SOURCE: Hegel, Robert E. “Maturation and Conflicting Values: Two Novelists' Portraits of the Chinese Hero Ch'in Shu-pao.” In Critical Essays on Chinese Fiction,, edited by Winston L. Y. Yang and Curtis P. Adkins, pp.115-150. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 1980.

[In this essay, Hegel focuses on the frequently appearing character of Ch'in Shu-pao, also known as Ch'in Ch'iung, a military hero of the seventh century. Hegel examines depictions of this historical figure in novels from both the Ming and Ch'ing eras to demonstrate key philosophical changes reflected in the development of the novel. Note that in the following essay, Chinese characters have been silently removed.]

Ch'in Ch'iung, better known to generations of Chinese readers and theater-goers by his familiar name Ch'in Shu-pao, was one of the military commanders who assisted in the founding of the T'ang state early in the seventh century. During his rise to prominence Ch'in frequently demonstrated remarkable daring and resourcefulness in the face of the enemy; as a trusted subordinate of Li Shih-min (600-49, reigned as T'ai-tsung, 627-49) he was accorded highest honors both during the later years of his life and at his death. The details of Ch'in's life are little known—his biographies in the official histories are extremely brief.¹ However, his became one of the most commonly seen portraits in old China: legend has it that after his fratricidal rise to the throne, Li Shih-min's sleep was troubled by visions of the dead. To protect him as he slept, Li stationed Ch'in Shu-pao and his other best-known general, Yü-ch'ih Ching-te, at the doors of his chamber. Although this precaution was successful, the emperor took pity on his generals and relieved them of their nightly duties, replacing them with portraits of the two in full battle dress. As a consequence, representations of Ch'in and Yü-ch'ih thereafter came to be painted on the main gates of temples to serve as gate gods,² a practice still followed in Taiwan province today.

Despite the limited extent of his apotheosis, Ch'in Shu-pao grew in stature in the popular imagination through the oral tradition and the drama. Early versions of this character appear in tsa-chü plays of the Yüan and early Ming periods, although Ch'in was not as popular then as was Yü-ch'ih Ching-te.³ It was in the novels of the Ming and Ch'ing that Ch'in reached fullest development. Presumably he was among the characters in Sui T'ang chih-chuan, a long lost popularized historical narrative by China's first known novelist, Lo Kuan-chung (ca. 1330-ca. 1400); he is one of the numerous military figures to appear prominantly in a rare later recension entitled Sui T'ang liang-ch'ao chih-chuan [Chronicles of the Two Dynasties, Sui and T'ang], probably compiled before 1550; the only extant edition is dated 1619),⁴ in the enigmatic Ta T'ang Ch'in-wang tz'u-hua [Ballad Tale of the Prince of Ch'in of the Great T'ang Dynasty] (perhaps compiled ca. 1550),⁵ and the popularized history compiled by Hsiung Chung-ku (Hsiung Ta-mu, fl. 1550, a Fukien book merchant) entitled T'ang shu yen-i [Romance from the History of the T'ang] (first printed 1553).⁶ It is not known how Ch'in Shu-pao fared at the hands of the professional storytellers until the Ming, but by the early seventeenth century he and several of his peers had become common topics for elaboration by the celebrated raconteur Liu Ching-t'ing (ca. 1587-after 1668, a Ming loyalist).⁷ Yüan Yü-ling (1599-1674, a Suchou playwright and poet) was the first to compile a complete fictionalized biography for Ch'in Shu-pao, perhaps based in part on Liu's tales, with the title Sui shih i-wen [Tales Forgotten by the Sui Historians] (1633; hereafter Forgotten Tales].⁸ The bulk of this biography, with additions and emendations, was incorporated into Sui T'ang yen-i [Romance of the Sui and the T'ang] (1695; hereafter Romance) by the anthologizer Ch'u Jen-huo (ca. 1630-ca. 1705) during the 1670s.⁹ It was probably early in the eighteenth century that elements from several of these novels and various popular theatrical pieces were combined by an anonymous editor to form yet another novel in which Ch'in Shu-pao figures prominently, the popular military romance Shuo T'ang yen-i ch'üan-chuan [Stories of the T'ang, Complete Version] (known later as Shuo T'ang ch'ien-chuan [Stories of the T'ang, First Series].¹⁰ And although the life of Ch'in Shu-pao received minor elaboration for presentation on the Chinese stage, this last work marks the end of his evolution of a subject for vernacular literature.

Leaving aside the Ballad Tale, the prose narratives listed above fall neatly into two categories on the basis of intended audience. Forgotten Tales and the Romance were written by and for members of the educated elite. There is no doubt concerning the authorship of these works; both novelists proudly admitted their roles in their compositions in signed prefaces. Both novels employ the authoritative voice of a narrator who points out, frequently using first person pronouns, the emotional or moral impact of events narrated therein; both works utilize an often rather stilted vocabulary; both regularly present descriptions of persons, places, objects in verse or parallel prose which would be well beyond the comprehension of all but the highly educated reader. Irony and suspense are used consciously for artistic effect as well. Contrasted with these two, the pace of action in the other works is furious; events are narrated one after another with no pause for the reader to reflect on their greater significance—if any. New characters are introduced in virtually every episode of these other novels, each of which is described in similarly superlative terms. The focus of attention in these other works (particularly Chronicles and Stories of the T'ang) clearly is on action, with few or no digressions for rumination about motivations or morals, no emphasis on the greater patterns in human events as narrated therein. Such novels for the more general reader center on the actors, not the thinkers, of China's past and narrate their acts with a minimum of artistic frills; in the case of Stories of the T'ang the editor even strove to use more common words in his writing, to avoid the stilted vocabulary of his more literary sources. The present study will examine the literary novels in this group, Forgotten Tales and Romance, in terms of the differences between their conceptions of their hero Ch'in Shu-pao and of the artistic factors behind these differences.¹¹

In contrast to the heroes of many other Chinese historical novels (including those earlier works in which he appears), Ch'in Shu-pao is introduced in Forgotten Tales as a youth bound for glory but with a great deal to learn. Indeed, as Yüan Yü-ling declares in Chapter 1 of that work:

It has always been so that those in situations of greatest wealth, of greatest honor, and of greatest luxury delight the heart to speak of them, delight the ear to hear of them, and delight the eye to read about them. Yet sorrow and destruction are ever inherent in such situations; if these persons do not provoke everlasting vituperation, then, worse yet, they become the laughingstock of the ages. … Only the hero in the wilds who will not make a name for himself, will not take pleasure in wine or in women, instead must suffer ignominy and loneliness in fullest measure. Still it is he who can capitalize on the downfall of others from their lives of ease; regardless of whether he aids in the recovery of an imperial house or founds a dynasty on his own his name will last throughout eternity. Though his reputation may shine in later ages, the man himself becomes no different in attributes through his success. Like the sun and the moon he has always shone of himself; skiffs of cloud or wisps of fog may obscure him, but he will always shine through whether or not his contemporaries recognize his greatness. And later when people begin to eulogize him, what they record with paper and pen will be nothing more than the circumstances immediately surrounding his successes; they will say nothing of his life in obscurity. Who can foresee in a tiny seed the pine or cypress reaching to the heavens, or that a cub tiger or leopard will someday be able to devour a whole cow? Still, to speak of such matters [as the early life of a hero] strikes people as being new and different. I will not introduce this person until I have outlined something of the events which he encountered at that time. …¹²

As he indicates in this prologue, Yüan Yü-ling's purpose in Forgotten Tales is to provide a fictionalized maturation process for Ch'in Shu-pao, to create for him a background which could have produced the successes attributed to him in the orthodox histories. Inasmuch as Romance borrows heavily from Forgotten Tales for details of Ch'in's life, most frequently copied verbatim from it,¹³ I will outline those portions of Ch'in's development which are common to both works before citing differences and analyzing their significance.

In both Forgotten Tales and Romance Ch'in Shu-pao is provided with an enviable lineage, a pedigree which presages glory as a leader of men:

His grandfather, Ch'in Hsü, was a general of the Northern Ch'i armies; his father, Ch'in I, was a general in the Northern Ch'i military administration. At the time his mother, née Ning, gave birth to him, Ch'in Hsü said, “At the present time our state, Ch'i, borders on the Ch'en realm to the south and stretches westward to the Chou frontier. The wars for supremacy among them are not yet over. Would that this grandson of mine and his father might establish true peace!” And he chose as milk name for the boy T'ai-p'ing-lang [Master Peace].¹⁴

With this degree of dedication on the part of his forebears, the reader might expect that Ch'in is to receive careful parental tutelage, but this is not the case. Within three years of his birth the state of Ch'i collapses and both of the elder Ch'ins die, one in battle and the other by his own hand when all hope is lost. Consequently Ch'in Shu-pao's mother flees into hiding, penniless and alone. Deprived of paternal guidance, Ch'in grows up “on the streets,” as it were, unruly and devoid of sophistication.

This Ch'in Ch'iung grew until he was ten feet tall in body and ten span around the waist. His eyes were rivers, his mouth a lake; he had a swallow's chin and a tiger's head. He was lazy when it came to reading books; he loved only to twirl his lance and to fool with his staff, to practice boxing and the other martial arts. In the streets and markets he loved “action” and often resorted to force to right an injustice with no regard for his own life.¹⁵

Surely there is little here of the high sense of purpose and Confucian restraint appropriate to one of Ch'in's breeding!

Although she has little direct control over her son, Ch'in's mother does instill in him some sense of filial piety:

Time and time again Lady Ning would say to him with tears in her eyes, “You are the only one left of three generations of Ch'ins. I will not forbid you to handle a lance or to drag around your staff; you are the seed of generals, after all. But you are not to risk your life in a fit of anger. You must support my aging body and preserve the Ch'in family line!” Because of this whenever Ch'in Ch'iung started something in the streets, he would hear his mother calling him. Then he would leave off, and go home.¹⁶

Since “filial piety is the root of all virtues and the source from which all teachings arise,”¹⁷ this one moral obligation realistically, in the context of old China, becomes a strong formative influence in Ch'in's development.

The other major factors in his growth are peer group pressure and his own desire for glory; the latter is an adjunct of filial piety, since success on the part of the individual brings glory to the parents. Many of Ch'in's early friends are respectable (the local constable Fan Chien-wei, the educated Wang Po-tang, the horse trader Chia Jun-fu), but others simply are not—Ch'in spares no expense in entertaining every reckless “good fellow” (hao-han) who should happen to travel through.

Most of these were men of no real ability, and since Ch'in devoted himself to making such friends with his limited resources, every one considered him something of a fool and were unwilling to recommend him for positions. Even though he had some amount of native ability, he had an inflated view of himself and used various means to push others around. People laughed at him as a boor, showing him little respect. As a consequence his reputation suffered.¹⁸

Ch'in Shu-pao at this stage, as a teenager, would prefer the carefree life at home, practicing with his weapons and discussing military strategy with his friends in a spirit of fun. When Fan Chien-wei proposes that he join the local constabulary as a means to win recognition, Ch'in retorts:

“Not once in my entire life, brother, have I placed any value on serving some official. I am one of a line of generals. If I achieve my aim I will lead a line of troops or horse to slay generals and capture standards, to expand the frontiers and extend the domain. This will bring glory and rank to my parents and honors and privileges to my wife and children. But if I don't achieve my aim, I still have several mou of poor fields and a few fruit trees I can rely on to care for my old mother and to support my wife and children. And I have some local wine and a few chickens in our shabby little house that I can use to entertain my true friends. Whenever cares trouble this brave heart of mine, even though I may not know how to sing lyrics and compose verse or to play a zither or strum a lute, if I handle my lance or my staff for a while this is enough to work it out of me. Why should I bow my head to some corrupt official and obey his orders? If I capture a thief it would be his accomplishment; all the booty I might recover would be just that much more wealth for him! We'd be the ones to wear ourselves out capturing bandits, but they'd only have to slip him a little money and he'd let them go, claiming false arrest on our part. Nor could I bear to go slinking around hurting good people just for the sake of filling his ricebowl. I'll have nothing to do with him!”¹⁹

With appropriate irony his mother instructs him to accept the position as a first step in his career; Ch'in can only meekly obey. Soon this Shantung youth is sent to Shansi on an official mission, to deliver prisoners to the magistrate at Luchou. His departure marks the end of Ch'in's adolescent naivety and the beginning of a new stage in his life, a period of successive trials and lessons learned wholly at his own expense. His basic problem is indecision; he is simply too inexperienced to make mature decisions on his own.

Hesitation and passivity plague Ch'in throughout this stage. On the way to Luchou when he and Fan discover Li Yüan (Duke of T'ang and later the first T'ang emperor) beset by brigands, Ch'in's immediate response is to sigh philosophically, “You can see that the world is in turmoil; it has spread everywhere in Shantung and Honan. Brigands have sprung up, and there's nothing to be done about it. But who would think that here, no more than ten miles from the gate of the capital, highwaymen would be allowed to run wild?”²⁰ Fan urges him to action with an appeal to his vanity:

“All over Shantung people call you ‘Chuan Chu's match.’²¹ Could it be that you only right wrongs in your home area! We're seeing an injustice right here and now on this highway—how can you just ignore it? Why don't you use some of that great ability of yours to help him out—show that you really are an outstanding man and a great gentleman.”

“I'd already thought of that, my virtuous brother, but I was afraid that you wouldn't want to lend a hand,” Shu-pao said. “I'm the one who's trying to make you go, brother,” said Fan; “Why wouldn't I lend a hand?” Shu-pao said, “Then if that's how you're going to be, take these prisoners down the mountain and find a place to wait for me outside the pass.” “If I'm here maybe I can help—why do you want me to go ahead?” Fan said. Ch'in said, “I can clear out this band of robbers all by myself—and if you gave me a hand, who'd look after the prisoners?” “Then be careful, brother,” Fan said, and he led the prisoners away.²²

Ch'in's response here is ludicrous, of course. His mission is to deliver the prisoners safely. With this foremost in his mind, he simply cannot think of any response that will satisfy more than one demand at a time.

If this unexpected turn of events catches Ch'in Shu-pao at a loss, his further adventures demonstrate to an even greater extent his helplessness. Ch'in's rescue attempt is successful; Heaven had timed his arrival at this spot in order for him to save this future dynasty founder.²³ But when Li Yüan offers to thank Ch'in in person for saving his life, the boy can only flee in confusion—he has no friend at hand to advise him on the proper course of action. Soon he rejoins Fan, they ride on until their paths divide, and Ch'in rides into Luchou alone with his prisoners. However, in his youthful haste he has forgotten to obtain his share of the money given them for travel expenses which Fan has been keeping. He delivers his prisoners only to find himself alone, penniless, and without friends in a strange city, his first time away from home.

The day after Ch'in presents his prisoners to the Luchou court, the magistrate is called away on business—before he can post Ch'in's return orders. He must pass his time waiting impatiently in an inn. This establishment is operated by Wang Hsiao-erh, a character whose actions are determined solely by the profit motive. When Ch'in first appears Wang treats him with unaccustomed deference, but from the moment he realizes that Ch'in has no money, Wang responds with ever less courteous service. Nor can Shu-pao think of any alternative but to bear the innkeeper's insults in silence.

A month later the Luchou magistrate returns. Anxious to be on his way back to the security of home, Ch'in repeatedly attempts to attract the man's attention from the moment his chair enters the suburbs. With true boyish clumsiness, he lays a hand a bit too heavily on the shoulder of one palanquin bearer. The bearer stumbles, the official is pitched to the ground, and Ch'in is publicly flogged for his lack of courtesy. The next day he does receive his return orders, but there remains the matter of his bill at the inn. Ch'in waits even longer in the vain hope that Fan Chien-wei might come with money; Wang is now quite blunt in his scorn. Then one day the innkeeper's mood unexpectedly shifts:

It had been many days since Shu-pao had seen such a smiling face and pleasant appearance from Wang Hsiao-erh. Now Wang had rented his room out from under him and could not be otherwise but polite about it. This was the reason behind his pleasantness. Ch'in Shu-pao was a man of heroic spirit—how could he endure this slight at the hands of such a petty person? It was only because he was short on food money that he even thought about it. Then he changed to meet this new situation, saying, “Brother Hsiao-erh, do as you please with that room. As long as you have a place for me where I can rest, that will be enough. I do not care what it is like.”²⁴

Obsessed with his debt, Ch'in again accepts the path of least resistance. However, this “new room” is only a broken-down shed attached to the kitchen. It is filthy; a cold wind whistles through the numerous cracks and holes in its walls and roof.

This added discomfort makes Ch'in's misery too much to bear, and he responds for the first time with an emotional outburst. Sitting on the pile of straw that constitutes the only “furnishings” in the hovel, Ch'in hears footsteps approaching. “Shu-pao was an outstanding man, unruffled either by favor or disgrace. But by this time he could no longer restrain himself. ‘Who is that knocking on my door?’ he demanded. ‘You petty fool! Don't you even know who I am?’” That his visitor is not Wang, but instead is the innkeeper's wife clandestinely bringing Ch'in food, only serves to increase his chagrin. He breaks down into grateful tears at this show of consideration.²⁵

After suffering further anxiety, Ch'in finally conceives of a solution to his problem; he will sell his weapons and horse in order to pay his bill. Yet his truncheons (chien) are heirlooms—with them his grandfather and father fought their way to glory. And his mount is a rare thousand-li charger, a steed fit only for a true hero. Giving up either it tantamount to losing his symbols of knighthood and therefore his honor as a man with aspirations (many rugged peasants have his size and strength, but only a genuine military hero has such accouterments). There is no choice, however. His efforts to sell these, his identification, likewise meet with no success. Then an old man suggests that Ch'in sell his horse to a local landlord named Shan Hsiung-hsin.

Shu-pao felt as if he had awakened from a drunken stupor, as if he had emerged from a monstrous dream. Silently he chided himself, “I didn't even think of alternatives. At home I often heard my friends say that Shan Hsiung-hsin of Erhhsien Manor is both generous and an outstanding man. How could I have come this far without going to meet him? It's too late now; it'd be like waiting until you're thirsty to dig a well—it would be far too embarrassing. But if I don't go to Erh-hsien Manor, then what can I do? I can't cross this river without a boat. Enough! I have to sell this horse. But I won't present myself to such a famous man, and that's all there is to it. …”²⁶

Subsequently Ch'in humbles himself before Shan, even to the point of pretending to be just a lowly peasant down on his luck.

At this point Ch'in Shu-pao approaches the nadir of his career. A minor slight in a tavern soon afterward enrages him to the point of nearly irrepressible violence. And then the final blow: Ch'in in his rags is recognized there by Wang Po-tang, a respected friend from home. Ch'in hangs his head in shame and is unable to tell Wang the full details of his predicament. He leaves for home on foot, but after a night of walking in circles in the dark, Ch'in collapses in a temple, utterly exhausted both in mind and in body.

Heaven steels man for future trials, the narrator remarks;²⁷ indeed, Ch'in's experience to date has taught him just how much he needs companions. His tribulations are far from over, but at least now he has the consolation of friends, all men of martial bent, ambition, and varying amounts of worldly wisdom. The first of them is Wei Cheng, then abbott in charge of the temple where Ch'in collapses; Wei teaches him the importance of strong friendships, personal alliances in effect, in such troubled times—the True Ruler (chen-chu) has appeared, and the Sui realm is on the verge of collapse. The second is Shan Hsiung-hsin who, in an effort to make amends for not recognizing Ch'in's martial spirit as he bought the horse, detains him for several months while he recuperates. Shan provides a model for behavior appropriate to a destined leader, and at the same time he chides Ch'in for his naivety. One snowy day Fan Chien-wei arrives at Shan's manor, searching for his lost friend at the insistence of mother Ch'in. Shu-pao reads the letter he brings, and with tears in his eyes Ch'in begins to pack. Shan again detains him, arguing that genuine filial piety would best be served if Ch'in did not risk his health, even his life, in a headlong flight homeward in such inclement weather. “Even though it would demonstrate the strength of your feelings, it would not serve the way of filial piety.”²⁸ Greatly relieved, Ch'in does wait until the following spring. Finally when he can bear to be away from home no longer, Shan sends him off with the stern injunction not to seek fame and glory in official service. For his part, Ch'in grumbles about what he interprets as familiarity that breeds contempt. Shan's words have little meaning with bills to pay and friends to entertain—how would Ch'in support himself outside official service?²⁹ Such thoughts demonstrate his growing awareness of his responsibilities.

And so the still headstrong Ch'in Shu-pao gallops off for home. But in order to forestall polite objections, Shan has concealed a great amount of gold in Ch'in's bedroll. Before long it jiggles loose; he stops to rest and repack at a roadside inn. The innkeeper, also the local constable, becomes justifiably suspicious of Ch'in's now prosperous appearance and spies on him, just as Ch'in is inspecting this surprising gift. The constable rushes into the room; caught off guard, Ch'in strikes without thinking, and in a moment the constable lies dead on the floor. Ch'in is beaten, trussed up, and carted back to Luchou for trial. Soon he sets out again as a result of Shan's liberally applied bribes—not for home, but for the frontier commandery at Yuchou to serve a term of penal servitude for accidental homicide. Although Ch'in makes no protest against this tribulation, seeing a friend being trounced in a boxing ring along his route to exile throws him into such rage that he vaults into the ring himself. Fortunately his temper brings good results this time. The fight is stopped by Chang Kung-chin, a man who had been enlisted beforehand to help Ch'in in this predicament. Chang and his friends have dire warnings for Ch'in, however. Lo I (known to history as Li I—he was granted the T'ang imperial surname for his role in the consolidation of the state), the permanent administrator of this district, virtually an independent duchy, is known to be harsh in regulating his troops and brutal in punishment for any infringement of his rules.

Ch'in creeps into Lo I's court on his knees, apprehensive to the point of terror, only to have the official retire nearly at once. Summoned again later, Ch'in learns that Mme. Lo is actually his aunt, his father's sister; by virtue of this coincidence Ch'in is offered a position of authority in Lo's forces. But first he must prove himself in the handling of weapons. Ch'in does well enough with truncheons and passably with the lance, but his boyish braggadocio nearly brings disaster in an archery contest. When he realizes that he cannot hit the tiny distant target required for all Lo's archers, Ch'in requests permission to shoot down a flying bird—in the hope that none will appear. Finally a hawk does swoop by and is dropped by a marvellous shot; although Ch'in's arrow falls short, his reputation has been saved by his twelve-year-old cousin, Lo Ch'eng, an exceptional archer.

This fiasco marks another watershed in Ch'in Shu-pao's career, ushering in a period of rigorous training. Lo I proves to be an affectionate, if demanding, taskmaster; he forces Ch'in to spend long hours in daily practice with weapons in addition to providing him with tutorials in battlefield strategy and campaign tactics. Here Ch'in has found a model fully worthy of emulation. Lo's forces, his abilities, even his personal bearing strike awe into him. That Ch'in is aware of his inexperience (he likens himself to the proverbial frog in a well³⁰) only accelerates his maturation. Six months pass quickly for him, troubled only by concern for his mother. He wants to fly home, but his situation is complex: through his uncle's generosity he has leapt from convict to respected military officer in a single bound; to indicate any dissatisfaction with his present situation might affront Lo I. In addition, the relationship between Ch'in and his cousin has become very close, and both are reluctant to separate. Lo Ch'eng refuses even to intercede with his parents for Ch'in's dismissal. Finally, Ch'in Shu-pao can only scrawl on a wall a poem expressing his homesickness. Lo I and his wife discuss the matter; the elder Lo can only set aside his plans for Ch'in and give him leave to return home.

Anxious to prove himself on this new basis, Ch'in hastens first to Luchou where he rewards the innkeeper's wife for her kindness to him. Nor does he bear the innkeeper any grudge for his discourtesy, a function of the requirements of successful business. Ch'in retrieves his expensive gifts from Shan, bids his benefactor another farewell, and gallops home at breakneck speed to attend his mother. Thus at last he returns home in (relative) glory. Ch'in Shu-pao has taken a passive role in most of his adventures this far; he has acted as he was forced to act by physical circumstances and by other people. Rarely has he been able to respond according to his own lights, but he has matured rapidly through these three years of trial.

Ch'in perceives his responsibilities more clearly as he enters this first period of limited recognition. He now is a man of means, thanks to the generosity of friends and relations. Acting on Lo I's final orders, Ch'in presents himself to the Circuit Intendant of his home area, Lai Hu-erh, for a commission. Lai is unswayed by Lo's letter of introduction; he grants Ch'in only a low rank until he proves himself. But this new Ch'in Shu-pao is conscientious. When Lai entrusts him with a convoy of birthday gifts for the high minister Yang Su, Ch'in takes leave of his mother and sets off at once for the capital. Before long he is attacked by highwaymen who, it turns out, are led by Ch'in's old friend Wang Po-tang. Battle is averted, but now the various bandit leaders insist on accompanying the train to the capital in order to see the sights.

Here Ch'in's training is put to the test. Rules of courtesy make refusal impossible; when hints do not deter the group, Ch'in can only take them along with misgivings. However, he does succeed in leaving them drunk in a tavern outside the city while he completes his mission. Having done so, he must reenter Ch'angan with them to keep them out of trouble. A potentially dangerous situation is averted as Ch'in calms one of their number who has become the butt of a crowd of dandies' laughter, but then disaster strikes in earnest. A wealthy rake abducts a maiden; Ch'in Shu-pao vows to return her to her mother. With cool calculation he leads his companions in a quick search; when they locate the villain he engineers a situation which will allow them to approach their target. It is Ch'in, too, who strikes the wastrel dead on the spot. Yet his vendetta backfires: the girl and her mother are executed, and a large number of innocent bystanders die in the conflagration Ch'in's comrades start to cover their escape. Although the perpetrator of this monstrous injustice has received his just desert, Ch'in simply did not foresee the further consequences of his altruistic response, and his conscience goads him mercilessly as a consequence.³¹

Ch'in's duties in Lai Hu-erh's service continue. When the local constables led by Fan Chien-wei are unable to track down a pair of highwaymen who daringly made off with 3,000 ounces of tax silver, Ch'in is transferred to the case. Although outstanding in other regards, Ch'in makes only a mediocre criminal investigator with the result that he and his unit are flogged several times for their failure. At the home of a friend he weeps in his wine, admitting,

“Sir, I may be good-for-nothing, but it's not that I can't bear the pain of a little criticism and a little flogging from the magistrate. That's not why I have tears in my eyes. … A few years ago when I was on commission east of the Yellow River I made a good friend named Shan Hsiung-hsin who sent me home with several hundred ounces of gold, telling me not to serve as a runner for any official. I should try to establish myself some other way than at the red gates of a court. I often remember what he told me. It was only because I had my heart set on earning a reputation for meritorious service that I put my weapons at the service of Commander Lai just to gain a small post. I didn't foresee that I'd be called down by the governor of the province, or that today my body—the gift of my parents—would be broken and shamed by an official beating. I'm even ashamed to let you see the tears in my eyes, old friend.”³²

At this point Fan brings word of a mysterious group of armed horsemen at the home of Chia Jun-fu; he suspects that the criminals are among them. A quick check reveals that Ch'in knows virtually all of them, however; they are his stalwart friends from all of his previous adventures who have gathered here to pay their respects to Ch'in's mother on her birthday.³³ Ch'in presents himself in borrowed robes, ashamed to appear before his friends again in shabby clothing. The theft of the imperial silver naturally is mentioned in conversation over wine. When he learns that the elusive bandits include his childhood friend and sworn brother Ch'eng Yao-chin, Ch'in acts without hesitation. “Hsiung-hsin handed the arrest warrant back to Shu-pao who took it and noisily crumpled it up with both hands, then tore it to bits. Li Hsüan-sui [Li Mi, a contender for the realm later, at the fall of the Sui] and Ch'ai Ssu-ch'ang [Ch'ai Shao, the son-in-law of Li Yüan] immediately leapt up to snatch it from him, but by then Ch'in had already ignited the warrant at the lamp.”³⁴ By this altruistic act Ch'in symbolically turns his back on his official duties for the sake of a friend—and has risked nullifying all previous efforts to win rank and glory. Yet in the same spirit his other stalwart friends rise to his defense. They arrange for the stolen goods to be replaced and through their influence with Commander Lai have Ch'in transferred to other duties. The theft remains unsolved, but the investigation at least is no longer the responsibility of Ch'in Shu-pao.

With the praises of his commander ringing in his ears—a much needed psychological support—Ch'in is sent now on a mission of far greater importance, for the Sui central government: he is entrusted with escorting a force of five hundred laborers to the area where Grand Canal excavation is in progress. Enroute he hears the sound of bitter lamentation rising everywhere from among the poor. Their infant sons and daughters are being kidnapped by a gang of local strongarms to be killed and presented to the evil excavation overseer Ma Shu-mou—who has developed a taste for human flesh. Immediately ready to right this injustice, Ch'in lies in ambush for the abductors, captures them, and then defends them against the vengeful mob. It is better to bring them to official justice, Ch'in maintains, in order to learn the whole truth of the matter. The facts are precisely as the peasants said they were, however. Ch'in turns the kidnappers over to Ma Shu-mou himself, the highest imperial representative at hand, but of course Ma promptly releases them to insure a steady supply of meat for his table. Although the younger, more impetuous Ch'in Shu-pao might have slain Ma on the spot, this alternative does not occur to him now as a mature servant of the state. Instead, he only shakes his head in disbelief at the enormity of this outrage. Ma gives him an administrative position in the canal work; again his faithful service goes unappreciated. Furthermore, Ma accuses him of collusion with the common people in defiance of imperial interests. Ch'in thus finally realizes the truth in what people have been telling him, that the Sui government is cruel and unjust, that it has no use for men of honesty and talent, and that its fall is imminent. Officials can either cooperate in the perpetration of massive exploitation and tyranny or they can leave; Ch'in retires.

At last Ch'in Shu-pao's painful education in the ways of the world has borne fruit. He realizes at last that he cannot serve the Sui in good conscience, that official service now would bring him none of the fame he so desires. Therefore he consciously chooses to “hide his tracks” by retiring to a country home. Despite the urgings of his friends to the contrary, Ch'in can now state with confidence that the world will need him more later and that he will await that time in peace. His self control and assurance even make it possible for Ch'in to take on a protege; he informally adopts, then tames, the unruly and destructive Lo Shih-hsin, a teenager with incredible strength and a fiery temper.

Ch'in emerges from his years of pastoral purification in a manner befitting his self concept. The Korean state of Koryô having been remiss in its tribute missions as a vassal of the Sui, Emperor Yang orders a punitive expedition with Lai Hu-erh in command of one force. Lai invites Ch'in to serve as general of the vanguard, even going so far as to send Chang Hsü-t'o, a man widely praised for his benevolent administration, as his envoy to Ch'in. Under the combined pressure of his mother and Lo Shih-hsin, he accepts the commission and before long distinguishes himself as an able strategist. It is through Ch'in's decisive battlefield maneuvers that the Koreans are beaten back to their capital, P'yongyang. He receives direct recognition from the emperor for this victory.

However, Ch'in nearly falls afoul of Yü-wen Shu, the father of the rake he slew in Ch'angan years before. Yü-wen is the commander of another arm of the expeditionary force and as such he summons Ch'in to his headquarters, straight into an ambush. Captured and trussed up by this evil minister, Ch'in loudly announces the values he now holds so firmly:

“Enough! I got rid of a public nuisance that day. Now you want to take revenge for your son—I'll just hand over this head of mine and be done with it. I only regret that I haven't yet repaid my mother for her concern and that Korea isn't yet pacified. Away with it! Cut it off whenever you want!” And with that he gave a twist and stamped out of the camp, taking great strides.³⁵

Commander Lai intervenes with force, and thus Ch'in is able to return home in glory. Now he is a famous general with wholehearted desire to serve his state and dauntless in the face of any foe. He is the enemy of the faction in control of the corrupt and rapacious Sui court as well.

Once more back in Shantung, Ch'in Shu-pao and Lo Shih-hsin enlist in Chang Hsü-t'o's division of the army to win further honor through bandit suppression. Ch'in, the worthy scion of a line of generals, routs the various desperado leaders and pacifies the masses wherever he goes. But after Li Mi and Wang Po-tang openly rebel against the Sui, Yü-wen Shu takes advantage of their friendship with Ch'in to order a warrant for the latter's arrest. This time Chang Hsü-t'o intercedes on Ch'in's behalf, but Yü-wen is bent on revenge and has Ch'in's family arrested. Lo Shih-hsin exerts his tremendous strength to free them from their fetters; they seek refuge with Ch'in's friends who have now become highwaymen, virtual rebels against the throne. Ch'in himself must flee as well. Leaving an impassioned letter of farewell for his friend Chang, he accepts the inevitability of rebellion to join Li Mi's band at Tile Ridge (Wa-kang). Tragically, Chang is sent to subdue this band of outlaws soon afterward; both he and Ch'in's old friend Fan Chien-wei die in the ensuing battle. Ch'in is smitten with remorse at the death of Chang; because of the respect and understanding Chang showed him, Ch'in considered the man to be a true friend (chih-chi). Consequently Ch'in delays all else until he sees to their proper burial.

Thereafter Ch'in serves for a time as a subject of Li Mi, the self-styled Duke of Wei. A meeting with a rival leader, Li Shih-min, proves to be Ch'in's undoing, however. He and Shih-min immediately perceive the greatness in each other, and a conflict of loyalties presents itself. Ch'in has sworn allegiance to the Wei, while it is clear that the T'ang ultimately will be victorious with Li Shih-min as its True Ruler. And as a top Wei strategist, Ch'in can only extricate himself from this predicament by going to visit his mother. Before long Li Mi is dead, the victim of his own arrogance and treachery, and lord and subject are wedded into the perfect union for a warrior: Ch'in Shu-pao gains a secure position, fame, and honor in the T'ang hierarchy. Now he can devote himself single-mindedly to his duties having fulfilled all expectations, whether his own or those of others. As proof of his abilities he wins over the formidable general Yü-ch'ih Ching-te.

Yet Ch'in cannot simply turn his back on friends of times past. When Shan Hsiung-hsin is captured in battle Ch'in first intercedes with the T'ang leaders on his behalf; failing in this, he and a few other close friends accompany Shan to the execution ground. There,

Shu-pao ordered a follower to bring out a firepot. Each man drew the dagger he wore at his waist, and one after the other they all sliced strips of flesh from their thighs. They roasted these pieces of muscle over the fire, then presented them to Hsiung-hsin to eat. “We your brothers swore to live and die together with you, but today we are unable to follow you. If on some other day we should have cause to eat our words and fail to care for and protect your family, may we be like this flesh—butchered and roasted by others,” they said.³⁶

From this time onward Ch'in serves his lord well, retiring just before the bloody fraternal struggle which puts Li Shih-min on the throne. Now in his fifties, Ch'in Shu-pao is all the histories say that he was, a total success and a genuine military hero.

The lengthy synopsis of Ch'in Shu-pao's fictional career above was provided to demonstrate several noteworthy general features of this character. First, his life in these two novels is eventful, convincingly so; the narrative spans not just a year or two but instead more than three decades of the man's life with details of happenings during most of those years. These events are complex, the character even more so—Yüan Yü-ling has fancied an entire personality for him in contrast to the limited sets of attributes which constitute other of the favorite heroes in Chinese novels. Secondly, this synopsis demonstrates how remarkably realistic the development of this character is. Ch'in Shu-pao, in the hands of Yüan (and of Ch'u Jen-huo, since the latter copied these portions of Forgotten Tales without significant modification), progresses through definite stages from youthful naivety to self-confident maturity, from obscurity to renown. He has moved from spectator to active participant in life, even to the point of national prominence. His development has had six discrete phases: adolescent ignorance, tormented isolation as he first confronts the world at large, practical education under the direction of men already well established in society, tests in which he proves his moral stature and abilities, then a period of “seasoning”—a period of self-instruction and reflection on these lessons in retirement, and finally maturity. In those portions of his life shared by Forgotten Tales and Romance, Ch'in Shu-pao develops not at all after emerging from retirement; by that point his education is sufficient for him to take the place accorded him by history, among the founding heroes of the T'ang. And so, had the historians recorded it, might his life actually have been. Indeed, appearing as he does in a tradition of heroic literature in China, Ch'in Shu-pao is quite unusual for having developed so much on the pages of a novel. Other best-known Chinese heroes such as Kuan Yü of San-kuo chih yen-i [Romance of the Three Kingdoms] and the various bandit leaders of Shui-hu chuan [The Water Margin] are virtually static characters by comparison. Although the reader learns something more about such characters from reading their further adventures, it is the reader's knowledge, not the characters themselves, which has grown. Developmental changes of a scope such as that from bumbling adolescent to honored general in the case of Ch'in Shu-pao are likely to be found only in the characters of much later works, specifically Hung-lou meng [Dream of the Red Chamber] in the eighteenth century. Removed from his specific cultural context, Ch'in becomes a paradigm for the upwardly mobile youth who must learn from rough experience the ways of his competitive world. His tale is realistic in a general sense; although his adventures, at least until he reaches maturity, are totally fictional and occasionally quite unrealistic, the character embodies a high degree of typicality—Ch'in as typical young man on his individualistic way to make a place for himself in class society.³⁷ His struggles realistically parallel those of youths in other hierarchically structured societies; consequently this tale deserves much wider recognition as a work having insight into the more general human experience. It may be read meaningfully without direct reference to the specific historical context in which it appeared.

Thus far only those portions of Ch'in Shu-pao's career have been examined which appear identically in both Forgotten Tales and Romance. Even though Ch'u Jen-huo copied the bulk of his character's adventures verbatim into Romance, Ch'u's character plays a much different role in the overall design of Romance than does the original Ch'in in Forgotten Tales. Whereas the balance of contrastive elements, often polar opposites, informs the structure formulated by Ch'u Jen-huo,³⁸ it is precisely Ch'in Shu-pao's realistically progressive development that determines the structure of the source.

The differing roles assigned to Ch'in Shu-pao in these two works can be deduced from their respective prefaces; there each author explains his rationale for writing his novel and the approach he wishes his readers to take in reading the work. Yüan Yü-ling in writing Forgotten Tales was fabricating human truth left unrecorded by the historians:

Why use the word “forgotten” in the title of this history? It is because I am supplementing the orthodox histories hereby. The orthodox histories chronicle events, but what does this mean? It means to transmit what is credible. Forgotten histories collect what has been overlooked. And what does this mean? It means to transmit what is marvellous. Works which transmit the credible place greatest value on truth [chen]. … Works which transmit the marvellous place greatest value on fancy [huan]. Flying in anger or bursting into laughter without warning, the nature of the hero is such that what Chiangsu bookworms in their obtuse way may write bears no resemblance to the genuine item. If there were only orthodox histories without forgotten histories, then … the unusual happenings and swordsmen's feelings, the overlooked rhymes and heroic airs that the histories could not possibly all record in a short time would for the most part be buried without further notice. …

I have created Tales Forgotten by the Sui Historians in order to write of Ch'in, [Duke] of Hu, in his obscurity. And in addition I have included those of his time who served with him, who shared his thoughts and complaints, for the purpose of bringing to light his rash and fiery heart, the unrecognized talents in his bones, the pitfalls and heights he encountered, the ways he demonstrated his gratitude to his true friends, his extraordinary talents in evaluating his foes and winning victories, his strength in destroying enemies and overthrowing battle formations, all so vital in their physical reality that they overflowed onto pen and paper. That the histories omit seven-tenths of this was sufficient [for me] to commit it to paper in order to demonstrate his nobility at this time. I feel that herein is [recorded] heroic ardor sufficient to startle rustic ears, but which does not necessarily make jest of human feelings, that there are marvels and fancy here sufficient to delight the common man, but which are not necessarily founded on logical principles. …

Thus my intention from the beginning was to supplement hereby the histories with that which had been forgotten; it was not necessarily to proceed in a direction opposite to that of the histories. Thus I have ventured to embellish a tale to append to the histories, writing to fill in what the histories lack while maintaining the historians' original ideas. …³⁹

The opening lines of Forgotten Tales (quoted earlier) are entirely consistent with the guidelines noted in Yüan's preface. There too his omniscient narrator explains that the work will trace the career of Ch'in Shu-pao from his origins to final recognition with reference to his context. And indeed, Ch'in himself appears only in Chapter 3, after the narrator has set the stage in terms of national politics. Ch'in Shu-pao is the work's only central character; the book clearly is “about” this character, specifically his maturation as a military hero, and therefore his development delineates all other elements in the work. It is noteworthy that despite his references to this tale as “fancy” and as being “marvellous” (ch'i), Yüan still stresses the identity of purpose between his novel and the orthodox histories, in their transmission of the credible (hsin) and truth. We can infer, then, that the truth Yüan recorded in Forgotten Tales is not specific truth in the sense that precisely these events occurred in the life of the historical military hero (whether or not they really did occur is irrelevant to this novelist), but instead constitutes a more general sort of reality—such events as ascribed here to Ch'in Shu-pao could happen in other times and places. Credit for the remarkable psychological realism in this tale is due to Yüan Yü-ling who wrote self-consciously with just this end in mind.

But the above synopsis does not do justice to the dynamics within Yüan's work. Ch'in Shu-pao in Forgotten Tales is an extremely malleable character, one who tends to emulate whomever he is near; for much of his life here he has no mind of his own. At home he fritters away his time with his friends, exhausting his inheritance in the process.⁴⁰ These friends are of two distinct types, “outstanding men” (hao-chieh—in this case abbreviated to hao) and swordsmen (hsia, sometimes translated as knights-errant).⁴¹ Fan Chien-wei is of the latter category,⁴² while Wang Po-tang is a scholar (hsiu-ts'ai) and therefore a man of higher cultural level. Chia Jun-fu too belongs to this group; although he begins as a trader of horses and harness, he later becomes a brilliant and deservedly trusted military advisor.⁴³ Of these three, Fan is the closer friend; it is he who urges Ch'in to make a place for himself in the world, even urging him to right the wrong suffered by Li Yüan in knight-errant fashion. Outstanding men, the narrator explains, should be content to wait for the allotted time for action and should not forge ahead blindly. Shan Hsiung-hsin is just such a man; his reputation, dress, and bearing shame Chin to the point of denying his own name. Consequently Ch'in is unable to model his own behavior on Shan's at their first meeting. He likewise is ashamed to reveal his identity to Wang, but at least the latter stirs a response in him to conform: Wang weeps in altruistic commiseration with Ch'in's plight, and Ch'in stoically maintains an unruffled visage in an effort to play the stalwart role Shan exemplifies.⁴⁴

Shan Hsiung-hsin constitutes a formative influence for a part of Ch'in's life in Forgotten Tales. When he first finds him ill on a fetid pile of straw behind the bell stand in a temple, Shan too is moved to tears, wailing, “If only I could take your place I wouldn't hesitate to do so!”⁴⁵ Thereafter Ch'in receives such kind treatment from Shan that his self-concept becomes much inflated—hence his irritation at Shan's injunctions against further government service. Even though mother Ch'in—and Ch'in himself—credit Shan with saving his life,⁴⁶ the accidental homicide Ch'in commits to protect his newly discovered wealth is a direct consequence of Shan's ill-considered generosity.⁴⁷

Ch'in's debt to Shan is only repaid many chapters later, in his maturity. After rebelling against the Sui, Ch'in is unswervingly loyal to Li Mi as his first lord despite personal invitations from T'ang leaders to shift allegiance. He even goes so far as to save Li Mi's life in battle. He is away seeing after his mother when Li Mi surrenders to the T'ang; Ch'in subsequently allows himself to be persuaded by Shan to join the forces of Wang Shih-ch'ung, although concerned with establishing a reputation for meritorious service.⁴⁸ By heeding this advice Ch'in repays Shan for previous favors and concern. But Shan's stubbornness and narrowness of vision have become clear to him by this time; consequently Ch'in deserts Wang Shih-ch'ung in favor of the T'ang at his earliest convenience—without a single-word to Shan about his decision to do so.⁴⁹ By that time Ch'in Shu-pao has matured to the point that he can act on abstract principles—and can distinguish whether or not the actions of others are in accord with these principles. The sacrifice of a bit of flesh at Shan's execution is pure formality when seen in this light; by that time Ch'in had long made a choice between friend and ruler, and Shan, the loser, had ceased to merit his serious concern. But this is all at a later stage in the development of Ch'in's ego, of course.

Ch'in's escorts on his way to exile in Yuchou, T'ung and Chin, are both known as “outstanding men,” but T'ung wants to demonstrate his physical prowess in the boxing ring nonetheless. This is a foolhardy thing to do, given the unblemished record of the Shun-i Village champion. With T'ung as his model, Ch'in too casts discretion to the wind. No sooner does he say, “I'll just watch,”⁵⁰ than his friend suffers ignominious defeat, and Ch'in himself charges into the ring. Chang Kung-chin, another “outstanding man” who proves his real virtues later, then provides model conciliatory gestures to ease Ch'in's entry into Yuchou.

With these men of higher caliber exerting influence on him, the malleable Ch'in is sufficiently calmed to respond appropriately—in a self-effacing manner—upon his initial meeting with Lo I. Lo is awe-inspiring in his majesty; he is everything worthy of emulation in the eyes of Ch'in Shu-pao. Saved from disgrace when he acts in self-assertive swordsman style during the archery contest, Ch'in does not repeat his error. Instead he follows the model of his uncle, even to the point of aping the latter's artistic refinement; in his longing for home Ch'in scrawls a poem on a wall to express his feelings. It is not his own composition; Ch'in is barely literate, as Lo observes. But Ch'in's inability to wait for the opportunities Lo has planned for him⁵¹ demonstrates that the impetuous side of his nature has not yet been fully subdued.

Ch'in Shu-pao's growing self-reliance and sense of responsibility are further clarified by his experiences on his mission to deliver the birthday gifts to the capital. Although he discharges his duties without incident, it would appear that Ch'in still cannot remain totally aloof from the influence of his reckless companions, the haughty Wang Po-tang, the wild and crude Li Ju-kuei and Ch'i Kuo-yüan.⁵² Li Ching, the minister's agent for receiving the gifts Ch'in and others bring, warns him of impending calamity, but Ch'in dares not tell them of it. “None of those fellows believe in Yin-Yang or in spirits and ghosts,” he muses. “… Now my business is finished, but how can I tell them that I ran into this exalted person who told me that the marks on my face foretell something bad? How could a true gentleman say anything like, ‘Let me do it my way.’ A true gentleman would put aside his own wishes to accomodate others! My personal business is finished—how can I even mention a fairy tale like this to them?”⁵³ And thus because of his comrades' rationalistic bent of mind, Ch'in ignores Li's prescient vision of calamity and even goes so far as to behave rashly himself—after the model they present—in murdering the rapist to right the injustice he encounters in the city.

Ch'in's role in the conflagration in Ch'angan makes him more self-conscious, more cautious in his actions. And as a consequence, he is more careful in choosing his models. Representatives of four distinct levels of understanding and refinement assemble to celebrate the birthday of his mother: those with aristocratic deportment (Wang Po-tang, Ch'ai Shao, Li Mi), those who are unpolished but have the air of outstanding men (Shan Hsiung-hsin, Chang Kung-ch'in, and others), those who can at least make a proper appearance (T'ung P'ei-chih and Chin Kuo-chun—notice the reevaluation of these characters this evaluation represents), and one who is totally crass, Ch'eng Yao-chin.⁵⁴ (Despite the closeness he feels to Ch'eng at their reunion after so many years of separation, Ch'in adamantly refuses to respond as Ch'eng does; Ch'eng raves, totally out of control, while Ch'in is calm and decisive in resolving Ch'eng's theft of the silver that he must recover. Shan suggests a wholly unacceptable solution; it is the more elevated Li Mi and Ch'ai Shao who resourcefully provide the means to solve all the problems concerning the stolen silver.) As he further matures, Ch'in develops ever more the traits of these most outstanding of “outstanding men.” He is now a firm rationalist in his own right, the narrator explains;⁵⁵ moreover, he ultimately finds unconscionable all the alternatives for official service offered to him and has the self-confidence to live alone in retirement, away from all masculine models.

During his retirement, Ch'in is visited by a most perspicacious young man, Hsü Mao-kung. It is Hsü who for the first time recognizes him as an “outstanding man” fully realized, the equal in heroic stature of Wang Po-tang.⁵⁶ Ch'in celebrates this new status, as a model worthy of emulation himself, by taking Lo Shih-hsin as his protégé. The development of Ch'in's self-concept is completed by this point in Forgotten Tales. No longer the malleable youth, his later adventures merely provide opportunities for him to practice what he has learned and to gain recognition for his accomplishments.

Thus Yüan Yü-ling has created a dynamic character in Ch'in Shu-pao, one whose development is progressive. This movement carries him through changes in age, physical environment, role in society, rank and status, occupation, and especially, self-concept. Through this process, answers were found to the questions generally considered to be the definition of an individual adult member of a society; this process in the life of a real person would be called emotional maturation, a socialization process. Given the parallels that could be drawn between the stages of Ch'in Shu-pao's development and those of other members of his (and our) society, this story is unquestionably realistic. That is not to say that Yüan Yü-ling did not resort to hyperbole and exaggeration in his narration; he did (Ch'in's physical appearance is quite unbelieveable; he and Lo Shih-hsin cross a bridge of corpses in Chapter 40),⁵⁷ but such instances are rare, conventional in their appearance, and never of central importance to the development of character as such.

Yüan Yü-ling had rather clear ideas about how individuals develop, to judge from the sorts of experiences he created for Ch'in Shu-pao. Ch'in is far from being anything like a “blank slate” when first introduced here; Yüan has been careful to point out his native talents, his capacities, and something of the types of experiences he had as he was growing up. Ch'in develops on this basis in response to the limits society places on his behavior and to the behavioral models with which he comes in contact. Specifically, Ch'in Shu-pao chooses the values of the hao-chieh, the dignified, resourceful, and conscientious “outstanding man” over those of the reckless and unruly “swordsman,” or hsia. Ch'in's maturation is accomplished as he internalizes these values to the extent that he is able to act independently, without needing an immediate model to emulate. In this choice of essential factors for his fictional character, Yüan Yü-ling was humanistic and rationalistic; to him the individual matures through his contact with other people, significant people, in ways that are not mysterious, that are describable and comprehensible. The intrusive comments of its narrator often to the contrary,⁵⁸ it is people, and not any other factor in human life, that shapes people in Forgotten Tales.

That Yüan Yü-ling consciously attempted to make this character life-like may be corroborated by reference to several other particularly realistic sections of this novel. His description of the jail in Luchou, for example, is graphically frightening, despite its parallel prose form.⁵⁹ Likewise, in Forgotten Tales, Ch'in Shu-pao's son is born while he is living in retirement, a most credible consequence of his spending time at home for a change!⁶⁰ The rape scene in Chapter 22 is remarkable, for its sheer horror, of course, but particularly for its realistic detail, excerpted below:

With one hand he clutched her to him, twisting her face that he might kiss her on the mouth. Wan-erh was innocent and inexperienced—she did not even know the names for these sorts of actions. Quickly she turned her face away and pushed against him with her hand. The young lord slipped one hand into the crotch of her trousers; Wan-erh was so frightened that she kicked out in all directions, hastily blocking his hand and sobbing aloud, tears pouring from her eyes. “Mother, come quickly! Save me!” she wailed. …

With a giggle the young lord again clutched her tightly against his body, saying, “It's no use to cry out. You'd be better off doing just what I want you to do. If you're nice and let me have my way, you can become my youngest Lady, sure enough. And if that doesn't suit you, I'll send you back home in a couple of days. This place is just like a dyer's shop—there's no way that you can come out white.”

How could the girl be willing to do as he suggested? Stamping both her feet, the young lord was prevented from fondling her no matter how hard he tried; by banging her head against his face she could fend off his attempts to reach her mouth, to kiss her. She struggled against him for a while longer, but as it has always been said, young aristocrats are by nature quick to anger. To his maids he called, “Force her over to that bed!” and he pushed her away from him. The maids all broke into giggles as they did so.

This bed is not just an ordinary bed; it is cunningly designed to so restrain the woman that she is unable to move at all as ready access to her genitals is provided. Aroused by the fact that Wan-erh is a virgin, the rake attacks her in the most brutal way possible, and the girl screams. The young man's organ is grotesquely large; he has used numerous medicines, described in detail here, to make it so. (This element surely was adapted from similar passages in the better-known Chin P'ing Mei which it so closely resembles. The sadistic pleasure this attacker takes is rare even in that work, however.) Yü-wen is frustrated at her obdurate struggling and does everything he can to cause her more pain, oblivious of her profuse hymenal bleeding and her cries for mercy.

Noisily withdrawing his penis, he brought the lamp near to take a close look at her. Unable to bear her shame, Wan-erh could only curse him, saying, “How could I have bumped into you, you heartless, cruel brigand! To ruin me like this—it would have been better if you had just taken a knife and killed me!”

The young lord flew in anger at her curses and cursed her in return, saying, “You mean little beast, to talk back to me that way! How many women in this capital, both highborn and low, would put out for me just at the mention of my reputation as a lover! Now you, you little back alley slave girl—I've done you a favor by breaking you in. That's good enough for you! I ought to beat you to death for your impudence, you filthy wretch! It's no trouble for me just to lock you up here and never let you out of my gate again.” And with that he called a servant to bring him the roster of his pages.

The young lord looked closely at the roster and then summoned them closer. “Take my place and have a little sport with this woman. Keep to the order in the roster, and you'll all have a turn. Just don't get out of order or make a fuss. All of you who can should really let her have it. If you screw her to death, then just bury her in some empty place in the back courtyard. And if she doesn't die, put her in the west wing of the study—I'll make a present of her to those of you who aren't married. You can all use her at night.”⁶¹

The pages have learned well from their master, of course; they have intercourse with the woman in turn, the young lord applauding the more violent among them. One of the pages finally takes pity on her when she totally loses consciousness; he releases her, but this only provokes the others to attack her anew. The young lord leaves, and before long lies dead in a pool of his own blood, struck down by a single blow from Ch'in Shu-pao's mighty truncheons.

Unquestionably, this section of Forgotten Tales plumbs the depths to which the leisured class in old China could sink in their exploitation of the weak and disadvantaged. But more importantly for the present discussion, this is a representative sample of Yüan Yü-ling's approach to novel writing. In a few brief paragraphs he has revealed so much of this character's mind: his cruelty, his vanity, his arrogance, his total lack of human sympathy; Yü-wen comes all too vividly to life with a horrible realism unsurpassed in other Ming novels. Yüan's portrait of Ch'in Shu-pao is quite different in type, of course; while the narrator takes a sympathetic approach to Ch'in—despite a tinge of irony in many narrator's asides—he strongly condemns any character who abuses position to cause suffering for others. However, both characters in the rape scene above are developed with the sensitivity to emotional states and values demonstrated here. Yüan's stated intention to create social reality from fancy is fully realized in Forgotten Tales; his characters reflect sometimes all too plainly life as he saw it.

In contrast to Yüan Yü-ling's focus on characterization, Ch'u Jen-huo's attention in writing Romance of the Sui and the T'ang was focused on the design of the work as a whole and its overall significance. As he states in his preface:

… Sui T'ang chih-chuan, derived from Lo [Kuan-chung] and edited by Lin [Han], can be termed excellent. But since it starts only with the “cutting of material” in the Sui palace, there is much lacking at the beginning; the few incidents from the T'ang period are both fragmented and disorganized. Thus readers criticize it on these points.

Some time ago Mr. Yüan T'o-an [i.e., Yüan Yü-ling] showed me a “lost history” [i-shih] from his library. It contained the business of the love affair through successive rebirths between Emperor Yang and Chu Kuei-erh of the Sui and Emperor Ming and Yang Yü-huan of the T'ang. Since this was particularly novel and enjoyable I talked it over [with him?] and then worked it into the present chronicle as a theme to unify the whole work from beginning to end. I added from Forgotten Tales and the Romantic History at the beginning to expand its content; I concluded it simply by having the immortals [who appear in Chapter 100] elucidate the matter completely. In a thorough-going manner I added to it whenever it lacked something either in general or in particular, and I deleted whatever was fragmentary. I also selected other events of the period, curious or interesting, elegant or poetic, to dress it up. By arranging all of this into a single collection I have altered its former appearance to a rather great extent.⁶²

In “altering the appearance” of his sources, Ch'u Jen-huo modified the character Ch'in Shu-pao as well. The design of Forgotten Tales is basically linear and focused: the path from Ch'in's birth to final recognition may be slow and laden with pitfalls, but the narrative itself moves steadily toward its inevitable conclusion. Digressions in Forgotten Tales serve merely to slow its pace by providing background information; there is only one story line in this earlier work. Ch'u's Romance, on the other hand, rarely follows a single story line beyond the duration of a chapter or two. While narrating Ch'in's career, for example, it frequently swerves to relate the parallel career of the Sui emperor Yang. As a consequence, the narrator's vision constantly shifts from place to place, from protagonist to protagonist, and (as I have demonstrated elsewhere⁶³) from morally positive scene or character to those of morally negative value. This regular rhythm of alternation between contrastive elements throughout the work requires that the received biography of Ch'in Shu-pao appear in segments and be modified to coincide with the greater pattern. The most significant way Ch'u did this was by slightly rewriting Yüan's version to emphasize the differences between the conflicting sets of values confronting this character and from which he must choose his own standards for behavior.

Another major difference between Forgotten Tales and the Romance is in breadth of concern. The earlier novel is overwhelmingly masculine; Yüan Yü-ling's context for Ch'in Shu-pao has few female characters. His mother, his wife, the innkeeper's wife, and the young woman he attempts to vindicate in the capital all figure significantly in his career, but references to them are very brief, their characters static and one sided. Ch'u Jen-huo, on the other hand, utilized the rather mechanical reincarnation of one loving couple as another two centuries later to unify his Romance. The logic of this approach required that he devote equal attention to both sexes, and Ch'u did. His numerous female characters range in status from poor maids and country women through lady generals and the daughters of warriors to empresses and court ladies. Likewise, Ch'in's mother becomes of paramount importance in this version of his life.

From her first appearance in Romance the mother of Ch'in Shu-pao is subtly but significantly amplified from Yüan's original version of the character. The money Ch'in spent as a teenager at home with his friends was his patrimony in Forgotten Tales, but to Ch'u Jen-huo it is his bride's dowry. To squander what little his mother has left to her bespeaks a lack of filial concern in this Yüan Yü-ling character.

As an added feminine influence on this benighted youth, Ch'u Jen-huo created an old woman who takes pity on Ch'in during his initial travails in Luchou. Ch'in himself does not realize this, but the woman is a perfect double for his mother: she is of similar age, widowed, a refugee from civil war in her home area, and the mother of an absent son, a budding hero off to make his fortune by force of arms. Referring to the kindness of Wang Hsiao-erh's wife as well, Ch'in sighs, “I am ashamed that ever since I left home I haven't make a single thoughtful friend. Instead I've met these two virtuous and insightful women who have helped relieve the depression in my heart.”⁶⁴ By including this passage, Ch'u doubled the amount of positive feminine influence in this stage of Ch'in's career; his single-minded desire to return home as copied from Forgotten Tales is hereby focused and emphasized—it is his mother that he so longs to see. This episode as modified thus becomes one in which all of Ch'in's orientation is feminine. This is in pointed contrast to ensuing scenes, masculine in focus, either copied or adapted from the earlier work; after he falls ill in the temple, Wei Cheng provides him his first example of masculine compassion. But in Ch'u Jen-huo's version, Ch'in is well on his way to total recovery by the time Shan Hsiung-hsin learns of his whereabouts. Yüan set this scene in a filthy pile of straw behind the temple's bell stand; Ch'u has Ch'in on his feet, strolling in the rear courtyard as Shan arrives at the temple. Moreover, Ch'u has interpolated here another significant scene. Sitting in the courtyard,

He could see there one of the temple caretakers on his way out, his pockets stuffed full of millet and carrying several bunches of dried vegetables in his hands. “Where are you taking that?” Shu-pao asked. “What business of yours is it?” the caretaker said. “It's because my mother's sick—I just now begged a few cups of millet and a few bunches of dried vegetables from the storekeeper so that I could boil up a little gruel to help her get better.”

Hearing this, Shu-pao suddenly came to a realization. “Even a person that lowly worries about being filial to his mother! I've been wasting my time and my talents, giving nothing to support my mother—instead I've left her at home to wait and worry about me.” His thoughts having reached this point, tears began to flow uncontrollably from his eyes. Then he espied a worn down writing brush on the table left there by the accountant. Hurriedly he snatched it up. Though merely a runner for a magistrate's court he knew the rudiments of writing; he inscribed a few lines of verse on the wall.⁶⁵

His poem is a cumbersome plea for recognition, but still this constitutes a significant change in Ch'in as a Romance character—Yüan Yü-ling had given him no literary talents whatsoever, and had made him less haughty as well.⁶⁶ Furthermore, it is longing for individual fame, not for his mother, that he records here, despite his emotional reaction above. This, coupled with the fact that he is fully recovered from his illness by the time that Fan Chien-wei arrives at Shan's manor, puts the lie to Ch'in's expressed longing to return to his mother (the concept of filial piety does admit, even require, winning fame in order that parents may bask in reflected honor, of course). Ch'in allows himself to be talked around to staying with Shan, which is, in effect, a choice for having a good time “with the boys” and in defiance of the Confucian requirement to serve his mother in person. By the following spring filial duty at last has become foremost in his mind, however, and he gallops away from Shan toward further misadventures.

Ch'in's exploits in Yuchou again represent a conflict of individual versus family: Ch'in's thoughtless self-assertion gets him into an archery contest that he cannot possibly win; he knows that staying in Yuchou can bring him high rank and the warm companionship of his younger cousin. But when his filial feelings become too strong for him to ignore, Ch'in pens another poem of longing on a convenient wall (an original poem, according to Romance, thereby more expressive of his own genuine feeling⁶⁷) and is allowed to hasten home at fantastic speed, symbolic of the strength of his desire to do so. Once back in Shantung, feminine influence reigns supreme: Ch'in fulfills filial obligations by constant attention to his mother (following a well-deserved scolding) and, again at her insistence, by accepting a post in the local military government.

Heeding his mother ultimately brings problems, however. His new position then brings with it the murder in Ch'angan and the many beatings for his failure to apprehend the imperial silver thieves. But then, too, it is to celebrate his mother's birthday that Ch'in's friends congregate, and as a consequence he learns the identity of the bandits. Through purely masculine intervention Ch'in is relieved of responsibility; his capture of the kidnappers along the Grand Canal excavation route is motivated by a masculine concept of Confucian social duty. Caring for his mother provides a convenient excuse for retirement. Ch'in is drawn alternately toward one pole or the other, toward masculine, individualistic desires for reputation versus the faminine focus of filial responsibility for his mother's safety and peace of mind. Material copied from Forgotten Tales admits this interpretation, but that Ch'u intended to focus on this type of balance between conflicting goals can be seen in his modifications of this character, particularly in the later segments of Romance.

After his triumphant return from the Sui invasion of Korea (the details of which are omitted from Romance), Ch'in soon finds himself serving as a general in the army of the pretender Li Mi. Then one day, but significantly only in Romance, Li Shih-min blunders into Li Mi's camp at Tile Ridge and is taken prisoner. Ch'in knows that a true knight must serve the one True Ruler, and thus he aids in Li Shih-min's escape. Very much in his debt, Li engineers a plot whereby his followers kidnap Ch'in's mother and treat her with extreme deference in an attempt to force him to shift allegiance to their side to be with her. Here Ch'in Shu-pao is caught in a quandary between conflicting alternatives of whom to serve, a paradigm for Ch'u Jen-huo's general conception of this character.

Ch'in stops to ponder his various obligations. He became a subject of Li Mi through no conscious choice of his own, the beginning of this series of related problems. When Chang Hsü-t'o, Ch'in's erstwhile commanding officer, dies battling the Tile Ridge rebels, Ch'in searches out the body and leads several of his friends in a memorial service. So moved is he by remorse and guilt for having deserted such a worthy leader, Ch'in attempts suicide on Chang's coffin. “He snatched up the sword from the ground and was just about to stab himself with it when Lo Shih-hsin grasped him from behind. ‘You're forgetting your mother!’ he cried.”⁶⁸ In this case reference to his filial duties saves his life—but not his peace of mind. And herein Ch'u Jen-huo's conception of this character clarifies.

Initially Li Mi had made a strong bid for the empire, but following a series of reverses on the battlefield he decides that his cause is hopeless. Ch'in feels personally betrayed when he learns of Li's surrender to the T'ang; Li had made no effort to take Ch'in or his other commanders with him. Ch'in's confusion over an appropriate course of action is compounded by a letter from his mother. Now in Ch'angan, she urges him to join her and to shift his loyalties to the T'ang. Ch'in is fully aware of the ramifications of the situation, as he reveals in this interior monologue:

“Since the Duke of Wei [Li Mi] did not take any of his subjects with him when he surrendered to the T'ang, the only persuasion for me to go there is my mother. The Duke of Wei is on the other side now, but if I go, would it be better for me if the ruler of the T'ang were to grant me special favors or to grant me no favors at all? If I do go and I am treated in the same way as all the other Wei subjects, then the Prince of Ch'in [Li Shih-min] will not be satisfied. Yet if they make me a high minister, the Duke of Wei might think that I had been a traitor and had arranged for the Prince of Ch'in to lure her there for that purpose. At present the situation leaves me only difficult alternatives. I'd better go to Liyang and discuss the matter with Mao-kung to see what advice he might have.”⁶⁹

Ch'in then seeks the advice of his trusted friend Hsü Mao-kung, another Wei general. Hsü proposes waiting for the situation to clarify itself: Li Shih-min will make life unbearable for Li Mi in the T'ang capital, and Li Mi will surely revolt, he predicts. Then both Ch'in and Hsü can take appropriate action.

Ch'in has another pressing problem; he likewise discusses this with Hsü. Fortunately Hsü has a more satisfactory answer in this regard.

“Second Brother Shan is in Wang Shih-ch'ung's camp. Even though this is not right, what can I do about it? Some years ago he and I swore to live and to die together, but now we're in the service of different lords. Can this be anything but turning our backs on our original vows?” Ch'in said.

“You and he are like one and the same body,” Mao-kung said. “How could you help but feel this way? However, as for Second Brother Shan himself, even though his feelings run as deep as the four seas, still he is incapable of reading the signs of the times. He may be a leader, but he has no education; although he is upright himself, he is easily deceived. And he is totally unwilling to accept delegated authority and to serve another. His enmity with the Duke of T'ang for killing his elder brother is on his mind both day and night; even the tongues of Su or Chang⁷⁰ would be hard pressed to shake his determination. If we were to take our stand with him there, we would be like women marrying a second time. Having made one mistake, how could we bear to make another? Were our plans to fall again, our situation would be as impossible as trying to bite your own navel!”

Shu-pao nodded his head at the wisdom of this statement. Although he frequently had thoughts of slipping away to see Hsiung-hsin, he feared that Hsiung-hsin might detain him there. And if he were unable to extricate himself, then he would be left with his heart and his body in two separate places. For this reason he could only be patient and remain in Liyang.⁷¹

Ch'in Shu-pao has an opportunity to fulfill all his obligations one after the other as the situation changes; in this way Ch'u Jen-huo allows this character to avoid making a crucial decision for himself. Li Mi does escape from the T'ang, but he is killed before he can rise in rebellion again. Hsü and Ch'in satisfy their obligations of unquestioning loyalty to their lord by giving Li Mi a funeral befitting the ruler of a great state. Both of them can then swear allegiance to the T'ang in good conscience, clearly in accordance with the Confucian obligation to serve the Right Cause. Significantly, Ch'in is also reunited with his mother by this political shift.

There remains one duty yet to be fulfilled: Ch'in has sworn to die together with Shan Hsiung-hsin. Ch'in treats him very well indeed after Shan is taken prisoner by the T'ang (better than he does in Forgotten Tales) and then offers his son as husband for Shan's daughter. His sacrifice of flesh from his thigh completes all obligations to his friend; here at last Ch'in is able to act simultaneously as true friend, faithful subject, and filial son. Freed from all conflicting claims, Ch'in Shu-pao exerts himself to the utmost and plays a significant role in the consolidation of T'ang power. He has no further anxiety, no more questions about how to act. His days of impulsive swordsman behavior are over; he is now the embodiment of considered restraint. Finally he retires to care for his mother until her death at 105. Ch'in succumbs to grief soon afterward, an appropriate, albeit anticlimactic, conclusion to a life spent trying to be filial.⁷²

In Ch'u Jen-huo's version of this character, Ch'in Shu-pao thus vacillates between masculine and feminine foci of attention and is all to often torn between the conflicting demands of mutually exclusive obligations. As in Forgotten Tales, Ch'in matures through Romance but here he embodies an ongoing moral drama rather than progressing incrementally through realistic stages of development. Retirement does not provide the degree of purification of ideals and strengthening of values in Romance that it did in Forgotten Tales (it is appropriate that Ch'u deleted some of Yüan's description of Ch'in's retirement site, thereby downplaying its pastoral beauty and restorative effects somewhat⁷³); in Romance conflicting obligations do not simply disappear because one reaches maturity. Nor do trials disappear. Ch'u's Ch'in Shu-pao must go to greater lengths to prove his loyalty to the T'ang, during which time he demonstrates little of the insight Yüan Yü-ling attributes to him; in Romance he wins over Yü-ch'ih Ching-te through strength, not cunning.⁷⁴ Indeed, the execution of Shan Hsiung-hsin marks the climax of Ch'in's life in Ch'u Jen-huo's version, by elaborating the deference Ch'in shows his doomed friend.⁷⁵ Ch'u emphasizes the conflict of values which brought this scene about, Ch'in's choice between friend and state. In the earlier novel Shan's execution is somewhat anticlimactic, however: Ch'in had resolutely turned his back on his friend to join the T'ang in the first place—without the whereabouts of his mother as mitigating circumstance. Indeed, Ch'in Shu-pao as last seen in Romance is quite different from the Ch'in of the last chapter of Forgotten Tales; Yüan's Ch'in is confident and capable, Ch'u's character is morally justified in his acts, but always dependent upon others for guidance in everything he does.

One last example of the way Ch'u Jen-huo manipulated material in Romance to dramatize inherent moral conflicts: Hua Mu-lan is well known in Chinese legend as a young woman who assumes masculine disguise in order to spare her ailing father conscription into an army. Ch'u borrowed this figure from folk tradition to make of her considerably more than a mere paragon of filial piety. In Romance, Mu-lan receives military training from childhood onward at her father's knee. Consequently, when the summons comes from the Turkic khan to raise an army, she is prepared both physically and mentally to take her father's place. But by old Chinese values, if the child was required to demonstrate filial concern for the parent, so too was the parent bound to protect and nurture the child. After her departure their neighbors berate Mu-lan's parents for their acceptance of her sacrifice to such lengths that her father dies of shame. Her mother, having younger children to support, is forced to defy the demands of chastity by remarrying.

Filial concern placed Mu-lan in the army, but once there she is expected to respond as a man, with total loyalty and devotion to her lord. When her first battle results in her being captured she is faced with a moral dilemma parallel to Ch'in Shu-pao's. Mu-lan's captor is Tou Hsien-niang, the able daughter of another aspirant to the throne; this lady presents Mu-lan the choice of shifting her allegiance or being executed. Mu-lan reveals her true identity, and as she does so her values again become feminine. She and Tou Hsien-niang sigh together over the loneliness they share as unmarried women; as a woman she ignores her military duties, to flee from the war with Miss Tou. Finally both become T'ang prisoners of war. The T'ang leaders are impressed by Mu-lan's initial filial feeling, and send her back to her parents. But once she locates her mother, Mu-lan is presented with a summons from the Khan to enter his harem. There is no way for her to avoid his demand; ultimately she commits suicide on her father's grave. By this act she demonstrates her grief at bringing about his death, albeit unintentionally; by the same act she denies herself the fulfilment of marriage that she so desired.⁷⁶ Mu-lan's resolution of this conflict of values, even though she consciously chose this alternative, really solves none of the problems, answers none of the questions about which moral dictum should be followed. Significantly, her younger sister Yu-lan takes up her quest for a husband and is ultimately successful—by avoiding the dictates of loyalty to the state and filial service to her parents altogether!

In the tale of Mu-lan as in that of Ch'in Shu-pao, Ch'u Jen-huo modified his source material to emphasize the difficulties experienced by the individual in attempting to fill two criteria for behavior at the same time. The questions he asks in Romance were wholly relevant for his day; all too frequently he left them unanswered by having his characters simply avoid conflict situations. Despite its various shortcomings in other regards, Ch'u's Romance therefore must be considered a serious work of fiction, created around essential questions and with an overall design into which all elements were fitted. Alternation between mutually differing elements to demonstrate the conflicts between them is the approach which informs the structure of Ch'u's Romance; characterization was of secondary importance to Ch'u, and, consequently, borrowed characters were modified rather extensively to accord with his design.

Several conclusions may be drawn from the foregoing examination of these two novels. First, despite their numerous shared elements, the portraits of Ch'in Shu-pao in Forgotten Tales and Romance are significantly different from each other; Ch'u Jen-huo did not simply incorporate this character without modification. Indeed, Ch'in Shu-pao plays two wholly different roles in the two novels. In the first he is the central concern; characterization is the most important element in Forgotten Tales, to which all other material there is subordinated, and psychological realism is its primary technique. Ch'u Jen-huo followed a master plan in compiling Romance, on the other hand; characterization, and particularly the character Ch'in Shu-pao, was of importance only as it served to provide contrasting values between which regular alternation could be maintained, in order thereby to examine the moral dilemmas presented by society's conflicting demands. Yüan Yü-ling was concerned with the development of individual self-concept; Ch'u Jen-huo's focus was broadened to explore the workings of society as a whole and, to the extent that these alternations are visible in the lives of individuals, the cosmic balance is maintained therein through time.⁷⁷

Secondly, these novelistic portraits of Ch'in Shu-pao illustrate two distinct philosophical stances within dominant Confucian thinking through the Ming-Ch'ing transition period. In response to the emphases on the individual and moral standards in the Wang Yang-ming idealistic schools, Yüan Yü-ling at the end of the Ming concentrated on the moral development of the self. On the other hand, Ch'u Jen-huo, writing several decades after the Manchu conquest, adopted a more cautiously conservative position nearer the orthodox Confucian approach of the Chu Hsi school: Romance thus investigates the functioning of society as a whole in moral terms. Appropriately, he assigns responsibility for dynastic decline and fall to decadent leaders whose moral laxity produces a chain reaction affecting adversely all levels of society. In this regard, as in his tale of Ch'in Shu-pao, Ch'u's focus on the role of behavioral models in the formation of the self and of society is similarly orthodox Confucian. These two works, then, demonstrate something of the shift in seventeenth century Chinese philosophy from introspection to a greater concern with the world of human activity as a whole.⁷⁸

Finally it should be clear that by the seventeenth century, the novel was a highly self-conscious art form. Despite the fact that they were written in a version of the spoken, not the literary language, these novels were the product of the leisured class in society, the class which included the educated elite; they reflect the concerns, the values, the tastes of the upper class. To consider them “popular literature” and assume thereby that they are the literary products of the masses of Chinese people is to misunderstand their social function and may well lead to overlooking the artistic principles which inform them. The fictional Ch'in Shu-pao seen here undoubtedly does owe something in conception and detail to the creative genius of China's professional storytellers, but the shapes his life was given in these novels, his functions in these works, reflect the self-conscious artistry of seventeenth century Chinese literati.

Notes

1. Chiu T'ang shu, Po-na ed. (Shanghai: Shang-wu, 1930-37), 68.4b-5b; and Hsin T'ang shu, Po-na ed., 89.5b-6a. For a translation of these biographies, see my “Sui T'ang yen-i: The Sources and Narrative Techniques of a Traditional Chinese Novel” (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Columbia University, 1973), pp. 356-64.

2. Recorded in the San-chiao sou-shen ta-ch'üan and elsewhere. See also C. P. Fitzgerald, Son of Heaven (Cambridge, 1933; Reprint ed., Taipei: Ch'eng-wen, 1970), p. 148, This legendary incident is incorporated in Sui T'ang yen-i (Shanghai: Ku-tien wen-hsüeh ch'u-pan-she, 1956; Reprint eds., Taipei: Shih-chieh, 1963; Hong Kong: Hsüeh-lin shu-tien, 1966; all later references to this edition cited as STYI), p. 533.

3. Ch'in Shu-pao appears in Lao-chün-t'ang and Ching-te pu-fu-lao in Yüan ch'ü hsüan wai-pien, ed. Sui Shu-sen (Peking: Chung-hua, 1961), pp. 530-44 and 604-16 as a secondary character; his role is secondary in Wei Cheng kai-chao, No. 77 in Ku-pen Yüan Ming tsa-chü (Peking: Hsi-chü ch'u-pan-she, 1958) and central only in Chih-chiang Ch'in Shu-pao, No. 78 in that collection. Yü-ch'ih, on the other hand, is central to Tan-pien to-shuo in Yüan ch'ü hsüan, ed. Tsang Chin-shu (Peking: Chung-hua, 1958), pp. 1172-85, to San to-shuo (Yüan ch'ü hsüan wai-pien, pp. 337-44), and to Pien ta Shan Hsiung-hsin in Ku-pen Yüan Ming tsa-chü.

4. This is preserved in the Sonkeikaku Library, Tokyo. Divided into twelve chüan and 123 chapters (the table of contents lists 122, but there are two chapters numbered 89), the work contains a commentary by Yang Shen (1488-1559) and prefaces by Yang and Lin Han (1434-1519)—or at least these are the names to which they are attributed. A printer's note on the last page identifies the date and place of publication, Chin-chang (modern Suchou), 1619. For a discussion of its date of composition and relationship to other early works, see my dissertation, pp. 23-28 and 330-55.

5. Edited by Chu Sheng-lin with preface by Lu Shih-k'o, a chin-shih of 1607, reprint ed., Peking: Wen-hsüeh ku-chi k'an-hsing-she, 1956. The work contains a curious mixture of conventions and has spawned a variety of theories concerning its nature (Is it a novel? A drumsong or ku-tz'u?) and period of composition; for a survey of these theories, see my dissertation, pp. 330-37. More recently, W. L. Idema has termed it an “experimental novel”; given the variation seen from work to work among late Ming and early Ch'ing novels, I am inclined to agree with him in part. See his “Some Remarks and Speculations Concerning P'ing-hua,” T'oung Pao, 60.1-3 (1974), p. 171, n. 114.

6. Four editions of this work have been discovered in Japanese libraries by Sun K'ai-ti; they bear a variety of titles. See my dissertation, pp. 337-39, and Sun's two bibliographies, Chung-kuo t'ung-su hsiao-shuo shu-mu (Hong Kong: Shih-yung, 1967), p. 43, and Jih-pen Tung-ching so chien Chung-kuo hsiao-shuo shu-mu (Hong Kong: Shih-yung, 1967), pp. 40-41.

7. For biographical information concerning Liu, called “The Pockmarked” (Ma-tzu), see H. C. Chang, Chinese Literature: Popular Fiction and Drama (Chicago: Aldine, 1973), pp. 307-309; Wu Wei-yeh (1609-72, a friend of the storyteller), “Liu Ching-t'ing chuan”, in Yü-ch'u hsin-chih, ed. Chang Ch'ao (Suchou, 1683; Reprint ed., Peking: Wen-hsüeh ku-chi, 1954), pp. 21-23, translated in W. W. Yen, Stories of Old China (Shanghai: New Art and Literature, n.d.), pp. 150-57; Ch'en Ju-heng and Yang T'ing-fu, Ta shuo-shu-chia Liu Ching-t'ing (Shanghai: Ssu-lien, 1954); Lou Tzu-k'uang and Chu Chieh-fan, Wu-shih-nien-lai te Chung-kuo su-wen-hsüeh (Taipei: Cheng-chung, 1963), pp. 231-34. Specific reference to Ch'in Shu-pao as a subject for Liu can be found in Yü Huai (1616-96), Pan-ch'iao tsa-chi, cited in Ch'en Ju-heng, Shuo-shu hsiao-shih (1936; Reprint ed., Taipei: Wan-nien-ch'ing, n.d.), p. 51; see also pp. 37-57.

8. The only extant edition of Sui shih i-wen, the first, was published by Ming-shan-chü (Hangchou?); modern reprint, Taipei: Yu-shih, 1975. For biographical information concerning Yüan and comments on the possible sources for the novel, see my “Sui shih i-wen k'ao-lüeh” in the Taipei edition; all references to this edition will be cited as SSIW.

9. The first edition of Sui T'ang yen-i was published by Ssu-hsüeh-ts'ao-t'ang, Suchou. For a list of later editions, see my dissertation, pp. 15-18. Concerning dates of composition and publication, see my dissertation, pp. 6-10, and “Sui T'ang yen-i: ch'i shih-tai, lai-yüan yü kou-tsao”, Yu-shih yüeh-k'an, 40.3 (Taipei: September 1974), p. 30. Biographical information concerning Ch'u Jen-huo is included in my “Sui T'ang yen-i and the Aesthetics of the Seventeenth Century Suchou Elite,” Chinese Narrative: Critical and Theoretical Essays, ed. Andrew Plaks (Princeton: Princeton University, 1977), pp. 124-59.

10. Many early editions of Shuo T'ang contain a preface by the as yet unidentified Ju-lien chü-shih (“Lotus-like Lay Devotee [of Buddhism]”) dated 1736. It seems likely that the work in its popular 68-chapter form—before recent expurgations of patently fantastic and repetitive material (such as the Shanghai: Chung-hua, 1959 edition which was reprinted by Kuang-chi Bookstore in Hong Kong in the late 1960s)—was compiled not long before this. Earliest extant editions, printed by Kuan-wen shu-wu and Fu-wen-t'ang in 1783, are in Kyoto and London respectively.

11. In drawing this distinction between these novelistic traditions I have in mind the perceptive comments by W. L. Idema in “Some Remarks and Speculations,” pp. 168-72. See also the recent articles by C. T. Hsia, “The Military Romance,” in Studies in Chinese Literary Genres, ed. by Cyril Birch (Berkeley: University of California, 1974), pp. 339-90; and “The Scholar-Novelist and Chinese Culture,” Chinese Narrative: Critical and Theoretical Essays, ed. Plaks, a Chinese version of which was published in Yu-shih yüeh-k'an, 40.3 (September 1974), pp. 18-29. In both papers, Hsia concentrates on later (eighteenth and nineteenth century) novels; however, the beginnings of two separate traditions can be seen considerably earlier, as here in the seventeenth century.

12. SSIW, pp. 1-2, copied into STYI, p. 1

13. For a correlation of the two texts, see my “Sui shih i-wen k'ao-lüeh.”

14. SSIW, p. 16 and STYI, p. 25.

15. SSIW, p. 17 and STYI, p. 27.

16. SSIW, p. 17 and STYI, p. 27.

17. Compare the text and translation in Mary Lelia Makra, The Hsiao Ching (New York: St. John's University, 1970), pp. 2-3; significantly, Lady Ning's remarks are a virtual paraphrase of the first chapter of this Confucian classic.

18. SSIW, pp. 17-18 and STYI, p. 27.

19. SSIW, p. 18 and STYI, p. 28.

20. SSIW, pp. 24-25 and STYI, p. 33.

21. Chuan Chu, biography in Shih chi 86, was a swordsman of the state of Wu during the Spring and Autumn period of Chinese history (8th to 6th centuries B.C.). The bravery of this man was well known: one night Kung-tzu Kuang got him drunk and persuaded him to assassinate the tyrannical King Liao of Wu. Chuan hid a dagger in a cooked fish which he presented to him. As the latter accepted the gift, Chuan pulled out the dagger and stabbed the king to death. Chuan was slain on the spot, however. Surely this allusion is meant to provide ironic contrast to Ch'in's lack of resourcefulness here.

22. SSIW, p. 25 and STYI, p. 35.

23. As the narrator explains, SSIW, p. 24 and STYI, p. 33.

24. SSIW, p. 41 and STYI, p. 52.

25. SSIW, pp. 41-42 and STYI, pp. 52-53.

26. SSIW, pp. 47-48 and STYI, p. 59.

27. SSIW, p. 57 and STYI, p. 69, an allusion to Mencius 6B.15.

28. SSIW, p. 68 and STYI, p. 80.

29. For this interior monologue, see SSIW, p. 70 and STYI, p. 83.

30. SSIW, p. 97 and STYI, p. 101. This section of the narrative, SSIW Chapters 15-16 and STYI Chapter 14, is of particular interest for the complex changes Ch'in undergoes here. The frog in the well: see Chuang Tzu 17.

31. See SSIW, p. 182. Omission of portions of Ch'in's interior monologue from STYI, p. 158 considerably diminishes his concern for the deaths of the girl and her mother to make his worries merely egocentric. Both versions leave off Ch'in's adventures as he flees home after the murder (SSIW Chapters 24-27 make no mention of him, nor do STYI Chapters 19-20). After the power of the rape and the ensuing murder, this abrupt transition is extremely effective in relieving tension and slowing the pace of action.

32. SSIW, p. 193 and STYI, p. 168.

33. SSIW, p. 185 makes it her seventieth birthday; STYI, p. 160 modifies its source to read “sixtieth.”

34. SSIW, p. 201 and STYI, p. 174.

35. SSIW, p. 252 and STYI, p. 310.

36. SSIW, p. 414-15 and STYI, p. 464. This act of self-mutilation is historical, but it was carried out by Hsü Mao-kung (known in the histories as Li Chi: his given name was Shih-chi, but he was granted the imperial surname and shih became a tabooed character upon the coronation of Li Shih-min); see Chiu T'ang shu, 67.9b.

37. It is noteworthy that in his concluding remarks at the 1942 Yenan Forum on Art and Literature, Mao Tsetung himself advocated the creation of just such typical characters as models from which the masses could generalize to their own experience. Needless to say, the values demonstrated here and those espoused by Chairman Mao are poles apart, but to ignore the continuation of the use of typical characters from old Chinese fiction to the present would be overlook an essential element of both.

38. I have already demonstrated its internal structure in “Sui T'ang yen-i and the Aesthetics of the Seventeenth Century Suchou Elite”; only my conclusions will be outlined here.

39. SSIW, “Hsü”. “Chiangsu” here is admittedly a mistranslation: the text reads Yang-hsien, the Han period name of an area now part of I-hsing in Chiangsu, but I am certain that Yüan had some more specific reference in mind, probably to a particular pedant or group of pedants.

40. SSIW, p. 17, in contrast to STYI, p. 27.

41. SSIW, p. 17, in contrast to STYI, p. 27 where the term is hao-chieh, with no hsia.

42. SSIW, p. 17, although later (p. 181), Fan is described in passing as a hao-chieh.

43. See SSIW, p. 17; as an advisor to Li Mi, see pp. 349, 355, etc. For the commentator's evaluation of Chia, see p. 375.

44. SSIW, p. 54.

45. SSIW, p. 62. This incident was much altered for STYI, p. 74

46. SSIW, p. 112.

47. As Shan himself admits, SSIW, p. 77.

48. SSIW, pp. 369, 371.

49. Ch'in is invited to join the T'ang on SSIW, p. 341; he saves Li Mi's life on p. 351; reference is made to his release from active duty on p. 359. Ch'in joins, then deserts, Wang Shih-ch'ung in Chapter 53, pp. 369-70 and 371-72.

50. SSIW, p. 81. To parallel this personality shift, Yüan describes his reaction in hyperbolic terms: “With a twist he leapt up to the ring, nine feet [chih] above level ground.” (p. 82)

51. Lo had petitioned the Sui throne for a position of responsibility in the imperial army for Ch'in, see SSIW, p. 105 and STYI, p. 105. The latter deletes Lo's comment on the triteness of the poem, however. In this context, Li Yüan's earlier comment comes to mind: “What use are reciting verse and philosophy in times like these?” (SSIW, p. 32 and STYI, p. 41)

52. Note the contrasts between Ch'in and the others as presented on SSIW, pp. 119-20: Ch'in alone has the perspicacity to distinguish between high and low; he alone treats Ch'ai Shao with proper respect. Li and Ch'i are termed ts'u-jen; see p. 131.

53. SSIW, p. 127, deleted from STYI, p. 124. Compare Ch'i Kuo-yüan's explosive temper (pp. 131-32 and 134) with Ch'in's similarly precipitate behavior, pp. 144-48.

54. SSIW, p. 198. Note too the differences between these men in literacy; see pp. 206-207.

55. “Ch'in Shu-pao truly was a man who did not give credence to spirits and ghosts,” the narrator comments (SSIW, p. 216) after Ch'in meets Ti Ch'ü-hsieh, the man who watched Emperor Yang—in the form of a huge rat—punished for his mortal crimes in the underworld.

56. SSIW, p. 226; Hsü lumps himself and Shan Hsiung-hsin in that category.

57. SSIW, pp. 267-68; see also C. T. Hsia's “The Military Romance.”

58. SSIW, p. 16, in the introduction to Chapter 3 before Ch'in himself appears in the work. Shih-yün or “luck,” t'ien, “heaven,” and t'ien-i, “the mind of heaven” or “heaven's intention” are terms which recur in SSIW, but they constitute neither a deterministic bent to events in the novel nor a coherent concept parallel to the Western “fate.” “Luck” is as illusive for Ch'in as it is for his modern American fictional counterpart, however. Ch'in commits accidental homocide because he is “down on his luck (shih-yün pu-li, p. 71); because his “luck has been bad” (shih-yün pu-hao, p. 81) he at first refuses to try his hand with the martial arts champion in Shun-i Village; until meeting Lo I, Ch'in's “luck was against him” (shih-yün wei-tao). In other words, Ch'in's luck could be good or bad, present or lacking in the early stages of his career, but given the human explanation offered for each setback or success, luck seems to have little to do with his development. “Heaven” is the more significant concept here. The narrator explains that “heaven” has arranged for Ch'in to save Li Yüan (pp. 16-17) and that “heaven” steels man for later trials (p. 57). Appropriately, Ch'in blames “heaven” for his tribulations in Luchou (p. 41). It is “heaven” which overthrows the Sui (pp. 16, 281, 304, etc.), and yet Emperor Yang is castigated for bringing his fall on himself. The “true ruler” is one who both “accords with heaven's intentions” (shun t'ien-i) and responds to the hearts of men” (ying jen-hsin, p. 330). A later comment, “When the mind of heaven makes its allegiance, the minds of men follow suit” (p. 386) would seem to draw a causal connection between the two, but ultimately the two are identified: “The hearts of men are none other than the intention of Heaven,” Tou Chiente exclaims (p. 405). To paraphrase Yüan Yü-ling's attitude on Ch'in's development, man, and man alone, builds his own destiny; if the “time” (shih) is a factor, the crucial element is how the individual responds to opportunities presented him. Fate, luck, and heaven ultimately have little to do with success in this novel; they simply were not a serious concern for Yüan Yü-ling.

59. See SSIW, p. 76. In the corresponding section of STYI, this parallel prose section is replaced by a simple couplet having much less dramatic effect; see STYI, p. 87.

60. SSIW, p. 238, in contrast to STYI, p. 284; in the later work Ch'in's son is mentioned only when his entire family is kidnapped, in Chapter 52.

61. SSIW, pp. 140-42. “White” in this case means “untainted,” “pure,” etc. It seems entirely likely that Forgotten Tales disappeared because of this scene—it must have enraged any member of the leisured class who perceived how totally this section condemns upper class excesses. There are elements of bitter censure of the abuses of privilege throughout the novel; I will discuss them in a later study.

62. Sui T'ang yen-i, the Ssu-hsüeh-ts'ao-t'ang edition, Hsü, pp. 1a-2a. The “cutting of material” refers to an incident in Chapter 1 of Sui T'ang liang-ch'ao chih-chuan and Chapter 28 of STYI: When Emperor Yang of the Sui complains that his Imperial Park looks depressingly bleak due to the winter weather, the ladies of his harem fashion flowers out of cloth to hang on the bushes and trees there. This occurs long after the founding of the Sui.

63. See “Sui T'ang yen-i and Aesthetics,” pp. 132-37.

64. STYI, p. 54.

65. STYI, p. 74.

66. See SSIW, p. 105.

67. Compare STYI, p. 105 with SSIW, p. 105.

68. STYI, p. 344.

69. STYI, p. 418.

70. Su Ch'in and Chang I, famous rhetoricians and tacticians of China's Warring States period, fifth to third centuries B.C.

71. STYI, p. 419.

72. STYI, pp. 551 and 575-76.

73. Compare STYI, p. 254 with SSIW, pp. 223-25; the latter, through its many poems, creates a lyrical effect Ch'u consciously diminished for his own work.

74. See STYI, pp. 430-33; this episode is adapted from Sui T'ang liang-ch'ao chih-chuan, Chapters 54 and 56.

75. Compare STYI, pp. 454-58 with the much more brief SSIW, pp. 313-14.

76. STYI, pp. 428-30, 434-38, 448, 458-59, and 465-66. For an earlier version of this tale as parable of filial piety, see Yüeh-fu-shih hsüan, ed. by Yü Kuan-ying, (Peking: Jen-min wen-hsüeh, 1955), p. 119. Translations in Arthur Waley, Chinese Poems (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1946), pp. 113-15; J. D. Frodsham and Ch'eng Hsi, Anthology of Chinese Verse (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1967), pp. 104-106.

77. See Hegel, “Sui T'ang yen-i and the Aesthetics,” pp. 136-39, 150-51.

78. See W.T. deBary, “Introduction,” The Unfolding of Neo-Confucianism, ed. deBary (New York: Columbia University, 1975), pp. 29-32, esp. p. 31.