately met their deaths. The victorious Buddhists were given a great feast and a royal escort out of the kingdom.

The novel, strangely enough, has been variously interpreted by early Chinese commentators as an allegorical treatise on the three schools of Chinese religion and philosophy. The main story, as we have seen, is essentially Buddhist in nature and orientation, but to regard it as an exposition of the new laws of Buddhism is just as absurd as to interpret it as an elucidation of the Taoist formula for refining the golden pill of immortality, or as an allegory of the Neo-Confucian principle of self-cultivation through the illumination of the heart and the revelation of human nature.

Also farfetched is the more recent view of the novel as representing a socio-political struggle, in which, it is said, the oppressive agents of the ruling class are pitted against the righteous forces of the people represented by Monkey. He is seen as the personification of folk ideals and strength in an autocratic society. His rampages in Heaven and Hell are represented as the bold struggles of the oppressed against despotism; his fight with monsters and demons—“claws and teeth of the ruling class”—as heroic combats against the evil forces of society; his conquest of the impassable mountains and rivers as man's efforts in surmounting the barriers of nature. “The victory of Monkey,” the recent critics conclude, “is also the victory of the people.”⁹

Perhaps, if any extra significance is to be read into this novel, it can be regarded as a good-natured satire on human foibles and bureaucratic stupidities, and as an allegory of the pilgrim's progress toward Buddhist salvation. To project the satire into the Heavenly realm, which is described as a vast bureaucracy, is not so much to attack the hierarchy of gods as to poke fun, on a higher level, at the follies of the earthly government. The parody of government red tape is shown in the use of a letter of introduction by the T'ang Emperor to gain favorable treatment during his visit to Hades; in his borrowing money on a promissory note; and in his bribery of the hungry ghosts mentioned previously. Even Buddha's disciples demanded gifts when they were sent to accompany Tripitaka to fetch the sacred books from the “Treasury.” They said to Tripitaka:

Having come here from China you have no doubt brought a few gifts for us. If you will kindly hand them over, you shall have your scriptures at once.

(Chapter 98)¹⁰

At first Tripitaka refused and would have brought back to China blank scriptures—even though they are the true ones, according to the author—if he had not detected the fraud in time. Finally, he had to part with his golden alms bowl as a “commission” to Buddha's disciples before they gave him the written scrolls he wanted.

Two aspects of the human spirit are represented in the novel, one by Tripitaka, the other by Monkey. The former is man as he really is. Neither heroic nor superhuman, he falls an easy prey to fierce monsters as well as to his own demon of fear and misgiving. In spite of all his learning and virtue, he cowers before physical dangers. He is frightened by the attack of robbers, spirits, and goblins; his tears fall like rain when the river dragon swallows his horse. But he emerges heroic in the end because he is strong in his devotion. On the other hand, Monkey may be regarded as a symbol of man's restless ambition. As the omnipotent immortal that every man secretly desires to be, he fulfills his wildest dreams. But he misuses his power and defies the gods; thus he gets burned by playing with fire. It is only when he is able to channel his power in a right direction and use it for a right cause that Monkey, like Tripitaka, gains salvation—the one by curbing his ambition, the other his self-doubts.

Interesting as these interpretations are, the novel must be read and appreciated as a work of literature per se. Here, its merits are obvious. The vastness of its fantasy, the rich variety of its supernatural stories and characters, and the inexhaustible fund of its wit and humor combine to make the Journey to the West one of the most delightful books in world literature. Moreover, as a novel of religious allegory or a satirical romance, its adventures are more thrilling, more entertaining, and more colorful than its Western counterparts, The Pilgrim's Progress and Don Quixote, to which it has been sometimes compared.

The most important type of Chinese fiction, however, is the social and domestic novel, in which contemporary life and manners are depicted faithfully, intimately, and almost microscopically in a special Chinese brand of realism. What distinguishes the latter from Western realism is the role of the indispensable narrator. True to the Chinese storytelling tradition, the narrator is present everywhere, for he not only sees, hears, and reports on every detail in the story, but in a sly and insinuating manner he also takes the reader into his confidence and imbues him with his own feelings and attitudes; whenever appropriate he makes his own comments and asides. The art of Chinese fiction lies in the author's ability to tell his tale in such a seemingly artless and effortless way that the reader, while enjoying the story, is so taken in by the storyteller that he becomes happily oblivious of the unlikelihood of the latter's ubiquitous presence.

Such a master novelist is the anonymous author of the Gold Vase Plum, rendered respectively in two different English versions as The Golden Lotus¹¹ and The Adventurous History of Hsi-men and His Six Wives.¹² The novel was first mentioned toward the last years of the sixteenth century, its earliest extant version containing a preface dated 1617. The author is known by his pen name, Hsiao-hsiao sheng (A Laughing-laughing Scholar) of Lan-ling, or I-hsien in Shantung, in whose dialect the novel is written. This evidence of its authorship by an unknown writer from Shantung, probably a professional storyteller, belies the claim that the novel was written by some famous literary figure of the time.¹³ In later editions, some of the local dialect peculiarities have been eliminated or changed into more common expressions.

The first realistic social novel, antedating by at least two centuries its French counterparts, the Gold Vase Plum depicts the dark aspects of a Chinese society riddled with filth and corruption, iniquity and rascality. Although the action of the novel took place toward the end of the Sung dynasty (early twelfth century), the society it reflects was undoubtedly that of the author's own time. The chief male character, Hsi-men Ch'ing, the owner of an apothecary shop, was a rake and bully, who through swindling and imposture rose to wealth and local power. In his household were six wives, among whom the two most important were Golden Lotus and the Lady of the Vase, as well as numerous maidservants including Spring Plum (Golden Lotus' maid). Their names combine to give the novel its title. An archetype of the seducer of women, Hsi-men Ch'ing was a remote cousin of Lothario and Don Juan. He differed from them, however, in that he was a worldly fellow shorn of romantic glamor; the women fell victims to him not because of the gay seductiveness of his person but because of his money and power. Carnal desire, instead of romantic love, guided his encounters with innumerable prostitutes and the adulterous wives of his friends and subordinates.

This one hundred chapter novel may aptly be called the crime and punishment of the Hsi-men family. Here is an interesting case of a Chinese story in which poetic justice descended rather tardily on the evil-doer, whose penalty in this life was no more than cuckoldry. Otherwise, Hsi-men Ch'ing lived a happy wicked life, enjoying his debaucheries to his heart's content. It was only after his death from overindulgence that retribution in a more violent form came to the other members of his family. Most of them, sinners themselves, met their deserved ends in the chaos and disaster that followed the Jurchen invasion of North China in the twelfth century. The lonely survivals were his principal wife, the only decent woman in the novel, and her son, who became a Buddhist monk to do penance for his father's sins.

A powerful and merciless exposure of a decadent society, the book would have been a well-accepted masterpiece if it were not for its unabashed, flagrant pornography. The author, it seems, delighted in salacious descriptions of perverted sex, and no amount of whitewash can cover up the filth of the novel before whose glaring immorality Western works of similar nature, some well-known modern novels not excepted, pale into insignificance. It has been suggested that a major editorial operation could transform it into something more wholesome, but once its foul cankerous tissues were removed, it would no longer be its true self—a naked representation of the corroding body social.

Viewed aside from the moral issue, the Gold Vase Plum is one of the greatest novels ever written in the Chinese language. It gives a unique picture of the ways of the world, whose winds blow alternately hot and cold; it depicts vividly and skillfully such scenes of society as are found in the comedies of Ben Jonson, of whom the Chinese author was a contemporary. The characters, everyman in his humor, whose words and actions are reproduced clearly and minutely to the meanest detail, appear before us not as alien ghosts of a remote past but as evil genii that haunt the conscience of the modern man. The novel is a perspicuous presentation of human foibles and failings, too many to be enumerated. It suffices to quote here the following passage, which cleverly blends sarcasm, humor, and pathos as illustrative of the artless art of Chinese realism:

Ch'ang Shih-chieh thanked Hsi-men Ch'ing and took his leave, placing the packet of silver inside his sleeve. He went back home in a cheerful mood, but just as he was about to go in, his wife came out of the door to accost him, shouting noisily:

“You good-for-nothing! You, bare stick as lean as a leafless wu-t'ung tree! You have gone away for a whole day and left your wife to starve at home, and yet you come back so jolly pleased with yourself. Aren't you ashamed? Here we are without a roof of our own and have to bear other people's bad breath, blown into your wife's ears! Do you think she relishes it all?”

Ch'ang did not open his mouth. He waited until his wife had scolded herself out before he gently fumbled from his sleeve the packet of silver and placed it on the table. Then he took off the wrapping and gazing at the silver pieces, he addressed them thus:

“Oh, you, my square-holed elder brothers! As I set my eyes on you, so glittering, tinkling, and pricelessly precious, how my body tingles all over! What a pity I couldn't gulp you down with a mouthful of water! If you had come earlier, I would not have suffered from the ill breath of this lewd woman.”

The wife saw clearly before her a heap of some twelve or thirteen ounces of silver in the packet. She was so overjoyed that she pushed forward closer to her husband and tried to grab it from him.

Ch'ang said, “All your life you have had nothing but abuse for me, your husband, but the minute you see this silver, you want to be near me. Tomorrow I'm going to buy some new clothes with this silver, dress myself up, and spend my days elsewhere all by myself. I'm not going to fool around with you any longer.”

The woman asked, all smiles on her face, “My elder brother, where indeed did you get these silver pieces?”

Ch'ang made no reply.

“My elder brother,” the woman persisted, “how can you really be angry with me? I merely want you to get ahead in life. Now that we have this silver, I'd like to talk to you about how we could buy a house to settle down. Isn't that splendid? But instead, you are making such a show! As your wife, I haven't done anything wrong. You are angry with me, but that isn't fair.”

Ch'ang still would not open his mouth. So the woman just blabbed on, but when he continued to ignore her, she felt remorseful and could not help shedding a few tears. When he saw this, Ch'ang said, “You, woman, neither farm nor weave, but you are pretty good at abusing your husband.”

Hearing this, the wife let down her tears in a stream. The two both shut their mouths tight and as there was no one to make peace between them, they sat there sullenly. Ch'ang thought to himself: “Life is hard for this woman. After all the hardships she has had, how could I blame her for complaining? Today I have all this silver with me. If I disregard her, people will say that I have no affection, and if his lordship Hsi-men should get wind of it, he'd blame me.”

So he smiled and told his wife, “I of course want to have you. Who's blaming you? Only, you had so nagged me that I had to walk out of the house. But I am not angry with you and I'll tell you plainly about this silver. This morning as I couldn't stay in the house any longer, I went to Second Elder Brother Ying to invite him to have three cups with me in the wineshop. Then we went together to wait on his lordship at his residence. Luckily, he was at home and had not gone out feasting. Thanks to Second Brother Ying, I don't know with how much wagging of his tongue, he finally got for me these silver pieces. I was further promised that as soon as I have found a house I'd be given more silver to make a purchase. These twelve ounces are just for my current expenses.”

(Chapter 57)¹⁴

A century and a half after the publication of the Gold Vase Plum appeared the most famous of the Chinese novels, the Dream of the Red Chamber, over the tragic fate of whose young hero and heroine countless generations of Chinese readers have shed tears of sympathy and compassion. This evidence of the novel's moving power speaks well for its artistic excellence. Few works, whether Oriental or Occidental, are its peers in the vastness of its length, the vividness of its narration, the subtlety of its character portrayal, and the skillful use of the colloquial language. It represents the highest development of Chinese fiction and with it the transition of the novel from collective to individual authorship is completed.

The author of the Dream of the Red Chamber has been identified as Ts'ao Chan (1724?-1764),¹⁵ better known as Ts'ao Hsüeh-ch'in. He was the scion of a wealthy official family, which in his early youth became impoverished because of political reverses. Now generally considered as autobiographical,¹⁶ the novel is epitomized by a verse in the opening chapter:

Here are pages full of absurd words—
A handful of hot and bitter tears.
They all say the author is crazy,
But who would know his true intent?

(Chapter 1)¹⁷

The affluence of the Ts'ao family during Hsüeh-ch'in's childhood in Nanking must have contrasted poignantly with the poverty of his last days in the western suburb of Peking, where he wrote the novel and where he died. His friends and contemporaries testified to his family's having to eat gruel for lack of money, to his “daily gazing at the Western Hills to feed himself on the evening clouds,” and to his dying of sickness without a doctor's care. Ts'ao Hsüeh-ch'in apparently did not finish the novel at the time of his death but left the last part of the manuscript in an imperfect state. Only eighty chapters of the novel were copied and circulated during the author's lifetime¹⁸ and almost thirty years elapsed between his death and the publication of the complete 120-chapter novel in 1791. Based upon a preface and an introduction written for a revised 1792 edition, as well as upon other scattered references, critics have attributed the authorship of the last forty chapters to Kao E, an unsuccessful scholar. This view, however, has been challenged in recent years because of the discovery of new evidence.¹⁹

In the Dream of the Red Chamber is drawn a vast panorama of Chinese family life, represented by the great house of Chia with its two main branches, their numerous offshoots, and a proliferation of kinsmen, as well as a large retinue of dependents and domestics. Compared with the Chias, the Forsytes of Galsworthy's trilogy seem a rather simple family group. Most graphically described in the Chinese novel are the life and activities of some thirty main characters flanked by four hundred or more minor ones who flit in and out of the novel in their secondary roles. This immense body of material, presented in a realistic manner, provides one of the best documents for a study of the extended Chinese family: its structure, organization, and ideals such as clan solidarity and honor, respect for old age, parental authority, filial obedience, sex relationship, the position of women, the role of the concubines, maidservants, and other domestics.

From this vast array of male and female characters emerge three principal figures: Chia Pao-yü and his two girl cousins, Lin Tai-yü (Black Jade) and Hsüeh Pao-ch'ai (Precious Clasp), upon whose triangular love pivots the story of the novel. This love affair, however, should not be regarded as the main plot in the Western sense of the word but rather as the chief episode in a novel of innumerable episodes relating the fall and decline of the Chia family in Peking.

Pao-yü, a talented but spoiled child, was the heir of one of the two great branches of the Chia clan. As such he was doted on by his paternal grandmother, the Matriarch, who protected him from the occasional discipline administered by his severe Confucian father. His offenses, however, were no more serious than truancy in the company of his many sisters and girl cousins, among whom the most lovely were Black Jade and Precious Clasp. Equally fair and gifted, they represent two prototypes of female beauty in the Chinese concept: the former, with a slender, willow-waisted body in danger of being wafted away by the wind, is poetically inclined, highly susceptible, jealous, and given to crying; the latter is more normal and healthy, with a happy disposition and a shapely form somewhat on the plump side. In the company of such charming girls, with whom he versified, flirted, and fell in love, no wonder Pao-yü threw overboard the Confucian classics and read instead the Romance of the Western Chamber.

The building of the Garden of Grand View on the Chia family estate marked the climax of the happy, carefree days of the young set, each of them housed in one of the scenic cottages in the garden. Their idyllic existence, however, was not unmarred by jealousy, suspicion, and puerile quarrels which led to many a tearful scene. This is especially true of the relationship between Pao-yü and Black Jade, a pair of sensitive and sentimental young lovers. In one of the episodes the lovers' quarrel was caused by Black Jade's being denied entrance one evening to Pao-yü's cottage, the Peony Court. She was particularly hurt because she overheard inside the laughing voices of Pao-yü and Precious Clasp. Recalling her own orphaned life in a relative's house, she felt deeply grieved and cried bitterly. The next day, brushing aside Pao-yü when he paid her a visit, she went to a corner of the garden where previously she and Pao-yü had buried the fallen peach blossom. There she wept and sang:

I am here to bury you when you fall;
I wonder when will come the day of my death?
People laugh at me for burying the flowers,
But who would bury me when I pass away?
Look, spring is waning and flowers have been falling,
That is the time when fair maidens too wither and die.
One morning spring departs and youth grows old—
Flowers fallen, the maiden dead, one unaware of the other.

(Chapter 27)²⁰

Her singing was overheard by Pao-yü, who had taken the same path to the “flower mound.” Deeply touched by her sentiments, he lay down on the hillside and broke out into sobbing.

While sadly lamenting her fate, Black Jade heard suddenly the sound of mourning from the top of the slope. She thought to herself: “People say I am crazy. How could there be another as crazy as myself?” She lifted her head to take a look and caught sight of Pao-yü. “Humph!” she said spitefully, “It's that hard-hearted and short-lived one! …” There she stopped short and covered her mouth with her hand. She then heaved a long sigh and walked away.

After having moaned awhile and then seen that Black Jade had gone away to avoid him, Pao-yü felt listless. He shook off the earth from his clothes, got up, and took the same way down the hill to go back to the Peony Court. By chance he saw Black Jade in front of him and immediately he hastened toward her and said: “Please stop for a minute. I know you won't look at me, but I'll just say one sentence and then leave you alone.”

Turning around, Black Jade saw it was Pao-yü. She was about to disregard him when she heard him say “just one sentence”; so she replied: “Well, go ahead!”

Pao-yü laughed, saying: “Would you still listen to me if I said two sentences?”

Hearing this, Black Jade turned away. Pao-yü sighed behind her and said: “If we had known this we shouldn't have behaved as we did in the past.”

When Black Jade heard these words she could not help stopping and turning around. “What happened in the past,” she inquired, “and what has happened now?”

“Well! When you first came to our house,” Pao-yü said, “who else but me would play with you so that we had fun together? Whatever I loved I gave you if you so desired; whatever I liked to eat, when I heard that you too liked it, I would put away neatly to keep for you when you came back. We ate at the same table and rested on the same couch. Things which the maids failed to think about and prepare for you, for fear you would be displeased, I would do in the maids' place. Cousins who have grown up together since childhood, I thought, would always be nice to each other, no matter whether they had been intimate or not; only then they would draw closer together than the rest. Who would have thought that after you have grown up and matured, you would not even deign to take a look at me—for three days paying no attention to me and for four days refusing to see me? On the other hand, you take to your bosom such remote relatives as Sister Precious Clasp and Sister Phoenix. I have no young brother or sister of my own. The two I have, you know of course, are not by the same mother as mine. I am an only child like you and I supposed your heart would be like mine. Who would have thought that I have gnawed my heart in vain and there is no one to whom I could utter my grievances?” As he spoke these words, he unconsciously fell into crying.

At that moment Black Jade, who had been listening to him and seen with her own eyes how things were, could not but feel afflicted, and she too shed tears, lowering her head without speaking one word.

Surveying the situation, Pao-yü continued, “I know I have been wrong. But even if that were not so, I would never dare do anything bad to you—moreover, if I have been wrong once or twice, you could either instruct me, warn me, or scold and beat me, and I would not feel so disheartened. But you simply ignore me completely and leave me bewildered and spiritless, not knowing what to do! If I should die, I'd be a wronged ghost and no Buddhist monks or Taoist priests of the highest order would be able to say penance enough for me to help me gain reincarnation. You would have to explain all the cause and effect before I could be reborn again!”

Hearing these words, Black Jade forgot right away the episode of the night before, banishing it beyond the clouds of the ninth heavens.

(Chapter 28)²¹

It was at this point that Black Jade learned that the door had been closed in her face by some indolent and garrulous maid without the young master's knowledge, and peace was made between the pair of young lovers.²²

This kind of idyllic life in the Garden of Grand View was occasionally disturbed by outside events and visitors, thus providing excitement and fun for its inmates. One such visitor was Liu Lao-lao (Old Dame Liu), a poor relative from the country. Dazed by the glittering wealth of the Chia family and incited by the mischief-loving Phoenix (Pao-yü's cousin's wife) and Mandarin Duck (Matriarch's maidservant), she committed one blunder after another during her visit, leaving behind her memories of hilarious episodes. The purpose of the visit was to present to the Chia family such fresh country produce as dates, melons, and vegetables in exchange for, hopefully, some substantial gift from her rich relatives. This country cousin was lucky enough to have the honor of being presented to the Matriarch. Upon entering the room, though dazzled by the many flowerlike, jewel-bedecked young women present, she was able to guess that the old lady who was reclining on a divan with a beautiful silk-dressed maid massaging her legs must be the Matriarch. The latter took a fancy to the visitor for her country manners and big stories, and invited her the next day to a feast at the Garden of Grand View. Tagging along in the Matriarch's retinue of lovely granddaughters and maidservants, Old Dame Liu took a grand tour of the garden. At dinner time she was given a seat at a side table next to the Matriarch's.

As soon as Old Dame Liu was seated, she picked up the chopsticks which were uncannily heavy and hard to manage. It was because Phoenix and Mandarin Duck had previously plotted to give her a pair of old-fashioned, angular-shaped ivory chopsticks gilded with gold. Looking at them, Old Dame Liu remarked: “These fork-like things are even heavier than our iron prongs. How can one hold them up?” Everyone laughed. By this time a woman servant had brought in a tiny food box and, as she stood there, another maid came forward to lift the lid. Inside were two bowls of food. Li Huan (Pao-yü's elder brother's widow) took one bowl and placed it on the Matriarch's table as Phoenix picked up a bowl of pigeon eggs to place it on Old Dame Liu's table.

Just as the Matriarch had finished saying, “Please eat,” Old Dame Liu rose from her seat and said aloud:

Old Liu, Old Liu, her appetite as big as a cow!
She eats like an old sow without lifting her head.

Having said her piece, with her cheeks puffed out she looked straight ahead without uttering another word. At first, all those present were astonished, but upon a moment's reflection, all burst out laughing at the same time. Unable to restrain herself, River Cloud (Matriarch's grandniece) spluttered out a mouthful of tea; Black Jade was choked with laughter and leaning on the table, could only cry and groan, “Ai-ya!” Pao-yü rolled down into the Matriarch's lap; joyously she hugged him and cried out, “Oh, my heart! my liver!” Madame Wang (Pao-yü's mother) also laughed, then pointed her finger at Phoenix, but could not utter one word. Aunt Hsüeh (Precious Clasp's mother), unable to control herself, spurted out her mouthful of tea on the skirt of Quest Spring (she and the other “Spring” girls were all Pao-yü's cousins and sisters), whose teacup fell on the body of Greeting Spring. Compassion Spring left her seat and pulling the wet nurse to her, asked her to rub her belly. None among the servants did not twist her waist or bend her back as they giggled. Some slipped out to have a good laugh while squatting down and others, having stopped laughing by now, came forward to change the dresses for the girls. Only Phoenix and Mandarin Duck controlled themselves and kept urging Old Dame Liu to eat.

Old Dame Liu lifted up the chopsticks but they were hardly manageable. Looking at the bowl in front of her, she remarked: “Well, well, even your hens are smarter than ours! They lay such tiny delicate eggs, very dainty indeed. Let me try one!” All the people had just stopped laughing but they burst out again upon hearing these words. The Matriarch laughed so much that tears dropped down; she just couldn't stop them and Amber (Matriarch's maidservant) had to pound her back to relieve her. The Matriarch said: “This must have been the work of that sly, impish Phoenix. Don't listen to her.”

Old Dame Liu was still exclaiming about how tiny and dainty the eggs were when Phoenix said jocularly to her: “They cost an ounce of silver apiece. You had better hurry up and taste one before they get cold.” Old Dame Liu then stretched out her chopsticks to seize the eggs with both ends, but how could she pick them up? After having chased them all over the bowl, she finally captured one with no little effort and was about to crane her neck to eat it when lo! it slipped off and fell on the floor. She was going to pick it up herself when a woman servant got it and took it out. Old Dame Liu sighed: “An ounce of silver! How it disappears without even making a noise!”

(Chapter 40)²³

In the course of the narrative, as Pao-yü grew up he was faced with two important events in his life: marriage and participation in the literary examination, both of which he resisted as long as he could. Gradually, conflict grew between him and his family, mainly because of his failure in serious studies and his morbid love for the fragile, ailing Black Jade, who had been pining away with consumption. His mind became deranged. The climax came when, hoodwinked by his family, he was led into marrying Precious Clasp, believing her to be Black Jade, as the real Black Jade was breathing her last in her deserted cottage. Her death was followed by a number of other catastrophes: more deaths in the family, Pao-yü's disappearance following his success in the examination, and the general breakdown of the once great and noble Chia clan. The tragedy was only slightly relieved in the end by the news of the restoration of the family fortune and of Precious Clasp's bearing a son by Pao-yü to continue the family line.

The last glimpse the readers have of Pao-yü is illusory but illustrative of the religious import of the novel. Chia Cheng, his father, was on his way home from Nanking, where he had buried the Matriarch in her family cemetery, when the following episode occurred:

One day he arrived at the P'i-ling post station, with the weather turning cold and snow falling. The boat was moored at a secluded nook on the river. Chia Cheng had sent his servants ashore to present to friends his visiting cards, explaining that he had to decline with thanks their invitation—he would not consider troubling them as he was so soon to set sail. Only a page was left on the boat to attend him. He then set himself to composing a letter home, which he intended to dispatch with a servant by the faster land route. He laid down his pen when he came to Pao-yü's disappearance. As he looked up, suddenly he saw on the bow of his boat someone dimly silhouetted in the bright snow. The person was baldheaded and bare-footed, his body wrapped in a flaming red cape of monkey-hair wool. He was kneeling down and kowtowing to Chia Cheng, who, however, failed to recognize him. Chia Chen hurried out of the cabin but before he could get hold of the man to find out who he was, the latter had kowtowed four times and stood up to greet him. Chia Cheng was about to bow back when he looked up and found himself face to face with Pao-yü! Chia Cheng was startled and asked hastily: “Is it you Pao-yü?” The man did not speak; he seemed both happy and sorrowful at the same time. “If you are Pao-yü,” Chia Cheng asked again, “how is it that you are dressed like that?”

Before Pao-yü was able to answer, there appeared on the prow two other persons: a Buddhist monk and a Taoist priest. They closed in on Pao-yü, one on each side of him, and said: “Your worldly duties have now been completed! Why don't you hurry away?” While speaking, the three went up the river bank as if wafted by the wind, and walked away. Heedless of the slippery ground, Chia Cheng rushed after them, but the three men were far ahead of him and he couldn't catch up with them.

(Chapter 120)²⁴

Ts'ao Hsüeh-ch'in's achievements in the novel are phenomenal but not beyond understanding. He accomplished what others had aspired to do, that is, to present faithfully, realistically, and graphically the picture of a typical upper-class Chinese family. His task was made much easier because the fictitious Chia²⁵ family was the Ts'ao family itself, in which Hsüeh-ch'in was brought up. As he had enjoyed the wealth and pomp of its heyday, so he witnessed bitterly its decline and ruin. It was caused not so much by the hostility of outward forces, although they had been building up against the family, as by its inner tension and corrosion, signs of which Ts'ao Hsüeh-ch'in must himself have detected during his younger days. It may even be possible to stretch the comparison further by identifying Pao-yü's character with the author's and to view Pao-yü's youthful escapades and penchants as those of Ts'ao Hsüeh-ch'in—such as his antitraditionalism and detestation of official life—though here a line must be drawn between what Goethe, Ts'ao's younger German contemporary, has called Dichtung und Wahrheit. It should be remembered that the Dream of the Red Chamber is after all a fiction and that to read into it too much of Ts'ao's life and thought or to exaggerate this autobiographical aspect of the novel would be to deny the artistic freedom and imagination of the author.

As indicated before, the Dream of the Red Chamber climaxes a long, realistic tradition in Chinese storytelling. It is not only a silhouette of life, but seems very close to life itself. All sorts of things happen in the novel; a motley group of characters pass in and out of it as occurs in this life; in it are ranged many kinds of emotions from the joys of love to the pangs of death—emotions that are sometimes intense and heightened, sometimes distracting and wayward. This point is made clear by the author himself in what is tantamount to a manifesto of realism in fiction. After having criticized the conventional novels of the past, Ts'ao Hsüeh-ch'in set forth in the beginning of this novel his own purpose and method of writing:

It seems much better to record the several maidens whom I have seen and heard about personally in the first half of my life. Although I dare not presume that they are more true to life than the others of the past, yet their deeds and actions would help dissipate the reader's grief and relieve him of boredom. The few doggerel verses in the book could also serve to provoke laughter during mealtime or over a cup of wine. As for the stories of separation and reunion, the emotions of sorrow and joy, the prosperity and decline of family fortune, the numerous occasions and varying circumstances—they are all set forth here in accordance with their cause and effect without my presuming to introduce even slightly any extraneous matter to make them lose reality.

(Chapter 1)²⁶

Thus, like most Chinese novelists, Ts'ao Hsüeh-ch'in made no effort to build up a plot for plot's sake, but simply wove the variegated threads of life—the trivial and commonplace as well as the spectacular and significant—into a colorful tapestry of supreme artistry and beauty.

An offshoot of the realistic novel is the satirical novel, which, however, is so important that it should be considered as another major type of Chinese fiction. The differences between the two are mainly in aim and emphasis rather than in content, technique, or style. Even their objectives are somewhat similar; thus in a realistic description of the unsavory aspects of domestic and social life, the satire is implied and always present. The satirical novel, however, differs from the realistic in that its assault on the evils of society is much more pronounced and intensive. Its best representative, The Informal History of the Literati (translated into English as The Scholars),²⁷ was written probably a few years earlier than the Dream of the Red Chamber. It ranks with the others mentioned in this chapter as one of the four great novels of the Ming-Ch'ing period. Space, however, permits only a brief mention of this unique work.

Written by Wu Ching-tzu (1701-1754), himself a member of the intelligentsia, the novel is an unmasking of the shameless behavior of the sham scholars of his time. The author's darts fall especially on the literary snobs, who are parasites of the rich and powerful. The objects of his satire are dual personalities, fawning before their superiors but arrogant in their dealings with those socially inferior. Each puts forth a false front of dignity and righteousness while in fact he is mean and vile. This attack on the literary pretenders is also an attack on officialdom and the examination system, as most of the scholars become officials after passing the examinations. Having thus raised themselves from poverty and obscurity, they display an utter disregard for official decency and, in spite of their professions of Confucian virtue, indulge in the age-old vices of Chinese bureaucracy such as nepotism, graft, and corruption. It should be noted, however, that there are also in the novel a number of good and honest scholars who stand out from the charlatans.

Wu's novel is an exposure of human weakness in general, hypocrisy being its chief target. While the scholars are typical hypocrites, they are equally representative of other follies and foibles. In a delightfully exaggerated and caustic manner is described the deathbed scene of Scholar Yen, a rich but parsimonious man, who purchased his degree by contributing a large sum of money to the Imperial Treasury—a common practice in those days. Scholar Yen had been seriously ill and speechless for three days. Just before his death, the sickroom was crowded with relatives and servants. On a table burned a wick-lighted oil lamp. The dying man was about to breathe his last when he stretched out his hand from the bed sheets and pointed feebly with his two fingers. The meaning of his gesticulation was incomprehensible to those present:

His nephews and servants all came forward to question him noisily. Some thought it signified two persons; others, two things; still others, two pieces of land. To all these wild conjectures he would simply shake his head to indicate a negative answer. Finally his wife, née Chao, having pushed the crowd apart, went up to him and said: “Dear, I am the only one here who understands your mind. You are upset because it wastes oil to burn two wicks together in the lamp. That's easy! I'll just pick away one of the wicks.” After having said this, she went immediately to remove the extra wick. While everyone was looking toward him, Scholar Yen nodded his head, let fall his hand, and immediately gave out his last breath. The whole family began to wail loudly with wide open mouths, and preparations were made to dress him for the funeral, after which they placed the coffin in the central hall of the third courtyard.

(Chapter 6)²⁸

Popular as it is, the Informal History of the Literati suffers from a basic weakness of the Chinese satirical novel, the lack of organic structure. If other Chinese novelists influenced by the storytelling tradition had a tendency to ramble on in a loose manner, they made at least an attempt to introduce a semblance of unity in their plots. On the other hand, that which strings together the various disconnected episodes in this novel is no more than its central theme mentioned above. The links between the episodes are so weak and ineffectual that the book might as well be divided into a number of separate stories like Thackeray's Book of Snobs. The same characteristic is also noticeable in the other satirical novels that flourished toward the end of the Ch'ing period. The appearance of the novel in the form of a travelogue²⁹ or in serial publications has further impaired the Chinese concept of the structure of fiction. It was not until the introduction of the Western novel in the twentieth century that Chinese writers became aware of the importance of plot-construction and began to learn this art from the literature of the West.

Notes

1. Endowed with great physical prowess and supreme swordsmanship, the Chinese heroes, like their European counterparts, perform feats of strength and fight in jousts and battles. No religious motive or emotional yearning, however, inspires their deeds. Love, whether sacred or profane, is unknown to them. On the other hand, their efforts are directed at aiding the great officials in the suppression of crime and the apprehension of evildoers, who may be outlaws, wicked officials, or rebellious princes. By combating the sinister forces of society, they render it a great service, for which they are loved by the people.

2. As specimens of Chinese fiction first introduced to Europe in the early eighteenth century, they are historically important for Western readers of Chinese literature. Translations such as The Pleasing History (later retranslated as The Fortunate Union and Breeze in the Moonlight) and Two Fair Cousins first appeared in English and French, and were immediately acclaimed by critics as examples of Chinese refinement and literary achievement. The popularity of these novels was due perhaps to their medium length, from eighteen to forty chapters, which can be easily handled in translation, as well as to their novelty and exotic appeal. It should also be remembered that before that time Europe itself was still under the influence of the elegant courtly society of Bourbon France and that at one time critical opinion in England had been swayed by the works of John Lyly. Like Lyly's Euphues, these Chinese novels are characterized by a stereotyped plot, artificial characters, and stale poetry. It is therefore unfortunate that the West should have gained its first impression of Chinese literature from these minor writings.

3. Quotations from Monkey (translated by Arthur Waley) by Wu Ch'eng-en, by permission of the John Day Company, Inc., publisher.

4. One part of this book, also entitled Journey to the West, is apparently an abridged version of Wu's novel instead of being its prototype, as has been claimed by some scholars. The other three parts deal with journeys to the north, south, and east, but they are all separate stories unrelated to each other.

5. Cf. Waley, Monkey, p. 73.

6. Arthur Waley, The Real Tripitaka (London, 1952), pp. 14-16.

7. By keeping intact the first twelve chapters of the original novel and reducing the other eighty-eight chapters into eighteen in the English version, Waley fails to give in Monkey a proper representation of the Chinese work. Most of the episodes in the second half of the novel, including some exceedingly exciting ones, as pointed out by Hu Shih, (Monkey, Preface, p. 4), are thus left untranslated.

8. Waley, Monkey, p. 231. A number of poems in the Chinese text are omitted in this translation.

9. Chung-kuo wen-hsüeh shih (A History of Chinese Literature), a co-operative project by the students of the Classical Literature Section of the Department of Chinese, Fu-tan University (Shanghai, 1958-1959), III, 144.

10. Waley, Monkey, p. 285.

11. The Golden Lotus, translated by Clement Egerton, 4 vols., London, 1939.

12. Chin P'ing Mei, The Adventurous History of Hsi-Men and His Six Wives (N.Y., 1947), tr. by Miall from Franz Kuhn's German version, with an introduction by Arthur Waley.

13. For the fascinating legend of its authorship by Wang Shih-chen, an eminent Ming dynasty writer, read Waley's “Introduction,” Ibid., pp.ix-xi. Waley's own theory that “Of possible candidates for the authorship of the Chin P'ing Mei I personally regard Hsü Wei as the strongest,” (Ibid. p.xix) follows a similar Chinese practice of attributing a popular work of literature to some well-known writer of the period without taking into account the important role of the popular storyteller in the development of Chinese colloquial literature from Sung to Ming.

14. Quoted from the 1617 (prefaced) edition. I have used this text, instead of later editions, for its crude simplicity and directness, e.g. instead of “Of course I want to have you,” the other editions have “I am just teasing you.” See Golden Lotus, III, 31-33.

15. While Ts'ao's death date has been established as 1764, there are different suggestions as to his birth date: (1) 1718 by Hu Shih; (2) 1724 by Chou Ju-ch'ang; (3) 1715 by Wu Shih-ch'ang. See Wu, On the “Red Chamber Dream,” pp. 103-113; 117-118. The difficulty of Wu's date is that it would make Ts'ao Hsüeh-ch'in almost fifty by Chinese counting at the time of his death, and this does not seem to agree with the primary source of Ts'ao's age, in which he is referred to as having died at forty or in his forties and in which he is compared to the poet Li Ho, who died young. I am more inclined to accept Chou's date and feel that Wu's objections to it are not unsurmountable.

16. Before this autobiographical interpretation of the novel was affirmed by Hu Shih and other scholars, previous interpretations can be summarized as follows: (1) the life and love of a Manchu emperor for a famous courtesan; (2) the love story of a Manchu poet and his talented concubine; (3) a political satire and a veiled attack on the Manchu dynasty. In a modified form the last interpretation has been revised in recent years by the critics on the Mainland who maintain that the novel is anti-feudal in its outlook. It attacks especially the traditional aspects of Chinese morality, political and legal institutions, the marriage system, and the examination system.

17. Cf. Dream of the Red Chamber, translated by Chi-chen Wang, (rev. ed. 1958), p. 7. It is omitted in The Dream of the Red Chamber, tr. by Franz Kuhn (in German), English tr. by Florence and Isabel McHugh. Both Wang's and Kuhn's versions are incomplete translations of the novel.

18. The earliest extant eighty-chapter handwritten version bears the date 1754, ten years before Ts'ao's death. The comments were made by one of his relatives, probably a paternal cousin. See Wu, xvi-xvii; 20-24, etc.

19. For a discussion of this question, read Wu, pp. 267-285, in which Kao's authorship of these forty chapters is reaffirmed; and C. T. Hsia's review of Wu's book in the Journal of Asian Studies, XXI, No. 1 (Nov. 1961), pp. 78-80. Also read Lin Yutang, “Reopening the Question of Authorship of ‘Red Chamber Dream,’” The Bulletin of the Institute of History and Philology, XXIX (1958), 327-387, in which Lin takes the view that the last forty chapters are the original work of Ts'ao Hsüeh-ch'in.

20. Last lines of the often quoted “Flower-burial Song” in the novel. Cf. Wang, p. 219; it is omitted in Kuhn.

21. Cf. Wang, pp. 219-21.

22. Pao-yü was thirteen in that year; Black Jade, twelve; and Precious Clasp, fifteen. Pao-yü had been only seven or eight and Black Jade probably six, when she came to live with the Chia family. See Chou Ju-ch'ang, Hung-lou meng hsin-cheng (New Evidences Concerning the “Dream of the Red Chamber”), (Shanghai, 1953), pp. 173-4; 183-4.

23. Cf. Wang, pp. 278-279.

24. Kuhn, pp. 578-579; Wang, p. 561 (a summary, not a translation).

25. The family name Chia is a homonym of the word meaning “fictitious.”

26. Cf. Wang, pp. 5-6. Omitted in Kuhn.

27. Translated by Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys Yang (Peking, 1957).

28. Cf. Yang, Scholars, p. 105.

29. Such as Liu E's The Travels of Lao Ts'an, translated by Harold Shadick. Other English versions of the same novel are Tramp Doctor's Travelogue, translated by Lin Yi-chin and Ko Te-shun (Shanghai, 1939), and Mr. Derelict, translated by Yang Hsien-yi and G. M. Tayler (London, 1948).

Works Cited

Hsi-yu chi. Monkey. Tr. by Arthur Waley. London, Allen & Unwin, 1942. Translation of one-third of the novel, omitting many episodes from Chapters 13-100.

Chin P'ing Mei. The Adventurous History of Hsi-Men and his Six Wives. Tr. by B. Miall from the German version of F. Kuhn. 2 vols. New York, Putnam, 1940. (One vol. ed., 1947.)

The Golden Lotus. Tr. by Clement Egerton. 4 vols. London, Routledge, 1939. (Reprint: New York, Grove Press, 1954.)

Hung-lou meng. Dream of the Red Chamber. Tr. by Chi-chen Wang. New York, Twayne Publishers (rev. and enlarged ed.), 1958. (First ed., New York, Doubleday, 1929; new abridged ed., Doubleday, 1958.)

The Dream of the Red Chamber. Tr. by Florence and Isabel McHugh from the German version of Franz Kuhn. New York, Pantheon, 1958.

Hung-lou meng. Wu Shih-ch'ang. On the Red Chamber Dream. Oxford University Press, 1961.

Ju-lin wai-shih. The Scholars. Tr. by Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys Yang. Peking, Foreign Languages Press, 1957.

Lao Ts'an yu-chi. The Travels of Lao Ts'an. Tr. by Harold Shadick. Ithaca, New York, Cornell University Press, 1952.