The Sounds of Mandarin: Learning to Speak a National Language in China and Taiwan, 1913–1960 9780231557757

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T H E S O U N D S O F M A N DA R I N

THE SOUNDS OF MANDARIN

LEARNING TO SPEAK A N AT I O N A L L A N G UA G E I N C H I N A A N D T A I WA N , 1 9 1 3 – 1­ 9 6 0

J A N E T   Y. C H E N

Columbia University Press New York

Columbia University Press Publishers Since 1893 New York  Chichester, West Sussex cup​.­columbia​.­edu Copyright © 2023 Columbia University Press All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Chen, Janet Y., 1972– author. Title: The sounds of Mandarin : learning to speak a national language in China and Taiwan, 1913–1960 / Janet Y. Chen. Description: New York : Columbia University Press, [2023] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2022050768 (print) | LCCN 2022050769 (ebook) | ISBN 9780231209021 (hardback) | ISBN 9780231209038 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780231557757 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Language policy—China—History—20th century. | Language policy—Taiwan—History—20th century. | Mandarin dialects—Political aspects—China. | Mandarin dialects—Political aspects—Taiwan. Classification: LCC P119.32.C6 C44 2023 (print) | LCC P119.32.C6 (ebook) | DDC 306.44/951—dc23/eng/20230210 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022050768 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022050769 Printed in the United States of America Cover design: Milenda Nan Ok Lee Cover image: Wang Pu at the recording studio in Shanghai, 1920. Lufei Kui 陸費逵, Zhonghua guoyin liusheng jipian keben 中華國音留聲機片課本, 1920.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments vii Notes on Language and Transliteration  xi INTRODUCTION 1 1. DUELING SOUNDS AND CONTENDING TONES 21 2. IN SEARCH OF STANDARD MANDARIN 67 3. THE NATIONAL LANGUAGE IN EXILE 118 4. TAIWAN BABEL 163 5. THE COMMON LANGUAGE OF NEW CHINA 217 EPILOGUE 276

Notes 297 Bibliography 345 Index 401

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I

n the course of writing this book, I have accumulated many debts, personal and professional. These brief words of thanks are inadequate to convey my gratitude to the many people who helped me along the way. In bringing this work to fruition, I owe a great debt to Michael Gordin, who read the penultimate draft—­four hundred pages—­in six days. He asked dozens of razor-­sharp questions and offered insights that helped clarify my thinking on several key issues. Readers should also be grateful for his intervention in admonishing my incorrigible habit of mixing metaphors. In the History and East Asian Studies Departments at Princeton, I have benefited from interactions with two different but connected intellectual communities. I thank my two department chairs, Angela Creager and Anna Shields, for their support and encouragement. David Bell, Sheldon Garon, Harold James, Paize Keulemans, Federico Marcon, Marni Sandweiss, and Keith Wailoo asked astute questions and provided helpful feedback. He Bian, Yaacob Dweck, Laura Edwards, Molly Greene, Michael Laffan, Rosina Lozano, Erika Milam, and Emily Thompson make Dickinson Hall a congenial place to work. Susan Naquin has been a mentor and formidable critic since I arrived sixteen years ago. Margot Canaday understands me and makes me laugh. Audiences at Academia Sinica, UC Berkeley, Brown University, Duke University, Emory University, Goethe University Frankfurt, Harvard

viii Acknowledgments

University, Nanjing University, Tel Aviv University, Yale University, and numerous conferences asked probing questions, which compelled me to think harder. I am grateful to Ori Sela and Asaf Goldschmidt for hosting me in Tel Aviv several times. At Berkeley, stimulating conversation with Joe Esherick and Jon Kowallis took place over a dinner hosted by Yeh Wen-­hsin. A series of conference panels with Joan Judge, Eugenia Lean, Rob Culp, and Rebecca Nedostup provided opportunities to present ­work-­in-­progress. David Chang graciously answered my questions about research on military history. I learned much from the spirited discussions at the “Languages and Scripts in China” conference organized by Ulug Kuzuoglu at Columbia. At the Gest East Asia Library, Martin Heijdra and Joshua Seufert have been tireless in supporting the research of faculty and students. They have a special gift for finding books that I did not realize I needed. I know I tried the patience of the Interlibrary Loan department staff at Firestone Library, but they resourcefully tracked down materials from all over the world on my behalf. Thank you for all that you do. Princeton University and the ACLS/Frederick Burkhardt fellowship provided generous financial support, underwriting numerous research trips and time to write. At the Institute of Advanced Study, I spent a delightful sabbatical year in the company of Paul Smith, Eugenio Menegon, Ken Swope, and Bryna Goodman, with Nicola Di Cosmo as our fearless leader. The archival research for this book was (fortunately) completed before the COVID-­19 pandemic. At the Second Historical Archive in Nanjing, Zheng Xinxian worked some magic to help me gain access to the fortress of Republican-­era materials. In Taipei and Shanghai, Cao Nanping, Chen Shih-­fang, Yingtian He, Elijah Greenstein, and Tomer Nisimov helped me retrieve, photocopy, or hand-­transcribe sources left behind. Other research assistants contributed their valuable time and labor: Sam Niu, Seth Paternostro, Amy Wang, Sophie Wheeler, Xue Zhang, Zoe Zhang. At Columbia University Press, Caelyn Cobb shepherded the manuscript through the editorial process in record time. I am grateful to Monique Briones for patiently answering my questions and to Anita O’Brien for expert copyediting. Two anonymous referees provided ­perceptive comments and suggestions, which I have done my best to incorporate.

Acknowledgments ix

Looking back over a lifetime of learning, it was my singularly good fortune to have studied with so many inspiring teachers who helped me become the scholar I wanted to be. Beatrice Bartlett, Carol Benedict, Cecilia Chang, Annping Chin, Sam Crane, Valerie Hansen, Gail Hershatter, Cornelius Kubler, Regina Kunzel, Jim Scott, and Jonathan Spence will find their influence imprinted on these pages and on my life. I started teaching graduate students shortly after I stopped being one myself. At the risk of forgetting any of them, this is a collective thanks to the past and present Ph.D. students in East Asian history at Princeton, who have taught me just as much as I taught them. On a personal level, I would like to thank the extended Chen and Soffer families for not asking too many questions about why this book took so long to finish. Benny, Eli, and Natalia helped by enriching my life on a daily basis. The process of writing this book was punctuated by a series of personal losses: the deaths of my father Chen Po-­jung in 2014, my father-­in-­law Oved Soffer in 2020, and my teacher Jonathan Spence in 2021. It is dedicated to them, in loving memory.

NOTES ON LANGUAGE AND TR ANSLITER ATION

I

use the pinyin system of romanization, except where names are well-­ known in the alternative (Chiang Kai-­shek), or to follow the person’s preferred spelling (Chao Yuen Ren). The use of simplified versus traditional script follows the style of the source. Some materials, published in the mid-­1950s during the transitional period of script simplification, use a mixture or irregular forms. Between 1900 and 1950 the name for Beijing (meaning “northern capital”) changed four times, reflecting a revolving door of national governments and the corresponding relocation of the capital. To minimize confusion, I use Beijing throughout. Readers unfamiliar with the features and structure of the Chinese language may find the following brief explanation helpful. Linguists classify the language of the Han majority in China as a branch of Sino-­Tibetan. Its spoken varieties are grouped into seven or eight mutually unintelligible fangyan 方言, a term conventionally (but controversially) translated in English as “regional dialect.” The largest dialect group is northern Beifanghua (known colloquially as Mandarin), with a geographical scope spanning the far Northeast to the Southwest. The other varieties, often called “southern dialects,” include Yue (Cantonese), Wu (Shanghainese), and Min (Taiwanese). The divergence in phonology, syntax, and grammar between regional dialects is stark: a Cantonese speaker and a Shanghainese speaker would not be able to understand each other

x i i   N otes on L anguage and T ransliteration

at all. The diversity of spoken dialects is anchored by a common writing system (Hanzi, “Chinese script”), which to many represents the unifying force of Chinese culture across millennia. All varieties of spoken Chinese are tonal, in which voice pitch conveys differences in meaning. Today’s Standard Modern Chinese, based on the phonology of the northern/Beijing dialect, has four standard tones. As an example, the phoneme ma, rendered in the four different tones, could mean mother 媽, hemp 麻, horse 馬, or to scold 罵.

INTRODUCTION

O

n September 5, 2013, the Education Ministry in Beijing held a press conference to launch the new school year. During the ­proceedings, ministry spokeswoman Xu Mei discussed the ­upcoming sixteenth annual “Putonghua Propaganda Week,” underscoring its importance for national unity, economic development, and social progress. “Currently only 70 percent of the population are able to use pu­ tonghua [the common language] to communicate,” Xu said. “Moreover, the proficiency level of the majority is not high. There are still 30 percent, or more than four hundred million people, unable to use putonghua to communicate.” Journalists from Xinhua News Agency in attendance duly noted these remarks, and the headline soon appeared on various news channels.1 When foreign news outlets picked up the story, some gave it a different spin, such as: “Say What? China Says 400 Million Cannot Speak National Language.”2 The episode was somewhat anomalous in the curious attention it attracted from foreign news sources, but in fact the Chinese government had been making periodic announcements about language proficiency and progress for some time. The first large-­scale investigation of language use revealed that, around the turn of the millennium, 53 percent of the population (between ages fifteen and sixty-­nine) could speak putonghua. Of these, some 20 percent were able to do so “fluently and correctly,” while the rest exhibited “incorrect pronunciation.” When asked about the main

2 I ntroduction

difficulties of using the common language in their daily lives, respondents cited issues such as “few opportunities to speak” and “afraid of the ridicule of others.”3 More recently, in 2017, commentary published in the Peo­ ple’s Daily (the official newspaper of the Communist Party’s Central Committee) observed: “Putonghua is not putong,” lamenting that the common language of China had not achieved the degree of diffusion befitting its name.4 Whether four hundred million or 53 percent, whether viewed through the lens of deficiency or achievement, these metrics prompt us to reconsider the conventional wisdom about the history of China’s national language. Existing scholarship tends to portray the linguistic experiments of the twentieth century as a series of “language reforms,” integrated into a linear narrative—­from the decline of the Qing Empire at the turn of the century to the triumph of the Communist Party in 1949, leading to the creation of a standard language. In written form, this is a modern vernacular with simplified characters, and in spoken form, a unified “Mandarin” rising out of a cacophony of dialects. In general, the scholarship has privileged writing over speech, with the May Fourth “vernacular revolution” playing the starring role. As a spoken language Mandarin is often assumed to be either a coherent and preexisting entity, or developing along a path leading to linguistic unity. This book takes speech as the starting point for investigating how Mandarin became the spoken language of two nations, separated by one hundred miles across the Taiwan Straits. It challenges the presumption that Mandarin was born whole at the time of its creation and asks what the national language at its various stages of historical formation meant to the people learning to speak it. For intellectuals and reformers across the political spectrum, a unified national language represented the instantiation of the modern nation-­state and a desperately needed tonic for the unending crises threatening the country’s survival in the early twentieth century. Influential elites in education, government, and various cultural arenas forged a powerful vision of a strong China speaking in one unified voice. They also invested that vision with crucial implications for ideological cohesion and social development. Yet despite general consensus about the broad contours of the objective and its significance, divergent strategies and sharp discord undermined attempts to create a coherent and stable spoken standard.

I ntroduction  3

The Sounds of Mandarin injects a new perspective into these issues, viewing the journey of the national language from the ground up, from the vantage point of those enjoined to teach or learn it. Doing so reveals a process of linguistic change riven with conflicts, as speech became a site of quotidian negotiation and voluble contestation. Recurring complaints ­disclose that some found the process bewildering, useless, or comparable to learning a “foreign” language. The sense of alienation—­rather than instinctual or natural identification—­alludes to fraught linkages between language and nationalism, usually presumed to exist in a straightforward relationship in twentieth-­century China. If the linguistic data points discussed here provide any indication about the twenty-­first-­century status quo, answering the question, “How did ‘people’ learn to speak a national language in China?” must begin with querying the assumption that they all did. This book thus recasts the question by interrogating linguistic change as a social process—­to consider how and under what conditions a national language in the process of formation thrived or floundered, and to investigate its fate in classrooms and in local communities. My research approaches the acts of articulation embodied in speech as practices of learning, repetition, and performance, subjected to shifting assessments of proficiency. How did judgments of “correct” pronunciation evolve, and how was deviation from the “standard” measured? Who possessed the linguistic and political authority to define and enforce speech norms? Who was qualified to teach the national language? Was it possible to learn to speak through self-­study, as the mantra “self-­mastery without a teacher” (無師自通) claimed? As my analysis will reveal, language pedagogy, the competency of teachers, and the uneven capacities of the educational system were central to this process and chronic sources of tension. By locating experiences of language learning in explicitly local and historical contexts, this book explores the entanglement of standard speech with social norms and national politics. The role of war and migration in forging a national language and the (mostly unrealized) hopes pinned on media technologies to broadcast its sounds constitute two of the major themes. Mandarin is an often-­used English term for the Chinese language, denoting its standard spoken form. As such, it encompasses useful ambiguities that foreground my research. The English rendering comes from the name for officials and refers to the spoken language of imperial

4 I ntroduction

officialdom called guanhua 官話 (official language), which also served as a shared medium of communication for merchants and travelers moving across regional linguistic barriers. In the early twentieth century intellectuals used guoyu 國語 (a neologism and “return graphic loan” from Japanese) to refer to the “national language.” Later the Communist Party adopted putonghua 普通話 (common language) for the People’s Republic of China (PRC); in Taiwan the Nationalist (KMT) regime in exile maintained guoyu. For their part, overseas Chinese communities around the world prefer either Huayu 華語 (language of China) or Hanyu 漢語 (language of the Han people).5 While “Mandarin” embodies all these meanings, my premise is that the term obscures significant variations and conflicts that were critical to the making of a national language and to the process of speech standardization. The goal of this book is to disaggregate Mandarin into historically specific moments of linguistic change, and to explore the changing sounds of what constituted “correct pronunciation” at different junctures and in specific social contexts. Disentangling Mandarin’s conflation with guoyu and putonghua allows us to consider how the idea and the multiple realities of standard speech intersected with the lives of ordinary people. To understand that process, we must also keep in view its nonstandard counterpart, the complex of regional speech called fangyan 方言 (local speech), usually rendered in English as “dialects.” The subject of perennial controversy, the term fangyan and its translation are implicated in broader debates about whether the varieties of speech in China should be considered “languages” or “dialects.” The argument largely rests on whether one considers the criterion of mutual intelligibility to be decisive. In general, Chinese definitions of fangyan weigh the common writing system (“Han script” 漢字) and the political unity of the nation as overriding considerations. Thus, despite the obvious incommensurability of spoken vernaculars between places such as Beijing, Shanghai, and Guangzhou, the orthodox view incorporates them into the family of “Han dialects” (漢語方言).6 Also relevant to the present study is the concept of tuhua 土話 (earth talk or local speech, alternately tuyu 土語, earth language), often used interchangeably with fangyan. Historical subjects invoked the term to denote the spoken vernacular of “rustics,” who were marginalized by class difference, presumed to be uneducated and culturally deficient. Its closet equivalent might be the French patois (rough speech). On

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the other hand, tuhua could function on a positive register, to connote affection for one’s native place and hometown linguistic allegiances (­analogous to pride in “local products,” tuchan 土產).7 Although typically counterposed as opposites, the dialect and the standard are mutually ­constitutive, as Gina Tam has astutely shown in a recent study.8 In addition, the book makes brief forays into two adjacent topics: the languages of non-­Han ethnic minorities and the overseas communities of the diaspora. Both complex subjects deserve detailed treatment beyond the scope of this study.

FI ND I NG T HE N ATION IN THE NATI ON A L LA N GUAG E

The narrative arc of this book traces the bumpy journey of China’s spoken national language, from idea to not-­quite-­fruition. Guoyu and its pu­ tonghua counterpart were critical tools for the project of assimilating citizens into a vision of the nation-­state predicated on linguistic uniformity. At the level of political ideology and rhetoric, it was beyond dispute that the national language could and should anchor Chinese unity against foreign imperialism and domestic sources of fracture. In practice, however, the process of transforming ideological aspiration into spoken reality proved messy and sometimes quite confused. If the national language was an instrument of power for the modern state, successive regimes in China wielded it clumsily. The spoken standard was a moving target, embodying shifting norms. Speech proved more impervious to state intervention than anticipated. Putative linguistic hierarchies did not necessarily correspond to social status. In the protracted process of becoming a prestige language, guoyu/putonghua endured suspicion and multivalent forms of mockery, even while many championed its cause. To the consternation of its proponents, “the masses” did not spontaneously embrace the spoken national language—­they had to be cajoled, prodded, or compelled to learn it. Contrary to expectations, the superiority of guoyu/putonghua was not necessarily self-­evident or widely shared. Depending on the social context, standard speech could be a ticket for upward mobility, a marker of education and class status shaded with positive or deleterious connotation, or an interloper disparaged for its association with officialdom.

6  Introduction

In the absence of educational infrastructures and resources sufficient to support the ambition, the implementation of standard speech in the school curriculum proved a recurring disappointment. As is well-­k nown, the national language as curricular subject became a core component of primary and secondary education, starting in the late 1910s. The medium of instruction, however, was a cacophonous disarray, with guoyu lessons taught in dialects or the pejoratively named “blue-­green guanhua” (藍青 官話, meaning mixed or adulterated). Suspending the assumption that national language classes were conducted in guoyu makes it possible to see fissures in the linguistic terrain in a different light. Here phonetic notation offers a salient point of entry for understanding the divergence between speech and script in national language education. The first iteration of the zhuyin zimu 注音字母 (1913) annotated the phonology of the “national pronunciation” with thirty-­nine symbols. As chapter 1 will discuss, its advocates envisioned that learning to enunciate the sounds embodied in this “phonetic alphabet” would be the first step toward unifying pronunciation. Whether school-­age children or adult learners, all could memorize the correct sounds of each symbol, as the foundation for mastering the spoken national language. The normative properties of standard pronunciation, however, remained in flux for twenty years, as reflected in the number of symbols in the syllabary: forty in 1920, thirty-­ seven in 1930. Thereafter, confusion continued, as new textbooks appeared but older editions persisted. Detractors accused zhuyin of operating as an accomplice in the conspiracy to destroy Chinese script. Others objected to the singular fixation on “national” pronunciation—­to facilitate literacy, they advocated for flexible systems able to articulate regionally specific sounds. Throughout this period, roiling disagreements about the pedagogical value or harm of phonetic notation illuminate the dynamics of language teaching and learning. Following the uneven trajectory of standard speech across time and landscape, this book shows that nationalism is a necessary but insufficient lens for understanding the national language. A research framework embedded with assumptions about linguistic nationalism inevitably points in the direction of unified speech as the nation’s destiny or as a self-­ fulfilling prophesy. Viewing guoyu/putonghua as an endpoint elides origins fraught with conflicts and overlooks the unstable hierarchies of speech. Eschewing these premises opens up new lines of inquiry, for

Introduction  7

interrogating the chasm between the ideal and the heterogeneous realities of a national language. Beyond the drumbeat of nationalist rhetoric, the aural dimensions of standard speech invite us to rethink the practices of linguistic inclusion and exclusion, at a time when the sounds of Mandarin were not yet homogenized or standardized.

BEYOND THE SCR I P T

In approaching China’s national language from the angle of speech and social history, this study departs from a voluminous existing scholarship. The most influential source for the early history of “Mandarin” is Li Jinxi’s Guoyu yundong shigang (Outline history of the national language movement), published in 1934. Li was one of the chief protagonists of this ­history and became its most persuasive chronicler.9 In this encyclopedic narrative, he traced how linguistic experiments of varied persuasions, starting in the late Qing, came together to form a “national language movement.” Since its initial publication, the book has been reprinted many times (most recently in a 2011 edition); every generation of scholarship has relied on it, sometimes exclusively so. Scholars have not scrutinized Li’s role in shaping the history that he wrote and have replicated his teleological stance (even reproducing the typographical errors of the first edition). As a result, Li’s judgments about the inevitability and normative value of a national language have powerfully shaped contemporary understandings. The work of American linguist John DeFrancis has proved similarly enduring but in a more controversial manner. His book Nation­ alism and Language Reform in China (1950) considered the history of language reform in terms of ideological battles between the Nationalists and the Communists.10 At the time of its publication, critics assailed DeFrancis for his overt leftist sympathies. Seventy years later, the book remains a provocative and widely referenced source. More recently, burgeoning interest in Chinese language (broadly construed) has contributed dynamic, multidisciplinary perspectives, ranging from historical phonology to the fertile intellectual terrain of the late Qing and early Republic.11 A robust cluster of new works has focused on the history of orthography, particularly its global dimensions.12 We now know

8  Introduction

much more about the history of linguistics as an academic discipline in China.13 Meanwhile, the Sinophone world in literary and media studies has enlarged to encompass multicultural and multilingual communities around the globe.14 For contemporary society, linguists attentive to the present-­day implications of language planning address the hot-­button issue of minority languages.15 Most relevant to my concerns is Wang Dongjie’s magisterial survey of the national language movement, Sheng­ru xintong: Guoyu yundong yu xiandai Zhongguo (2019). From the perspective of intellectual history, the study emphasizes the late Qing origins of experiments with alphabetization, fiery arguments over script reform, and the intersection of politics with linguistics.16 With this scholarship as foundational terrain, the present study pursues a different agenda, by bringing the social history of the spoken national language into the picture. To do so, I draw on theories from ­sociolinguistics. Language ideology, acquisition, and pedagogy provide constructive rubrics for analyzing the dynamics of linguistic change, particularly in education.17 In addition, I focus on the question of ­standardization—­as concept and practice—­as a central analytical concern. In his classic book Measures and Men, Witold Kula observed that a standard must be objective, immutable, and “independent of human individuality.” The process of standardization necessarily entails assessing the degree of deviation. The key is invariability in the unit of measurement. Across the ages, controlling authorities asserted the prerogative to determine the standards of measurement and claimed the right to punish transgressions.18 In the case of speech, however, the spectrum of variation in pronunciation exists in constant tension with the imperative to delimit the standard. Not surprisingly, the tools used to gauge the degree of standard-­or nonstandardness, as well as the meanings imparted to those measurements, were highly contested. In the early twentieth century the impetus for standards (標準) became ubiquitous in Chinese discourse and practice across education, commercial and industrial pursuits, and government administration, part of an impulse to rationalize society, improve its efficiency, and increase its productivity.19 In the search for a standard spoken national language, those who prized precision and accuracy in pronunciation insisted on conformity to a fixed, ostensibly homogenous ideal. In contrast, others endorsed attitudes of “more or less correct” with flexibility at the boundaries, or a “blue-­green” approach

I ntroduction  9

“good enough” for communication. The importance or disregard accorded to tonal differentiation—­a n indispensable component of today’s guoyu and putonghua—­stimulated heated opinions. To hear the differences in pronunciation, generative insights from the “sonic turn” in cultural history provide another point of departure, for thinking about what “the audible past” meant for the Chinese historical  experience.20 Extant remnants of early twentieth-­century sound technology—­ phonograph recordings, films, and radio broadcasts—­ constitute an aural archive, with opportunities to listen to the changing features of a national language in the process of formation. Where recorded speech survives, the methodological challenge is to render its sounds and affective qualities into words. Conversely, far more abundant written sources (commentary on films and radio broadcasts, phonetically annotated textbooks and dictionaries) describe, explain, or grumble about the attributes of spoken guoyu. Here the aural properties must be excavated from a written archive.21 Under specific historical conditions, acoustic technologies functioned as conduits for the national language, disseminating its sounds in pedagogical or entertainment form. But under other circumstances, the imperative of profit or the urgency of popular mobilization compelled a different calculus to prioritize dialect voices. This study also contributes a new perspective to the complex processes of social and cultural reform in modern China. A substantial body of scholarship has emphasized the modernizing aspirations of elite reformers, adaptation of foreign models, and inconsistent degrees of state penetration. In the realm of education, recent research has delivered a generally positive view of early twentieth-­century reform efforts, reversing an older verdict about China’s failure to modernize. From rural schools and women’s education to teacher training and mass literacy, the innovative integration of new methods with traditional practices created a dynamic system that served the state-­building goals of successive political regimes. Textbooks and school ceremonies became powerful tools for the socialization of students, imprinting expectations of civic responsibility and shaping their behavior as citizens. Meanwhile, dramatic changes in cultural customs such as clothing, hairstyles, etiquette, and the calendar forged new symbols of the nation and markers of Republican citizenship.22 The Sounds of Mandarin adds a different dimension to existing scholarship by exploring the social impact of the national language, as a key

10  I ntroduction

cultural category and core component of the education system. My analysis delivers a ground-­level view of the multifaceted challenges and tensions generated in attempts to implement linguistic reform on a society-­ wide scale. A national language by definition could not be piecemeal. Yet bringing to fruition its imagined transformative potential was dependent on distinctly localized contexts: individual educational institutions and personnel; bureaucratic management strategies and incentives; the subtlety or force of community norms that supported or undermined speech standardization. Despite vigorous rhetorical insistence on linguistic unity, it was possible (and for many, preferable) to decouple the spoken element of the national language from the written in educational contexts—­or to dispense with it entirely. In addition, The Sounds of Mandarin tracks the fate of the national language as it crossed the Taiwan Straits in 1945. Despite William Kirby’s admonishment—­more than thirty years ago—­that the Nationalist regime in the 1950s merited comparative consideration with its mainland rival, few studies have done so.23 In dramatically disparate contexts, the parallel pursuit of standard speech in the People’s Republic and the Republic of China shared much in common—­f rom confusion over standards to chronic shortages of pedagogical resources and individual acts of refusal. In Taiwan, however, the shadow of Japanese language loomed large. To the dismay of the KMT government, the national language brought to the island in 1945 could not easily displace its colonial predecessor. As chapter  4 will discuss, the pedagogical labor and administrative capacity required to translate the national language from ideological concept to social reality proved beyond the reach of a regime in an extended period of transition. The issue of Japanese also raises the question of comparative case ­studies. In the twentieth century, contemporaneous attempts to create national languages played formative roles in nation-­building projects around the world. Detailed considerations of this vastly complex subject are beyond the scope of this study. Instead, my analysis follows historical actors in their curiosity about and search for lessons or models for China. This includes inspiration drawn from Japan’s genbun itchi movement, an envious gaze on Turkish language reforms in the late 1920s, and the vital importance of Soviet linguistics in the 1950s. Readers familiar with the history of national language projects in other regions of the world will

Introduction  11

undoubtedly detect resonances or identify crucial differences. For instance, Meiji Japan provides a salient contrast, highlighting the role of centralized political authority and a robust system of universal primary education implemented in the late nineteenth century. In the cases of Hindi and Malay, the linguistic legacies of colonialism echo Taiwan’s entanglement with Japanese. The longer historical trajectories of standardization in Europe (for French, English, and German in particular) also deliver instructive insights about the influence of the military, schooling, and centralized bureaucracy. Studies have documented, for instance, how the diffusion of standard French in the nineteenth century was propelled by a strong centralized state and reinforced by demand for education from below. As literacy became crucial for advancement in an industrializing society, and as the French language became a powerful symbol of national identity, popular acceptance of the “ideology of the standard” cemented the dominance of Parisian speech norms.24 The situation was quite different in China, where a character-­based script made it possible to learn the written language (as it evolved from classical Chinese to a modern vernacular) without necessarily attending to a spoken standard. This configuration attenuated some of the incentives for standardization in other historical contexts and produced spaces for resistance to forces of linguistic assimilation. The fragmentation of political authority across decades of crisis and war precluded a straightforward path to the desired outcome of standard speech. Without the requisite administrative capacity to enforce political goals, and lacking sufficient resources to support pedagogical aims, attempts at linguistic engineering repeatedly foundered.

CORRECT PRONUNCIAT I ON I N THE L ATE IMPERIA L ERA

The vexing issue of “correct pronunciation” was not new to the twentieth century. Three hundred years earlier, scholars had speculated that Confucius probably “mispronounced” the words of the sage-­k ings, since he must have spoken in his native, Shandong-­inflected dialect.25 In the Tang  dynasty, rhyming dictionaries (dating from the seventh century) embodied the standard pronunciation sanctioned for the civil service

12 I ntroduction

examinations. These books provided an essential reference for aspiring candidates, who were expected to compose regulated verse that rhymed according to the authoritative phonology, regardless of the pronunciation of their own spoken vernaculars.26 Even after later dynasties dropped poetry from the civil service exams, regulated verse remained an important cultural genre, the mastery of which denoted elite status. In the seventeenth century, scholars seeking to restore an ideal past turned to archaic phonology to reconstruct the language of the ancients. The issue of pronunciation figured prominently in the world of opera, where the popularity of regional genres stimulated debates about aesthetics, performative intelligibility, and the relationship between topolects and a spoken standard.27 There was one specific moment of imperial intervention in the eighteenth century, when the Yongzheng emperor famously expressed his annoyance about officials from the South, summoned to Beijing for imperial audiences, who could not speak intelligibly. “Those from Fujian and Guangdong who retain their local accents are the only ones I cannot understand,” the emperor complained in an edict issued in 1728. He blamed their linguistic incompetence for contributing to local administrative problems: the inability to speak the functioning language of the bureaucracy led to the proliferation of mistakes and abuses. Despite the irritated tone, the emperor was somewhat sympathetic to the difficulties of language learning. “A language learned from youth is hard to change suddenly,” he noted. “Teaching must be done gradually, so that over time it can be mastered.”28 The imperial admonition compelled officials in the two provinces singled out for rebuke to scramble for remedies. They swiftly appended “academies of correct pronunciation” (for students preparing for the civil service exams) to existing schools. Other academies were established as independent institutions. The majority did not endure beyond Yongzheng’s short reign, closing due to lack of funding.29 The historical record offers only suggestive hints about how these academies functioned. In 1737 Fujian’s administration commissioner reported to the throne that twelve degree-­holders from Zhejiang and Jiangxi, hired to teach “correct pronunciation,” were virtually useless in the classroom. Selected on the basis of guanhua proficiency, their inability to speak the local vernacular (tuyu)

I ntroduction  13

proved to be an insurmountable liability. With teachers and students unable to understand each other, “there is actually no benefit to correct pronunciation.” The commissioner proposed sending these teachers home and hiring Fujian natives with the requisite bilingual proficiency in their stead.30 Eight years later the governor of Fujian petitioned to close four academies of correct pronunciation, citing their limited capacity. “The population of Fujian is large, but each academy can only accommodate about ten people. . . . ​Despite many years of teaching, village accents still endure.” Under the circumstances, local education officials were to assume responsibility for ensuring that examination candidates from their jurisdictions satisfy the imperial edict.31 The rapid demise of the academies of correct pronunciation indicates that this pedagogical configuration was fairly peripheral to the concerns of the Qing court and bureaucracy. More central to the imperial linguistic agenda was Manchu, the language of the ruling house, as it became entangled with literary Chinese, the written vernacular, and spoken guan­ hua.32 Other efforts to “inspect” pronunciation did not intend to enforce speech norms per se. The objective was ferreting out imposters seeking an advantage in the civil service exams. Shoji Hirata has described how candidates (such as from Jiangnan) tried to “game” the system. Faced with daunting odds in their home jurisdictions, they registered to take the prefectural-­level exam in the capital region, hoping to improve their chances. The Kangxi emperor had warned those attempting the ruse that if they succeeded in fooling the metropolitan examiners, during the palace exam he would personally expose anyone whose “accent” did not match the professed place of origin. Subsequently and into the nineteenth century, the court appointed “pronunciation censors” to catch those bearing fraudulent geographical credentials.33 Although extant records are sparse, pronunciation primers for both native and foreign learners reveal variations in spoken guanhua in the late imperial period. For instance, Gao Jingting’s Synopsis of Correct Pronun­ ciation 正音撮要 (ca. 1810) identified guanhua as comprising northern and southern varieties. For beginners, Gao believed the key to success was choosing one and staying the course—­commingling a northern vernacular with a southern accent “sounds unnatural and unpleasant.” He also noted that “the speech of Beijing (jinghua)” was the “final destination of

14 I ntroduction

guanhua” and the learning objective of elite families and anyone aspiring to become an official.34 Even so, his pronunciation glosses reflected the southern (Nanjing) variety of guanhua, featuring five tones.35 A native of Guangdong, Gao learned to speak guanhua while living in the North (Zhili) in his teens. During his travels, he observed that despite discernible disparities, the people he encountered (hailing from several provinces) spoke a “mostly standard accent . . . ​not difficult to understand.” The notable exceptions were his fellow provincials from Guangdong and neighboring Fujian, whose “improper accents” garbled communication—­“when they refer to objects or address people, they are far off the mark.”36 When British consul Robert Thom adapted Gao’s Synopsis as a primer for foreign learners, he omitted the five-­tone glosses and denoted “Peking” pronunciation as the frame of reference (as indicated in the lengthy title, The Chinese Speaker, or Extracts from Works Written in the Mandarin Language, as Spoken at Peking). Three sections from Gao’s work made up the core; an appendix added a chapter from the vernacular novel The Dream of the Red Chamber and an excerpt from The Complete Collection of Household Treasures, an eighteenth-­century encyclopedia. Thom paired each page of Chinese text with a page of phonetic romanization. He recommended that students using his book find an “intelligent native of Peking” as a model for imitation, following along with the English romanization while the tutor reads aloud. “Do not perplex yourself with the mysteries of the Four Tones,” Thom counseled. To ease the process these “may safely be passed over as a stumbling block that has stood in the way of many a beginner’s progress.”37 Other textbooks offered disparate instructions. In his Essence of ­Correct Pronunciation 正音咀華 (1854), Suo Yizun enumerated a list of “frequently asked questions” for the benefit of readers consulting his textbook: Q: What is correct pronunciation (正音)? A: Correct pronunciation follows the sounds as set by the Imperially Commissioned [Kangxi] Dictionary (欽定字典) and the Explanation of the Subtleties of Phonology (音韻闡微). Q: What is southern pronunciation (南音)?

I ntroduction  15

A: Previously the capital was based in Jiangnan, thus the speech of Jiangnan provinces is the southern pronunciation. Q: What is the northern pronunciation (北音)? A: Now the capital is established in Beijing in the North, thus the speech of Beijing is the northern pronunciation.38

Here Suo explicitly differentiated between two regional versions of guan­ hua (southern and northern) and an imperially sanctioned “correct” one. The two authoritative dictionaries he referenced, however, did not deliver consistent guidance on pronunciation.39 Other missionary-­ linguist-­diplomats added to the fray. Joseph Edkins’s lesson book marked five tones according to the pronunciation “now prevailing at Nanking,” with an appendix of “Peking tones.” Samuel Wells Williams took “a general average of the spoken language” north of the Yangzi River, an “approximation . . . ​that allows every student to mark the variation from this standard as heard in his own region.” 40 According to Richard VanNess Simmons, Thomas Wade’s textbook, published in 1867, proved influential in shifting guanhua toward the northern variety in the aftermath of the Taiping rebellion. Overall, these variegated versions of “correct pronunciation” attest to a linguistic standard not fully consolidated or codified in the nineteenth century. The normative features of guanhua constituted a set of loosely articulated and generally accepted conventions among the literati.41 As we shall see, the reincarnation of guanhua in the twentieth century—­ first as the “national language” (guoyu) and later as the “common language” (putonghua)—­would be predicated on a preoccupation with fixing the standard and defining its normative properties with precision. The hybrid and flexible qualities of the former “official language” came to be viewed as an adulterated jumble, incompatible with and unbefitting the speech of a modern nation-­state. Although dominated by the concerns of the educated elite and self-­appointed arbiters, intersecting with government intervention, the quest for standardized speech burst from the confines of an upper social strata to implicate the entire nation. The broadening of participatory potential linked the national language to mass education, with linguistic standards imagined and deployed as tools of social engineering and political mobilization. This expansive

16  I ntroduction

ideal intended to encompass every citizen in every corner of the national territory. Together, these shifts would fundamentally distinguish twentieth-­century efforts from their late imperial predecessors.

R The peregrinations of educators and linguists, who played instrumental roles in setting the national language agenda, provide the initial points of departure for this study. Among this large cast of characters, Li Jinxi, Wu Zhihui, and Chao Yuen Ren (Zhao Yuanren) were especially influential in the first half of the twentieth century, as leaders of government committees and acknowledged experts tasked with advancing the cause. During World War II they followed the KMT government in exile to the Southwest. By 1949 Li and Wu were on opposite sides of the Taiwan Straits. Chao was at the beginning of a storied career at the University of California, Berkeley. While this study aims to transcend elite viewpoints, their dominance of the source base provides the necessary scaffolding for research. Moving beyond the elite realm, my analysis follows the spoken national language to schools and explores its sounds as features of urban life. I consider the possibilities and limitations of standard speech in rural areas and investigate its transformation when confronted by the exigencies of war, the troubling legacy of a colonial language in Taiwan, and when amped up by the mass campaigns of the 1950s in the PRC. The aspirations of experts and government regimes, to mold the people into proper national or socialist subjects through speech, form an essential part of the story. But the story is incomplete without searching for and paying attention to the moments when the people talked back. Doing so transforms how we understand the trajectory of historical change in this realm. Rather than a march toward linguistic unity, speaking, learning, and teaching the national language were individual acts imbued with multiple and conflicting meanings beyond nationalism. The scale of analysis thus telescopes between national horizons, regional factors, and individual concerns. Without attempting to give comprehensive treatment of the topics, I zero in on moments of collision or intersection to examine the multiple modalities of the national language in action—­as an ideological package and a set of spoken norms, as variable indices of class and

I ntroduction  17

social  status, expressions of individual commitment, or a garble of incompetence. Chapter 1 begins at the turn of the twentieth century, when a rising chorus advocating linguistic unity called for the “congruence of speech and writing,” modeled on Japan’s genbun itchi movement. The Conference to Unify Pronunciation in 1913 crafted a blueprint for a standard national language but also left a legacy of bitter disagreements and personal acrimony. In the decade that followed, the debates extended to a tangled web of issues, including phonetic notation, tonal differentiation, and pedagogy. Two sets of phonograph recordings (produced in 1920 and 1921, respectively) rendered the “national pronunciation” in different registers, demonstrating the instability of the spoken “standard” as it was created. As arguments among the experts were reproduced in primary schools, instructors taught unpredictably varied versions of spoken guoyu. To some, the phonetic alphabet heralded the salvation of the nation; to others, it portended disaster. In these first concerted attempts to bring standard speech into schools, clashes over pronunciation fragmented the coherence of a national language during the infancy of its formation. When Chiang Kai-­shek unified China under Nationalist rule in 1928, the regime put the muscle of its state-­building aspirations behind efforts to make the national language a reality. By 1932, with redoubled efforts to popularize the zhuyin phonetic, and with the publication of a new dictionary setting “Beijing pronunciation” as the standard, it seemed that the disputations of the past were resolved. Yet new storms of controversy erupted, as competing systems of phonetic notation—­Gwoyeu Romatzyh (known as GR) and Sin Wenz (New Writing)—­became the forum for resurrecting old disputes over pronunciation. Meanwhile, as Japan’s territorial aggression intensified, its formerly admired linguistic practices were jettisoned in favor of the Turkish model. Chinese observers credited “earth-­shattering language reforms” with Turkey’s rejuvenation; some longed for a “Chinese Kemal Pasha” to launch the nation on a similar path. From the realm of politics, chapter 2 then moves into urban life, where film, radio, and the gramophone created new channels for diffusing the sounds of the national language. In particular, the introduction of sound cinema kindled hopes that film could be the potent medium needed to unify the nation’s speech. The pedagogical promise, however, quickly ran

18  I ntroduction

aground. A government ban on dialect movies withered due to lack of enforcement, while audience preferences contradicted expectations. After the outbreak of war against Japan in July 1937, among the millions of refugees joining the KMT government’s retreat were the prominent intellectuals who had spearheaded the project of linguistic unification. Chapter 3 charts the fate of the national language in exile during the war years, where new challenges and opportunities emerged in the diverse linguistic milieu of the Southwest. To some, the War of Resistance was the perfect time for the national language to shine—­they predicted that the military crisis would elevate the cause and infuse it with greater urgency than ever. In practice, however, an educational system debilitated by underfunding and wartime disruptions meant that momentum largely stalled. In the realm of cultural production, linguistic priorities were reconfigured as ammunition for popular mobilization. Intent on rallying the people for anti-­Japanese resistance, drama troupes valued message over medium and demoted the national language in favor of local dialects. In the cinema world, blockbuster productions promoting the same message paved the way for the ascendance of guoyu films in overseas communities. Last, this chapter ventures to the “border regions,” where ­educators and linguists encountered people (among many examples, Miao, Uyghurs, Mongolians) whose speech could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be considered “Han dialects.” Attempts to reconcile “special frontier languages” with the vision of one nation speaking one unified voice prompted a reconsideration of priorities and methods. When Japan surrendered in August 1945 to end World War II, Taiwan reverted to the Nationalist government’s control. As KMT officials arrived on the island for the takeover, they found a population speaking in unintelligible tongues—­varieties of southern Min and Hakka, with educated adults and schoolchildren also fluent in Japanese, known as kokugo 国语. The birth of guoyu 國語 on the mainland occurred during the early years of colonial rule; at its conclusion, few Taiwanese had any familiarity with the concept of a Chinese national language. Determined to eradicate the vestiges of Japanese imperialism, the KMT regime sought to teach people to speak the true national language and supplant the imposter. Chapter 4 rewrites the story of the KMT’s “Mandarin-­only” policy by considering the triangular competition between the colonial language, a newly arrived guoyu, and the island’s varied vernacular speech. In the

Introduction  19

formative years of the post-­retrocession period, the government’s language agenda was hobbled by an acute teacher shortage, and by the perception that mainlanders could hardly speak the national language themselves. Over the course of a decade, guoyu was elevated as the new prestige language. At the same time, however, patchy enforcement and popular rejection indicated that the national language could not mask its uncertain status as an interloper. Fissures in the façade of linguistic unification appeared in schools, on the streets, in the provincial assembly, and in mountainous villages. The multiple frictions between Japanese, guoyu, and the native tongues of Taiwanese people confounded attempts to ­mandate change in speech norms and to forge deeper allegiances to the nation through language. While the KMT was launching its speech standardization project in Taiwan, the national language was concurrently reborn in three guises under socialism. In the People’s Republic, the trio of putonghua, simplified characters, and pinyin phonetics promised to wipe out the linguistic legacy of feudalism. In the domain of speech, the campaign launched in 1955 to great fanfare. Chapter 5 investigates putonghua as both political project and social history, to understand the dynamics of how people learned or did not learn to speak the anointed standard of the socialist state. As the “common language” of New China, putonghua dislodged the nation from its name, reinforcing an ideological commitment qualitatively different from the language of the predecessor KMT. But the campaign that unfolded in the 1950s demonstrates that the quest for speech uniformity continued to be fractured and contested. In schools, in the People’s Liberation Army, and through the omnipresence of radio loudspeakers, channels for disseminating the sounds of putonghua were inconsistently activated. The state’s investment in enforcing new speech norms was rhetorically bombastic but ultimately mercurial. Despite the ideological imperative, “the masses” were not as linguistically pliant as expected, with tenuous commitment to the state’s project of standard speech. Some of them turned out to be quite stubborn in evading the obligation to speak the common language. The epilogue offers a brief overview of the divergent fates of guoyu and putonghua in the 1980s and 1990s. As the national language reached a nearly universal degree of penetration in Taiwan, political liberalization opened the door for overt challenges to the perceived linguistic tyranny

20  I ntroduction

of an authoritarian regime. When the long-­awaited “guoyu environment” finally materialized to envelop the people of Taiwan in its linguistic embrace, many rose to reject both the language and its identification with China. Conversely, in the PRC the legitimacy of a common language—­ with a standardized pronunciation, lexicon, and grammar, shared across ethnic and social divides—­was firmly consolidated, even as it remained out of reach as social reality.

1 DUELING SOUNDS AND CONTENDING TONES

I

n 1919, reflecting on the nascent state of the national language in China, Lufei Kui asked, “Since a standard language and standard pronunciation have not yet been definitively established and put into common usage,” should primary schools forgo teaching the subject for the time being? As the founding editor of Zhonghua Books, one of the nation’s largest commercial publishers, Lufei enthusiastically supported the goals of “national language unification” (國語統一). At the same time, however, he worried about the confusion he saw palpably imprinted on the pages of textbooks and journals, chaos that threatened to spread to the classroom. Many complicated issues had hardly been discussed, much less resolved. What should be the balance between the written vernacular and the classical language in primary school education? How do we determine a “standard” for the lexicon and pronunciation of the “national language,” out of the dizzying array of regional variants? Once established, who would enforce such norms, and how? Citing the instructive experiences of Japan and Germany, Lufei opined that to “unify the national language is a colossal and monumentally difficult matter.” Even with small populations, those two nations took many years to accomplish the goal, “much less China with our 400 million people!” Progress would be slow; “we should not expect to unify the national language immediately.” ­During a prolonged period of transition, “it doesn’t matter whether the pronunciation is entirely accurate or not”; likewise, mixing the classical

2 2  D ueling S ounds and Contending  Tones

with the vernacular and/or local dialects is fine—­“ it’s a lot better than not knowing how to write at all.”1 Lufei Kui’s comments, addressing both writing and speech as problems in national language education, linked pedagogical realities to aspirations for standardization. His observations were also prescient in forecasting some of the most intense controversies of the early 1920s. As one of the architects of the publishing industry, he played a crucial role in shaping the debates. Among linguists, educators, and Lufei’s industry colleagues, few questioned the concept of a “national language” or challenged the imperative for unification. But as the remarks cited suggest, determining the exact configuration of a “standard” would prove to be an immensely complex undertaking. Of the different components of the national language, the written vernacular movement spearheaded by May Fourth intellectuals has received much scholarly attention. Contemporaneous attempts to create a common spoken tongue, on the other hand, have generally been relegated to the background. This chapter traces the impassioned debates and bitter disagreements over pronunciation in the early 1920s. I draw on an array of sources, including audio-­lingual aids made possible by the advent of sound technology, which record the changing sounds of a language in the process of formation. I show how the fiercely fought rhetorical battles, waged in forums for intellectual debate, had ripple effects on efforts to teach the national language in primary schools. Ultimately, these first attempts to unify speech amplified rather than assuaged the forces of disunity. The contestation also put at the center a new question: Whose voices constitute the nation?

EA RLY SKIRMISHES

The pronunciation of the national language emerged as a contentious issue at a particular historical juncture, a time of imperial demise followed by years of civil war. The country’s linguistic fragmentation, mirroring its political and social chaos, imbued the issue with urgency. As other scholars have analyzed, reformers had already begun to grapple with these issues in the waning days of the Qing dynasty. Many found inspiration in the contemporaneous Japanese genbun itchi movement, calling for

Dueling S ounds and Contending  Tones 23

language unification along the same trajectory of “congruence in writing and speech.” Interest in script reform proliferated, with dozens of schemes featuring the Latin alphabet, adapted Chinese characters, or shorthand symbols, to be used in conjunction with Chinese script or to replace it. Drawing together philology, historical phonology, and Western linguistics, the earliest debates about the national language focused on script.2 After the turn of the twentieth century, as revolutionary fervor intensified, anti-­Qing activists began to challenge the spoken language of the ruling Manchus, equated with guanhua (official language) and the colloquial speech of the capital region. Zhang Binglin, for instance, famously “discovered” the origins of the Chinese language in Hubei. Through philological and phonological analysis, he posited that the Confucian classics were written in the language of the state formerly known as Chu (Hubei), placing the genesis of Chinese history in “the South” rather than in the central plains. With the most ancient origins, reflecting the core of “national essence,” the speech of the Hubei region should therefore form the basis for any future “correct pronunciation.”3 For their part, natives of Guangdong (much farther south) considered the nine tones of Cantonese the closest approximation to the speech of the sages. They cited Tang poetry, especially the rhyme dictionaries that provided evidence of archaic pronunciation, as proof that Cantonese was best qualified to be the national spoken language. Finally, Jiangnan partisans put forward the dialects of their native region as the “most perfect,” the embodiment of “elegance,” and the exemplar for all others to emulate. In 1911 Qing officials decreed that the “language of the capital” (京語) should be the “standard” pronunciation (with some modifications). The dynastic collapse just months later rendered the decision irrelevant. It was later deployed as ammunition to damn northern speech for its association with the deposed Manchus.4 After the Republican revolution, the government under Yuan Shikai inaugurated efforts to create a national language for the new republic. In 1913 the Education Ministry convened the Conference to Unify Pronunciation, inviting eighty delegates to Beijing and charging the group with determining the “national pronunciation” (guoyin 國音) and choosing a phonetic notation system. The process would be democratic, with diverse geographical representation and the participation of subject experts in phonology, education, regional dialects, and foreign language. The first

24  D ueling Sounds and Contending Tones

order of business was to elect a chairman. Wu Zhihui (a Jiangsu native, born near Wuxi) won the contest; Wang Zhao (a northerner from the Beijing area) placed second in the balloting and became the vice chairman.5 Wu’s southern colleagues (known as the Jiangsu-­Zhejiang clique) dominated the proceedings, both numerically and in terms of influence. Wu himself harbored a strong antipathy toward northern guanhua, favoring the pronunciation of his home region. This was no secret: he had previously compared the speech of Beijing natives to the “strange sound of dogs barking,” saying that their pronunciation, adulterated by Manchu, was “barbaric.” 6 For their part, the northerners suspected that there was a conspiracy afoot: of the most active members who participated for the duration of the three-­month conference, more than half were natives of either Jiangsu or Zhejiang. The stage was thus set for confrontation, with the ­delegates quarreling over every decision, procedural as well as substantive. Other scholars have described this in detail: the squabbling and bickering devolving into name-­calling and fistfights; the more than one hundred different proposals put forward for the phonetic notation system; how the northerners engineered an end run to pass a procedural motion for one vote per province (instead of one vote per person), thereby diluting the numerical strength of the southerners; Wu Zhihui’s resignation after six weeks of confrontational wrangling; Wang Zhao replacing him as chairman but lasting only two weeks before he also quit, citing illness. Before stepping down, Wang Zhao nominated his former student Wang Pu, who as the conference’s third chairman finally brought the painful proceedings to a conclusion.7 The publicly announced outcome was a system of “national pronunciation,” as reflected in the sounds of some 6,500 characters. Northern speech formed the basis for most of the sounds (ranging from 80 to 99 percent, depending on who is counting). Prominent elements of southern speech were included, most notably three voiced consonants (万, 兀, 广) and distinctions between sharp and rounded initials. In terms of tonal differentiation, the compromise included the fifth tone absent in northern speech, with dots placed at the corners to mark the tones. Finally, a syllabary of thirty-­nine components made up the phonetic alphabet (zhu­ yin zimu 注音字母), using principles and symbols drawn from several different systems, including one that Wang Zhao had designed in 1900.8 This had been one of the most contentious issues, and the proponents of

FIGURE 1.1  

The original zhuyin zimu syllabary, with thirty-­nine symbols.

Source: Education Ministry order no. 75, November 23, 1918.

2 6  D ueling S ounds and Contending  Tones

zhuyin emphasized the symbols’ ancient origins, characterizing them as derived from Chinese script (or adapted from archaic characters) and therefore “authentically Chinese.” But in graphic form the zhuyin zimu bear a strong resemblance to Japanese kana—­not surprising since Meiji developments had strongly influenced Wang Zhao and many others. (In fact, Wang was living in Japan when he first designed his notation system).9 The conflicts of the Conference to Unify Pronunciation, frequently featured in narratives of the “national language movement,” are usually invoked to illustrate the wrong turn taken at the beginning. The combative circumstances also spawned some popular anecdotes. For instance, there is a story that Cantonese nearly became the “national language,” losing by one or two votes. Although unsubstantiated by the records, this has become an urban legend with staying power, and it makes for a good story. A more compelling, usually overlooked, point is that in the process of arriving at a grudging consensus, conference members used an existing medium of communication to conduct the proceedings. As they argued with and insulted one another to define a spoken national ­language, they could already communicate, if imperfectly. The hybrid language they used, loosely called guanhua, was often termed “blue-­ green” for its mixed qualities and regionally inflected pronunciation or idioms. Despite its obvious utility, by definition something “blue-­green” could not qualify as the “standard.” For conference participants, a true “national language” had to be uniform and homogenous. But, as we shall see, that ideal would prove to be quite elusive. At the close of the conference in May 1913, the participants announced a seven-­point plan, in the form of a proposal submitted to the Education Ministry. The agenda included establishing an institute for the promotion of the phonetic alphabet; compiling a reference guide to the agreed-­ upon national pronunciation, producing a phonograph recording thereof, compelling teachers to use it as the medium of instruction; and replacing the classical language in lower primary schools with a national language based on the vernacular.10 It was an ambitious plan, an attempt to salvage a divisive and antagonistic process. By papering over the disagreements with this shaky consensus, the conference that had been intended to unify sowed the seeds of contestation that would plague the broader national language project for the next two decades. Indeed, the passions stirred up

Dueling S ounds and Contending Tones  27

in 1913 were only a preview of the intense disputes to follow. Many thorny issues remained, ranging from specific and technical questions—­ How many tones? Sharp or rounded initials?—­to broad and expansive problems—­What should be the relationship between the national pronunciation and local speech? Could they coexist, and if so, on what terms and in what configuration?

THE PHONETIC A L PH A B ET

Shortly after the Conference to Unify Pronunciation closed, the Second Revolution erupted in the South. Although President Yuan Shikai crushed the rebels quickly (within a year), the political turmoil continued. Nine different education ministers rotated through between 1913 and 1916; political instability shelved efforts to implement the proposals put forward by the conference. In the wake of the failed revolt, the conspirators fled the country, including Wu Zhihui and Cai Yuanpei (to London and Paris, respectively). Of the conference participants, Wang Pu proved to be the most active during this period, focusing his energy on the phonetic alphabet. In 1915 he established the Center for the Promotion of the Phonetic Alphabet in Beijing. Under its auspices, Wang conducted training classes, issued textbooks, and published a biweekly newspaper demonstrating the utility of zhuyin as a guide to pronunciation. In addition, he adapted the syllabary for use in the telegraph and planned to print annotated popular novels.11 When the political climate was favorable, government ­support for these efforts arrived in the form of funding and official endorsements.12 In promoting the phonetic alphabet, Wang Pu also used the opportunity to reinforce his northern faction’s position. For instance, in an instructional manual he compiled for teacher training in 1916, he endorsed the national pronunciation as decided by the conference he had chaired. Although Wang characterized it as the product of three months of painstaking work and compromise, “not an act of haste,” he added: “the national language takes Beijing guanhua as its standard phonology”; “to set Beijing guanhua as the standard of the national language is indeed the most suitable, with irrefutable logic.” These were fighting words, hardly

2 8  D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones

reflective of the conference’s final agreement. In practice, however, Wang did not expect students to adhere strictly to the “standard.” Describing methods for learning the phonetic alphabet, he recommended verbal repetition, and “in the places where you are unable to differentiate [the sounds] clearly, it is fine to use the local pronunciation.”13 Apart from Wang Pu’s efforts to keep the phonetic alphabet alive, for three years after the closing of the Conference to Unify Pronunciation the national language question did not attract significant attention. With the death of Yuan Shikai in 1916 and the reinstatement of guoyu advocates as top education officials, interest in and opportunities related to the language question expanded. The return of Cai Yuanpei from exile in the winter of 1916, his appointment as chancellor of Beijing University, and Hu Shi’s famous declaration linking the national language to the “literary revolution” also pushed the issue to the forefront. In 1917–­1918 the National Language Research Society and the National Language Unification Preparatory Committee were established. In 1918 the Education Ministry also authorized the phonetic alphabet for school use. The official mandate invoked the 1913 conference and conformed to its agreed-­ upon thirty-­nine symbols and pronunciation but also added the caveat: “If in the future it proves necessary to amend or correct it, we will ­convene to discuss and perfect it in stages.”14 Although recognized from the outset as a system subject to revision, to its proponents the phonetic alphabet embodied visions of progress and unity. For some, the zhuyin zimu promised a shortcut to literacy, an accelerated path to lifting China’s vast population out of ignorance. As the fate of the country grew increasingly precarious, with intermittent civil war and intensified imperialist aggression in the late 1910s, some looked to the phonetic alphabet as the “salvation of the nation.” By memorizing the symbols, illiterates could ostensibly learn to read and write in less than one month, bypassing the complexity of the Chinese script. As one enthusiast summed up: “The phonetic alphabet is the foundation of mass education, it is an efficient instrument for promoting culture, it is a shortcut to improving civilization, it is truly the underpinning of reform.” Easy, efficient, and cost-­effective, zhuyin promised to deliver the fastest results for the least effort—­a panacea for the woeful state of the nation.15 In Shanxi province, Governor Yan Xishan reportedly distributed “millions” of copies of a phonetic alphabet primer, with the intent of placing one in

Dueling S ounds and Contending  Tones  29

every household. Yan lauded the phonetic alphabet’s “infinite uses”—­if applied to local speech and widely popularized, it would “remove obstacles to knowledge for the ignorant.”16 To others, such as renowned philologist Qian Xuantong, the phonetic alphabet was a temporary expedient, a transitional step along the path of abolishing the Chinese script altogether. In 1917 and 1918 Qian engaged in a series of public exchanges with Chen Duxiu and Wu Zhihui in the avant-­garde journal New Youth, staking out a radical position with his famous statement, “If you want to abolish Confucianism, you must first abolish the Chinese script.” But before reaching the endgame, Qian considered the phonetic alphabet a useful tool, although one with a conspicuous flaw: “A phonetic alphabet created for the nation obviously cannot take the pronunciation of one region as the standard.” Before its popular dissemination, the bias toward “northern pronunciation” should be “discussed and corrected, so that the sounds of the phonetic alphabet can truly be the national pronunciation of the Republic of China.”17 For his part, although Wu Zhihui had been an early advocate of Esperanto (an interest dating to his anarchist days), by 1918 he was firmly committed to the preservation of the Chinese script.18 In response to Qian, Wu stressed that zhuyin was never meant to exist apart from characters. It could only be an auxiliary guide to pronunciation, a way to corral and unify the discordant tongues of the nation.19 The relationship between the phonetic alphabet and Chinese characters soon emerged as a point of sharp controversy, as it became apparent that some considered the script to be dispensable. To critics such as Wu Zhihui, foreign missionaries were some of the worst offenders, their willful disregard for the Chinese script compounded by attempts to adulterate the “national standard” with local sounds. The missionary community had long been concerned about illiteracy, considering it the main obstacle to evangelism. Well before the twentieth century, missionary linguists had translated the Bible into all of China’s major regional languages, using a variety of scripts.20 Following the Education Ministry’s mandate in 1918, the missionary community embraced the newly sanctioned version of the phonetic alphabet as a “valuable weapon” to attack illiteracy, paving the way for the harvest of Chinese souls for Christ. As one bishop declared, “since the invention of writing there has been no device . . . ​comparable in its possibilities to this National Phonetic Script.”21

3 0  D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones

Another missionary newsletter depicted the war against illiteracy in China as comparable to David’s biblical battle against Goliath. In this analogy, the phonetic alphabet is the slingshot, poised to strike the critical blow against the giant of illiteracy.22 To convert this kind of hyperbolic optimism into reality, a consortium of missionaries formed the Phonetic Promotion Committee in 1918, to prepare teaching materials, work toward a standard system of “spelling,” and publish the scriptures in the “National Phonetic Script.” As they began their work, committee leaders consulted with Wu Zhihui, asking for his help as they navigated the changing linguistic soundscape. In a series of letters, they inquired about spelling, the pronunciation of particular initials, and adapting the phonetic alphabet for use with local languages, saying: “Our committee is preparing to issue a good deal of literature in this phonetic writing and it is important that we should understand all its principles in order that we may make no mistake in preparing these books.” A. L. Warnshuis, the secretary to the committee, also raised a politically sensitive matter, writing to Wu in February 1919: “In recommending the Chu Yin Tzu-­mu [zhuyin zimu] system to people we frequently meet the criticism that this is a scheme of the Japanese to destroy Chinese learning. To us this criticism seems very foolish but in order to meet it more effectively it will help to have your definite statement about this matter. Will you please write to me telling me how much influence the Japanese may have had in preparing this system.”23 Warnshuis and his colleagues also heard, through the grapevine, that Wu Zhihui was at work on a “dictionary of national pronunciation,” and they repeatedly asked him for a draft copy. When Wu finally replied that he could not do so while awaiting government approval, the missionaries lamented “the infinite delay” that made their work difficult.24 Undeterred, they pressed ahead. In 1918 missionaries posted in Jiangsu and Zhejiang convened to work out a phonetic alphabet suitable for the region’s dialects. They invited Wu Zhihui to attend, but he declined, citing other obligations, and sent Fang Yi in his stead. Fang’s detailed reports about the ­proceedings led Wu to rebuke the missionaries publicly, as a proxy for others inclined to similar approaches. “The phonetic alphabet cannot stand alone,” Wu opined, “and it does not have the power to replace Chinese characters.” He faulted “the westerners” for using it exclusively in their publications and for “disregarding both Chinese characters and

FIGURE 1.2  

The Entrance of Thy Words Giveth Light, January 1919.

Source: Courtesy of The Burke Theological Library at Union Theological Seminary, Columbia University.

3 2  D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones

the national pronunciation.” Although the phonetic alphabet could be used to render regionally specific sounds, adding or altering the existing syllabary was unacceptable. Furthermore, creating a separate system for the Jiangsu-­Zhejiang region invited disputes between local contingents, exacerbating rivalries and undermining the goal of unity.25 Educator Fan Xiangshan concurred: “The phonetic alphabet was created to unify pronunciation, not to form a new script system.” By simplifying and reducing the number of sounds, “no matter where, no matter who, the accurate pronunciation of the letters will cause the entire nation to speak in one voice.”26 Indeed, to some of its proponents, the phonetic alphabet would function as the anchor of the national language, organizing the different sounds of the entire nation, the first step in the journey to linguistic unity—­“To unify the national language, we must unify pronunciation. In order to unify pronunciation, we must begin with the phonetic alphabet.”27 The zhuyin zimu thus embodied the promise of a single pronunciation both intelligible to and reproducible by everyone, whether urban residents of Canton or villagers in western Sichuan. In this ideal world, when the denizens of far-­flung places saw a particular zimu, they would be able to render it into exactly the same sound. Through a palette of thirty-­nine symbols, the sounds of the national language would emerge homogenous and unchanging, impervious to the tyranny of geography, finally bringing China’s linguistic babel into harmony. Translating this vision into reality required teaching the “accurate” pronunciation of the syllabary to a vast population. As Cai Yuanpei noted, it was impossible to instruct 400 million people individually; “if the pronunciation of the zimu is different, it contravenes the goal of unifying the national pronunciation.”28 The greatest danger was that people would render the sounds in the manner they were most accustomed to, following native speech patterns and personal inclinations. They imitated their teacher (if they had one), whose grasp of the finer points of the “national pronunciation” could be imprecise. Those whose native tongue was close to guoyin might find it easier to adapt; but then again, they might be tempted to omit sounds different from their customary habits. As for the natives of Fujian and Guangdong, Jiangsu and Zhejiang, as well as other places where local speech diverged sharply from the newly minted national pronunciation, the process of learning invited comparisons to learning a foreign language.29

Dueling S ounds and Contending Tones  33

To help beginners without access to personal instruction, in 1919 Wang Pu compiled an illustrated guide to the national pronunciation. Through drawings and detailed anatomical explanations, he provided instructions on how to articulate bilabial consonants such as ㄇ (mo) and ㄋ (n), and where to place the tip of the tongue in rendering the retroflex initials ㄓ, ㄔ, ㄕ, ㄖ (zhi, chi, shi, ri). These sounds, distinctive features of northern speech, were the most difficult for southerners to enunciate. Wang suggested practicing with ㄖ: place your thumb between your teeth, and as you aspirate try to touch the tongue to the thumb, thereby activating the proper motion.30 Wang’s illustrations could be somewhat idiosyncratic, but for novices they were an improvement over teaching guides that invoked ancient phonology as explanation.

THE CHRON ICL E R

Meanwhile, Li Jinxi was a young history teacher working in Changsha, in his native Hunan province. Li would soon become one of the most influential people on the national language scene, as textbook editor, author, and founding member of various government commissions and research societies. In 1914 Li Jinxi was twenty-­four years­old, teaching at Hunan First Normal, where he met a young student named Mao Zedong.31 (In his post-­1949 career, Li Jinxi would enjoy high stature as Chairman Mao’s former teacher.) Li did not remain in Changsha for long. In 1915 he moved to Beijing to work for the Education Ministry’s textbook division, assuming responsibilities for editing and approving materials for pedagogical use. As Christopher Reed has shown, this was an industry dominated by two (later three) publishing giants in Shanghai, competing for market share in a sector with a rapidly expanding customer base. Starting in 1904, when the Qing dynasty first implemented major changes to the educational system, each new set of curricular mandates meant another round of textbook revisions.32 Education Ministry officials like Li Jinxi played crucial roles as arbiters of pedagogy and profits. During this time, Li met and befriended many future combatants in the language wars. In addition, he traveled around the country, giving lectures in schools and at education conferences as an expert.

3 4  D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones

In his earliest surviving lectures on the national language, delivered in Shanxi in January 1919, Li presented a flexible approach, accepting of a significant degree of local variation. For instance, with reference to the quarrels over the phonetic alphabet, he concluded that the “one thousand and one discussions backwards and forwards” were counterproductive; those who criticized the zhuyin zimu for departing from ancient phonology or Tang rhymes were misguided. “The object is to find for China, with its three million square miles, the means to unify pronunciation. It is not to raise up the ancients of centuries ago, so that we can meet and talk to them.” The primary goals of the phonetic alphabet are “approximation to the colloquial” and “simplicity,” not conforming to ancient rhymes. In another instance, after recounting the acrimonious arguments over the number of tones, Li concluded, “Let every person . . . ​mark the tones as he knows them, and he will not go wrong. . . . ​Moreover, the tones do not have significant bearing on the unification of pronunciation. When you speak, as long as the sound is correct in the pronunciation of the consonant, vowel, and medial, it is fine to use the tones of the local colloquial, or simply ignore them.”33 To anyone with even a passing familiarity with today’s Standard ­Modern Chinese, the idea that tones can be disregarded is preposterous. Tonal differentiation is embedded in the basic structure of the language, with a syllable defined as “initial consonant + vowel + tone.” As any student of Chinese 101 can attest, ignoring the tones would be tantamount to linguistic heresy. But in 1919 Li Jinxi considered tonal differentiation optional—­and he was not alone in espousing such a view. Moreover, with reference to pronunciation in general, Li opined: “Every place might differentiate sounds peculiar to itself, by the use of extravocalics” (閏音). These extra symbols express “dialectical sounds that are vigorous and cannot be rejected. Every district is perfectly free to add to them as it pleases,” subject to approval by the national language committee.34 By presenting an approach remarkably accommodating of local variations, Li sidestepped the most contentious issues that had been the cause of acrimony in 1913. Perhaps it is not surprising that Li disavowed dogmatic methods. After all, he was traveling around the country, trying to sell the idea of a “national language” to audiences that could be skeptical about how this would work in their classrooms. Born of experience as well as conviction, Li’s idea of guoyu was inclusive and adaptable. But

Dueling S ounds and Contending  Tones 35

such an approach also raised difficult questions. How much deviation should be permitted? In pronunciation a spectrum of variation inevitably exists, but a “standard” must be delimited. How wide or narrow should the range be? Who has the linguistic authority to define the acoustic boundaries of the spoken tongue, and who has the political authority to enforce the norms of pronunciation? Li gestured to these issues when he mentioned that a governing body of the national language should approve extravocalic variations. That is, a group of experts would be the arbiters of the degree of divergence permissible. But as we have seen—­and there is much more of this come—­the experts themselves could not agree on the most basic features of guoyu. In 1919 and early 1920 they continued to tinker. The National Language Unification Preparatory Committee debated whether to add a fortieth symbol (ㄜ) to the phonetic alphabet but decided against recommending an official change, to avoid confusion.35 A subcommittee also embarked on a study of extravocalics, an issue that underscored persistent questions about diverse forms of local speech and their relationship to the “standard.” After prolonged discussions, the subcommittee submitted a proposal to add extra symbols to the phonetic alphabet, to accommodate sounds found in (particularly) southern vernaculars that cannot be expressed with the existing syllabary. Dissenting opinions, however, thundered that such concessions would “shake the foundation” of the national pronunciation. Wu Zhihui resurrected a proposal, which he first put forth in 1913, to use a vertical line to indicate variant pronunciations; another committee member suggested using a small comma. After much debate, the Preparatory Committee tentatively concluded that some kind of symbolic notation should be used for extravocalics but did not venture any further in this minefield.36

THE DICTION A RY

Among the experts, the “dictionary of national pronunciation” became one of the most divisive issues. This was one of the original proposals from 1913, and many in education circles anticipated its long-­delayed publication as a solution to the conflicts over pronunciation.37 As previously discussed, foreign missionaries also anxiously awaited its appearance. In 1917

3 6  D ueling S ounds and Contending  Tones

the education minister gave Wu Zhihui the task of compiling the dictionary. Wu produced a draft and consulted briefly with Wang Pu, Li Jinxi, Qian Xuantong, and a few other members of the National Language Unification Preparatory Committee. It then took more than a year for the government review to be completed, with the long interval attributed to an overabundance of caution, as education officials checked and double-­ checked the entries. The first edition, published by Commercial Press in September 1919, appeared on a provisional basis, with the caveat that although it could be advertised as the Dictionary of National Pronuncia­ tion, it was not officially sanctioned for use in schools.38 What was all the fuss about? The dictionary includes the 6,500 characters agreed on at the 1913 conference, plus more than 6,000 additional entries Wu Zhihui selected. The pronunciation of each character is notated with both the phonetic alphabet and the old cross-­cut (反切) method. The title page bears the imprimatur of the Education Ministry, while the copyright page names the Conference to Unify Pronunciation as the corporate author. Wu Zhihui’s name did not appear anywhere, but the volume was widely known to be his handiwork. Critics soon carped that this was a unilateral move on Wu’s part—­done without adequate consultation and presented as a fait accompli to further the southern faction’s agenda. Others charged that Wu treated the dictionary as his “personal property,” in effect accusing him of stealing the 1913 committee’s work for profit.39 The process through which the dictionary was compiled became a major point of contention the following year, providing ammunition for those seeking to discredit Wu Zhihui and his allies. When one scrutinizes the first edition of the dictionary, it is difficult to imagine that Wu intended to reap financial rewards for his labors, for it bears no trace of being a mass-­market product. In fact, quite the opposite: it is clearly addressed to a specialist audience of phonologists and educators—­the people with whom Wu had crossed swords during the 1913 conference. Far from user friendly, the dictionary invokes numerous technical linguistic terms and comparisons to archaic phonology. In terms of organization, the contents follow the format of the Kangxi Dictionary, compiled in the eighteenth century and bearing the name of the emperor who mandated its creation. By opting to duplicate the imperial dictionary’s arrangement, Wu assumed the user’s facility with a scholarly apparatus predicated on a high degree of literacy. He also handed his critics a

Dueling S ounds and Contending Tones 37

weapon, for they readily mocked it as yet another version of an “imperially sanctioned” work. Wu’s dictionary was clearly not aimed at popularizing the concept or the content of the national language. It was fodder in the dispute among experts over pronunciation. Indeed, this was Wu Zhihui’s attempt to have the last word in the fight that commenced in 1913.40 Shortly after the appearance of the dictionary, the Education Ministry announced a major policy change: for students in the first and second years of lower primary school, the written vernacular (語體文) would replace existing literary language (國文) classes, starting in the autumn of 1920. For the time being, students in grades three and above would continue to study the literary language. This directive triggered another series of textbook changes, as publishers rushed to produce new materials to conform to the revised curriculum.41 At the local level, education officials scrambled to find instructors capable of teaching both spoken guoyu and the written vernacular. Dedicated teachers “dashed about in a panic” and tried to grab “a smattering of superficial knowledge.” The “cold-­blooded” ones, meanwhile, approached the national language with condescension, considering it neither difficult nor worthy of study. “He gets behind the lectern and speaks as he pleases, a garble of nonsense.” 42 In Wuxi the county magistrate instructed teachers to “temporarily follow the national pronunciation dictionary as the standard, so that in time unity may be achieved, and confusion and fragmentation avoided.” 43 The conjunction of the dictionary’s provisional appearance and the government mandate to modify the curriculum raised the stakes in a battle that had largely been waged among a small group of specialists. As teachers and administrators across the country pondered the implications of the impending changes, reactions ranged from indifference to enthusiasm, hostility to confusion. Some lamented the slow pace of implementation and the obstinate resistance of those opposed to change. Others grumbled about the “winds of fashion” for the national language blustering through the schools; “they are waving flags, banging on drums, shaking the heavens and the earth with commotion,” but to little real effect.44 Still others took issue with the exemption of the upper primary grades from the national language mandate, saying, “This fragmented and confused method is self-­contradicting; what a joke.” 45 The inability of experts to reach a consensus about pronunciation only exacerbated the misperceptions and opposition. For instance, in May 1920

3 8  D ueling S ounds and Contending  Tones

the Preparatory Committee voted to add a fortieth symbol to the phonetic alphabet. At the same meeting, members debated motions to revise or abandon tonal differentiation. One proposal suggested marking only the distinction between “short” and “long” sounds, in lieu of the five tones designated in the national pronunciation. Another, from Qian Xuantong, complained that the dots placed at the corners looked like “a face full of pockmarks.” It was not just a matter of aesthetics. Qian also considered tonal differentiation to be “both completely impossible and completely unnecessary. . . . ​China should have a language that is much the same with minor differences, sufficient for mutual understanding.” Qian registered his opposition to idea of a “unified national language,” insisting that “speech has its own natural tones. . . . ​When speaking guoyu, Guangdong can use nine tones, eastern Zhejiang can use eight tones, Jiangsu can use seven, the southwest can use five, and the north can use four.” The Preparatory Committee did not go so far as to abolish the tones, but it did approve the motion: “In teaching the national pronunciation, it is not necessary to adhere rigidly to the tones.” 46 As schools closed for the summer recess in 1920, national language seminars and crash courses convened. The immediate issue of what to teach the teachers brought to the surface many of the simmering debates. Given the confused state of guoyu and the eager efforts to promote it, discussions in local education circles griped about the absurdity of implementing shifting linguistic norms and the impossibility of teaching a national language without a set standard. One contributor compared the Education Ministry’s premature mandates to “sitting on top of the Yellow Crane Tower and watching the boats capsize below.” 47 To these skeptics, Hu Shi replied that a national language must develop organically; “it cannot be created in a short time.” According to Hu, the recent history of European countries showed that national languages were not born out of preordained standards. “If we wait until the Education Ministry issues a standard, and only then do we venture to speak guoyu or write guoyu, even after two or three hundred years (not to mention ten or twenty), there will still be little hope of establishing the national language.” Critics affecting the moral high ground may scoff at the national pronunciation as “­neither donkey nor horse.” But Hu advised that during the inevitable process of transition, “you must not be afraid of speaking a ‘blue-­green guanhua’ . . . ​ or combining a southern accent with northern tunes

D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones 39

(南腔北調).” Otherwise, how will anyone ever learn to speak the “pure” national language?48 Despite such overt disagreements, local schools and provincial branches of the National Language Preparatory Committee began implementation, even as the content of what to implement was still up in the air.49 In Jiangsu, the faculty and staff at one primary school resolved “always to use putonghua to speak.” During classroom instruction, however, they could not avoid the local dialect (tuyu).50 Elsewhere in the province, a survey of eight primary schools affiliated with teacher training showed that the medium of instruction in guoyu classes was patchy and irregular. Six schools used the “national pronunciation” in some form, one adhered to “Beijing pronunciation,” while another opted for the local vernacular. Respondents to the survey expressed a variety of attitudes. One optimist maintained that despite current fragmentation, persistent efforts would eventually result in a “common pronunciation.” Another was more skeptical, invoking this analogy: If you are trying to draw a tiger and end up with a picture resembling a dog, could that be considered sufficient?51 New textbooks and pedagogical materials, hastily published in anticipation of the new school year, generated further controversy.52 For instance, the first volume of the “New Method Series for the National Language” was a primer of the phonetic alphabet, featuring forty symbols (one more than the original syllabary), illustrated with pictures corresponding to the sounds. There were no Chinese characters, fulfilling the worst fears of those who had warned of their impending demise.53 In another example, Lu Yiyan irked the purists when he instructed teachers to disregard the tones in the primary grades: “When they [the students] babbled their first sounds, no one explained the rising tone or the entering tone to them . . . ​and still when they grew up everyone could understand them.” Likewise, the national language should be learned with tones that “come naturally.” Lu also opined that extravocalics in local speech could foster the development of the national one: sixty-­t wo in Suzhou, fifty-­six in Wuxi, sixty in Ningbo, as well as different permutations in Fujian, Guangdong, Hunan, and Hubei—­all could be used to improve and develop mass education.54 Indeed, the problem of local pronunciation troubled even the most committed guoyu advocates. In a personal letter to Wu Zhihui, for instance, Zong Shu asked his former teacher for guidance. He wondered

4 0  D ueling S ounds and Contending  Tones

whether it would be more effective to “teach the local pronunciation first, and later teach the national sounds.” An instructor at the Third Normal School in Wuxi, Zong had tried giving brief lessons on the phonetic alphabet at the school assembly, with indifferent results. After several weeks, most students could not remember the syllabary, and the few able to recognize the symbols pronounced them incorrectly. Zong decided to visit individual classrooms, thinking that the setting of five hundred students gathered in assembly was the obstacle. Two more months passed and “still the results were negligible.” When he switched to Wuxi pronunciation, “after only two or three hours they completely got it.” Perhaps the phonetic alphabet did not have to be read with the national pronunciation after all?55 This was an open question, one that presented a fundamental challenge to the coherence of the spoken national language.

THE FIRST PHONOG R A P H

By the time Wang Pu and Li Jinxi arrived in Shanghai to make a record of the national pronunciation in the summer of 1920, the storm was gathering force. The moving spirit behind the project was Lufei Kui of Zhong­ hua Books. As Lufei explained, dictionaries were notoriously imprecise guides to pronunciation: regardless of what was written, users still rendered sounds according to individual habit and local enunciation. “You check here and you check there [in the dictionary], but in the end you still have no idea how to pronounce it correctly.” Despite the Education Ministry’s efforts, “the way that different places teach the pronunciation of the phonetic alphabet is different; in some cases, the sound is a far cry from the national pronunciation. If we continue in this fashion, I’m afraid that the phonetic alphabet will change with local languages,” thereby defeating its purpose. Moreover, any school with more than two teachers was likely to teach more than two different pronunciations—­what were the students supposed to do? A gramophone record, in contrast, would capture the “accurate” pronunciation, one that the entire nation could emulate as a model. Initially, Lufei made several trial recordings himself, at the Shanghai studios of the French company Pathé. Dissatisfied with his own inconsistent and inaccurate rendering, he asked the Education

D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones 41

Ministry for expert help. When the dynamic duo of Wang Pu and Li Jinxi arrived, Lufei considered himself doubly lucky to have landed an all-­star team for his project.56 The original recordings are no longer extant, but we know from the accompanying textbook that six phonograph discs made up the set. Each side of the record featured one lesson, three minutes in duration. During the recording sessions, Wang Pu struggled with the technical requirements, which compelled him to read a lesson in its entirety, without interruption. There was no margin for error. Whereas records of Chinese opera (quite popular at the time) featured different singers and instrumental music, a language lesson had no such embellishments. As the sole voice Wang did not have time to rest or catch his breath. Every syllable and phrase had to be enunciated rapidly, in order to finish the lesson within the three-­minute duration of the disc. The first recording session lasted four hours, with ten unsuccessful takes and one passable version. Afterward Wang fell ill with exhaustion and chest pain, and he left Shanghai to recuperate. A week later he returned to continue and fared somewhat better in the second recording session, succeeding on the fifth try.57 The completed soundtrack was pressed at Pathé’s plant in Shanghai, but Lufei Kui was unhappy with the result. He decided to send the masters to Paris for manufacture, hoping to achieve better quality. In the interim, before the product was available for sale, the publisher launched an aggressive publicity campaign. Lufei paraded the preliminary set of phonographs around the region and played them for select audiences—­ for visitors to the company headquarters, at the annual shareholders’ meeting, at gatherings of civic groups, reform societies, and Protestant missionaries.58 On any of these occasions, the audience might have heard Wang Pu read the phonetic alphabet, letter by letter, in lesson 1. It is unlikely Lufei would have played all six discs, lasting more than thirty minutes, but he might have given a snippet from lesson 2, demonstrating consonant-­vowel combinations, or something from lesson 6, featuring the five tones. Since the recordings have not survived, we can only approximate the sounds through the accompanying textbook and infer from comments made by others. It seems Wang Pu did follow the national pronunciation as the 1913 conference had decided, the hybrid of northern and southern sounds, to the best of his ability. One reviewer, asked to ­evaluate the recordings for possible purchase on behalf of his county

4 2  D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones

education association, went to the publishing house for a preview. In his assessment, he criticized Wang’s rendering of the fifth tone and the medial ㄩ sound. He also singled out the “mispronunciation” of “Beijing” in lesson 8 (ironic, since Wang was a native of the capital region). Despite these flaws, the reviewer concluded, “The rendering of each lesson is clear and accurate and is adequate to be the standard for learning the national pronunciation.”59 It was not a ringing endorsement, but it was good enough. In addition to giving potential customers advance audio previews, the publisher also placed prominent ads in major newspapers and educational journals, which featured the Education Ministry’s endorsement and boasted Wang and Li’s credentials. The advertisements also announced that product delivery could be guaranteed only with an advance order and a 50 percent deposit. The total purchase price was forty yuan for the set of six discs and one textbook, and an additional twenty-­eight yuan for the gramophone player. Early bird orders would receive a preferential 10 percent discount.60 Compared to ordinary textbooks, priced at 10 or 20 cents (or less), this was a very expensive product. Although the marketing materials described the records as ideal for self-­study, enabling individuals to master the national pronunciation within a few months, the pricing indicates that it was a product for the institutional market.61

NAT I ON A L VS. BEIJIN G PRON U N C I AT I ON

Between August 1920, when Wang Pu made the recordings, and February 1921, when the shipment arrived from Paris, the sounds of the national pronunciation that he gave voice to erupted into controversy. After finishing the recording, Wang Pu and Li Jinxi remained in the Shanghai region, teaching and giving lectures. In Li’s speeches, he frequently addressed the clash of opinions between the “national pronunciation” (國音) and an emerging group of advocates for “Beijing pronunciation” (京音). At a September meeting at the YMCA, Li asked: “Is the national pronunciation based on the Beijing standard? No! Although Beijing is the capital, to force the entire country to submit and follow its pronunciation is something that not even the autocratic governments of old could

D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones  43

accomplish.” 62 Others chimed in, parsing the differences between the capital’s local vernacular and the national pronunciation, cautioning that the two should not be conflated. To the assertion that “western countries all take the language of the capital as the national one” and therefore China ought to as well, Wang Yi refuted it as a misperception: “England does not use London as the standard pronunciation; Germany does not take Berlin as the standard.” 63 In a lecture at the YMCA, Lufei Kui acknowledged the growing discord. “What is the national pronunciation?” he asked. “What is the national language? . . . ​The biggest misunderstanding is that northerners consider guoyin to be southern sound, while southerners consider guoyin to be northern sound.” In fact, Lufei asserted, “The national pronunciation is very fair; it is not partial to any particular locality. . . . ​Now that we have a national phonology, we should respect it. If your own local speech (tuyin) differs, then you should sacrifice and force yourself to learn guoyin.” He offered, as an example, the verb “to eat”—­the national pronunciation has set it as qifan, “the sound of the majority.” If Beijingers insist on chifan, but Jiangnaners want to pronounce it as qiefan, and Ningboers say quofan, while the natives of Fujian, Guangdong, Jiangxi, Hunan, and Hubei each have their own rendering, “then it will be completely hopeless, forever.” 64 In response to this growing chorus defending guoyin, Zhang Shiyi threw down the gauntlet. He called “the current national language” an “imposter” and proposed its replacement with Beijing pronunciation. In many ways, Zhang was an unlikely combatant in the national language wars. A Jiangsu native and a graduate of Columbia Teachers College (M.A., 1919), Zhang was a specialist in English language instruction. In 1920 he chaired the English department at Nanjing Higher Normal (later National Central University, the forerunner of today’s Nanjing University). Zhang was not an expert in the national language, but through his research on English he had developed keen interests in pronunciation and phonology. Nanjing Higher Normal in 1920 was also a hotbed of pedagogical experimentation, under the leadership of Guo Bingwen and Tao Xingzhi (the principal and the dean of academic affairs, respectively, both strongly influenced by American educator John Dewey). Zhang Shiyi was passionate about many aspects of education reform. In early 1920 he was named to the Jiangsu branch of the National Language Unification Preparatory Committee and participated on a subcommittee on pedagogical

4 4  D ueling S ounds and Contending  Tones

methods.65 He spent the summer in the Beijing region, conducting an experiment on the impact of different tonal marking systems on student learning. While in Beijing he met with Li Jinxi, and the two had spirited but amicable discussions about the national pronunciation.66 When he returned to Nanjing in the fall, Zhang’s opening gambit was a lecture delivered sometime in late September. Titled “The Question of Unifying the National Language,” the speech presented a searing indictment of everything that had transpired since 1913, from the moment the Conference to Unify Pronunciation convened.67 In the introductory remarks, Zhang said, “When we study the issue, we must use scientific principles and a scientific approach”—­not like those who “madly advocate for it” to demonstrate their patriotism, simply because the word “nation” is appended. Then the gloves came off, as he enumerated the Education Ministry’s “fundamental mistakes” in caustic detail. How can pronunciation be “unified” through the written symbols of a phonetic alphabet? How could they have created a phonetic alphabet prior to setting the pronunciation standard? They rushed to promote the syllabary, sending people off to learn it, but to what end? Worst of all, before establishing the standard, the ministry ordained that all primary schools must teach the national language. “But this kind of national language is not spoken by anyone in any part of the country. Who can teach it?” Learning a language properly requires three to five years of training. Today’s schoolteachers have learned a bit of guoyu in a week or two, at most three to five months. They have no idea whether their own pronunciation is correct; everyone does it differently, and they inflict errors on students, who in turn perpetuate the mistakes. Given this chaotic state of affairs, “How can one even speak of unifying the national language?” Chinese people, Zhang added, are “blind followers”—­stick the word “national” in front of anything and they will fall for it. Finally, Zhang belittled the process through which the 1913 conference created the national pronunciation, saying, “What kind of academic research can be decided by a political tactic, with a majority vote?” The conference not only failed to base its decisions on scientific principles, but afterward the chairman (i.e., Wu Zhihui) unilaterally made changes, adding and subtracting as he pleased: “Think about it, can the pronunciation set forth be reliable?” When publishers saw an opportunity to make money, they eagerly printed textbooks and  “the so-­called national pronunciation dictionary,” marketing them

Dueling S ounds and Contending  Tones  45

everywhere. With a “phonetic alphabet” meeting here and a “national language training institute” there, enthusiasts for reform became unwitting dupes, providing free advertising for the publishers. To sum up, Zhang opined that the Education Ministry’s fundamental mistakes were legion, especially “not understanding the difficulty of unifying the national language, or the nature of language, or language teaching methods,” thereby dooming all of its efforts to failure. But he was not opposed to the national language—­in fact, he said he was “wholeheartedly” supportive. Zhang proposed annulling the previous mandates and beginning anew, discarding the “imposter” in favor of an “authentic national language,” which could only be “Beijinghua.” The do-­over should be “scientific” and follow a logical process: set the “standard language” and “standard pronunciation” based on that of a “Beijing native with a middle school education”; create a corresponding phonetic alphabet; teach the teachers; and then popularize throughout society. Had Zhang’s lecture remained just a lecture, it probably would not have ignited the ensuing firestorm. But on October 7 the text of the speech appeared in The Light of Learning (學燈), the supplement to a Shanghai daily and a major forum for intellectual debate. The timing was perfect, coinciding with the arrival of educators in Shanghai to attend the sixth annual meeting of the National Federation of Education Associations. This convention originally had been scheduled to take place in Guangzhou, but the outbreak of civil war in the South prevented the delegates from traveling to the intended destination. The organizers hastily decided to convene in Shanghai instead. The participants trickled in and reached a quorum in mid-­October, just as the debate in The Light of Learning was gaining steam. Li Jinxi published the text of the speech given earlier at the YMCA, in which he disavowed Beijing pronunciation as the basis for the national. Lu Ji, a member of the National Language Research Society, issued a respectful but pointed rejoinder to Zhang Shiyi, saying that Zhang misunderstood the relationship between the national pronunciation and Beijing speech and misrepresented the proceedings of the 1913 conference. Although the decisions of the conference were imperfect, Lu counseled patience, to “repair the shortcomings,” striving slowly to reach the point where “everyone can understand each other.” The finer points of pronunciation were inconsequential; the only goal should be mutual intelligibility.68

4 6  D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones

Zhang would later compose a point-­by-­point rebuttal to Lu Ji. But first he wrote, on October 25, “I have heard that various provincial representatives [to the Education Association convention] have raised two proposals: 1) The phonetic alphabet should not be taught in the first and second year of lower primary school; 2) Adopt the Beijing pronunciation and Beijing language as the standard for the national pronunciation and national language.” Zhang maintained that these were the most significant reforms, urgently needed in national language education—­the first would “destroy the superstitious belief in the phonetic alphabet”; the second would set a “realistic standard.” “But if my news is incorrect and the Education Association has not introduced these two proposals,” Zhang added, “I certainly do hope that they will amend and present them.” 69 This was transparently disingenuous, for Zhang knew quite well what was happening at the meetings, and in fact the national language issue had not made it onto the agenda. He had a direct source in Guo Bingwen (the principal of ­Nanjing Higher Normal)—­who, in his capacity as the chairman of the regional branch association, was the de facto host for the convention. The delegates were already deliberating a full slate of issues (curriculum, chronic funding shortfalls, and the effects of the civil war, among many). Zhang Shiyi’s intervention, published in a highly visible forum, put the spotlight on the national language. Two days later it appeared on the agenda as a discussion item.70 Meanwhile, from Hangzhou Li Jinxi sent a direct response, using a Q&A format and the voice of a naive interlocutor to cast doubt on Zhang’s position. Question: “Yesterday I read in The Light of Learning an essay by Mr. Zhang Shiyi, where he said that alphabetical spelling is . . . ​unsuitable for child psychology. What do you think?” Answer: Mr. Zhang’s fundamental misunderstanding is assuming that our method of teaching the phonetic alphabet to children is the same as how we learned English in the past, reciting columns in turn. “Do you really think that today we would use such a stupid method to teach primary school students?” In another instance, Li mocked the opposition’s paranoia: “I heard a rumor in Shanghai, which claimed that the Japanese national flag has infiltrated the phonetic alphabet. People are urged to alter the circle in the ㄖ ­symbol . . . ​so that it would no longer resemble the Japanese flag. Don’t you think this is laughable?”71 (In handwritten brush calligraphy, the “dot stroke” in the center of the rectangle ㄖ bears more resemblance to a

Dueling S ounds and Contending  Tones  47

circle than in typescript). Besides Li, others also joined the fray. Zhang’s proposal to eliminate the phonetic alphabet from the curriculum drew sharp criticism, as did his definition of the “Beijing standard.” As several contributors pointed out, the speech of an educated Beijinger obviously differed from the local idioms of the rickshaw puller and the street sweeper. Zhang had identified the pronunciation of a person with a middle school education as the “standard,” but this was hardly an “authentic” language, just another a spin on “blue-­green guanhua.” To some, the disputation was a positive sign of burgeoning interest in the national language, but to others, it was “a bunch of senseless mischief.”72 Finally, Wang Pu’s recordings inadvertently played a starring role in inflaming the passions. The occasion was a reception hosted by Zhonghua Books for the visiting delegates, during which Lufei Kui played excerpts of the records.73 With local education officials and school administrators in attendance, it would have been a good way to drum up sales. But with the debate reverberating, an aural manifestation purporting to be the standard and a model for emulation provoked a strong response. For those who harbored reservations about the national pronunciation, the recording confirmed their doubts about its inauthenticity and peculiarity. It sounded odd, a strange hybrid, “neither donkey nor horse.” At the eleventh hour, Li Jinxi sent an open letter to the Education Association, asserting that the differences between Beijing speech and the national pronunciation were trivial, that the overlap between the two exceeded 90 percent. “The national pronunciation can be revised, but its name should not be changed.” People from other regions will reject “Beijing pronunciation” simply on the basis of its name, but they are receptive to the “national” pronunciation. Li implored the association to exercise caution, for overturning the existing standard “for the sake of the small matter of a name” could jeopardize the future of the national language. Despite Li’s entreaty, the tide had shifted. By the time the convention closed just days later, on November 11, the motion to adopt Beijing pronunciation had passed.74 The feud, however, was only beginning. The Education Association convention had drawn just thirty delegates. And while the motion carried some weight, it remained just that—­item 13 on a menu of 24, forwarded to the Education Ministry for consideration.75 In The Light of Learning, heated exchanges continued through the rest of the year. Zhang

4 8  D ueling S ounds and Contending  Tones

Shiyi responded to Li Jinxi with counterarguments arranged in a similar Q&A format. Gu Shi, a classics scholar on the faculty at Nanjing Higher Normal and a member of the 1913 conference, took aim at Wu Zhihui’s dictionary and called him a liar, prompting Wu (who had been on the sidelines) to engage. Wu actually went to Nanjing, where he confronted Gu Shi and accused him of assault back in 1913, a charge that Gu indignantly denied. As passions rose, angry words escalated into personal attacks.76 Meanwhile, the antagonists advanced their respective positions by broadcasting their views through lectures, visiting schools, and publishing the texts of their speeches. From Zhang Shiyi’s own turf in Nanjing, Li Jinxi delivered a conciliatory speech, in which he characterized the differences between national and Beijing pronunciation as “one part in eighty.” This time, Li posited that phonology was only one of four elements constituting the national language, the others being tone, lexicon, and grammar. The variance between jingyin and guoyin was about 5 percent—­multiply that out and the overall differential equals one part in eighty, or 1.25 percent. Based on this calculation, Li concluded, “One part in eighty is a small problem, isn’t it easy to resolve? Why stir up so much trouble?” “If one insists that only the speech of Beijingers can be called the national language, does it mean that ‘blue-­green guanhua’ is to be denigrated as a foreign language? Although the standard for the national language should be rigorous, its scope should be broad, to make it easier for everyone in the nation to learn.”77 In contrast to Lu Jinxi’s attempt to find common ground, Zhang Shiyi continued on the offensive. His opening salvo (from early October) was published in two major education journals in expanded form.78 He composed a long rejoinder to Lu Ji, which appeared as a four-­part series in The Light of Learning. He ridiculed the “so-­called national pronunciation” books, deriding their “random sketches” as laughably confused and arbitrarily copied from unreliable sources.79 (Zhang did not name anyone specifically, but he was certainly referring to illustrated manuals like Wang Pu’s, discussed earlier). From the other corner, Wu Zhihui likewise remained defiant, using the lectern at Jiangsu Second Normal in Shanghai to smear his critics. He began by saying, “Gentlemen—­if I use the Wuxi local language [his native tongue] to lecture today, it will sound unpleasant to you. I cannot speak Shanghainese, so I will use blue-­green guanhua to have this discussion with you.” From one perspective, Wu

D ueling S ounds and Contending  Tones  49

continued, the phonetic alphabet is “completely worthless rubbish” (狗屁 不值一錢), just a collection of symbols. It lacks a “standard” pronunciation and has been subjected to relentless criticism. Yet on the other hand, despite its imperfections, it could be the “holy grail” of mass literacy and a method for unifying pronunciation. But whereas in the past Wu had defended the phonetic alphabet, now he sought to distance himself from it, saying that in 1913 he had championed (to no avail) the use of Roman letters and other notation systems. “So this really has nothing to do with me.” As for Beijing pronunciation, Wu wondered precisely what Zhang Shiyi had in mind. Is it the speech of residents within the walled city? Or the greater capital region? Wu noted that the pronunciation of “Beijingers” could hardly be considered homogenous, varying according to neighborhoods and socioeconomic class. Could one assume that those with a middle school education (as Zhang had proposed) all speak consistently, in exactly the same manner? In short, “we should not elevate the speech of Beijingers to the realm of heaven and earth.”80 Wu had a well-­deserved reputation for salty language. He was feeling particularly embattled at this time, with the publication of a new edition of his dictionary in effect repudiating his handiwork. The Education Ministry had assigned the revision task to a subgroup of the National Language Unification Preparatory Committee, almost immediately after the publication of the first edition. Qian Xuantong, Wang Yi, and Li Jinhui (Li Jinxi’s younger brother) spent more than a year laboring over it. In December 1920 they announced the completion of the “revised dictionary,” just in time to touch off another round of recriminations in the pronunciation wars. The group used the opportunity to refute the Education Association’s recent resolution, insisting that although “Beijing pronunciation occupies a very important position in the national pronunciation,” it contains “a certain number of local sounds (tuyin)” which “obviously have to be abandoned.” The revised dictionary followed the pronunciation decided by the 1913 conference and retained Wu Zhihui’s organizational format. As for the tones, the new edition marked five of them but did not prescribe the intonation of a specific region as standard.81 But in a long and detailed explanatory appendix, the editors described how the initial edition, compiled in haste, included too many variant pronunciations and failed to adjudicate between what is “correct” and “incorrect.” The new version weeded out extraneous options, deleted “archaic

50  D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones

pronunciations,” and fixed mistakes in the rendering of four classes of syllables. It also added alternate pronunciations to words with secondary and tertiary meanings and fixed typographical errors.82 The response from the Beijing pronunciation camp was swift and sharp. One contributor to The Light of Learning denigrated it as another version of “a dictionary of committee pronunciation” and compared its compilation to warlord rule as an example of arbitrary and corrupt politics.83

IN THE SCHOOLS

And so it continued. By the time Wang Pu’s phonographs arrived from Paris for delivery to customers in February 1921, the “national pronunciation” he recorded had sustained bruising attacks from many quarters. Zhonghua Books took out prominent ads to announce their arrival, but enthusiasm had chilled noticeably. A negative review in China Times from an influential editor further emphasized the shortcomings of the technology: the gramophone exaggerates nasal sounds; the instructor provides no explanations and reads at an excessive speed; short sounds are passed over too quickly and cannot be heard clearly. “If this contraption is to be used for experimental phonology, then it has some value. But to use it for language instruction is not satisfactory at all.”84 The main battleground now shifted from the discursive realm of intellectual journals and education gazettes and into classrooms. Teaching the teachers was the first priority, and starting in 1920 guoyu training classes sprouted up across the country. They ranged from three sessions of the National Language Training Institute sponsored by the Education Ministry in Beijing, two dozen students in small county towns, to more than four hundred enrolled in a Commercial Press seminar in Shanghai. The publishing companies in fact footed the bill for some of the largest programs. These were prime opportunities for marketing textbooks and a growing array of teaching aids to a captive audience. What did students learn at these national language institutes? The curriculum was fairly generic in outline, covering grammar, lexicon, and phonology, as well as giving some attention to pedagogy, philology, and the history of national language literature. The specific content, however,

D ueling S ounds and Contending  Tones 51

varied from course to course—­depending on the instructors, whether it was a four-­week crash course or a more extended three-­to-­six-­month program, and how closely local speech resembled whatever version of the national language was on offer. In some courses, the students were government bureaucrats and school administrators already able to speak different varieties of guanhua. In other cases, they were complete novices who found learning the “national language” comparable to learning a “foreign” one. With divergent opinions on what ought to constitute the standard, instructors used the podium to advance their own views. At the Jiangsu National Language Institute, Li Jinxi told students that they could render the tones according to individual preference, whether four, five, seven, or eight. For now, he said, the national pronunciation was only concerned with general principles, leaving aside the details.85 In Tianjin, Li reminded students: “Beijinghua is only a local language and cannot stand for the entire nation.”86 And lecturing in Shandong, he said that if you are looking for a “unified tone,” then “we should take the four tones of Beijing as the standard.” But “unification” should be disaggregated to different levels, the lowest common denominator being “mutual intelligibility.” “Look, when people from all twenty-­t wo provinces meet in Beijing to discuss ‘military affairs and national matters’ . . . ​they do not need translators to conduct their deliberations.” A Beijinger may deride a speaker and “even say something like ‘From your accent you are probably a Cantonese.’ But what does that matter, as long as he is able to communicate? What special honor is there to being a Beijinger? And what crime is it to be a Cantonese?”87 Another instructor, Liu Ru, blamed the “noisy debates” for creating “a mess of confused impressions,” which caused people to conflate guoyu with the phonetic alphabet, the written vernacular, Beijing speech, or blue-­green guanhua. Liu told his students that as long as core of the national language could be unified (which he defined as phonology, vocabulary, and grammar), the written characters may be simplified and the tones may be omitted.88 Meanwhile, those attending the third session of National Language Training Institute in Beijing heard Hu Shi deliver fifteen lectures on the history of vernacular literature, starting from the Han dynasty and covering more than two thousand years. Hu also gave them a pep talk (calling them “missionaries” and “the vanguard” of the national language

52  D ueling S ounds and Contending  Tones

movement), and he told them to adhere to their own native pronunciation whenever necessary. “The pronunciation is not so important,” Hu said. It would be fine to use the national or the local pronunciation, as long as the grammatical construction was correct.89 Against these teachers preaching a flexible “national language,” from his perch in Nanjing Zhang Shiyi reiterated to students in his seminars that “the standard language” could only be Beijing pronunciation. Zhang definitely had an axe to grind, but his lectures also emphasized the importance of pedagogy—­how to encourage active learning, draw out students reluctant to speak, and use storytelling and jokes to hold their interest. He prescribed a short daily guoyu lesson, no more than fifteen to twenty minutes, with all other subjects conducted in the local language. Zhang feared that prematurely using the national language as the exclusive medium of instruction would create communication barriers and impede learning. It would take at least a generation (“when these students become parents themselves”), he opined, before the use of the national language could be broadened in a pedagogically “safe” manner.90 The content of instruction in the national language institutes thus varied considerably. Over time the programs became more specialized, dividing into sessions aimed at teacher preparation, those for ordinary people wanting to learn or improve their pronunciation, and more advanced courses for those seeking a deeper understanding of phonology and literature. At the National Language Special Training School in Shanghai, sponsored by Zhonghua Books, students could opt for either a monthlong summer intensive, a fifteen-­week evening course, or a comprehensive program lasting six months. The school was reliably in the “national pronunciation” camp, with Li Jinhui as the principal. This was the younger Li brother, who later achieved notoriety as a pioneer in Chinese pop music, film, and entertainment, a colorful career about whom Andrew Jones has written at length.91 Before that transpired, in 1922 Li Jinhui took his twelve-­year-­old daughter Minghui on a roadshow, to drum up enrollment for the institute and its affiliated primary school. Minghui sang while Dad played the violin, an instrument of novelty at the time. They concluded the performance with a demonstration of the wondrous capabilities of the national language. Li first asked members of the audience to write down sentences on slips of paper. He pulled them out of a  hat one by one, and using a tune he had composed for the phonetic

Dueling S ounds and Contending  Tones 53

alphabet, “spelled” out the syllables on the violin. At the blackboard, Minghui worked out the sentences phonetically and wrote them out in characters, astonishing the audience with “magic.” This trick, Li later commented, did more to attract students than any form of advertising.92 Not to be outdone, rival Commercial Press assembled an all-­star cast for its own institute and hired Wu Zhihui to head up a National Language Normal School.93 All these programs could claim to be officially sanctioned by the Education Ministry. Instructors rotated between them, without apparent allegiances to the publishers. For some graduates, learning the national language proved to be a formative experience. Some went home to become teachers in guoyu training institutes or leaders in provincial-­level organizations. Others returned to their teaching positions in primary schools, to be the “vanguard of the movement,” just as Hu Shi had urged. Anecdotal evidence abounds, of skeptics converted to the cause of linguistic unity. Wang Pu, for instance, recounted how two of his friends had been mercilessly ridiculed for putting on airs, quoting one of them as saying, “People laughed whenever I spoke guoyu.” In the end, both persevered to become national language instructors.94 More generally, the fragmentation of guoyu at the training institutes had ripple effects and reproduced similar divisions in classrooms. As one educator from Yunnan put it: How do we teach the national language as a school subject, in the absence of a standardized phonology, lexicon, and grammar? The Education Ministry has stipulated teaching the phonetic alphabet—­“ but what in the world is the correct pronunciation?”95 To alleviate the confusion, Shanxi governor Yan Xishan told his education officials to forget about the dueling pronunciations—­ “It is a problem, but for now do what you can . . . ​if later the pronunciation needs to be changed, the differences will not be significant.”96 In Jiangsu, where some of the most intense skirmishes were taking place, the disarray was palpable. There were reports of fistfights between schoolteachers, and stormy disputes ending up before the county magistrate for adjudication. In one instance, two brothers learned the national pronunciation at school from their respective instructors. When they reviewed their lessons at home, the father heard significant discrepancies between the two and went to see the principal, demanding to know which was correct. The principal could only respond: “Both are not bad!”97 The  opposition of “families and society” turned out to be a significant

54  D ueling S ounds and Contending  Tones

obstacle, according to a survey conducted by the provincial education association. In some cases, the change from the classical curriculum to  the written vernacular provoked vociferous disapproval. In other instances, spoken guoyu aroused the ire of parents, who viewed it as “strange and distant” from their native tongue. Indeed, antagonism could be acute to the extent of withdrawing their children altogether. One primary school reported an attrition rate of one-­third, after three years of trying to incorporate the national language into the curriculum.98 In some Jiangsu counties, where local speech shared similarities with the national pronunciation, there were schools that found it easy to adapt, but also some that refused to change the curriculum. Principals and teachers coped with different strategies. The First Normal Affiliated Primary School in Suzhou enjoyed a progressive reputation as an early adopter of the written vernacular, doing so more than two years before the government mandate. In 1921 the principal described the “national language” lessons at the school as given in “putonghua with some Beijing accent.” But he excused the students from learning to speak it, citing vast differences between their native tongue and the “national pronunciation.” As for the phonetic alphabet, teaching it to first-­year students is “making trouble for yourself. Schools in the South need only pay attention to the written vernacular.” In Changzhou county, with more than three hundred primary schools, some used “the national pronunciation to teach the national language,” either with or without the phonetic alphabet. Others used local pronunciation or retained the classical language curriculum.99 As an indication of how low expectations could be, Liu Ru opined that at a minimum, the instructor who is teaching the national language should use guoyu when speaking. But like just about every issue, there were others who disagreed: “What harm could there be, to use the local pronunciation to read national language textbooks?”100 During this period of disputation, the fragmentation of the national language at the local level became an extension of the fractious debates among the experts. According to one observer, their inability to adapt was derailing the entire project. A physician treating a patient who suffered a stroke must try different methods in the therapeutic arsenal. Likewise, guoyu advocates should be open-­minded and “adjust tactics according to changing circumstances” rather than “insist on adhering to my ideal.”101

Dueling S ounds and Contending  Tones 55

As the previous discussion has alluded to, for many schools the phonetic alphabet constituted a litmus test of commitment. Part of Zhang Shiyi’s proposal in 1920 had called for its elimination from the lower primary school curriculum. But with the fight over Beijing pronunciation dominating the headlines, this component was quietly dropped. In the classroom, however, it became a vital issue, as teachers pondered whether, when, and how to teach the phonetic alphabet. Proponents on all sides—­ and there were many—­staked out irreconcilable positions, often wielding personal experience as ammunition. At a private school in Shanghai, for instance, Principal Shen Fuchu described the fiery arguments among his faculty about the best approach. Faced with objections from parents when he introduced the New Method Series primer, Shen called a meeting to explain the many benefits of a pedagogy that excluded Chinese characters. The parents “grudgingly consented” only after he agreed to a six-­ month trial period. Shen was happy to report positive results the following year—­“certainly not perfect,” but good enough to hold the critics at bay. But the school still faced a “truly very difficult” challenge, given the wide gulf between the national pronunciation and the native speech of the students (primarily from Jiangsu and Zhejiang). Shen’s compromise held the pupils to “the standard” when reciting from the national language textbook; he would not “interfere” in other lessons and ordinary conversation.102 In nearby Wu County (Jiangsu), after conducting a short experiment with his class, one teacher concluded that students who received concurrent instruction in zhuyin and script performed better than those who learned one or the other separately. Teachers at a primary school in Suzhou reached a different conclusion. After a similar trial period but citing “poor outcomes,” they opted to eliminate the phonetic alphabet from the first-­ and second-­year curriculum.103 Critics were quick to seize on such anecdotes as evidence for the defects of the phonetic alphabet. But defenders attributed the problems to faulty teaching methods, saying that simultaneously introducing script and the phonetic alphabet to young children invited confusion. For every compound word, the student must “learn the two zimu, memorize the sounds, learn the characters, and understand their meanings, attending to too many things all at once. How can a seven-­or eight-­year-­old child handle it?”104

56  D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones

Pedagogical concerns were thus central to debates about the national language, shaping its multiple forms and variable sounds, contributing to its fragmentation. Concurrently, far from the centers of intellectual debate, Protestant missionaries were waging their own battles. As discussed earlier, from the outset the missionary community in China had eagerly embraced the phonetic alphabet. In the early 1920s potential competition heightened the sense of urgency: “It is said that two socialistic papers in Peking are printing portions of each issue in Phonetic. . . . ​The church still has a chance of being first in the greater part of the field with literature which will bring true light and blessing to the people of this great land, but that chance may soon be lost.” The appearance of socialist rivals on the horizon inspired missionaries to work quickly—­to print and distribute the entire New Testament in the phonetic alphabet, to produce supplementary teaching aids (hymnals, The Pilgrim’s Progress, Bible posters), with the goal of “every church member a reader of the Bible in 1921.”105 Backed by church coffers, groups such as the Phonetic Promotion Committee and the China Sunday School Union produced a torrent of materials, giving them away or selling them for a nominal sum. Missionaries in far-­flung field stations could order from an extensive catalog, with pamphlets, posters, flashcards, wooden blocks, and an anagram game (a version of Scrabble), or subscribe to one of six newspapers. Effusive reports from the field, attesting to miraculous results, in turn encouraged more materials to be printed and distributed. Missionaries waxed euphoric about the young and the old using the phonetic alphabet to become “light bearers” for Christ: “Two young men learned the phonetic alphabet in two days”; “Ten people won for Christ.”106 For foreign missionaries, the polemics over pronunciation—­whether four, five, eight, or nine tones—­were peripheral concerns. The contested standard of the emerging national language mattered insofar as they were expending large sums of money printing Gospel materials. In the middle of 1921, when the Revised Dictionary of National Pronunciation had been published, the Reverend Alexander Mackensie assured colleagues worried about the shifting standard that further changes were unlikely: “So large an amount of literature is being produced under official auspices, or with official sanction, that further radical alteration in the system will be more and more difficult to introduce, involving as they would do the scrapping of the great bulk of matter already published or about to be published.”107

D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones  57

Thus reassured, they redoubled their efforts. By 1922 more than 100,000 copies of the Gospels rendered in the phonetic script had been distributed, hundreds of thousands of Bible posters and scripture readers, 19,000 copies of a phonetic picture dictionary, and 2,000 sets of the anagram game.108 Through the network of mission stations extending into rural areas, the phonetic alphabet thus reached an audience of illiterate men and women, quite different from the middle-­class children attending first grade in Suzhou or Shanghai. In literacy classes, Sunday school, Bible study meetings, even at hospitals (where one missionary doctor taught the phonetic alphabet to patients), foreigners disseminated a core component of China’s national language in a different guise. Take, for instance, Illus­ trated Phonetic Primer (1922), which sold ten thousand copies within just a few months (price: six cents).109 It begins with the zhuyin zimu illustrated with pictures, similar to the New Method Series (discussed earlier), even in the choice of illustrations. But at its conclusion the contents diverge dramatically, in this case culminating with lessons on Christian salvation. For the thousands of people who first encountered the phonetic alphabet through the determined efforts of missionaries, the concept of “the national” in language was ancillary to the Word of God. They heard passing references to the “Chinese National Phonetic Alphabet.” But as an instrument intended to achieve spiritual salvation, it was decoupled from the concept of the Chinese nation. These experiences, mediated by foreign teachers (many of them female Caucasian missionaries) or by Chinese converts, added another layer of complexity to the social journey of the national language.

THE SECOND PHONO GRA P H

Let us now return to the fate of Wang Pu’s gramophone records. As discussed earlier, by the time the shipment from Paris reached Shanghai, the controversy over the national pronunciation had sullied its arrival, casting doubt on its claim to be the “standard.” At the same time, its proponents did not retreat—­they were teaching and defending the national ­pronunciation, if anything, more actively than their adversaries. But with  the  fallout from the pronunciation wars swirling, editors at rival

58  D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones

FIGURE 1.3  

At the recording studio: Wang Pu in Shanghai, 1920 (left), and Chao Yuen Ren in New York City, 1921 (right).

Sources: Lufei Kui 陸費逵, Zhonghua guoyin liusheng jipian keben 中華國音留聲機片課本,1920; Chao Yuen Ren 趙元任, Guoyu liusheng pian keben 國語留聲片課本, 1922.

Commercial Press saw a market opportunity and recruited Chao Yuen Ren to produce a competing version. Chao was, and remains, a towering figure in Chinese intellectual history, a renowned linguist, and a true polymath. He graduated with a B.A. degree in physics from Cornell, received his Ph.D. degree in philosophy from Harvard in 1918, and was later also a best-­selling composer. (His pop hit “How Can I Help Thinking of Her,” a 1930s sensation, is still a staple in karaoke bars.) In June 1921, when Chao was asked to make a new recording of the national language, he was newly married and about to leave China to return to Harvard as an instructor. Through Hu Shi, a good friend and former Cornell classmate, the Commercial Press approached Chao and he agreed. The timing was fortuitous, for he would reside in Cambridge and could easily go to New York City for the recording sessions. Both Hu and Chao had listened to Wang Pu’s version and found fault with the pronunciation. Chao mentioned this in a letter, saying that the speaker retained “some Peking

D ueling S ounds and Contending  Tones  59

localisms,” which should have been eliminated from “the standard, especially his using ə of Peking in place of the full o of correct Mandarin.”110 In his diary Hu Shi was less circumspect, describing the recording as “Beijing pronunciation adulterated with the national pronunciation . . . ​ neither donkey nor horse,” with many distortions that sounded like “a foreigner speaking Chinese.”111 Chao Yuen Ren’s task was to correct Wang’s “mispronunciation” and produce a better, more authentic national language. In a series of recording sessions that spanned the winter months of 1921–­22, at the New York studios of the Columbia Phonograph Company, he read sixteen lessons from a primer that he composed. In the preface, Chao wrote, “To learn a language you must first remember that listening is far better than reading. Secondly, you must remember that speaking is far better than listening.” His records, he promised, would be the “teacher of correct pronunciation.” Hu Shi contributed prefatory remarks to the volume, praising Chao as a linguistic genius: “I dare say that if we want to use phonograph recordings to teach the national pronunciation, there is no one in China better suited for the task than Mr. Chao Yuen Ren.”112 The finished product, titled A Phonograph Course in the National Language, was sent to Shanghai in the winter of 1922 and offered for sale around the country. Advertisements described Chao as “the star of the national language world,” lauding his “accurate pronunciation” and “clear enunciation.”113 The publisher priced the product aggressively, offering an introductory price for six months: at 20 yuan for the eight-­record set, plus 40 cents for the textbook, it was half the cost of Wang Pu’s version. No sales figures survive for either set. Some months later Zhonghua Books matched the price, offering Wang Pu’s records at a 50 percent price reduction.114 Like Wang’s version, Chao’s original recordings do not survive, but there are likewise copies of the textbook. In addition, there is an audio version that was dubbed onto cassette tapes (probably in 1966), now digitized in CD format.115 Given the multiple format transfers and the ­technological discrepancy (between the modern-­day CD player and the gramophone of 1922), what one hears from the surviving sounds only approximates the original. The contemporary experience of listening to Chao’s voice, when he reads the phonetic alphabet in lesson 1 or Hu Shi’s poems in lesson 15, is quite different from the way his audience would have heard it in the 1920s.116 For instance, the gramophone compatible with

6 0  D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones

Chao’s records had a speed regulator, and he instructed the user to “find an appropriate speed” that sounds “natural” (which he estimated to be about 80 RPM): if it resembles a child’s voice, then it is too fast; if it sounds like an old man, then it is too slow. You have to fiddle with the knob until you get it right. The extant recording on CD does not have this option. The listener hears Chao Yuen Ren speed-­reading through the lessons; the content is difficult to absorb, even when following the textbook. The original version featured one lesson on each side of eight phonograph discs. Chao directed users to be relaxed but active listeners, alternating audio learning with verbal practice, reviewing the text, reading the explanatory notes, and checking the pronunciation dictionary if necessary. In contrast, in the digitized version all the lessons blend together, a continuous stream of sounds without pause. Despite the technological disparity, to a contemporary listener conversant in Standard Modern Chinese, the national language as Chao Yuen Ren rendered it in 1922 is intelligible. Although purportedly different (and improved) from Wang Pu’s “bungling,” Chao followed the national pronunciation, with five tones and a phonemic inventory mixing northern and southern sounds. Lesson 1 registers the mixed quality immediately, when Chao reads the opening sequence of the zhuyin syllabary as be-­pe-­ me-­fe-­ve (rather than bo-­po-­mo-­fo).117 In lesson 2 Chao sings the phonetic alphabetic to a tune he composed. In lesson 3 he reads a series of multisyllabic combinations. The southern inflections and northern intonations reinforce the hybrid, neither-­one-­nor-­t he-­other quality of the national pronunciation.118 Lesson 13 features a dialogue between Mr. Zhen Guoyu (甄國宇) and Mr. Jia Guanhua (賈觀化). The characters for Zhen’s name phonetically correlate to “authentic national language” (真國語), while Jia’s name is a homonym for “fake official language” (假官話). Chao reads both parts, enunciating the differences in a clever demonstration of his linguistic virtuosity: Mr.  Fake (Jia): I think you are from Nanjing? You have a bit of a ­Nanjing accent? Mr. Authentic (Zhen): No, I am from Shanghai. I am speaking the national language. Mr.  Fake: Ha! So this is the national language? I heard that recently they invented such a national language. What is it for?

Dueling S ounds and Contending  Tones  61

Mr. Authentic: The national language is one for that can be used in the entire country. Mr. Fake: Then could it be called a common language (putonghua)? Mr. Authentic: No, the term putonghua is subject to individual interpretation. When someone has traveled to several provinces, he may generally consider himself able to speak putonghua. . . . ​But sometimes the pronunciation is really off. With a southern accent and northern tunes, it’s more difficult to understand than the local vernacular.119

Through this dialogue, Chao contrasts the haphazard quality of pu­ tonghua with the national language as a coherent and standardized linguistic “system.” In a footnote in the companion textbook, Chao explains that he purposefully exaggerates the Mr. Fake’s pronunciation—­not to make fun of Beijinghua, but to underscore the dissimilarities. Invoking the arguments of the previous year, he quotes Li Jinxi’s calculation of “one part in eighty” as the differential between guoyu and guanhua. This sets the stage for Messrs. Fake and Authentic to reach consensus by the end of their conversation: for teaching purposes, “a standard national language” must be 100 percent accurate. For students, on the other hand, a passing grade would suffice. Since a score of 85 could be considered “superior,” Beijing natives actually had no need to “go to school” to learn the national language.120 Up until this point in 1922, Chao Yuen Ren had largely stayed out of the arguments over pronunciation. During the intense sparring between proponents of the Beijing camp and the national camp in the autumn of 1920, he was traveling around China, translating for Bertrand Russell, Dora Black, and occasionally John Dewey. When the group returned to Beijing for Russell to deliver a series of lectures at area colleges, Chao lived with him and performed the interpreting duties. But for the better part of a year, Chao’s main preoccupation was courting Yang Buwei, whom he married in 1921. With the release of the phonograph records in 1922, Chao openly allied himself with the national pronunciation camp. But still he stayed above the fray. He was physically abroad, and whatever letters or articles he wrote in reply to the hot issues of the day could only be delayed interventions—­often by the time they arrived, the subject had changed. Chao had also become deeply immersed in research for a new phonetic system of writing Chinese using the Latin alphabet, which would later

6 2  D ueling S ounds and Contending  Tones

ignite its own controversies (known as Gwoyeu Romatzyh or “National Language Romanization”; see chapter 2).121 While living in Cambridge, Chao could view the pronunciation wars dispassionately, despite his starring role. Thus by 1923 there were two versions of “national pronunciation” records available for purchase, both approved by the Education Ministry for pedagogical use. Chao Yuen Ren was not quite finished. Before leaving the United States to spend a year in France, he returned to the Columbia Phonograph Company and made another set, titled Chinese National Language Records for the Use of Foreigners, with twelve double-­faced discs.122 The textbook provided, in English, explanations of the basic features of the Chinese national language in twenty-­four lessons. This time, Chao used “Beijing pronunciation,” dropping the southern sounds and the fifth tone and adding the R-­suffixation (兒化) characteristic of Beijinghua. As the professor explained in the introduction of the textbook: Broadly speaking, the pronunciation of Kuo-­y ü [guoyu] in the narrower sense is about the same system as that of the artificial Mandarin of the older Sinologists. Although it differs from Pekingese in many comparatively finer points, it does not sound different from Pekingese even so much as one main type of Mandarin from another. This is because most of the promoters of Kuo-­y ü have agreed to use practically the same tones as those of Pekingese, and it is the tones, more than anything else, that characterizes a dialect. As the natives of non-­Mandarin dialects and foreigners will hardly notice the difference in practice, it is really of minor importance whether they learn strict Kuo-­y in [guoyin], or pure Pekingese. For the Occidental students of this course, the latter is perhaps more convenient, which is therefore adopted in the transcriptions and the records.123

Chao’s explanation here soft-­pedaled the controversy and gestured vaguely to convenience as the rationale for adopting Beijing pronunciation. But in a letter sent to family and friends, dated February 1925, Chao gave a somewhat different account of his second recording: “This time, I used a pure Pekinese pronunciation, instead of the National Pronunciation or Kuo Yin, as—­between you and me—­I think the pure Pekingese of an educated native of Peking has a better chance of success in the future than

D ueling S ounds and Contending  Tones 63

the Kuo Yin pronunciation. However, my attitude towards this is not yet well defined enough for a public statement.”124 At the same time, despite the claim that he used “pure Pekingese pronunciation,” what Chao recorded was a stripped-­down version, the R-­suffixation rendered with a light touch. There is a distinctive flavor of Beijinghua, but he largely neutralized the thick rhotacized syllables and omitted the colorful lexicon and idioms of the dialect. Most significantly, whereas Chao’s records from 1922 largely disregarded tones, the new version emphasized tonal differentiation with three lessons. A series of exercises demonstrated the pitch variation of six different “Mandarin dialects,” to underscore the tonal differentiation between Beijing, Tianjin, Kaifeng, Chongqing, Wuchang, and Nanjing pronunciations.125 Much later, Chao would say that he made the change to Beijing pronunciation “surreptitiously.”126 Indeed, he did this on his own initiative, without government mandate and consulting only with William Pettus, the principal of the North China Union Language School. Since the product was for a foreign audience, it largely slipped under the radar and did not attract much attention in China. By this time, the passions over pronunciation had also cooled. The two sides still aimed their guns at each other, according to one observer, but the fighting had paused because the combatants were “bruised and bleeding,” as well as exhausted.127 The outbreak of real military hostilities between rival warlords in the autumn of 1924 provided another impetus to lay down the rhetorical arms. Zhang Shiyi turned his attention back to English, his main field of expertise, and worked on a series of textbooks for foreign language instruction. Apart from compiling a collection of his lectures and writings on the national language for publication, Zhang exited the conversation. Finally, a ceasefire was declared, when an external enemy emerged on the scene—­in the person of Zhang Shizhao. As the new education minister, Zhang ordered the restoration of the Confucian classics to the school curriculum, reversing the changes that national language advocates had fought for and over. Confronting this new foe, the formal rivals put aside their differences, which now seemed trivial. Characterizing the battle as a “defensive war,” Li averred that although this Zhang set out to destroy guoyu, he could not single-­handedly reverse the tide. Despite many casualties, the national language would ultimately prevail.128

6 4  D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones

Guoyu partisans of all persuasions now closed ranks and shelved their disagreements. During this interregnum, there was a gradual drift toward Beijing pronunciation. Between 1923 and 1926 several subcommittees of the National Language Preparatory Committee resolved again to revise the dictionary of national pronunciation, this time adopting Beijing phonology as the standard. Six members effectively pushed through the change, which the participants later characterized as the deliberations of “a society of a few men.”129 But in the midst of a civil war with a revolving door of toothless central governments, the new standard existed in limbo. Those who claimed the linguistic expertise to redefine the phonological basis of the national language lacked the political authority to implement it. As Li Jinxi wrote in a letter to Wu Zhihui, the National Language Preparatory Committee was effectively defunct—­“without a penny or a copper,” only the name remained.130 The change would come to fruition only in 1932, under the auspices of a new central government (see chapter 2). In the meantime, the shifting winds began to favor Beijing speech on the grounds of expediency. As Chao Yuen Ren had noted, by adopting Beijinghua the national language would—­overnight—­gain more than a million “graduates,” without expending any effort at all.131 Some later attributed the triumph of Beijing pronunciation to its “irresistible magic” and natural superiority over its rival’s “jumble of incoherent sounds.”132 But behind the rhetorical posturing was the matter of practicality, and in many ways the path of least resistance.

R Thunderous calls for “unifying the national pronunciation and adopting the national language” filled the air and shook the mountains in 1922, observed an educator named Cheng Shousong, writing in a Shanghai-­ based missionary journal. “But if you look closely, how many people are learning the national language? Not many. How many people have switched to speaking the national language? Very few.” The people hollering vastly outnumbered those “actually speaking guoyu.”133 One reason for the woeful situation, Wu Zhihui asserted in 1924, was that few schools could spare the necessary resources for implementing a national language curriculum. In a time of civil war, many institutions struggled just to remain open, much less enact fundamental changes. Advocates for

D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones  65

guoyu “shouted until their lips are parched and their voices are hoarse.” But in the absence of adequate funding and qualified teachers, at best there might be one instructor in a school to teach spoken guoyu—­as an add­on, “treated as if it were a foreign language.”134 The profusion of guides for self-­study, touting “mastery without a teacher,” could scarcely begin to redress the problem. Writing a year later, Fan Xiangshan concluded that most language teachers themselves lacked understanding of an integrated “national language.” Some emphasized speech; others were partial to grammar. With individual instructors picking and choosing different aspects, how could the national language be whole? The most ridiculous were the teachers who “clung to the old methods,” who regarded the “national language” as merely a semantic change from the classical curriculum. They recited texts using old-­fashioned rhythms and exaggerated tunes—­suitable for the classics but laughably inappropriate for modern textbooks. “They actually have no idea what the national language is.” Even worse and more pervasive, many teachers misconstrued the phonetic alphabet as equivalent to the national language. After studying the syllabary for a few weeks, they believed that they had mastered guoyu. As for those who posited that writing and speech could be taught separately, Fan characterized such attempts to “partition” the national language as an abdication of duty.135 As these observations underscore, after nearly a decade of contention, the national language was in disarray. Far from homogenous or unified, the sounds of Mandarin remained capriciously variable. The dream of a national language exerted a powerful hold, but from the vantage point of the mid-­1920s, its future prospects were gloomy.136 Indeed, by pulling apart its components and quarrelling endlessly, guoyu advocates undermined its coherence. As personal animosities intensified the disputes over pronunciation, the level of passionate disagreement revealed the high stakes involved. For the adversaries in this war, what was at stake was no less than the linguistic future of the nation. The tangle of personal vendettas and regional rivalries also bequeathed a complicated legacy for the national language in the years to come. As the following chapters will explore, Wu Zhihui, Li Jinxi, and their former antagonists worked together for the KMT government in various capacities.137 After 1949 Wu and Li ended up on different sides of the Taiwan Straits. Chao Yuen Ren went on to have a long and distinguished career,

6 6  D ueling S ounds and Contending  Tones

spent mostly in the United States, including more than forty years on the faculty at UC Berkeley. Wang Pu also remained a respected authority on linguistic matters, but in the years after his premature death in 1929, his national pronunciation recording became notorious for its botched pronunciation of a “made-­up” language. As Chao later remembered, Wang was “a somewhat conventional scholar of Peking, not specially versed in historical phonology,” who “made a mess” of the sounds. “He neither used his own natural speech in the Peking dialect . . . ​nor the artificial Entering Tones, sharp-­and-­round distinctions,” or any of the other compromise features of guoyin.138 The claim that Chao Yuen Ren was “the only person in the world” able to speak this “unnatural” language would be repeated for decades, furnished as proof of a foolishly misguided effort. In this narrative, the national pronunciation was untenable from the outset, doomed to failure by its artificiality and inauthenticity. As we have seen, however, the national pronunciation was a work in progress in the 1920s, and Chao was hardly the only person able to speak it. But as a moving target, embodying shifting linguistic standards, the idea and confusing reality of this iteration of a spoken national language channeled the discontents and anxieties associated with radical changes, both proposed and haltingly underway. Its fate under Nationalist rule is the subject of the next chapter.

2 IN SEARCH OF STANDARD MANDARIN

Question: When we teach the national pronunciation (guoyin) in rural primary schools, we frequently encounter disapproval and antagonism from parents. What should we do? Teaching the national pronunciation in schools while the local vernacular (tubai) prevails in society creates a lot of conflicts, and the children are at a loss. Moreover, in the countryside there is no need for the national pronunciation. Yet we are required to find a way to teach and promote it. What should we do? Answer: If in teaching the national pronunciation you fear the disapproval of parents, then do not force it, so that conflicts can be avoided. . . . ​ In my opinion the national pronunciation is not important. Once transportation and communication improve, language will gradually unify by itself. The dialects of Guangdong, Fujian, and the Tai Lake region [near Suzhou] are completely local (tuyin). To communicate with the outside is exceedingly difficult. But when communication develops and when there are qualified teachers, it will change quietly. . . . ​R ight now there is no agreement about the national pronunciation approved by the Education Ministry. The standard is based on the pronunciation of a Beijing native with a secondary education. But in the entire country, how many qualified teachers are there? Therefore, currently we can only make do with teaching the mixed pronunciation of the local and the national, or  blue-­green guanhua; you do not need to aspire to teaching a pure and unadulterated national pronunciation. Since the standard national

68  I n S earch of Standard Mandarin

pronunciation has not been established . . . ​we can only proceed gradually; otherwise, there will actually be more adverse effects!1

In the spring of 1929 Zheng Xiaocang, the dean of the School of Education at National Central University, paid a visit to Suzhou. For the occasion, local officials convened staff from schools and associations in the area to meet with him. They used the opportunity to consult the visiting dignitary about matters related to pedagogy and school administration. The exchange quoted records the second question posed by a member of the audience and Zheng’s response. By 1929, with the consolidation of most of the country under Nationalist rule, the new regime provided a centralizing force for efforts to make the national language a spoken reality. Through the National Language Unification Preparatory Committee (reconvened in 1928 with Wu Zhihui as chairman) and through reconstituted agencies at the provincial and local levels, the Education Ministry attempted to repair the collateral damage from the previous decade of linguistic combat. Textbooks for national language instruction were a tangle of conflicting approaches and contradictory information; the suspension of hostilities between the “national” and “Beijing” pronunciation factions had not definitively settled the ­matter. Given a new mandate by the KMT government, the Preparatory Committee set out to complete the revision of the national pronunciation dictionary, compile teaching materials, scrutinize the state of pedagogy in schools, and formulate strategies for “promoting the unification of the national language.”2 At the same time, although advocates of guoyu shared aspirations for achieving linguistic unity, they found themselves at odds over the competing priorities of improving literacy versus standardizing the spoken language, as well as debating the feasibility of pursuing both goals simultaneously. As the exchange in Suzhou illustrates, the national language remained a work in progress. By 1932, with renewed efforts to popularize the phonetic alphabet, and with a new dictionary setting Beijing phonology as the “standard,” it seemed the controversies of the past had been put to rest. Yet new disputations flared, as discussions of competing systems of phonetic notation became the forum for resurrecting long-­standing debates. This chapter

In S earch of Standard Mandarin 69

surveys the changing linguistic soundscape of the 1930s to explore how disagreements about “correct pronunciation,” pedagogy, and the place of dialects were inflected with new meanings. The analysis considers how the national language operated on multiple levels. In the realms of the symbolic and the ideological, guoyu anchored a clear and compelling vision of national unity. But within the arena of social life, language practices were fluid and messy, subjected to multiple challenges that confounded the project of standardization. In an age of mass media, radio broadcasting and films amplified the sounds of guoyu but with uneven effects. Local schools and communities embraced or rejected the spoken national language, revealing a sharply contested process of linguistic inclusion and exclusion, at a time when the sounds of Mandarin were not yet standardized.

NAT I O NAL ASPIRATIONS, LOCAL P R ON U N C I AT I ON S

One of the first initiatives implemented under the new KMT regime was the designation of Gwoyeu Romatzyh 國語羅馬字 (GR) as a second phonetic notation system, as a complement to the existing zhuyin zimu.3 Based on the Latin alphabet, GR was the brainchild of Chao Yuen Ren, first conceived in 1922 when he lived in the United States. The system’s most distinctive feature was “tonal spelling,” which embedded tone within the spelling of each syllable, dispensing with the dots and other diacritical marks that had prompted earlier derision. By linking tone and syllable, Chao believed that GR would make it easier for students to internalize tonal differentiation as a core component of the spoken language.4 From the long view, advocates enthused that “GR will be able to replace the Chinese script, elevate Chinese culture, and guarantee the survival of the Chinese people.” In the race to catch up to foreign countries, the shackles of “a cumbersome and unwieldy script” were akin to wading in muddy waters, while competitors sprinted ahead. In contrast, with GR (“the ­savior of the people”), the “newest running shoes” would accelerate the nation’s progress.5 According to another commentator, disappointment with the zhuyin phonetic “gave birth” to GR. The “sound-­annotating” symbols were like

70 I n Search of Standard Mandarin

“wounded soldiers with pock-­marked and scarred faces, troublesome to write, ugly to look at, inaccurate at spelling phonetically. Not only do ordinary students disdain it, but even those who have protected and supported it have now lost faith.” 6 Yet the existence of two phonetic notation systems, both sanctioned for pedagogical and official use, generated uncertainty. Educators already unsure about the place of zhuyin in the curriculum, or anxious about its relationship to the script, now encountered another complication. In 1930 a government mandate addressed the issue by demoting the phonetic syllabary from zhuyin zimu (phonetic alphabet) to zhuyin fuhao (phonetic appended symbols). By reinforcing its auxiliary status, the change signaled that phonetics were intended to function only as guide to pronunciation, not to replace the script. “Calling it zimu has created misunderstanding and errors; therefore it should be changed to fuhao, so that the name will correspond to its true purpose.”7 Proponents hoped the change, billed as “the cooperation of zhu­ yin and Hanzi,” would facilitate mass education and literacy.8 At the same time, these changes produced further confusion—­“the old pronunciation is no longer appropriate to use, but the new pronunciation has nothing to rely on.”9 For instance, which and how many zhuyin letters constitute the new standard pronunciation? Although the ascendance of Beijing phonology effectively rendered three of the forty phonemes irrelevant, the phonetic chart remained unchanged. Asterisks denoted the “dialect” status of 万, 兀, and 广 in some publications. Yet in other instances, instructional manuals and dictionaries continued to characterize the system as comprising forty letters, or they described the fifth tone as an acceptable part of the national pronunciation.10 In a particularly baffling iteration, a handbook issued by the Education Ministry in 1930 enumerated forty symbols but gave a muddled explanation: The number of annotation symbols is really quite small In total there are only forty We can divide them up to memorize Not even seven or eight per day You will have memorized more than half in five days Then one more day and only three remain Eliminate those three, but the rest you will memorize completely

In S earch of Standard Mandarin 7 1

Have you got it down cold? Try to recite them How many times? Once is not enough, do it twice

The phonetic chart that followed showed a syllabary of thirty-­seven. Lesson 9 clarified that three omitted phonemes were not used in the “national pronunciation” but could be used to “spell out local sounds (拼土音).”11 During this transitional period, authoritative explanations were not consistently updated to correspond to changing linguistic standards. Individuals continued to invent new phonetic systems for guoyu and forwarded them to the government, for consideration as contenders for adoption. Asked to evaluate one of these schemes, the Preparatory Committee regretted the wasted effort: “There are many people who still do not know that the national pronunciation phonetic has been officially set.”12 To ameliorate the misperceptions and begin implementing the new standard in earnest, the Education Ministry issued an order, adding the spoken component to the existing menu of national language directives: The former instructions emphasized the written aspect and did not mention the language that the teacher should use as the medium of instruction. The pedagogy of the national language requires, on the one hand, the use of the written vernacular (yutiwen), and on the other hand, the use of guoyu as the medium of instruction. In this way, what students read and hear will converge. . . . ​For this reason, it is decreed that all middle and primary school teachers, within the scope of what is possible, should use “language that approximates standard guoyu” as the language of instruction.

Those not already proficient “should definitely practice”; relevant educational authorities should provide opportunities to do so. The ministry also preemptively scolded teachers for harboring erroneous assumptions and invoking them as excuses for inaction. Paying only lip service to the national language, some persisted in using tuyu (dialects) to teach, claiming that the children could not understand otherwise. Still others refused to speak guoyu out of embarrassment. This was the wrong attitude, the  directive from Nanjing admonished, for “the so-­called national language . . . ​cannot avoid impurity”; it is inevitably a form of “southern accent with northern tunes.” Although not ideal or satisfactory, “using

72 I n Search of Standard Mandarin

impure guoyu as the language of instruction is still much better than using tuyu. . . . ​If you avoiding speaking because of embarrassment, how will you improve in the future?”13 In attempting to insert spoken guoyu into the classroom, the Education Ministry tried both to pressure and to reassure schoolteachers. To reinforce the effort, the Preparatory Committee organized a “national language week” in April 1930, with lectures and performances coordinated to take place across the country. Despite the thirty-­year history of the “guoyu movement,” the committee explained, “there are still many who do not understand, or they harbor prejudice and refuse to use it.” The acts of refusal included insisting on local vernaculars (tubai) as the medium of instruction for primary school guoyu classes, while in middle schools “the majority categorically deny it,” unwilling to teach even one excerpt of the written vernacular. Except for the top ministries, government offices routinely used the classical language for written communication.14 In short, both written and spoken forms of the national language had not gained traction in crucial institutional settings. Even more egregious was the “strange and shameful” situation of senior officials, who “actually do not know the national language or the national script.” According to one newspaper columnist, Foreign Minister Chen Youren and his deputy were Cantonese speakers notorious for their guoyu incompetence. How could they represent the nation in matters of diplomacy? “Wouldn’t we be the laughingstock of the world if other countries discovered this!” The KMT must amend its party platform to preclude those who do not know the national language from serving as officials.15 The KMT could not in fact stipulate linguistic competence as a qualification for holding office. After all, with his thick Zhejiang accent, Chiang Kai-­shek himself barely passed muster.16 Instead the Nationalist government opted to begin at the lower rungs of the bureaucracy. In 1930 a national directive held provincial and local jurisdictions responsible for ensuring zhuyin proficiency among government workers and teachers, within “a set time period.” (A maximum extension of four months may be granted, after which those who did not comply would be “handled as cases of dereliction of duty.”) Starting in 1931, preference in hiring for government positions would be given to those proficient in phonetic notation. Zhuyin should also be appended to signs (at train stations and government offices, on job notices), and publishers were to add interlinear

I n S earch of Standard Mandarin 73

notation to newspapers and books.17 The aspiration to create a “zhuyin fuhao environment,” however, conflicted with the demotion of the phonetic to supplemental status. The mixed signals detracted from the efforts of some local committees, which gained little traction in attempts to expand the use of the phonetic syllabary. Initial references to “compulsory” measures and vague threats of punishment quickly evaporated. Merchants, publishers, and government agencies declined to add zhuyin to books, shop signs, and public announcements, citing the cost of making changes.18 Proposed enforcement mechanisms, such as forbidding the sale of products or publication of advertisements without zhuyin, proved unrealistic. As one commentator remarked, the change from alphabet (zimu) to annotation symbol (fuhao) “matched name with reality” and also revealed its downgraded “value and destiny.”19 The conflicting messages contributed to an inhospitable environment. When someone laughs at you for learning zhuyin and the national pronunciation, the author of a mass education textbook advised, do not fear embarrassment. “You can reply: ‘Since you want to mock me, please instruct me. If you don’t teach me, please don’t laugh at me.’ ”20 The zhuyin phonetic notation fared somewhat better when integrated with ongoing literacy campaigns. Advocates touted it as the “sharpest tool” and the most effective antidote to the scourge of illiteracy.21 It is crucial to note that zhuyin’s projected function as an accelerant for adult literacy assumed substantial correspondence between the illiterate learner’s speech and the sounds of guoyu. In regions with some degree of mutual intelligibility (in the North, across the Southwest), a literacy primer annotated with zhuyin could plausibly work as a shortcut. In places such as Shanghai or Guangzhou, however, the complete mismatch between local speech and zhuyin annotation rendered the method ineffectual.22 A more fundamental issue, Wu Zhihui noted, was insufficient attention to the colossal problem afflicting 80 percent of the population. The phonetic system should be forcefully deployed to combat illiteracy, but its habitual relegation to the responsibility of schoolteachers indicated its low priority. Wu griped that “not even a shadow” of zhuyin registers in the minds of government leaders. He urged Chiang Kai-­shek to “set a personal ­example . . . ​and become skilled in bo-­po-­mo-­fo.” Next in line would be “you esteemed gentlemen” (members of the National Education Association, the audience for Wu’s speech), followed by government workers,

74  In Search of Standard Mandarin

who should be “terminated without mercy” from their positions if they could not learn zhuyin. Wu also bemoaned “old fogies” hollering about zhuyin’s assault on the Chinese script. Fearing its imminent destruction, “they went every day to the deserted Confucius temple to weep.” Meanwhile, those professing to be new thinkers denigrated zhuyin, insisting on Latin as the only acceptable track. “With the old and the new each tending toward extreme opinions, this litigation does not have a resolution.”23

A NEW DICTION A RY

An attempted resolution appeared in 1932, in the form of a new pronunciation dictionary published by the National Language Unification Preparatory Committee. The product of many years of revision, The Com­ monly Used Vocabulary of National Pronunciation (國音常用字彙) reflected the shifting linguistic terrain.24 In a long preface, the editors explained the major changes embodied in the work: the inclusion of both zhuyin and GR for phonetic notation, and the shift to Beijing pronunciation as the standard phonology. Despite its import, the volume was conspicuously abridged—­a pocket-­sized book of just seventy-­six pages. Modifying the contents of the 1921 edition (discussed in chapter 1) to correspond to the new pronunciation was a vast undertaking, “not something that can be completed in a short time. . . . ​The present volume selects the most commonly used words, in order to meet the urgent need” for a pronunciation guide. The complete dictionary, still a work in progress, would be finished in due course.25 The preface also underscored the point that the new standard based on guanyin did not mean the wholesale adoption of the old guanhua—­“the national pronunciation is not the same as taking the entirety of Beiping [Beijing] pronunciation.” For example, the fifth tone “should be preserved” for both historical reasons (such as the aesthetic appreciation of classical poetry) and the needs of contemporaries. In regions where local speech depended on the fifth tone, making it difficult to “change over completely,” the editors agreed that temporarily retaining “local tones” was acceptable. In addition, R-­suffixation (the tongue-­ curling er-­sound ubiquitous in northern phonology) was minimized and treated as an optional feature.26

In S earch of Standard Mandarin 75

Like its predecessors from 1919 and 1921, this dictionary of “national pronunciation” invoked contentious issues: phonetic notation, tonal differentiation, and the confusing conflation of the “standard” with Beijing­ hua and guanhua. Detractors soon spoke up, complaining that the peculiarities of northern speech rendered it inappropriate to function as the language of the entire nation. Students unaccustomed to curling their tongues struggled with consonants such as ㄓㄔㄕㄖ, as well as the er-­ sounds. As Huang Zhishang noted in a review of the dictionary, “By forcing people to speak the vulgar sounds of a particular place, it’s no wonder that national language unification is difficult to achieve.”27 Even more troubling, the shifting standard perplexed both teachers and students. While mocking the state of the linguistic unification effort as “a lot of cacophonous noise for many years,” Huang nonetheless endorsed the overall aim as both necessary and important. Reiterating the “pain” caused by the “disunity of the national language,” he recalled a shameful incident he witnessed in Shanghai: a Japanese visitor “used our guoyu” to ask for directions from “one of our Chinese compatriots,” who could not understand the question. Huang hoped that the comprehensive version of the dictionary would be published soon—­“Those who have already learned the national pronunciation await its verdict, to find out whether what they have learned is correct or not.” Future learners need a complete guide, if they are to avoid “getting lost.”28 Although the Preparatory Committee expected to update and expand the Commonly Used Vocabulary, co-­editor Bai Dizhou’s unexpected death in 1934 delayed progress. The planned revision was indefinitely postponed after the outbreak of war against Japan in 1937.29 As a result, this 1932 glossary of “commonly used words” endured as the authoritative reference for standard pronunciation for several decades, traveling to Taiwan in the postwar years, where it remained in use well into the 1960s (see chapter 4). Although The Commonly Used Vocabulary of National Pronunciation put forth new, officially sanctioned parameters for spoken guoyu, previously published textbooks and other materials—­based on the “old national pronunciation”—­remained in circulation throughout the 1930s. For instance, Wang Pu (the much-­maligned voice of old guoyin) had published more than a dozen pronunciation guides and learning aids for the national language. Many were still on the market in the 1930s. (A title from 1921 appeared in a twenty-­ninth edition, one year after his death). In 1930

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Zhonghua Books advertised as available for purchase Wang’s national language records, made a decade earlier.30 Chao Yuen Ren wrote to the Columbia Phonograph Company in New York City, asking that the matrices of his recordings from 1921 and 1924 be sent to Shanghai, “so that in future records can be printed.”31 Adding to the disarray, some savvy authors and publishers had anticipated the change and released “new national pronunciation” reference works, even before the authorized guide appeared.32 The contents therefore varied and conflicted—­with some obvious discrepancies, but others discernible only to those who compared them, line-­by-­line. One educator calculated that the difference between “the old” and the “new” constituted approximately 10 percent of the phonemic inventory. “Those who are studying the national pronunciation should make a comparative study of the new and old standard, so that they can thoroughly understand the differences. Otherwise, when you see one book annotated in one way, and another book annotated in another way, you will be at a loss.”33 Although some faulted “unscrupulous marketers” for this situation, it was difficult for the enormous output of published materials to keep up with the shifting standard. As a result, books featuring the “new” national pronunciation and the “old” were used in tandem, “all mixed together.”34 In 1935 Li Jinxi remarked that while The Commonly Used Vocabulary nullified previous versions, “there are many in the educational world who still did not hear the news!”35 More than two years after the new dictionary’s publication, teachers were directing students to obsolete editions to check their pronunciation.36 In fact, the characterization of the national pronunciation as composed of forty symbols and five tones would remain a source of confusion, recurring in pedagogical materials throughout the 1930s and beyond.37

IN THE CL ASSROOM

Information about the changing basis of the national language spread unevenly, and the news was slowest to arrive in rural schools, where instruction lagged far behind.38 The most frequently expressed concerns echoed observations from the early 1920s: problems with guoyu instructors who could not speak it; peer pressure creating a hostile learning

I n S earch of Standard M andarin 77

environment; children feeling “embarrassed” and unwilling to practice; the difficulty of modulating untrained tongues and ears to the four tones; furious parental objections to time spent on lessons they considered useless; the challenges of correcting “local pronunciation” to match the “standard.”39 In Wuxi County, teachers commented that since many of their cohort had not attained proficiency, “we cannot harbor the extravagant hope of teaching the national language.” Moreover, “when you approach a village school, you will invariably hear the sounds of students reciting loudly in unison,” a form of exaggerated repetition characteristic of classical education.40 Vestiges of the eighteenth century, these instructors nod and sway their heads, pace the room, and train students to recite texts according to the rhythm of the “eight-­legged essay.” They in effect translated national language textbooks into local tuhua, just as they had when teaching the classics. “This kind of national language is just a different kind of soup with the same old medicine,” a change in name but not in substance—­far from the goal of creating a “guoyu environment.” To encourage students, one teacher suggested posting slogans around the school: “When you first begin to learn the national ­language, naturally it’s neither donkey nor horse; if you do not learn the national language, you are not even the equal of donkeys and horses!” “Rustics speak local dialects, 100  percent uncouth” (土人說土話, 土氣 十足).41 The rustics, according to other firsthand accounts, combined mindless repetition with rote memorization, to potentially injurious effect. To those intending to observe “national language lessons” in rural primary schools, “I beseech you to be sure to watch out for your stomach—­you will either hurt yourself from laughing too hard or burst with anger.” There you will likely find teachers reading the classics and cursing the national language as “worthless rubbish” (狗屁不值). “In name we claim to be teaching guoyu, but in reality we are teaching tuyu”—­in effect perpetuating a form of linguistic fraud.42 The endurance of the classical language can be attributed to the longevity of scholars of the ancien régime. But according to some observers, these teachers of yore were also conforming to contemporary parental expectations, particularly in the countryside. In his journal from 1936, Liu Baichuan noted that parents expressed adamant preference for their children to learn the classical language, insisting on the superiority of old methods over pedagogical innovations.43

78  In Search of Standard Mandarin

As the director of a rural educational experimental station in Dagang (Jiangsu), Liu had previously worked as the principal of two primary schools (in addition to a stint on the staff of the provincial educational department). In each post he found himself assembling the basic infrastructure—­cobbling together supplies; setting pedagogical goals; developing protocols for student discipline and financial management. In Dagang, Liu wondered whether to implement the Education Ministry’s directive to teach the phonetic notation: “The people of the village have zero understanding of zhuyin fuhao. If we use this thing to teach children or adults, they will assume that it is English and refuse to learn it.” Some village teachers lacked formal education and did not know the phonetic syllabary; others may have learned it once upon a time but had long forgotten. When Liu and a colleague tried to generate a list of “practical questions of national language education,” in preparation for an educational forum, “we thought and thought but could only come up with a few. Since we are not currently teaching the national language . . . ​of course we have not experienced any difficulties or problems.” 44 After canvassing the district, Liu collected thirty-­eight items for discussion. The first two underscored the uncertain status of spoken guoyu: “Should we direct the children to speak the standard language? How?” “Should we teach the zhuyin phonetic annotation? How?” 45 The answers to “should we?” questions were affirmative. Responses to “how,” on the other hand, depicted an uphill battle. “Primary schools directing children to speak the standard language frequently encounter the following difficulties. 1) Teachers do not know how to speak the standard. 2) The children feel shy and are embarrassed to practice. 3) Local accents do not easily conform to the standard. 4) Parents do not approve.” The burden fell on the teachers: “They should work hard to practice, or listen to phonograph recordings or the wireless,” pay attention to obstinate dialect (tuyin) habits, and correct them. To overcome reluctance or resistance on the part of students and parents, teachers should offer encouragement and foster a positive learning environment. “The standard” should be the medium of instruction for the national language curriculum. “When giving lessons, it would be best for the teacher to speak the standard as much as possible. Only use dialect to explain if there is no other choice.” 46

In S earch of Standard M andarin 79

Such prescriptive admonitions, interspersed with aspirational instructions (“should” “would be best” “if possible”), articulated desired outcomes in the absence of implementation. The recitation component of guoyu instruction “should use the national pronunciation,” opined Yu Ziyi. “The tones and pitch should be that of the national language.” If ­possible, teachers should switch gradually from “ fangyan tuyin to the national pronunciation.” 47 At the Baiquan Village Teacher’s School, the anchor of a rural experimental region in Henan, exemplary lesson plans indicated that students should be prompted to respond to questions using guoyu; the national pronunciation should be annotated to new vocabulary.48 Until these goals could be fully realized, the mixing of the local and “the standard” in national language instruction remained ubiquitous. According to some judgments, this was a pernicious phenomenon that adulterated the purity of the enterprise.49 Yet to others, it was a permissible accommodation. In an instructor’s manual issued as part of the popular Fuxing textbook series, Li Jinxi and his coauthors discerned two sets of circumstances in teaching spoken guoyu: “In some places, it’s not much different than teaching a foreign language. In other places, it is only necessary to correct pronunciation and grammar.” “In theory it would be best for all national language teachers to be able to speak the standard ­language.” But in light of the wide gulf between aspiration and reality, teaching guoyu using local dialects would be acceptable.50 Prioritizing the written vernacular, this allowance thus exempted the spoken component from the national language curriculum. Others concurred that learning to speak guoyu could be “exactly the same as learning to speak a foreign language,” but they differed on the remedy. Zhong Luqi, a professor of education at Xiamen University, advocated the “direct method” (popular in foreign language pedagogy): avoid speaking dialect in the classroom, “create a national language environment,” use illustrations and pantomime to facilitate comprehension, proceeding “just like when we first learn English.”51 For his part, Zhao Yuren characterized the use of dialects (tuyu) in national language classes as regrettably widespread in 1934. The author of an influential book on pedagogy, Zhao also worked for Zhejiang’s education department. Visiting schools in his capacity as an inspector and the director of social education, he routinely assessed “teacher qualifications”

80  I n S earch of Standard Mandarin

(among other duties). Like others, Zhao cited the teachers’ inability to speak the “standard” as the reason for its omission from the guoyu curriculum. These instructors “should find ways to improve their own skills” or “at least do their best to avoid tuyin tuhua and use a common language (putonghua).”52 In the 1950s putonghua would become the appellation for the standard spoken language in the PRC. Here Zhao Yuren identified it as something less than standard guoyu but beyond local dialects.53 He did not think much of training seminars or remedial classes for “teachers who cannot speak the standard language and who cannot teach the zhuyin fuhao”—­such forums did not address actual needs and failed to “kindle the slightest bit of interest.” The most productive remedy would be for individuals to take the initiative in correcting personal shortcomings.54 Unfortunately, according to one commentator, rather than self-­ improvement the majority of middle school teachers “look down on zhu­ yin with contempt, considering it worthless.”55 Huang Zhishang recalled learning zhuyin twice—­first in primary school, then at his teacher training college, with a long gap of oblivion in between. He found it laughable that with rudimentary knowledge and an “ugly” Hunan pronunciation, he was considered qualified to teach the national language.56 As these comments suggest, generally lax standards in teacher training were a persistent obstacle. The problem in fact plagued the entire spectrum of subjects and grade levels, against the backdrop of a dramatically expanding educational system, as the number of enrolled students in government and private schools increased from 11.5 million in 1930 to nearly 20 million in 1936. While the KMT government asserted greater control over curricular standards and textbook content, teacher licensing regulations and accreditation exams were unevenly implemented.57 Periodic attempts to ensure zhuyin proficiency in teacher training programs lacked enforcement mechanisms.58 Meanwhile, sporadic directives reminded schools to obey the new mandates, reprimanding those who “persist in using dialect as the medium of instruction” or “make excuses, saying that students cannot understand the national pronunciation and that is why they still use dialect to teach.”59 In 1936 Guangdong province was singled out for belated remedial intervention. Until then a separatist regime (led by Hu Hanmin, with the support of militarist Chen Jitang) had governed the region, and the national language had not penetrated education through government mandate. Cultural arrogance and “Cantonese

In S earch of Standard M andarin 81

chauvinism” fueled the sense that the regional vernacular could function as the basis for a lingua franca in trading ports and beyond.60 After Hu Hanmin’s death in 1936 and Chen Jitang’s flight to Hong Kong following an unsuccessful coup, the KMT established its authority in the province. A “national language advancement plan” required “teachers in every grade to use guoyu as the medium of instruction without exception.” Exams for normal school graduates and teacher certification were to incorporate zhuyin and spoken guoyu (by 1937 and 1938, respectively).61 In 1937 the Education Ministry introduced a new set of national standards, one of which directed provincial and municipal departments to certify primary school teachers every three years, testing proficiency in eleven subjects. The “national language” component of the rubric identified script, speech, and zhuyin fuhao but did not mandate the ability to speak guoyu as the prerequisite for teaching it.62 According to Li Jinxi, the Education Ministry had already botched several implementation efforts. Successive changes to the school curriculum produced confusion, to the point that “national language education is regressing, moving step-­by-­step backwards!” The removal of guidelines for teaching zhuyin in 1932 left only the vague condition that third-­and fourth-­grade students “should be familiar” with the syllabary. “All the primary schools in the country rejoiced,” glad to be absolved of an onerous task.63 The delight imputed to “all the primary schools in the country” was certainly a rhetorical hyperbole. To be sure, there were plenty of laggards. But some schools eagerly advertised their dedication to the national language and its phonetic assistant. In the 1930s the speech contest was a ­visible forum for showcasing commitment to the national project. Participants and venues varied—­from kindergarteners to university students, from individual schools to citywide competitions. Some contests assigned topics, inviting speakers to profess love for the nation and the KMT party. Other competitions allowed the free choice of subjects.64 Judging criteria usually focused on pronunciation and content, with elocution denoting appraisals of habits (posture, demeanor, voice modulation, gestures) befitting exemplary members of the educated class. When given the opportunity to select their own topics, students rarely ventured far from familiar terrain (“Resist Japan, Save the Nation”; “We Aspire to Be Children of Science”). By publicly rewarding those who demonstrated mastery of medium and message, the speech contest was an ideal method

8 2 I n S earch of Standard Mandarin

for grooming model speakers. But among this captive audience, there were invariably some who did not take it seriously. At Suzhou Middle School (one of the most prestigious in Jiangsu), students jokingly elected Xia Qi’an, who had a severe speech impediment, as their representative to the national language competition. Understandably offended, Xia sent a short barb to the school journal, decrying the insult: “These pampered young gentlemen want to have a laugh at my expense, but I won’t do it.” 65 In contrast, Liu Baichuan’s primary school students participated with sincerity. Liu asked each to compose and deliver a speech on the topic “A Model Urban Citizen.” Two rounds of competition selected finalists to represent the class at a school-­wide contest, decided by popular vote. The performances varied in quality, according to Liu’s assessment: “attitude and tones were not good”; “spoke very well, though at the beginning his voice was too loud”; “giggled, not serious enough”; “what Xia Fanghong said made no sense.” The class voted for Di Zhuojun, despite Liu’s judgment that “he spoke well but with too much dialect pronunciation (fang­ yin).” 66 For a small group of exemplary students, there were occasional opportunities to shine on a larger stage, such as the Children’s Day contest held in Nanjing in 1937. Twenty-­three winners of school competitions were given the honor of speaking in the KMT Great Hall, in front of two hundred guests and a distinguished panel of judges. The contestants basked in praise for their ability to speak the national language with fluency, to enunciate in “a clear and melodious” register, and to convey “brilliant and exciting content.” Prizes for the top three performers included a bookcase, a set of Ping-­Pong paddles, and an invitation to reprise their speeches on Central Broadcasting Station.67

L INGUISTIC TYRANN I ES

The energetic performances of “standard” pronunciation in such speech contests belied roiling disagreements over just how standard—­and how national—­the spoken language should be. As discussed earlier, the promotion of Gwoyeu Romatzyh to national status had introduced another combatant in the language wars. In the mid-­1930s debates over alphabetization sharpened and eventually erupted when yet another competitor

I n S earch of Standard M andarin 83

joined the battle—­Latinized New Writing (Ladingxua Sin Wenz, known as Sin Wenz). The product of a collaboration with Soviet linguists, created in 1929–­1930 in Moscow, the scheme was originally designed by Qu Qiubai for Chinese workers living in Vladivostok.68 Apart from a notorious provenance, what set Sin Wenz apart from its rivals (often also called “new writing”) was its deliberate disregard of tonal differentiation. The arrangement was intended to be flexible enough to articulate and mediate between regional speech differences. Each major dialect would have an “alphabet” appropriate to its phonology. In time, the individual alphabets would amalgamate into a “common language” (putonghua) for the nation. As Qu Qiubai explained in his earliest published writing on the topic, the gentry class opposed the abolition of the Chinese script, wielding it as an instrument for “monopolizing knowledge and oppressing the masses.” His system eliminated the “five tones,” which he considered “the most annoying problem” and an impediment to alphabetization.69 In emphasizing the importance of dialect speech, Latinized New Writing echoed the phonetic systems that Christian missionaries had developed as expedients for literacy. Its nationalist modernizing goals, however, shared more in common with zhuyin and GR. Where the three methods (Sin Wenz, zhuyin, and GR) starkly diverged was the relative priority assigned to mass literacy versus speech standardization, as well as the respective stances on the (future) abolition of Chinese script. As Yurou Zhong has aptly described, Sin Wenz’s embrace of dialect equality ­presented a fundamental challenge to the hegemony of the national language.70 From the outset, the arrival of Sin Wenz was greeted with suspicion, tarred with the brush of its foreign origins. Critics routinely appended “Soviet” or “Russian” to its name—­to differentiate this version of “new writing” from others, and by contrast underscore the nationalist credentials of GR (which in its name explicitly invokes the national language). Given Qu Qiubai’s position as a leader of the Chinese Communist Party, there was little doubt as to where Sin Wenz registered on the political spectrum. (In fact, the KMT banned Sin Wenz in 1936.) Linguistically, the proposed elimination of tonal differentiation provoked antipathy and derision. By disregarding tones, Xiao Dichen opined, we will all end up “sounding like foreign preachers delivering monotone sermons. . . . ​unless you are deranged, you would not want the people to mimic the way

84 I n S earch of Standard Mandarin

foreign preachers speak.”71 Writing in the journal National Language Weekly, He Rong complained that since foreigners do not appreciate the significance of tones, “in this ‘Latinization’ scheme they feel that abandoning them is no big loss.” As to the claim of simplifying the writing system in order to facilitate literacy: It is true that foregoing tonal differentiation is much “simpler” than marking the tones. . . . ​whether pear 梨子, plum 李子, or chestnut 栗子, all you need is li to represent all of them, this saves a lot of trouble! Haphazardly approximate the sound and that’s good enough. Writing li is certainly less trouble than drawing objects; you can get by and write a letter home, and also by venturing a guess you are bound to be right eight or nine times out of ten.

Since Sin Wenz dwelled in this rudimentary realm, there was no actually need for GR partisans to “oppose” it. Doing so would unnecessarily elevate its position and overstate its utility.72 Li Jinxi, on the other hand, pointed to the explicit opposition to standardization and “national language unification” as cause for alarm, for sanctioning separate regional writing systems for would result in fragmentation. As for the utility argument, Li considered the method untenable. How would a Beijing native be able to decipher a letter written in the “Shandong alphabet,” unless someone at the local teahouse could translate it? A letter in reply, written in “Beijing alphabet,” would also require an intermediary—­unless, Li remarked wryly, “you possess some kind of magical power to transform Shandong tuhua into the nationally unified standard language,” and vice versa.73 In contrast to the chorus of disapproval, Sin Wenz appealed to such influential figures as Lu Xun and Tao Xingzhi, who championed it as a suitable complement to the mass language (dazhongyu) movement.74 In 1934–­1935, just as Sin Wenz arrived on Chinese shores, a lively discussion in intellectual circles debated the perceived inadequacies of baihua—­as an elitist concoction combining classical Chinese, Japanese, and European forms, still inaccessible to ordinary people.75 Advocates of dazhongyu characterized it as an improved written vernacular that would fulfill bai­ hua’s unrealized promises, with the potential to liberate the “common people” from the “bondage” of the Chinese script.76 The debate reminded

I n S earch of Standard M andarin 85

one commentator of the battles fought in the 1920s—­a case of “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” as well as further evidence for the nation’s pathetic state, with people “running around in circles over nothing.”77 One of the points of contention centered on whether such a mass language should adhere to the guoyu standard in pronunciation or accommodate dialect speech—­a nd if so, which one(s) and to what extent? These questions targeted the recently established and still unstable premise of a standard national speech based on Beijing pronunciation.78 Yue Sibing, for example, nominated “the common language of Shanghai” (上海共 通語) to be the basis for dazhongyu. This was not the dialect of rustics (tuyin), but rather the vernacular forged from the city’s position as a transportation hub and center of cultural production.79 For his part, Li Jinxi tried find common ground in the debate by defining “mass language” flexibly, as an organically created “common language of southern accent with northern tunes.” This conciliatory approach evidently did not change any minds. In particular, Li’s remark that guoyu, baihua, and dazhongyu “share the same substance but have different names” prompted a swift rejoinder from Yue Sibing, who rejected the suggestion that the three concepts could function as near-­synonyms. “Mr. Li Jinxi is the chief of the leaders of the national language movement” who set the grammar and pronunciation of the standard, and the chief editor of a new dictionary billed as “the future standard.” “It can thus be said that Mr. Li has established the majority of the standard national language.” How could he, of all people, adopt such a specious position? It was unfathomable, to the point that Yue suspected Li’s assistant of doctoring the essay.80 With partisans such as Yue Sibing on the offensive, by 1935 Sin Wenz enthusiasts had organized study societies in major cities. An ambitious publication program aspired to spread the gospel of its new script around the nation, featuring thirteen dialect versions.81 The campaign further provoked the ire of many in the national language establishment, particularly GR proponents, who launched a full-­court press. While some had previously expressed flexible attitudes toward tonal differentiation in speech, intentionally eliminating all tones was a bridge too far. And although the two orthographic schemes used the same Latin alphabet while dispensing with Chinese characters, GR supporters felt its rival represented something both palpably different and overtly dangerous. That

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the two could be conflated as variations of “new writing” or two versions of “Latinization” intensified the antagonism.82 The showdown pitted GR’s insistence on “four tones” against the “no tones” of Sin Wenz, with divergent visions of a national language that privileged or de-­emphasized speech standardization. In 1936 more than seven hundred people signed a manifesto for Sin Wenz, including such prominent figures as Hu Shi and Sun Fo (son of Sun Yat-­sen). The statement proclaimed that with the nation confronting “a life and death juncture, we must educate the masses.” As an “accessory” to Chinese script, zhuyin had not solved the problem of illiteracy, while GR only made matters worse: For people with leisure time and money, learning to speak Beipinghua and then using GR for reading and writing requires little effort. But telling a poor person from Shanghai, Fuzhou, or Guangzhou to learn both at the same time is nearly as difficult as learning a foreign language. In addition, GR emphasizes the notation of tones; for beginners it’s enough to make their heads spin. To put it simply, what the masses of China need most is a new writing that is phonetic and without the hassle of the four tones; it’s a new writing that can free them from the dictatorship of Beipinghua.83

Explicitly framing the issue in terms of class, the New Latinizers indicted the national language as the collusion of a bourgeois elite. Language standardization in general, speech unification in particular, and especially the GR-­zhuyin conspiracy, represented varying degrees of linguistic tyranny, inflicted on the unsuspecting masses. In its current guise, “the so-­ called national language is nothing but the shared language of the leisure class.” Forcing it on “hardworking and long-­suffering people” was not viable—­“and that’s why for more than a decade the ‘national language ­unification movement’ promoted by professors and scholars ultimately failed.”84 Sin Wenz advocates did not dissent from the idea of standardization entirely. “If there is an authentic unified national language, who would be against it?,” Tao Xingzhi asked rhetorically. “What we oppose is the promotion of a kind of fraudulent national language and forcing the people of the entire nation to learn it.”85 Coming to the defense of GR, Chao Yuen Ren tried to placate its critics by characterizing it as a form of “assistance,” not intended to increase the “trouble” of learning guoyu. As

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for accusations that GR partisans aimed to supplant the Chinese script, he protested: “I would not dare!”86 To those who favored language reform in its various incarnations, concurrent developments in the new Republic of Turkey provided instructive lessons. Since the late nineteenth century, Chinese observers had followed the fate of the Ottoman Empire with curiosity, as well as a keen sense of identification as “sick men of the East” at the mercy of imperialist predations.87 After Turkish nationalists, led by Mustafa Kemal (Atatürk), prevailed in the war of independence in 1923, Chinese intellectuals and political leaders paid close attention to the republic’s ambitious modernization program. Accolades for Turkey’s founding father hailed him as the “hero of the Near East”—­some longed for a Chinese Kemal Pasha to launch the nation on a similar path.88 Of the reforms pursued by the Kemalist regime, its “earth-­shattering” language reforms were credited with “reinvigorating New Turkey with the boundless strength of new life.” Admiring accounts abounded, of a “script revolution” successfully brought to fruition. Chinese commentators applauded the “government’s resolve”—­ignoring the opposition of a minority (especially the “stubborn old scholars”), moving with lightning speed, achieving “astonishing results” within a few years.89 The central component of the first phase of Turkish linguistic engineering abolished the Arabic script in favor of an alphabet based on Latin letters. Enacted swiftly, the change moved from committee deliberation to implementation within three months.90 According to an account by a National Geographic correspondent (published in 1929 and translated into Chinese), popular enthusiasm derived from “compulsory force of law” and the president’s “encouragement and persuasion.” Government ministries scurried to make the change (“vying to be the first, fearing to be the last”), so as to avoid incurring the displeasure of Atatürk. Overall, the young republic was experiencing an astonishing pace of transformation, from “corrupt and decayed politics” to a “new order.” In addition to jettisoning an archaic script incompatible with the modern world, men abandoned the fez and women the veil. Foreigners will no longer “dare to look down” on the flourishing nation.91 The compulsory nature of Turkish language reform drew emphatic praise and envy in China. Secret ­criticisms and dissatisfactions probably exist, concluded one commentator who studied Turkish accounts. Strong government authority muted

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dissent; only a few “inconsequential” conflicts were reported. From the perspective of the Turkish people, the unilateral changes were “rash” and enacted without regard for popular opinion. “But we cannot help but admire” the strategies, especially the “swift and determined implementation.”92 The process contrasted sharply with the situation in China, where bickering and disagreement had plagued language reforms for more than two decades. By negative example, both the KMT government and its leader lacked resolve and commanded insufficient powers of persuasion. Laws and policy directives had slight effect. “Our government cannot compare with Turkey’s government.”93

AUDIO L ESSON S

In the absence of a political authority willing and able to enforce linguistic compliance, in China the most effective method can only be persuasion, Wang Yuchuan commented. “We need to persuade our government and persuade our people.” Against these challenges, members of the national language establishment turned to audio-­lingual technologies, hoping to broadcast the message to wider audiences. Produced in the 1930s, different sets of phonograph recordings created acoustic imprints of the national language, distinct from the controversial efforts of the 1920s (as discussed in chapter 1). Qi Tiehen’s National Language Chatter­ box, for instance, aimed at popular entertainment. The recording was tailored for Beijing peddlers, who visited neighborhoods with traveling gramophones in the evenings. For a few coppers, residents could hail one to come inside the home to play selections of opera or popular songs. To compete with more amusing offerings, Qi’s lessons took the form of ditties and rhymes to demonstrate the pronunciation of guoyu in singsong fashion. Although the sound recording is no longer extant, the accompanying text inventories jingles sprinkled with Beijinghua colloquialisms, with no claims to linguistic standards (either phonological or lexical). The title of the recording makes this abundantly clear, using a local dialect term for phonograph (話匣子). A native Beijinger, Qi spoke in a characteristically “northern” fashion, with a heavy dose of R-­suffixation—­a n

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accent that he would later bring to Taiwan as a member of the National Language Committee.94 Other recordings, in contrast, intended to function as exemplars of pronunciation. In 1933 the Education Ministry endorsed a four-­disc zhuyin fuhao recording for pedagogical use, at the behest of the National Language Education Advancement Association. Schools and education departments were instructed to purchase the set and its companion textbook.95 Meanwhile, Zhonghua Books issued Standard National Pro­ nunciation and National Language Records, featuring the voice of Bai Dizhou, a member of the Preparatory Committee and Li Jinxi’s frequent collaborator. The sixteen discs could be purchased as three separate modules, or as a set for a discounted price of twenty-­eight yuan. The advertisements promised “accurate and clear pronunciation” and “a rich and interesting selection of materials,” suitable for individual study or school use.96 In the companion textbook, Bai stressed that the national language did not intend to interfere with or destroy local dialects. Moreover, “there is one point that everyone should understand clearly: the goal we are seeking is mutual comprehensibility. It is not necessary for everyone to speak in identical fashion, accurate to perfection. . . . ​It would be enough to be able to reciprocally express ideas and opinions, without impediment.”97 In schools where guoyu lessons were conducted in dialect, or recited using the tunes of the classical language, those who try to “switch cannot do it accurately.” Bai’s voice, articulating “a lively and natural standard,” offered a solution for teachers and students alike.98 Two years later a competing product appeared from Commercial Press, with Chao Yuen Ren as the model speaker. In this series recorded in Shanghai, eight discs featured sixteen lessons, each three minutes in duration.99 Chao followed the new standard pronunciation as defined by the 1932 dictionary and featured the four tones as a foundational component. In the matter of tonal differentiation, he emphasized that he had no interest in “the stuff concocted by phonologists,” only the authentic speech of ordinary people. Chao also added a lesson on R-­suffixation, three segments on the neutral (light stress) tone, and exercises targeting “sounds that are difficult to differentiate.” His daughters made cameo appearances and role-­played different parts. Between lessons 2 and 3, Chao and his daughters sing the original zhuyin song from the 1922 recording, with a

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phonetic alphabet of forty symbols. An “ABC” song follows (“Gwoyeu Romatzyh Gei”), rendering the pronunciation of the Latin alphabet in its GR incarnation. The chorus of the song affirms its joyful benefits: “Happy, happy, very happy. We have learned ABC.” Finally, reflecting the desire to give equal weight to both phonetic notation systems, Chao wrote two companion textbooks to the recordings—­one annotated with zhuyin, the other with GR.100 By 1935 Chao Yuen Ren had become the authoritative voice of the national language through a different medium—­the radio.101 In lessons transmitted from Central Broadcasting (XGOA) in Nanjing, Chao reprised content from his gramophone records, starting with the zhuyin fuhao. Subsequent sessions focused on specific points of articulation and strategies for correcting local habits. For Nanjing natives, Chao explained how to “distribute” the fifth tone into the four standard ones and parsed the differences between ㄗ ㄘ ㄙ (zi-ci-si) and ㄓ ㄔ ㄕ (zhi-chi-shi). Natives of Fujian should pay special attention to softening and curling the tongue—­otherwise, 我是福州人 (I am a Fuzhou person) would be garbled as 我利胡幽雷 (nonsense). Other segments helped natives of Shanghai, Guangzhou, Xi’an, and the Southwest adjust mispronunciations.102 The lessons also featured tonal differentiation exercises, an indispensable component of Chao’s teaching. As the professor explained, while phonology, lexicon, and grammar constituted the “roots” of the national language, intonation embodied its “branches and leaves.” For guoyu to thrive as a living language, its branches and leaves must flourish.103 In contrast to Bai Dizhou’s attitude of mutual comprehensibility as the least common denominator, Chao Yuen Ren insisted that students strive for “accurate” pronunciation, a theme he stressed in his radio lectures. Disregarding tones and ignoring phonological differences could result in comical mix-­ups—­for instance, with 六月落綠葉 (green leaves falling in June) rendered as 六個驢爺子 (six donkey granddaddies.) Chao conceded that most people did not have time to study the differences between guoyu and their own habits, or to scrutinize “the numerous exceptions to the rules” and the “exceptions to the exceptions.” For the majority “blue-­green guanhua is good enough,” and “a little bit of blue-­green is tolerable” if it  did not impede understanding. “But you may end up completely in the dark if you set blue-­green as the goal,” Chao warned. The modern world of telephones and radio relies on sound to express meaning. In

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face-­to-­face conversations, one can signal with fingers—­for example, to differentiate between the numbers four (si) and ten (shi). But for “the national language of the Republic of China” to depend on hand gestures to clarify meaning—­that would be completely undignified.104 To soften the admonition, Chao also imparted words of encouragement. The national pronunciation is not hard to master, he reassured listeners. You only need to identify and learn the sounds that differ from your own local vernacular; this could range from a few minor variations, up to ten or twenty necessary modifications. “An intelligent person” who listens to the sounds of the national pronunciation ten times should be able to master it, “accurate to the finest detail.” The greater challenge, of forming sentences in conversation, requires constant practice—­but easily achievable by those who expend the effort.105 Wang Li disagreed. The future “father of Chinese linguistics” deemed it nearly impossible for adults who belatedly begin the learning process to achieve mastery of “pure, unadulterated” pronunciation (“unless you are a special genius”). Attaining “80 percent of the national language” would suffice. The more intractable problems derived not from lack of proficiency, but rather from misplaced confidence in one’s fluency. After living in the former capital for a few years, those who learned to speak Beijinghua were oblivious to their own pronunciation flaws—­w ith mouths “full of blue-­green guan­ hua,” with five out ten sounds enunciated incorrectly.106 In celebration of “national language month” in February 1935, an all-­ star lineup broadcast programs from Nanjing and on local stations, including Chao Yuen Ren, Wu Zhihui, and the education minister.107 As part of this series, Cai Yuan, director of the Beijing Social Affairs Bureau, delivered an hour-­long address. He called on everyone to “sacrifice a ­little of bit of personal opinion” and give up part of their local pronunciation, “so that the language of the entire nation has hope of unification.” Cai told an “old joke” about a young man who went to Beijing on business. When he returned home after ten days, his uncle berated him for affecting the speech of the former capital—­“How dare you show off your Beijing tones with me!” Thus reprimanded, the poor chap never dared again to speak guanhua. “Everyone,” Cai concluded, “to promote the national language we must have the spirit of reform and construction. In the first we should not be afraid of the ridicule of others. In the second we should not fear the difficulty of the task. . . . ​Guoyu education

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is closely related to the unification or fragmentation of our nation and the revival or decline of our race.”108 As the largest radio station in the 1930s, XGOA and its affiliates carried Chao Yuen Ren’s lessons across the nation, throughout Southeast Asia, and across the Pacific to reach overseas communities in San Francisco.109 “When one person speaks in front of the transmitter, hundreds of thousands of people in many different places can hear it. [Radio] is the most effective weapon for . . . ​promoting the national language.”110 Chao himself was enthusiastic about programs transmitted from the capital and rebroadcast via local channels, enabling citizens in far-­flung provinces to “hear speeches, reports, and songs from Nanjing, in pure and correct national pronunciation and national language.” The radio promised to create a guoyu environment in daily life, more effective than studying phonology or grammar. For too long, Chao said, people approached the national language as a school subject, abandoned as soon as class is over—­ like flowers in a vase, floating without roots. When some students try to  practice guoyu outside the classroom, their peers disparage them for “putting on airs.” “When the majority of people speak the national ­language . . . ​and everyone begins to feel that this is what ordinary Chinese people speak as their common language . . . ​only then can guoyu truly become China’s language.”111 At the same time, even at its height in 1934–­1936, the national language made up only a small fraction of Central Broadcasting’s programming. A typical weekly lineup featured ninety minutes of guoyu instruction (Monday, Wednesday, Friday, 5:10–­5:40 p.m.). Entertainment programs dominated the schedule, including Cantonese and Minnan music, Peking opera, Euro-­American song and dance, and Suzhou tanci (a storytelling genre).112 News broadcasts rendered in guoyu shared the dial with regular segments in English, Cantonese, and Xiamenhua (especially expedient for reaching people living under Japanese rule in Taiwan).113 And while some praised the mellifluous and “correct national pronunciation” heard on XGOA, others grumbled about “incorrect guoyu” and “unbearable” mispronunciations emanating from Nanjing. With “errors perpetuating errors,” these blunders misled those trying to learn the national language. Even foreigners who chanced to listen laughed at the mistakes. “Radio broadcasting can easily transform from a constructive technology into a detrimental one. This does not benefit the national language, but quite the

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opposite—­it harms it!”114 Linguistic proficiency had been among the eligibility criteria for aspiring radio announcers and staff since 1929, a qualification reiterated in subsequent guidelines for personnel recruitment.115 But it was impossible to compel the guests who appeared in the Nanjing studio (or elsewhere) to speak the national language, or to insist on “correct pronunciation” as a prerequisite. In 1935 the National Language Education Advancement Association asked the Communications Ministry to mandate guoyu as the exclusive medium for broadcasting, permitting “dialect interpretation” only under special circumstances. An “official notice” was duly issued to local stations, but this lacked the force of a compulsory order.116 To some observers, the most egregious was the Education Ministry’s own lecture series on Central Broadcasting, inaugurated in October 1935. Middle schools and mass education centers were instructed to tune in for the lessons (three and four times a week, respectively). Delivered by experts, the subjects ranged from science and citizenship to current affairs, aiming to augment the pedagogical content of the airwaves. Unfortunately, “today the lecturer from Hubei speaks in Hubei dialect; tomorrow another from Anhui uses Anhui dialect. Each speaks his own native tongue, so how can listeners understand without impediment?” For the most part, the presenters in the series “speak in local vernaculars” or with a garble of inaccurate pronunciation, rendering the broadcasts “a waste of valuable time.”117 Although hardly flawless, XGOA radiated the sounds of the national language across the country and beyond as the mouthpiece of the KMT government. In Fujian, Central Broadcasting operated the main channel (XGOL), which depended on Nanjing for programming, though not exclusively so. The schedule mirrored the parent station’s polyglot format of entertainment and news, including guoyu lessons that incorporated a phonograph course.118 As the provincial education director opined in a radio speech, Fujian’s linguistic complexity presented a special challenge but also an exceptional opportunity. By his count there were more than seventy spoken vernaculars, differing from county to county, even village to village. “But if we redouble our efforts, we can achieve especially excellent results.”119 Elsewhere, in Shandong about 10 percent of programs used the national language as the medium of broadcast, while Guangzhou’s three stations devoted nearly half of the airtime to Cantonese opera.120

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The situation was quite different in Shanghai, where more than thirty commercial stations in the 1930s vied for listeners. The options ranged from established channels featuring fifteen hours of programming daily (Shanghai Broadcasting XGAH) to niche new arrivals (Buddhist Broadcasting XMHB; the Overseas Chinese Station XMHC).121 The airwaves reflected the city’s multilingual entertainment options. Suzhou tanci dominated the schedule, accounting for 35  percent of broadcast time on twenty-­eight stations in 1934. Shanghai opera logged a distant second with 10 percent. Overall, according to one reviewer’s appraisal for April 5, 1934, entertainment programs accounted for 85 percent of airtime. Each station averaged only 1.5 hours of “serious-­minded” segments each day.122 To anxious observers, the preponderance of frivolous entertainment flaunted decadence and vulgarity, at the expense of more enlightened pursuits. “The radio is absolutely not an entertainment device,” opined one editorialist. Music may be played to draw listeners, but programming must serve pedagogical purposes and political goals.123 To that end, the Communications Ministry periodically cracked down on stations peddling content deemed “harmful to public order or morals,” especially “obscene words and depraved songs.”124 A national directive in 1936 capped entertainment at 60 percent of airtime. Educational programming “should be broadcast in the national language as a matter of principle. Those who temporarily use dialects must add extra guoyu instruction programs.”125 But as educator Yu Ziyi observed, it was unreasonable to expect people to spend their leisure time listening to lectures. Linguistic incomprehensibility also contributed to general dislike of didactic programming. “If pure local vernacular (tubai) is used, nonnatives cannot understand. Guoyu interspersed with dialect (tuhua) is especially difficult to comprehend.” Compounding the problem, lectures intended to edify were often not adapted for radio. “When the presenter reads a long essay without pause, how can you expect listeners not to turn the dial?”126 Indeed, audiences could easily scan the stations in search of entertainment. Although “popular songs” accounted for less than 10  percent of radio airtime (according to the survey from 1934), this genre vilified as “degenerate” and “pornographic” inspired more than its share of vitriol.127 The melodies of “yellow music” were ubiquitous in Shanghai—­performed at nightclubs, piped into living rooms and department stores through

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radio and gramophones, and often heard on city streets. As one fan magazine helpfully outlined for listeners, in the prime-­time hours one could continuously tune into pop songs on the radio by switching between stations.128 More than twenty song and dance troupes performed on the circuit, and the biggest female stars enjoyed crossover success between radio and film. As Andrew Jones has shown, through his Bright Moon Ensemble Li Jinhui launched the careers of “Golden Voice” Zhou Xuan and his daughter Li Minghui (among many others). More than Chao Yuen Ren’s pronunciation lessons, the lilting voices of female singers brought the sounds of guoyu to popular audiences. Although considered a phenomenon distinctive to a specific urban culture, “Shanghai pop songs” were rendered in the national language. Li Jinhui trained his young performers to sing in guoyu, drawing on his experience as the principal of the National Language Training Institute in the 1920s (discussed in chapter 1). For a time he relocated the ensemble to Beijing to recruit singers already familiar with northern pronunciation.129 As the young girls became glamorous stars, crooning songs of romance and unrequited love, they offered easily digestible language lessons. One particularly fastidious listener did notice that some of the singers did not enunciate carefully: “Often you can hear a bit of Shanghai guanhua.”130 Nonetheless, the craze for “yellow music” projected the national language into the soundscape of Shanghai and, to a limited extent, beyond the treaty port.

ON THE SILVER SCR EEN

Some of the most popular songs of the 1930s originated as feature numbers in musical films of the era. As Jean Ma has argued, the songstresses who gave voice to “Mandarin pop” created an urban “soundtrack of leisure.”131 The transition to sound in Chinese film history is well documented, and scholars have given considerable treatment to thematic, formal, and visual analysis of the earliest productions.132 The first experiments struggled with technical and financing problems. At the same time, the introduction of sound kindled hopes that film could be the medium to unify the spoken tongue at last, and accomplish what primary school teachers, the phonetic alphabet, the dictionary, and the phonograph had

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all failed to do. Imbued with inflated but ultimately unrealized visions for linguistic unity, movies typecast as “national language films” have preserved a unique sound archive. What did moviegoers hear and learn when they experienced “the national language” through film? When the first domestically produced talkie opened in Shanghai in March 1931, it took the cinema world by storm. After surviving a grueling production process, Songstress Red Peony was heralded as a breakthrough. Its eighteen reels of film, paired with eighteen wax discs—­the “blood and sweat of the cast and crew”—­scored a victory for the national cause. Chinese cinema could now compete with Hollywood—­it was a matter of “national honor and international competition” and “a form of resistance” against the box office domination of imported movies. Coinciding with the height of a broader national products movement, the cinema industry also could participate in the cause of anti-­imperialism.133 For the audience, Songstress provided an antidote to the demeaning experience of Hollywood talkies, which typically featured dialogue liberally sprinkled with colloquialisms and slang. According to one observer, even those who had studied English could not understand: “You sit there like a dummy, listening to the appreciative laughter of foreigners in the audience,” wallowing in “a disgruntled feeling of inferiority, an itch in your heart that you cannot scratch.”134 Chinese moviegoers seeking diversion ended up “feeling the pain of racial and linguistic difference.” Adding insult to injury, arrogant foreign producers “mock our Chinese film industry’s backwardness.” Songstress was the rejoinder to “Americans who said that Chinese sound films would never be produced.”135 Despite such patriotic sentiments, the technical quality of Songstress Red Peony left much to be desired. With a separately recorded soundtrack, meticulous synchronization was required at every showing. Even the smallest glitch resulted in mismatches between images and sounds, inviting laughter and ridicule.136 Yet the film was a box office hit in China and Southeast Asia. Beyond its nationalist credentials, it was melodramatically entertaining. Playing the role of a Peking opera star with a philandering husband, Hu Die falls ill due to his abuse, to the ruin of her career. A fur trader (an old flame) comes to her aid. When the husband faces mounting gambling debts, he sells their daughter to a brothel. Later he has a change of heart and tries to retrieve the girl; he accidentally kills the man who brokered the sale. As one advertisement touted, “There is dialogue,

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singing, Peking opera, drums, comedy, tragedy, emotion, and excitement.” Unknown to the audience, the film also featured the voice of a genuine opera star, with Mei Lanfang’s singing dubbed in for the heroine’s stage performances.137 Beyond the musical spectacle, Hu Die’s portrayal of a long-­suffering wife and heartbroken mother moved audiences to tears. As one foreign critic remarked, “She cries for five years, they would have us believe. We actually see her cry for a half-­hour. She does it well.”138 In addition, Songstress received accolades for its contribution to the national language cause, with Hu Die singled out for her pronunciation (“clear, crisp, pleasing to the ear”). A Guangzhou native born in Shanghai, Hu had spent her childhood in Beijing and Tianjin. As she recalled in her memoir, this polyglot upbringing conferred an “exceptional advantage” in the transition to sound.139 The rest of the cast had to take lessons to learn the pronunciation of the national language. According to producer Zhou Jianyun, the twenty-­t hree actors in the production hailed from six different provinces. “To teach them all to change over to guoyu is naturally a difficult task. But in the dictionary of Napoleon there is no such word as ‘difficult’ and we are used to contending against difficulties.”140 Promotional materials for the film highlighted the actors’ tireless efforts, working day and night, finally prevailing over the defects of local speech: “Each actor speaks the national language and every sentence is enunciated in the national pronunciation, absolutely unadulterated by dialects.”141 Since the film and its sound records are no longer extant, we can only infer what variety of guoyu the cast learned to speak. According to one account, Hong Shen (who wrote the script) coached the actors in pronunciation. Two of the co-­stars, Wang Xianzhai (the philandering husband) and Xia Peizhen (his new love interest), were Shandong natives already conversant in “northern speech.” But they still required Hong’s “correction” and hours of practice to achieve the “standard pronunciation.” A later critic described Nanjing native Gong Jianong (the fur trader–­old flame) as speaking fluently but with a distinct southern accent.142 For the most part, commentators disregarded the finer points of “accurate pronunciation” and instead imagined a new linguistic future for the nation. Producer Zhou Jianyun opined that despite efforts to adopt the phonetic alphabet and promote the national language, “results have been slow.” Convening a meeting of people from several provinces proves “even

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more difficult than talking to foreigners.” Through productions like Song­ stress Red Peony, the national language “will have the power of technology transmission to reach everywhere,” with greater effectiveness than school lessons. The sounds of Mandarin would spread to overseas Chinese communities and return sojourners to the embrace of the fatherland.143 Other observers deplored the nation’s persistent linguistic ­fragmentation, calling it a “humiliating,” “laughable,” and “pathetic” situation. Southerners and northerners were unable to communicate; fellow provincials from Jiangsu “cannot speak to each other.” Despite more than a decade of attempts to promote unification, the national language remained discordant. With “Beijing vowels” clashing against Cantonese ones, there were “ten thousand different ways” to enunciate the sounds of guoyu. Some “carry around their phonetic dictionaries,” checking and repositioning their tongue, teeth, lips, and throat. In contrast to such tedious efforts, sound films would be “the vanguard for promoting the  national language, a battalion of combat-­worthy soldiers” able to amplify the sounds of guoyu and bring its unifying force to the far corners of the country.144 In 1931 Songstress Red Peony screened in thirty-­seven cities in China and throughout Southeast Asia.145 Other filmmakers raced to match Ming­ xing Studio’s technical breakthrough. Seven months later Spring on Stage from rival Tianyi Studio premiered, to mixed reviews. One critic in particular enumerated the movie’s linguistic missteps in detail. The actor portraying a Shanghai businessman “grunts for half the day in southern-­ ese” (南方話); another speaks Suzhou dialect; one actress utters her lines in Cantonese. The male protagonist’s family lives in Suzhou, so why don’t they all speak Suzhouhua? “The dialects in the film are not unified, such that no one can understand.”146 In contrast, Hu Die’s facility with spoken guoyu propelled her to even greater heights of celebrity. In a poll conducted in 1933, fans elected her the “Queen of Cinema,” enhancing her already considerable star power. Hu continued to act in silent films, but she was a natural choice for sound productions. For Cosmetics Market (1933), she reunited with her two male co-­stars and the director from Songstress Red Peony. The feature has been reissued as part of a Chinese film classics collection, providing an opportunity to hear the voices of the cast. Hu Die plays Li Cuizhen, a young woman forced to drop out of school and take a job in a department store after her brother’s sudden death leaves the

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family without a breadwinner. Wang Xianzhai reprises his role as the male antagonist, as a supervisor who preys on her. Bullied by her female coworkers, Cuizhen’s only comfort is a colleague who comes to her aid and courts her (Gong Jianong, repeating his sympathetic role). Hu Die uses her “crisp, clear” pronunciation of the national language to good effect in this film. She speaks slowly and precisely, as do Wang Xianzhai and Gong Jianong, in speech that is recognizably guoyu. Each actor, however, enunciates a different tonal register, distinct from what Chao Yuen Ren called “pure Pekingese.” This is most conspicuous when juxtaposed against the voices of the supporting cast (a bystander in the opening sequence; customers at the department store), who deliver their lines with a Beijinghua accent. For the most part, the conversations between the protagonists feature truncated segments of dialogue, punctuated by intertitles and musical interludes. Speech is minimized in favor of abundant sound effects, with whistling, clapping, crying, and songs prominently featured in what Zhen Zhang has called a “polyphonic conception of sound cinema.”147 When the actors speak, they do so cautiously; the measured cadence and slow tempo contribute to an “overdone” style.148 The stilted quality of the exchanges matches the uncomfortable situations in the plot, such as Cuizhen’s distress in a corrupt work environment and her terror at the predatory advances of her male bosses. Furthermore, the linguistic artifice complements the portrayal of a decadent lifestyle rife with insincere intentions (flirtations at the cosmetics counter; playboys targeting women as sexual victims). Cuizhen’s neighbor, Miss Yang, is a modern woman who listens to foreign music—­and strains to enunciate guoyu syllables that do not come naturally. Oddly formal diction and syntax in Cuizhen’s conversations with her mother and sister-­in-­law also produce a contrived effect. Overall, the uneven integration of guoyu dialogue does not detract from the film’s central messages, which are explicitly reinforced with intertitles throughout. As the opening series of captions proclaim: “Everyone knows that women’s employment and liberation are important problems. . . . ​What this drama describes is only one particular instance. From women’s life to male-­female equality to the struggle to find a way out, it will provide us with powerful inspiration.” Cosmetics Market was part of a wave of productions scholars now identify as the beginning of the “left-­wing” cinema movement. Next for Hu Die was Twin Sisters, considered one of the best performances of her

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career. Released in 1934 to critical and box office acclaim, Twin Sisters set a record with a sixty-­day run. In Shanghai alone more than 100,000 people saw the film. Fans packed the theaters; many professed to buying tickets multiple times.149 Playing twins separated at birth, Hu alternately dramatizes Dabao, the virtuous sister left in the countryside, and Erbao, the vain sister who becomes a warlord’s concubine. They meet when Erbao hires Dabao to be her infant son’s wet nurse, but they do not recognize each other. After Dabao’s husband Taoge suffers a debilitating injury, she asks for a salary advance to pay for his medical care. Erbao refuses and slaps her. In desperation, Dabao steals a gold medallion and is caught in the act by Miss Qian, Erbao’s sister-­in-­law. In the ensuing struggle, a vase falls on Miss Qian, killing her instantly. Dabao’s arrest leads to her elderly mother’s encounter with a jailer-­official, who turns out to be the father of the twins. All is revealed, and in the climactic scene the sisters and their mother are reconciled. For moviegoers, Hu Die’s portrayal of “the suffering of the poor” evoked a “feverish” response. “As I walked home,” wrote one fan, the sound of Dabao’s weeping “reverberated in my ears.” “Her sobs . . . ​echoed in my brain,” commented another. Director Zheng Zhengqiu described the film as “a cry of injustice on behalf of the weak”; he deliberately packed the dialogue with emotion, to “tug at the heartstrings” of the audience.150 Meanwhile, critics praised its artistic achievement. Twin Sisters won the honors for sound film of the year.151 Overall, language seems to have been peripheral to its success. Weeping, rather than speech, was the primary conduit of connection with the audience. Indeed, the most often-­repeated observation about fans of Twin Sisters was the prodigious tears they shed, crying along with Dabao’s family as they suffered one misfortune after another. To a contemporary viewer, Hu Die’s pronunciation does not differ as she assumes dual roles. To underscore the differences in character, she varies her intonation, giving Erbao an unpleasantly high-­pitched inflection, and Dabao a soothing, lower register. As the elderly mother, Xuan Jinglin turns in an acclaimed performance, disguising her youth in convincing fashion. Although Xuan gives voice to the impoverished rural woman with overeducated patterns of speech, her piteous moaning and sobbing largely offset the incongruity. Playing the role of Dabao’s husband, Zheng Xiaoqiu’s speech is the most conspicuously out of sync with

I n S earch of Standard M andarin 101

his character. His carefully enunciated syllables of formal guoyu do not match the portrayal of a country bumpkin. At the time, however, the linguistic discordance did not trouble audiences or critics. A few reviewers objected to the unrealistically rosy ending. But for the most part, fans and critics agreed that Twin Sisters was a tour de force.152 Despite the immense success of movies such as Twin Sisters, sound features accounted for only 30 percent of new releases in the early 1930s. The majority of these, according to the analysis of film scholars, inserted music and sound effects in lieu of dialogue.153 The paucity of speech is striking. For instance, in Scenes of City Life (1935), known as the first Chinese musical comedy, a mélange of sound effects and music punctuate sequences of pantomimed action and slapstick comedy.154 The conceit of the film invites the audience to join the journey of four villagers, who watch a traveling peep show while waiting for a train to Shanghai. As they squint to peer into the “film box,” a montage of urban life materializes, and they are transformed into the main characters of the unfolding scenes. There is a flimsy plot of sorts involving a young woman, two suitors, and her parents. (Jiang Qing, the future wife of Mao Zedong, appears in a supporting role as the mistress of an unsavory businessman).155 The central preoccupation of the film is the acoustic experience of daily life, amplifying the sounds of the bustling metropolis—­telephones ringing, the clamor of street traffic, jingling coins, doors creaking and slamming. In contrast, dialogue is minimized. To convey information crucial to the storyline, the camera lingers over textual clues: the price tags of scarves, two identical copies of a love letter. In the role of the female protagonist, Zhang Xinzhu speaks in the stilted, awkward fashion of a beginning language learner. Her lines are mercifully few. The acoustic novelty and experimental style of Scenes of City Life garnered critical accolades for director Yuan Muzhi. Moviegoers were less enamored. A commentator suggested that its sophisticated conceit was too high-­minded for the average moviegoer: “Only progressive viewers could understand it.”156 More conventional in style and accessible was Street Angel, Yuan’s next venture. The 1937 film, starring Zhou Xuan, was a commercial hit and catapulted Zhou to enduring fame. Her portrayal of Xiaohong, a young woman indentured to the abusive owners of a teahouse, hit all the right notes of melodrama and pathos. Audiences raved about “Song of Four Seasons” and “The Wandering Songstress,” two poignant

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songs that soon appeared as fixtures on the radio.157 Although the entire cast could speak guoyu with fluency, many scenes dispense with dialogue and enact the practices of partial-­sound productions.158 Embedded in Zhou’s signature performances are two mini language lessons. In “Song of Four Seasons,” a bouncing ball taps the lyrics as Xiaohong sings, inviting the audience to follow. In “The Wandering Songstress,” lyrics roll onto the screen, synchronized to match the singing. Scholars have attributed the scarcity of dialogue in 1930s sound films to the residual practices of the silent era and the importance of musical performance.159 Indeed, while the term “talkie” suggests the centrality of speech, this was decidedly not the case in Chinese sound films of the 1930s. To this I would add two salient issues that fortified inclination toward minimalist dialogue. One was the linguistic capacity of audiences in the major markets of Shanghai and Guangdong, where regional dialects dominated, and which accounted for 30  percent of all movie theaters in  1934.160 Since films featuring extensive guoyu dialogue would have ­frustrated viewers in these regions, studios hesitated to invest in productions that were linguistically incompatible with a significant portion of the customer base. Another was the questionable ability of performers to deliver their lines in the national language. As one commentator noted in 1931, “total dialogue” productions were both risky and unnecessary. “You only need to select a few exciting scenes to add some phrases of dialogue”; secondary characters can convey their intentions through intertitles or subtitles. These accommodations would “avoid performing the incompetence of a superficial, half-­baked national language.” If producers insist on 100 percent dialogue, the entire cast must become proficient in the national language, rather than dragging in “gibberish guoyu to dupe the audience” and making fools of themselves.161 Whereas Zhou Xuan learned to speak guoyu at age thirteen, other stars from the silent era found it considerably more difficult to master a new performing language as adults. Xu Lai, who first starred in a silent film in 1933, managed to play the lead in the “talkie” The Boatman’s Daughter (1935), even though by reputation she “could not speak a word of guoyu.”162 Xu turns in a well-­received performance as a young woman forced into a life of prostitution, with a handful of lines inconsequential to the plot. As one tabloid columnist carped, for the most part actors from the silent film era cannot even handle “some basic guoyu.” They speak awkwardly while

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frozen in place, unable to move while fumbling their lines. “How can someone unable to speak guoyu fluently take on a leading role in a sound film?”163 Meanwhile, Zhou Xuan parlayed the synergy of acting and ­singing to stardom. In a repertoire of some two hundred songs, more than half first appeared in films. Her singing was reputedly heard everywhere.164 To counter the ubiquity of “yellow music” and direct cinema toward an explicitly didactic trajectory, the Chinese Education Film Association was established in 1932 under the watchful eye of senior KMT official Chen Lifu. The Central Committee Propaganda Department also reconfigured its cultural arts division to focus on educational cinema. From 1932 to 1933 the department released seventy-­two productions, primarily short documentaries and newsreels. With limited technical capabilities and constrained by cost, only two included recorded sound.165 To supplement its in-­house expertise, the government agency signed a contract with Lianhua Studios to produce content aimed at stimulating nationalism and propagating party ideology.166 In 1934 the KMT established Central Studios in Nanjing as its own production channel and information agency. In its first year Central Studios released more than two hundred newsreels and documentaries for domestic and international audiences.167 At Jinling University, two faculty members produced a science documentary series, including a pioneering effort to film the solar eclipse in Hokkaido.168 Overall, as an emerging genre in the mid-­1930s, “educational cinema” had limited reach and effect, far less than its advocates hoped. The cost of screening proved beyond the budgets of already underresourced schools. Villagers were curious, but electricity was a scarce commodity. The mostly silent productions relied on intertitles to convey the messages—­for illiterate audiences, on-­site narrators were needed to provide explanations in the local dialect.169

FI LM C ENSORSHIP AND THE POLI T I C S OF SP EEC H

“Educational films” serving as soundless conduits for Nationalist propaganda were no match for the golden voice of Zhou Xuan or the star power of Hu Die. In 1934 Hu Die signed on for the leading role in a Cantonese

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talkie, a production that precipitated a maelstrom of controversy. For several years the KMT had pursued a censorship agenda targeting films that “damage the dignity of the Chinese nation,” contravene the Three Principles of the People, harm social morality and public order, or promote “superstitious and heretical ideas.”170 In practice, enforcement singled out demeaning depictions of China or its people in foreign films and attempted to police cinematic pornography and “superstition.”171 In December 1932 the Film Censorship Committee notified studios that the use of dialects in films would no longer be tolerated. “Sound films and subtitles in silent pictures frequently insert Cantonese and Minnan dialects or Shanghainese slang,” to the detriment of the national language. “Henceforth, films must use guoyu without exception and may not use dialects any longer.”172 The worst offenders were studios based in Guangzhou and Hong Kong, whose revenue streams relied on distributing Cantonese films in the southern region and Southeast Asia’s lucrative markets. From 1932 to 1936 these companies blithely ignored the Nanjing censors, operating under the protective umbrella of a rival regime with de facto autonomy. Subjected to closer scrutiny, Shanghai filmmakers loudly complained about competitors reaping profits from Cantonese films, unencumbered by government intervention.173 Unwilling to concede this profitable market segment, Shanghai-­based Tianyi Studios partnered with a southern company to produce Platinum Dragon, starring Cantonese opera actor Sit Gok-­sin, who had played the title role in the stage version.174 The release of Platinum Dragon was delayed for six months, reportedly on account of its linguistic cacophony—­a “mixed stir-­fry” of dialects, mostly Cantonese interspersed with Shanghai and Pudong vernacular. A short trailer providing a sneak preview had inspired baffled reactions from the audience in Shanghai. (Except for Guangdong natives, all were “left completely in the dark”). The gossips speculated that the film would not receive clearance for a national release.175 In fact, it is unclear how Tianyi ultimately secured the green light to screen Platinum Dragon without changing the soundtrack. The Film Censorship Committee’s records indicate that it granted approval after two scenes were cut. The popular press later alluded to the studio “weathering all kinds of difficulties and just barely getting it through.”176 Eagerly awaiting its release, one fan praised the censors’ prudent judgment, for recognizing that “the unification of the national language

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cannot be coerced.”177 When it finally premiered in October 1933, Plati­ num Dragon proved to be a hit in the Hong Kong-­Guangdong region and Southeast Asia. Avid fans of the genre and a clever cross-­promotion with a cigarette brand of the same name ensured a successful run.178 After getting past the censors, Tianyi would repeat the formula, producing a string of hits featuring Cantonese opera stars, aimed at the southern and overseas markets.179 The precedent inspired other Shanghai filmmakers to maneuver around the ban on dialect films. For Mingxing Studios, Story in a Cantonese Opera Company appeared to provide an unbeatable combination: native speaker Hu Die starring in a Cantonese talkie, with a plot framed around opera. The film press predicted new box office records; theater owners in Shanghai were reportedly vying to screen it. In anticipation of a wide release in the autumn of 1934, Mingxing changed the title of the film to Mrs. Virtue to maximize appeal.180 The advance publicity prompted one commentator to predict that “the current vogue for dialect films” would soon yield other iterations. The rumor mill buzzed about a Xiamen dialect movie already in production; Suzhou and Ningbo dialects were sure to follow.181 But Mrs. Virtue’s path to box office success proved bumpy. The production was troubled from the outset, with a co-­star quitting midway through filming.182 And with the studio openly defying the government’s ban, an editorial in the magazine MovieTone asked whether the censors were paying attention. In the South, the editorialist wrote, Cantonese-­dialogue films may be said to “accord with the people’s sentiment” or considered “beyond the reach of central authority, so there is nothing they can do.” Mrs. Virtue, set to open in Shanghai, where the government’s authority did apply, confounded these excuses. “What kind of trick are they playing?” A film that has not been approved cannot be screened. If Mingxing has received approval, then the censors have contradicted their own ban and deserve to “give themselves a slap in the face!” If the film has not been vetted, the censorship committee needs to act in order to maintain its authority.183 In fact, the censors in Nanjing were paying attention. Between 1933 and 1934 the Film Censorship Committee was reorganized and brought under the jurisdiction of the KMT Propaganda Department—­and the purview of the powerful Chen brothers (Chen Lifu and Chen Guofu).184 “Left-­wing cinema,” thought to convey messages (class oppression, gender equality)

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sympathetic to the Communists, attracted special scrutiny. The specter of the largest studios racing to make Cantonese movies also alarmed Luo Gang, recently appointed as director of film censorship. An injunction against Mrs.  Virtue was duly issued, on the grounds of “obstructing national language unification.”185 To rescue the film, the producers replaced the offensive dialogue with a guoyu soundtrack; Cantonese opera, central to the plot, remained. Another title change—­to Mrs. Mai—­cleared the way for release in Shanghai and elsewhere.186 The Cantonese-­version premiered with its original title (Story in a Cantonese Opera Company) in Guangzhou, only to be pulled from theaters the next day—­on the grounds of an “obscene” plot “harmful to social customs.” Commentators observed that the love scenes rated rather tame on the scale of salaciousness, prompting speculations about personal vendettas behind the ban.187 Both versions drew mixed audience reactions. A reviewer caught one of the few showings and left unimpressed. The plot was “nonsense”; the Cantonese opera “hideous beyond words”; Hu Die’s performance “left an unpleasant feeling.” Expected to be an “earthshaking” blockbuster, Story in a Cantonese Opera Company was “not worth the money.”188 After watching the Mrs. Mai iteration, another critic grumbled that for Jiangsu natives, it was akin to watching a foreign film without knowledge of the foreign language. The insertion of dialogue in the medium of national speech evidently did not render the experience palatable. Another reviewer concluded that for those who do not understand Cantonese opera (such as herself), the movie was “ugly, repulsive, and boring.”189 From a broader perspective, the misadventures of Story in a Cantonese Opera Company / Mrs.  Virtue-­Mai revealed the tangle of government authority, profit-­seeking ventures, and the specificity of audience preferences. Defenders of dialect films also challenged the presumed superiority of the national language. Among them was actor and critic Tang Na. Representing a minority view among his colleagues in left-­wing film circles, Tang opined that the existing “national language of the gentry, merchants, and compradors” constituted “a foreign language that practically no one speaks.” To use guoyu in film can certainly “aid in the elimination of dialects,” as its supporters endorse. But audiences who do not know the national language (citing Guangzhou in particular) experience estrangement and incomprehension, similar to those watching Hollywood films without knowing English.190 Beyond arguments about the unifying or

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fracturing effects of dialect cinema, the magazine Movie World also reiterated the issue of comprehensibility: “The ‘guoyu’ of ‘national films’ is too highbrow,” lacking tonal variation and rhythm, “such that sometimes even Beiping [Beijing] natives cannot understand it. . . . ​Who needs the kind of films that affect a southern accent with northern tunes, unintelligible to both southerners and northerners?” In the absence of performers proficient in the national language, we would be better off using local dialects, whether Cantonese or Shanghainese. Even silent features were preferable to mangled tones and pronunciations.191 Meanwhile, Shanghai studios continued to produce Cantonese talkies for audiences in the South and overseas. Enterprising executives tried to  maximize profits on these movies by substituting guoyu dialogue soundtracks for distribution in Shanghai and elsewhere. The Film Censorship Committee tolerated this situation until 1936, when fall of the Hu Hanmin–­Chen Jitang regime provided the opportunity to assert its authority. Director Luo Gang put the studios in Guangzhou on notice but agreed to a short delay, “out of sympathy” for their plight. To ease the transition, Cantonese films already in production could apply for exemption.192 The welcome news of government intervention delighted Shanghai filmmakers, who gloated: “The days are numbered for Cantonese films!” In anticipation of “doomsday,” movie stars were scrambling to learn to speak the national language.193 The gleeful obituaries and predictions of demise proved premature. A “protect Cantonese film movement” convened emergency meetings to strategize and inveigled several extensions—­t hrough a combination of forceful lobbying, foot-­dragging, and pleas of financial distress. A petition sent to Nanjing asserted that since the national language had not spread to Guangdong and overseas communities, “it is only natural for Cantonese people to speak Cantonese.” In the absence of a functional national spoken language, the regional vernacular serves as an instrument for educating the masses. For instance, Central Broadcasting conveys its important news items in separate programs, using guoyu, Cantonese, and English. “Teachers mostly use Cantonese as the medium of instruction, and the education authorities have not seriously prohibited it.” Under these circumstances, it was patently unfair to hold the film industry responsible for the unification of the national language. To ban Cantonese films would result in unemployment for several thousand people and

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devastating losses for the studios, as well as deprive communities of a cherished cultural product.194 These supplications achieved the intended effect. The tabloids conjectured that while the government intended to proscribe dialect in mass media, it was indeed reluctant to harm the domestic film industry.195 After a new propaganda chief, Shao Lizi, assumed office in January 1937, he insisted on a more hands-­on approach to the Film Censorship Committee under his supervision.196 Accordingly, a Cantonese feature (with a title riffing on the suicide of actress Ruan Lingyu) was prohibited from screening in Shanghai until the soundtrack was removed. One trade magazine praised converting this talkie into a silent film with subtitles as “an ingenious solution”—­since “the majority of people in Shanghai cannot understand Cantonese.”197 Meanwhile, Cantonese movies in production rushed to finish filming ahead of the impending ban. Chatter about other dialects “racing to catch up” pointed to Fujian, another region with market potential extending to Southeast Asia. (A Chaozhou-­dialogue movie in progress was backed by overseas business interests; audiences in Taiwan were flocking to a Xiamen-­dialogue movie based on a popular local opera).198 Finally, the announcement of a new deadline (July  1, 1937) prompted the southerners to form a “salvation association.” By appropriating a moniker correlated to the fight against Japanese imperialism, ­however, the campaign might have inadvertently undermined its own cause. For their part, Shanghai studio executives continued to vent their frustrations. The Film Censorship Committee has been overly “magnanimous and lenient.” Rather than demanding accountability, the censors repeatedly extended the deadline, sowing doubts as to whether the ban  on dialect films would ever be enforced. The filmmakers publicly broached the possibility of getting back into the Cantonese market and wondered whether they should “begin planning to produce other dialect films.” They would have to “calculate the cost of upholding the law” as they contemplated the industry’s future.199 As the July 1 deadline approached, both sides dialed up the rhetoric. Shanghai partisans compared the ban on Cantonese films to the “bandit suppression” campaign (in 1930s parlance, a reference to outlaws of the  Communist variety).200 Dueling delegations arrived in Nanjing for “hand-­to-­hand combat.” Propaganda minister Shao Lizi eventually crafted a  shrewd solution, instituting a studio-­ licensing requirement while

I n S earch of Standard Mandarin 1 09

granting a three-­year reprieve on the dialect ban. By enforcing licensing standards, the tactic would push Cantonese studios out of business indirectly, without a hard-­line stance on the dialect issue.201 But the ink was barely dry on the settlement when gossipmongers insinuated that the southerners had deployed a team of female stars to woo Dai Ce (a member of the Film Censorship Committee) during his visits to Hong Kong and Guangzhou. They allegedly charmed Dai into changing his position, from opposition to advocating for the “great cultural mission of Cantonese films.” (He evidently praised Cantonese women as “more beautiful than the ones in Shanghai” and shared photos of his favorite Hong Kong starlets.)202 Insinuations of this suspicious about-­face were followed by the Cantonese studios’ outright refusal to submit their films to Nanjing for approval. They also demanded a further extension of a six-­ year moratorium on the dialect ban. The Guangzhou government buttressed their belligerence by announcing that municipal approval would suffice for films screening within city limits, thus obviating the need for Nanjing’s endorsement. The Shanghai trade press cried foul, fulminating about the central government’s toothless sanction against dialect films. At this rate, “there is no point in talking about three or six years; even if extended to eighty or one hundred years, they have no way to implement the policy.”203 And so it continued. The controversy only ended when Shanghai studios evacuated just ahead of the Japanese advance on the city in the summer of 1937. The KMT government’s year-­end withdrawal from Nanjing rendered moot the issue of dialect censorship. Overall, despite their appellation as such, national language films of the 1930s proved disappointing to those who harbored hopes of unifying speech through cinema. Guoyu paved the way for broader distribution, allowing movies to reach audiences beyond linguistically circumscribed regions and facilitated marketing to overseas communities. And as Andrew Jones has noted about popular music of the same period, the use of the national language projected “the unitary voice of a unified national body.” For Jones, the production of pop songs constituted acts of “linguistic mediation” and “political ventriloquism.”204 National language films shared a similar modus operandi, but it is ambiguous how audiences experienced such nationalizing aspirations through the cinema. Since early sound films lean heavily on melodrama, pathos and emotion mitigate moments of linguistic

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incomprehensibility. The plots are not complicated and do not rely on dialogue to advance the narrative. For moviegoers, hearing the sounds of guoyu at a theater could only be an ephemeral experience. But in concert with other evolving forms of media, particularly radio and gramophone, the national language began to register on the soundstage of urban life.

T HE FA N GYAN- D ­ IAL ECT DI LEMMA

The KMT government’s inability to solve the dialect cinema problem highlighted, in dramatic terms, frictions and ongoing debates about the relationship between the local and the national. Over the years, the fang­ yan problem had reared its head many times, as an irritant to the impulse for standardization, occupying a contested place within the imagined universe of unified speech. How would the country’s numerous dialects coexist with its national standard? Did the national intend to supplant the local, or could a complementary diglossia be forged out of the linguistic disarray? Indeed, for those not fully invested in the project of speech standardization, suspicions that guoyu aimed to displace local vernaculars persisted. The fears of erasure were not unfounded. Declarations that linguistic unification would not exterminate fangyan were hardly reassuring when paired with the rationale that “local dialects are not easy to destroy.”205 Those trumpeting the benefits of zhuyin for unity also inserted denigrating asides, such as characterizing fangyan as “the remnants of the ideology of a primitive age.”206 Indeed, how to accommodate local speech within a standardization framework remained a vexing issue. As discussed in the previous chapter, in the 1920s there had been extended disagreements over whether and how to mark “extravocalics” (phonemes added to the phonetic alphabet) to accommodate sounds found in regional vernaculars that the existing syllabary cannot express. When the Nationalist government tightened the boundaries of the spoken standard around northern pronunciation, it was widely acknowledged that the zhuyin fuhao included three symbols that no longer belonged: 万, 兀, 广. But they lingered as vestigial elements—­for instance, appearing in Chao Yuen Ren’s bo-­po-­mo-­fo song, taught on the radio and in classrooms throughout the 1930s and 1940s. As one textbook

In S earch of Standard M andarin 1 1 1

explained, the trio were “no longer used to spell the national pronunciation after the standard was announced. . . . ​It remains here to facilitate the spelling of dialect sounds.”207 In fact, government policy sanctioned the use of zhuyin to “spell” dialect sounds. The KMT’s implementation plan in 1930 had underlined its dual functions, prescribing an interlinear notation method with “national pronunciation” appended to the right of the script, “dialect pronunciation” to the left.208 The advertised virtues of zhuyin included its versatility: “These several dozen symbols can annotate national and dialect sounds. . . . ​ There are no sounds that cannot be annotated and no language that cannot be expressed.”209 This was an exaggeration—­the phonemic inventory of forty symbols could not in fact convey numerous sounds particular to regional vernaculars. Nonetheless, dual notation sustained the national pronunciation while opening the door for broader applications of zhuyin in “dialect regions.” Chao Yuen Ren’s “Union Table of Phonetic Notation,” published in 1932 under the auspices of the Preparatory Committee, was a concerted effort to address these issues systematically.210 Chao drew on the phonology of more than thirty dialect varieties and created new symbols for forty extravocalics, correlating their sounds to the International Phonetic Alphabet (IPA). Where possible he offered approximate equivalents in GR, English, French, German, and Japanese. By doubling the number of phonemes and outlining eighty-­four combinations of vowels, medials, and consonants, this system significantly expanded the number of sounds the zhuyin syllabary could annotate. For five dialects (Nanjing, Wuxi, Suzhou, Changzhou, and Guangzhou), Chao summarized the major phonological features and appended examples of sentences with corresponding symbols. Chao’s Union Table complemented other forays into linguistic research on dialects.211 In Wuxi, native son Wu Zhihui championed the use of fang­ yin phonetic to facilitate literacy (a reversal from his previous hostility to foreign missionaries who had done the same, as discussed in chapter 1). Writing in 1931, Wu explained that local mass education should “naturally” be conducted using Wuxi pronunciation; textbook notations must reflect the sounds of local speech. Appending national pronunciation would be a bonus, to benefit those attentive to the differences between the two.212 Meanwhile, in Fuzhou two linguists were working on a zhuyin syllabary for the spoken vernacular of the provincial capital. In 1931 Chen

FIGURE 2.1  Extravocalics.

Source: Chao Yuen Ren 趙元任, Zhuyin fuhao zongbiao 注音符號總表, 1932.

FIGURE 2.2  

Dual phonetic annotation: national pronunciation (right) and Wuxi pronunciation (left).

Source: Wu Jingheng 吳敬恆, “Sanshiwu nian lai zhi yinfu yundong” 三十五年來之音符運動, 1931, 52.

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Ximeng and Zhang Yongrong produced a draft version, which they hoped would be “the savior” of the 150,000 illiterates in the city. Since forty symbols “cannot notate accurately the varied and anomalous local pronunciations,” the duo expanded the syllabary to capture the linguistic diversity of their native place.213 With a head start and support from the provincial government, Fujian was one of the few regions able to expedite its fangyin phonetic to completion. This was, however, accomplished at the expense of the national language unification project. According to one educator, the fangyin approach contradicted its aims—­unavoidable in regions where local speech diverged significantly from guoyu, and where “the illiterate class” need the extravocalics of dialect pronunciation to learn to read. “Ordinary people do not know about the national language or national pronunciation. How can you tell them to use the zhu­ yin fuhao to spell out guoyu, much less use the national pronunciation to learn to read?” In these cases, the national language must be deferred, as a temporary concession to linguistic reality.214 Elsewhere, initiatives included a proposal by Qian Xuantong to revise Chao Yuen Ren’s Union Table. (Some extravocalic symbols resembled the original forty too closely and caused confusion.) Chao himself continued to refine his case studies—­consulting with native speaker Li Jinxi on Changsha phonetics; inviting folksong researchers to use his Wuxi syllabary on a trial basis and provide feedback.215 Of all the localities, the foundation for dialect notation was most firmly established in Suzhou, where a robust history of vernacular cultural production blended with precedents for phonetic spelling (created by Wu Zhihui, Qian Xuantong, and Wei Jiangong, respectively).216 In 1935 Lu Ji spearheaded an initiative to disseminate Suzhou zhuyin fuhao as a tool for mass literacy. With the support of the Preparatory Committee and local officials, Lu launched a successful fundraising drive and published an array of instructional materials. Borrowing an idea from Tao Xingzhi’s progressive education movement, he worked with the education department to recruit a corps of “little teachers of Suzhou pronunciation.”217 The Preparatory Committee also distributed thirty thousand copies of a broadsheet featuring the eighty-­one phonemes that made up the Suzhou syllabary.218 One commentator who chanced to see the broadsheet in Shanghai praised it as an excellent tool—­“even the most stupid” can learn to write a letter or

In S earch of Standard M andarin 1 1 5

mark an account book, at most within two months. This approach was preferable to the concurrent effort of using “blue-­green guanhua” to teach the people of Shanghai to read.219 Li Jinxi framed it in a more positive fashion when a journalist asked him about the Suzhou phonetic campaign: “In mass education there is no need to compel national language unification by force. As long as the national pronunciation is there [annotated to the right], there is no harm in looking to the left, where the local dialect pronunciation is annotated.”220 Apart from these examples, the fangyin phonetic did not gain sufficient traction elsewhere. Whereas some praised the dual functionality of zhu­ yin fuhao for both national and dialect pronunciation, others objected to that very premise. “Instruction of zhuyin fuhao should exclusively take the national pronunciation as the standard. . . . ​Since zhuyin fuhao bears the great responsibility of unifying the languages of the entire country, then everyone who teaches it in all places should certainly use the national pronunciation and not dialect pronunciation. If you use fangyin to teach, then the results will still be dialect pronunciation.”221 Indeed, support for dialect notation as a method to accelerate literacy conflicted directly with the effort to promote speech uniformity. Some champions of the spoken standard thus rejected fangyin fuhao as antithetical to their goals. For those who feared linguistic fragmentation, dialect notation using the zhu­ yin system paralleled some of the logic of Sin Wenz. Those ongoing battles, waged at the intersection of New Writing and mass language, cast a shadow over efforts to implement fangyin notation for literacy. Another factor contributing to the slow adoption of dialect notation was the Education Ministry’s directive requiring each county, municipal, and provincial administration to conduct a comprehensive survey of the dialects within their jurisdiction and submit the findings to the Preparatory Committee for review.222 This task required time-­consuming data collection, synthesis of the research, and reaching consensus on the conclusions. Those conducting field surveys of local speech encountered countless impediments, to the point where one person remarked: “I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.” When you arrive in a village or county town, where do you start? You might sit all day waiting to see the village head, and the obligatory gifting and banqueting could take several more days. Once you find local informants, “even if they show up, they don’t

116  I n S earch of Standard Mandarin

always answer the questions, and some even give you inaccurate information.”223 Given these obstacles, those who belatedly began the process of fangyan research ran out of time when war erupted against Japan in 1937.

R A partisan of Sin Wenz in 1936 observed that it had been more than ten years since “professors and scholars” started promoting the national language. During that time, “they have written who-­knows-­how-­many essays; the Education Ministry has issued who-­knows-­how-­many directives.” But the result had been disappointing: “As its creator Mr. Li Jinxi has said, ‘Today the guoyu movement seems to have fallen into a period of misfortune—­not to the point of suffering cataclysmic decline but plummeting at least halfway.’ ” Meanwhile, the Latinization movement “surges forward vigorously,” though marred by the misunderstanding that “it threatens to fracture the nation.”224 The National Language Unification Preparatory Committee had only recently dropped the provisional adjective from its name. After more than fifteen years, the group was finally ready to move beyond a perpetual state of preparation. Despite progress, the challenges remained formidable, especially with the unexpected ascendance of Sin Wenz. Just before the outbreak of the Sino-­Japanese War, reconciliation attempts enjoined the adversaries in the battle to form a united front and “join hands.” Extending an olive branch, Pan Gugan opined that despite divergent positions regarding the question of tones, GR and Sin Wenz “share much in common. . . . ​We are definitely not enemies but comrades fighting for the same ideal.” Although the hand extended in friendship had been left dangling in the air, “we believe that it will not be refused.”225 Pan’s overture joined a chorus for unity, which invited the antagonists to “walk hand in hand, together on the great road toward phonetic writing.” The editors of the journal Language and Literature, who published these exchanges, counseled the opposing camps to “take the longer view and be a little more generous in spirit.”226 Wang Yuchuan was not moved. A stalwart of the national language movement, Wang refused to retract his sharp objections. His rejoinder sounded a sarcastic note, characterizing the attitude of the Sin Wenz faction toward GR as migrating from

In S earch of Standard Mandarin 1 1 7

“throwing down the gauntlet,” to “a slap in the face,” to “a hand extended in friendship—­a most gratifying situation.” Wang expressed his “utmost willingness” to join hands—­“with all comrades willing to fight together for Gwoyeu Romatzyh.”227 His adversaries returned fire. Mocking the one-­two status of zhuyin and GR as government-­sanctioned systems of phonetic notation, one retort ridiculed the duo as “a traditional wife of the national essence faction” paired with “a Western-­style concubine.” According to another broadside, GR’s putative advantage in expressing tonal differentiation constituted its “worst shortcoming.” Resurrected from the dead, the four tones are dragging us back into the “dark ages.” To accommodate tones, “our national language” includes zhuyin with its “face full of pockmarks” and the monstrous body of GR “full of lesions, a hunchback with two rumps and three legs.”228 As the clouds of war gathered and burst in the summer of 1937, the adversaries in the linguistic battles scrambled for shelter. The military crisis also paused ongoing disputations about standardization and deferred squabbling about the place of dialects or the instability of speech norms. The most urgent questions were now orders of magnitude greater, in the realm of the existential. Would the nation survive the ravages of the Japanese invasion? Could the national language contribute to the centripetal forces needed to hold the country together, or would it perish along with the nation?

3 THE NATIONAL LANGUAGE IN EXILE

In the fifty years from the late Qing to today, progress in unifying the national language has not yielded the kind of harvest we imagined. This is not for lack of effort on the part of many activists and academic experts, nor is it because the government has not tried. . . . ​It is actually because our fellow countrymen do not have a complete understanding and do not recognize the importance of national language unification. Although the leaders of the movement exhaust their strength, shouting until their voices are hoarse, the audience is contemptuous and indifferent. . . . ​The Japa­ nese devils have occupied our coastal provinces, driving many people to  retreat to the interior. For the sake of clothing, food, shelter, and transportation they have been forced to give up their own dialects ­temporarily . . . ​and instead learn to speak guanhua. In terms of our nation’s future, this [development] could not be better. —­Z HANG QINGCHANG, 1944

W

hen the Nationalist government retreated inland in 1937, just ahead of the advance of the Japanese Army, it would have been difficult to imagine foreign invasion as a boon to the national language cause—­or to anything else. The chaotic evacuation and scramble for survival initially pushed everything else to the back burner. But as the KMT regime regrouped, first in Wuhan, then in

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Chongqing, new considerations came to the fore. In the context of the possible partition of the nation—­or its complete dissolution—­the military crisis amplified the symbolic importance of the national language. According to a frequently repeated trope, the war imbued guoyu education with a loftier purpose: to stimulate and channel “the spirit of anti-­Japanese resistance and national unity.” Indeed, the fight for national preservation could be the perfect time for the national language to shine—­to showcase its ability to awaken the people, fortify their will to resist, consolidate the borders, and facilitate frontier development. And as Zhang Qingchang alluded to in the passage quoted, the dispersion of refugees activated changes that fifty years of exhortations had not been able to accomplish. This chapter charts the fate of the national language in exile during the war years, to investigate the rhetorical aspirations, the on-­the-­ground ­realities, and the disjuncture between them. In the realms of cultural production and education, efforts to promote guoyu as a force for unity confronted new opportunities and challenges. As conduits for patriotism, drama and film diverged in their respective capacities to use standard speech as the linguistic medium. Where the national language proved ineffective for mass mobilization, it was quickly disregarded, casting doubt on claims of its superior status and indispensability. In the multiethnic milieu of the Southwest, the site of the temporary capital, educators encountered an unfamiliar linguistic ecosystem, where “minority languages” intermingled with local vernaculars. Some efforts to promote guoyu languished in the face of complex obstacles; others persevered to push the agenda forward. When linguists tried to adapt the national language to encompass the speech of the Miao, Yi, and Mongolian ethnic groups (among many others), doing so stretched the concept beyond recognition. Indeed, while an expansive view of the national language facilitated the expression of local differences, it also fundamentally destabilized the vision of one nation speaking in one voice. Recent scholarship on the War of Resistance has emphasized the KMT’s state-­building initiatives and the expansion of state capacity in diverse realms such as the mobilization of labor and women, industrial development, and social welfare provisioning. New research has persuasively demonstrated that the wartime crisis opened up avenues for clusters of intellectual elites, middle-­class women, medical professionals, and civil servants, who embraced opportunities to contribute to an imperiled

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nation.1 My analysis of the national language in exile explores a different arena and follows a splintered trajectory. While freighted with magnified ideological meaning and cast as vital to the cause of nationalism, in practice this putative vector of national unity gained little traction in key institutional settings. The negotiations and compromises forged in the context of wartime pressures indicate the staying power of local speech, as well as a considerable gap between the state’s goals and its capacity to engineer cultural reform.

WH ITHER THE N ATION A L LA N GUAG E?

When the KMT government evacuated to Wuhan in early 1938, troops and civilians thronged into the tri-­city area in confusion. As the regime regrouped to defend against Japanese assaults and establish a functioning administration, there were substantial logistical problems associated with the transfer of government ministries. For the most part the central bureaucracies went to Wuhan, while auxiliary agencies and research institutes decamped to different cities. Li Jinxi evacuated to Shaanxi with colleagues from Beijing Normal and other universities; Chao Yuen Ren and the Philology and History Institute of Academia Sinica first went to Changsha.2 There was plenty of turmoil and a lot of uncertainty. But the Nationalist government did make a spirited stand in Wuhan, as Stephen MacKinnon has chronicled. The city became an international symbol of heroic resistance against fascism.3 By mid-­1938 officials at the Education Ministry felt optimistic enough about the situation to launch new efforts to promote the national language. One of these initiatives recruited guoyu teachers for placement in far-­ flung places. The ministry advertised in newspapers and education journals, vetted the applicants, and dispatched twenty instructors to Fujian, Guangdong, and Hong Kong in the summer of 1938.4 The timing could not have been worse. Just two months later, Wuhan crumbled under Japanese assault, and the KMT government fled further west, to Chongqing. The recruits sent to the South were stranded, and they were not paid for the better part of the year. With only partial information about the situation in Wuhan, they continued to submit reports to their superiors at

T he N ational L anguage in E xile  1 21

the Education Ministry. Remarkably—­considering the circumstances—­ some of their letters have been preserved in the ministry’s archives.5 Inferring from this correspondence and other fragmentary evidence, it seems the intent was for the teachers to act as a “vanguard,” to partner with provincial and county education agencies, in areas where efforts to promote the national language had made the least progress. For the teachers, there was the added appeal of relocating (at government expense) to the perceived safety of the South. Reporting for duty in June 1938, those sent to Guangdong organized a series of summer seminars for adult learners. In one rural county in the southwestern part of the province, an instructor named Zhang Baoquan conducted two classes (from July to October) with fifty students each. As Zhang reported, his lessons totaled 150 classroom hours, focusing on the pronunciation of zhuyin fuhao and the four tones. He created drills to help students practice the sounds zhi, chi, shi, ri, and er, the most difficult for Cantonese speakers to enunciate. Since the students were literate adults, Zhang described his approach as one of translation: “take the Chinese characters (漢字) and translate them into the phonetic (注音),” or vice-­ versa, “take a short essay written in the phonetic and translate it into script.” For conversational practice, Zhang used a variety of teaching aids: Wang Pu’s National Language Conversation, Bai Dizhou’s recordings, and Yue Sibing’s National Language Conversation Practice.6 As discussed in chapters 1 and 2, Wang had been derided for his botched pronunciation of “old guoyin”; Bai had staunchly supported GR, while Yue was allied with Sin Wenz. Given the conflicting approaches in these books, Zhang’s students would have been quite confused had they been paying close attention. We do not know why the teacher chose these materials rather than others, though it is a fair guess that availability dictated the selections. In all probability, the students did not notice the contradictory information. Zhang reported that all his pupils passed the final exam and received ­certificates of completion. At the conclusion of the class, he launched a second term on November 1, with a new cohort. Two weeks later the Japanese Army began a fierce assault on Guangdong. By December the lessons were over, and people were on the run. Even before the outbreak of war, regret was already palpable. One teacher went AWOL in August; others asked for transfers, citing illness or “incompatibility” with the locale or the work.7 The exception was Zhang

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Weigang, who took up his assignment with enthusiasm in Lianjiang County. A graduate of Zhongshan University in Guangzhou, Zhang was an instructor of unusual prominence. Before leaving Beijing in 1937, he had studied with Luo Changpei at Beijing University and published research on the dialects of his native Jiangxi province. Returning to the South under the auspices of the Education Ministry, Zhang ran a monthlong seminar for teachers and school principals during the summer recess. After the course ended, he visited his former pupils at their own schools, where he discovered that his efforts registered little to no effect: “Only a minority of a minority showed slight results.” In September Zhang organized an evening class and decided to simplify his approach. He changed the lessons to focus on zhuyin, practical conversation, and national salvation songs. Zhang continued his school visits and also called on colleagues posted from Wuhan in nearby counties. He observed that one school had made excellent progress due to the tireless efforts of two instructors. But in another county, only two schools had teachers capable of speaking guoyu—­“the rest have no idea what guoyu is or what the zhu­ yin fuhao is!”8 At the middle school where Zhang Weigang taught and lived for a time, his experience was more positive. He testified that he enjoyed warm relations with his students (there were none, in his telling, who did not “respect and love him”). He found opportunities to interact with them informally and to teach guoyu outside the classroom “surreptitiously.” Zhang was more committed than most of the others and ended up staying the longest. Despite an outbreak of plague, and despite the Japanese attack, he persevered for more than a year. His reports to his superiors advertised his dedication (appending copies of his lectures and student exams, a school song he composed, and the manuscript of a local history he wrote). In addition, Zhang sent numerous pleas for the disbursement of his salary, which he did not receive after the first month.9 As for the other teachers dispatched from Wuhan, one wrote that when the enemy arrived on December 3, the residents all scattered: “Because of the war situation . . . ​ there is no way to promote the national language.” Several teachers managed to make their way to Chongqing, where they ended up in refugee camps. More than a year later, they were still sending letters to the Education Ministry asking for back pay, including the widow of a teacher who was killed while trying to flee. Officials responded that the funds had

The N ational L anguage in E xile  1 23

already been disbursed to the authorities in Guangdong—­they would have to return to the war zone to claim their salaries.10 In Hong Kong, the national language vanguard did not have to endure bombs, but they were not necessarily welcomed. In fact, some schools refused to accept the instructors, even when “allocated free of charge.”11 As Zhang Wentong reported, “I keenly feel that the people of Hong Kong regard guoyu with contempt.” After one year of teaching at a middle school, Zhang noted that “although it is slightly better than before, [this attitude] has not been completely eliminated.” Since the other instructors conducted their lessons entirely in Cantonese, “the students have learned to say a few phrases, but they have no real interest in the national language. Or they disparage it.”12 Of the forty-­nine recruits sent to Hong Kong in 1938, more than half gave up within a year. (Several asked for transfers; one disappeared; another was committed to a psychiatric hospital.) According to the Education Ministry’s assessment, cost-­of-­living issues and hostility from local society accounted for most of the resignations. As one news report later recounted, many people in Hong Kong regarded learning the national language as a kind of curiosity or “modern” affectation. With a casual attitude, they attended classes “if they felt like it.”13 The teachers sent from the mainland also turned out to be a quarrelsome bunch, with “mixed elements” and “divided opinions” resulting in mutual recriminations and secret letters alleging wrongdoing. Moreover, the British colony had become a hotbed of political intrigue since the outbreak of war. “The seduction of politics” created distractions; some allegedly joined Communist organizations or Wang Jingwei’s faction, or were implicated in unspecified but obviously suspicious activities.14 One particularly egregious troublemaker named Liu Daxiong caused innumerable headaches for his superiors—­quarreling with his colleagues, frequenting casinos, and borrowing against his salary to pay debts. Liu was also the subject of recurring allegations that he made antigovernment remarks in the classroom and “conspired with the enemy.” In 1941 he requested a transfer to a different job, claiming that he “hoped to make a greater contribution to the nation, preferably in the realm of politics.”15 The Education Ministry thus discovered belatedly that its linguistic vanguard was not entirely reliable. The regional party headquarters ­nonetheless ordered the contingent be deployed to defend the national

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language against Sin Wenz.16 In Hong Kong, a diverse group of notables (including former Beida chancellor Cai Yuanpei) headlined a new Sin Wenz Study Society, established in 1939. By this time some proponents had abandoned the position of endorsing the eradication of Chinese script.17 Moderates, pushing for alphabetization to accelerate mass literacy, downplayed the combative posture of consigning Hanzi to the trash bin and the divisive issue of standard speech. The Latin script could be compared to an airplane, opined one advocate—­unquestionably superior to a Hanzi wheelbarrow or a GR steamship. “When you board the Sin Wenz airplane to spread the word of national salvation, you will understand that it does not hinder China’s unification. Rather it has the power to help awaken the masses and save our endangered fatherland.”18 Despite the calls for unity, and despite the centrist political affiliations of people like Cai Yuanpei, KMT partisans were quick to smear the Hong Kong group’s “propaganda” as Communist-­inspired. Heng Lixing, one of the national language teachers, appointed himself chief spokesman on this issue, writing articles for a local newspaper and touting his plans to save Hong Kong from the Communist plot.19

“A COMPL ETE ME SS”

Like Hong Kong, treaty port Shanghai was protected by Allied neutrality until the Pearl Harbor attack in December 1941. But as the Japanese Army gained control of Nanjing and much of the eastern seaboard, the intensifying conflict enveloped the “solitary island” and sharpened the significance of the national language. Women’s groups and debate societies ­organized guoyu classes to reinforce unity, although sometimes with unintended results. At one recreation club, for instance, a tea party combined guoyu with modern drama reading. As one participant described, an eager group of women gathered after work. They heard the teacher make introductory remarks while speaking “a mouthful of daintily pretty Shanghainese.” The organizer immediately intervened, raising her voice in reproach: “This is the first session of the national language class, how can the teacher be speaking Shanghainese? This won’t do, you must speak the national language.” The teacher nodded and smiled, then switched

The N ational L anguage in E xile  1 25

into a “squeaky guoyu” to continue: “I hope everyone in attendance today will not quit halfway through . . . ​in today’s situation linguistic unification is an urgent, pressing matter.” After this clumsy beginning, the group settled into a lively session of comical misunderstanding and laughter as they practiced speaking guoyu.20 In primary and middle schools, the national language continued to be featured in speech contests and as an academic subject, amplified as a form of anti-­Japanese resistance. At Tongyi Middle School, a journalist happened to be visiting when he was pressed into service as a judge for one such competition (because a “famous lawyer” did not turn up). “Heaven knows, this journalist does not understand the national pronunciation, but because they were shorthanded, he could only pretend to be an expert.”21 From another middle school in Shanghai, student Wu Zhuzhen wrote “a funny story about practicing the national language.” For one day, a teacher challenged the class to “give up Shanghainese” and speak only guoyu. The students enthusiastically agreed and settled on a fine of one penny for every infraction (to be donated to a national salvation fund). As Wu observed, the atmosphere completely changed, as usually talkative students clammed up or giggled nervously. Only five or six out of twenty-­ eight dared to speak. They adopted an exaggeratedly formal style, addressing each other as “Miss Shen” and “Miss Wu,” as if role-­playing a lesson. One student joked that the day was quite peaceful, in contrast to the typically boisterous classroom. But the students also encouraged one another, saying, “When we are practicing, it doesn’t matter if you speak with a southern accent and northern tunes, it doesn’t matter if it is a complete mess.”22 In occupied Beijing, Lu Zhiwei, the president of Yenching University, also observed a “complete mess” in national language education, but to his consternation. Despite the effort expended to compile The Commonly Used Vocabulary of National Pronunciation (discussed in chapter 2), Lu said, “We don’t see anyone actually using the results. So everyone bumbles around, muddle-­headed and mixed up, doing as they please.” The zhuyin phonetic, intended to anchor the national language, did not materialize as the panacea its advocates had imagined, especially when teaching materials provided contradictory information. Perhaps the goal had been too ambitious. Lu suggested taking a step back: “For the time being, we do not need to expect that everyone in China can speak Beipinghua

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[Beijinghua]. It would be enough if they can handle one or several varieties of southern accents with northern tunes.” The pronunciation of single characters can be “unified” on paper, in the pages of books and dictionaries, “but how do we translate them into speech?” Lu also observed that people from Sichuan, Shanghai, or Hunan—­each with their own particularities—­find it difficult to correct old habits, to curl or uncurl their tongues, to differentiate between this sound or that one. Teaching guoyu as a school subject or fussing over the finer points of pronunciation has proved to be insufficient. Achieving the goal of linguistic unification would require creating a social environment with “necessity for guoyu as a part of life.”23 According to some, the most important environment of all was the home. As one commentator put it: “Our country has been promoting the national language movement for forty to fifty years, but the outcome remains ‘you speak your language, I speak mine.’ ” Schools had not delivered the desired results; it was imperative to begin with the home, in early childhood. “The determining question in training children to speak the national language rests on whether the parents can speak guoyu or pu­ tonghua.” If the parents are Cantonese or Fujianese, unsure of their own proficiency, it would be unwise to force the issue: “Otherwise the child will speak abnormally, in a fashion neither fish nor fowl, and no one will understand.” In such circumstances, perhaps the best method would be to hire a nanny from Beijing or the Tianjin region.24 In Nanjing, where Wang Jingwei established a new regime with Japanese sponsorship in the spring of 1940, educators also stressed the importance of language unification and lamented its slow progress. The new political reality, however, inflected such commentary and initiatives with different meanings. As one anonymous contributor wrote in an education gazette, we must acknowledge the new order in East Asia, as we stand at the crossroads of life and death: “All must be changed, the old bottles cannot hold new wine.” (This was a riff on Hu Shi’s well-­k nown aphorism about the classical language.)25 Other discussions of language reform emphasized historical ties and compatibility between Chinese and ­Japanese culture. Exhortations to learn zhuyin referred to Japan’s experience with kana as proof of efficacy or model for emulation. Initiatives to implement national language education reiterated the unity of purpose, directed toward peace and the future prosperity of East Asia.26 Meanwhile,

The N ational L anguage in E xile  1 27

middle and primary schools in regions under occupation contended with a new mandate to teach Japanese language.27 In 1941 the newly constituted Education Ministry in Nanjing (different from its KMT counterpart in Chongqing) ordered counties and municipalities in its jurisdiction to implement national language education, observing, “Whether it’s teachers giving lectures or students reciting their lessons, for the most part they are still using local dialect pronunciation and speech (tuyin tuhua).” In teaching guoyu, all schools must abide by the “pronunciation of the standard” as set by the zhuyin syllabary.28 As the mayor of Shanghai cautiously put it, “Before the emergency, the national language movement flourished vigorously everywhere. . . . ​ After the emergency the work regretfully ceased.” Following his directive, district officials submitted plans for rebooting a modest program, enrolling teachers in guoyu training classes.29 Yet with the ascendancy of Japan in the political realm and on the military front, both speech and writing could be subjected to a different calculus of loyalty or betrayal. A discussion about whether Japanese kana could replace zhuyin fuhao tiptoed around the implications of such a substitution. Recently some people had made this suggestion, Zhu Ming wrote, and it should be considered on its own merits. “There is no need to make a big fuss about nothing, no need to wrinkle your brow and heave big sighs, for there is no hidden agenda or ulterior motive here.” Instead, Zhu’s carefully worded assessment sought to explain that while both systems had strengths and “­special characteristics,” they were ultimately not interchangeable.30

M E THODS IN THE MIDST OF MA DN ESS

As the national language was redirected in occupied China to complement the vision of a Greater East Asia under Japanese leadership, those who fled with the retreating KMT tried to configure guoyu to support the wartime effort. Starting over in the interior, they vowed that as a part of “national construction during the War of Resistance, advocating for national language unification and promoting zhuyin fuhao” were among the most important responsibilities.31 For instance, Wang Yuchuan designed a three-­month experimental course for wounded soldiers convalescing at

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hospitals. His method integrated zhuyin into literacy training, as a form of “spiritual food” for those injured in the service of the nation. As discussed in chapter  2, Wang was an uncompromising critic who had refused to “join hands” with supporters of Sin Wenz. In the late 1930s he worked in mass education and continued to spar with his linguistic adversaries in print.32 But for veterans recuperating at the #15 Army Hospital, Wang’s approach adopted a loose rubric of “national pronunciation, village accent,” intended to be “more or less consistent.” In fact, “we need not insist on following the national pronunciation; each person can use his hometown accent.” With this method, soldiers from seven different provinces learned dozens of new characters each day and became literate within one month, a pace exceeding expectations. To Wang, this successful experiment delivered a convincing rejoinder to those who doubted the suitability of zhuyin for adult education, or those who insisted that “forcing” ordinary people to imitate “Beijing tunes” was “some kind of joke.”33 At the #5 Veterans Hospital in Lu County (southwest of Chong­ qing), a similar method also delivered positive results. After three days of practice, the students demonstrated familiarity with the basic differentiation of the four tones. The instructors, however, felt it was unnecessary to belabor this aspect of the national language. Since half of the soldiers spoke a variety of Sichuanese, it made sense to proceed with “national pronunciation, Sichuan accent.” “This is a good method in situations where the place of origin is not especially diverse, with each person using his own tones and speaking in his own way. . . . ​There is no problem in reading or writing, so why force everyone under heaven to learn the standard national tones?”34 Beyond these experimental classes, other efforts depended on national language textbooks to deliver messages of patriotism and sacrifice. Supplemental lessons, songs, and stories featured young children wielding guns and knives, defending the homeland. A typical first lesson conveyed the basic point: “I am Chinese, you are Chinese, we are all Chinese.”35 At the same time, in the classroom guoyu lessons channeling the spirit of national unity de-­emphasized spoken norms. As long as students were able to recite the texts expressing the correct ideological message, the finer points of pronunciation were a tertiary concern.36 More often than not, national language lessons were not conducted in guoyu. On this point, one educator complained that only a “tiny minority of schools” had not

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abdicated responsibility for the spoken component. Reflecting on more than twenty years of guoyu education, he could name only a single primary school in Shanghai that conducted lessons “entirely using Beipinghua,” rather than the local vernacular.37 From the Education Ministry, He Rong opined: When I say that primary schools “should” teach guoyu, perhaps some people think this is strange, since all primary schools “already” teach it. But this is not true. Many schools do not teach guoyu (national language); what they teach is guowen (national writing). . . . ​The essence of language is sound; it is what you say with your mouth and what you hear with your ears. . . . ​W hen instructors read the texts according to their own local pronunciation, this is not teaching the national language.38

Teachers unable to speak guoyu naturally defaulted to the dialect as the medium of instruction, a situation educator Yu Ziyi found troubling but was powerless to change.39 Working in rural Zhejiang, Yu reflected that in places where the spoken vernacular diverged considerably from the national pronunciation, the process of learning guoyu approximated foreign language acquisition. In adult literacy classes, instructors speaking a “half-­baked and halting blue-­g reen guanhua” left the villagers completely in the dark. Yu knew from experience that within a semester or two, students would begin to understand, but a program of mass education could not afford the luxury of months of time. Spelling out the local pronunciation using the phonetic would be the most efficient approach. “But we dared not try it,” afraid to commit the “major crime” of undermining linguistic unification. Since the zhuyin annotation in the textbooks reflected a pronunciation alien to the students, it was “mostly useless.” Although “we felt really ashamed, we did not waste precious time on the bo-­po-­mo-­fo” and focused exclusively on teaching the script.40 In a primary school setting, Yu Ziyi estimated that students could achieve conversational ability within a year, if one-­fourth to one-­third of classroom hours were allocated for oral practice. Beyond pronunciation, guoyu manuals addressed speech pedagogy by emphasizing elocution. Teachers should model fluency, showing students how to moderate cadence and “recite gracefully.” Correcting tuyin (local sounds) went hand in hand with purging coarse habits. All children can “talk.” But when they

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first stand up to “speak,” they are invariably frozen by embarrassment and fear, or debilitated by nervous habits (stammering, chewing on a shirtsleeve, interjecting dialect “vulgarisms,” hemming and hawing). In the ideal, the spoken national language was part of a package of “civilized” manners that included posture, eye contact, tone, and a confident demeanor, transforming village children into members of the educated class. Hours of practice and pedagogical interventions were required to achieve this ideal.41 Unfortunately, some invested the requisite time and labor, only to discover that it was wasted effort. One primary school instructor from Shaanxi confessed that spoken guoyu’s irrelevance in middle and high schools diminished the motivation to teach or learn it in the lower grades. Moreover, when a rotating cast of government officials arrived to mobilize students to join the battle against Japan, they revealed appalling linguistic ineptitude. Unable to make themselves understood, the visiting dignitaries “sweat bullets, occasionally frustrated to the point of tears, while the people in the audience scratch their heads, completely at a loss.” 42 If officials could not speak the national language while mouthing platitudes about national salvation, why should teachers and students expend the effort to learn? A different but also endemic problem was that in many classrooms, recitation and memorization persisted as the preferred methods, akin to the teachers of Confucian academies pontificating: “The Master said” (子曰).43 To pedagogical experts, this alarming trend reflected a relapse, a throwback to the days of children mindlessly reciting the classics, “studying dead books.” 44 To build a strong foundation for national language education, teachers must “defeat” the rote learning assumptions embedded in the Three Character Classic and The Hundred Surnames (primers used for many centuries in the past).45 As another commentator noted, students need to cultivate emotional connections to their lessons. Although teachers preferred “mostly mute puppets” (easier to manage than prattling children), fostering conversation and active learning through games and speech contests would inspire the students to greater attachment to the national language—­and therefore the nation.46 In the spirit of injecting fun into the learning process, the Education Ministry received a proposal for a mahjong version of the zhuyin syllabary. The designer of this game, a man named Sun Yishan (who identified himself as a member of the KMT Youth Corps), thought it could be

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mass-­produced and distributed by the government, to replace the addictive gambling game with one of pedagogical value. Instead of the familiar bamboo sticks, dots, and numbers, the tiles in Sun’s version featured the phonetic symbols. Like the gambling version, players announce the tiles as they are discarded. In gambling mahjong, the chatter contributes to sociability and animates the activity. In the zhuyin version, it compels the players to practice the sounds and combinations marked on the tiles. As Sun opined, the zhuyin fuhao is easily learned and just as easily forgotten. His version of mahjong would transform “an ugly social custom” into a leisure activity that facilitates literacy and the progress of national language education.47 Despite the appealing pitch, government officials did not act on this proposal. Sun sent it again two years later, to no avail. Both times his letters were filed away, with other unsolicited correspondence, of which there was plenty. From around the country and even from abroad, people submitted ideas for script reform, suggestions for revising the phonetic syllabary and various dictionaries, and requests for publication subvention.48 A dentist in Singapore, for instance, devised a new romanization system, boasting that his scheme would “unify the Chinese language so that henceforth the Chinese Language will be one of the easiest to learn in the world.” 49 In addition, the Education Ministry received a deluge of letters and resumes seeking employment. These applicants advertised their national language credentials (for instance, with letters written entirely in zhuyin phonetic), hoping their qualifications would secure work or a referral. As the files are incomplete, it is impossible to determine whether such overtures were successful. But there were teaching jobs on offer, as a new educational infrastructure had to be built from zero, in a region where the KMT government’s presence had been light, where regional militarists had ruled for the better part of the twentieth century.50

A FRESH STA RT

In fact, the imperative to begin anew might infuse energy and purpose into the lackadaisical campaign. As Sui Shusen put it, “After so many years of government directives and orders promoting the national language, . . . ​

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what are the results?” Apart from a handful of cities, “we do not see a single zhuyin symbol when we walk on the streets”; phonetically annotated books and periodicals are “pathetically few.” At normal schools and mass education centers, purportedly the “headquarters for promoting the national language,” there is scant evidence of anyone teaching guoyu pronunciation. Some instructors do not recognize the zhuyin symbols; those who have learned guoyu and zhuyin prefer to skip over those lessons. Among the general population, ordinary people unable to discern concrete benefits “feel suspicious” about the import and substance of the national language. Given this woeful situation, the calamity of war could motivate positive changes. People displaced from their homes, experiencing firsthand the obstacles of communicating across regional divides, will gain a new appreciation for the utility of a shared spoken language. The displaced include numerous teachers, who could be trained and dispatched into the interior, thereby solving the acute shortage of qualified instructors.51 The vast and variegated terrain of “the interior,” however, introduced new complexities. In Chongqing, “downriver” refugees flooded into the temporary capital and outnumbered the locals. Dialects from every region of the country could be heard on the streets. The new arrivals looked down on the natives—­for habits deemed uncouth, for the “backwardness” of a city they considered in desperate need of modernization. The locals in turn despised the downriver people for their elitist attitudes and presumed craftiness.52 According to one observer, Sichuan natives imagined that “all downriver people are wealthy. . . . ​A downriver accent will put you on the receiving end of discrimination and extortion.”53 Since “downriver” quickly became a capacious category to refer to any place outside Si­ chuan, this comment about accent alluded to all vernaculars besides the ­provincial dialect. Where the national language ranked in Chongqing’s status hierarchy, how it functioned as linguistic capital or liability, was ambiguous. The ability to speak a blue-­green guanhua could be transactionally useful or an invitation for abuse. The ability to speak a more standard guoyu signaled educated and elite status but conspicuously marked the speaker as an outsider. When some national language teachers were sent out of the capital, further into “the interior” or along “the frontiers,” they encountered even more complicated linguistic ecosystems. Some dialects of the Southwest

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(sharing phonemic characteristics with northern speech) could be readily understood, but others were unintelligible to speakers of “northern guanhua.” In Sichuan, one observer noted: “Every county, every township, even down to the village level, has its own unique characteristics; it cannot be helped.” The differences multiplied as one traveled from the urban areas into the countryside. Chengdu speech, for instance, with four tones and comparable phonology to guoyu, was easily comprehensible. Even so, misunderstandings might arise when enunciating nan (south) and lan (blue), or wunai (it can’t be helped) rendered as wulai (you are a rascal). In other parts of Sichuan, adaptation proved more demanding but not impossibly difficult, requiring adjustments in tonal differentiation (the fifth rusheng) and lexicon.54 For those sent to more distant outposts, greater challenges awaited. In a rural county about 200 km northeast of the wartime capital, for instance, Xie Jiguang felt thoroughly discouraged by the apathy he observed. In a year of teaching in various capacities, he encountered numerous guoyu instructors who had learned zhuyin notation but knew virtually nothing else about the national language. “Since they do not have a deep understanding, their enthusiasm for teaching is sharply reduced”; such poor fundamentals undermined any possibility of effective instruction. The situation at the teacher training normal schools was the worst of all, Xie concluded. Lacking qualified instructors, the students—­soon to become teachers themselves—­learned nothing of pronunciation; some did not recognize the zhuyin symbols.55 Unfortunately, those who attempted to remedy their shortcomings through self-­study ended up with a pronunciation “neither Sichuan nor Beiping,” so dreadful that “it hurts your ears.”56 Further afield in Gansu, Liu Xiaoliang urged schoolteachers to redouble their efforts. In his experience, apart from hard work and individual initiative, “there is no mysterious, magical method” to learning to speak guoyu. Simply start with a textbook and continue with constant practice. “If you are not willing to force yourself to do it, or if you fear the ridicule of others, then it will not be easy to improve.”57 But the problem transcended individuals, according to Li Dongyue, who worked for the education bureau in the provincial capital Lanzhou. Li was appalled at the desultory approach toward the national language he observed at the city’s “central schools.” Although these were putatively higher-­quality institutions endowed with better resources, most teachers mispronounced the

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zhuyin phonetic, ignored the annotation in the textbooks, and paid virtually no attention to tonal differentiation. The majority of schools allocated about thirty minutes per week to spoken guoyu. Without a robust national language environment, the students quickly forgot what they learned. Some might even “return to illiteracy” after graduation, thus squandering valuable resources.58 This kind of commentary, found in education gazettes as well as general interest journals, often narrated a heightened sense of present problems, as provocations to inspire future action. The authors called on the authority of personal experience to validate their judgments, extrapolating from situations heard about or witnessed, to the general state of the national language. In the case of normal schools, government directives in part corroborate perceptions of deficiencies in the teacher training process. In both 1937 and 1941 officials in Sichuan issued instructions stipulating that the graduation exam for shifan programs must include an assessment of the ability to pronounce and “spell” using the “forty phonetic symbols of the national language.” Those without proficiency in this basic component would not be allowed to graduate or take up teaching positions.59 On the other hand, when zhuyin did make an appearance in the curriculum, students showed little enthusiasm. At one Sichuan normal school, for instance, an entire class complained that courses in phonetic annotation and art were redundant or useless. In particular, “Teacher Pu has already taught us the zhuyin fuhao in the third semester, why does it have to be repeated in the fifth semester?” Given that they received only abridged lessons in geometry, geography, and history, the students considered further zhuyin instruction “a waste of precious time” that could be devoted to more important subjects.60 To be sure, these were not new concerns. Widely acknowledged as a crucial element of national language education, teacher training had long been the source of exasperation and inaction. Directives underscoring the requirement to teach the national language and the phonetic syllabary in shifan schools were repeatedly issued in the 1930s, to little apparent effect.61 As discussed in chapter 2, anecdotes attesting to student and teacher apathy circulated; persistent refrains also alluded to mockery and antipathy from a wider community of skeptics. Now, in a time of war, it was hardly surprising that resources for and attention to teacher training were insufficient. In Sichuan, one educator surmised that only one-­fourth of

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primary school teachers met “minimum qualifications.” 62 When Chen Qihao took over as the principal of the Guizhou Provincial Normal School in 1940, he discovered that of the 465 students enrolled since it opened in 1935, only 30 percent had graduated. Among graduates, the prevailing sentiment disparaged primary school teaching: “They are constantly preparing to continue their studies in order to change to a different profession.” (Only 34 of 140 alumni were actually teaching in primary schools.)63 In short, there were flaws in every part of the process, beginning from anemic student recruitment and ending with abysmal job placement. In the early 1930s the Education Ministry had also approved an abbreviated teacher training program of one to two years in duration. Intended to accelerate the process in order to staff rural schools, this “simplified” course inadvertently created a culture of low expectations, attracting those trying to avoid military service, who failed to gain admission to more prestigious secondary schools, or people “with no better prospects, who come with hearts full of disgruntlement.” 64 Under these circumstances, the national language was hardly a priority. The curriculum for Hunan’s abbreviated shifan program in 1940 indicated that “guoyu and zhuyin fuhao” constituted the least important subject, with only one weekly classroom hour allotted for its instruction—­ fewer than for music and hygiene.65 In rhetoric, the primary school instructor remained a touchstone. According to Chiang Ching-­kuo, the teacher is “the protector” of young students, “holding the lifeline of nation,” who plays an instrumental role in “improving their national language ability, so that they are able to speak the common language,” and thereby fulfill what it means to be “a Chinese person.” 66 In practice, however, teacher training programs scarcely provided the linguistic and pedagogical tools instructors needed to achieve these lofty aspirations, and guoyu rarely featured as a priority. Instead, the curriculum emphasized adherence to the KMT party line, “practical knowledge” (e.g., international politics, military affairs, and technology), as well as physical strength and military training.67 In 1939 the Education Ministry also tasked normal schools with “supervising local education” and “promoting social education” (defined to include the national language), and established six flagship teachers’ colleges to lead the way. Granted independent status from the amalgamated university (Lianda) created in the aftermath of the KMT government’s retreat, these

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shifan xueyuan were to pioneer efforts to improve “teacher qualifications” and increase the pipeline of graduates.68 As embedded in the curriculum, the national language received no special attention. Instead, the training of future primary school teachers prioritized physical education and underlined the importance of “group life” and military discipline.69 When the National Language Promotion Committee reconvened in Chongqing in 1940 (its first full gathering since 1935), members passed resolutions defining the future direction and vowed to renew their efforts.70 Optimism for guoyu’s prospects intermingled with conviction of its significance for the war effort, but was also tinged with the gloomy sense that the campaign had stalled. As Li Jinxi wrote in a confidential letter to Jiang Tingfu (senior Executive Yuan official and former ambassador to the Soviet Union), “Most ordinary people believe that the purpose of the guoyu movement is to unify the Chinese language. Therefore, they do not consider it an urgent matter during a time of war.” As for the government, its preoccupation with survival meant diminished resources for nonmilitary matters. Momentum on guoyu education halted, negating the achievements of the previous decade. Although charged to resume, without adequate funding the National Language Committee would not be able to make meaningful progress. Li thus hoped that Jiang Tingfu would use his considerable influence to help.71 Despite uncertain government support and their widely scattered locations (Kunming, Lanzhou, Chongqing, and elsewhere), stalwarts of the prewar national language establishment jumpstarted the campaign once again. They met periodically to continue projects interrupted by hasty retreat: revisions to the pronunciation dictionary, reference works at various stages of completion, periodicals to promote the phonetic syllabary. Members of the National Language Committee also resumed their roles as expert arbiters—­conduct research and surveys, use popular media to spread the gospel of the national language, provide guidance and training to teachers.72 One initiative appointed Li Jinxi, Wei Jiangong, and Lu Qian as coeditors of a new rhyming dictionary, to update similar texts from the 1920s and 1930s. The trio worked quickly and completed The New Chinese Rhyming Dictionary (中華新韻) in just one year. As Wei Jiangong explained, the rhyme books of imperial dynasties had set conventions for poetry composition, but the evolution of local speech and broader patterns of phonological change rendered them obsolete. In a given poem,

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incongruence between the author and the reader’s pronunciation foils the rhyme scheme. This new edition would define a “standard” based on the Commonly Used Vocabulary of National Pronunciation (1932).73 A specialist of ancient phonology, Wei had been a professor in the star-­ studded Chinese Department at Beijing University in the 1930s, as well as a member of the National Language Preparatory Committee. As we shall see in chapter 4, he would play an instrumental role as the leader of the guoyu campaign in postwar Taiwan, before returning to the mainland in 1948. Ultimately, The New Chinese Rhyming Dictionary proved too complex for all but the most erudite.74 Once crucial to success in the imperial civil service examinations, composing verse had declined in cultural importance. The new dictionary attracted scant attention, despite endorsement by Education Minister Chen Lifu and Wu Zhihui, whose calligraphy graced the cover and title pages.75 Furthermore, the work was initially produced as a thread-­bound book with traditional paper, printed via lithographic transfer from woodblocks.76 No commercial edition was available for purchase until 1944, limiting its distribution. In the long term, the most significant feature of the rhyming dictionary turned out to be a four-­page appendix. Titled “A Brief Discussion of the National Pronunciation” (國 音簡說), the essay delineated, in anatomical terms, the place and manner of articulation for each symbol of the zhuyin fuhao (aspiration and breath, the manipulation of the tongue, lips, and teeth for bilabials and fricatives). The explanation also identified tonal changes (sandhi) as an “indispensable feature.”77 A concluding note added, “In speaking guoyu, whether using standard tones or the tones of one’s native place, if you cannot get the neutral tone right then it will not make sense. Foreigners often have this problem when they learn our national language.”78 An odd coda to the rhyming dictionary, this appendix provided for the first time an authoritative account of how to enunciate the sounds of guoyu. Previously, model speakers such as Chao Yuen Ren had demonstrated “correct pronunciation” on the radio and in phonograph recordings; the publications of the National Language Committee featured spirited discussions of phonology and tones. But for almost thirty years, the official pronunciation was correlated to written symbols (zhuyin, Chinese characters, and the Latin alphabet, as in the 1928 chart) or pictures (as in reading primers). Qian Xuantong had originally drafted this explanation in 1932, intended

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for inclusion in the Commonly Used Vocabulary of National Pronuncia­ tion. But in the rush to publication, it was omitted at the eleventh hour due to typesetting problems.79 Appearing in print for the first time in 1941, the “brief discussion of national pronunciation” would become the standard phonology in postwar Taiwan and remain so for several decades (see chapter 4).

WEA PON S OF WA R

As the military crisis exploded across the country, the exigency of popular mobilization reconfigured linguistic priorities. Seeking ammunition for the battle against Japan, writers, dramatists, filmmakers, and actors infused their respective artistic realms with patriotic sentiments. As they did so, they confronted questions about local speech. How to reconfigure drama and film as part of the cultural arsenal for wartime mobilization? How to adjudicate the contradictions between dialect cultural production and the aims of linguistic unification? What kinds of compromises were permissible in service of the national cause? Even before the formal outbreak of war, the ethos of national defense had already permeated artistic practice. As the enemy’s encroachments intensified in the 1930s, activists envisioned spoken drama as a potentially powerful channel for rallying public support and fortifying the collective will to fight. Members of the League of Left-­wing Dramatists pioneered efforts to expand the audience for these messages to the working class, and then to bring “proletarian theater” to the countryside.80 Practitioners of “spoken drama” (huaju) prided themselves on differentiating the genre from “enlightened theater” (wenmingxi), an improvisational form popular with urbanites. Those eager to advertise the progressive agenda of spoken drama denigrated wen­ mingxi as a less evolved relative that dwelled in the realm of bawdy entertainment and melodrama. Linguistic purity was one of the critical differentiators. Whereas “enlightened theater” indiscriminately mixed dialects (a polyglot of blue-­green guanhua, Shanghai and Suzhou vernaculars, interspersed with other accents), spoken drama claimed to be unadulterated: “of the fundamental prerequisites of spoken drama, the  most important is the national language.”81 As many pointed out,

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however, in a country without a unified language, linguistic purity could be sustained only at the expense of the message. “When you perform drama using the national language in villages,” playwright Ye Chen observed in 1930, the people “have no idea what kind of gibberish ‘devil words’ you are speaking.” Under these circumstances, expecting them to discern and absorb the intended meaning of the performance is “a complete joke.”82 In 1933 a mass education journal posed the question: Is it better to use the national language or dialect in “people’s drama”? The spectrum of positions pitted standard speech against the linguistic preferences and limitations of rural audiences. Compromise viewpoints submitted that scripts written in the national language could be “translated into dialect” for performance, without harm. In cities with mixed populations “it is better to use the national language”; in villages or remote towns, the “authentic local vernacular” is preferred.83 The outbreak of war against Japan intensified the urgency for popular mobilization. As Chang-­tai Hung has described, drama troupes fanned out across the hinterland, to rouse the people for the fight. In the process, modern drama migrated out of its urban cloisters to engage with the nation in all of its geographic, economic, and linguistic diversity.84 As influential May Fourth writer Lao She put it, in order to reach the masses, one must “forget Shakespeare and Du Fu,” jettison highbrow vocabulary, and master the art of storytelling, using simplified character types and local dialects (tuhua)—­“the more common (putong) the better.”85 Yet the battle cry of “to the villages” for national unity provoked a challenge to national speech. One dramatist, for instance, compared those who insist on the exclusive use of guoyu in performance to “generals discussing war strategies on paper.” Their armchair tactics were akin to “trying to scratch an itch through the shoe,” or “forcing someone with gastritis to eat difficult to digest food.” Drama must aspire to reaching the broadest audience, to arouse the people to participate in the War of Resistance. The most critical mission was not linguistic unification. While the national language could be used effectively in cities, dialects were the most productive means to propagate the message in the countryside.86 Another trajectory in wartime drama urged the adaptation of “folk”  cultural forms and the recruitment of villagers to star in their own ­productions. Transforming local entertainment into patriotic “mass drama” required reforming its content. By excising “feudal” values and

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“superstitious” elements, “putting new wine into old bottles” infused village performances with the spirit of resistance, able to harness the people’s passions for patriotic purposes.87 Influential playwright Hong Shen advised colleagues seeking to connect with rural audiences to experiment with local theater forms—­use “village dialects” comprehensible to the audience, incorporate familiar characters and songs rich with local flavor, adopt recognizable narrative styles. Although the end product could not compare with the trenchant messages and forceful realism of spoken drama, if used appropriately, its effectiveness would undoubtedly surpass the “baffling and incomprehensible” performances put on by “strangers.”88 While some national language advocates cringed at such compromises, it was difficult to argue against the priority imputed to popular mobilization. In a time of war, temporary accommodation of sociolinguistic reality demoted the national language in favor of local dialects, as the message surpassed the medium in importance. In 1940–­1941 two productions in Shanghai, rendered in the city’s dialect, launched a more forceful challenge to the presumed primacy of the national language project. For Under Shanghai Eaves, Xia Yan’s well-­k nown play, the cast from the Shanghai Art and Drama Society performed four shows in Shanghainese. The Huaguang Drama School put on three performances of Dusk, a one-­ act play by Wu Tian translated into Shanghai dialect.89 Although short-­ lived, these shows sparked strong opinions. Huaguang principal Kong Lingjin described Dusk as an effort “to fulfill the social mission of drama” and to render it intelligible to audiences unable to understand the national language. Yet some (including members of his own faculty) opposed dialect on the grounds of its “vulgarizing” effect. In fact, they advocated consigning its usage to rural areas, barely concealing the cultural elite’s denigration of dialects as the purview of the uncouth and uneducated. Kong countered that seriousness of purpose in content prevailed over form. Others fretted about the harm to language unification, a premise Kong also rejected. He positioned dialect as a “necessary stage” in the process: “The most urgent is to strengthen national connections in politics, economy, and culture,” after which “linguistic barriers will naturally and gradually disappear.”90 In the public discussions that followed, others defending dialect drama invoked sharp criticisms of the national language, as a form of linguistic

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“autocracy” or “shackles” encumbering artistic expression. Chen Qidan estimated that not even one out of ten stage actors can speak “the standard.” As they struggled with pronunciation, tones, and unnatural articulation, blunders caused confusion, to the point of misunderstanding the plot. Why, Chen asked, did actors inflict such torture on themselves?91 Another commentator declaimed that without dialect, drama was a “dead” form. Characters such as beggars, rickshaw pullers, or a country bumpkin like Ah Q could not be realistically enacted otherwise. Ah Qs could be found in villages everywhere; “an Ah Q speaking a mouthful of pretty guoyu does not exist anywhere.”92 Meanwhile, mixed reactions greeted Under Shanghai Eaves, which in its national language iteration had been both critically and popularly acclaimed. The plot, following the travails of five impoverished families living in the treaty port, was particularly well suited to the Shanghai dialect. As staged, however, the play suffered from “an overly rigid” translation; the performance was “excessively trapped by the original script,” which undermined the “feeling of authenticity.” From his vantage point as an observer outside the field, Xu Mo regretted the flawed execution but insisted: “This does not negate dialect drama itself.” Asked to respond to those who reject dialect drama, Xu replied: “Some people oppose everything. The only way to persuade them is to show them.” And if they still persist in opposition? “The German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer said that everyone has the prerogative to be a fool. I think we can allow them to enjoy the privilege.”93 Flippant dismissal of criticism could not, however, solve the conundrum at the nexus of guoyu-­dialect drama. According to Cantonese writer Li Shulun, translation posed problems at every stage of the artistic process. For the writer, feelings of “linguistic separation” materialize as soon as pen meets paper. Translating Cantonese dialogue into “pure, unadulterated guoyu” requires painstaking effort, yet the result still fails to convey the nuances of the original. For actors, a script laboriously rendered in the national language must be decoded and translated as they perform. A play to be staged locally would be much better written directly in dialect, rather than expend wasted effort.94 The language question in dramatic performance was not fully resolved, as a chorus forcefully argued for dialect as a critical component of the cultural arsenal for mobilization. In contrast, the stock of standard speech rose in cinema during the War of Resistance. Before 1937 the

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national language film had fought its Cantonese rival to a draw. As discussed in the previous chapter, dialect movies proved largely impervious to government censorship and dominated the lucrative southern and overseas markets. Prewar films had featured stars whose dubious proficiency in spoken guoyu nonetheless did not detract from success. During the war, shifting ideological priorities and market conditions boosted the appeal of national language movies. The turning point was Mulan Joins the Army (1939), a blockbuster based on the well-­k nown story of a legendary woman warrior, starring Cantonese actress Chen Yunshang. Xinhua studio head Zhang Shankun reportedly auditioned every actress in Shanghai before venturing to Hong Kong, where he failed to persuade Hu Die to come out of retirement. Instead he found Chen Yunshang, a rising star able to speak guoyu fluently.95 Reputedly the most popular film of the war period, Mulan broke box office records, with sold-­out performances for eighty-­five consecutive days when it premiered in Shanghai. Widely interpreted as an allegory for anti-­ Japanese resistance, the lavishly produced costume drama encountered unexpected controversy when it screened in Chongqing. An orchestrated protest interrupted the show to denounce the director and the studio as Japanese collaborators. Members of the audience, riled up by angry speeches, seized the film reels and burned them outside the theater.96 More generally, the success of Mulan helped to pave the way for the ascendance of national language films abroad. Audiences eager for content that reflected wartime realities turned against the Hong Kong industry’s hastily produced fare (derided as “seven-­day wonders”).97 With surging patriotic fervor, overseas Chinese embraced guoyu cinema, abandoning Cantonese “magic arts” and melodrama flicks.98 Xinhua Studio capitalized on Mulan’s success and released a string of historical dramas embedding the message of national resistance (Yue Fei, The Assassination of the Qin Emperor, Confucius).99 Meanwhile, critics castigated Hong Kong filmmakers for pumping out lowbrow entertainment that perpetuated “feudal” values, comparing their profit-­seeking ventures to opium.100 Commentators observed that as refugees fled south to escape the Japanese advance, shifting demographics contributed to the popularity of guoyu films. In Hong Kong, new arrivals unable to understand the regional vernacular eroded Cantonese dominance at the box office.101

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As national language films gained market share, mastery of the spoken standard became a new qualification for actors. Studios in Shanghai established training classes for newcomers and hired tutors for stars in need of remedial help. (Even Chen Yunshang, considered fluent, had a language coach on the set.)102 Open-­call auditions stipulated the ability to speak the national language as a prerequisite. Several retired performers leveraged their expertise to enjoy a second career as instructors of cinematic guoyu.103 For silent-­era star Wang Hanlun, however, linguistic incompetence stymied an attempted comeback. An acclaimed actress in the 1920s, Wang had punctuated a successful career by directing a feature film, one of the first women to do so. She retired from cinema in 1930. In 1938 the tabloids gossiped about her ill-­fated return to the silver screen, when the release of Red Vase was postponed. Those who previewed the movie had reacted negatively to Wang’s pronunciation (despite her “superior acting” in a supporting role, “it’s too bad her guoyu is inadequate”). The female lead was pressed into service to rerecord Wang’s lines, with the dialogue dubbed into the completed film. The long delay set the gossips chattering about the “has-­been” and “the worn-­out yellowed pearl.” After the pronunciation debacle, they sneered, Wang was “too embarrassed to ask for renumeration.”104 As the trade press reported, aspiring film actors were now working diligently to bolster their national language proficiency.105 Those who did not try to improve could be subjected to mockery. For instance, a heavy southern accent afflicted an actress with “laughable pronunciation”—­and yet “she does not seem to care.” (Rather than study, she visited a foreigner’s apartment every night and stayed until the indecent hour of eleven p.m.)106 One glossy magazine appraised another rising star as “equal to Chen Yunshang in beauty; it’s pity she cannot speak guoyu.”107 Among other performers, one critic judged Diao Banhua to be “the worst” for speaking almost entirely in “Hangzhou guanhua” and making no effort to improve. On the other hand, Cang Yinqiu’s speech was “standard,” resonant, and clear, unlike the southern stars who spoke rigidly, “as if dragged through mud and water.” Even Hu Die, the Queen of Cinema, was now subjected to a different standard, with her pronunciation deemed not “sufficiently precise,” obsequious and coquettish with its Jiangnan inflection. Many female performers tried to imitate Hu’s accent, which could sound pleasing or grating depending on one’s taste.108 The ability

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to speak guoyu “like a Beijing native” was the crucial factor in Yamaguchi Yoshiko’s career. Born in Manchuria, she rose to stardom as Li Xianglan, passing as Chinese.109 Li’s career reached its height between 1941 and 1945 in occupied Shanghai, during an unexpected cinema boom when the ban on Hollywood imports eliminated foreign competition. Chinese filmmakers produced more than 250 films during this period, but their cooperation with Japanese authorities generated enduring controversy.110 From the perspective of the KMT in exile, the movies churned out in Shanghai could only be viewed with suspicion. The government’s censorship agenda scrutinized films with dubious morality and those that portrayed the nation in unflattering light or detracted from anti-­Japanese resistance. There was little concern for policing the use of dialect in films. Production in “Free China” paled in comparison to occupied Shanghai. For the KMT, cinema was an expensive mass media form limited by the scarcity of film stock. A semi state-­run industry in Chongqing produced a small corpus of dramatic features and a greater number of newsreels and documentaries, focused on fortifying the national will to fight. Projection teams expanded distribution, visiting villages and touring battlefronts with mobile equipment.111 Among filmmakers and critics, debates about how best to “massify” the genre to reach rural audiences proposed strategies such as returning to silent productions, prioritizing narrative clarity, or using Esperanto as the universal cinematic language. As Weihong Bao put it, “the wide range of dialects thriving” in Chongqing “compromised the institution of Mandarin as a common national language in sound cinema.”112 In 1944 a film magazine observed that after some years of residence, many people in the Chongqing film world had learned to speak Sichuanhua; some were proficient enough for locals to consider them “­fellow villagers.”113 The polyglot environment on the ground mirrored the multilingual airwaves emanating from the wartime capital. Radio was a crucial propaganda medium for the KMT government. From Central Broadcasting Station (XGOA), the agenda emphasized resistance and news of military developments. In addition, entertainment and cultural programming ­provided much-­needed respite from the pressures of a long war. Guoyu, Cantonese, and English were the primary languages for news broadcasts. Regional affiliates added summaries in an array of dialects and languages (Shanghainese, Minnanhua, Hakka, Tibetan, Uyghur,

T he N ational L anguage in E xile  1 45

Vietnamese, Malay, Thai, and so on). Crucially, news dissemination relied on a network of radio reception monitors to transcribe and translate broadcasts into local dialects.114 The KMT’s international station (XGOY, dubbed “Voice of China”) aimed its programming at a global audience. At its peak, the staff delivered fourteen hours of programs a day, in twenty different languages.115 Political leaders, including those from the CCP in a United Front gesture, tried to inspire the nation and influence international opinion through the radio. For instance, when Wang Jingwei announced the establishment of a rival government allied with Japan, a two-­week blitz on KMT stations denounced “Wang the traitor’s puppet regime.” Following an opening lecture by figurehead president Lin Sen, the second day featured eight speeches in six different languages. (CCP partisan Guo Moruo spoke in Japanese, KMT minister Chen Lifu in English, Singaporean businessman Hou Hsi-­fan in Minnanhua.)116 Although Chiang Kai-­shek did not make an appearance on this occasion, his radio messages, delivered in a Ningbo-­ inflected guoyu, were a regular presence on the airwaves. Speeches directed at international audiences were filtered through his wife Soong Mei-­ling’s lilting English translation. In the spring of 1945, in preparation for the arrival of Allied forces, KMT officials took to the airwaves to rally inhabitants of the coastal occupied areas, using a variety of dialects.117

A RMED WITH L ITER ACY

The national language was thus a feature of Nationalist radio, but not its exclusive medium or primary aim. Concurrently, attempts to launch mass literacy campaigns also downplayed the significance of standard speech. In a repeat of disagreements from the previous decades, the zhuyin fuhao once again played a starring role in discussions over whether to prioritize literacy or a standard pronunciation. As Li Jinxi put it, “In a time of peace, a country with too many illiterates is already a serious educational problem; in a time of war, the problem becomes even more acute.” The forty symbols of the phonetic syllabary, an “incisive, rapid, and effective tool,” could be mastered in four weeks, to cope with the thousands of characters necessary for either basic or functional literacy. (According to Li,

FIGURE 3.1  

National pronunciation alphabet chart with forty symbols.

Source: Guoyin zimu biao 國音字母表, National Language Promotion Committee, Education Ministry, 1938.

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varying standards defined “literacy” as familiarity with 600 to 6,788 characters.) Although introductory primers included phonetic annotation, teachers and students routinely ignored them, such that “they are not much different than textbooks without zhuyin.”118 To broaden the reach of phonetic notation beyond the classroom, the National Language Committee launched the Small Newspaper for the Masses (民眾小報) in 1940. Published in Chongqing every three days, this small-­format paper annotated news and feature articles with parallel columns of tiny zhuyin. Instructions directed the literate to read the “Chinese script,” the semiliterate to consult both script and zhuyin, and the illiterate to sound out the phonetic symbols, in order to learn the accompanying characters. A regular column provided serial lessons and practice exercises. As Li Jinxi opined in the inaugural issue, “The masses only need to accept these forty very simple phonetic annotation symbols” to read the paper, which will provide “an extra daily meal of spiritual sustenance.”119 With the shift in priorities during the war, the promotion of zhuyin fuhao increasingly emphasized literacy as the primary objective, with “national language unification” demoted to an auxiliary goal.120 In 1941 the central government resolved to intensify efforts to weaponize zhuyin, with the target of eradicating illiteracy nationwide within five years.121 As KMT official Pan Gongzhan commented, to accomplish the ambitious goal required the participation of every literate person in the country. “In the past, the greatest obstacle to promoting zhuyin literacy came from the disparagement of intellectuals, who would not condescend to learn it.” Although the Chinese literacy campaign differed from Turkey’s language reform, “we should learn President Kemal’s lightning style and firm resolve.” With “these sixty-­eight zhuyin symbols that can be learned in eighteen hours,” more than 300 million illiterates would disappear within three to five years. Pan’s strategy called for creating an immersive environment, appending phonetic symbols to the writing on advertisements, street signs, contracts, stock certificates, public correspondence, and in films. Volunteer instructors would conduct zhuyin classes in schools, military units, government agencies, and teahouses. At every educational level, only those who had learned the phonetic notation would be permitted to graduate.122 Pan’s allusion to “sixty-­eight zhuyin symbols” referred to an expanded syllabary, capable of spelling out many more sounds than the

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thirty-­seven-­to forty-­piece ensemble of the national language. Detaching the phonetic from the national pronunciation opened up the notation system to dialects that diverged significantly from the phonology of guoyu. In 1941 the Education Ministry acknowledged that previous teaching methods had “unduly emphasized” standard pronunciation and “excessive precision.” With the shift to literacy as the primary goal, the ministry issued new instructions with a more flexible rubric: the pronunciation and spelling of the zhuyin fuhao should be based on the principle of “not wrong”; tonal differentiation can be marked according to the “natural tones of the local area and does not need to conform completely to the standard national pronunciation.” In addition, dialect notation can be added “when necessary.”123 Li Jinxi created a new express method phonetic table with seventy-­four symbols and combinations. By learning four each day, one could “graduate” to phonetic literacy in less than three weeks. The zhuyin syllabary does not attempt to manage tonal differentiation, Li reminded students. “It is permissible to follow the natural tones of each locality in pronunciation. It is not necessary to adhere to tones of the standard national pronunciation.”124 Despite offering shortcuts and relaxing the parameters around the standard, officials in Chongqing continued to receive pessimistic accounts from its national language education team, scattered around the Southwest. Luo Shaohan, for example, traveled around Guangxi province for the better part of a year (1941–­1942), preaching the twin gospels of guoyu and zhuyin. Moving from county to county, school to school, Luo felt that “the response was pretty good.” The national language and the regional vernacular shared many phonological similarities, such that “easy adjustments” using “national pronunciation and village accents” worked smoothly. To his disappointment, however, only thirty-­five middle school teachers turned up for a two-­week course he organized; on more than one occasion he discovered that guoyu or zhuyin classes, listed in the curricula of schools he visited, proved to be “masquerades.” Even at flagship primary schools, the instructors “mostly use dialects to teach” and “hardly know how to pronounce the phonetic symbols.” After thirty years of promoting zhuyin fuhao, Luo reflected, “the results have been poor,” but “this is not because symbols are flawed.” Rather, those responsible willfully ignored directives to promote and implement the system. As an example of such egregious disregard, Luo cited an article published in a

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Guilin newspaper, calling for eliminating zhuyin from primary school education. As the father of six school-­age children, the author of this piece complained that compelling eight-­to nine-­year-­olds in third grade to learn both script and zhuyin was “too complicated and difficult.”125 In November 1942 Wu Zhihui gave a radio address on the subject of zhuyin, during a weeklong “social education” campaign. Wu described literacy as an important gauge of a nation’s current status and future prospects, contrasting Japan’s 95 percent success rate with China’s dismal 30 percent. In analyzing the situation, Wu griped that more than half of Japanese’s “literates” were only able to “read” the phonetic kana next to the kanji, not the script itself. “This is stranger than strange! The Japanese have a set of phonologically incomplete marks, a shoddy alphabet haphazardly slapped on the side. And yet on this basis they have won the distinction of ‘the nation with the most widespread literacy in Asia.’ ” Meanwhile, although China has a “rational and ordered system,” the “scholar officials” will not deign to use it or allow phonetic annotation in newspapers and journals. After twenty years, zhuyin is “shelved” in a small number of primary schools, while the Latinization battle rages on, like “animals fighting in the mud, where neither side wins.” Stranger still, some refused to use the phonetic method, on the grounds that the “Japanese thieves” pilfered it. The logic was ludicrous, Wu thundered, for the enemy had also stolen our airplanes and cannons—­obviously no one would insist on using swords and knives, intentionally “forgoing the opportunity to use effective weapons.” In closing, Wu called for a ban on all publications without phonetic annotation, saying that those who find the symbols disagreeable could ignore them: “you can just read the characters.”126 Oddly, Wu Zhihui concluded his speech by saying, “I am not drunk tonight, and this is not crazy talk.” A year later, he took the opposite tack to criticize the overemphasis on zhuyin for literacy, at the expense of standard pronunciation. When “ordinary people” regard phonetic notation as a form of “simplified characters” to be used for reading, they only focus on its “secondary function” and treat it with indifference or suspicion. Wu recounted a recent article written by filmmaker Xu Suling, describing his travels through Xinjiang. Xu maintained that the government mandate for all ethnic groups to learn the national language through zhuyin seemed “extraneous.” Alluding to the feeble track record of the zhuyin method “in the interior provinces,” Xu asked: Why insist on a circuitous route to

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guoyu literacy, when the people of the frontiers can use the “phonetic alphabet of their own languages, which they already know?”127 Reflecting on this attitude, Wu opined that Xu was hardly alone. “Probably eight or nine people out of ten share this impression” and disregard the “primary function” of zhuyin—­“to establish a rigorous standard pronunciation.” This was an especially pertinent issue in Xinjiang, where people heard cacophonously inconsistent, “myriad oddities of blue green ­guanhua from the eighteen provinces” (Hebei and Shandong versions, Jiangsu-­Zhejiang-­Guangdong-­Fujian types, “Uyghurized” and “Kazakh” varieties). Worst of all, foreigners scoff: “What the heck is this! ‘More or less the same, good enough’ hardly constitutes a standard.” In this context, the most important mission of the zhuyin fuhao was to unify pronunciation and “expunge the humiliation” of “good enough.” Lest anyone misconstrue the undertaking as one of linguistic colonization, Wu insisted that the national language campaign did not intend to abolish all regional dialects or ethnic languages. But “for the people of one nation to rely on ‘script talk’ to communicate—­how can this not be considered shameful?”128

TO THE F RON TIERS

As Wu Zhihui’s prickly diatribe suggests, the linguistic geography of the border regions prompted linguists and educators to reconsider their methods and priorities. Encounters with people whose speech could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be considered a “Han dialect” (Uyghurs, Mongolians, Miao, among many) undermined their assumptions. For instance, in Taijiang County in Guizhou (600 km south of Chongqing), teacher Wu Xiuqin found that nothing in his previous experience prepared him for an environment in which 95 percent of the residents were Miao, for whom the concept of a national language was unknown and alien. Although the situation upended his expectations, the students’ enthusiastic response also inspired him. Despite years of hardship caused by drought and famine, many in Wu’s literacy classes paid fees to attend, including more than sixty young women who defied their parents to enroll. In his report to the Education Ministry, he explained that in order

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to adapt, he switched to the local dialect as the medium of instruction.129 In contrast to Wu Xiuqin’s positive reflection on his experiences in Guizhou, the national language confronted an unexpectedly inhospitable environment in Ningxia province. Belonging to the category of “northwest guanhua,” most varieties of this regional vernacular shared “great commonalities and small differences” with the national pronunciation. This should have been fertile ground for implanting guoyu. Yet as the provincial education bureau reported, “most people are accustomed to the old habit of looking down on speaking guanhua,” associated with the language of the former Qing banner garrison (a Manchu-­inflected Beijinghua, sometimes called 旗下話), now equated with the national language. “Therefore, except for the banners, most people are unwilling to speak the national language. Even the young people of banner households prefer the local dialect.” Given this attitude of derision, correcting the people’s “erroneous psychology” was far more difficult than adjusting their “dialect pronunciation.”130 Meanwhile, in the context of an unpredictable linguistic milieu, Li Jinxi pondered prospects for the national language from Northwest Teachers’ College in Lanzhou. In Li’s view, the war magnified the ideological and strategic importance of guoyu—­as part of “national defense,” with an important role to play in securing the borders, “awakening the people,” and rallying them to fight. To facilitate communication, national language education would have to go beyond a few spoken phrases or written characters. To achieve mutual understanding, Han people needed to learn the languages of their “border compatriots”—­a nd vice versa.131 In fact, investigators were fanning out across the Southwest and Northwest to study the languages and cultures of the inhabitants, in order to better understand the variegated terrain. As they surveyed unfamiliar landscapes populated by unfamiliar peoples, they produced a flurry of field reports under the auspices of universities and government agencies.132 Again and again, researchers returned to the premise that in order to forge intimate emotional connections between “frontier compatriots” and the people of the interior, the first priority must be education, anchored by the national language.133 “If we are unable to communicate, nothing can get done. The further out you go into the frontier, the more important language becomes.”134 Linguistic differences sowed seeds of separation—­ and “when people harbor ‘anti-­outsider’ feelings in their hearts,” conflicts

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may ensue.135 In Xinjiang, where by one count fourteen ethnic groups intermingled, the incommensurability of speech impeded “mutual ­understanding,” contributing to the unhappy history of rebellions in the region.136 To strengthen solidarity, the Mongolian-­Tibetan division of the Education Ministry (established in 1929) assumed responsibility for an extensive agenda. The vision of incorporating “border compatriots” into the battle for national survival aimed to “fortify sentiments between ethnic groups,” expunge discriminatory attitudes, and “harmonize relations.”137 The Border Education Committee, first convened in 1939, sought to consolidate bureaucratic attention to the issue across government agencies. Chiang Kai-­shek’s highly publicized 1942 northwest tour also augmented the region’s strategic significance as “the stronghold for national construction.” The allocation of resources, however, did not match the rhetorical importance attributed to securing the frontiers through education. From 1939 to 1944, thirty-­nine “border region” schools were established, enrolling ten thousand students—­a minuscule number across seven provinces.138 According to a visiting researcher, in ethnic minority villages throughout Yunnan, one would be hard pressed to find primary school graduates, much less qualified teachers. Han Chinese imported from elsewhere “grudgingly” attended to their duties. Unhappy with low pay and difficult working conditions, they were “constantly looking for a way out.” Local residents, sensing obvious apathy and scorn, quickly lost faith in learning.139 In addition to personnel issues, the medium of instruction presented another predicament. In Yunnan, according to one account, three mutually unintelligible language groups (Tibetan-­Burmese, Thai, and Khmer) encompassed at least 150 dialect varieties. Expert opinion diverged over whether the use of “border languages” in the classroom should be permitted, encouraged, or prohibited. “We must not forget that the primary purpose of border education is to elevate the culture of our border compatriots,” declared one educator, “to enable them to assimilate into the great cultural furnace of the interior.” Preserving their languages and scripts would hinder the process. “But in truth we cannot destroy their languages and scripts completely, otherwise border education cannot proceed at all.”140 “Cultivating” the people of the Southwest and implementing educational initiatives, opined a professor of anthropology, required breaking through existing linguistic barriers. The zhuyin phonetic could

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function as an instrument for “educating and civilizing non-­Han peoples,” using persuasion as the primary method, with “compulsory force” as a last resort. “There is no harm in using non-­Han languages in instruction at the outset, and gradually, to the extent possible, make the switch to Hanyu.”141 To those on the front lines of education, the problems they encountered crystallized the dilemmas of a nation at war. As the Communist challenge intensified in the 1940s, the battle over language reopened on a highly politicized front. In the regions under CCP control, Sin Wenz advocates used it for the literacy drive, advertising its advantages on the basis of expediency. In 1941 the Shaan-­Gan-­Ning Border Region Government raised the stakes by giving Latinized New Writing “the same legal status as Chinese characters.” Laws and official documents would be written in both scripts, with equal validity.142 Veteran revolutionary Wu Yuzhang was the moving spirit behind Latinization in Yan’an. After more than forty years in the trenches, including credentials as former aide to Sun Yat-­sen and eleven years spent in the Soviet Union, Wu was known as one of the “elders” of the revolution. In public statements he minimized the apparent antagonism between GR and Sin Wenz, and he downplayed the perceived contradiction between “advocating for national language unification” and “developing dialects.”143 But it was difficult for a system premised on regional speech diversity to shake the allegations of linguistic fragmentation and the corollary peril of splintering the nation. Rivals in the guoyu camp disdained the opportunists trying to use the language issue as a “wedge.” They volubly reiterated confidence in the eventual triumph of guoyu in the battle for the nation’s linguistic future. According to Li Jinxi, the zhuyin fuhao was the best weapon of all—­a bridge of communication, translating between “ethnic” languages and its national patriarch, and a “go-­between” matchmaker between ethnic groups, “imparting civilization and unifying purpose.”144 Whereas some advocated pushing the national language “by force,” he felt coercion would doom the entire project to failure. Instead, Li said that Chinese script (Hanzi) paired with zhuyin could function as a “lightning method”: mastery in three weeks, no teacher necessary. The Hanzi-­zhuyin pairing could not encompass the radically different languages and scripts of the borderlands. A phonetic notation system incorporating dialects and “the languages of frontier compatriots” would function as a “magnet,” which, as Li imagined, would prove irresistible in attracting all to the national cause.

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This was not a new idea. As discussed in chapter 2, Chao Yuen Ren had created a “Union Table of Phonetic Annotation,” and other linguists had developed notation schemes for Wuxi, Suzhou, and Fuzhou dialects. In 1936 Qian Xuantong was working on an updated version of Chao’s union table, using IPA to “record and clarify the phonemes of the most important dialects in each region.” The outbreak of the war interrupted the project.145 Now, in the 1940s, members of the National Language Committee once again took up the task of expanding the phonetic notation system. As Li Jinxi described, the study of “Chinese dialects” encompasses two meanings: the “narrow” approach addresses “various Han local speech and dialects,” while the “broad” approach includes the languages of other ethnic groups within the nation’s borders. “Now we should proceed on both fronts simultaneously”—­an immensely complex endeavor, particularly since research on ethnic languages was only in its infancy. Bringing such work to fruition would require substantial time and resources, for “we cannot proceed in sloppy . . . ​piecemeal fashion.” To accelerate the process, Li suggested cooperating with researchers investigating economic, social, or geographical subjects, as well as consulting the work of other Chinese and foreign scholars.146 For “Xinjiang Muslim script” (新疆回文), for instance, Xu Xihua had already devised a system correlating each letter of the script to IPA and a modified version of the zhuyin fuhao.147 Published in 1938 by the KMT government, the Phonetic Phrase­ book of Xinjiang Muslim Script drew on Xu’s long study of Turkic languages, as well as the expertise of Chao Yuen Ren and two Uyghur political leaders.148 Once settled in Kunming, researchers in the History and Philology Institute of Academia Sinica launched a series of linguistic surveys, eventually completing fieldwork in ninety-­eight counties in Yunnan. Concurrently, colleagues based at Lianda (the Associated University) also journeyed afar to collect data on the speech of “frontier peoples.”149

ST RAW SA N DA L S AND L EAT HER SHOES

Beyond detailed study of “special frontier languages,” merging them with Han dialects into a coherent phonetic system reflecting the “entire nation” presented another enormous undertaking. In 1940 the National Language

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Committee appointed a subcommittee to finalize a “national union table of dialect phonetic notation” (全國方音注音符號總表). The group included the most prominent linguists of the time (several renowned for their research in the frontier regions), who would go on to lead language reform campaigns on both sides of the Taiwan Straits in the postwar period.150 To begin, Li Jinxi created a chart as the basis for the committee’s deliberations—­a union table “using the national pronunciation to unify dialect sounds.” Li’s extensive draft expanded the forty symbols of the original zhuyin fuhao to include the phonemic inventory of all major regional speech groups. In addition, he provided the IPA equivalent for each phoneme, as well as corresponding examples in English, French, Russian, German, and Japanese (for comparative purposes and “to facilitate foreign learning”). To denote the hierarchy of sounds, large bold letters indicated the national pronunciation while smaller fonts marked the dialect variations. Li’s working notes also recorded the issues he considered: syllabic spelling rules (three for the national pronunciation, four for dialects); tonal differentiation (the “standard” four plus the fifth for “southeastern dialects,” unmarked for others). Summarizing his work, Li remarked that he developed this draft based on the 1919 “extravocalic alphabet” and Chao Yuen Ren’s 1932 phonetic union table.151 In addition to setting the parameters for the Dialect Subcommittee’s deliberations, Li Jinxi created a standardized form for the linguistic surveys the group intended to conduct starting in the summer of 1942. The plan called for training a corps of fieldworkers and dispatching them to selected sites, where they would “record the phonemes of each language,” take an inventory of sample vocabulary, and note unique grammatical features. Once compiled and analyzed, the data would form the foundation for new reference works and pedagogical materials.152 Not surprisingly, the substantial resources required to execute such detailed surveys were slow to materialize.153 In the meantime, the draft version of the “national union table of dialect phonetic notation” circulated in educational back channels.154 In the spring of 1943, the Dialect Subcommittee convened in Chongqing to assess progress and decide on the path forward.155 One crucial matter before the group was whether to incorporate “frontier languages” into the union chart or to produce two (or more) separate ones. Other issues included the use of IPA, and whether to exempt “frontier languages” from the syllabic rules of phonetic

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notation. What additional markers (dots, commas, circles) could be used to denote dialect variations—­or would this inadvertently cause more confusion? Of the symbols added to the expanded syllabary, had they diverged too far in shape from Chinese characters, in violation of the “original principles” of zhuyin? Should they divide the “dialects of the  nation” into regions and create a separate scheme for each? How should they weigh the relative importance of dialect notation against the priority of “national language unification”? Although the participants differed on some of these issues, they were a group of close colleagues who had worked together on national language campaigns for a decade or more. Sharing largely the same assumptions about the substance and import of the national project, they could agree to disagree, without the kind of vitriol that had characterized earlier debates. With incomplete knowledge of “Han dialects” and “ethnic” languages, however, how precisely to calibrate phonological analysis remained an open question. As Wu Zhihui put it at one meeting, “I have often said, for the zhuyin fuhao to facilitate mass literacy, the cruder, the better . . . ​if it is too refined, the people will not use it.” Wu invoked analogies he had used in the past: for the masses, phonetic annotation should resemble a pair of comfortable straw sandals rather than expensive leather shoes. The erudition of phonological research can reach the point of being a “holy grail,” but it must also be simple and clear so that ordinary people are able to use it. In short, “the zhuyin fuhao we are discussing today needs to be both ‘leather shoes’ and ‘straw sandals.’ ” Li Jinxi echoed this sentiment, comparing the work of the committee to “going up to heaven to lay tiles for the Jade Emperor” and “descending to the eighteenth level of hell to mine coal for the King of Hell.”156 To accomplish objectives both high and low, broad and narrow, the Dialect Committee decided to separate the two and proceed in stages. Over marathon, multiday sessions in March and April 1943, they debated and amended Li Jinxi’s draft, including discussions of substantive ­modifications proposed by Wang Li and Zhou Bianming (in absentia). Eventually the group reached consensus on a “Union Table of Analytical Chinese Phonology and Comparative Phonetic Annotation” (中國語音分 析符號與注音符號對照總表). The completed chart would be circulated to universities and government agencies, for internal use only.157 As for the low, the local inventories of dialect phonology, needed for mass literacy projects, would be deferred until the completion of field research. To a

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suggestion about giving priority to Mongolian, Tibetan, and “Muslim” languages (to further the aims of “frontier education”), the committee resolved to cooperate with other academic institutions to conduct research. Indeed, to be relevant to mass education, the linguistic data the Dialect Subcommittee produced would have to be translated into “straw sandals” and imported into adult literacy and primary school textbooks. In addition to “simplicity and clarity,” textbooks also required adaptation to reflect local religious beliefs and social customs. Curricular materials from the interior were not necessarily appropriate; what was suitable for one region might completely miss the mark in another.158 In this context, national language primers bore a unique burden, to embody the unity of the nation while accommodating linguistic and cultural differences. As a technical issue, books featuring multiple scripts also confronted the issue of directionality: how to align Chinese writing (right-­to-­left in vertical columns) to the array of others (e.g., Tibetan, left-­to-­right in horizontal rows, or Mongolian, left-­to-­right in vertical columns).159 In a proposal for a “seven-­column textbook,” Li Jinxi disregarded this awkwardness and instead focused on the septuple format as a way to “unite ethnic groups, to come together as the people of one nation, unifying our resolve and determination to fight for victory.” One sample page shows the parallel notation arrangement that Chao Yuen Ren and Wu Zhihui had previously used, expanded to seven columns. The “national script” at the center writes out the sentences: “I am Chinese / You are Chinese,” corresponding to the “Muslim script translation” to the left. Moving to the right, zhuyin annotates the national pronunciation in the first column, followed successively by GR and the national pronunciation spelled out in “Muslim” alphabet. Finally, two columns to the far left provide “dialect pronunciation” with zhuyin and GR. The lesson continues with “He is also Chinese / We are all Chinese / We all must love China.”160 Anchored by the Chinese script, the message attempts to mitigate the linguistic and ethnic divides on display by reiterating national belonging and patriotism. Li Jinxi was not the first to contemplate multiple scripts as pedagogical method. In the early 1930s the Education Ministry had authorized bilingual primers matching the national language to Mongolian and Uyghur. The extant versions did not incorporate phonetic notation, the essential feature of the seven-­column textbook.161 Li Jinxi later simplified the scheme to four columns, with two vertical lines of script flanked by corresponding phonetic notations. As he explained, in recent years,

FIGURE 3.2  

Li Jinxi’s seven-­column textbook.

Source: Meng Zang yuebao 蒙藏月報 13, no. 10 (1941): 9.

T he N ational L anguage in E xile  159

“special frontier languages” became a generic category denoting non-­ Han languages within the nation’s boundaries. Some “simple-­minded people,” advocating for their extermination, proposed to compel the adoption of the national language by force. They fundamentally misunderstood both the function of guoyu and the nature of “dialects” and “special languages.” Unification, according to Li, sets a “standard dialect” as the country’s linguistic currency, without intending to eradicate others. Moreover, in the period of anti-­Japanese resistance, “we need to pay special attention to the border regions”—­if we cannot understand each other, in speech or in writing, “how can we even speak of national construction?” In this context, the “dialect pronunciation” component of the four-­column textbook provides the connective tissue to link guoyu to any spoken language—­“an appropriate, easy, fast, and effective method.” For those working in the border regions, “all you have to do is read the zhuyin of the fourth column,” which sounds out the sentence in the target language. “When frontier compatriots hear it, they will understand your meaning.” Li thus envisioned the phonetic alphabet as a versatile intermediary, capable of bringing the people of the borderlands into the national fold.162 Despite the paramount importance attributed to the function of the dialect phonetic, in 1941 the Frontier Education Committee eliminated it from its rubric for school textbooks and adult literacy materials, rendering “the most important column” optional. To Li’s dismay, the committee decided to rely exclusively on writing, saying: “When necessary, use Mongolian, Tibetan, or Arabic script to translate the meaning.” Even so, Li remained optimistic about the compatibility of the national language with its ethnic counterparts.163 The potential of the multiple-­column textbook did not come to full fruition. Li Jinxi completed the manuscript for a version matching Tibetan to the national language, but it was never published. A proposal for a four-­ column edition, to serve the multilingual diaspora in Burma, also remained an unrealized concept.164 In 1943 the National Institute for Compilation and Translation received three manuscripts from a teacher in Kham. Using the format of the Three Character Classic, the author matched the Yi and Luo languages to guoyu, using scripts and zhuyin. Asked to evaluate the manuscripts for possible publication, the Education Ministry rejected them, citing “numerous flaws” in pronunciation as rendered in phonetic notation. This was a matter best “handled by experts.”165

16 0  T he N ational L anguage in E xile

Despite the unfulfilled promise, through tools such as the Union Table and multiple-­column textbooks, Li Jinxi and others were trying to expand both the idea and reality of the national language. By enlarging its parameters, could guoyu incorporate all speakers within the nation’s territorial borders and possibly beyond, to overseas Chinese communities? In addition to the technical issues to be addressed, questions about the essential function of the national language and its phonetic counterpart also surfaced. At the most fundamental level, this move stretched the idea of guoyu—­to some, beyond recognition. The zhuyin phonetic notation had been originally created to unify speech, as a solution to linguistic fragmentation. The approach of facilitating the expression of ethnic and supranational differences could be easily interpreted as reinforcing linguistic divisions. For the zhuyin fuhao to serve a translation function between ethnic groups was a far cry from the vision of one nation speaking in one voice. Had they strayed too far from the original purpose or critically undermined the goal of standardization? Indeed, with literacy’s claim to equal or greater importance, how to balance the competing priorities remained an unresolved conundrum. In a time of scarce resources, trade­ offs were necessary—­between allocating personnel to literacy campaigns and concentrating on standardizing pronunciation in teacher training and in primary schools.166 During the celebration of “National Language Week” in 1944, orchestrated to coincide with Wu Zhihui’s eightieth birthday, the Education Ministry switched gears to emphasize standard pronunciation over literacy. In Chongqing, the menu of activities included speech and writing contests, lectures, film screenings, drama performances, and radio broadcasts. Wu Zhihui did not attend the opening ceremony held in his honor, due to illness. In his stead Wei Jiangong read Wu’s polemic on the functions of zhuyin (discussed earlier), in which he chastised those who overemphasized literacy while slighting speech standardization.167 Education Minister Chen Lifu echoed Wu’s exhortation. Recalling the initial aims of the Conference to Unify Pronunciation in 1913, Chen stressed that the fruition of the national language depended on “correct pronunciation” and “standardized speech,” facets that “some compatriots have recently disregarded.”168 When the Education Ministry directed other jurisdictions to coordinate national language week activities, however, some decided to focus their efforts on literacy. In Sichuan, the provincial government belatedly launched its program in April and opted to showcase Li Jinxi’s

The N ational L anguage in E xile  161

express phonetic method, adapted for the regional pronunciation (based on Chengdu dialect).169 Meanwhile, officials in Anhui, Zhejiang, Jiangxi, and Henan sent apologies. Citing the exigency of war, they could not marshal resources to promote the national language.170

R This analysis of the national language in exile has underscored how wartime crisis sparked a rousing chorus advocating for its importance while the shattering impact of the upheaval derailed efforts to transform aspiration into reality. With sparse resources, fluctuating priorities, and an education infrastructure in disarray, the implementation of guoyu could scarcely approach national scope or scale. Indeed, one observer in the immediate postwar period bemoaned its state as “existing in name with no basis in reality,” saddled with a “fragmented national pronunciation.”171 At the same time, beyond much-­lamented failures at institutional levels, anecdotal evidence indicates that for many individuals, wartime experiences produced an informal linguistic convergence. With millions fleeing their homes, displacement and migration motivated them to adjust and—­as the opening quotation to this chapter referenced—­to “learn to speak guanhua.” The adjustments took various forms, including picking up the dialect, wherever one landed, through informal interactions. Some were proud of their linguistic virtuosity; others managed by putting rudimentary national language skills to work, supplemented with hand gesticulations.172 In Sichuan, the terminus for many refugees who followed the KMT government in retreat, the proximity of the provincial vernacular to standard guoyu made it relatively easier for those familiar with northern sounds and tones to adapt. For native speakers of southern regional speech (for instance, those from Guangdong, Fujian, and Shanghai), the years spent in Sichuan acclimated them to pronunciation closer to the national. Some would later recall an impetus toward “broader usage of guoyu,” as people from different provinces mixed and interacted. Chen Zhongzhang observed that it had been rare to hear guoyu in Guangzhou before the war, in any setting. After victory he found many more speaking the national language “in nearly every type of gathering.”173 In these instances, the pronunciation might have been deemed “not standard,” comparable to “blue-­green guanhua”—­derided for imprecision but a functional medium,

16 2 T he N ational L anguage in E xile

nonetheless. This dynamic also prevailed in the Nationalist armies, where there is little indication of formal programs to install standard speech. On the run and fighting for survival, the KMT military did not devote resources to guoyu pedagogy. Units organized largely along regional commands could navigate with the prevailing spoken vernacular. But like civilian refugees, soldiers were on the move, deployed out of their home regions as battlefronts shifted. When conscripts intermingled and regrouped, they needed to communicate across dialect lines or with people in local communities. “National writing, pronunciation, language, anthem, and flag are the most important tools for the unity of a nation,” proclaimed an editorial in Central Daily News in 1944, as part of the publicity for National Language Week. Among these, language was the most incisive weapon for “recovering our national self-­determination.” The Japanese invasion intensified the urgency of the language issue, for “the modern imperialist does not limit its aggression to military, political and economic realms.” In Taiwan, the Ryukyu Islands, and Korea, decades of compulsory education resulted in the people “forgetting their ancestors,” with over half of the population able to speak only Japanese. In regions that endured a shorter period of predation (such as in China and Southeast Asia), the enemy used Japanese language “to assimilate people trampled under iron hooves.”174 The end of World War II finally lifted the iron hooves from the backs of the people of occupied China, Taiwan, and beyond. In his victory speech broadcast from Chongqing in August 1945, Chiang Kai-­shek celebrated the triumph, thanking the Chinese people, the Allies, and a “righteous and merciful God.” Speaking in a thickly accented guoyu, Chiang sounded a somber warning: “We have now won the victory, but it is not yet the final victory. . . . ​When the fighting has ceased completely, peace will bring us formidably difficult tasks, demanding greater suffering and strength than the years of war. . . . ​At times we may feel that the problems of peace are more arduous than those we encountered during the war.”175 Chiang turned his attention to the daunting undertaking of rebuilding a country torn apart by eight years of war, and to fighting the Communists in a final battle for the nation’s future. The question of Taiwan loomed large—­the first piece of national territory to be lost, now returned to its embrace. The travails of the national language in the former Japanese colony are the subject of the next chapter.

4 TAIWAN BABEL

I

n August 1945 when officials from the Nationalist regime arrived on Taiwan after the Japanese surrender, they encountered a population speaking in unintelligible tongues—­Taiwanese/Taiyu/Minnanhua and Hakka, with educated adults and schoolchildren also fluent in Japanese, known as kokugo 国語.1 A small indigenous population, living primarily in the mountainous central region and along the eastern coast, spoke about a dozen Austronesian languages. After fifty years of colonial rule, which coincided with the genesis of guoyu 國語 on the mainland, few on the island identified with “Mandarin” as their “national language.” “Those younger than forty years-­old,” one instructor from the mainland observed, “have no idea at all what China is, much less the language and culture of the fatherland.”2 In the KMT’s crusade to bring them back into the embrace of the nation, a top priority was teaching the people of Taiwan to speak the true “national language,” rather than the Japanese version that had been masquerading as such. Six months earlier, with victory in sight, the National Language Promotion Committee had joined working groups planning for the island’s retrocession after Japan’s probable defeat. In drafting policy blueprints for a place they had no firsthand knowledge of, committee members articulated a series of working assumptions. In the first place, “assuming that ‘Minnanhua’ penetrates every level of Taiwanese society” and is able to replace Japanese completely—­then “the implementation of the national

16 4 Taiwan Babel

language will certainly not take decades.” The KMT would embark on a path radically different from the colonial regime, with “new methods still to be invented.” After retrocession, assuming that Taiwanese compatriots will feel “pained at heart” when speaking Japanese but will not yet know the national language—­they will “consciously return to their mother tongues—­Minnanhua and Hakka.”3 These assumptions proved to be far off the mark. Preparations for the takeover did not anticipate how difficult it would be to disentangle the Japanese kokugo from the Chinese guoyu and the native vernaculars of the island. In broad outlines, the fate of the national language project in Taiwan is well-­known. Initially the people of the island greeted the arrival of the KMT enthusiastically and embraced guoyu as a part of a long-­ awaited reunion. But the newcomers’ disparaging attitudes, in toxic combination with misguided government policies, soon alienated the local inhabitants. In particular, the assumption that those who had learned Japanese were “colonial slaves” provoked resentment, and the ban on Japanese publications effectively turned the Taiwanese elite into semiliterates.4 The influx of two million refugees during the civil war created new categories of belonging, pitting mainlanders as “people from outside the province” (waishengren 外省人) against the “original people of the province” (benshengren 本省人). The antipathies and misunderstandings, linguistic and otherwise, culminated in the explosive violence of the February 28th Incident in 1947 (referred to as 2-­28), during which some twenty thousand Taiwanese were killed.5 During the uprising, some rebels sang songs and shouted anti-­K MT slogans in Japanese, voicing their perfidy. In the aftermath, the government shifted into an aggressive mode of linguistic assimilation during a time of repression. Through education and coercion, the national language permeated Taiwanese society.6 Usually narrated as the draconian implementation of a “Mandarin-­ only” policy (獨尊國語), existing scholarship describes the parallel interdiction of dialects as a form of cultural imperialism and/or political oppression.7 This chapter interrogates this narrative and untangles the complexity of the national language campaign as it was implemented from 1945 to 1959. The assumption of a compulsory monolingual policy elides the social realities of a fraught process that unfolded over more than a decade. The conventional wisdom also overestimates the coherence of the state’s language planning agenda, its capacity to enforce it, and the speed

Taiwan Babel  16 5

with which the national language displaced its linguistic rivals. Studies that date the intensification of the Mandarin-­only policy to the 1970s, focus on the “recover the mother tongue” movement of the 1980s, or address the contemporary situation generally disregard the formative years of the post-­retrocession period.8 With attention to temporal specificity, this chapter addresses the contradictory role of Taiwanese dialects to unknot what Jing Tsu has called the “unresolved kernel of China’s modern language movement.”9 By tracing the frictions and vacillations in the triangular competition between the colonial language, the national language, and Taiwan’s varied vernacular speech, I show that in the midst of linguistic confusion different possibilities emerged for imagining the island’s connection to the nation.

RE T URN TO THE EMBRACE OF T HE FAT HERLA N D

When the Education Ministry deputized the National Language Committee to craft policies for Taiwan’s linguistic retrocession in 1945, its Chongqing-­based members were preoccupied with education issues in the border regions. As discussed in the previous chapter, the KMT government’s wartime exile had sharpened the ideological charge of the national language. Those tasked with its implementation grappled with how to accommodate the speech and scripts of ethnic minority peoples within a guoyu framework. For linguists and educators immersed in problems of “frontier education,” turning attention to Taiwan meant revisiting issues associated with “Han dialects” that had troubled their efforts from the beginning. The initial plans proposed to set up a provincial committee that would supervise a “vanguard team” for implementation. Possible strategies covered a spectrum of approaches: zhuyin fuhao, dialect ­phonetics (Minnan zhuyin), a “comparative method” (Japanese kana–­ zhuyin), or the “direct method.”10 These approaches had strong advocates and equally vociferous detractors; they had been debated, tried, and in some cases denounced during the battles of the previous decades. Despite thirty years of experience on the mainland, replicating a national language apparatus on Taiwan proved more difficult than anticipated. A team dispatched from Chongqing, including Wei Jiangong and

16 6  Taiwan Babel

He Rong, took several months to assemble and did not convene as the Taiwan Provincial National Language Promotion Committee until the spring of 1946. Soon the escalating civil war disrupted communication and teacher recruitment. To compensate for prolonged delays, Wei Jiangong took to the radio airwaves to promote the virtues of the national language, and the education bureau arranged for the broadcast of daily lessons. The easiest choice was to play Chao Yuen Ren’s New Phonograph Recordings for the National Language, recorded in Shanghai in 1935. From his perch at Harvard, Chao was no longer directly involved with the campaign in progress on the mainland, now imported to Taiwan. Before his departure from China in 1938, Chao’s voice had defined standard speech, through his phonograph lessons and radio broadcasts. In Taiwan, however, listeners found the professor’s “model” pronunciation mostly incomprehensible. After a short trial, the committee appointed Qi Tiehen to give lessons, accompanied by translation into Minnan dialect.11 Adapting guoyu instruction for Taiwan’s linguistic environment was obviously crucial to the success of the enterprise. During the transitional years this adaptation took myriad forms. For instance, a radio primer compiled by Lin Zhong (director of Taiwan Broadcasting Station) begins in typical fashion, with an introduction of zhuyin fuhao in the first lesson.12 In the text, the sound of each syllable is rendered with a Chinese character, approximations in Minnanhua, the Latin alphabet, and Japanese, interspersed with instructions for how to manipulate the lips, teeth, and mouth to achieve the correct pronunciation. Without broadcast transcripts or recordings, it is not clear whether or how all these sounds were explained on the radio. The format of the text indicates that Lin favored a comparative method. The introductory lessons also describe medial vowels, multisyllabic combinations, and the four tones, followed by pronunciation exercises. After working through the first volume, the student would have learned to say “This is a book” and “Even though the national language is difficult, we must learn it properly.”13 As the student progresses through the next three volumes, verbatim translations in Japanese at the bottom of each page facilitate comprehension. The use of Japanese would soon become a flashpoint of contention, but in 1945 this approach garnered official approval. Announcements of major laws and government regulations provided Japanese translations. Governor Chen Yi endorsed Lin Zhong’s series with his calligraphy; Li Wanju

Taiwan Babel  167

(editor of the state-­owned Taiwan New Life Daily) penned the preface. In his remarks, Li characterized the difference between “Minnanhua” and the national language as “mostly the same with minor differences”; the most significant variance was “some slang.” With reference to the colonial era, Li asserted that although the Japanese tried to destroy Taiwanese customs and language, on the whole there were more similarities than differences between Japanese grammar/vocabulary/syntax and “our national language.” Rather than an obstacle, these parallels could ease the learning process.14 In this framework, Japanese bridged gaps in understanding, translating the sounds of the (Chinese) national language into (colonial) kokugo. An assortment of teaching materials, rushed to the market in the midst of a “learn guoyu fever,” attests to this translation function. Primers, practice manuals, and “quick guides” to the national language variously combined Japanese with zhuyin, Chinese script, and/or Wade-­Giles romanization to explain pronunciation, grammar, and vocabulary.15 Books published before retrocession, intended for Japanese learners, were reissued with new covers and titles. Prominently placed Nationalist symbols (Sun Yat-­sen’s last testament, the KMT party anthem) authorized the use of the colonial language to learn guoyu.16 For students learning the language of “the fatherland” during the transition to KMT rule, Japanese played a curious role. As He Rong later described it, although “having these materials was preferable to not having any at all,” the methods sowed confusion: “I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.”17 The objection was not to Japanese per se, but rather to the specious texts flooding the market. This flexible attitude toward using Japanese to mediate learning the (new) national language disregarded the stated government intent to wipe out the linguistic vestiges of colonial rule. In 1944–­1945 successive iterations of plans for the island’s “recovery” stipulated that Japanese would be immediately banned from all official communications, textbooks, and newspapers.18 Qiu Niantai, a member of the preparatory committee and a Taiwan native, had recommended a one-­year grace period, during which Japanese would be permitted in schools on a limited basis and in bilingual publications, to help ease the transition. Although chief executive Chen Yi favorably reviewed Qiu’s proposals (which covered a range of other topics), his suggestions about Japanese language were not

16 8  Taiwan Babel

initially incorporated into the policies governing the takeover.19 Instead, the rhetoric of “uprooting Japan, implanting China” came to fore.20 To KMT officials sent to administer Taiwan, fifty years of Japanese rule had so thoroughly “poisoned” its inhabitants that they remained in the vise grip of “enslavement” even after retrocession. Other new arrivals experienced a palpable alienation, with the linguistic divide accentuating the sense of separation (“They refer to people from the mainland as Chinese and themselves as Taiwanese”; “I could not understand a word they said”).21 The detoxification process would entail a double dose of Sun Yat-­ sen’s Three Principles of the People in combination with the national language, an ideological cleansing construed as a litmus test of the people’s readiness for self-­rule.22 In May 1946 the question of colonial “enslavement” erupted into public controversy. The proximate cause was a speech delivered by Fan Shoukang to a cadre training corps. In his capacity as the provincial director of education, Fan enjoined the students to “rejuvenate the spirit of Taiwan.” According to an account in the newspaper Minbao, the speech also included accusations of Taiwanese agitation for self-­rule and ambitions for independence. Unwilling to participate in the crucial tasks of reconstruction, they rejected government policies and mistreated the mainlanders. The sharpest insult of all indicted the islanders for their “complete enslavement” under Japanese rule, with the insinuation that they remained prisoners of colonial mentality.23 The ensuing furor burst into full view when the inaugural session of the Provincial Assembly convened the next day. At the request of Representative Kuo Kuo-­chi, the assembly authorized an investigation. The results were presented six days later, when Fan Shoukang made a previously scheduled appearance to deliver a report on education. Kuo Kuo-­ chi produced an affidavit from witnesses corroborating the news report and followed up with an impassioned denunciation of Fan’s insults. In his own defense, Fan claimed that he had been misquoted. He invited those “with doubts” to check the records—­the transcripts of the speech (kept at the cadre training corps office) were impervious to tampering.24 The atmosphere was tense, with several hundred agitated spectators in attendance, the fissures between Taiwanese and mainlanders on display.25 Assembly members then proceeded to question Fan about administrative matters related to education. At the end of the grueling four-­hour session, two councilors made a motion to dismiss the charges. After listening to

Taiwan Babel  169

the testimony, they concluded that although objectionable in parts, Fan’s words were not as “extreme” as a “certain newspaper” depicted. “The cause of misunderstanding is probably that Director Fan’s guoyu pronunciation is not good. Translated by the interpreter, it’s inevitable that there are some places that do not accord with the original intent.” The text of the speech should be published, “to ameliorate misunderstanding and the feelings of repugnance” reverberating among inhabitants of the island. The motion passed by a vote of 24–­6, quelling the furor temporarily.26 Taiwan New Life Daily reported on the outcome the following day with a pair of articles, one in Japanese and one in Chinese.27 This episode, known as the “indiscreet words controversy,” has been ­retroactively narrated as evidence of the irreconcilable chasm between mainlanders and Taiwanese, kindling the fires of 2-­28. Historian Chen Cuilian concluded that Provincial Assembly members acquiesced to the cover story of mistranslation in order to “wind up the matter hastily” and avoid further eruption.28 In hindsight, it is revealing that the “misunderstanding” could be plausibly imputed to (and excused by) the director of education’s inability to speak the national language. Fan was not the first, nor last, education official to be publicly called out for linguistic incompetence.29 Despite the attempt to paper over the controversy, the tempest over the Taiwanese people’s purported “slave mentality” continued to rankle. Six months later, when asked about the time frame and parameters for expanding the voting franchise, Chen Yi denied its possibility, citing the still prevalent use of Japanese language. “To develop Taiwan for China,” the governor said, the national language was an essential prerequisite. In the present climate, it would be “very dangerous” to conduct county magistrate elections, “possibly resulting in Taiwan for Taiwan.”30 The governor designated linguistic fidelity as a barometer of the islanders’ loyalty, inextricably linked to their capacity for self-­governance. The expansion of democracy would be premised on the people’s rejection of the colonial past and embrace of a future bonded to the language of the Chinese nation. These were precisely the assumptions Taiwanese elites contested. As one editorialist pithily put it, “Just because we cannot speak the national language does not mean that we have been poisoned by slave education.” In fact, “among mainlanders, those who cannot speak guoyu far outnumber the Taiwanese.”31 In practice, the campaign to “diminish the power of the Japanese language” presented unexpected and protracted challenges.32 As the initial

170  Taiwan Babel

burst of enthusiasm for learning guoyu dissipated, the ban on the use of Japanese in publications and schools was postponed for one year.33 And as the deadline neared in the fall of 1946, petitions for extensions indicated that many government agencies and schools were having trouble coping with the mandated change.34 The publications ban took effect on October 25, 1946, enacted by an energetic censorship regime. The parallel prohibition in education proved more difficult to enforce. An inspection of middle and primary schools in Taichung revealed that in 1947 there were still numerous instances of teachers using Japanese in the classroom. In response, the municipal government announced that guoyu should ideally be the medium of instruction for all subjects. At a minimum it should apply to the core subjects of “national language and literature,” history, geography, and citizenship.35

FATHERL A N D A N D MOTHE R TON G UE

In fact, dislodging the stubborn hold of the Japanese language would require more than administrative directives—­it demanded a reconceptualization of the relationship between local, regional, and national speech. In previous chapters we have seen how ambivalent tangles between guoyu and dialect contributed to the instability of the national language. In ­contrast, in Taiwan the guoyu project at its inception depended on “recovering Taiwanese, so that the people can learn the national language by comparison with fangyin.” The first of the campaign’s “guiding principles” designated the provincial dialect as partner to guoyu, with an instrumental role to play in expunging Japanese.36 As we shall see, however, the trilateral positioning of Japanese, Taiwanese dialects, and the national language would generate myriad conflicts in the years to come. At the outset, officials in Taiwan evinced an expansive view of the national language itself. As Wei Jiangong declared in a radio address shortly after his arrival: To the average person, guoyu is what we Chinese people speak, whether in Shanghai, Chongqing, Nanjing, Wenzhou, Shantou, Guangzhou, Xiamen, Fuzhou, or in Xi’an, Lanzhou, Kaifeng, Taiyuan, Jinan. . . . ​As long

Taiwan Babel  17 1

as it is a language that does not use a b c d . . . ​or アイウエオ for spelling and pronunciation, anything can be considered guoyu. In Taiwan we can consider Taiwanese to be guoyu; there is no need for yet another national language using Beiping [Beijing] speech or some such thing as the standard.37

In espousing an inclusive definition of the national language predicated primarily on orthographic purity, here Wei also sought to distance the situation in Taiwan from the mainland’s acrimonious experience, especially previous arguments over the relationship between Beijinghua and the standard. Wei’s comments generated confusion, however, as they could be interpreted to mean “there is no need for a national language.” Two weeks later he published a lengthy article to clarify and explain his logic. In defining the national language, Wei reiterated that it was not the exact equivalent of Beijinghua. He reviewed the history of the concept, from guoyu’s origins as “elegant speech” to its status during the Qing dynasty: “When the Manchus consolidated the Central Plains [China], they called their own language ‘guoyu.’ A term of arrogance used in conquest, the flavor of this ‘guoyu’ is tinged with the odor of blood.” In the twentieth century guoyu assumed its current guise, as the “language collectively chosen by the people to be the standard” for the Republic of China.38 In the case of Taiwan, Wei posited a sibling relationship between the local vernacular and the national newcomer. Whereas the link between Japanese and guoyu pronunciation was distant and tenuous (akin to maternal grandparent–­grandchild or a maternal uncle–­nephew), guoyu and Taiwanese were siblings sharing an insoluble bond, no matter how long the separation.39 As siblings, Wei elaborated in other essays, “using Taiwanese to learn guoyu” could accomplish two goals: “summon back the soul of Taiyu” stolen by the Japanese, and “realize the dream of the national language.” The retrocession of Taiwan was akin to a woman “returning to her natal home.” 40 This situation differed entirely from “foreigners learning guoyu”: whereas they “memorized each word, one by one,” the relationship between fangyan and “the standard” enabled learning by comparison, a “shortcut.” In this “family affair” (“not like the way foreigners learn our national language”), compulsory methods were unnecessary.41 Further extending the biological metaphor, Wei compared the connection between Taiwanese and guoyu to a vascular system of

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arteries and veins—­a bond of predestined kinship temporarily severed, whose soul can be “summoned back from the grave.” 42 The emphasis on common origins and close familial connection, and the insistence that learning guoyu should not be equated with a “foreign” endeavor, postulated natural affinities between Taiwanese and mainlanders. The term used to describe the relationship between the two, tongbao (同胞), is usually translated as “compatriot,” which elides the connotation of kinship embedded in “those born of the same womb.” Behind the scenes, members of the National Language Committee were less certain that such affinities existed and worried about the labor needed to create them. When Xiao Jialin drafted a memo for the Education Minister in Nanjing, for example, he complained that the people of Taiwan no longer recognized the intimate connection between their local speech and the national language—­“They have lost the ability to learn guoyu from fang­ yan.” Despite “considerable zeal for learning guoyu among ordinary people, their attitude is only about on par with interest in learning foreign languages on the mainland.” 43 Two other reports from Taipei in April 1946 echoed similar observations: after such a long separation, the Taiwanese “view guoyu as a different language bearing no relationship” to their spoken vernacular.44 And after a year of working for the National Language Committee in Taiwan, Wei Na reported to Nanjing that she felt thoroughly disheartened. Although some Taiwanese were eager to learn guoyu, the level of enthusiasm was about the same as for English. “Prevailing sentiment” in fact considered English more useful for professional advancement; “smart alecks even snort at us in disdain.” Wei concluded: “It takes ten years to nurture a tree but a hundred years to train a man. We can only redouble our efforts in our work and await results with patience.” 45 Unfortunately, the desired results could be decades away. As Pan Qingzhang wrote in a memo to the Provincial Assembly in 1946, popular enthusiasm for the national language declined precipitously within a year of the campaign’s inception—­by 90 percent, he estimated. In classes conducted for army units, at best the response was “indifferent.” At this pace, “I fear that in thirty years we cannot achieve the level of proficiency [for the national language], as what the Taiwanese people learned for Japanese” during the colonial era.46 Such views, not aired for public consumption, provide context for the adamant pronouncements from officials, who repeated the mantra:

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“Taiwanese is indeed a form of the national language.” 47 In this regard, He Rong’s attempt to correct the misunderstanding of “ordinary people” is revealing: “Due to the differences between the fangyan of our province and the national language being somewhat larger, and as a result of using Japanese in the past, in the hearts of ordinary people it’s inevitable that they would regard the relationship between guoyu and Taiwanhua in the same way as they regard Japanese and Taiwanhua. . . . ​They think that learning guoyu is the same as how they learned Japanese in the past.” He Rong contended that such ideas, erroneous in both “theory and practice,” constituted “a force of resistance toward the national language.” 48 Resuscitating the ability of Taiwanese people to “learn guoyu from fangyan” and reinforcing the relationship between the two thus combined pedagogical and political considerations. As Wei Jiangong put it, the issue was a matter of “recovering culture and ideology,” not merely language learning. “Preserving the mother tongue” and “promoting the national language” were inextricably linked in the quest to achieve linguistic unity.49 The premise that the “mother tongue” could function as a conduit and strengthen affection for the national language reconfigured the place of fangyan—­from the language of obstinate local attachment antithetical to national unity, to the language of the family. Taiwanese vernaculars had been debased during the colonial period as “uncouth patois (土語) without value.” They could not supersede the new national language, arriving on the scene to replace Japanese kokugo as the prestige language of “culture,” but they would be embraced as its provincial siblings.50 The concept of “mother tongue,” moreover, introduced a gendered dynamic into language ideology.51 In the 1920s and 1930s sporadic references to “mother tongue” (in English) could be found in the writings of Li Jinxi and Qu Qiubai. For instance, Qu invoked the phrase in a private letter in 1931, shading it as equivalent in meaning to tuhua.52 The concept had little purchase in Chinese linguistics or national language education until it found fertile terrain in Taiwan in the late 1940s. There it was activated as an emotive trope of maternal nativism, to coax the islanders into the embrace of the fatherland, within a hierarchy of a patriarchal national language subsuming the spoken mother tongue. The links between blood and language also asserted a genealogy intertwined with a Linnaean classification of languages.53 The mother tongue axiom relied on an enduring claim about fangyan: in this case, that the dialects of Taiwan evolved

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from the same linguistic family as guoyu, despite their complete mutual unintelligibility. Therefore learning the latter required only a “comparison” of sounds. By “recovering the ability to learn guoyu from fangyan, such that they can learn by analogy, there will be no need to use the rote memorization method of learning a foreign language.”54 The complex linguistic environment of Taiwan, however, called into question the assumptions underlying these assertions. As educator Zhang Fangjie pointed out, for older and middle-­aged people who speak Taiwanhua, the “learn-­guoyu-­from-­dialect” method is “rational, convenient, and effective.” But for youngsters who know Japanese, forcing them to learn a dialect as a first step is a waste of time and energy—­“ it makes no sense,” especially for Hakka children. (Of Hakka origin himself, Zhang paid more attention to this issue than others.) If the ultimate goal is to learn the national language, why add an extra hurdle and “tell them to take the long way around?” Why not learn guoyu directly and forgo the translation process?55 Likewise, members of the Provincial Assembly grumbled that teachers using Minnanhua to teach the national language caused “great misery” for Hakka students in Kaohsiung.56 Despite such objections, dialect as “the foundation of the national language” remained the official mantra. He Rong lamented that many Taiwanese had lost “the key of learning guoyu through fangyan.” But if they can retrieve it, he opined, national language education would be able to proceed along the same trajectory as other provinces; within three to five years, National Language Committee members could “pack their bags and bid Taiwan farewell.” On the other hand, clinging to the mode of foreign language instruction would result in an outcome similar to the Japanese regime, requiring “at least fifty years of labor.”57 The centerpiece of the dialect comparative method used Taiwanese phonetic annotation (臺語方音符號), matching the pronunciation of the national language to its local counterpart(s). Based on nineteenth-­century and colonial-­era precedents, the scheme was similar to the iterations created for missionary linguistics, Chao Yuen Ren’s union table of pronunciation, and Li Jinxi’s four-­and seven-­column textbook (as previously discussed). To accommodate distinctive regional sounds, Taiwanese ­ phonetic versions added extravocalics, asterisks, and other marks. One arrangement combined the “standard pronunciation” with three Minnan  speech varieties (Xiamen, Chaozhou, Quanzhou) and Hakka. A

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dual-­notation textbook, published by the provincial education bureau, paired the national language with Taiwanese and contrasted the four tones of the former with the seven of the latter.58 Other primers also marked seven tones for “Taiwanese pronunciation in the southern Min branch” (using Xiamen as the basis); still others did not bother with tonal differentiation.59 No two systems were exactly the same, and the disparity in phonological details and notation stimulated some (relatively mild) disagreements.60 The differences notwithstanding, advocates touted dialect notation as a “bridge” between national and local pronunciation. It was a “scientific method” and an “indispensable tool” to close the distance between the two: “in the shortest amount of time, to achieve the most significant results.” As one advertisement for a comparative dictionary proclaimed, “Using this book is like crossing a bridge, and you will understand how to change fangyin into guoyin.” 61 In the journey to recover “the missing half of the soul,” the path to the national language begins with dialect phonetics.62 Through the comparative method, the islanders would “suddenly realize” that guoyu is “actually not like a foreign language.” It is “a kind of dialect among the languages of the Chinese nation”—­closely bound together, “with hearts beating in synchronicity,” enabling the ­Taiwanese to “feel even more poignantly that they are authentically Chinese.” 63 The 1947 provincial education plan, aiming to achieve the goal of “­ordinary people able to speak, read, and write the national language,” endorsed “comparative” learning aids as part of a package of useful techniques. The National Language Committee organized a series of “demonstration classes” to showcase the methodology and refine it through experimentation.64 A dedicated column in Mandarin Daily News featured discussions of Taiwanese phonetics; radio lessons introduced the system to broader audiences. Cumulatively, these initiatives expanded the space for provincial dialects in speech and writing, beyond the native-­soil literature movement and romanization efforts of the colonial era.65 Sanctioned as “mother tongue” and as a partner to the national language, the Taiwanese vernacular gained a new legitimacy. Advocates also proposed that in the spirit of reciprocity, and in order to “eliminate the linguistic distance between Taiwanese and mainlanders,” newcomers should also learn the provincial dialects.66 As will be discussed shortly, even after the

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shattering events of the 2-­28 uprising, for a time the Taiwanese vernacular remained guoyu’s essential counterpart.

A SLOPPY STA N DA RD

Even as officials attended to the dialect part of the equation, they realized that the “standard” component was hardly on firm footing. To their consternation, persistent complaints underscored the erratic pronunciation of mainland teachers. Many instructors, recruited from the area around Shanghai, spoke different forms of “Jiangsu guoyu,” while others taught lessons with Guangdong, Fujian, or Zhejiang variants. Some did not bother with pretense of following a “national” pronunciation, simply defaulting to Shanghainese or other dialects.67 As Wei Jiangong told reporters when he returned to Beijing to recruit teachers (presumably with better qualifications), “when the guoyu spoken by instructors does not conform to the standard, the students are surprised; some misconstrue the national language as having several varieties.” 68 In the early days of the retrocession period, the confusion was understandable. “Many zealous people taught what they knew” to meet the demand of locals eager to learn the national language, in a burst of “fatherland fever.” Some arrived singing the “old tunes of the national pronunciation,” with five tones and sharp initials; others spoke northeastern dialects or southern guanhua. The average student, “at a loss,” begins to wonder: “How many varieties does the Chinese national language have? Is there a precise standard?” 69 Several years later, the situation had not improved discernibly, generating the impression that “standard or not standard does not matter. As long as everyone can loosely understand each other, then it’s fine.” Such attitudes, which He Rong characterized as an “ideology of sloppiness” (麻胡主義), reminded him of previous debates over “blue-­green guanhua.” In the primary schools on the mainland, He Rong estimated that some 80–­90 percent of schoolteachers still used dialect to teach national language classes. How could that be considered adequate? Achieving the “standard” was beyond the reach of some, who may be capable of only learning a “sloppy” sort of “common language” (pu­ tonghua). Even so, He Rong opined that they should not lower the bar to

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accommodate incompetence.70 In pedagogy, the standard must be exact: “Do not settle for blue-­green without seeking to achieve accuracy.”71 Yet necessity demanded less exactitude. As one report explained in 1947, when mainlanders cannot understand each other, and when teachers from Beijing have different pronunciations, the islanders are justifiably frustrated. “They said, ‘We are willing to give up Japanese and we are willing to learn the national language. But there are so many types, so which variety should we learn?’ ”72 Incomprehensibility sowed doubts, and “in their hearts irreconcilable skepticism grew.”73 Wu Shouli contrasted newly arrived professors unfavorably to his former teachers. The Japanese faculty at Imperial University, he recalled, spoke a standard pronunciation without a hint of accent—­unlike the mainlanders, with guoyu heavily inflected with Shanghai or Cantonese dialects. One distinguished Chinese scholar, after realizing that the students could not understand his mangled lectures, responded dismissively: “You’ll catch on after three months.” Why, Wu asked, do mainlanders come to Taiwan to promote the national language, yet their cultural elites “possess no concept of guoyu at all”?74 In response to these kinds of pointed questions, the National Language Committee could only “reluctantly tell our Taiwanese compatriots: with respect to speech, we need to be able to understand all varieties of ‘blue-­ green’ guoyu, which is much the same with minor differences.” The fault rested with the mainlanders “who pay insufficient attention to the standard.”75 Even with a thirty-­year head start, the interior provinces had made little progress. Prevailing attitudes mocked both the message and the messenger: “Ah, it’s your same set of bo-­po-­mo-­fo again?” “Whatever, pay no attention! It’s just stuff concocted by a few people.” As a result, the national language arriving on Taiwan’s shores had at least six varieties, and the teachers all had different pronunciations.76 In light of the cacophonous irregularities, the least common denominator of mutual understanding would have to suffice for the time being. Demanding a rigorous standard, moreover, could create obstacles and dissuade people from trying to learn. “Some take the idea of ‘the standard’ too seriously, to the point where they are afraid of ‘not-­standard’ and do not speak.” Invoking the proverb “Rome was not built in a day” and the Chinese aphorism about the folly of trying “to reach the sky in one day,” Wei Jiangong counseled a new attitude: “Know that there is a

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standard but do not fear it.” While teachers must “accord with the standard and fully understand it,” students need to “abandon the standard and speak with daring”—­for that is how they will achieve it.77 Even He Rong, vociferous in disparaging “sloppiness,” conceded: “We would rather Taiwan compatriots do as the mainlanders, to be able to express their aspirations and feelings using not very standard guoyu. This is preferable to people learning only a few phrases of fancy Beipinghua but then resorting to Japanese because they are unable to use the ‘Chinese language.’ ”78 On the question of precision versus flexibility, He Rong toggled between the two. The ultimate goal is to “speak consistently, in the same fashion” and extend beyond phonology to include lexicon and grammar. The “common language” (putonghua), a haphazard blend of dialects, does not suffice to meet the standard. On the other hand, it is not necessary to “adhere rigidly to the standard, as when learning a foreign language.”79 As in previous decades, parsing “the standard” and the permissible degree of “blue-­green” elicited differences of opinion rooted in pedagogical philosophy and personal inclination for precision. In Taiwan, the extraordinary circumstances of people from many provinces converging in a small place, in a short period of time, also heightened the sense of linguistic babel. Juxtaposed against an ongoing national language campaign, the frictions sparked a proliferation of judgments about what constituted correct pronunciation. To provide an authoritative point of reference, the National Language Committee released The Character Dictionary of Standard National Pronunciation 國音標準彙編.80 As Chen Yi explained in an official announcement, “To promote the national language we must first unify pronunciation and doing so depends on establishing the standard.” The process, underway since the Conference to Unify Pronunciation convened in 1913, had bypassed Taiwan, occupied by Japan during those formative years. Approved by the Education Ministry in  Nanjing, the dictionary articulated the standard for phonetic annotation, tones, spelling, and phonology. The circular announcing its publication included a Japanese translation.81 Although advertised as a new edition, in fact this was a reprint of the Commonly Used Vocabu­ lary of National Pronunciation from 1932 (discussed in chapter 2). Copied verbatim, the “new” book included zhuyin and GR notation, four tones plus a fifth “optional” one, hundreds of archaic characters, and appendices of government directives dating back to 1918—­in the same format as

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its predecessor. The preface also reproduced the “Brief Discussion of National Pronunciation” from the New Chinese Rhyming Dictionary (discussed in chapter 3). In short, this work replicated the early 1930s definition of standard pronunciation for postcolonial Taiwan.82 As we shall see, it would remain an authoritative reference for several decades.

TEACHER DISQUAL IFICAT I ON S

By defining the spoken norms of guoyu through a dictionary, the National Language Committee was trying to remedy the sense of linguistic disarray, as an acute teacher shortage threatened to unravel the entire project. Well before the Japanese surrender, officials had already anticipated the personnel problem. As Chen Yi detailed in a letter to Education Minister Chen Lifu in 1944, the colonial regime had built an extensive educational apparatus; on a per capita basis, “the other provinces simply cannot compare.” To overhaul the entire system without closing the schools presented enormous logistical problems, given the numerical dominance of Japanese teachers. “How to get rid of the old and supplement with the new requires early preparation. Otherwise, there will be schools but no teachers.” Replacing ten thousand middle and primary school instructors at once was impossible. The only practical solution entailed temporarily retaining the staff until expanded teacher training programs produced new graduates.83 Another official, citing a figure of 99 percent enrollment for school-­age children, remarked that education under colonial rule had been “quite developed,” although disbursed with “evil intent.” Preserving the infrastructure while transforming the content would require substantial investments. Textbooks and curricula at all levels must be thoroughly revamped, in order to exterminate the “enslaved” mentality and specious ideas of “national history” embedded in colonial education.84 With more than four thousand Japanese “national language institutes” (kokugo koshūjō 國語講習所) dotting the island, the authentic version of the national language must swiftly displace the imposter. Despite prior recognition of the challenges, the messy realities of the takeover upended hopes for speedy reconfiguration of the educational system. As one observer remarked, after fifty years of colonial rule, the

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people of Taiwan were “not much different from the Japanese in terms of the language they use. . . . ​to teach them guoyu the instructor must be conversant in Japanese. The situation is comparable to teaching Japanese people in Japan to learn Chinese.” Taiwan needs thousands of teachers, “but where are we going to find so many qualified instructors?”85 The problems intensified once repatriation began and Japanese teachers left en masse, leaving more than 7,000 unfilled positions.86 Instructors from the mainland filled some of the vacancies (a few hundred from Beijing and Shanghai, twenty from Chongqing), but the civil war disrupted recruitment.87 “Taiwan needs good teachers,” one commentator noted, “but other provinces also need them. If we cannot offer exceptionally high compensation, of course they would not be willing to cross the sea to risk danger and endure difficulty. Poor-­quality teachers come but are useless. The upshot is that the ones we need are not willing to come, while the ones we do not need are willing to come.”88 More instructors could be found in nearby Xiamen and Fuzhou, places notorious for mispronunciation.  Given the circumstances, education officials could not be overly selective. Lowering the standard, however, created opportunities for the unscrupulous—­as in the case of one Ye Zizhi from Xiamen, who, upon arrival in Taipei, collected his salary and absconded, never reporting for his assignment.89 In the meantime, local recruitment, conducted in haste, assessed 7,592 applicants for primary school positions. Graduates of middle or normal schools with one to two years of teaching experience were encouraged to apply, but even those without formal education or with credentials solely from colonial-­era institutions were eligible. The first round of recruitment certified 4,474 teachers as meeting a “minimum standard.” Yielding to the pleas of county officials desperate for teachers, the education bureau allowed those lacking basic qualifications to be hired on a temporary basis, at a salary one grade below the others. Local authorities could hire teachers independently, provided that the candidates complete a three-­month training course.90 As a result of this rushed and disjointed process, teachers with “uneven qualifications” and dubious knowledge of the national language populated classrooms. They passed on their linguistic incompetence to students, who “groped their way back to old ways of sloppiness.”91 Among the local recruits, “those who have a rough idea about the

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national language and literature, and a deep understanding of Chinese culture, are few and far between.”92 Observing mainlanders of divergent backgrounds and Taiwanese who insist on using Japanese in the classroom, one teacher opined that at her school “the national language cannot sustain its momentum.” Hardly anyone “truly understands the importance of guoyu”; few are able to “speak it in a standard manner.”93 Overall estimates gauged that between one-­fourth to one-­half of primary school teachers did not satisfy the basic criteria for pedagogical credentials.94 Despite the widely acknowledged “famine of qualified teachers,”95 the government announced that by the start of the new academic year in August 1946, each primary school must hire at least one instructor “proficient” in guoyu, and Japanese would be prohibited. Henceforth the national language, “including the vernacular speech of Taiwan province,” should be used as the medium of instruction.96 But as the National Language Committee bemoaned, where could one thousand teachers, with the requisite proficiency, be found all at once?97 In anticipation of forthcoming shortages and citing the “mixed” quality of the newcomers, the education bureau launched an evaluation of guoyu teachers from the mainland during the summer. All were required to pass an oral exam to verify their competence, “in order to raise the quality of national language teaching and unify national pronunciation.”98 Schools in Hualien county, located on east coast, felt the acute effects of these predicaments. After the departure of 399 Japanese teachers, 45 guoyu instructors from the mainland arrived, along with 3 new normal school graduates and 20 others sent by the National Language Committee. With some 20,000 students enrolled in primary schools, local officials scrambled to hire temporary instructors with admittedly “low qualifications.” By December they had increased the staff to 478, but only 26 percent actually passed muster as credentialed teachers. Moreover, since many students could only understand Japanese and “their own tribal vernacular,” in teaching “we have no choice but to use Japanese.”99 Closer to the metropolitan center, schools in Taipei county likewise struggled with similar issues, with fewer than 30 percent of 1,944 teachers “fully qualified.” Three school inspectors could not keep track of 173 primary schools in the county—­they were only able to “view flowers from horseback” with a cursory look.100 At the single primary school of Ruifang

18 2 Taiwan Babel

village, 10 teachers taught 670 pupils. Doubling the staff improved the abysmal ratio, but the school also lacked desks, chairs, and other basic supplies. Although curricular standards specified that nearly half of classroom hours should be devoted to the national language, in Ruifang it counted as one among dozens of pressing tasks.101 By March 1947 a government report concluded that from a numerical perspective, primary schools had staffed up sufficiently. In fact, the 15,658 instructors in place slightly exceeded the total before the Japanese exodus. Another data point of improvement counted 77 percent enrollment for school-­age children, an indication that the mandate for compulsory primary education (announced in January 1947) was moving in the right direction. But while the Education Ministry urged schools at all levels to adopt the “standard national language” as the medium of instruction, it was not mandatory. Officials acknowledged that numerous problems remained: a “confused” curriculum, with textbooks adopted in haste to replace Japanese ones; carelessly improvised lesson plans, with predictable effects on learning outcomes; buildings in disrepair from war damage and neglect; funding shortfalls; school regulations either nonexistent or lacking uniformity.102 Shanghai’s publishers arrived, bringing works of academic distinction and pornography, but “not books needed for Taiwan’s linguistic education.” Compared to the Japanese era, students felt that “schools today are better than before, because Chinese teachers do not hit us. The only thing is, now there are no books to read.”103 To speak of “benefits” from the colonial era could be treacherous. But it was undeniable that teachers in the formerly robust education system had been well-­trained and fairly compensated. Those indoctrinated by the colonial regime might find it difficult to shake the entrenched, possibly subconscious belief that “everything about Japanese education is superior.” Newly recruited teachers, “with hearts like blank sheets of paper,” did not harbor the insidious poison of such colonial mentalities, but it would take concerted effort to impress upon them the “accurate ideology” of the nation.104 In the meantime, the labor of temporary teachers ­provided a flawed but essential stopgap measure (“there is no other choice”). Despite the scorn heaped on their abysmal qualifications, their exemption from mandatory military service signaled indispensability. The government would endeavor to replace them within five years, so that there will “no longer be any temporary teachers without proper credentials.”105

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In the long term, the greatest hope for infusing the educational system with the national language rested on expanding normal schools and orienting teacher training toward guoyu proficiency. An ambitious plan to recruit new students for shifan schools stressed “quality” by setting a high bar for admission.106 In 1946 less than 7 percent of applicants were admitted after enduring a battery of written, oral, and physical tests. A one-­week orientation boot camp further weeded out those unable to keep up academically or discovered to be unsuitable in disposition. In a concession to the colonial past, and to accommodate otherwise credible candidates, the first round of entrance exams permitted applicants to give their answers partially in Japanese. To attract higher-­caliber applicants, normal schools waived tuition and fees; students received stipends on the government civil service scale, which provided cost-­of-­living adjustments during a time of hyperinflation.107 Despite these efforts, and despite a concerted campaign to advertise normal schools as “the mother of education,” perceptions of teaching as an unattractive career did not shift quickly. As students at Taipei Girls Normal complained, the profession’s low social standing accounted for the tepid development of teacher training: “Society regards us with contempt,” as “poor kids” on government support, preparing for “jobs with no future.” People “look down on teachers, and in turn teachers grow to despise their own profession.”108 Over a long period of time, the benefits that accrued to shifan students helped forge a reputation for normal schools as “iron rice bowls” with guaranteed job placement.109 But the shift was gradual and slow. As one education official observed, “It takes a hundred years to train a man. . . . ​ M ­ atters of local education are especially complex; one cannot expect results overnight. . . . ​As the ancients say, ‘If you plant gourds, you will harvest gourds. If you plant beans, you will harvest beans’ ”—­what society invests into education is what will be reaped.110

EXPERIMENTS IN PEDAG OGY

It would take a decade to reap a bountiful harvest from the resources invested in teacher training. In the interim, the guoyu project in primary schools limped along, with the spoken component “rarely taught” or

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“taught in haphazard manner.”111 The National Language Committee, advocating both “comparative” and “direct” methods for teaching, deputized members to compile textbooks and manuals for both approaches. But in the protracted process, “good-­quality materials are not often seen, even poor-­quality materials are difficult to find.”112 In May 1946 the committee established the Mandarin Experimental Primary School (MEPS, 國語實驗小學), an institution that would become the center for pedagogical research. From a modest and chaotic beginning, with an inaugural class of thirty-­five students in 1947, MEPS would also become one of Taiwan’s most prestigious primary schools. In its first three years, with a high rate of staff turnover in the midst of a precarious political situation, the intended research on national language pedagogy stalled at the school. Chen Zengxun, who matriculated in 1947 as a first grader, recalled that he felt as if he had “arrived in a foreign country.” He could barely understand the teachers, who spoke exclusively in guoyu. His parents, “who received Japanese education and did not know anything about guoyu,” could do little to help. Some students in similar situations transferred, but he persevered to graduate in 1953. Chen experienced what amounted to an immersion program, though in 1947 this was by default, not by design. As the school cycled through four principals in four years, the reverberations of the February 28th Incident shook the staff. Then, as the civil war intensified, the school absorbed many refugees from the mainland, including the children of KMT officials (due to its government affiliation). One of the newcomers was Ren Shenghan, who entered fifth grade after fleeing to Taiwan with his mother and sister in the spring of 1949. As Ren later recounted, there were many others just like him at MEPS: “Everyone shared the same difficulty, which was that we had never learned the bo-­po-­mo-­fo.” At the time, the “White Terror” enveloped the school. In one semester he had three different teachers, all  preoccupied with their own survival—­“and so the teachers didn’t really care.” Ren could not speak when called on to recite or answer questions; he was repeatedly punished for failing the exams. Finally, in desperation, his mother sought out an acquaintance who had studied at a normal school on the mainland. After a weeklong zhuyin cram session with the tutor, Ren cracked the code and “solved the basic problem of incomprehension.”113

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As teachers and students were caught in the crosshairs of political upheaval, the National Language Committee was trying to set MEPS on a positive trajectory. Before and during a stint as principal, Wang Yuchuan pushed ahead with the “experimental” part of the school’s mission, to conduct research on the direct method of instruction. As he explained, the method originated from “foreign language acquisition in Western countries.” Many who have come to teach the national language cannot speak Taiwanese, which is “not something that can be learned in a flash. The facts of the situation leave no other choice. . . . ​Although Taiwanese is not a foreign language, it is after all somewhat distant from guoyu.” Here Wang invoked Chao Yuen Ren’s authority to characterize the difference between the two was “no less than” French and Spanish or German and Danish. Taiwanese learning the national language should thus follow the example of Spaniards learning French or Danes learning German.114 Wang’s initial experiment aimed to teach students basic conversational guoyu and rudimentary literacy using only zhuyin symbols, drawing from his experience working with wounded soldiers during the war (chapter 3).115 However, the turmoil of 2-­28 interrupted the lessons; students from the mainland flooded the school as the civil war crisis deepened. The confusion of student and staff turnover made it impossible to quantify progress. The following year, in 1948, Wang Yuchuan collected his preliminary findings into a manual, outlining the principles and techniques of the direct method. In the preface, Wei Jiangong referred to the contentious history of the national language, from the pronunciation wars of the 1920s to the recent past: “Our standard has long been established, but because there was no rigorous pedagogical method, for more than twenty years there has been little improvement. We have even regressed due to misunderstanding.” Wei praised Wang’s method as a new beginning, promising to move the national language forward by leaps and bounds.116 In the manual, Wang Yuchuan emphasized scientific principles from education, psychology, and linguistics, with specific strategies for achieving effective results. In addition to detailed lesson plans, he focused on “active learning” strategies discussed in education circles since the 1920s—­using games, role-­playing, and creative activities to motivate students. But whatever you do, Wang cautioned, do not allow them to fall into the habit of “translating” from dialect to guoyu. On the surface, translation appears to be “the

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most convenient way.” But the apparent expedience concealed defects—­ inaccuracy, inefficiency, “forming the bad habit of translating every word,” impeding the ability “to think in the national language.” Translation could be used in rare circumstances, only as a last resort.117 After six months at the helm, Wang Yuchuan transferred from MEPS for other duties at the National Language Committee. Upon assuming the position as principal in 1949, Zhang Xiwen was determined to resume the research program. She set up an experimental cohort in the fall term of 1950, choosing Taiwanese children with “zero comprehension of the national language” as subjects. What kind of materials were most suitable for youngsters who “cannot utter even one sentence of guoyu”? How many hours of dedicated instruction would optimize learning? At what point should they be integrated into mainstream classes? To answer these questions, Zhang selected Cai Yalin to teach thirty-­eight local students (plus one from Guangdong) and to track their progress.118 Following Wang Yuchuan’s direct method, the experiment aimed to “cultivate the ability to understand and speak basic guoyu and the ability to use zhuyin fuhao,” within one semester. Students should learn 3,516 characters and be ready to join regular classrooms within two years. As the experiment unfolded, Cai introduced new elements: banning the use of dialects after four weeks (both in and outside the classroom); adding the four tones in week seven. When students started learning script in week thirteen, Cai amended the reading primer to ease the transition. The overall outcomes exceeded expectations. Students learned to speak “fairly accurately”; the staff was pleased with their positive attitudes and eagerness. The verdict pronounced the students ready to join mainstream classes after one year, rather than the two years initially projected.119 In 1951 MEPS extended the experiment with another cohort of fifty-­ two first graders. Cai Yalin again shouldered the duties and followed the previous protocol. Cai’s research notes indicated that the class quickly absorbed commands such as “Do not speak Taiwanese.” The first student to raise his hand and speak voluntarily (in week two) uttered the sentence “he hit me”—­a reminder that the test subjects were seven years old. By week eleven, there was a discernible shift, with students speaking almost entirely in the national language. “If someone occasionally says a sentence in dialect, everyone laughs, finding it very strange.” The major intervention

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occurred in week thirteen. In addition to the reading primer, students received assignments for self-­study from a supplemental text compiled by Qi Zhixian. The trial gauged whether the direct method combining spoken immersion and zhuyin could accelerate reading comprehension without increasing classroom hours. The internal data answered the question in the affirmative. To benchmark the results, Qi Zhixian tested the experimental cohort against students in six other classes (from MEPS and other primary schools). The findings from assessing 402 students validated the MEPS approach—­Cai Yalin’s class scored an average of 98.3, outpacing all the others.120 In the early 1950s MEPS also participated in pedagogical experiments with other schools. One study calibrated the relative efficacy of three techniques for teaching zhuyin. Another tried to resolve the question of whether partial or complete zhuyin annotation in reading primers delivered superior learning outcomes.121 In 1953 Qi Zhixian and He Rong presented the results of MEPS experiments to the National Education Association. The group’s endorsement paved the way for a major change to the first-­grade national language curriculum, approved by the provincial education department for implementation. Starting in 1954, the first twelve weeks would focus exclusively on spoken guoyu and zhuyin fuhao; reading lessons would begin in week thirteen. The announcement of the impending change elicited surprise and consternation. As He Rong explained, on behalf of the National Language Committee, a robust body of research supported this pedagogy. The process and results had not been widely communicated, thus provoking negative reactions.122 Despite some initial resistance, the MEPS philosophy set an enduring trajectory for national language education. Embedded in primary schools, the direct method surpassed the “dialect comparative” approach, concurring with the government’s harder line against “Taiwanese dialects” in the mid-­ 1950s. For her part, Zhang Xiwen remained principal of MEPS for twenty-­four years. During this long tenure, she presided over a significant expansion of the school; her influence and network extended into the upper echelons of the KMT when she became a member of the National Assembly. And as a leading advocate for guoyu education, Zhang found a partner in Mandarin Daily News, a new publication that emerged as the voice of the cause.

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M ANDARIN DAILY NEWS

On Retrocession Day, October 25, 1948, a newspaper starring the national language made its inaugural appearance. Coinciding with the celebration of the island’s return to the fatherland, the publication of Mandarin Daily News (國語日報) underlined the close correlation between the political and linguistic aspects of the unification project. Featuring zhuyin phonetic symbols in lockstep with Chinese script, the paper aimed to be “comprehensible, affordable, and useful.” As Education Minister Zhu Jiahua declared in his foreword to the first issue, “Everywhere I went in Taiwan I met some people who could speak very good guoyu.” Mandarin Daily will help them take “one more step” toward achieving the standard; “the fruition of the national language movement is not far off.”123 In addition to Zhu’s hopeful preface, Hu Shi’s calligraphy adorned the masthead. News articles updated readers on the civil war raging on the mainland, while human-­interest stories described the impending birth of the heir to the English throne. The editors had resolved that they would follow the adage “although the sparrow is small, its organs are complete”—­meaning, their aspirations surpassed the paper’s diminutive size of four pages.124 Mandarin Daily would cover international and national news, address topics relevant to social life, and, most important, serve as the standard-­ bearer of the national language. “It has been thirty-­five years since the Conference to Unify Pronunciation convened in 1913,” Wang Yuchuan observed, “yet the phonology of the national language has not yet become unified.” The publication would launch renewed efforts to standardize pronunciation through phonetic notation and enable the illiterate to “read the news.” It would insist on a “pure” written vernacular and eliminate lingering vestiges of the classical language.125 These ambitions initially floundered. After the inaugural issue, three weeks passed before a second appeared. As promised government support evaporated, every aspect of the venture (funding, staffing, equipment) presented formidable challenges.126 From an inauspicious debut, the paper struggled and verged on bankruptcy several times. By design devoid of advertisements or salacious “yellow content,” the paper’s revenue stream consisted of subscriptions and donations, both slow to materialize. In 1949 the editors took Wu Zhihui’s advice—­do not rely on the government—­a nd formed a nonprofit organization. Ultimately, the

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National Language Committee saved the day. Committee members, who constituted nearly half of the staff and board of directors, contributed articles and editorial labor. They helped to secure printing jobs (a contract for zhuyin-­annotated editions of KMT party materials; orders for instructional texts), which sustained the venture in its infancy. The subscription base grew slowly, reaching about five thousand after a year.127 At its three-­ year anniversary, one of the founding editors described the launch as “an ordeal of more than 1,000 days.” One should only encourage a mortal enemy to start an educational newspaper, as it was doomed to be a money-­ losing undertaking.128 In 1952 Mandarin Daily’s fortunes improved when the education department instructed all primary schools to subscribe to the publication as a teaching aid. Circulation surpassed ten thousand at one point that year but later declined with competition from imitators.129 The signature feature and most enduring legacy of Mandarin Daily News was its 100 percent use of zhuyin, appending phonetic symbols to every single script character, including dates, the weather report, and announcements.130 In its early years, the paper’s contents primarily addressed an adult audience. The front page dissected the ongoing civil war and international politics, followed by local interest stories. Page 3 featured supplemental columns, rotating between two sections earmarked for language, children, family life, and geography.131 On the “weekend” page, one feature article contrasted Sun Yat-­sen’s and Liang Qichao’s linguistic proficiency, attributing the differential outcomes of their political careers to the ability to speak guoyu. According to the author, Sun (born in Guangdong) had limited opportunities to learn the national language. Nonetheless he became a gifted orator able to speak “fluently and accurately.” As the “Father of Nation,” Sun intuitively understood the power of the national language. Liang Qichao, on the other hand, lived in North China for many years yet never fully mastered guoyu. After fumbling his words during an audience with the Guangxu emperor (ca. 1898), he did not receive appointment to a high office.132 Mandarin Daily’s “Language Supplement A” (語言刊甲), edited by Qi Tiehen, was the quintessential forum for channeling the spirit of Sun Yat-­ sen’s embrace of the national language. Essays and reflections from experts addressed every aspect of guoyu, from grammar and pronunciation to word usage and syntax. A Q&A column answered letters sent to the National Language Committee. The most commonly raised topics

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included tonal changes, the neutral tone, retroflection, and the manner and place of articulation for “difficult sounds.” In the inaugural column, Qi Tiehen highlighted an inquiry from schoolteacher Cui Hai. Cui asked about the pronunciation of the characters 容 and 榮, the subject of a conversation with a colleague: I told him, there is only one way to pronounce it, which is ㄖㄨㄥˊ, as according to the Commonly Used Vocabulary of National Pronunciation. He pulled out the Standard National Pronunciation Dictionary issued by Dongfang Publishing, and when we checked it said, “This can be pronounced as ㄩㄥˊ.” This is really a mystery to me. In Beiping there is no such pronunciation, and in the Commonly Used Vocabulary of National Pronunciation there is no such phonetic spelling, so why would such a pronunciation appear in a so-­called “standard” dictionary?

Cui wondered about the accuracy of this information, and whether the National Language Committee had reviewed and approved his colleague’s source. “If it does not accord with the standard, why are mistakes allowed to persist?” In reply, Qi Tiehen explained: “ㄖㄨㄥˊ is the most accurate pronunciation.” The other rendition (ㄩㄥˊ) was the “old phonology from the dictionary published in 1920, no longer used,” superseded by the Com­ monly Used Vocabulary in 1932. “Due to eight years of war and a shortage of paper, this [1932] dictionary was not distributed widely for use. Consequently, for the most part ordinary people do not know which are the obsolete old pronunciations and which are the standard to be used today.” In principle the Education Ministry reviewed all materials for school adoption, but with “general books and periodicals” not subject to prior inspection, “some mistakes are unavoidable.”133 As this exchange suggests, the “old pronunciation” created by the Conference to Unify Pronunciation in 1913 enjoyed an unexpectedly long afterlife. The source of Cui Hai’s discontent—­the standard dictionary his colleague showed him—­had been published in July 1946 in Taipei. At least five editions appeared over two years.134 In the 1947 iteration, entries for 容 and 榮 mark ㄩㄥˊas an alternate pronunciation, replicating information from Wu Zhihui’s controversial dictionary published in 1920 (as discussed in chapter  1). Although supplanted by a revised edition in 1921 and again by the “new” phonology in 1932, snippets of “old guoyin”

Taiwan Babel  19 1

continued to make their way into books advertised as “standard.”135 The vestiges were still causing confusion in Taiwan some thirty-­five years later. For Qi Tiehen and company, highlighting such discrepancies in Manda­ rin Daily News demonstrated their resolute intent to standardize guoyu and showcased their commitment as stewards of national speech. By so doing, they inadvertently shined a spotlight onto the cracks in its bumpy history. The errors also forced the National Language Committee to acknowledge its tenuous authority. To complaints about inconsistencies found in textbooks and dictionaries, the committee conceded that it lacked jurisdiction over commercial publications: “We can only earnestly make recommendations about which materials are useable.”136 A further issue revolved around suspicion that Mandarin Daily News, affiliated with the KMT’s National Language Committee, reflected a mainlander agenda. The editor contended that while “provincial outsiders and insiders should not have different perspectives,” the presence of many locals on the editorial staff should mollify such misgivings. The publisher, Hong Yanqiu, was an “authentic Taiwanese native.”137 Zhu Zhaoxiang, the editor in charge of Language Supplement B (語文 乙刊), was one of these locals. Whereas Supplement A parsed the content of the national language to answer questions from interested parties, its counterpart concentrated on dialect issues. In the introductory editorial of November 24, 1948, Zhu reiterated a familiar premise: “Everyone recognizes that Taiwanese is a Chinese language, not a foreign language. In other words, Taiwanese is a nonstandard form of the national language.” With a solid foundation in the mother tongue, the compatriots of the island can learn guoyu through comparison.138 Under Zhu’s direction, the column featured articles emphasizing the complementarity of provincial dialects and guoyu. One series correlated the national and dialect pronunciation of place names and surnames. Riddles and anecdotes rendered in comparative phonologies illustrated their compatibility. For example, a piece titled “From Lovers to Lifelong Mates” told a joke rendered in Taiwanese, which translates as “a lazy person urinates frequently.” Office workers are well acquainted with the colleague who constantly sneaks away to “use the lavatory”—­(“gone half the day,” always with the same excuse). In the national language, a similar ditty jests: “A lazy camel pees a lot”—­i.e., when forced to work the animal often stops to urinate, in order to get a bit of rest. “These two sayings are both vivid colloquialisms, with

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exactly the same meaning. Previously they are like bachelors and maidens who have never met. Now we have introduced them, and they have tied the knot. It is a marriage made in heaven.”139

MIXED MESSAGE S

This marriage enjoyed a brief honeymoon, but vacillating in affection, it would not endure as a permanent union. Even as Mandarin Daily News trumpeted the slogan “Promote the National Language / Recover the Mother Tongue” to celebrate its first anniversary, fallout from the February 28 Incident roiled the politics of speech. The explosive event had interrupted a “national language week” held in honor of Wu Zhihui’s eighty-­ third birthday. As violence erupted, telegrams were arriving from Beijing, bearing warm wishes from Li Jinxi and other colleagues.140 The crackdown targeted the “poisonous legacy” of colonial rule, which the KMT government considered responsible for inciting discontent. Japanese-­language publications, phonograph records featuring songs of wartime aggression (“still circulating among the people”) and other symbols of the former regime were confiscated.141 To the mainlanders who had been attacked, one editorialist exhorted them to stay the course: “We have come to the frontiers to work, which is not the same as working in other ordinary provinces. Apart from fulfilling the duties of the job, we bear a special responsibility . . . ​which is to enable the Taiwanese to cast off the shackles of Japanese ideology.” As for those who had participated in the uprising—­for instance, “the small minority of students who turned out to be the scum of the community”—­they have forsaken their ancestors and learned to detest the fatherland. “With their heads stuffed full of Japanese ideology,” these degenerates participated in the slaughter of their own flesh and blood. To reverse the situation, a campaign to intensify “fatherland education” sought to infuse the island with national speech and writing, so that the people can “understand the culture of the fatherland through the language of the fatherland.”142 Hualien officials, for example, created a plan “to promote guoyu in order to root out the poison of Japanese imperialization.” Residents were urged to report teachers or government workers overheard speaking Japanese, whose names would

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be published in the local newspaper as a shaming tactic. The military police performed inspections, to enforce the ban on public displays of writing and objects embodying “Japanese spirit.”143 In the context of the renewed crusade against Japanese language, the native speech of the island assumed contradictory guises. On one hand, speaking Taiwanese could be construed as either an intentional or an inadvertent expression of disloyalty. As one news headline declared, it was time to “promote the national language, ban Japanese, and reduce the use of dialects.”144 Such exhortations applied to mainlanders as well. While using the language of one’s hometown to communicate with fellow provincials constituted an “expression of intimacy,” the use  of dialects sowed confusion and doubt, with negative effects on the  islanders’ “psychology” toward the national language. Taiwanese ­people should “speak less dialect and more guoyu”; so too should mainlanders.145 In appraising the damage from 2-­28, commentators invariably returned to the problem of education—­ for instance, demanding compulsory use of the national language as the exclusive medium of instruction, with dialects “temporarily permitted only as supplemental aid.”146 Meanwhile, officials in the southern city of Kao­ hsiung repeatedly admonished teachers (“lazy” or “unaccustomed to using guoyu to teach”) not to use “dialect or other languages” in the classroom.147 The discovery of a multilingual “Han traitor,” fluent in Taiwanese, Cantonese, and Japanese, fueled suspicion that political and linguistic infidelity were intertwined.148 On the other hand, when Wei Daoming replaced Chen Yi as governor in May 1947, removing a reviled symbol of the massacre, the leadership change altered the politics of language. During his tenure, Wei implemented policies considered more sympathetic to the islanders and allowed a modicum of Taiwanese participation in government affairs. For a brief time, Japanese translations were permitted to appear again in newspapers, to explain government directives and policies.149 In this shifting context, the status of Taiwanese as a “Chinese language” situated it as one of the tenuous ties binding mainlanders to the rebellious islanders. In fact, to prevent future explosions, some believed that the newcomers should also learn the language of the locals (not just vice versa), in order to ease communication, fortify emotional attachment, and “strengthen mutual understanding.”150 For instance, Lin Qiongyi, a police academy graduate

19 4 Taiwan Babel

originally from Zhejiang, asked for a transfer from his post. He cited as the reason linguistic incompatibility with the locals of Hsinchu, who spoke Hakka or Japanese. His superiors replied that there were no vacancies in areas where “one can communicate in guoyu.” They directed Lin to “keep his mind on his work”—­while awaiting a transfer opportunity, he should also “dedicate himself to learning Taiyu.”151 To showcase affinity between in-­and out-­provincials, officials orchestrated public performances of speech contests. At a boys’ high school in Chiayi, a dual language competition aimed to foster mutual feeling between those from “within and outside the province.” Pairs of students took the stage to deliver their speeches in tandem, with the Taiwanese native speaking guoyu, and vice versa. At the conclusion of the event the mayor awarded prizes to the top orators, to “thunderous applause” from an appreciative audience.152 In addition to (possibly) strengthening bonds between the islanders and the mainlanders, Taiwanese dialect was deployed to facilitate other state-­building goals. In 1948 the National Resources Commission instructed industrial firms to conduct Taiwanese and guoyu classes in their factories in order to accelerate the pace of ­production.153 To further the aims of propaganda campaigns, songs, slogans, and theatrical performances used dialects to spread messages of anticommunism.154 Upon leaving his post as provincial governor in 1949, Wei Daoming expressed regret that he had not learned Minnanhua.155 For those inclined to do so, primers of conversational Taiwanese were available for purchase. In one book published in 1950, Wu Guozhen (who replaced Wei as governor) graced the title page with his calligraphy, the customary imprimatur of official approval. Author Lin Shaoxian’s preface to the volume hinted at misgivings about the regional vernacular: Taiyu is after all a branch in the system of Han languages. Even though it has many nasal and glottal sounds, and even though it has more tones than the standard national pronunciation, there still exists an intimate relationship between the two. If we can use the original sounds of the national language and learn by analogy (categorically without the psychology of learning a foreign language), to learn Taiyu in a short time would not take a miracle.156

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Despite substantial differences, Lin claimed kinship between provincial dialect and national language, insisting that they belonged to the same linguistic family. The caution against “the psychology of learning a foreign language,” however, alluded to unease about possible fissures. The fractures would multiply after the KMT’s final defeat and exodus from the mainland intensified the imperative to cement the island’s loyalty. The years 1950–­1951 marked a turning point in the direction of positioning Taiwanese dialect as an antagonist. A presidential decree in June 1950 instructed military and civilian personnel to learn Taiyu in order to sustain close connections with people and increase administrative efficacy.157 Meanwhile, Zhu Zhaoxiang broadcast dialect phonetic tutorials on the central radio station, with corresponding lessons published in Mandarin Daily News.158 At the local level, Taichung police launched a two-­month compulsory course for the national language and Taiwanese (held on alternate days); an optional Japanese class was also on offer (to facilitate communication with indigenous groups).159 By 1951, as the war on the Korean peninsula dragged on, and as temporary sojourn turned into indefinite exile, government interdictions routinely associated Taiwanese dialect with Japanese. This was especially prominent in educational contexts, where successive directives enjoined teachers to stop using either as the medium of instruction. The education bureau singled out middle school instructors, faulting them for their “low degree of guoyu competency” and for continuing to use dialects or Japanese. Schools at all levels were to redouble their efforts to “carry out the national language campaign conscientiously.” Administrators needed to exercise vigilance in screening job applicants—­“ if their guoyu ability is very deficient then they should not be hired.”160 Scolding directives also underscored the staying power of Taiwanese dialect in local society. Graduates of teacher training colleges, sent to take up positions around the island, griped that they felt alienated in school meetings and assemblies, where the routine use of dialects created “barriers of estrangement and misunderstanding.”161 At one Taipei school, parents objected to a teacher using guoyu as the medium of instruction, saying that the children could not understand his lessons. The teacher, unable to make the switch to Taiwanese (Minnanyu) as demanded, was asked to “move along” to a different school.162 The incongruities multiplied. Zhu

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Zhaoxiang’s radio lessons incorporating Taiwanese were suspended in 1951, yet the National Language Committee published his guide to dialect phonetic notation the following year. In the preface of the book, Zhu defended his area of expertise: “the national language and dialect are not enemies” and “categorically do not exist in opposition.”163 The discontinuation of the “Language Supplement B” column in Mandarin Daily News in 1954 marked a harbinger of the future. Zhu was relegated to a bit role on the National Language Committee as a speech contest judge. Eventually he left for Singapore to take up a post at Nanyang University, never to return.164 By the mid-­1950s some were satisfied that primary schools were delivering “fairly good results” with guoyu implementation. But once students graduated to middle school, “they used dialects anytime and anywhere.” A sardonic aphorism later characterized the situation as “primary schools provide training for the national language; middle schools destroy it.”165 Despite discernible government hostility toward Taiwanese dialects, it is important to note that the ban was neither unilateral nor comprehensive. Unevenly enforced throughout the 1950s, official policy could be draconian or ineffective, oppressive or erratic. Agents of state authority enacted inconsistent agendas; conflicting priorities produced spaces of linguistic contradiction. In 1952, for instance, government agencies solicited Taiwanese dialect plays, songs, and storytelling scripts, offering remuneration for performative pieces that could be activated for anticommunist propaganda. To improve tax collection and ease clashes with taxpayers, agents were instructed to use provincial vernaculars to communicate.166 Authorities in one county, meanwhile, slapped an injunction on a local bookseller and proscribed the distribution of “dialect songbooks” on account of their crude content. (The directive did not clarify to what extent dialect contributed to the offense.)167 The following year the education director of Tainan elicited a national language pledge from his staff. Yilan county administrators posted large signs (“Please Speak the National Language”) at the entrance to government offices, targeting civil servants and their dialect jumble of “southern accents with northern tunes.”168 The problem spanned the island, one Provincial Assembly member griped in 1956. Government personnel persisted in speaking dialects of “southern accents with northern tunes.”169 At the same time, some testified to the legitimate function of dialects in civil administration. For instance, the

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Taitung county assembly proposed that police working in villages and townships should learn local speech, in order to “harmonize sentiments” with the people.170 The National Language Committee continued to release titles in its “Bridge Series,” featuring pedagogical materials intended to connect dialect with the national language.171 The tolerance for dialects evaporated most discernibly in the military in the mid-­1950s. Anecdotal evidence indicates that until then, “there were not many in the army who could speak standard guoyu.”172 Intermittent efforts to improve proficiency had lauded exemplary soldiers who contributed to troop unity through diligent study or participation in speech contests. In 1954 the Combined Logistics Command complained to the Education Ministry that the majority of Taiwanese recruits could neither speak nor understand the national language.173 The problem became more urgent as successive revisions to the conscription law absorbed more ben­ shengren, who quickly outnumbered mainlanders among the rank and file.174 Guoyu training thus emerged as a priority in the context of shifting demographics. The brass solicited help from members of the National Language Committee, who compiled textbooks for new soldiers, with the purpose of combining linguistic knowledge with political indoctrination. The introductory lessons taught the foundational components of zhuyin, emphasized the Three Principles of the People and Chiang Kai-­shek’s leadership, and forecasted a triumphant return to the mainland.175 A comprehensive curriculum, intended for military instructors, incorporated literacy and spoken guoyu. But the assumption of a six-­to eight-­week ­full-­time curriculum (or four to six months, on a part-­time basis) proved infeasible.176 Instead, all units with Taiwanese soldiers were instructed to conduct crash courses. In doing so, several pioneered the use of a “national language badge,” a shaming tactic that would have a long afterlife beyond the military. One of the early examples, from Company #829, inscribed the front of a small disc with the words “National Language Badge.” The back featured the admonition: “Speaking the national language is honorable. Speaking dialect is a disgrace.” The badge, pinned on the uniform pocket, signaled that the violator had one week to repent. In Company #835, an offending soldier caught speaking dialect wore a badge marked “Strive for Honor” around the neck. When he corrected his errant speech, he could hang the tag on another guilty comrade. Other variations included twin

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emblems—­reward for speaking guoyu and reprimand for speaking dialect.177 By the early 1960s these badges of shame/honor faded from the military arena. They surfaced in schools as “dog tags,” which in combination with fines and physical punishment constituted an intensified suite of penalties aimed at students speaking dialect. In the recollections of those who experienced or witnessed the humiliation, the “dog tag” inscribed an unforgettable imprint.178 Ng Chiau-­tong, later an independence activist based in Japan, was one of the few Taiwanese in the KMT officer ranks. He entered the reserve officer training program in 1956 to fulfill the military service required for college graduation. As Ng recalled in his memoirs, the army strictly prohibited the use of Japanese. He and his Taiwanese comrades wrote in the proscribed script for the benefit of the censors reading their letters; they spoke Japanese “loudly on purpose”—­not “out of love for Japan,” but for its calculated “nuisance value.” In a classic form of “weapons of the weak,” when commanded to refrain from speaking Taiwanese, their retaliation was silence.179

WH Y ARE PEOPL E STIL L SPEAKI N G JA PA N ESE?

The wavering fate of Taiwanese dialects—­heralded as mother tongue and partner to the national language yet suspected of dividing the linguistic allegiance of the people—­contrasted with concerns about the persistence of Japanese speech and script across wide swaths of society. In 1947, to celebrate the two-­year anniversary of retrocession, the National Language Promotion Committee launched a campaign called “The Entire Province Will Not Speak Japanese.” A “pledge book” sent to local assemblies and government agencies proclaimed, “I am Chinese, and I do not speak Japanese.” But in the one extant item filed in the archives of the Provincial Assembly, there were only four signatures.180 This campaign was the culmination of a period of fearful confusion in the aftermath of 2-­28. It was a troubling conundrum: Why, despite so much effort, were people still speaking Japanese? As Japanese writing appeared in publications and visible forums, and its spoken manifestation could be heard in public places,

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worries about the detrimental effects percolated. According to one commentator, writing in an education journal in June 1947: The government has already ordered all schools to use the national language or Taiyu as the medium of instruction. But no matter where we go, whether in government agencies, schools, or encountering colleagues, students, or workers on the streets, we meet people whose mouths are full of Japanese. The strangest thing is that a small number of young people actually take pride in being able to speak Japanese. This is something we must pay special attention to. If we do not get rid of the Japanese language completely, the national language will not be able to spread widely, and the venomous roots implanted by the Japanese for fifty-­one years cannot be exterminated.

“Old bookshops” full of Japanese publications flourished, patronized by eager customers in open defiance of the ban. The underlying problem was rooted in the government’s failure to spell out clearly the penalties for infractions—­and to enforce them rigorously.181 Complaints about the lack of enforcement would persist for many years, as numerous directives alluded to the uneven implementation of the ban. In the summer of 1948 a provincial decree griped that many shops still featured Japanese writing in their advertisements, window displays, and receipts.182 The following year an irate memo chastised government workers and education personnel who “by and large still use Japanese” to converse among themselves and to communicate with the public. At home, parents were teaching their children Japanese while “despising to learn the national language.” Even some newly arrived mainlanders, finding that they could not function with guoyu, were trying to study the former colonial language. A widely circulated but largely toothless decree followed: “Henceforth the staff of government agencies in the entire province should avoid conversing in Japanese as much as possible.”183 Meanwhile, despite government injunctions to erase the colonial imprint, some street names retained Japanese nomenclature in hybridized addresses.184 In short, using Japanese was a “defective habit” that the people were either unwilling or unable to kick. To the question of volition versus ability—­ whether they were unwilling, unable, or both—­hypotheses abounded.

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Had the insidious effect of Japanese language seeped so deeply into the collective consciousness, such that it could not be dislodged? This was the “slave mentality” argument posited by a generation of KMT leaders. In addition (or instead), could speaking Japanese be construed as willful disregard for the government and its Sinicization imperatives? Was this a form of revolt against the national language, or an explicit rejection of the “fatherland”?185 More innocuously, was it an expedient? Given the legendary difficulty of learning Chinese script and the paucity of phonetically annotated materials, “How can we blame Taiwanese people for continuing to prefer Japanese books?”186 Addressing this issue, He Rong published a lengthy article in 1951, enumerating detailed arguments for why “Taiwan should not use Japanese script and speech.”187 Many people were advocating for its reinstatement in publications, film, and radio, on the grounds of utility for communication. (If English-­language newspapers could be published in Communist China, why should Japanese ones be disallowed in Taipei?, they asked.) This utilitarian view, according to He Rong, disregarded the national minzu character of language. Indeed, treating it as a tool akin to telephones and pens contravened Sun Yat-­sen’s exhortation: “Language is a great force for creating a nation.” At the same time, He interpreted this perspective as evidence that Taiwanese compatriots did not actually “like Japanese language.” The attraction was rooted in “curiosity” or “convenience,” especially for younger people fluent in the colonial language. The calls for reinstatement served instrumental purposes rather than offered proof of affection. He Rong conceded that the ban had effectively turned many who could read only Japanese into illiterates. Yet they did not welcome the most obvious solution—­the zhuyin fuhao, which promised a shortcut to learning guoyu. To conclude, he turned the utilitarian argument on its head: “Many Taiwanese compatriots have already learned Japanese kana and say that . . . ​it is more ‘convenient.’ Don’t we need to consider the origins of this special kind of ‘convenience?’ This ‘convenience’ represents fifty years of bitter suffering on the part of our Taiwanese compatriots and the humiliation of the entire Chinese nation.” If truly advantageous, would one also posit that the Qing government should have ceded several more provinces to Japan in 1895, enabling more people to enjoy “convenience”? Despite the charged rhetoric, He Rong sought to direct the discussion  away from intentional ideological opposition, focusing instead on

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misunderstandings of the meaning and function of language. Others were inclined to interpret the pervasive use of Japanese in overtly political terms. In August 1951 the railway administration criticized its staff, more than 90 percent of them local Taiwanese. According to one official, more often than not they speak and write Japanese, evincing an “indifferent and extremely unsympathetic” attitude towards the language, culture, and history of the fatherland. The government intended to reinforce training for party members, but “since they do not understand the national language this is a difficult task.”188 In the view of the public security agency, high school and university students were even more troublesome, for they possessed the ability to speak guoyu but willfully chose Japanese. “It has been seven years since retrocession, and the government has time and again decreed that people stop conversing in Japanese.” Yet the most well-­ educated students persisted in speaking the language of “the defeated nation.” With words like daggers, “their conduct . . . ​demonstrates that they lack a sense of nationalism.”189 In the early to mid-­1950s, such criticisms faulted students for their linguistic infidelity. Enforcement of the prohibition was spotty. Even if barred from speaking Japanese while on campus, they did so as soon as they stepped out of the gates.190 Students were hardly the only guilty ones. Equally culpable were ­government workers, repeatedly reprimanded and threatened with sanctions. Local authorities improvised methods to break the apparently intractable habit of using language “inappropriate for the conduct of official business.” Frustrated with serial offenders, Miaoli county officials instructed telephone operators to disconnect anyone heard speaking Japanese.191 In the town of Sanchong, the local national language committee partnered with its public health counterpart on a “public compact”: those caught spitting on the ground or speaking in Japanese would be fined 100 yuan. The news of this injunction invited both criticism and approval. In a letter to the editor, one indignant reader carped that the belated enforcement of a long-­standing ban was both embarrassing and comical. In contrast, another applauded the penalty as giving “those who love to speak Japanese a good beating on the head. This is really an old problem. Who knows how many people have shouted about it until their voices grew hoarse?” The reader also fulminated against the offensive spectacle of “people deeply saturated with the ideology of imperialization, loudly and arrogantly speaking Japanese in public places.”192

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At schools, in government offices, and public spaces, spoken Japanese thus lingered as an uncomfortable reminder of the colonial past.193 The “ugly habit” cast suspicion on the political allegiance of the people: “Those who like to speak Japanese are probably not really Chinese.”194 But while accusations of ulterior motives suffused the anxious rhetoric on the subject, there were some for whom speaking Japanese reflected habit and expediency. On the streets of Hualien, vendors selling popsicles shouted out “アイス” and “クリム” (ice cream in Japanese pronunciation). Although the police demanded that they use Sinitic equivalents (冰淇淋 or 四角冰) when hawking sweet treats, “the peddlers stick to their old habits and do not change.” Having promulgated this regulation but failed to enforce it, the police invited ridicule for issuing empty threats, “thunder but no rain.”195 In other instances, government ordinances prohibited “Japanese and pornographic advertisements,” and observers attacked opportunists who affixed Japanese monikers to products of Chinese origin in order to enhance their sales appeal.196 Such examples suggest diverse motivations entwined with but not reducible to politics. The politics of language could entangle others in situations with serious consequences. Citing the unfortunate fate of seven Taiwanese sailors arrested in the Philippines, one commentator noted that the case elicited a feeling of “strong antipathy” because “their mouths were full of Japanese.” The sailors each received a one-­year prison sentence, due to their misidentification as Japanese nationals. Tarred with the brush of the Japanese occupation of the Philippines during World War II, they were allegedly punished more severely. “These seven sailors might be excused for their ignorance; they unwittingly asked for trouble.” But among well-­ educated elites “it is not hard to find people who take pride in speaking Japanese. We might send them one by one to Manila, to get a taste of punishment.”197 Ren Guolun, another commentator, wrote a letter to the editor after hearing on the radio remarks attributed to the Japanese ambassador in Taipei. “Until now the people in Taiwan are still speaking Japanese,” a phenomenon the diplomat interpreted as evidence that they held the former colonial regime in high esteem. “When I heard this absurdity,” Ren wrote, “I was deeply angered and humiliated,” for abandoning one’s own language was only a step removed from forsaking one’s ancestors. “Japan occupied Taiwan for fifty years and forced the people to speak Japanese, which became a habit.” More than a decade later, “Why are we

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not able to change?”198 The question perplexed Pu Gongying as well when he went to Korea to work as an interpreter for the United Nations general command in 1952. After spending more than a year there, Pu observed that when the Japanese occupied Korea, the situation was similar to Taiwan. And yet, “although every [Korean] person can speak Japanese, they categorically would not use it in conversation. Their hatred for the Japanese has not disappeared.” Contrast the ubiquity of Japanese language in Taiwan—­“You can hear it everywhere. The reason for this is impossible to fathom.”199 Most disconcerting of all was the specter of local elected officials, unable or unwilling to break the habit. Starting in 1950 the KMT allowed competitive elections in county, district, and village governments. Although few opportunities for independent politicians (and none for opposition candidates) existed, lively contests regularly took place.200 According to a press report in 1956, the most “open and pervasive atmosphere of speaking Japanese” could be found in local assemblies. In Taitung county, where deliberations were conducted primarily in Japanese, assembly members attacked a colleague who proposed switching to guoyu. “They said that speaking Japanese was proper and in vogue—­to ban it from assembly meetings was against the law and human sentiment,” the news article explained. “If the people’s representatives are like this, what can we expect of the masses?” Granted, the elected assembly included “not a few compatriots from the high mountains and Amei tribes”; forgoing Japanese would render them “deaf and mute.” But eleven years after retrocession, the time had come to make the change: “If everyone does not learn guoyu and speak guoyu now, there will never be a way to eradicate Japanese. It will endure forever in place of the true national language.”201 In fact, four years prior the Executive Yuan had already prohibited the use of Japanese in the conduct of official business, singling out the proceedings of local assemblies. Citing the imperative to “strengthen the concept of nationalism among Taiwanese compatriots,” the government had announced that “Japanese and other foreign languages can no longer be used,” except on occasions directly related to foreign affairs. A grace period of six to twelve months offered indigenous peoples of “the mountains,” who did not know the national language or Taiwanese dialects, time to study.202 All other assembly members were enjoined to “devote their utmost effort” to learning guoyu—­using Japanese language to conduct

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government affairs constituted a “special affront to national honor.”203 Throughout the early to mid-­1950s, reports indicate that some elected officials embraced the “responsibility for setting a positive example.” Irrespective of whether they could speak the national language “fluently and correctly,” they tried.204 When the national assembly convened, members vied to show off their proficiency. The Anhui representative recited his speech in poetic quatrains, to the hilarity of the audience. And when Zhang Xiwen rose to give her statement, those in attendance marveled at her mellifluous pronunciation, comparable to the “broadcasting voice on the radio. . . . ​It turns out Zhang Xiwen is the principal of the Mandarin Experimental Primary School; no wonder her pitch and tones are so pleasing to the ear.”205 Other elected officials, notably at the village and county levels, stubbornly refused to speak the national language. Recurring reprimands censured somewhere between the vast majority and an obstinate minority for persisting in using the language of the former colonial regime. From Taoyuan county, for instance, the police received a complaint that an assemblyman spoke at the meetings with “a mouth full of Japanese,” a habit ascribed to his “deeply ingrained slave mentality.” The presiding official not only failed to intervene but also acted in similar fashion. Forwarded up the chain of command, the case culminated in a note from the governor’s office, instructing local authorities to put a stop to such practices.206

F IGHTING WORDS

It was abundantly clear that linguistic change could not be accomplished by fiat alone. Those persuaded to abandon Japanese speech and writing, moreover, did not instinctively turn to the language of the fatherland. One episode in Changhua county illustrates the animosities stirred up by conflicts between the speech of the nation and that of the province. In the summer of 1955, sixty-­nine elected representatives attended a meeting of the county assembly. On July 26 Zheng Baolai nearly came to blows with Chen Ken, instigated by Zheng’s deliberately provocative speeches rendered in the national language. Chen, who could not understand guoyu,

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reportedly exploded: “Do you know that when I stood for election, I spent 12,000 dollars in order to win? Each time I speak up you intentionally cause trouble. If you carry on like this, just wait and see. I am not so easy to push around.” Chen’s grievance centered on what he perceived to be Zheng’s flaunting use of the national language, in conjunction with mockery of those (like him) who could not speak it. The two had previously quarreled over unspecified issues. Their existing acrimony fueled the clash over the national language. Regarding Chen’s words as a thinly veiled threat, Zheng asked the assembly chairman to “guarantee his personal safety.”207 The fracas might have ended there, but coverage of the incident in the local newspaper provoked further arguments the following day. When the group reconvened, Assemblyman Chen Shicai read the news article aloud and proposed an “emergency temporary resolution” to censure Chen Ken, saying, “It is a positive phenomenon when assembly members speak guoyu at the meeting. But because he is not fluent, he tried to interfere with other people speaking it.” Although objections interrupted Chen Shicai’s harangue, his resolution passed. Next, Xu Jian raised the stakes by introducing another motion, proposing to restrict the right to “express opinions” and ask questions to those able to speak guoyu. Tempers flared as the two sides argued. Eventually the vice chairman brokered a compromise, with the recommendation that assembly members “should speak guoyu as much as possible” and “gradually” complete the linguistic transition. Calm was barely restored when a third resolution materialized—­ this time to amend the election law, adding guoyu proficiency to the ­eligibility criteria for holding office. That is, those who “do not know the national language well” would not be allowed to stand for election. The meeting descended into bedlam as members let loose their fury in multilingual invectives and curses. Eventually the chairman regained control of the situation, tabled the “heated discussion” for future consideration, and adjourned the proceedings.208 What the press dubbed Changhua’s “national language crisis” thus abated, but without resolution. Although in the 1950s local assemblies were nominally discussion forums for prosaic issues such as animal husbandry and fertilizer use, sparks flew over speech politics on more than one occasion. For example, in a small-­town Mother’s Day celebration in Kaohsiung county, Assemblywoman Qiu Pan Xiuchun gave an address

20 6  Taiwan Babel

in guoyu. A member of the agricultural committee shouted her down, hollering: “Speak Taiwanese! You are not allowed to use the national language; we cannot understand it!” Incensed, Qiu sued her verbal assailant for impairing her “freedom of speech” and for violating “women’s rights” by disrupting Mother’s Day.209 At a budget meeting in Taichung, when the finance bureau chief and an assembly member conferred in guoyu, another accused them of “whispering private words” to freeze out those who could not understand. A shouting match ensued, with flying recriminations: “He has not tried to learn the national language, yet now he dares to accuse those who have learned, of whispering private words. That is completely preposterous.”210 As one headline pointedly asked, “A county assemblyman who cannot speak the national language—­may we ask whom he represents?”211 The praise heaped on those who did speak in the language of the nation also provided indicators of the linguistic milieu. Four representatives in Taichung, for instance, used guoyu to ask questions and received effusive approval for the “unprecedented” and “rare” feat. In Taitung the “rare and precious” use of the national language in the assembly merited comment, with one member singled out for his heavily accented pronunciation—­ “hard on the ears” but admirable in effort.212 Observers could point to discernible progress in the effort to install guoyu as the language of the state bureaucracy. At the same time, government directives revealed that it was hardly pervasive. The use of “dialects or foreign languages” for making speeches on official occasions continued to sully “national honor.” But since many local officials and village leaders could not speak guoyu, interpreters were tolerated. They were crucial to communication, even if their presence exposed the fact that “local agencies have not achieved results in implementing the national language.”213 A new rubric for evaluating guoyu proficiency, announced in the spring of 1957, tried to shift the trajectory. Applicable to civil servants and teachers under the age of forty-­five, regardless of native-­place origin, the metrics set 60 percent as the passing grade. Knowledge of zhuyin was not required, but those who failed would be compelled to repeat the exercise. The protocol intended to rectify an existing bias, which had assumed ­linguistic competence for those of mainland origin and exempted them from scrutiny. The appraisal also hoped to inspire senior bureaucrats to

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lead by example: “Refrain from speaking dialect in the conduct of official business; unless they are diplomats, definitely do not speak foreign languages!”214 The laggards might be blamed on the “advanced age and stiff tongues”  of some assembly members—­willing but incapable of learning the national language. One commentator ruminated that fluency was understandably out of reach for older adults. Perhaps only a coercive measure—­such as the threat of revoking citizenship—­could induce them to grab a few phrases of “unrecognizable blue-­green guanhua.”215 On the other hand, the belligerence of the unabashedly noncompliant could not be so easily discounted. In the spring of 1958, at a meeting of the Yunlin county assembly, two representatives expressed their “unwillingness to speak the national language” and denounced another colleague for doing so. Adding insult to injury, they moved to revoke the money allocated to the local branch of the national language committee. After reading the news report describing what had transpired, one indignant reader wrote to the editor: The government has time and again promoted the national language, to enable each and every citizen of China to be able to speak guoyu. Why would assemblymen who represent the will of the people turn around to oppose the promotion of the national language . . . ​or go as far as to insist that in Taiwan it’s sufficient to speak Minnanyu? . . . ​We can infer that these two assemblymen are influenced by the slave education of the ­Japanese occupation. Otherwise, what reason would they have to rebuke someone else for speaking the national language and oppose its implementation?216

This outraged correspondent could fathom only one logical interpretation of the situation. Others dubious about the “slave mentality” argument could detect an attempt to weaponize language as part of an arsenal of political antagonism. Ultimately, it is impossible to judge to what extent the position of the two assembly members corresponded to the views of their constituents. In the 1980s the end of martial law would surface overt political opposition and retroactively frame these choices as explicit forms of resistance to KMT rule.

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T HE PEOPL E OF THE MO U N TA I N S

As we have seen, in contrast to the official judgment characterizing the attitude of Taiwanese natives toward Japanese language as one of “hatred,” the reality on the ground was more complicated.217 The issue turned out to be most confounding in the case of the island’s indigenous peoples, called shandiren 山地人 or shanbao 山胞, meaning people or compatriots “of the mountains.” (These terms lingered well into the 1980s, when an indigenous rights movement reconfigured their standing as “original inhabitants” 原住民.)218 Making up 2 percent of the population, sparsely spread throughout the central mountains and along the eastern coast, in the 1950s these groups were intractable offenders in using Japanese. For the most part, however, the transgression was not attributed to willful intransigence or perfidy. Their native Austronesian languages shared nothing in common with “Taiwanese dialects,” whether Minnanhua or Hakka. This rendered moot the touted method of “learning guoyu from fangyan.” With the national language slow to spread to isolated villages, the indigenous tribes remained strongholds for Japanese speech and script, a situation the government grudgingly condoned.219 The KMT intended the national language to be the core feature of a package of assimilationist policies designed to bring tribal groups into the national fold: “Because they live deep in the mountains and transportation is not convenient, the mountain compatriots of our province have a lower cultural level than the people of the plains.”220 The civilizing mission included initiatives to change habits considered backward, to transform the hearts and minds of people deemed to have suffered special oppression under Japanese rule.221 The campaign to “make the mountains like the plains” promised better living conditions and opportunities for upward mobility. Plans to improve education allocated a 10 percent budget increase for the 1951 fiscal year, conducted special training for teachers, assigned normal school graduates to remote schools, and instructed local authorities to make newspapers, library books, and school supplies more readily available.222 To entice teachers to take up posts in far-­flung districts, a one-­grade bump in salary and bonuses were offered, but that was not enough to  attract instructors in sufficient numbers. Problems with teacher shortages—­widespread elsewhere—­proved endemic in the mountains.223

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According to the recollections of Tang Baofu, his primary school years spent in Alishan were “a blank.” The school was chronically short of money. The children spent half the day collecting nuts from tung oil trees (for sale) and growing vegetables (as salary supplement for the staff). Most of the instructors had only graduated from primary school themselves; few took their duties seriously. Of Tang’s most memorable teachers, one smacked him in the head, causing him to faint; the other spent class time performing magic tricks. The conscientious instructors received little ­support and no guidance from abysmal instructional materials. As he recalled, even the intermediate grade textbooks repeated rudimentary lessons.224 As a child Tang could not have known it, but the contents of his textbooks had been deliberately simplified. In 1951 education officials adopted special editions of “mountain textbooks,” which reduced the difficulty of math and national language lessons by two grade levels. A solution meant to bolster remedial skills fostered further disparities by producing primary school graduates unable to meet the admission standards for middle school.225 In the absence of capable institutions and personnel, advertised schemes to push the national language deep into the mountains and “spread the culture of the fatherland” remained mostly aspirational. Mobile teams did make sporadic trips to villages, bringing books and staying long enough to run a speech contest or organize a “national language week.”226 In 1952 the National Language Committee began publishing Mountain View Weekly as a vehicle for delivering news and guoyu lessons (modeled on Mandarin Daily News, fully annotated with zhuyin fuhao). Introducing the inaugural issue, the editors wrote wistfully: “We do not dare to hope that each mountain compatriot will be able to read this periodical. That is impossible. We only hope to provide government workers toiling in the mountains some useful materials and assistance, so that their labor will achieve greater results.”227 These workers, unfortunately, proved to be unreliable allies. In schools and government agencies far from the center of political authority, even  loosely defined proficiency standards and extra time allotted to achieve them had to be repeatedly postponed. Warnings of sanctions went unheeded. Recruiting staff for positions “in the mountains” in any capacity was exceedingly difficult; threats of dismissal for inability to speak the national language were not credible. Even a woefully modest

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campaign, to “learn one phrase of guoyu each day” in primary schools, failed to deliver desired results.228 When education officials conducted an inspection tour in 1953, a daunting list of fifty-­three problems included the practice of transferring “bad teachers” from the plains to the mountains. As this undermined staff morale and exacerbated the perception of the mountains as a dumping ground for the incompetent, the report recommended discontinuing the practice.229 In fact, successive attempts to redress the matter indicated that the issue endured into the late 1950s. A directive in 1958 warned that those lacking basic credentials or who did not know guoyu should not be sent to the mountains to teach and threatened termination and punishment for violators.230 The adverse effects of “bad teachers” could be detrimental beyond morale, as one anonymous student recounted in a letter to a national newspaper. Writing from an agricultural school in Taitung county, the student was responding to an earlier report: an education official visited a middle school in Chiayi and delivered a speech of admonishment, to the effect that “students have responsibility for the success or failure of education.” The author of the letter attended a different institution, but he felt “wrongly accused” after reading the news account. To protest the insinuation that he and his peers shirked their obligations, he detailed the situation at his school. Depending on age, his classmates understood Japanese language well, a little, or not at all. The principal, on the other hand, spoke exclusively in Japanese, “not a single word of guoyu.” The students learned to ignore his tirades but snapped to attention whenever he started yelling bakayaro (“you idiots” in Japanese). As for the teachers, “the majority spoke local varieties of the national language, very difficult to understand. We have more than ten subjects, and between them the instructors speak six to seven different languages.” At the start of each semester students spent several months puzzling out each version of guoyu. By the time they achieved some comprehension, they were hopelessly behind in the lessons. To catch up, diligent students worked to the point of exhaustion and illness. The rest slept through classes and failed the exams, content to repeat another year while receiving government stipends. A rotating cast of teachers stayed for a short time and left, replaced by another cohort speaking a different mess of incomprehensible tongues. What passed for education was mostly “independent study.” In three years of schooling, the students must learn many varieties of the national

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language each term, not to mention the content of academic subjects. Summarizing the dilemma, the news headline introducing the letter asked: “The principal speaks Japanese and the teachers use all kinds of dialects—­what are the students in the mountains to do?”231 Such frustrations contrasted to sanguine reports that painted a rosy picture. Some of these accounts could be seen from the perspective of celebrating indications of improvement, however limited, in light of ubiquitous problems. At Pingtung county’s third annual “mountain guoyu speech contest,” for instance, judges enthused over “lightning progress.” The first competition in 1951 featured “a jumble of indistinguishable voices.” In the second round, “if you paid careful attention, you could understand about half.” But “this time was different, not far off from the performance of the plains!” In addition, the judges praised one participant’s recitation as “practically a miracle” and lauded the general improvement as “surprising and admirable.” In Yilan county, village head Chen Taiyou “endured hardship to learn the national language,” often practicing late into the night. The effort paid off when he spoke guoyu at government meetings and won accolades as “the model for mountain compatriots learning the national language.”232 If the goal of creating a comprehensive “national language environment” was out of reach, model speakers could nonetheless showcase some measures of success. Visiting officials, moreover, invariably interacted with the most polished and linguistically competent students and teachers. School administrators had every incentive to present their best. Hasty visits did not allow sufficient time for thorough assessments.233 Much of the self-­ reporting from local authorities also tended to highlight accomplishments, producing a corpus of documentation portraying the state of the national language in the mountains in glowing terms—­no problems whatsoever, “absolutely ideal.”234 In some cases, the same account could wax hyperbolic about achievements and in the next sentence bemoan unyielding obstacles. As Kong Min wrote, reflecting on a stint spent in the mountains: “After nine years of exhausting work, the astonishing degree of progress cannot be denied. But the ideal goal is still quite far off.” Depending on vantage point and purpose, a report could either laud ­dazzling progress or lament the vast distance still to be traversed. Both versions could be equally true. Indeed, despite numerous remaining

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problems, Kong noted with gratification: “The power of Japanese language has decreased in influence and range.”235 To what extent had the power of the colonial language waned? Not enough, according to one anonymous “mountain compatriot,” who scolded “everyone” for continuing to speak Japanese. “Although the government has proscribed it again and again, in reality the people who want to, simply continue.” They cited practical reasons: “It is a matter of habit, it can save time, and it is easy to understand.” The author refuted each of these claims in turn. In probing motivations, he also revealed the tenuous position of the national language in the linguistic status quo. The claim of habitual practice cloaked “the expression of intimacy,” imputed to “slave” consciousness. The excuse of “saving time” pointed to the general incommensurability of guoyu, the use of which would necessitate translation into dialect or “mountain languages,” sometimes requiring multiple interpreters. As for the matter of facilitating understanding, the average ability to comprehend guoyu was somewhere between half and zero. In fact, if spoken during village meetings, the audience listened in silence—­but the appearance of rapt attention turned out to be complete incomprehension. Then there were the “people from the plains who love to speak Japanese,” eager to show off the two sentences they know. The situation was either pathetic, laughable, or both, adding up to “no intelligence, no dignity or self-­respect” but plenty of “selfishness and self-­ denigration.” The author concluded: Let me tell all of you the honest truth: we mountain compatriots especially hate the people who speak to us in Japanese! . . . ​It is true that we cannot understand the national language completely, and we advocate that mountain compatriots should be trained as interpreters. . . . ​Our plea is this: we are all Chinese people, so please treat us as compatriots. We regard the Japanese as our former enemies. Do not provoke us by speaking Japanese!236

As we have seen, speaking Japanese could be construed as a form of provocation. Among other linguistic holdouts, missionaries were targeted for disapprobation. In the mountains they continued to proselytize in Japanese and distribute contraband editions of the Bible, despite threats of confiscation. They blithely ignored instructions to adopt zhuyin in service

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of the national language cause, preferring their own romanized phonetics (long used for Taiwanese dialects as well as indigenous languages).237 Reports from the mountains suggest that the issue also reared its ugly head in electoral forums. In 1955 a Taitung county representative criticized his colleagues for “speaking mostly in Japanese,” which made him “feel as if he were in Japan,” making “a mockery” of the national language. When he proposed a policy stipulating that assembly members should “avoid speaking Japanese as much as possible,” the nonbinding resolution instigated a fight, with “mountain compatriots” reportedly reacting in anger. The chairman adjourned the meeting to defuse the situation.238 A year later, when the Wanli district government announced plans to ban Japanese, an editorial in the regional newspaper opined that it was about time. “Everyone knows that mountain villages cannot do without speaking ­Japanese,” but a transition period intended to be temporary became prolonged and entrenched, “to the detriment of national honor.” With habits “naturalized from long duration,” the situation had reached “rock bottom.” When people did not view “speaking a foreign language to be a shameful matter,” they lost the desire to learn the national language. Since officials “openly speak in Japanese at public forums, without feeling any shame, it goes without saying for the rest of the inhabitants.”239 As a metonym for ethnic and linguistic difference, for places inaccessible to the civilizing reach of the nationalizing project, “the mountains” occupied a symbolically important position in the competition between the colonial language, the national language, and the native tongues of the province. If Hakka-­speakers complicated the guoyu-­fangyan relationship, the speech of Taiwan’s indigenous peoples further destabilized the presumed relationship between the colonial, the national, and the local. Tasked with moving the mountains, the fifteen staff members of the National Language Committee assigned to work there could only shift the ground slightly.

R In 1959 Liang Rongruo, a member of the National Language Committee, wrote an open letter to Chao Yuen Ren on “The Future of National Language Education.” The celebrated professor had “returned to China” for the first time since 1938. Upon Chao’s arrival in Taipei on January  12,

214 Taiwan Babel

journalists attending the press conference at the airport reported that he appeared to be emotionally overwhelmed by his “homecoming.” He answered their questions about his current research, a recent car accident, as well as his most famous work, the pop song “How Can I Not Think of Her?” Chao praised the guoyu campaign in Taiwan, saying that during his stay he hoped to understand how this “excellent and astonishing record” had been achieved.240 Six weeks later, at the midpoint of Chao’s scheduled three-­month stay, Liang Rongruo addressed the doyen of the national language in a letter. He and his colleagues, Liang wrote, received the professor’s praise with gratitude. Their work had been built on the foundation of government laws and “the pearls of wisdom bequeathed by you, sir, and Wu Zhihui.” Augmented with the “patriotic hearts of Taiwanese compatriots,” their spirit of learning, and the cooperation of the majority of teachers, “we have achieved some results.” But with uneven progress at all levels of schooling and teacher training institutions, “the ideal is still quite far off.” In adult education and in broader society, “some have just started, others not even begun.” General enthusiasm for the national language has waned; those who work in the field are ready to move on. As Liang enumerated, misperceptions proliferated. Some believe that “there is no need for a standard.” Others consider any dialect spoken by people from mainland provinces to be guoyu; “they imitate each other randomly.” Some believe that a standard language means reverting to archaic phonology, harkening back to the time of Confucius, or they denigrate Beijinghua as “barbarian talk unfit to be the standard.” Some insist on adhering to the “new standard” of 1932, while others advocate returning to the Dictionary of National Pronunciation of 1920. There is no shortage of opinions. But with most people lacking the requisite training in linguistics or knowledge of language pedagogy, the endless arguments produce little clarity. “Our goal is to explain government policy, but we inadvertently generate unnecessary misunderstanding.” Given this situation, Liang hoped that Chao could adjudicate these debates and finally set the record straight.241 Chao Yuen Ren delivered more than twenty lectures while in Taiwan, to both academic and general audiences. He consulted with education officials and renewed his acquaintance with colleagues from the 1930s. With his old friend Hu Shi, he composed a new alma mater song for National Taiwan University. The visit produced a whirlwind of publicity, but Chao

Taiwan Babel  215

could not resolve the dilemmas nor shift the social dynamics Liang Rongruo described. In one lecture, he referred to the necessity of updating the standard pronunciation dictionary, at least once every thirty years. Later efforts to revise the phonology (set in 1932) would cite his words as authoritative.242 Apart from giving his blessing to amending the official pronunciation, Chao’s visit punctuated changes in the national language world in a different way. Shortly after his departure, the Education Ministry absorbed the National Language Committee. Deprived of control over its own budget, and with 65 percent of its staff reassigned to other duties, the committee ceased to function independently. Members moved to nonsalaried positions, though some continued to carry the torch, as educators and editors at Mandarin Daily News. Local branches of the National Language Committee dwindled, with budgets and personnel slashed. Overall, the bureaucratic restructuring diminished the moving force for the national language, in both stature and administrative capacity.243 In 1961 He Rong bemoaned the state of widespread confusion: the level of general understanding about the national language was akin to “a blind man groping an elephant.”244 In 1966 a petition signed by seventy-­nine members of the National Assembly called for the reinstatement of the National Language Committee, saying that in the intervening seven years, progress on guoyu education had come to a virtual standstill. “What is more, there has been a very negative reaction in society. People now have the impression that the government is no longer promoting guoyu, and so they can freely use dialects. In addition, Japanese cram schools are flourishing.” The petition also noted the irony of burgeoning interest in Chinese language studies abroad, juxtaposed against its waning importance in Taiwan. “If this continues for the long term, research and growth of our nation’s language and script will rely on foreigners”—­an egregious affront to national dignity. Meanwhile, on the mainland the “Communist bandits” were promoting Latinization and simplifying the script. Now, more than ever, “our national language needs increased protection.”245 After this intervention, local national language committees received a boost in funding, but the umbrella organization did not reconvene until 1981. In tracing how the KMT government forged a national language regime in an extended period of political transition, this chapter has explored the complex, on-­the-­ground realities of the campaign in Taiwan. Starting in

216  Taiwan Babel

1945, national language activists and government officials elevated guoyu as the new prestige language, above Japanese and the spoken vernaculars of the island. On one level, they largely succeeded in positioning guoyu as the language of national unity and personal aspiration, providing incentives for its mastery, threatening sanctions for noncompliance. On another level, patchy enforcement and popular disavowal indicated that the new prestige language could not mask its uncertain status as an interloper. Envisioned as an antidote to the toxic legacy of Japanese colonialism, in the 1950s the national language played a significant role as one of the anchors of the political imaginary linking Taiwan to the mainland. In local society, however, cracks in the façade of linguistic unification appeared in schools, on the streets, in rural townships, indigenous villages, and the provincial assembly. The collisions between the colonial language, guoyu, and the native tongues of Taiwanese people thwarted the attempt to dictate change in speech norms—­and to fortify deeper allegiances to the nation at the heart of the national language.

5 THE COMMON LANGUAGE OF NEW CHINA

W

hen Wu Yuzhang addressed the National Conference on Language Reform on October 9, 1955, 207 representatives from around the country had convened in Beijing to launch a new phase in the nation’s long quest for language standardization. Since the establishment of the People’s Republic in 1949, linguists and educators had been at work on various aspects of language reform (wenzi gaige 文字改革). Abbreviated as wengai, the concept became a shorthand reference for the complex of issues related to the Chinese language—­writing and speech, narrowly as well as capaciously conceived.1 As Wu Yuzhang put it, “Language reform is a significant issue with relevance for many aspects of social life.” The “conditions were ripe” for finally solving the problem of speech incommensurability, in which people from the North and the South—­even those from the same province or county—­cannot communicate with each other. With the party’s leadership and through the joint efforts of the assembled delegates, “this conference will be an excellent beginning for the nation’s language reform work.”2 As the chair of the Language Reform Committee, Wu would oversee the inaugural campaign to reconfigure the “national language” of the predecessor regime, reborn in three different guises. The trio—­a spoken standard called putonghua (common language), simplified characters, and pinyin, a new system of phonetic spelling—­promised to launch the nation on the path, at last, to linguistic uniformity. This chapter takes 1955 as the

2 1 8 T he Common Language of  New China

point of departure but eschews the script reform or language planning frameworks typically applied to the subject. The analysis instead examines the putonghua campaign as political project and social history, to understand the dynamics of how people learned (or did not learn) to speak the standard language of the socialist state. The Communist Party cast this version as the “common language” of New China, differentiating it from the “national language” of the KMT. In dislodging the nation-­ state from the concept of standard speech, putonghua would reinforce a qualitatively different kind of political allegiance and fortify presumably shared aspirations for linguistic unification. The campaign that unfolded in the 1950s demonstrates that the quest for speech uniformity continued to be fractured and contested. The state’s investment in enforcing new speech norms proved rhetorically bombastic but inconsistent. Despite the ideological imperative, “the masses” were not as linguistically pliant as expected, with tenuous commitment to the state’s project of standard speech. Some of them turned out to be quite stubborn in evading the obligation to speak a new language.

AT L AST

For many of the chief participants, the 1950s language reform project continued the ambitions of previous decades, under a socialist guise. As discussed in chapter 3, Wu Yuzhang had been one of the moving spirits behind Sin Wenz in the 1940s. Wei Jiangong, who returned to Beijing from Taiwan in 1948, assumed responsibility for a major dictionary project. Meanwhile, Li Jinxi transferred his allegiance from guoyu to become an inaugural member of a script reform research group—­reportedly at the behest of his former student, Mao Zedong.3 Joining stalwarts of the former national language establishment were newcomers such as Zhou Youguang, an economist soon to become “the father of pinyin,” and Xu Shirong, a professor and editor, who took the lead on putonghua. Despite the group’s cumulative experience and expertise, Mao Zedong’s initial instructions confounded them. As Wu Yuzhang and others later recounted, the chairman conveyed his wish for script simplification to take precedence, “to proceed in the phonetic direction common to the

The Common Language of  N ew C hina 21 9

world’s writing systems,” and for the new phonetic script to embody a national form, based on “existing Chinese characters.” 4 The priority Mao accorded to simplification was a bolt from the blue, reversing the weight the linguists had given to the phonetic project, as well as shattering assumptions about the Chinese script’s eventual obsolescence. Moreover, both the Latinizers and former GR partisans had harbored expectations that any phonetic system adopted by the new regime would be based on the Latin alphabet—­a n expectation now upended by the dictate for a Chinese form. As John DeFrancis observed, “Mao’s instructions were bombshells that completely disconcerted the reformers and sent them scurrying along completely new paths.”5 Members of the Language Reform Committee labored to craft solutions that would satisfy Mao’s requirements. In January 1955 a preliminary draft of the simplification plan was released, to solicit feedback on 798 revised characters.6 A key item on the agenda of the October conference was to solidify consensus. After several days of spirited discussions, the delegates approved the plan, with minor changes.7 In contrast to the priority given to simplification, the phonetic script appeared on the agenda only briefly. In a report delivered on the penultimate day of the proceedings, Ye Laishi (the committee’s general secretary) reviewed the progress and future prospects of the phonetic project.8 A subcommittee had considered more than six hundred proposals over the past five years, submitted by people from all over the country. Despite the long period of deliberation, experts had not reached consensus on the basic features—­including the fundamental question of whether to adopt an internationally recognized alphabet or to create a version based on Chinese characters. At the October conference, six options (four based on Chinese script, one using Cyrillic, one using the Latin alphabet) were circulated—­for consideration and comment only, Ye emphasized.9 The phonetic script would need to be coordinated with other aspects of language reform—­most important, the promotion of putonghua. The delegates debated the merits of the six alternatives in small groups. At the closing of the conference, a resolution urged the committee “to formulate a plan for a Chinese phonetic script” expeditiously but did not advocate for any particular option.10 Behind the scenes, a report endorsing the Latin alphabet made its way to the Central Committee and eventually received Mao Zedong’s approval.11

2 2 0 T he Common L anguage of  New China

As for the spoken standard, the October conference marked a crucial moment in defining its normative properties. In his plenary address, Education Minister Zhang Xiruo characterized putonghua as “a common language with the northern vernacular as the base dialect and Beijing pronunciation as its standard—­the shared language of the Han nationality (Han minzu).”12 These familiar but amorphously defined terms—­common, dialect, Beijing pronunciation, standard, nationality—­would soon generate confusion and disagreement, even as they demarcated the official parameters of putonghua. In his remarks, Zhang charted a long history, asserting that the Chinese people had possessed a “collective language” dating back to at least the twelfth century. In previous incarnations, a shared medium of communication “established roots among the people and gradually became what the people recognize as ‘putonghua.’ ” By the time of the civil war (1945–­1949), soldiers of the Red Army disseminated this language to “every corner of China.” The PRC’s effort to “standardize the existing common language” would finally fulfill aspirations ­subverted by “the former imperialist, feudalist regime.”13 In this narrative, the putonghua of New China rested on an extended historical trajectory, bolstered with recent revolutionary credentials. By portraying speech standardization as one of the “natural results of historical evolutionary change” and a long-­awaited outcome, Zhang minimized the radical nature of the linguistic engineering project. Finally, Zhang Xiruo turned his attention to the issue of how to transform the common language from idea into reality. Here, the education minister stressed “implement key points and gradually popularize” as the guiding principle of a differentiated approach. “We cannot hope that every region will march forward in lockstep; we should not be impatient and expect results overnight. . . . ​We should proceed according to the pronunciation situation in each dialect region and according to conditions for learning.” Differences also applied at the individual level, which Zhang outlined in a hierarchy of proficiency requirements. Ordinary learners need only a rudimentary foundation based on zhuyin zimu, while teachers shoulder special responsibilities for mastering pronunciation. As for the faculty of normal schools and teachers’ colleges—­“since they teach the  teachers, they should demonstrate full mastery of the principles of Beijing pronunciation . . . ​and be fully at ease with recitation and conversation.” In the design for a future of unified speech, zhuyin zimu

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FIGURE 5.1  

Diagram drawings of zhuyin pronunciation.

Source: Xu Shirong 徐世榮, Zhuyin zimu fayin shiyi tu 注音字母發音示意圖, 1955. Courtesy of Cotsen Library collection, Princeton University Rare Books and Special Collections.

functioned as the starting point—­a “crutch for correct articulation,” a temporary expedient in the absence of an official decision on a new phonetic script. Since zhuyin had long been used as a literacy aid, Zhang explained: “The masses are relatively familiar with it. At the present stage, using it to standardize sounds and pronunciation is of great help in teaching.”14 In fact, the Education Ministry had already deployed zhuyin zimu in a series of teacher training classes the previous summer. In preparation for the new school year, the three-­to four-­week seminars provided either a refresher course or remedial instruction to those soon to be positioned on the front lines of the putonghua campaign.15 According to reports delivered at the October conference, summer classes held in Hebei, Shanxi, and Hubei offered a preview of the promise and challenges. All attested to positive results and praised the participants, whose perseverance “cracked the code” of pronunciation. In Hubei, one-­third of students at the outset could not recognize a single zhuyin symbol. By the end of

2 2 2 T he Common Language of N ew China

the twenty-­day boot camp, 98  percent could read the entire syllabary “more or less accurately,” while 78  percent could recite the textbook using “standard pronunciation”—­the minimum qualification for teaching p­ utonghua. Some 79 percent in Shanxi passed the final oral exam—­ gratifying results, given that “many had never heard Beijing pronunciation before.”16 Even while offering upbeat assessments, however, reports from the provinces also underlined considerable obstacles. Hebei leaders, for instance, discerned “indifference from two opposite directions.” Those with “native dialects close to Beijinghua” considered putonghua “quite easy” and evinced a cavalier attitude. Students whose speech diverged significantly from northern pronunciation found the learning process much more taxing. They also feared later repercussions: mockery at home; alienation from the community; “it just won’t fly once I go back.”17 Students in Shanxi shared their uneasiness: in trying to speak putonghua they end up “neither fish nor fowl, with southern accents and northern tunes that will make them the butt of jokes.” To correct these attitudes, education leaders stressed the importance of political will: “If the Yellow River can be tamed, how hard can it be to change our local vernacular?” Reflecting on the summer experience, Shanxi delegate Xue Changshou concluded that the full support of local leaders would be crucial to the campaign’s future success. They need to pay attention to “resolving the ideological doubts that will be continually produced in the learning process,” address popular misgivings in a timely manner, “dispel the people’s worries, and overcome conservative thinking and the psychology of saving face.”18 How to sustain commitment also remained an open question. As the Hubei delegate pointed out, “Although 78 percent fulfilled the qualification, their foundation is not solid. How they will continue to learn after going home is a significant problem.”19 In the years to come, these teachers would also have to unlearn zhuyin zimu, when the introduction of pinyin rendered their acquired proficiency obsolete. While the pronunciation norms based on Beijing phonology remained constant, teacher training would have to begin anew, with a different methodology based on the Latin alphabet. Even without accounting for the future reversal on the phonetic script, Hu Qiaomu’s concluding address at the October conference underscored

T he Common Language of  N ew China 223

the difficult path forward. Hu had been one of Mao Zedong’s closest aides in the 1940s and rose quickly in the party hierarchy. As deputy secretary of the Central Committee, he was the most senior leader to make an appearance.20 In his remarks, Hu contrasted script simplification, as “something we have never tried before” on a national scale, to putonghua, built on the foundation of past endeavors, “not invented from scratch.” Previous attempts at standardizing speech had “proceeded without a plan, without truly using the power of the state to carry it out. . . . ​merely child’s play, compared to what we intend to accomplish.” Before sending delegates home to begin the implementation phase, Hu addressed objections that “some people” raised. Why do we need to set one regional pronunciation as the standard? Why Beijing? Will dialects be prohibited? Hu did his best to justify the choice of Beijing pronunciation, saying: “It is the natural result of the historical development of Hanyu”; “even when the KMT relocated the capital to Nanjing, they still acknowledged Beijing pronunciation as the national standard.” Consider the counterfactual of not choosing Beijing pronunciation as the standard: “society will not approve,” so why ask for trouble? Among the masses “some may harbor feelings of aversion,” especially older generations who associate Beijinghua with “bureaucratic speech.” Those promoting putonghua should explain: “Today’s Beijing pronunciation is not that kind of ‘bureaucratic speech.’ It is the voice of our people and a symbol of our national capital. . . . ​It is the standard pronunciation of our 600 million people.”21 As for the perceived threat to dialects, Hu offered reassurance: “­Dialects cannot be banned and eliminated through political methods” but will “naturally be eliminated” over a long period of time. “In this regard, there is no coercion, no possibility of adopting violent methods. If s­ omeone wishes to speak in dialect with people from his or her native place, no one can interfere. The problem is that . . . ​we cannot hold native place association meetings every day.” The mission is “to expand the scope of putonghua while reducing the boundaries of use for dialects.” Accomplishing all of this will require a “colossal effort,” Hu asserted. “Completing the mission will require diligent and bitter study, with constant practice even during mealtimes, while sleeping and dreaming. . . . ​Although we do not advocate talking in your sleep, we urge everyone to adopt this kind of spirit for learning.”22

2 24 T he Common Language of  N ew China

WHAT IS PUTO NGH UA?

At the conclusion of the conference, a front-­page editorial in the People’s Daily on the proceedings signaled the approval of Party Central.23 Many delegates returned home, while some moved across town to the Chinese Academy of Sciences, where the Symposium on Standardization of Modern Chinese began two days later. The goal of the second forum was to develop “a uniform understanding of putonghua and its standardization” and to establish specific norms for pronunciation, grammar, and lexicon. The first conference had addressed these issues in broad strokes; the ­standardization symposium intended to fill in the details.24 After six days of discussions, the concluding resolution affirmed the critical importance of standardization. The goal was “not to restrict linguistic development” but to “organize the deviations that occurred” in the process. To steer the future course “in a more perfect direction” would require scientific research, the guidance of Marxist linguistic theory, and “the support and cooperation of people from all walks of life.” To that end, the most important task was to “verify the pronunciation norms of putong­ hua.” The delegates proposed that the Chinese Academy of Sciences appoint a pronunciation audit committee and task the group with compiling a “putonghua dictionary of correct pronunciation for commonly used words” within one year.25 The exact specifications of “correct pronunciation” remained somewhat elusive, even to the most ardent champions of putonghua. While symposium delegates largely concurred on grammar and lexical issues, two elements of “Beijing pronunciation” elicited conflicting views.26 On ­ ­retroflection, opinion diverged as to whether R-­suffixation was an indispensable quality of Beijinghua, and whether its ubiquity presented an insurmountable obstacle for putonghua learners. As one participant opined, r­ etroflection served useful functions, such as expressing affection and denoting sentence breaks. Its removal would “impoverish” the vocabulary. Opposing views held that retroflection should be relaxed, in light of widely reported difficulties people in some regions have with “curling the tongue.” The second issue, tonal differentiation, prompted even sharper divisions. Ni Haishu, advocating for a “lenient standard” on this point, invoked his personal experience of growing up in Shanghai and later teaching Sin Wenz in the 1940s. Ni maintained that his indifference

T he Common Language of  N ew China 225

to tones caused few problems with comprehensibility or pedagogy. “In demanding that everyone learn putonghua  . . . ​we need to pay attention to the consent and approval of the masses. . . . ​Beijing tones are difficult for outsiders to learn, and so I believe that they do not have be the standard.” More generally, Ni felt uneasy about defining the criteria for standardization narrowly, a path he viewed as “divorced from the masses.” In the opposite camp, Wang Li characterized tonal differentiation as a core feature of Beijinghua—­a less rigorous standard can apply to beginners, but ultimately “we cannot do without a standard.”27 To conclude the symposium, Fudan University president Chen Wangdao summarized the general principles and enumerated issues requiring future research. Participants had identified eighty-­seven such tasks, including forty-­two related to pronunciation and dialect investigation. Beyond technical questions, Chen noted that whether “the standard” should be “loose and lenient” versus “rigorous and strict” remained undecided. The symposium was a positive beginning. But the road ahead would be long and laborious, for “only a minority of people have an accurate understanding of the standardization question.”28 As the putonghua campaign commenced in the autumn of 1955 with a burst of publicity, its advocates filled propaganda outlets and popular and academic publications with calls to action. In exhorting all to “devote their utmost to learning the common language,” experts answered a frequently posed question: “What is putonghua anyway?” As the language that putatively originated from the masses, at the moment of its promulgation putonghua was saddled with the burden of several decades of linguistic aspirations and conflicts. Historian Wang Dongjie has described how left-­ wing intellectuals in the 1930s had invoked the concept of a “common language,” using putonghua to critique the bureaucratic and urban privilege associated with imperial guanhua and the KMT’s guoyu.29 Imbued with multiple and contradictory meanings over time, the concept was misunderstood as, or used interchangeably with, guanhua or guoyu.30 Entangled in the contested history of its predecessors, the putonghua of the Chinese socialist state also bore a palpable Soviet imprint. Stalin’s “Marxism and the Problem of Linguistics,” published in 1950, appeared shortly thereafter in a Chinese translation. From that point until obvious manifestations of the Sino-­Soviet breach emerged in 1958, language reform discussions invariably referenced Stalin’s theory as the singularly authoritative source.

2 2 6  T he Common Language of N ew C hina

While invoking Stalin axiomatically legitimized any viewpoint, doing so did little to render the idea of a common language legible to ordinary people. To begin that process, experts attempted to clarify the meaning of putong in putonghua. Did this refer to “common” in the collective sense, or “common” as something ordinary or unexceptional? The disparate meanings caused no small amount of confusion. Parsing the differences, Zhang Xiruo emphasized the widespread, collective, and “general usage” qualities of putonghua and cautioned against treating it as commonplace or ordinary.31 Yet if putonghua was already widely shared and in general or common usage as asserted, why launch a campaign urging “everyone to do their utmost” to teach and learn it? The answer to this incongruity might be found in the efforts to untangle the guanhua-­guoyu-­Beijinghua-­putonghua nexus. Although ostensibly the shared language of the Han people with ancient roots, as the ­communication medium of the socialist future it was imperative for pu­ tonghua to evolve beyond its unruly and “feudal” origins. The campaign intended to disseminate the sounds of a newly standardized language, to displace the adulterated versions of the past, known in various guises as guanhua, guoyu, or Beijinghua. To inquiring minds, concise explanations repeated the mantra that putonghua was not synonymous with, nor should it be conflated with, the imperial official language, the Beijing dialect, and especially not the KMT’s national language. One textbook offered a baffling explanation, asserting that the people of the nation (from the northeastern provinces to the Southwest, except for ethnic minorities) already speak “a type of putonghua.” The State Council had recently instructed everyone to learn putonghua based on Beijing pronunciation and the northern vernacular. “This type of putonghua is not exactly the same as the previous so-­called putonghua or guanhua” but rather an “improved” version.32 More elaborate accounts reviewed antecedents from the Song dynasty or delineated a genealogy from imperial guanhua to the 1950s present. Given the centrality of “Beijing pronunciation” to the authoritative definition of putonghua, “the masses” misconstrued Beijing dialect and the newly minted standard as equivalents. Members of the Language Reform Committee were more than familiar with this conundrum. In their own deliberations, they had tried to clear up the confusion by coining new terms or infusing existing concepts with differentiated meanings: the “speech of the capital” denoting a more evolved version

The Common Language of  N ew China 2 27

of the “uncouth” and “vulgar” dialect; a putonghua embodying standardized lexicon and pronunciation, distinct from a tuhua of “southern ­accents and northern tunes.”33 As the campaign launched, popular reactions surpassed the experts’ capacity to manage heterogeneous interpretations that were, in their view, rooted in misunderstanding. “Some comrades are very enthusiastic about learning the common language,” opined an editorialist in Guangming Daily. “But they have erred by regarding Beijing dialect as putonghua.” Native speakers of Beijinghua teach others their tuhua; zealous but misled students end up learning a dialect of limited range and utility.34 But how to purify Beijinghua and purge its “coarse” elements, while preserving its phonological basis as the standard, proved a difficult needle to thread. In lessons and commentary dissecting the issue, linguists and teachers asserted the incompatibility between standard pronunciation and the tuyin (local, coarse, uncouth sounds) of Beijinghua. Taking Beijing pronunciation as the basis “does not mean importing the pronunciation of Beijing sounds one hundred percent. Obviously, some of Beijing’s coarse local sounds cannot become standard pronunciation.”35 Overall, Ni Haishu opined, an accurate understanding of putonghua relies on resolving the conceptual muddle between common, standard, national, and capital speech. The standard is based on, but not identical to, the speech of Beijing: “In this regard, Beijinghua has the obligation to abandon its overly coarse elements.” The common language must emphatically not to be equated with the national language of the recent past: “To call Beijinghua ‘guoyu’ is to deny the reality of the multinational basis of our country and exposes the great Han chauvinistic ideology of some people.”36 A discernible manifestation of “Han chauvinism,” however, was already embedded in the official definition of putonghua, which advertised it as “the shared language of the Han nationality.” The phrase routinely appeared as part of the campaign’s messaging in 1955–­1956.37 When the government’s language policy cast an increasingly wider net to incorporate non-­Han ethnic minorities, the minzu basis of the spoken standard receded, expanding the parameters of putonghua as a shared language of all nationalities.38 As these frictions suggest, despite an official definition recited as dictum, the question of “what is putonghua” proved difficult to answer. Attempts to clarify and refute, which would recur for decades,

2 2 8 T he Common Language of N ew China

indicate that enduring ambiguities troubled efforts to instruct the people to embrace the common language and make it their own.

PL EASE DON ’ T L AU G H

As the campaign surged forward in the early months of 1956, a different vexing issue emerged. A series of articles appeared in nationally circulating publications with the entreaty: please do not laugh at those who are trying to learn putonghua. Beyond the headlines, permutations of this admonition echoed in different forums. In the context of a recently launched political campaign, the message was a curious one. What were people laughing at, and why? What was so comical about learning the language recently anointed as the spoken standard? At the October conference, Wang Li had broached the issue: “Many people are afraid of learning putonghua,” especially those whose native tongues diverge significantly from the pronunciation of the standard. “They think that putonghua is too difficult, and they are afraid of other people’s mockery if they do not learn it well. . . . ​There is a saying: we are not afraid of heaven or earth; we are only afraid of the Cantonese speaking guanhua,” with variations ridiculing other dialect speakers. “This kind of mocking attitude warrants reconsideration. I suggest that we change mockery to encouragement: we are not afraid of heaven or earth, surely not afraid of putonghua!”39 Wang Li drew his observations from more than two decades spent in the trenches of national language education, and he projected past experience to the future of putonghua. Indeed, the inception of the campaign elicited accounts of problems encountered in a previous life of learning or teaching guoyu, now narrated as episodes in the journey toward unified speech. Principal Cao Shuduan, for instance, recounted the story of a student from her first teaching job (circa 1937). The young girl refused to speak in class, even with a rule against students laughing at each other’s “dialect accents.” It emerged that the trouble originated from home, where family members poked fun and called her “little Beijing bird” whenever she practiced speaking the national language. Principal Cao visited the parents and asked them to stop mocking their daughter, whereupon the father launched into a harangue about the uselessness of Beijing

T he Common Language of  N ew China 229

pronunciation. Flashing forward to the 1950s present, Cao summoned primary school teachers to action, “to shoulder the honorable responsibility for learning and teaching putonghua well.” Confronting such a burden, some teachers surrendered to their anxieties: “fearing that using clumsy and halting putonghua to teach would provoke the children’s uproarious laughter.” Some coped by asking students with “more accurate pronunciation” to lead the class. Some “retreated in the face of difficulty” and pondered alternative careers. “Presently in the entire country,” Cao observed, “primary school teachers who can accurately grasp and use putonghua constitute a small minority. If they do not resolve to learn it but instead consider switching careers, who will undertake this honorable yet arduous responsibility?” 40 From Henan, primary school teacher Zhao Minzhi reported that as he embraced the charge, students and colleagues poked fun at his self-­taught efforts. Zhao had dutifully learned zhuyin zimu; he practiced pronunciation by consulting dictionaries and following lessons on the radio. “The first time I used putonghua to teach,” he wrote, “I was the butt of many jokes.” In a third-­grade class, he stammered and struggled to read the text aloud. “Some students put their heads on their desks and tried to hide their snickers. After class they burst into laughter; some even mimicked me by making weird sounds.” On another occasion Zhao used putong­ hua to address an alumni meeting. By his own admission, he spoke awkwardly. “Afterwards some colleagues laughed at me to my face; some said that I was putting on airs or some kind of act.” 41 The derision of parents, students, or colleagues could understandably attenuate enthusiasm for learning. It is difficult, however, to gauge the prevalence of such anecdotal incidents, with actions and attitudes typically attributed to the amorphous category “some people” (有些人). ­Judging from the recurring discussions, “some people” appeared everywhere, the source of “ideological obstacles” widespread enough to cause alarm. Especially noteworthy in these reports was evidence of a daring inversion of authority in the classroom. Students felt emboldened to poke fun at teachers who fumbled through lessons while trying to speak putonghua. In a context of general educational disarray, there were few punitive consequences for these acts of mild insubordination. Starting in 1949 the CCP had embarked on successive reforms to restructure the education system—­based on the Soviet model, followed by its disavowal.

2 3 0  T he Common Language of  New China

A  central government directive condensed elementary schooling from six to five years in 1952, only to reverse that decision a year later. Secondary and primary school enrollments ballooned, putting pressure on teachers, facilities, and funding.42 Concurrently, reports from around the country documented student impudence: picking fights or clowning around, coming and going as they pleased, turning their backs and singing in unison, locking the teacher out of the classroom. “They curse and hit, chase each other around the room, raising hell and turning everything upside down.” Observers diagnosed the source of such “chaotic classrooms” as a combination of inattention to school discipline, inexperienced instructors unable to command respect, and indifference on the part of veteran teachers.43 News headlines enjoined “society” to “stop looking down on teachers,” underscoring the perception of the profession as low prestige. “Some people” regard teachers as “ideologically backward,” with politically suspect pasts. Or “they say that it’s a dead-­ end job, just glorified babysitting.” 44 With schools and classrooms in turmoil, laughter—­whether good-­natured or derisive—­paled in comparison to other blatant challenges to authority.45 In addition to making fun of their teachers, students made fun of one another. While everyone stumbles in pronunciation in the learning process, “according to reports, some students make jokes about it and tease their classmates. The ones being teased are afraid to lose face and grow fearful of learning.” The jokesters “did not necessarily intend to instigate trouble and cannot be considered to have some kind of ideological problem,” journalist Tao Houmin commented. But by neglecting to consider the consequences of their thoughtless actions, they cause irreparable harm—­if the teasing strikes a nerve, the classmate “grows timid or gives up.” To those who fear “being the butt of jokes,” Tao counseled resilience and a thicker skin: “In any endeavor, to learn anything, you will invariably encounter some challenges at the outset. If you fear other people’s jokes because you are sensitive about your reputation and give up halfway, then you will not be able to learn anything well.” Tao urged taking a longer view: “In a few years’ time, if there are some youths who still only know how to speak dialect, that will be truly laughable! The ones who are working hard to learn are today’s vanguard for popularizing putonghua. What is so funny about that, and what is there to fear? Don’t laugh at others, and don’t fear the laughter of others.” 46

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Whether innocuous or pernicious, the hilarity of speaking putong­ hua could become intertwined with manifestations of other “ideological problems.” As Ping Zhu has observed, laughter in its diverse permutations provided an index of class position, revealing identification with the socialist project or alignment with counterrevolutionary forces. As satire, laughter could be wielded as a weapon to unite and educate the people. Conversely it could poison proletarian unity as a subversive toxin.47 In the case of learning putonghua, Education Minister Zhang Xiruo observed that some comrades do not understand the issues and ask, “What does speech have to do with politics?” Others may be more willing but hesitate: “Learning putonghua is good and all. But it’s very difficult and I’m too old to learn.” Zhang advised patience and perseverance: “We cannot expect to learn it all in one go, or to achieve 100 percent accuracy immediately. . . . ​In the process of learning, you should not be afraid of other people’s mockery. Learning putonghua is our highest obligation, so why laugh? Those who ought to be disparaged and criticized are not the comrades learning putonghua, but rather those who are unwilling to learn, who cling for dear life to their own dialects and won’t let go.” 48 With mockery intersecting with strands of refusal, other commentators assessed the substance of dissenting opinions in greater detail. One observer described four types: “the unequivocally opposed,” “the vacillators,” “the conceited and apathetic,” and the “wait-­and-­see-­ers.” 49 Verging on intransigence, “Some people say: ‘This [putonghua] can never work, because language is a matter of the people’s freedom, there is no way you can force people to speak a prescribed language.’ ”50 In a detailed inventory of popular feedback, linguist Zhang Gonggui classified seven groups of naysayers:51 1. “Why do I need to learn putonghua?” These recalcitrants “refuse to acknowledge putonghua, are unwilling to listen to putonghua, even to the extent of forbidding their children to speak putonghua.”52 They feel that intimacy can be expressed only in their native dialect; they consider speaking putonghua to be “putting on bureaucratic airs” or “forgetting one’s origins.” Feeling secure in old habits, they insist: “I have spoken my native dialect for several decades, why do I need to learn what the hell kind of putonghua?”

2 3 2 T he Common Language of  New China

2. “How I speak is too far apart from putonghua, there is no way to learn it well.” Not true, Zhang countered, citing the instructive examples of overseas Chinese in Singapore. In regions with the greatest divergence, people pay the closest attention. They feel less motivated where regional speech is more or less intelligible with putonghua. 3. “I don’t have a talent for learning languages.” An excuse for laziness, according to Zhang, and a prime example of “fear-­of-­difficulty ideology.” These people have not applied themselves to learning and already decided that they have “no talent.” 4. “I am old and my tongue is stiff.” The reason why adults cannot learn as quickly as children is not age and “stiff tongues” but rather “unnecessary ideological worries,” ranging from fear of embarrassment and laughter to indifference and lack of resolve. 5. “I don’t speak well and I am afraid that other people will laugh at me.” We often hear the saying: “No fear of heaven and earth, only fear the people of such-­a nd-­such place speaking guanhua and putting on bureaucratic airs,” Zhang explained. This saying frightened many people. But what is there to fear? Now, with government support “there is no longer somebody laughing at somebody else.” 6. “Strange pronunciation and odd tones, it feels unnatural.” One should not fear strange pronunciation and odd tones but welcome it as  part of the learning process. Dialect habits are deeply ingrained; the expectation that they can be changed in a snap is “unrealistic fantasy.” 7. “Putonghua is hard to learn and I have no confidence.” Expecting to achieve results after a few days is a sure indication of misunderstanding. But the Chinese people do not fear difficulty. “We can force mountains to bow down and rivers to give way.” We should say: “Not afraid of heaven and earth, what is there to fear about learning whatever putonghua!”53 Cumulatively, these discussions revealed a spectrum of popular r­eactions to the exhortation to learn the common language. Some ­anxieties—­lack of ability or confidence, ineptitude attributed to advanced age—­clustered around acts of articulation perceived to be awkward or exceedingly difficult. Other comments registered recalcitrance, variously ascribed to indifference, antagonism, or excessive attachment to a native dialect. Finally, fear of ridicule contributed to unease about the new speech

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norms. Accordingly, in efforts to persuade the masses to speak the common language of the socialist state, agents of government authority repeatedly reprimanded “erroneous attitudes” and targeted the scoffers.54 They assumed that for the most part, “the people” were eager but lost their ­fervor and grew discouraged when others smirked. A constant refrain urged fortitude, underscoring the conviction that determination could overcome deficits of natural ability or skill. From this perspective, the common language was not what sounds the mouth, tongue, and throat can produce, but what a resolute heart-­a nd-­mind can accomplish. The process, one educator noted, was comparable to learning to swim or ride a bicycle. If you refuse to get on the bike or into the water, if you are afraid of falling or swallowing some water—­how can you learn? Likewise, “If you are unwilling to open your mouth, how can you learn to speak putong­ hua?”55 A profusion of commentary focused on correcting misperceptions, combining promised rewards with vague threats of penalties. In their eagerness to expose “ideological obstacles” for the purpose of overcoming them, commentators also divulged attitudes militating against the idea and goal of a standard spoken language. Examined more closely, the entreaty “please do not laugh” could be disaggregated into several permutations. The most frequently repeated rendering points to how attempting to speak the putative prestige language could subject the speaker to ridicule—­for making mistakes, sounding “foolish,” or, according to a nebulous saying, “sounding bad” or “offensive to the ear” (bu haoting 不好听 or nanting 难听).56 Such disparagement could actually buttress the status of the prestige language. For instance, taunting a classmate for not speaking putonghua “well”; worries about “becoming the butt of jokes” due to inaccurate pronunciation; or school leaders “looking down on those who have trouble learning”—­these views implicitly reinforced a perceived standard.57 As one primary school instructor explained, students unaccustomed to the sounds of the “standard pronunciation” often start laughing when they hear it. “A student, reading aloud in a strange voice and odd manner, sometimes sets the class off roaring in hilarity. This affects classroom order. The teacher must pay attention and prevent it, as well as cultivate the students’ habit of speaking the standard pronunciation.”58 On the other hand, in other contexts “sounding bad” could signal a denial of putonghua’s claim to higher status—­“useless” for communication,

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aesthetically distasteful (“stinging to the ears”), or emotionally alienating. In Shanghai, for instance, one education cadre described his reaction to observing teachers who “summoned up the courage” to use “blue-­green guanhua” in the classroom. As he listened to the botched lessons, he could not help but think: “It sounds really bad . . . ​if you can’t speak the standard then it’s better to use Shanghainese.”59 In a related but slightly different rendering, one strand of mockery singled out those trying to speak putonghua (whether fluently or poorly) for affecting a higher status or imitating party cadres. In this iteration, vestigial connections to the educated elite and bureaucratic privilege tainted the class position of putonghua—­despite an ocean of rhetoric positioning it as belonging to the masses. As one example, an anecdote in an education journal urged people “not to sneer.” Teacher Wang had completed a one-­month putonghua training course. When he returned, he saw Teacher Xing and greeted him warmly. “So strange! Teacher Xing did not reply. He opened his eyes wide . . . ​a nd looked Teacher Wang over, from head to toe.” After a ­moment’s silence, Xing said, “I haven’t seen you for some days, how come your accent has changed? It seems you are no longer a local!” Everyone burst out laughing. Someone said: “Not a local but also not a foreigner!” 60 They stared at Wang, who felt “somewhat embarrassed.”  In this ­narrative, a newly acquired “accent” subjected a teacher to jokes. Instead of rising in status in the community, he was marked as an outsider by speaking the common language—­not as alien as a foreigner and not quite an outcast, but no longer “one of us.” Rather than embracing pu­ tonghua as a solemn responsibility, his colleagues rejected the linguistic obligation ascribed to schoolteachers. They certainly refused its ideological significance. While the moral of the story praised Wang and rebuked those who mocked him, the dynamics captured in the anecdote undermined the message.

AT THE BATTL EF RON T

Cultivating a positive social environment for learning the common ­language featured prominently in the campaign, as one of the keys to success. The chief battleground would be the school, with teachers as the

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vanguard—­to train battalions of students, combat scornful laughter, conquer fears of difficulty, and overcome “ideological issues” impeding a future of unified speech. According to a front-­page editorial in Guang­ ming Daily, the nation’s 1.7 million schoolteachers constituted “the backbone” of this endeavor. “Think about it: if the teachers can all gradually learn to speak putonghua and use it as the medium of instruction,” they will have an enormous effect on more than fifty million currently enrolled students, not to mention the millions more entering the educational system each year. The domino effect would ripple across society: “Once these millions of children learn to speak the common language, they will exert immense influence on the broader masses . . . ​spurring family members and people around them to learn.” As the linchpin of this process, “the language instructor” shouldered the heaviest burden—­ to practice and improve, deepen pedagogical knowledge, help other subject teachers “eliminate ideological obstacles, overcome challenges, so that they can learn to speak putonghua and finally use it as the medium of instruction.” For their part, school leaders must foster a conducive milieu, alleviate trepidation or anxieties about mockery, and assuage “psychological worries.” They must not evince a “discriminatory attitude” toward those requiring remedial help. Finally, for the teachers “truly unable to learn the common language, they can skip it for the time being.” 61 The last point, proposing an exemption from the obligation to learn putonghua, alluded to a knotty issue that predated 1949 and resonated with contemporaneous developments in Taiwan (chapter  4). It was a concession to the reality that among the teaching corps, some unknown proportion may be “truly” incapable of linguistic change. But such an allowance created a loophole for a deluge of excuses, masking unwillingness, laziness, or other “ideological issues.” Would the exemption erode the duty, imparted to teachers, to anchor the linguistic future of the nation? More broadly, to what extent should speech proficiency be a  core qualification for schoolteachers? How would such proficiency be  defined and assessed? Slogans from the campaign unequivocally declared: “A teacher who does not know putonghua is akin to a peasant who does not know how to use a farm tool, or a soldier who does not know how to wield a weapon.” 62 If that’s the case, how could ineptitude be excused?

2 3 6 T he Common L anguage of  New China

In the absence of unambiguous guidance from Party Central, these issues would linger in the years to come, to be adjudicated haphazardly at the local level and within individual schools. Meanwhile, to inspire teachers and prompt them to self-­study, abundant testimonials of commitment sought to fortify political zeal. For instance, veteran middle school teacher Zhu Boshi invoked his own biography to exhort his fellow instructors. Born in Jiangxi, Zhu attended middle school in Guangdong and university in Fujian. In each place he struggled with regional dialects, especially in the classroom, where teachers spoke incomprehensible ­vernaculars. Motivated by negative example, “I worked hard to learn pu­ tonghua, to avoid adversely affecting students when I became a teacher.” Yet as Zhu rotated through posts in three provinces, the putonghua he had learned proved useless. The students could not understand him. (In describing the situation prior to 1949, Zhu referred anachronistically to putonghua, possibly to avoid the KMT nomenclature of guoyu.) ­Recounting a career divided nearly equally between pre-­and post-­1949, he underlined the importance of standard speech in New China: “Learning the common language is not simply a matter of individual hobby or interest, but related to the national economy, the people’s livelihood, and the socialist construction of the fatherland.” Occupying critical positions on the frontlines, language teachers must break the habit of “putonghua in class, dialect after class,” or give up using dialect as the ­medium of instruction. Called on to contribute to socialist construction through speech, they must conquer their fears to build a favorable linguistic environment.63 Teaching in a village school in Jiangsu, Zou Yiming resolved to do exactly that. Writing in the provincial education journal, Zou described how he dedicated himself to the task of learning putonghua, annotating the pronunciation of every sentence in the textbook, reciting until committed to memory. Gradually he weaned his students from “the influence of dialects,” a bumpy process with imperfect results. Students could not help but revert to familiar dialect words and phrases; they spoke “with odd tones, unpleasant to hear.” Nonetheless, after a full academic year, Zou’s students had replaced dialect with putonghua, in and out of class, even outside of school. “More than half of the students almost sound like Beijingers.” 64 Meanwhile, primary school teacher Lin Dafen had journeyed from Chongqing to the capital to attend the language reform conference

The Common Language of  N ew C hina 2 37

in October 1955. The experience strengthened her commitment to the cause: “This is my pledge. I promise to work tirelessly” toward rousing “a fervent high tide” of learning. “I promise to dispel my own worries about others laughing at me, . . . ​overcome difficulties in the process, and learn with an open mind.” 65 In Lin Dafen’s home province of Sichuan, the education department had slated forty thousand teachers to receive pronunciation training through short-­term courses. Other jurisdictions announced their own ­targets, prompted by the State Council’s directive: “Starting from the autumn of 1956, excepting ethnic minority regions, the language and literature classes of all primary and middle schools in the nation shall be conducted using putonghua.” 66 The anticipation of the school term starting in September heightened the importance of “teaching the teachers.” Around the country, cadres tasked with training drew lessons from the summer courses held in 1955 (discussed earlier). Educators also harkened back to previous experiences, in service of the KMT’s national language. As Beijing Normal University professor Xu Shirong shared, he made plenty of mistakes in twenty years of teaching. His journey included detours of lectures about archaic subjects that left students “dumbfounded and tongue-­tied,” followed by digressions into arcane theories. After much bumbling, Xu realized the importance of “practice” and began to incorporate articulation into his lessons. The students paid careful attention to the professor’s explanations and tried to follow his directions. Yet their tongues would not move as commanded, and they became so anxious that they turned completely red in the face. I also became frantic and stood nearby giving instructions. But I could only urge them: “Look at the lecture notes! Look at the pronunciation charts! Look at the illustrations! This one is pronounced ㄌ, repeat after me! This is a ‘tonal change,’ this is an ‘apical stop,’ pay attention!” These words were completely useless. The students sweated profusely, shaking, randomly moving their tongues, unable to enunciate accurate sounds. . . . ​I could only walk away in defeat, telling students to practice on their own after class and to study the lecture notes more carefully.

Much later, Xu realized that his methods irreparably damaged student confidence. “At the time I only knew to complain about their stupidity”;

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the students felt miserable and dimwitted. “Upon reflection, the foolish one was me.” Xu concluded that his inflexible pedagogy was a symptom of laziness, an approach verging on cruelty. In addition to berating his misguided, pre-­Liberation self, the professor also warned against mistaking zhuyin zimu for the entirety of language learning. Given the short duration of the training courses, this was a familiar problem. Some students composed sarcastic doggerels, singing: “Today it’s bo-­po-­mo, tomorrow it’s yi-­ai-­ao. We learned it alright, but what for? Our mouths are still full of dialects, and we don’t know how to speak guoyu.” Reviewing a personal trail of mistakes as a cautionary tale, Xu counseled others to learn from his errors: “From now on we need to research pedagogical methods to avoid the path of failure.” 67 Of the approaches he developed in his (later, improved) pedagogy, Xu Shirong stressed “ideological mobilization” and the need to “proceed realistically.” With pragmatic expectations, the instructor should analyze each student’s articulation and demonstrate how to manipulate the tongue, lips, soft palate, and teeth. With constant practice, in small groups or individual tutorials, the instructor will discover the “key” to unlock proper pronunciation. Xu cited strategies with verified success: using a mirror for self-­observation and correction; isolating awkward sounds for extra practice; holding one’s nose or gently biting the tongue to modify a flaw; exaggerating the place of articulation for emphasis.68

REPEAT A FTER ME

As the putonghua campaign rallied the troops in 1956, it was abundantly clear that the kind of individualized instruction Xu Shirong prescribed far surpassed available resources. In Hubei, a teacher training course could  only marshal three instructors for 540 students.69 One over-­ subscribed session in Nanjing had more than 200 students crammed into a cafeteria. Those sitting in the rear strained to hear the lecturer, whose voice echoed, distorted through a megaphone.70 In Shanghai, more than 5,500 schoolteachers sprinted through fourteen lessons in six days. (The Education Ministry had intervened to reduce the duration, in response to complaints about encroachment on vacation time.) Under

T he Common Language of  N ew C hina 2 39

the circumstances, “it was difficult for everyone to absorb so much information; the quality of the training could not be assured.”71 At the opposite end of the spectrum, a few hundred people qualified for the Education Ministry’s biannual “putonghua pronunciation research class.” Nominated by provinces and municipalities on a quota basis, candidates were screened based on extensive criteria: younger than thirty-­ five years of age, “clear background,” progressive ideology, good health, not pregnant, at least some rudimentary knowledge of putonghua. Those who passed muster spent five months studying in Beijing, taught by experts such as Xu Shirong. Upon completion of the program, they ­returned home to assume leadership positions in education, participate in dialect survey projects, or teach at teacher training colleges.72 By the fourth session in 1957, however, Shanghai had trouble filling its quota and considered forfeiting two of its three slots. As one cadre complained, with a surplus teaching staff of more than six hundred in the city, “surely we can allocate two people?! The crux is that the leaders need to be resolute!”73 As for the payoff, one graduate of the course reflected that mastery of pu­ tonghua required a long-­term battle against the accumulated pronunciation habits of one’s tuyu. “It is not a mission that can be accomplished in a short-­term assault.” Despite receiving months of personalized instruction, he judged the program to be “somewhat insufficient.”74 On a national scale, teacher training programs could not replicate such a resource-­intensive approach. Local jurisdictions defaulted to an abridged “short-­term assault” method, seeking to activate a presumably latent reservoir of political zeal.75 In August 1956 the Education Ministry circulated a proposed four-­week curriculum for pronunciation training to local jurisdictions for comment. Cadres in Shanghai deemed it impossible to allocate so much personnel time, given “pressing duties” in all work units.76 Instead, expediency hinged on harnessing political commitment to combat ideological doubts: “In the learning process, the sentiment of fearing difficulty is our greatest enemy.” To achieve a “breakthrough in thinking,” the message of “continuous hard work and diligent practice” reiterated: “If repeating five times is not enough, then ten or one hundred times.”77 Yet the emphasis on diligent practice conflicted with awareness that lackluster methods such as repetition depleted enthusiasm. As one instructor bluntly observed, “Learning a language is an arduous undertaking, usually perceived as dull and monotonous. Therefore, we need to adopt a

24 0 The Common Language of  N ew China

variety of tutorial methods to stimulate student interest. . . . ​If they spend the entire time repeating after the teacher, they will find it tiresome and boring.” Depending on the target audience, a zhuyin introductory course could range from eighteen to sixty lessons, from three to six weeks. Experienced instructors suggested “active learning” methods, using games and riddles to enliven a tedious process.78 The ideal pedagogical approach, according to Zhang Gonggui, integrates lectures, self-­study, tutorial, review, and assessment; gives equal attention to speaking, listening, writing, and reading; and strikes a balance between practice and theory. Overreliance on the “imitation” method yielded poor results: “No matter how many times an instructor enunciated a sound, the students persisted in error. This was because they did not understand the source of the mistake.” To help students detect their own shortcomings, a “scientific” method should combine oral drills with phonological analysis.79 Yet as numerous accounts testified, the most typical method began and ended with permutations of “repeat after me.” Many courses never ventured beyond memorizing zhuyin zimu.80 After enduring this regimen, some teachers “imported” what they learned from seminars designed for adults into primary school classrooms. They lacked creative ideas for age-­appropriate methods and largely adhered to “repeat after me.” Other reports suggested that younger students grew impatient when teachers spent too much time “expounding on phonology,” to the extent that “the classroom descended into chaos and disarray.”81 While some instructors focused on zhuyin zimu as the anchor of pronunciation, the shifting linguistic terrain made it difficult to proceed with certitude. Before the official switch to pinyin, some putonghua primers replicated the format and content of pre-­Liberation national language textbooks: introduction to zhuyin, explanation of articulatory phonetics, lessons on initials, finals, medials, and tones.82 Textbooks variously i­ dentified zhuyin zimu as comprising thirty-­eight, thirty-­nine, or forty symbols, reproducing the confusion of previous decades.83 At Suzhou #1 Middle School, the staff reported that they were glad to receive a phonograph recording. But the recording, featuring forty zimu, arrived after they had finished teaching a syllabary of thirty-­eight.84 Primers used both zhuyin and pinyin and sometimes added further to the muddle by  including IPA.85 For those well-­versed in historical precedents, the

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Language Reform Committee issued a supplement matching pinyin with its counterparts in zhuyin, GR, Sin Wenz, and IPA.86 Behind the scenes, educators debated whether to switch immediately to pinyin (in draft form) or to soldier on with zhuyin (soon to be obsolete). Swift implementation of the new phonetic was obviously desirable, so that students would not have to learn a second system.87 To clarify the situation, in the summer of 1956 the Education Ministry outlined a series of permissible accommodations. Given the provisional status of pinyin, the first-­grade curriculum for the upcoming academic year could continue to use zhuyin. This cohort of students would be exempt from learning pinyin in the future, “to avoid adding to their burden.” The ministry also excused “regions or schools not yet prepared to teach zhu­ yin zimu, whose teachers have not been trained,” from the obligation to do so. This allowance in effect absolved teachers from the mandate to teach putonghua. The ministry enjoined those who lacked proficiency to pursue self-­study. In the meantime instruction in reading and writing could proceed without regard for pronunciation.88 As for zhuyin, although its days were numbered, some instructors did not discount its utility as “a crutch for correct pronunciation.”89 In fact, those versed in zhuyin may have an easier time with the new phonetic, for they had already untied the conceptual knot of “understanding that the sounds of Chinese characters can be spelled out with letters.”90 Of the components of putonghua, the four “correct” tones of Beijing pronunciation were a particularly challenging facet, not easily consigned to self-­study. Most people had little awareness of the concept of “tones,” with only an instinctual understanding based on their native speech. One explanation put it in simple terms: “Among the words that we enunciate, some have high pitch, some have low pitch, some are high then low, some are low then high. This phenomenon is what we call tones.”91 Introductory lessons sought to familiarize students with Beijing tones through the example ma, illustrating the pitch variations of this syllable: mother 妈 / sesame 麻 / horse 马 / curse 骂.92 More scholarly discussions explicated Beijing tones using the system Chao Yuen Ren first created in 1930 (­without attribution).93 First tone: high and level at 5-­5, marked as —­ Second tone: rising from 3 to 5, marked as ⁄

24 2 T he Common Language of  N ew China

Third tone: beginning at 2, falling to 1, rising to 4, marked as ˇ Fourth tone: falling from 5 to 1, marked as \

A related method correlated the pitch values to a musical scale. As Xu Shirong observed, beginners generally found the broad contours of “four tones” easy to grasp. The greater challenge was mastering the exact pitch. One labor-­intensive method entailed memorizing a “chart of correct ­pronunciation” with a supervising teacher’s help. But in the absence of individualized instruction, if students can “generally differentiate the level, rising, falling-­rising, and falling tones, then that’s sufficient.” After all, “a little bit off” would not necessarily impede communication and “can solve the beginner’s dilemma.”94 Xu Shirong’s relaxed approach to tonal differentiation echoed the flexible attitude of linguists from the Republican period (as discussed in previous chapters). The “chart of correct pronunciation” Xu referenced was a work in progress. Published in October 1956 in draft form, the table spelled out (in pinyin and zhuyin) the pronunciation of some 3,840 “frequently used words.” The revision process continued, with the Putonghua Pronunciation Audit Committee working to amend “parts that do not correspond to the standard.”95 A lenient approach was also necessary to accommodate variations within regional dialect groups. In Shanxi, for instance, instructors struggled to explain how to adapt the second tone and third tones of Beijing pronunciation for seven to nine local permutations.96 Even in places with four tones as the norm, such as Shandong and Wuhan, pitch values diverged significantly from Beijing pronunciation. Such complexities multiplied for speakers accustomed to eight or nine tones.97 Memorizing the normative pitch values of 3,840 characters on the chart of correct pronunciation was unrealistic, even for the most zealous. Whether to prioritize tonal differentiation, and how much instructional time to allocate to the topic, were open questions. According to Lin Jin, a veteran teacher and editor, “Overly rigorous requirements do not accord with reality at the present time. We cannot demand every teacher speak in a very pure and authentic manner.” The pronunciation of the initials and finals “counts as meeting the requirement,” as long as they have an “approximate” idea of the tones. Most important, positive results would flow from inspired methods. “Some teachers lecture excessively, with little time for practice. If there is practice, it is dull and tedious, repeating

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without change. . . . ​The key to success or failure in teaching pronunciation rests with the method.”98 From a broader perspective, linguist Yue Sibing appraised the effectiveness of the diverse methods in use. The “natural method” stressed the language environment, an approach Yue judged as capable of delivering some results, but with the flaw of relying on student ability to parse different sounds. The “imitation method” of repeat-­a fter-­me required the constant presence of a teacher to correct mistakes. Popular for a time, the “direct method” had been primarily used in foreign language instruction. “Analytical combination” and “historical comparison,” suitable for academic research, were too technical for widespread adoption. Ultimately, Yue recommended the “comparative pronunciation method,” the most “advanced” approach he identified as initially developed by Chinese linguists in the Soviet Union. Predicated on a “trenchant” understanding of dialects, this method required analysis of the components of each major regional speech group and their chief differences from Beijing pronunciation.99

BY COMPARISON WITH DI A LEC TS

The idea of using dialects as the entry point for learning putonghua had broad purchase in both academic research and education policy. The approach entailed, as a prerequisite, comprehensive knowledge about “Han dialects.”100 In 1956 a national dialect investigation project set out to gather the data. The first round of “general investigations” focused primarily on phonology, and secondarily on grammar and lexicon.101 As Gina Tam has described, researchers fanned out across the country to conduct the surveys, according to a standardized methodology created by linguists at the Chinese Academy of Sciences. The guidelines instructed each team to catalog the phonetic features of the dialect in question, identify main points of divergence from putonghua, and record the data using IPA. Team leaders then synthesized the information to produce a “dialect investigation report” and a “learn putonghua handbook.”102 The survey work was  largely completed by the end of 1958, with some exceptions due to  “special circumstances.”103 According to Zhan Bohui’s later count,

24 4  The Common L anguage of N ew China

researchers carried out fieldwork in 1,849 sites and produced 1,195 reports. Of the 320 handbooks they compiled, 72 were eventually published.104 In the interim, during the years it took to complete the surveys and handbooks, advice for the inhabitants of “dialect regions” proliferated. A genre of “how to learn putonghua” guides gave them a jumpstart. Wang Li took his national language manual for Jiangsu-­Zhejiang from 1936 and repackaged it as a putonghua primer.105 For Guangdong, Wang reissued his guide from 1951 as a manual for the new standard.106 In Liaoning, a handbook published in 1957 advised readers that learning putonghua could not await the “eight to ten years it will take to complete dialect investigation.”107 To Wuhan natives, Zhan Bohui explained that since their speech was a “minor dialect” of the northern vernacular (Beifanghua), it should be relatively easy to learn the standard. “If you set your heart on it, commit the task of learning putonghua to the daily schedule, and grab hold of some effective methods, then it is entirely possible to learn in a short period of time.” As a starting point, Zhan invoked the aphorism: “Know yourself and know your enemy, and you will be victorious in every battle (知己知彼, 百战百胜).” By studying one’s own dialect vis-­à-­ vis the spoken standard, “there is no battle we cannot win and no fortress we cannot conquer.” But the salient phonetic differences between the two “will not fall down from the sky. They can only be discovered through the process of ‘know yourself and know your enemy.’ ”108 In applying a familiar proverb to language reform, Zhan conjured up a suitably militant metaphor to rally the people to join the fight. In doing so, he characterized standard speech as an adversary. And in positing that the dialect-­self must understand the putonghua-­enemy in order to conquer it, Zhan’s formulation struck a discordant note. The normative status of putonghua depended on positioning dialect as nonstandard, relegating it to a position of inferiority. In the short term, dialect habits were flaws to be corrected and its usage curtailed. In the long term, they would be gradually absorbed and displaced.109 By identifying putonghua as the antagonist, “know yourself and know your enemy” cast doubt on these normative assumptions. From this perspective, dialect may be perennially correlated with cultural and educational deficiency, but it belonged to the self. This view was not an anomaly, moreover. It tallied with popular sentiments linking native speech to family origins and local or provincial communities of belonging. It resonated with attitudes that regarded

T he Common Language of  N ew China 245

putonghua with suspicion or considered those who tried to speak it as interlopers.110 How should the dialect-­ self begin the process of knowing the putonghua-­enemy? Zhan Bohui’s primer targeted “essential points” to “break through the main difficulties.” Compare the twenty-­one initials and thirty-­six finals of putonghua to the eighteen initials and thirty-­five finals in Wuhan speech. Learn to curl the tongue for retroflection. Study the neutral tone, which does not exist in the regional vernacular.111 Others also endorsed the comparative analysis method but foregrounded the issue of ideology. As Zhang Weigang put it, “In dialect regions, to teach the standard pronunciation the first task must be ideological mobilization. Although today the majority of people eagerly seek to learn putong­ hua . . . ​we cannot assume that in dialect regions we will not encounter resistance.” Eviscerating barriers in thought would help solve problems pertinent to dialect speakers. For instance, introductory lessons typically follow the order of zhuyin, starting with the initial consonants ㄅㄆㄇㄈ. “Once we get to ㄓㄔㄕㄖ [#9-­12], many cannot help but retreat in the face of difficulty.” Southerners find these sounds particularly daunting. Zhang proposed reversing the sequence: “progress from simple to difficult,” beginning with vowels and easy-­to-­enunciate sounds. He also ­suggested teaching the four tones before zhuyin, against the prevailing practice that slighted or omitted the topic.112 At the most general level, “by comparison with dialect” was a straightforward, three-­step process: study the differences between dialect and standard, isolate discrepancies in one’s own speech, and correct the defective habits. For instance, Wu speakers tend to mix up [z] and [zh]; Sichuan and Anhui natives have trouble differentiating between [n] and [l]; Cantonese people struggle with [zh], [ch], [sh] sounds and find [x] to be nearly impossible.113 But the phonemic range of both zhuyin and its pinyin successor could not express the full extent of dialect sounds. As the authors of the book “How Fujian People Can Learn to Speak Putonghua” put it, “Zhuyin zimu cannot differentiate numerous sounds in detail, but we could not think of a better way to deal with them.”114 Some educators expressed sympathy for the plight of dialect speakers. “At the beginning stages,” Zhang Gonggui commented, “it is only natural to import an approximate dialect sound, familiar from one’s childhood.”115 Others acknowledged that “southerners” understandably lack

24 6 T he Common Language of N ew China

confidence, perceiving the divergence from their habits as too great to bridge. “Northerners” fell into a different trap. They overestimated their native-­place advantage, thinking: “It will be very easy to learn Beijing pronunciation. Or, I don’t even have to learn, just pay a little attention and I’ve got it.” Those who lived near the capital, within the “half Beijing accent” zone, suffered the most acute danger of complacency. Contrary to expectations, they need instruction and practice. Northerners who equated their vernacular with putonghua were ignorant or “willfully manufactured excuses to disguise laziness.” Their “inferior performance” disproved the assumption that northerners find it “much easier to learn the standard.”116 “Some people” in dialect regions, moreover, believed that “Beijing pronunciation” classes must be taught by “real” Beijingers, or at least northern natives. There were not enough such teachers to meet the need; knowledge of phonology was hardly an endowed birthright. “Relying on local talent” meant adjusting standards, and with “high quality” out of reach, “a certain proficiency level” would have to suffice.117 The idea of “dialect regions” (方言区) sketched out a linguistic imaginary, one that reinforced long-­standing cultural and political divides. Over millennia, the north-­south demarcation migrated from the Yellow River to the Huai River, before landing in the vicinity of the Yangzi delta, a notional boundary marking the limits of (Han) civilization.118 In the 1950s frictions between northern pronunciation and the capacious category “southern people” (南方人) could apply to a broad swath of the country. In Jiangsu, the north-­south split cut across the provincial boundary, putatively along the Yangzi River. When education authorities conducted teacher training programs in the province, reactions splintered accordingly. Those from Xuzhou (near the Shandong border) asked to be excused: “Xuzhouhua is pretty much the same as Beijinghua. Just change the tones a bit and it’s fine.” Those from the southern part of the province fretted that their native tongue was “too far” from putonghua—­how is it possible to learn within three weeks?119 The perceived incompatibility of northern speech for southerners registered most conspicuously in Guangdong, where “the tremendous force of dialect habits” reigned. Some Cantonese equated deviation from the “native accent” with “forgetting one’s origins.” They declaimed, “We would rather sell our ancestral altar than betray our ancestor’s tones.” Ideological mobilization was crucial in this environment—­to imprint the necessity and feasibility of language change

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upon the recalcitrant, and to counter the old joke about Cantonese people speaking guanhua.120 The efforts to dislodge such prejudicial sentiments were not entirely effective, however. As Glen Peterson has shown, throughout the 1950s and beyond, reactions to putonghua in Guangdong ranged from lukewarm indifference to outright refusal.121

ON THE A IRWAV ES

To surmount hurdles impeding the path to standard speech, the Language Reform Committee took to the airwaves, first in 1956. As in the Republican period, the hope was to leverage technology to circumvent the shortage of qualified teachers. By providing instruction en masse, radio lessons could directly reach those eager to learn, as well as transcend the derision of cynics. The nation’s radio network was undergoing rapid expansion, in the process of building a media infrastructure to support the regime’s political agenda. The CCP’s broadcasting capabilities had grown significantly from modest origins in Yan’an, when Xinhua Radio (XNCR) emanated from two caves near party headquarters.122 Before the end of the civil war, stations in central and northeastern China added programming in Japanese (aimed at enemy soldiers), in English (to influence international opinion), and a scattershot of programs in “ethnic minority” languages.123 Central People’s Broadcasting Station, established in 1949, immediately became the authoritative voice of the Communist Party. The masses were eager to hear the voice of Chairman Mao, but he rarely obliged.124 Regional stations relayed programs from the capital and augmented the menu with polyglot offerings. Guangdong People’s Station offered segments in Cantonese, Chaozhou dialect, and Hakka. Shanghai residents could tune in to news in the local dialect or a choice of Cantonese, Minnanhua, or putonghua. At its inception in December  1949, Inner Mongolia People’s Station delivered news, educational, and cultural programs in both Mongolian and “Hanyu” (Chinese).125 The infrastructure supporting this programming initially relied on wireless stations dotting the countryside, anchored by a small army of traveling radio receptionists. They transcribed the news for local circulation, connected equipment to amplifiers to tune into broadcasts, and

24 8 T he Common Language of  New China

organized listening sessions. In cities, broadcast rallies assembled thousands of listeners to participate in political campaigns. The year 1956 marked the shift to wired broadcasting, with local stations linked to a network of loudspeakers placed in factories, schools, communes, and public spaces.126 As technological capacity grew, so did concerns about the inconsistent pronunciation heard on the airwaves. Able to reach vast audiences across the nation, radio could be the most powerful instrument for fulfilling the promise of standard speech. Countless listeners were either “consciously or unconsciously” learning putonghua from radio, observed one commentator. But announcers did not uniformly speak the “standard,” routinely using phrases interspersed with dialect, “vulgar colloquialisms,” or excessively poetic idioms.127 Native Beijingers—­ preferentially hired for broadcasting jobs—­must make efforts to go beyond the dialect. All broadcasting personnel must hold “standardization” close to their hearts, as an antidote against sloppiness.128 Some listeners were eager to “offer opinions” or gripe about the pronunciation they heard on the radio.129 The mistakes they cataloged included errant pronunciation of final consonants and tones, as well as complaints about the exaggerated affect of the “broadcaster accent.” The scolding tone of some announcers, as if teachers reprimanding children, was off-­ putting.130 By redoubling efforts to correct these flaws, radio personnel would play pivotal roles in the quest to popularize the common language. “The language of radio should become the standard for putonghua. . . . ​ We should strive for the day when those who have learned correct pronunciation can proudly say: ‘My pronunciation conforms to the putong­ hua standard of Central Broadcasting.’ ”131 Shanghai Station launched its first putonghua seminar series in February 1956, as one component of the language campaign in the city. The radio lessons were intended to supplement teacher training by providing a model of correct pronunciation. The introductory session (“We need to learn Beijing pronunciation”) featured four speakers, identified as teachers from Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, and Shandong. Anchoring the conversation, the native Beijinger delivered a monologue reprising the State Council’s directive (discussed earlier) and offered reassurance: “If everyone listens at the appointed time and follows up with diligent practice, Beijing pronunciation is not difficult to learn.” The trio of dialect speakers asked questions about the purpose and content of the lessons and

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concluded the discussion by expressing their dedication to the cause. Subsequent classes shifted to lecture format, with topics ranging from specific (tones, consonants, vowels) to analytical synthesis (structural features of Beijing phonology, the anatomy of pronunciation). Practice exercises invited listeners to “repeat after me.”132 A few months later, Central Broadcasting and the Education Ministry produced a putonghua series featuring Xu Shirong of Beijing Normal University. The professor delivered twenty-­four lectures over eight weeks (thirty minutes per session, broadcast three times). Work units were instructed to convene staff at the appointed hours.133After the initial run, the series was rebroadcast. Zhou Enlai would later boast that over eighteen months, more than two million people tuned in to the radio lessons.134 Feedback from listeners was largely positive. The staff of one Public Security Bureau in Shanghai requested a morning session, since the evening broadcast conflicted with work schedules and not many were willing to give up the noon rest hour. Some workers found the content, aimed at teachers, too abstruse to be useful and too difficult to learn. They requested “simple, easier to understand” materials, more suitable for ordinary use.135 Meanwhile, dialect programming continued on the airwaves, sanctioned by a government directive in April  1956. Local stations were instructed to consider the language proficiency of their audience when gauging the proportion of programs to be broadcast using putonghua. Regions with significant “dialect divergence” should deliver programs in putonghua and follow with a dialect version (or vice versa). Communities with still “very pervasive” dialect use should weigh “propaganda effectiveness” against “the duty to popularize the common language,” audience preferences against feasibility, taking care not to reduce dialect programs in an “overly hasty” manner. “Local drama and opera” were exempt from these considerations.136 To balance competing imperatives of language and content, Zhou Xinwu provided a rubric of differential factors. As the vice director of the Central Broadcasting Administration, Zhou could comment with authority on the national soundscape in 1956. South of the Yangzi River, he observed, dialect programs “fulfill the needs of the audience and are welcomed”; they “should continue for quite a long time in the future.” After all, if the language of broadcasting is incomprehensible to the audience, the endeavor is futile. On the other hand,

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disregarding putonghua on the airwaves forfeits the opportunity to advance the language reform agenda. The “contradiction” may be resolved through analysis of prevailing conditions and program segmentation. The northern vernacular region (with a high degree of commensurability with putonghua) should use “limited or no dialect programming.” Regions that “need dialect broadcasts” should use the vernacular with the widest reach, supplemented with putonghua programs for target audiences (students, government personnel). With careful attention to shifting language use, the proportion of putonghua programming may be increased to match the level of penetration. Finally, for constituencies with jumbled linguistic backgrounds (troops of the People’s Liberation Army, industrial and mining areas with workers from different provinces), the common language should be the broadcasting medium, “as much as possible.”137 These parameters tasked cadres in charge of regional and local stations with orchestrating programming based on factors relevant to specific audiences. The priority was to transmit the party’s political agenda and to bind the masses to the center through communication. To the extent that the common language impeded rather than facilitated political goals, it could be dispensable, for the time being. In fact, programs relayed from Central Broadcasting required multiple translations—­from putonghua to dialect, from the language of the state to the peasant vernacular, from lengthy lectures to pithy and entertaining digests.138 Fujian’s provincial station offered regular programming in Fuzhou dialect, Minnanhua, and putonghua. But the staff did not have time to translate all Central Broadcasting programs, and they struggled with how to convey party directives in dialect expressions.139 Elsewhere, peopled flocked to the loudspeakers for local opera but swiftly dispersed when “network programs” relayed from Beijing began. In this context, radio administrators made allowances for the “low cultural level” and “narrow interests” of the rural population. Peasants, after all, did not have all day to sit around and listen.140 As one senior official put it, the radio embodied fundamentally egalitarian qualities. It was not constrained by space and could be heard anywhere. It was not constrained by the listener’s “cultural level” and did not discriminate against illiterates. It was not constrained by language, offering a menu of  choices (Hanyu, local vernaculars 地方語, “minority” and foreign

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languages). “All you have to do is understand one language and you can listen.”141 These dynamics can also be observed in the narratives of workers advertised as models of broadcasting virtue. Liu Xiaoyun was a radio announcer in Hankou. Among the audience for her broadcasts were workers assigned to public works projects in the tri-­city region; most could not understand her Hubei dialect. Liu resolved to learn putonghua, applying exemplary doses of determination and self-­study. After a short time, she began to speak “Beijinghua” on the air “without fear.” Although Liu was “not very fluent,” the workers were happy. “They all said: it doesn’t matter, it works!”142 Former schoolteacher Lan Yaozhu encountered the opposite problem in Gutian county in Fujian, where she supervised the transition from wireless station to wired network. A large crowd gathered for the inaugural broadcast. Upon hearing Lan’s first sentence, they reacted with commotion: “What is this? We cannot understand!” “What should I do?,” Lan asked herself, since she could not speak the local dialect. “Should I use a kind of southern accents, northern tunes to broadcast? That will not work!” Through dedication and constant practice, she soon learned to communicate with the masses in their vernacular.143

IN THE A RMY

If rural broadcasting demanded linguistic flexibility, the distinctive imperatives of the military compelled different priorities. From the outset of the putonghua campaign, the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) assumed a key role as a site for enacting political commitment to linguistic change. The Communist Party invested substantial symbolic capital in language reform efforts in the PLA, especially in the realm of literacy. In recent years the publication of official documents and memoirs has expanded possibilities for research in military history, but the military archives remain highly classified.144 The following analysis relies on declassified government materials and sources produced for public consumption, which offer only fractional insights into how the campaign unfolded behind the scenes. In this case, narratives curated for propaganda

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purposes reveal surprising dynamics that indicate the limits of state power, even while broadcasting the state’s priorities. The military proved to be a complex space for enforcing speech norms, as both showcase and test case for the possibility of rapid linguistic transformation propelled by individual conviction. The campaign in the PLA was launched with fanfare, synchronized to the surge of language reform propaganda. In a directive issued in November  1955, the General Political Department instructed all personnel to mobilize for the adoption of simplified script and putonghua. Doing so, the brass declared, would fortify unity, augment battle strength, and contribute to the modernization of the military. Failure, on the other hand, would “cause us to suffer difficulties and losses.” With recruits hailing from every province, and army brigades traveling extensively while forging “intimate connections” with the populace, soldiers were naturally positioned on the front lines of language reform.145 One division may include soldiers from multiple regions and dozens of counties, speaking a hodgepodge of “southern accents with northern tunes.”146 As Na Di (editor of the PLA Soldier magazine) elaborated, military considerations magnified the importance of standard speech. “In response to a single command, several hundred, several thousand, or tens of thousands of soldiers must move with precision and in unison. If our language is not unified, misunderstanding or delayed action may result. This is very dangerous in combat.” Luckily, young men in their twenties, with sharp hearing and nimble articulation, made up the majority of the newly enlisted corps. Invoking the indomitable spirit of “forcing the mountain to bow and the river to give way,” Na Di exhorted all soldiers to apply themselves to learning “with courage and hard work” and to reverse the denigration of the old adage: “Not afraid of heaven, not afraid of earth, only afraid of xx person speaking guanhua.” (Guanhua, he explained parenthetically, refers to putonghua.)147 Judging from public narratives, as depicted in PLA publications and filtered to other sources, the effort to standardize speech was delegated to individual companies and regiments. Infused with testimonials, the campaign relied on propaganda to kindle enthusiasm, featuring model soldiers as ardent champions of putonghua and dependable combatants in the war on illiteracy. Archetypes of discipline, model soldiers moved mountains to vanquish fears and prevail over skeptics. The repetition of

The Common Language of  N ew China 2 53

such tropes imprinted language reform propaganda with paragons for emulation.148 The PLA Daily reminded the general corps of the State Council directive, which obliged new recruits and students enrolled in military academies to learn putonghua within one year. “All we need to do is promote energetically, teach with intention, unify language instruction, and train soldiers and students in correct pronunciation. . . . ​Putonghua will be popularized once everyone speaks putonghua frequently, gains experience in listening, and uses it extensively.” But the process must be realistic, not conducted in haste nor based on “heaping unreasonable demands on the heads of soldiers and students.”149 The campaign of 1955–­1956 highlighted Cantonese-­speaking soldiers as the group most in need of intervention, with some shining exemplars. For instance, as the PLA Daily described, the 731st Division in Guangdong responded to exhortations to join the linguistic battle with alacrity. Initially, Private Ouyang Qiang could not understand a word his platoon leader or political director spoke. After relying on an “old comrade” to translate and explain, he discovered that he could write out phrases and ask for help with pronunciation. Through sheer repetition “he gradually learned to speak putonghua at an average level.” Private Liang Jianhua pointed to objects and asked: “What is this?” He intuited the principles of pronunciation by memorizing the answers. After several months, he was well on the way to fluency. Telephone operator Jiang Lian resolved to learn to speak the spoken standard within four months. With determination and hard work, he reached a high level of proficiency and earned a plum assignment. “The new soldiers from Guangdong who learned pu­ tonghua well shared a few qualities,” the report summarized. They were inquisitive, bold, and unafraid of mockery. They loved to sing and enjoyed extra practice with songs in Beijing pronunciation. For the new class of recruits soon to join the division, a “learn putonghua blitz” aimed to ensure that all Cantonese soldiers would become proficient in basic commands.150 Meanwhile, selected as a “pilot unit” for the campaign, the Sixth ­Company of the 491st  Division conducted a survey to assess linguistic competence: 1. Able to understand, able to speak putonghua: 32% 2. Able to understand, not able to speak very well: 15%

2 54 T he Common Language of N ew China

3. Able to understand partially, only able to speak a few phrases: 37% 4. Pretty much unable to understand or speak: 16%

The results revealed a wide spectrum of ability, with the most adept clustered in headquarters and the fourth platoon, composed of primarily officers and veteran soldiers (老兵). Despite the presence of an already proficient cohort, “in the entire company, there are not many core leaders for popularizing putonghua, but there are ‘three manys’ (三多) for speaking Cantonese: many people, many occasions, many hours.” To supplant dialect, the political commissar organized group discussions and asked soldiers to reflect on past experiences—­misunderstood commands; bungled interactions between “old soldiers” and new recruits, or between Guangdong and Guangxi natives. A decisive majority agreed that learning putonghua was indeed an “urgent matter.” The conversations also revealed “contradictory thoughts.” Some assumed that the prevailing medium of communication in the company would revert to Cantonese after the “old soldiers” retire. “Others think that the old soldiers are in the minority and should learn Cantonese.” Still others reasoned, “There is no need to learn putonghua at all. . . . ​It’s useless for working among the masses in the villages. After they return home after discharge, putong­ hua will certainly have no further use.”151 As these reports suggest, the linguistic divergence between old and new soldiers generated difficulties. An informal category denoting a relatively longer period of enlistment (compared to the “newbies”), “old soldiers” conveyed “the feeling of high regard and respect.”152 Whereas “old” teachers as a group had been singled out as a source of recalcitrance (“stiff tongues,” unwilling or unable to learn), the opposite dynamic prevailed in the PLA. Many veteran soldiers had picked up a military vernacular based on guanhua/guoyu out of necessity. Officers aiming for promotions were motivated to learn to communicate across dialect lines. For long-­ serving veterans, habits accumulated over years of service, predating 1949, translated into facility for putonghua. Fresh recruits, on the other hand, newly arrived from the linguistic silos of their native places, experienced greater difficulties adapting to new speech norms. A prominent strand of the campaign thus focused on urging “new soldiers” to correct their deficiency.153 The problem was magnified for recruits of ethnic minority background. As a Dong minority, Shi Cong recalled, his

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“village vernacular” was incomprehensible to his comrades. Undaunted by difficulty, he set out to learn “daily-­use putonghua” within two months, using a simple method: learn a few phrases each day from cadres and old soldiers; “speak boldly, unafraid of other people’s laughter.” “Learning putonghua was comparatively more difficult for me, as an ethnic minority new soldier,” Shi reflected. “But I finally did it.”154 For those lacking inspiration to pursue self-­study, the pedagogical program in the PLA entailed some formal instruction but mostly relied on strategies such as injecting the spirit of competition, or introducing pu­ tonghua as the medium of communication for training drills and recreation. In the second artillery corps of the 172nd Division, for example, new soldiers learned to count off using putonghua (yi-­er-­san-­si-­wu) instead of Cantonese (yat-­yi-­sam-­sei-­ng). During the evening recreation hour, they adapted games for practice. In one iteration, known as “pass the flower as the drum plays,” players sitting in a circle pass an object while a blindfolded drummer taps out a rhythm. “When the drumming stops, if the person holding the flower is a Cantonese comrade, everyone will ask him to speak a few sentences of putonghua. If he is unable to do it, he must ask someone to teach him.” (In a more raucous version of the game, the person holding the flower when the drumming stops would drink a cup of wine.)155 Other activities included a “putonghua party” featuring singing, reciting poetry, and dancing.156 A game of “telephone” could also deliver a pedagogical message. Song Qun’s unit was a motley crew of Dongbei, Guangxi, and Hainan natives. As they played the game, the phrases became garbled—­“enemy ahead” morphed into “no one ahead”; “advance covertly” became “do not advance.” After enjoying some ­moments of hilarity, the political instructor emphasized a crucial lesson: “This was a game we played for fun. But when we carry out an actual mission, mixing up commands because you don’t understand putonghua will be very dangerous!”157 A more elaborate script for promoting standard speech through entertainment used the comic performance genre known as xiangsheng.158 At the height of the 1956 campaign, the PLA Soldier published a duo-­dialogue titled “Southern Accents and Northern Tunes.”159 The routine features the straight man (A) advertising the benefits of putonghua, while the funny man (B) voices doubts and objections. When A invokes the State Council’s directive, B gripes that those speaking putonghua are trying to

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imitate movie stars: “I think people should stick to their local speech, which has hometown flavor and local color. It is intimate, comforting, and wonderful!” To convince him otherwise, the straight man shares anecdotes illustrating comical or grave consequences of miscommunication. For instance, he entered a hotel with another soldier while in Anhui. The proprietor hollered, “Drop dead! . . . ​You die first, and him next.” He actually meant for the soldiers to “wash up”—­in local parlance “to wash up” (洗) closely approximates “to die” (死) in putonghua. In subsequent sequences, A mimics Shanghai, Subei, and Fujian natives by speaking in gibberish. Over the course of the performance, the skeptic’s appreciation for the common language grows. He finally becomes a convert to the cause: B: I can see that putonghua is related to the development of socialist construction. Each person must learn, without exception. A: Right, otherwise when one thousand representatives attend a meeting in the capital, speaking in southern accents with northern tunes, the Beijing Hotel will need to provide two thousand rooms. B: Why so many? A: Each person would need to bring along a translator. . . . ​ B: If a woman speaks in southern accents and a man speaks with northern tunes, what happens if they want to date? A: Bring a translator!

Using various forms of entertainment as conduits for the common language, the campaign in the PLA supplemented obligation with amusement. In these relaxed situations, linguistic fumbles invited good-­ natured laughter and merriment, rather than jeers. In contrast, it was not all fun and games at the #51 Military Hospital in Sichuan. As Li Hongchun reported in a letter to the editor of the PLA Daily, some colleagues in his unit had embraced opportunities for self-­study, but they “encountered resistance from public opinion.” Some comrades “refused to study properly” and taunted others with sarcastic comments: “southern accents with northern tunes sound bad!” or “you are just a hick trying to speak like an official.” When one soldier broadcasted announcements using putonghua, some teased him, saying “You had better stick to your Sichuanese, so that you don’t sound weird and

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unnatural.” This kind of derision engendered feelings of embarrassment and created a negative climate. “The comrades who do not learn and yet laugh at others contradict the spirit of the State Council’s directive on popularizing putonghua.”160 This was a serious allegation. Li Hongchun did not identify the offenders by name. But he had publicly exposed his work unit by associating it with damaging attitudes, usually ascribed to “some people” without specific provenance or narrated as ideological defects already rectified. The PLA Daily published this accusation just as the Hundred Flowers campaign began.161 As a genre, “letters to the editor” evince a veneer of authenticity by speaking in the voice of readers, presumably writing of their own accord.162 In a tightly controlled press, all such letters could be subjected to manipulation, but it seems unlikely that this was a bogus letter. Since the allegations rhyme with many other sources, PLA Daily editors did not need to fabricate such an example to make the point.163 Two months later the #51 Military Hospital sent word back to the newspaper. After the publication of Li’s letter, “We implemented educational measures for the entire staff. The occurrences of mocking people for learning to  speak putonghua have ceased.”164 As discussed earlier in the chapter, many observers identified mockery as pervasive and difficult to dislodge. How did the #51 Military Hospital solve the problem so expeditiously? In the absence of further documentation, it is impossible to know what kind of “educational measures” provided the remedy. For the work unit in question, it was crucial to perform its commitment to the state’s agenda by registering a zero-­tolerance policy for linguistic intransigence, and to  provide an addendum for the public record showing swift remedial action. Other testimonials expounded on the significance of standardized speech beyond the military. Zhejiang native Liu Delan learned to speak putonghua “pretty fluently” after five years of army service. When he went home on leave, he decided to shelve his skill, worried that family members would not be able to understand, or that “relatives will say that I am putting on official airs.” To Liu’s surprise, his father started speaking to him in “a faltering kind of putonghua.” The father found it strange that the son had not yet learned the common language: “You have been away for five, six years, how come you haven’t changed your accent?” All at once, Liu felt flooded by shame, a feeling amplified when no one laughed at him,

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as he had feared. Against his expectations, the young people in his hometown were eager to learn from him.165

FROM HIGH TIDE TO COLD FR ON T

Soldier Liu’s rosy portrayal of villagers following him around, begging for lessons in correct pronunciation, underlined the trajectory of linguistic transformation on a voluntary basis, driven by committed individuals. The campaign proceeded, with “bursts of fervor” interspersed with allusions to lurking problems. Wang Li tried to address some of the latent issues by posing three questions: Is learning putonghua “putting on official airs”? Is learning putonghua “forgetting your origins”? Is learning pu­ tonghua difficult? On all three counts—­decidedly not, Wang declared. In the first instance, putonghua should not be conflated with its predecessor—­ the “official language” of bureaucratic privilege. Under the leadership of the Communist Party, the “bureaucratic masters” had been destroyed. The putonghua we are referring to is “the language of the people.” In the second instance, the professor refuted “those who say that abandoning the language of one’s ancestors means ‘forgetting one’s origins.’ ” “A thousand years ago our Hanyu was not as splintered as today. Several thousand years prior to that, there was only one kind of Hanyu . . . ​the language of our distant ancestors was unified.” Far from forsaking one’s heritage, learning putonghua constituted a return to one’s origins. Here, Wang reached for a specious claim of millennial continuity to placate anxious sentiments. It is a particularly striking argument, in the context of a ­regime built on the foundation of ideological rupture with the past. ­Finally, addressing the third issue of difficulty, Wang assured readers that “Anything important and worth doing has its share of difficulties.” Learning putonghua is “actually not that difficult for southerners,” certainly easier than a foreign language. “These are not empty words of comfort but based on theory and verified with facts,” he added.166 Wang Li’s contortions to clarify the “actual” situation disclosed attitudes that contradicted the government campaign. The insistence that putonghua was not difficult to learn; not the language of bureaucrats; would not ­destroy dialects—­he was protesting too much.

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These assurances were also undermined by the campaign’s adamant messaging, which portrayed putonghua as a tidal wave soon to inundate the nation. Yet by the fall of 1956, less than a year after its inauguration, reports of dwindling efforts sounded the alarm. As an editorial in ­Teachers’ News put it, the campaign launched in 1955 as “a gentle breeze caressing the grass” and evolved into “surging storms.” The State Council’s directive in February 1956 precipitated thunder, lightning, and progress. Thereafter, however, some teachers started asking: “Is the putonghua campaign a gust of wind that has passed?” Although the editorialist denied the insinuation, his enumeration of diverse obstacles suggested otherwise. Those responsible for propaganda were grumbling: “We have already publicized it [putonghua]; to do it again is just the same old stuff.” Attitudes combining “close enough,” provincialism, and “it has nothing do with me” undercut the effort. To turn the situation around, “We should not treat it as a gust of passing wind. We should instead amplify the force of the putonghua campaign. . . . ​The unification of Hanyu cannot be realized within three or five years. We need to continue the work of popularizing putonghua with determination and over a long period of time.”167 The fate of the common language, it was clear to some observers, hinged on shifting from a campaign-­style blitz to the long-­term task of implementation in education and the communication infrastructure. Doing so required embedding expectations of new speech norms within administrative structures, as well as activating bureaucratic mechanisms to enforce them. To better understand the situation on the ground, in September 1956 the Education Ministry and the Language Reform Committee dispatched an inspection team from Beijing. Led by Chen Runzhai, the team spent two months in Zhejiang, Guangxi, and Shanghai. Their findings were mixed. Among signs of progress, all three jurisdictions were in the process of organizing staff and preparing to launch dialect surveys. The inspectors visited only a small number of schools, but at every stop they were heartened to find the zhuyin phonetic and suitable textbooks in the first-­year curriculum. Teacher training programs, on the other hand, disclosed uneven results. Thirty-­seven thousand instructors in Zhejiang and six thousand in Shanghai had completed Beijing pronunciation seminars. Jiangxi lagged behind, with only several hundred trained instructors.168 As Chen Runzhai noted, Shanghai’s favorable conditions included teachers with “a solid foundation” and students “willing and able to learn.”

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Among remaining problems, Chen pointed to school administrators who failed to “attach sufficient importance to putonghua.” Some “felt satisfied with the status quo” and declined to act. Some believed that “the high tide” had passed. “This perspective is wrong,” Chen scolded. “Last year was the beginning, which required vigorous propaganda and a lot of noise. This year we started the transition to routine work . . . ​we should be entering a new phase of another high tide.” Comparable to learning to swim, one must conquer inner doubts. After all, “if you do not get in the water to practice, you will never learn to swim. In the beginning, however, swallowing some water is unavoidable.”169 The inspection team’s confidential reports elaborated on the negative feedback. School administrators were a weak link, but the crux of the problem originated from higher up the hierarchy. Since municipal and provincial leaders did not fully support the campaign, school administrators did not prioritize it. Some leaders “declined to get involved”; others took a “conservative approach,” erring on the side of caution. In some schools, “teacher training started but never finished.” Quoting one informant, the inspectors concluded: “To create a putonghua environment in the schools, the higher-­up leaders must make specific requests of school leaders and force them to pay attention.”170 Why did “higher-­up leaders” disregard a campaign advertised as a national priority? For cadres responsible for education and “culture work,” the constant drumbeat of campaigns generated a crushing workload of political tasks, heaped on top of their regular duties. Summoned to attend “endless meetings,” they complained, “We are so rushed that we grow dizzy and can hardly see.” How were they to discern “central issues” in a deluge of obligations?171 As local cadres fielded streams of directives from Beijing and from their superiors, putonghua registered low in importance. Accounts of endemic “ideological problems” and scoffers indicated that there were no real consequences for intransigence or refusal. To a certain extent they had to engage in the performative charade of parroting slogans about putong­ hua’s transformative significance. But many inferred from the token efforts and indifference of “higher-­up leaders” that noncompliance would not be penalized.172 Beyond the schools, the inspection team noted that such lackadaisical attitudes had in turn reinforced “ideological doubts in people from all walks of life,” particularly parents. “No matter in society or in schools, a

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discernible ideological resistance remains.” Interviews revealed a range of disturbing opinions: -­ Some people have taken to calling putonghua “budonghua” (不懂話, meaning speech of ignorance or incomprehensibility, a pun riffing on the sound). -­ Some have warned their children: “We would rather sell the family home, but we will never sell out the vernacular of our hometown.” Speaking putonghua was considered “forgetting their origins,” a betrayal of one’s ancestors. -­ When children learned putonghua at school and went home speaking it, some parents slapped them. Other parents marched to school to complain: “Why don’t you teach Hanzi [Chinese script] instead?” -­ Some consider learning putonghua to be a form of “putting on official airs,” or talking like a bureaucrat. They denigrated it as “speaking nonsense” (說鬼話, “devil talk”). -­ Some teachers think putonghua belongs to the purview of language instructors and “has nothing to do with other subject teachers.” -­ Some teachers complain about the difficulty of retroflexion, prominent “only in Beijinghua.” “Why must Beijing phonology be the standard pronunciation?” It is too hard, so “forget it.” -­ Some teachers do not require their students speak putonghua; it’s hardly surprising that they do not. “There are even situations of mocking and sneering.” -­ Some students refer to putonghua as “bureaucratic talk” (官腔) and say that inaccurate pronunciation is like a gun misfiring (走火); “shooting off your mouth like a bureaucrat leads to frequent misfires!”173

Reviewing this litany of troubling findings, the inspection team concluded that despite a promising start, the lack of “vigorous leadership support” signaled to the people that the previous political significance imputed to speech standardization had lapsed.174 Reports from other provinces corroborated these assessments, with narratives of success commingled with frank acknowledgments of extensive problems. Some jurisdictions reported significant resources expended on instruction. Others had barely started. In these accounts, cadre apathy and futile efforts to eliminate “ideological obstacles”

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materialized as recurring themes. In Heilongjiang, an inspection of seven districts revealed a patchy linguistic terrain: some schools had invested tremendous effort, others blithely disregarded the responsibility (“a waste of time”; “it has nothing to do with me”). Overall, prevailing opinion in the province presumed that the “high tide” had passed, resulting in “passive and apathetic attitudes.”175 One year after the launch of the inaugural campaign, the intended transition to “routine work” mode stalled. In Shanghai, the education department assigned four staff members to putonghua implementation for the entire city.176 It was an uphill battle. They encountered cadres who did not understand linguistic change as “a long-­term and routine task,” different from other political campaigns. Impatient for results, they “demanded too much all at once.” On the flip side of the coin, after the initial surge of publicity ended, “propaganda work in society virtually ceased.” Teachers and students “no longer paid much attention to speaking putonghua.” Observations in seven schools indicated that 10 percent of teachers were able to speak “relatively standard putonghua.” The rest could only manage “various kinds of dialect putonghua,” with students replicating their pronunciation mistakes. Other instructors relied on the blackboard to communicate by writing—­“otherwise students cannot understand.” By year-­end 1956, a report documenting the situation in Shanghai repeated observations about rampant “erroneous ideology”: insufficient urgency and attention; abdication of responsibility; lack of confidence among older teachers (“dialect accent is too strong, impossible to learn”). As a result, language teachers who embraced the mission described their experience as “doing battle as orphan soldiers. Without support from school administrators, the results are negligible.”177 The lack of support from above was obvious in the Putonghua Work Committee, one of the responsible organizational nodes in Shanghai. The committee, chaired by the deputy mayor, was supposed to assume a supervisory role in implementation. But with no functional responsibilities and little political authority, the group convened irregularly (the first time in January 1957, and not again until August 1958). At the inaugural meeting, the municipal education director noted that his department had decelerated plans for the next two years. Members floated the idea of inducing compliance through “administrative methods,” a proposal the deputy mayor rejected as impermissible: “In schools and the army, the

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work of promoting putonghua will still adhere to appeal as the primary method. Except for film and theater actors, it is inappropriate to use administrative methods.”178 The meeting concluded with a vaguely affirmative resolution. A follow-­up directive enjoined all schools to “continue to promote putonghua vigorously” and reiterated the critical importance of teachers. In descending order of consequence, language instructors were to take the lead; other subject teachers should adopt putonghua as the medium of instruction “as much as possible”; priority should focus on young teachers, then middle-­aged and older teachers. “As for those who truly have difficulty, don’t force it.”179

A LOSIN G BATTLE?

In retrospect, Chen Runzhai could date the diminishing fervor for pu­ tonghua to the middle of 1956. Writing in the People’s Daily nearly a year later, Chen explained that of the reasons that accounted for the palpable chill, erroneous understanding of the nature and history of the nation’s complex linguistic ecology constituted the primary cause. Based on faulty assumptions, “some people viewed the task of popularizing putonghua as very simple. They thought that we only need to circulate some slogans; without much work everyone will learn it.” But given the wide spectrum of differences between dialects and Beijing pronunciation, “we cannot expect every place to proceed in lockstep, and we should not be so impatient as to expect to accomplish the goal in one leap” or to insist on “a single standard.” A more productive approach should consider “the linguistic circumstances of each dialect region.” While higher expectations should apply to teachers and students, “actual conditions” and “the principle of volition” should pertain to ordinary people. “We cannot do it by force or command, and we cannot forbid them from speaking dialect. Otherwise, it will provoke the dissatisfaction of the masses,” to the detriment of the broader goals of language reform.180 Although Chen Runzhai did not explicitly reference it, the ongoing Hundred Flowers movement had unleashed a torrent of grievances, revealing dissatisfaction with many party policies. In the realm of speech standardization, pointed criticisms named some culprits or exposed them

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with identifying characteristics such as work unit and title. From Jianshe Middle School in Shanghai, Fei Weirong asked why dialects continued to dominate.181 Yu Jinyan was a teacher at Fei’s school, assigned to teach pu­ tonghua to sixteen classes with three other instructors. Yu likened his role to “an orphan soldier” in combat: “We do not want to ‘retreat,’ we definitely do not want to ‘surrender,’ and above all we do not want to ‘fight a losing battle.’ ” Unfortunately, his colleagues assumed that “speaking pu­ tonghua or not” was “inconsequential,” while students protested: “Except for your class, the other subjects do not use putonghua. The teachers do not speak it, so why are you forcing us?” When the education department delivered the final blow, announcing that forthcoming term exams would not include pronunciation, “students naturally wonder: isn’t this a waste of our time?”182 The mismatch of expectations was particularly conspicuous in one anecdote recounted by a teacher from a village school in Zhejiang. At a meeting to discuss putonghua implementation, a cadre began his remarks by saying, “Today I will not use putonghua to deliver my report, because I’m afraid comrades gathered here will not be able to understand.” Using the local dialect, he proceeded to lecture the teachers in attendance about the importance of the task: “Putonghua is the common language of the Han minzu”; culture and education workers have the solemn duty to promote it. “We looked at each other in amazement, some couldn’t help but snicker.” When the speaker admonished everyone to “take the matter seriously,” the audience “could not suppress the feeling of hilarity.”183 Such was the situation when the Language Reform Committee convened a weeklong meeting in mid-­1957. Thirty-­five cadres responsible for putonghua implementation arrived in Beijing on June 25, representing twenty-­two provinces and three municipalities.184 The gathering followed three contentious forums held in May on script simplification, which had embroiled prominent intellectuals in political trouble. And unlike the much larger, celebratory conference of October 1955, the mood was sober. The meeting minutes made no reference to the turmoil of the Hundred Flowers movement, or the recent turn against rightists. (The axe had not yet fallen on many of the rank and file.)185 Out of public view, participants aired frank criticisms of the speech standardization effort. Vice Minister of Education Wei Que set the tone with an appraisal of “the current situation and problems.” Propaganda work has been inadequate, Wei declared,

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while “resistance in society is fairly severe.” Every province has reported occurrences of mockery and of parents scolding or hitting their children for speaking the common language. Government cadres paid insufficient attention; some putonghua committees “exist in name only and perform practically no functions.” As the campaign turned “from high to low tide,” people are asking: “What priority should be given to putonghua from now on?” Wei also introduced practical issues for deliberation. Which phonetic notation system should be used—­pinyin or zhuyin? What is the appropriate remuneration for teachers and students who participate in dialect investigation? How should the conflict between the ineffectively short duration of pronunciation training courses and teachers’ vacation time be adjudicated?186 The discussions over the next six days centered on the uncertain place speech standardization occupied within the regime’s priorities. Since local and provincial leaders evinced haphazard levels of commitment, it was not surprising that they devoted inadequate attention and resources to the issue. The participants proposed interventions at all levels of party and state bureaucracy and asked for clarification on the question of priority. “Since the State Council issued the directive [on putonghua] last year, the situation has changed.” Guidance from the top was needed to shore up precarious support for those on the front lines, where “promoting putong­ hua is considered secondary or even unimportant work, often supplanted by other core tasks.” Work units “habitually make excuses, evade, or ignore”; education cadres lacked enforcement authority and were powerless to intervene. Without sustained effort, those who completed training courses soon discard what they learned. The abysmal retention rate revealed obvious flaws in the process.187 As the meeting concluded, participants considered remediation strategies. Topping the wish list was the shared desire to seek “clear instructions from Central” on guiding principles, especially a “long-­range blueprint.” The majority also proposed moving putonghua work to an independent administrative unit, to underscore its importance. But opinions differed as to jurisdiction, organizational structure, and staffing. Views also diverged regarding resource allocation. “Concentrate on ­cities, do what you can in the countryside?” Focus on “dialect regions?” Strive for a “uniform standard” or a differentiated one? Although detailed and revealing, the deliberations proved inconclusive. The proceedings closed with exhortations for all to redouble their efforts.188

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By the time the participants returned home, the turn from flowers blooming and contending to a hunt for rightists had sharpened. A summary of the June meeting, published in two national periodicals in early July, praised Yu Ziyi for his efforts to promote putonghua in Zhejiang, where he served as the director of education.189 As discussed in chapter 2, Yu had been an influential figure in primary education before 1949. By the end of the month, the process of blackening him as a rightist had begun. The proximate cause of Yu’s troubles was his participation in a meeting of United Front democratic parties on June 3.190 His remarks on that occasion addressed the plight of teachers (heavy workload, neglected health problems, an untenable teacher-­student ratio of 55:1), issues already publicized in other contexts, including state propaganda channels.191 Nonetheless, Yu’s words were twisted to form the case against him. The accusations spiraled into allegations that he spread “noxious poison,” stoked disgruntlement with lies, and aimed a “poison arrow” at the party.192 According to a lengthy indictment penned by Nie Ruchuan, Yu’s “crimes” included antiparty sentiments as betrayed by his attitude toward putonghua. Nie recounted previous disagreements and focused on episodes in which Yu lost his temper and bullied subordinates. Before Nie’s departure for Beijing to attend the June 25 putonghua meeting, Yu Ziyi allegedly told him to “fire a shot” and stir up trouble by advocating for pronunciation textbooks tailored to regional preferences. “Yu Ziyi’s June 3 remarks were not accidental,” Nie maintained. “They were the detonation of long-­standing antiparty ideology.”193 By the fall of 1957 the circle of incrimination widened to engulf others in the language reform establishment.194 Among victims caught in the dragnet was Wang Li, subjected to vociferous criticism for his “bourgeois” views.195 As the speech campaign receded in importance, the Education Ministry reviewed the overall progress of the past eighteen months. On the positive side of the ledger, 600,000 schoolteachers had received some form of “Beijing pronunciation training,” about one-­third of the language teachers in the nation. More than two million listeners had tuned in for radio lessons. Some 4.5 million volumes and 1,380,000 phonograph records of instructional materials had been distributed. On the negative side, “significant resistance in implementation” was ascribed to “insufficient understanding of the importance and meaning of putonghua in society.” Across the country, uneven progress oscillated “from hot to cold.”

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Publicity had halted completely in some jurisdictions, “to the extent that some people have begun to wonder whether the campaign will continue.” Given the circumstances, and in light of the forecasted “heavy workload” of the ongoing anti-­rightist campaign, the Education Ministry decided not to issue another directive on putonghua. Instead, the memo expressed hope that each province and city would “persevere in continuing the work of popularizing putonghua”—­not “give up and forfeit halfway.”196 In January 1958 Zhou Enlai delivered a report to the State Council on language reform. Zhou’s remarks, frequently cited as the denouement to a decades-­long intrigue over the fate of alphabetization, also included generally overlooked comments about putonghua, describing the headwinds impeding progress. The standard “does not require that all Han people be able to speak like Beijingers,” the premier said; that would be impossible and unnecessary. Beijing pronunciation is the standard, and everyone “should try to approximate it.” At the same time, differentiated proficiency levels should apply. “The demands on ordinary people can be more lenient, and there is no need to make any demands on people who are middle-­aged or older. Only in this way can we reduce resistance to the use of putonghua.” Zhou also addressed a recurring question: “Is promoting the use of putonghua intended to prohibit or destroy dialects?” Certainly not, he answered. “Dialects will exist for a long time. They ­cannot be prohibited by government orders or destroyed by artificial means.” The path forward, “to unify the dialect speech of 600 million Han Chinese people,” will require “relentless effort over a long period of time.” “How long? That depends on developments in communications, the economy, culture, and our labor. With unremitting and diligent effort, the task can certainly be accomplished. We should have faith. I hope that everyone will do some more propaganda work and help to create a conducive social environment for promoting the use of putonghua.”197

L EAPING FORWAR D

The campaign did continue, at a fraction of its former intensity. Since there were no penalties for not learning putonghua, it paled in comparison to  the ongoing political agitations and more pressing tasks. As the

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crackdown on rightists mutated into the Great Leap Forward in 1958–­ 1959, the winds of exaggeration billowed to claims that perfect speech unity could be achieved within days or weeks. Guangning county (Guangdong) launched an “assault,” setting the goal for everyone in every work unit “to be able to understand and to speak”—­within ten days. Not to be outdone, young people in nearby Foshan engaged in a three-­day “arduous battle.”198 Most celebrated of all was Wushan village (Fujian), one of the “miracles” of the Great Leap. A mountainous community of 1,066 households, Wushan’s achievements were first reported in the provincial newspaper, then nationally publicized. In April  1958 the village party committee launched an “arduous battle of fifty days-­ and-­nights.” The results tallied 85  percent of youths and 60  percent of middle-­aged adults who learned putonghua through a blitz (56 percent of the population). Even older people jumped into action to learn snippets of basic conversation.199 Before the Great Leap, the common language had made little headway against Wushan’s complex linguistic ecology of “mixed dialects.” During the agrarian reform campaign, a landlord exploited his facility with putonghua to “interpret” for villagers. Through deliberate mistranslation he served his own nefarious ­purposes. Overcoming these deficits required “mobilization at every level, from top to bottom.” According to an account in Red Flag magazine, critical success factors included “support from Central” and local cadres who “dared to think, dared to do,” unafraid to use “the Great Leap spirit to popularize putonghua.” If this remote village could integrate language reform with production, why not in other places? “When you walk into Wushan, you can hear the sounds of clearly enunciated and fluent putonghua conversation everywhere”—­in the fields, schools, homes, and on the roads. “Now the phenomenon of ridiculing people for speaking putonghua no longer exists.”200 Wushan’s fantastical accomplishments were widely publicized, with propaganda featuring nineteen-­year-­old Chen Jinsi as the community’s linguistic leader. The first person in the village to learn putonghua, Chen was a prodigy of socialist virtue from childhood—­first defying her father to attend school, then conquering myriad challenges to become a teacher and literacy activist. She held successive leadership positions from age fourteen and won the honor of an audience with Chairman Mao in 1955.201 When Chen led the putonghua charge, she activated the Great Leap spirit

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to “breach the fortress of dialects.”202 After conquering speech, Wushan launched a new offensive. Not a single person in the village knew anything about pinyin, despite its official promulgation in 1958.203 While attending the national putonghua conference in Beijing that summer, Chen Jinsi resolved to learn the new phonetic alphabet. When she returned home and introduced pinyin at a meeting, “the villagers all burst out laughing.” Undeterred, she organized a training class. Forty students completed the course in ten days (half the projected time) and set out to teach others. Chen vowed that with twenty days of struggle or four months of arduous battles, the entire village would reap the benefits of pinyin.204 As fame accrued to this far-­flung dot of central Fujian, the fervor reportedly spread to nearby villages. Soon the entire county of Datian gained renown as the “red flag of putonghua” and in turn radiated its example to neighbors.205 Of course it had not been smooth sailing the entire way, Chen Runzhai explained. “In mass ideology some ideological misgivings and obstacles still linger.” For instance, some people in Datian said, “Putonghua is what the cadres speak. They eat a lot of fatty foods, and their tongues are soft. We can’t do it.” Older people said, “I am about to go sleep in a coffin,” so what’s the point? Meanwhile, women felt they had nothing to gain from the effort: “After we learn putonghua, we still have to scrub the pots.”206 By transforming popular attitudes, Datian provided an instructive model for the nation. As one reporter described, other leaders had failed to engage with the masses. They drew up plans in their offices, fixating on difficulties or stubborn resistance, following established protocols and the “step-­by-­step” mantra. They focused on schools and “the intellectual realm,” not workers and peasants. They “superstitiously believed in experts” who made a big deal of dialect investigation: printing cards, compiling handbooks, purchasing recordings. The handbooks, which ordinary people could not understand, proved to be a waste of money and time. Datian embraced the opposite approach: not a single expert, not a single record of dialect investigation, not a single penny spent. In effect, the Datian miracle was a thorough repudiation of the policies and assumptions that had informed the language campaign for the previous five years. Instead, the villagers relied on “the party’s leadership” and on “the energy of the masses,” using the mountains, fields, and every conceivable venue to realize the promise of putonghua.207

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As the moving spirit of the “Fujian miracle,” Chen Jinsi attended the first “national putonghua teaching achievement demonstration conference” in Beijing. On that occasion, senior party officials singled out Wushan for praise. Chen was given a prime speaking slot on the first day. Intended to showcase the fruits of language reform, the conference combined performance and competition to serve the didactic function of “observation and emulation” in its name.208 For a week, 141 representatives from around the country listened to dozens of speeches and watched nearly 150 acts: songs, poems, xiangsheng comedy sketches, feats of pin­ yin spelling and putonghua translation.209 The participants (mostly teachers and students) had been chosen by their home jurisdictions to perform linguistic virtuosity or testify to the power of the Great Leap spirit.210 Vice Principal Zhao Deshan, for example, recounted how students at his primary school in Qingdao raised another “high tide.” They invented games, organized contests, and set up “Red Pioneer putonghua service stations.” Self-­appointed activists monitored each classroom. “Following closely like shadows,” they helped classmates struggling with pronunciation, encouraged those lacking confidence, and “persuaded” the scoffers.211 At the conclusion of the conference, Zhou Enlai and Chen Yi arrived to offer congratulations and pose for photos. Before departing Beijing, the delegates published an open letter to the nation’s youths, proposing “a friendly revolutionary competition,” to plant “the red flag of putonghua all over China.”212 The teaching achievements demonstrations (held in 1958, 1959, 1960, 1964, and 1979) were not the only opportunities to showcase linguistic

FIGURE 5.2   The Communist Youth League exhorts the nation’s youths to plant trees, eliminate the four pests, and speak the common language.

Source: Zhongguo qingnian bao 中国青年报, 1958.

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excellence. The Education Ministry teamed up with the Youth League and Central Broadcasting to hold speech contests in twelve cities in the summer of 1958. Local jurisdictions convened “putonghua activist meetings” to generate momentum.213 Embodying the ethos of the Great Leap, Youth League members challenged their counterparts in other cities: “Let’s see who can learn putonghua faster and better.” For a brief time, the Youth League also linked putonghua to a tree-­planting drive and the infamous offensive on the “four pests”—­three activities aimed at cultivating the revolutionary spirit of young people.214 For individuals and groups, performing devotion to and mastery of the common language could be a ticket to recognition. Yet in putting spoken fluency on display as a category of exceptional achievement, these exhibitions also underscored the superficial level of putonghua penetration in the broader linguistic environment. Workers at a public canteen in Guangzhou, for instance, devised resourceful tactics to dislodge Cantonese as the medium of communication. They learned simple phrases for customer interaction, used pinyin to annotate signs, and broadcasted lessons to help customers acclimate. At the national demonstration conference in 1959, Wu Yuzhang praised this work unit. Eighty percent of the canteen workers had achieved rudimentary listening comprehension, and 70 percent had acquired some conversational ability. There was no expectation of fluency, only “being able to tend to customers using basic putonghua.”215 At the same meeting, on an occasion for touting accomplishments, the Guangzhou Education Department delivered a bleak assessment. The report described an audit of three middle schools where of ninety teachers, 68 percent used putonghua as the medium of instruction but with mediocre pronunciation. A simple exam administered to ten students found that not one could pronounce his/her own name accurately using putonghua or spell it with pinyin.216 Behind the headlines boasting about Great Leap zeal, a different picture emerged. Foshan had trumpeted its three-­day blitz in 1958. Thereafter the city was often cited as a model, where “every single person has learned putonghua and every single person speaks it.”217 Yet as one local primary school teacher revealed, the situation on the ground belied the public image. In the push to implement the standard as the medium of instruction, instructors used a mixture of putong­ hua and dialect. What might be construed as an acceptable “integration” (结合) of the two devolved into a “garble” (混合). Teachers spoke a

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“dialectized putonghua” with a random blend of pronunciation, grammar, and vocabulary. Students learned the habits of “southern accents, northern tunes,” unable to differentiate between what is standard and what is not.218 At the height of the Great Leap Forward, Wei Jiangong published a long essay to commemorate the fortieth anniversary of the May Fourth movement. After returning from Taiwan in 1948, Wei taught at Beida and worked on the New China Dictionary, the definitive reference work of standard lexicon. Reflecting on the language reform project since 1949, Wei observed that “some people feel that the work of the past decade merely continued the agenda started before Liberation.” Not true, Wei averred. “The work being done now is not the same as before Liberation. Where it is the same, the spirit and substance are very different.” The ­professor reviewed the history of standardization starting from the Conference to Unify Pronunciation in 1913. Promoters of the former national language movement, such as himself, had performed some “positive functions.” But fatal flaws doomed that enterprise to failure. Representing the interests of the bourgeoisie and a “reactionary government,” they were “divorced from the masses” and took the wrong road. Wei contrasted that sorry history to the results of the present campaign, “attained with such amazing speed,” which he attributed to the CCP’s determined leadership and “the enthusiastic support of the masses.” To those tempted to find continuities between pre-­and post-­Liberation language reforms, Wei offered an excoriation of the thirty years he personally devoted to the failed effort.219 To fortify the mass character of speech standardization, some initiatives in the early 1960s focused on pushing putonghua into “society,” such as through workers with routine interactions with the public (department store clerks, railway conductors, bus ticket sellers).220 At the same time, the attenuation of its political importance could be deduced from the State Council’s directive disbanding the national committee for putonghua promotion. Schools continued as a major “battleground,” with students and teachers enjoined to generate another “high tide.” Many had learned rudimentary pronunciation, but without opportunities to practice, “they ­forgot it all.” Teachers slipped back into the habit of using dialect as the  medium of instruction. Renewed efforts repeated familiar mantras about determination, diligent practice, and the evisceration of ideological

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obstacles: “Everyone should recognize that it’s not a big deal to speak poorly. The error lies with those who make fun of others.”221 When a team from the Language Reform Committee returned to Shanghai in 1960, they also visited schools in nearby counties. In Jiading, students recited their lessons in a muddled “ fangyan guanhua.” Teachers enunciated the pinyin alphabet erratically and inflicted their ignorance onto the students. In one egregious case, the visitors observed a middle school  instructor using pinyin to annotate the pronunciation of new vocabulary—­with a 50 percent error rate.222 In contrast, Chen Youzhen received a commendation as an exemplary teacher in 1960. Students in her first-­grade class in Shanghai began the academic year speaking a hodgepodge of mutually unintelligible vernaculars. Chen’s patient instruction activated their motivation, building the foundation for “a higher level of understanding.” She emphasized the relationship between the common language and socialist construction, then delivered the punchline: “Speaking putonghua is the conduct of those who love the fatherland and love Chairman Mao. Those who speak putonghua are his good children (好孩子)!” With the chairman’s approval as incentive, the students eagerly enlisted: “I will certainly speak putonghua! I want to be Chairman Mao’s little vanguard soldier!”223

R In the context of putonghua, this was a rare mention of Mao Zedong, who spoke a dialect-­inflected version far from standard. Ironically, Mao’s best soldier could not speak the common language either. Lei Feng was a truck driver in the PLA, immortalized in nationwide propaganda after his death in 1962, whose memory resonates to the present day. According to the lore, he vowed to be a small screw in the machinery of the revolution, one that “never gets rusty.” The “Learn from Comrade Lei Feng” campaign featured countless altruistic acts he performed to serve the people. A posthumously discovered diary testified to his extraordinary devotion to the party and to Chairman Mao. Among the hagiographic stories of an exemplary life, which became mandatory for study in the army and schools, one tells of a short stint Lei Feng spent with his unit’s cultural troupe. During the first rehearsal for a new play, he read his part “in a thick Hunan dialect.” The other troupe members felt that the audience would not

274  T he Common L anguage of N ew China

understand and told him so. “Never mind,” he replied. “I’ll correct it by practice.” He worked on speaking his lines in putonghua for several days, “trying hard to correct his accent.” At the second rehearsal, Lei Feng read his part in a strange, stilted accent, “provoking peals of laughter.” The troupe leader decided that someone else would have to play the part: “We’re afraid that some people in the audience might not quite understand your dialect.” The good soldier accepted the criticism and his dismissal from the cast without fuss. In characteristically selfless fashion, Lei Feng made himself useful by serving his comrades.224 As this anecdote indicates, the qualities of the iconic soldier did not include the ability to speak putonghua; linguistic ineptitude did not detract from his near-­mythical status. The case of Lei Feng underscores the curious position of standard speech within the political and social life of the Mao years. From the outset, the Communist Party articulated a clear ideological imperative for the common language. The campaign of the 1950s, however, did not position putonghua as a hegemonic system, leaving room for dialects and minority languages. (To be sure, that space would contract in the years to come.) As implemented on the ground, the  mandate to learn putonghua was conditional into the 1960s and beyond. When the standard collided against community norms, enduring preferences, or old habits, people were not afraid to evade or reject it. As S.A. Smith has observed regarding the dynamics of Maoist mass campaigns: “Ordinary people had a keen sense that the balance of power was very much against them.” But millions were emboldened to speak their minds, complain, or engage in activities that were “frowned upon by local officials but with which they felt they could get away.”225 As historians have scrutinized more closely encounters between the party-­state, its revolutionary goals, and “the masses,” they have discovered more instances of passive belligerence or obstinate evasion. In realms such as popular religion, the implementation of the Marriage Law, and agricultural procurement, recent scholarship emphasizes the sizable gaps between official rhetoric and reality, or the inability of the state to command its denizens.226 As Vivienne Shue observes, “All through the decades of the 1950s and 60s, the Party-­state kept rediscovering, to its dismay . . . ​just how ragged, unreconciled, and unruly its subjects could still be.”227 Ignoring, mocking, or refusing the imperative to learn the common language of the socialist state provides a salient and even more complex

The Common Language of  N ew C hina 275

example of what people felt they could get away with. The messiness of putonghua stands in sharp contrast to the coercive manner in which the CCP compelled the masses to speak the political language of Maoism (later dubbed MaoSpeak or MaoStyle 毛文体). At the level of lexicon and semantics, the party achieved an unprecedented “uniformity of expression” in political discourse. Bureaucratic mechanisms and punishment for deviance enforced this linguistic code, reaching the height of compliance during the Cultural Revolution.228 Adding the social history of putong­ hua to this picture suggests that contestations over standard speech impinged on the ability of the authoritarian state to impose its will. The recurrence of laughter, excuses and grumbling, innumerable instances of learning-­then-­forgetting—­cumulatively, these acts of refusal intentionally or unwittingly undermined the project of standardizing speech. Even as the language of class struggle and Mao worship permeated society, its verbal expressions remained stubbornly resistant to uniformity. In one telling example, in 1966 Chen Boda (one of the leaders of the Cultural Revolution) gave speeches to Red Guard groups around the country. The transcripts indicate that he apologized to the young revolutionaries for “not speaking putonghua very well,” saying: let me get an interpreter.229 No one laughed.

EPILOGUE

The State promotes the nationwide use of putonghua. 国家推广全国通用的普通话. —­A RTICLE 19, CONSTITUTION OF THE PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA

I

n the spring of 1982, the National People’s Congress released the draft of a new constitution, circulating it for public comment. The moment punctuated hopes for the dawn of “rule by law,” marking a trajectory away from the catastrophic upheaval of the past decades. As the horizons of “reform and opening” expanded under Deng Xiaoping, a new legal framework promised to set the foundation for restructuring government and economic institutions. Among the significant changes, a clause in article 19 asserted the state’s intention to promote putonghua but did not impose specific obligations on the people to speak it. Three additional provisions reiterated and extended protections for minority language rights.1 As Xu Shirong explained, the inclusion of putonghua in the “foundational law” of the nation verified its legal basis, beyond the State Council’s directive in 1956 (see chapter 5). As a senior member of the recently revived Language Reform Committee, Xu weighed in from the vantage point of long experience. In the past, the professor commented, some people viewed putonghua as a dispensable “soft task,” or an undertaking relegated to primary schools. Parents rebuked their children for “tossing around

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Beijing accents”; others construed learning putonghua as “forgetting their origins.” To redress these “incorrect ideas and chatter,” Xu explained the what, the how, and the why of the common language in a three-­part essay that reviewed the history of standard speech, starting with the Conference to Unify Pronunciation in 1913. Looking to the future, he maintained that “vigorous promotion of putonghua” would not resort to “compulsory commands” nor seek to destroy dialects. But leaders at all levels could no longer shirk the responsibility—­twenty-­six years after the inaugural putonghua campaign, the task remained unfinished.2 Other commentators concurred. “Is it necessary to promote the common language?” linguist Lü Shuxiang asked. “Everyone would say, of course!” In a country with vast territory and numerous dialects, “we need a shared spoken language in order to facilitate interchange.” More than seventy years after the “national language” campaign of the Republican era began, standard speech remained a glimmer in the distance. Of the multifaceted reasons that accounted for the disjuncture between aspiration and reality, Lü identified “insufficient care and attention in people’s thinking” as the primary cause. Excuses manifested in different forms, such as claims of “old age, stiff tongue” disguising laziness or fear of mockery.3 Achieving a breakthrough to inspire an “upsurge of mass fervor,” opined a People’s Daily editorial, would require overturning prevailing attitudes such as “it’s dispensable” or “it has nothing to do with me.” 4 The key to such a breakthrough depended on the commitment of “the leaders,” who must be enjoined to “take it seriously.”5

T H E COMMON L ANGUAGE OF T HE FOU R MODERN IZATIONS

As attention to language reform resumed in the early 1980s, putonghua was repositioned as an instrument to facilitate the Four Modernizations, Deng Xiaoping’s signature platform. Public discussions routinely invoked experiences from the 1950s and quoted from decades-­old party directives as the basis for the path forward.6 (This was in part for the benefit of a new generation unfamiliar with previous efforts.) Memories of putong­ hua demonstration conferences, the constructive experiences of training

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seminars, and the feats of Chen Jinsi (prodigy of the Wushan miracle) ­circulated.7 Schools once again emerged as the “main battlefield,” with language instructors in the vanguard. A directive from the Education Ministry in 1978 had announced aggressive targets for putonghua proficiency, from primary schools to universities. But the improbably brief implementation period of five years expired before discernible results could be achieved.8 Long-­ standing concerns were also revived—­ perennial headaches with teacher training, parental intransigence, “ideological” obstacles, mockery, and laughter. According to one observer, the majority of language teachers refused to speak putonghua, due to “narrow localism” and the force of old habits, or from a misguided belief in the negative effect on learning outcomes. Many considered putonghua instruction “an extraneous matter.” Since publicity consistently portrayed the common language as a task of “promotion,” some continued to view it as optional, rather than “established in law.”9 Enduring problems with “teacher qualifications” indicated the magnitude of the task, Xu Shirong observed. In the 1950s the inaugural putonghua campaign suffered from the lack of qualified teachers and “backbone” leaders. Confronting a similar situation thirty years later, it was abundantly clear that schools alone could not deliver the desired results. The renewed commitment to standard speech must call the masses to action and formulate a plan of action to “create a social driving force.” We should not fear the long road ahead, “even if it takes several decades.”10 In the People’s Liberation Army, echoes of the 1950s likewise percolated. New soldiers converging from the four corners of the country were reportedly unable to understand orders from commanding officers, or to communicate with each other. Errors ranged from comical blunders to battlefield mix-­ups, with potentially deadly consequences. Many army cadres speak “southern accents and northern tunes,” wrote a commentator in the PLA Daily. They suffer no consequences for linguistic incompetence and are “content with the status quo”—­“their defects do not affect ‘promotion in office’ or get in the way ‘becoming rich.’ ”11 Among the rank-­and-­file, unwillingness to learn putonghua could be attributed to “embarrassment” or fear of mockery.12 As one soldier wrote to the PLA Daily, when he started learning putonghua, fellow provincials in his company taunted him for “changing tunes and putting on foreign airs, only a few days after leaving home.” The soldier asked, “Is learning putonghua a

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kind of affecting foreign airs?” Certainly not, the editor replied. “To learn the common language in use in our entire country—­how can that be a matter of foreign airs?” Jokes about pronunciation may be unavoidable during a bumpy learning process. “But there is no need to mind . . . ​ just laugh it off, don’t take it too seriously. Giving up on learning putong­ hua because of some sarcastic comments is a sign of weakness.” On the other hand, while on home leave “it’s better to speak your native dialect. Consider it a matter of ‘following local customs.’ ”13 The stinging rebuke of “forgetting one’s origins” thwarted motivation to learn putonghua. To shift that perception, the PLA Daily prompted soldiers to bear in mind that changing one’s native accent and “forgetting origins” were “entirely unrelated,” just as learning foreign languages did not signify lack of patriotism.14 From schools to the military, popular misperceptions presented familiar dilemmas, resonating with past experience. As Wang Li put it, “The language reform movement has ninety years of history, but among the masses there remain many misunderstandings.” In the era of reform and opening, we must use scientific methods to “seek truth from facts” (invoking a phrase attributed to both Mao Zedong and Deng Xiaoping), in order to transform “false perceptions into insight.”15 In the spirit of seeking truth from facts, a survey conducted in 1984 provided data on the national situation. The five-­month project appraised pu­ tonghua proficiency across twenty provinces, with “sampling” of 120 sites. “Able to understand” equated to the ability to follow news broadcasts on Central Radio. “Able to communicate” was defined as “more or less correct in phonology and tones.” Analyzing the results, the researchers confirmed a strong correlation between literacy and putonghua proficiency and noted a stark gender disparity. On the latter point, women made up 70 percent of respondents “unable to understand putonghua”; in some villages researchers found zero women able to speak it. The survey reported a margin of error between 2.8 and 5.1 percent but offered scant details on methodology (including crucial data points such as sample size). Even more hazy was the attempt to establish a historical baseline by retroactively estimating proficiency in the early 1950s. Thirty years ago, 41 percent of people who lived in rural areas could understand putonghua—­“This figure was calculated from the detailed recollections of older people in the villages.”16 In the years to come, linguistic surveys would grow more sophisticated, with ­rigorous methods informing more precisely calibrated gradations.

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TABLE E.1 

Able to understand putonghua 能听懂普通话

Able to communicate using putonghua 能用普通话交流

Northern dialect region

Other dialect regions

National average

Northern dialect region

Other dialect regions

National average

北方话区

其他方言区

全国

北方话区

其他方言区

全国

91%

77%

90%

54%

40%

50%

Source: Wu Runyi and Yin Binyong, “Putonghua shehui diaocha—­x ianzhuang he qianjing,” Wenzi gaige, no. 1 (1985): 37–­38.

In the meantime, there was much work to do behind the scenes. A clause in the new compulsory education law (1986) designated putonghua as the official medium of instruction in schools, but without specifying implementation mechanisms.17 The Putonghua Pronunciation Audit Committee, relaunched after a hiatus of nearly twenty years, deliberated for three years before releasing the results of the renewed effort to resolve discrepancies in pronunciation. Three previous drafts of “variant pronunciation charts” (released between 1957 and 1962) had provided essential reference for some 1,800 characters and morphemes but had not been updated since the early 1960s. The committee took on the tasks of “consolidating” variant pronunciations, eliminating “dialect sounds,” and adjudicating between inconsistencies in dictionaries. Published in 1986, the new “Authorized Pronunciation List of Variant Words in Putonghua” became an arbiter of the spoken standard.18 Recurring complaints and ­lingering questions, however, indicated that the process was far from complete. When popular usage differed from the authoritative pronunciation, which was correct? Why did it take years for the New China Dic­ tionary and the Dictionary of Modern Chinese to conform to the revised standard?19 In 1986 the Language Reform Committee was reorganized as the State Language Commission. The name change, according to senior party officials, reflected an expansion of responsibilities in scope and complexity.20 But as linguist John Rohsenow has described, controversy surrounding a second script simplification scheme had tarnished the committee’s

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reputation. Announced in 1977, the plan to modify an additional group of characters was ensnared in the immediate post–­Cultural Revolution reckoning. After six months of sharp criticisms, the committee retracted the proposal. The name change could thus be construed as an attempt to dissociate the future work of language reform from that “public fiasco.”21 To relaunch the agenda, the State Language Commission convened the second National Conference on Language Reform in January 1986. It was the first such gathering since the seminal event of 1955 (discussed in chapter 5). Chairman Liu Daosheng delivered a lengthy plenary address, with a retrospective of the past thirty years and a preview of the road ahead. Of the three principal tasks of language reform (pinyin, simplified script, and putonghua), Liu said, “some components have not been completed and need to be continued.” Simplification would need to proceed with “caution”; the question of pinyin’s independent status as a writing system was shelved again. In the public realm, news headlines, advertisements, and film subtitles flaunted the fashion for full-­form characters and individually contrived simplified forms. It was time to clean up the “chaotic situation” of nonstandard scripts. As for speech, the era of modernization “urgently demands the promotion of the common language.” By the end of the century, Liu Dao­ sheng declared, putonghua would become the medium of instruction in all schools, at all levels; the working language of government; the language of radio, television, film, and theater; and the language of public communication for people from different dialect regions. These objectives, mirroring the predecessor goals of the 1950s, revealed how little ground had been covered in the intervening years.22 Conference participants lamented the “circuitous and turbulent journey,” casting blame primarily on the Cultural Revolution. A new spring dawned in 1978. But when students returned to the classroom, many schools had reverted to dialect as the medium of instruction and abandoned pinyin. “All the blood and sweat of the previous efforts evaporated.”23 Dramatic changes underway promised to shift the linguistic terrain in  the direction of progress. Village enterprises, “sprouting like spring bamboo after rain,” need “new peasants” willing to travel afar to conduct trade. As they “venture south and wander north,” the painful limitation  of dialects would compel them to learn putonghua.24 Economic

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modernization demanded a shared spoken language to facilitate the flow of commodities and the growth of domestic markets and foreign trade.25 A prime example could be found in Shenzhen, exploding into a juggernaut as one of the Special Economic Zones in the early 1980s. As the city grew, its linguistic ecosystem became a jumble of mutually unintelligible tongues. Speakers of Cantonese (25 percent), Hakka (25 percent), Chaozhou (20 percent), and putonghua (20 percent) joined sojourners from other dialect regions (10 percent), as well as fortune seekers from nearby Hong Kong and Macao. When foreign businessmen discovered that translators conversant only in putonghua were inadequate, they scrambled to find others capable of interpreting across multiple dialects. The impediment to commerce in general, and foreign investment in particular, prompted the municipal government to designate putonghua the city’s “key language” and a critical element of fostering “a positive investment environment.” Cadres previously “too busy” or inclined to “send off a document and blow some hot air” were pressed to take up the matter urgently, for the task would only grow exponentially more difficult as Shenzhen’s economic engine accelerated.26

W HAT IS STA N DA RD EN OUGH?

The 1980s were also a formative period for setting a new trajectory for teacher training. Provincial initiatives aimed to produce graduates from normal schools able to use the common language as the medium of instruction, and to provide remedial training for teachers already on the job.27 In 1981 Guangdong province launched a drive to reverse the damage wrought by the Cultural Revolution. Within six years, all schools were to achieve a “basic level of putonghua dissemination.” Top leaders demanded “concrete plans” and “effective measures” from local education departments.28 In Yunnan, a ten-­year implementation plan set the target of 100,000 normal school graduates qualified to teach putonghua. In addition, proficiency tests would be administered (over a three-­year period) to all male teachers under fifty and female teachers under forty-­five years of age. For the province’s twenty-­four ethnic minority groups (more than

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eleven million people, about one-­t hird of the population), pedagogical experiments searched for effective approaches for teaching putonghua in multilingual settings.29 National standards took longer to establish and implement. Throughout the early 1980s, plans for a standardized proficiency exam proposed different formats and criteria. A preliminary framework adopted a tripartite gradation, described as the ability to speak “quite standard,” “relatively standard,” or “ordinary” putonghua.30 The lowest echelon was analogized to “a putonghua of southern accents and northern tunes, kind of similar to the blue-­green guanhua of the past.”31 A linguistic audit of normal schools, conducted in 1992, selected sixty institutions for a pilot study. The rubric demanded more rigorous standards for “northern dialect regions,” students majoring in Chinese language, and putonghua instructors. Overall, all sixty schools passed muster in demonstrating “quite standard” and “relatively standard” putonghua across different benchmarks.32 To hold institutions accountable for meeting the national objectives, the program of linguistic audits expanded to all levels of the educational system. For individuals, the State Language Commission began a trial implementation of the Putonghua Proficiency Test (普通话水平测试) in 1994. Created in partnership with the Education Ministry and the National Radio and Television Administration, the initial parameters identified personnel born after January 1, 1946, in several occupational categories, including education, radio, television, film, and theater, with “others” on a voluntary basis. The draft guidelines stipulated that the exam did not intend to judge “knowledge, cultural level, or elocution.” Instead, the assessment of spoken fluency would measure the degree of correspondence to standard speech, according the following rubric:33 1. Read aloud one hundred monosyllabic words: 10% 2. Read aloud fifty polysyllabic words: 20% 3. Read aloud a four-­hundred-­character passage (from a choice of fifty predetermined selections): 30% 4. Answer multiple-­choice questions on correct usage of syntax and lexicon: 10% 5. Speak extemporaneously for three to four minutes on a topic: 30%

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Based on the candidate’s cumulative score, certification was awarded in one of three levels of proficiency, each subdivided into two grades. Level 1-­A required a near-­perfect score of 97 percent, a rating designated for radio announcers and television presenters at national and provincial stations. Teachers at middle, primary, and normal schools were expected to achieve at least a level 2 rating (80 percent). A passing mark of 60 percent earned a level 3-­B certificate. It would take several years to finalize the content of the exam, as well as establish benchmarks for different categories of teachers and government personnel.34 The bureaucratic infrastructure—­to oversee test administration on a nationwide basis—­a lso took time to build, including the critical component of certifying the examiners. According to some reports, those administering the test frequently encountered the quandary of “interpersonal relations.” Entangled in networks of obligations to colleagues, friends, and relatives, they found it difficult to “maintain the standard.” Removing the guanxi (connections) consideration from the process required training a corps of professional examiners. Adjudicating between sustaining the “standard” and granting “leniency” (“opening one’s mouth merits a pass”) proved challenging in a period of transition.35 Finally, certified proficiency as employment qualification was slowly implemented and unevenly enforced. A new set of guidelines (1999) stipulated that civil servants born after 1954 “in principle should attain level 3-­A certification” (70 percent). All agencies should “gradually” incorporate putonghua into the criteria for performance assessment, while government workers should “willingly use putonghua” in the conduct of official business.36 The certification, however, did not necessarily match social practices. Those who passed the exam may rarely speak putonghua, according to one observer, especially if surrounded by a “boundless sea of dialect.” Without daily use, the majority inevitably regress.37 The putonghua proficiency test prescribed the most rigorous standard for radio and broadcasting professionals, a clear indication of the growing importance of mass media to speech standardization. In addition to the extensive network of wired loudspeakers built in the 1950s (discussed in chapter 5), aural exposure to putonghua increased in the early reform era as television penetration rose. (In 1978 there was one set per one hundred people. A decade later the figure had increased more than tenfold, with a household penetration rate of 73 percent.)38 In 1987 the National

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Radio and Television Administration and the State Language Commission issued new regulations governing language use in media. The directive addressed persistent problems: excessive dialect programming on local stations; “indiscriminate use of dialects” in movies and television dramas; announcers speaking “insufficiently standard putonghua.” The new policies instructed stations and programs in violation to switch “gradually” to putonghua, with allowances for ethnic minority regions and unspecified “special circumstances.” Actors portraying national leaders must speak standard putonghua, rather than mimic Mao Zedong’s ­distinctive Hunan accent or Deng Xiaoping’s Sichuan-­inflected tones. Programs that require dialect for narrative coherence or “content reasons” were permitted to incorporate it on a limited basis. In general, the spoken language of mass media must “conform to the standard and avoid mispronunciation.”39 Television, film, and radio were thus positioned as “classrooms” for the masses, to facilitate standardization through ubiquity. Linguist Zhou Youguang recommended a program of self-­study, encouraging people to repeat after radio announcers or television hosts—­“ if you stick to it for six months or a year, you will be able to learn putonghua quite well, without a teacher.” 40 Audiences habituated to voices heard on the airwaves considered them exemplary speakers embodying the standard.41 But inevitable pronunciation errors prompted some careful listeners to catalog them. In one example, a monthlong “monitoring” of television news programs tallied 1.2 mistakes per thirty-­minute segment on China Central Television (CCTV), and 1.8 blunders per twenty-­ minute program on Beijing TV.42 Another audit of radio and television over a twelve-­year period (1986–­1998) logged 1,300 mistakes, of which 70  percent were errors in tones.43 Analyzing the situation, one self-­ appointed monitor attributed the mispronunciations of putatively model speakers to two factors. Radio announcers and television hosts relied on dictionaries to verify pronunciation but failed to consult the Authorized Pronunciation List published by the Putonghua Audit Committee. More than a decade after publication, the revised standard “swirls around” but had not been enforced in policy, nor “penetrated the frontlines of broadcasting.” Some had in fact never heard of the Authorized Pronunciation List. Even more troubling, praise for their linguistic prowess exacerbated the arrogance of broadcasting personnel.

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As the sense of “infallibility” produced complacency, they rejected the need for self-­improvement.44 Notwithstanding these criticisms, the explosive growth of television in the 1990s saturated the airwaves with putonghua, permeating households through news programs, talk shows, and serialized drama. CCTV’s seven o’clock nightly news became a habitual companion for families eating dinner—­government mandate required every local station to carry the half-­hour program. Whereas radio loudspeakers in the Mao era had piped the voices of strident revolutionary fervor across the landscape, CCTV news anchors now projected the polished solidity of the party-­state.45 At the same time, the proliferation of audience participation programs (featuring call-­in formats, game shows, field interviews) invited a wide range of accents into people’s homes. The decentralization of television production resulted in advertisers demanding shows with “local characteristics” that would sustain ratings. As Edward Gunn has discussed, cultural productions often invoked dialects to signal marginalization, with the speech of the rustic bumpkin or migrant worker marking outsider status, played for laughs. But in the popular telenovelas of the 1990s, dialect could also channel sympathetic representations or overturn the linguistic hierarchy. The working-­class hero spoke a Beijinghua full of local idioms, while putonghua­speakers denoted a cynical society awash in deceit and exploitation.46 In concert with the vogue for Hong Kong accents and Canto-­pop, wider latitude for nonstandard voices in mass media countered the constraints of government policy. To push the agenda into the new millennium, in 1997 the State Language Commission announced new goals to “transcend the century.” By 2010: • Putonghua will be popularized throughout the entire country at a “preliminary level.” • Dialect misunderstanding in communication will “basically be eliminated.” • Citizens with a “middle level” of education (or above) will possess the ability to use putonghua. • Workers whose jobs rely on verbal communication should attain the requisite level of putonghua proficiency.

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Taking an even longer view, with “unremitting efforts for the next forty to fifty years,” by the middle of the next century putonghua will achieve popularization throughout the entire nation.47 The Putonghua Promotion Publicity Week, held annually during the third week of September, emerged as the centerpiece of the national endeavor. The plan deputized local governments, schools, the mass media, and service sector work units to organize activities designed to heighten awareness and foster a conducive environment for standard speech. For the inaugural event in 1998, a front-­page editorial in the People’s Daily signaled its importance. A cast of political leaders fronted the publicity drive.48 As Chairman Xu Jialu of the State Language Commission put it, after forty years of effort, educated people in the country should “more or less be able to speak putonghua, with varying levels of proficiency.” Unfortunately, many have the ability but are “unwilling” or “feel embarrassed,” manifesting a “conceptual problem” incompatible with the ethos and realities of a market economy. To attain the 2010 goals would require galvanized spirit, hard work, and unwavering persistence, across all levels of government.49 At ninety-­two years-­old, Zhou Youguang (known as the “father of pin­ yin”) contributed an essay for the occasion of the first putonghua week celebration. Reflecting on the genealogy of the nation’s “shared language,” he traced its history from the time of Confucius to the two high tides of the twentieth century—­the national language movement of the May Fourth era and the PRC’s 1955 campaign. “The tides surged then ebbed,” Zhou wrote, “with one day of scorching heat followed by ten days of freezing cold. Until today there has been no national time table for popularizing putonghua.” European countries achieved a “shared language” three hundred years ago, while Japan hit the mark more than a century prior. “We must hurry to catch up.” Zhou situated the “modern shared language” as the “continuation and renewal” of its ancient predecessor. He also underscored two crucial differences. No longer the prerogative of a minority, it is the language “the people of the entire nation must all learn.” And while the language of the ancients lacked a defined standard, the contemporary version “demands a clear standard.” Looking to the southern horizons, Zhou observed that in posthandover Hong Kong, English had been discarded in favor of putonghua; feelings of “dialect superiority” will fade in time. For Taiwan, he narrated the happy success story of the

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national language campaign, without mentioning the KMT. At the end of World War II, the island rejected Japanese language and immediately began to promote “the guoyu of China.” Fifty years later, a shared language facilitates renewed contacts between the renegade province and the mainland. As for the swelling currents of “nativist sentiments” demanding to restore “Taiwanese language,” Zhou judged the situation optimistically—­as a bond enabling positive cross-­straits relations, “the so-­called Taiwanese language is actually the same as Southern Min dialects [Minnanhua].”50

“GI VE ME BACK MY MOTHER TON G UE”

Zhou Youguang’s observations alluded to seismic shifts occurring in Taiwan in the 1990s. His positive spin on the resurgence of “Taiwanese language,” however, proved to be off the mark for cross-­straits relations. As described in chapter 4, in the 1950s the KMT’s efforts established the foundation for the national language but delivered uneven results. In the intervening decades, government mandates combined with controls over mass media to fortify guoyu as the language of public life and upward mobility.51 The Radio and Television Law of 1975 had limited dialect programming to 30 percent of airtime and with “gradual reduction” pushed the proportion to less than 10 percent.52 Concurrently, the government stepped up enforcement of guoyu proficiency as a qualification for civil service jobs. In the education realm, concerted efforts targeted teacher training and produced new graduates competent to teach the national language. More than any other venue, schools became the site for implementing a monolingual policy, where a generation of children learned to fear the stigma of dialects. They also recall, with bitterness, the humiliating punishments meted out for violations. Lin Tsung-­y uan, a pioneer of the Taiwanese literature movement, captured the stinging memories in his poem “A Fine for Every Sentence.” For each linguistic infraction, the narrator asks why: Teacher, he speaks Cantonese, why aren’t his hands slapped? Teacher, he speaks Shanghainese, why doesn’t he have to stand before the blackboard?

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Teacher, he speaks Sichuanhua, why doesn’t he have to wear the dog tag? Teacher, you speak English, why aren’t you fined? Teacher breaks my heart with a rod.53

More broadly, the accretion of these policies reinforced the position of guoyu as the prestige language of education and aspiration. Even as Minnanhua and Hakka continued to function as conduits of emotional attachment and to demarcate in-­group status, popular perception correlated dialect speakers with lower socioeconomic status.54 By the 1980s, political liberalization began to etch fractures in the national language edifice. A new law, proposed in 1985 by a reconstituted National Language Promotion Committee, provoked vociferous objections. The draft legislation mandated the use of guoyu across every arena of public life (defining a public occasion as a gathering of three or more people), with a warning for the first offense and hefty fines for subsequent infractions. Critics charged that the law violated human rights and contravened the constitution. In response, the education minister protested that “reckless” news reports mischaracterized both the intent and substance of the legislation—­there was no plot afoot to forbid people from speaking dialect.55 Surprised by the hostile reaction, the government withdrew the proposed law.56 Calls for an end to the KMT’s linguistic domination of mass media and challenges to the perceived tyranny of the national language soon followed. In March 1987 a parliamentary session erupted in controversy when a newly elected member from the nascent Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) openly contested the KMT’s political monopoly. In only three months in the legislature, Chu Kao-­cheng had already built a reputation for combativeness.57 During the long morning session of March 19, members posed sharp questions to Premier Yu Kuo-­hua on topics ranging from national defense and the economy to the thorny issue of relations with the PRC. Yu and his subordinates swatted away a demand for the government to release documents on the 2-­28 uprising (“a wound that has not healed”).58 After the midday recess, Chu Kao-­cheng took the floor. In a tirade that lasted twenty minutes, he questioned the legitimacy of the KMT and accused the ruling party of violating the constitution—­for thirty years. The premier’s insipid response infuriated Chu, who unleashed

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his fury in a torrent of invectives, speaking in Taiyu. He compared Yu’s answers to an “eight-­legged essay” of formulaic platitudes. He yelled that his constituents in their fifties remember the Japanese occupation, which they preferred to KMT rule. The people pay taxes and perform mandatory military service, but they are unable to understand television programs or radio news broadcasts. “You promote national language education,” Chu thundered, “but nobody can understand the guoyu your senior officials speak. . . . ​Why can’t I speak Taiyu? You insist that we Taiwanese put up with your incomprehensible guoyu. Why can’t you put up with us speaking Taiyu?” Recounting instances of police brutality and government intimidation, he roared that hearing the phrase “Taiwanese compatriots” nauseated him. “The Japanese treated ‘Taiwanese compatriots’ far better than you do!” As Chu spoke, angry calls reverberated in the chamber for him to “sit down!” One legislator pounded the table and stormed out; another chastised him for his abusive words. “Speaking Taiyu is not against the law,” Chu retorted. For thirty years the KMT continuously undermined parliament’s legislative authority, and “now you want to be their accomplices.” A DPP ally rose to defend Chu and echoed his complaint—­“Honestly speaking, who can understand the speaker and the premier’s words? I had to ask for a translator.”59 Just days later, on April 8, 1987, another linguistic conflict flared up in the Provincial Assembly, with a different twist. Along with twenty-­two other officials, Director of Civil Affairs Chen Cheng-­hsiung was on the morning docket for a question-­a nd-­a nswer period. Representative Su Hong Yue Chiao first asked where Chen was from (Taiwan) and proceeded to ask him questions in Minnanhua. The next three assembly members in the queue successively took the floor to ask questions, using Hakka. Chen could not understand. Unable to answer, he stood at the podium in “dumb silence.” One member demanded that Chen find an interpreter. The meeting detonated into multilingual fracas and adjourned in chaos.60 In the public commentary that followed, an editorial in United Daily News portrayed the episode as a cautionary tale. According to the commentary, “Taiwanese language” (Taiwanhua), commonly conflated with Minnanhua, also includes Hakka and the languages of the indigenous peoples. If,  as some claim, the first inhabitants of the island were “mountain compatriots,” then their speech must occupy a central position in the concept of “Taiwanese language.” But imagine public occasions with people

Epilogue  29 1

speaking different versions of “Taiwanese.” The result would be complete unintelligibility. “Taiwanese” should return to the category of “Chinese dialect,” suitable for private occasions. “Public forums must uniformly utilize the national language—­the people of China speaking the language of China.” 61 In the years to come, the concept of “Taiwanese language” would expand and cohere around a vision of multilingualism—­one that rejected China as the linguistic progenitor. The year 1987 proved to be a watershed for Taiwanese society, as martial law (imposed in 1947, after the 2-­28 uprising) and the ban on opposition parties were rescinded. As the DPP gained momentum, its platform calling for independence advocated de-­Sinicization as the future path. Politicians seeking to harness “nativism” wielded language as ammunition, pointedly speaking dialects to tap into popular resentment of the ruling regime. They assailed the double standard of KMT officials unable to speak standard guoyu (the two Presidents Chiang being prime examples) and provoked with inflammatory slogans such as “Who Cut Out Your Mother’s Tongue?” Those who “regard their mother tongue as shameful were no better than unfilial children,” DPP rhetoric bellowed, or “slaves of a subjugated nation.” They deserved to be cursed for “forsaking their ancestors.” 62 In response to a groundswell of pressures, the government allowed a daily twenty-­minute Minnanhua news segment to be broadcast on the three national television channels. Education authorities announced that students would no longer be punished for speaking dialects in school.63 These measures, while meaningful, proved insufficient to ease anxieties about linguistic erasure, the simplest articulation of which lamented widely reported instances of guoyu-­speaking children unable to talk to their dialect-­speaking grandparents. The sense of peril was particularly acute for the Hakka, far outnumbered by the majority Minnan speakers. The Hakka Rights Promotion Union launched the first public campaign for linguistic rights, organizing a march headlined “Give me back my mother tongue!” On December 28, 1988, a crowd numbering seven to ten thousand paraded through downtown Taipei, chanting the stirring slogan (in Hakka, interspersed with Minnanhua and guoyu).64 The carefully orchestrated event began at the Sun Yat-­sen Memorial, where marchers assembled and joined in prayer to the spirit of the Founding Father. The procession positioned a bust of  Sun at its head, figuratively leading the Hakkas to confront the

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government.65 The symbolism was a thinly veiled barb at the broadcasting law: “If the Father of the Nation were alive, he would not be allowed to speak his Hakka mother tongue on television.” The demonstrators made stops at the Chiang Kai-­shek Memorial, the Executive Yuan, and the KMT party headquarters. DPP chairman Huang Hsin-­chieh joined the march, reiterating the opposition party’s stance on “equal language rights” to thunderous applause. At the Legislative Yuan, police barricades blocked the way. Ten people were allowed to enter the building to present a petition. The demands asked for the repeal of Article 20 of the Radio and Television Law (lifting restrictions on dialect broadcasting); increasing airtime for Hakka language programs; and implementing a new policy of “multilingualism.” Only immediate action could reverse the dire situation of “language loss” for the community, Lin Kuang-­hwa opined at the rally, in which fewer than half of the Hakka population are able to speak their “mother tongue.” 66 The “Give Me Back My Mother Tongue” campaign rejected the supremacy of the national language and linked the KMT government directly with linguistic tyranny. The organizers then strategically pivoted from the initial singular aim of “putting Hakka language on television” to mounting broader demands for language rights. They joined a chorus of social movements—­farmers, women, veterans, and environmental activists, as well as a burgeoning grassroots campaign for indigenous rights. Ten of the island’s native tribes had established an alliance in 1984, seeking redress for historical injustices, including land dispossession, forced assimilation, and linguistic erasure.67 A series of demonstrations throughout 1987 protested the destruction of graves, the derogatory portrayal of indigenous people on television, and the legend of Wu Feng (a seventeenth-­ century official whose celebrated feats perpetuated the image of savage headhunters).68 The most visible campaigns coalesced around “Name Rectification” and “Return Our Land,” as the basis for historical redress and future autonomy. Name rectification invoked a well-­k nown Confucian concept (Analects 13:3) to assert the right to determine collective and personal names. Indigenous rights groups lobbied to abolish the ubiquitous moniker “mountain compatriots,” which cast them as geographical others, belonging to the wilderness. They pressed for the name “original inhabitants” (原住民), imbuing their claims with indigeneity.69

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The fight for indigenous linguistic rights moved slowly, overshadowed by the clamor from Minnan and Hakka speakers. In 1989 a thirty-­minute weekly Hakka-­language program began airing on the national television network. This was a breakthrough for those seeking to rupture the guoyu domination of mass media and to diversify programming beyond Minnanhua. “Bilingual education” emerged as a salient political issue as the turn toward democratization further shifted the terrain. The DPP paired the push for separation from the PRC with linguistic pluralism, strategically positioned as a differentiating attribute from the ruling regime.70 Its electoral success in 1992 (winning one-­t hird of seats in the legislature, decisive victories for local offices) pressured the government to modify its language policies. A revision of the Radio and Television Law in 1993 deleted article 20, eliminating the limits on dialect programs that had spurred much popular discontent. Newly elected DPP mayors and county commissioners authorized Minnan and Hakka classes as elective courses in primary and secondary schools.71 As the tide on bilingual education shifted, the KMT government reversed its long-­standing opposition. In 1993 the Education Ministry permitted “mother tongue education” on an elective basis—­with the caveat that doing so could not “interfere with the premise of promoting the national language.”72 Concurrently, calls for “native-­place education” sought to locate Taiwan (its geography, history, and culture) at the center of textbooks and curriculum—­rather than China. The presidential campaign in 1996, the first democratically contested election for national office, showcased the power of shifting linguistic expectations. Debates between contenders from four parties featured displays of code-­switching virtuosity. At campaign stops, candidates used Hakka as an “instrument for garnering votes.” Incumbent Lee Teng-­hui felt compelled to apologize—­for being a Hakka unable to speak his own mother tongue. Speaking at a temple commemorating Hakka martyrs from an eighteenth-­century rebellion, Lee managed to sputter out an ­awkward “thank you” to a crowd of several thousand.73 In fact, code-­ switching became a powerful tool of communication, as aspiring politicians deployed a bilingual or multilingual arsenal to connect with voters. Mainlanders seeking office employed speech coaches to improve their Minnanhua or Hakka proficiency, which became a soft prerequisite for

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electoral success.74 As sentiments for independence intensified, contestations over multilingualism recast “Taiwanese” as all the languages spoken on the island. In a rapidly changing context, the solidified place of guoyu was shaken—­even as fluency increased beyond 90 percent. Activists demanded equal status and recognition for mother tongues and “local languages” (本土語言), formerly relegated to the realm of dialects and debased as inferior.75 The shift reached a dramatic crescendo in the form of a “national languages equality law.” First introduced as part of the DPP’s electoral platform in 2000, the proposed legislation endured a protracted journey through parliament, with a detour involving English as a “co-­ official language.”76 The bill, shelved after an inconclusive two-­ year debate, crystallized a contentious process of deposing the guoyu imported to the island in 1945 as the singular national language.

R The divergent fates of standard speech in China and Taiwan at the turn of the millennium capped a century-­long search for a spoken language that would serve as a unifying force and embody the people’s identification with the nation. This book has followed the peregrinations of that process, across decades of war and regime changes. From the perspectives of national language activists and educators, some of whom made the cause their life’s work, the ideological and political importance of linguistic unification cannot be overstated. Their commitment and labor propelled efforts to create, standardize, and implement the spoken national language. Frequently hyperbolic in aspiration, they tried to stabilize the concept and steady its linguistic parameters. The fragmentation of political authority needed to codify norms and enforce standardization persistently undermined those aspirations. The course of implementation on a national scale, riven with contradictions, also demanded resources beyond the capacity of successive governments in the first half of the twentieth century. In the 1950s rival regimes on the two sides of the Taiwan Straits continued to pursue the elusive goal. The inaugural campaign in the PRC established putonghua as the spoken language of the socialist state and catalyzed the process. Yet the blueprint for standard speech was enacted sporadically, as revolutionary priorities and political turmoil consigned the project to a secondary position. Meanwhile, in Taiwan the

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tangle between the colonial legacy of Japanese language and provincial vernaculars derailed a straightforward path for implementing the vision. The perspectives from below—­of those enjoined to embrace, teach, or learn the national language—­underscore the contradictory guises and call attention to the gulf between elite agendas and social realities. In charting linguistic standardization as social and political processes, The Sounds of Mandarin has investigated how individuals and local communities interacted with expectations of new linguistic norms. Speech turned out to be a fraught and contested site for national identification, confounded by affective attachments beyond nationalism. Against the conviction that the people would gladly speak in one unified voice, they periodically rebuffed the national language and its socialist counterpart for an unsavory association with bureaucratic officialdom, or for a perceived inauthenticity. The most damning accusation of all contended that speaking guoyu or putonghua constituted an act of betrayal against one’s ancestors. In Bourdieuian terms, guoyu and putonghua functioned inconsistently as assets and liabilities in the linguistic market—­as markers of class, education, and in/out group status. My analysis has tried to be attentive to the multivalent registers and meanings of standard speech but could not give comprehensive treatment to the entire universe of concerns. Much more could be said about the gender and aesthetic dimensions of language standardization and the role of media such as television and film beyond the 1950s. Bringing the social history of the spoken language into the picture has provided a new lens for understanding how the formation of a national language interacted with the educational system, campaigns of mass mobilization, and different forms of knowledge and cultural production. In listening to the sounds of Mandarin, as captured in nascent media technologies and as inscribed in writing, the cacophony and polyphony of a national language in the process of formation compel us to redraw the linear assumptions of linguistic nationalism. As the dream of language unification in China unfolded across more than a half century of war and revolution, its uneven effects on the lives of ordinary people constituted both the making and unmaking of a national language.

NOTES

A B B R E V I AT I O N S U S E D I N N OT E S

BMA Beijing Municipal Archive 北京市檔案館 Burke PPCR Phonetic Promotion Committee Records, The Burke Theological Library at Union Theological Seminary, Columbia University CMA Chongqing Municipal Archive 重慶市檔案館 SHA Second Historical Archive, Nanjing 第二歷史檔案館 SMA Shanghai Municipal Archive 上海市檔案館 TNA Taiwan National Archives Administration 國家檔案館 TPA Taiwan Provincial Assembly Archives 臺灣省參議會, Institute of Taiwan History, Academia Sinica WZH Papers Wu Zhihui Papers 吳稚暉檔案, KMT Party History Committee, Taibei 中國國民黨文化傳播委員會黨史館

INTRODUCTION 1. “Jiaoyubu: Woguo muqian you siyi duo renkou buneng yong putonghua jiaoliu,” Peo­ ple​.­cn, September 5, 2013, http://­w ww​.p ­ eople​.­com.cn; “Siyi guomin buhui shuo putong­ hua,” Guangming ribao, September 6, 2013, 6. 2. “Say What? China Says 400 Million Can’t Speak National Language,” Reuters, September 5, 2013, https://www.reuters.com; “China: 400 Million Cannot Speak Mandarin,” New York Times, September 6, 2013, A10.

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3.

The tally was based on questionnaires and interviews conducted in schools, homes, and work units from 1999 to 2000, with a sample size of 475,000 responses. The results were published in Zhongguo yuyan wenzi shiyong qingkuang diaocha ziliao, 305, 327, figs. 1 and 8. 4. Wu Huacheng, “Putonghua bu putong.” In 2020 the national putonghua “penetration rate” exceeded 80 percent (80.72), with a significant discrepancy from regions identified as deeply impoverished (61.56 percent) (Renmin ribao, September 15, 2020). By comparison, the U.S. Census Bureau estimates that 91.8 percent of the U.S. population (five years old and over) speak only English or speak it “very well.” “American Community Survey: Language Spoken at Home, 2019,” http://­data​.­census​.­gov. In India, a minority of the population speak the two official languages: Hindi (46 percent) and English (28.7 percent). Office of the Registrar General and Census Commissioner, India, “Data on Language and Mother Tongue”; Bedi, English Language in India, 31, 51. 5. Christopher Harbsmeier has described the terminological confusion generated by at least nineteen terms for the modern Chinese language. Harbsmeier, “May Fourth Linguistic Orthodoxy,” 373–­7 7. 6. Victor Mair has decried “dialect” as a pernicious mistranslation and proposed topolect as a politically neutral and linguistically accurate substitute. Mair, “What Is a Chinese ‘Dialect/Topolect’?” 7. In a different context, tu could be rendered as “native” and juxtaposed to yang 洋 (foreign), such as applied to scientific expertise in the 1950s. Schmalzer, Red Revolution, 34–­37. 8. Tam, Dialect and Nationalism in China. 9. Li Jinxi, Guoyu yundong shigang. The year after the book’s publication, the National Language Unification Preparatory Committee designated it as the authoritative record of government policy and the committee’s work. Guangdong jiaoyuting xunkan 1, no. 5 (1935), 33–­34. 10. DeFrancis, Nationalism and Language Reform in China. 11. Branner, ed., The Chinese Rime Tables; Masini, Modern Chinese Lexicon; Kaske, The Politics of Language. 12. Tsu, Sound and Script; Bachner, Beyond Sinology; Kuzuoglu, “Codes of Modernity”; Zhong, Chinese Grammatology. 13. Chang, “Philology or Linguistics?”; Zhao Zhenduo, Zhongguo yuyanxue shi. 14. Among many examples, Shih, Visuality and Identity. 15. Moser, A Billion Voices; Minglang Zhou, Multilingualism; Minglang Zhou, Language Ideology and Order. 16. Wang Dongjie, Shengru xintong. 17. Ferguson, “Diglossia”; Hudson, Sociolinguistics; Schieffelin, Woolard and Kroskrity, eds., Language Ideologies. 18. Kula, Measures and Men, 4, 18, 120. 19. The etymology of the term 標準 dates to the Warring States period. The first emperor, Qin Shi Huang (reign 221–­210 b.c.), famously unified weights and measures, currency, and writing.

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20. Thompson, The Soundscape of Modernity; Sterne, The Audible Past. 21. On this approach, see ethnomusicologist Ana Maria Ochoa Gautier’s “acoustically tuned exploration of the written archive.” Gautier, Aurality, 3. 22. Among many examples are VanderVen, A School in Every Village; Bailey, Gender and Education; Cong, Teachers’ Schools; Zarrow, Educating China; Culp, Articulating Citi­ zenship; Harrison, Republican Citizen; Finnane, Changing Clothes in China. 23. Kirby, “Continuity and Change.” The major exceptions are Phillips, Between Assimila­ tion and Independence; Greene, Developmental State; Strauss, State Formation in China and Taiwan. 24. Clark, The Kokugo Revolution; King, One Language, Two Scripts; Leow, Taming Babel; Mugglestone, Talking Proper; Sanders, German; Lodge, French: From Dialect to Stan­ dard; Weber, Peasants into Frenchmen. 25. Elman, “From Value to Fact,” 493–­94. 26. Pulleyblank, Middle Chinese. Lu Fayan’s Qieyun 切韻 (completed in a.d. 601) became the authoritative rhyme dictionary during the Tang dynasty. Later revisions include the Guangyun 廣韻, published during the Song dynasty. 27. Nathan Vedal shows that aria dictionaries and regional opera became venues for debating correct pronunciation and standardization. Vedal, The Culture of Language in Ming China, chap. 4. 28. Da Qing Shizong Xian huangdi shilu, juan 72:4–­5. 29. Paderni, “The Problem of Kuan-­hua,” 260–­62. 30. Gaozong Chun huangdi shilu, juan 39:21–­22. 31. Gaozong Chun huangdi shilu, juan 245:12. It is unclear whether these were the only four such academies remaining in the province. Fuzhou prefecture listed twelve academies of correct pronunciation in 1737. More than a century later, a revised edition of the ­provincial gazetteer enumerated the same list, when most were already defunct. See Fujian tongzhi (1737), juan 18:4–­9; and Chongzuan Fujian tongzhi (1871), juan 62:25–­40. 32. Saarela, “Manchu, Mandarin.” 33. Hirata, “Qingdai Honglusi zhengyin kao.” 34. Gao Jingting, Zhengyin cuoyao, 1b. The first edition was published in 1834. I have been able to consult only the 1905 and 1920 reprint editions. 35. Kaske, The Politics of Language, 52; Simmons, “What Was Standard Chinese in the Nineteenth Century?” 18–­19. 36. Gao Jingting, Zhengyin cuoyao, preface 3. Gao also remarked that the denizens of Guangdong and Fujian “refuse to learn when they are young, and when they grow-­up they are unable to speak. Even after becoming officials, they hesitate and waver. That is why the imperial decree targeted those two provinces.” The emperor’s intervention prompted a learning spree (“everybody is busy studying”). 37. Thom, The Chinese Speaker, preface. Thom worked for Jardine Matheson and served as an official interpreter during treaty negotiations concluding the Opium War. He died in 1846 while serving as the British consul in Ningbo, where the Presbyterian Mission published his primer. The preface indicated that he was quite ill and hoped to return home on medical leave.

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Suo Yizun, Zhengyin juhua, 6. The rhyme tables of the Kangxi dictionary (1716) reflected features of a southern guan­ hua. Simmons, “What Was Standard Chinese,” 17. The Explanation of the Subtleties of Phonology (1726) combined northern reading pronunciation with distinctions from Middle Chinese. Saarela, The Early Modern Travels of Manchu, 155–­56. 40. Edkins, Progressive Lessons; Williams, Syllabic Dictionary. Eighteenth-­century guan­ hua primers from the Ryukyu Kingdom were annotated with a southern pronunciation and lexicon, based on Nanjing. Wu Chunye, “Beijing guanhua” yu Hanyu, 42–­4 4. 41. Simmons, “What Was Standard Chinese,” 14, 23. Recent studies have countered an old view that the pronunciation of guanhua shifted from Nanjing to Beijing phonology in the Ming dynasty, following the relocation of the capital in the early fifteenth century. The process was much more gradual. See also Coblin, “A Brief History of Mandarin.” 38. 39.

1. DUELING SOUNDS AND CONTENDING TONES 1. Lufei Kui, “Xiaoxuexiao guoyu jiaoshou wenti,” 1–­7. 2. Tsu, Sound and Script, chap. 1; Wang Dongjie, Shengru xintong, chap. 1. The genbun itchi movement in Japan coalesced in the 1880s, with experiments in developing a writing style to approximate the spoken vernacular. Clark, The Kokugo Revolution. 3. On Zhang Binglin, see Kaske, The Politics of Language, 352–­74; Tam, Dialect and Nation­ alism in China, 77–­80. 4. “Xuebu zhongyang jiaoyu huiyi,” in Li Jinxi, Guoyu xue jiangyi, xiapian 12–­13. 5. Jiaoyu zazhi 4, no. 11 (1913): 63–­74; 4, no. 12 (1913): 81–­92. Materials from the conference were later compiled and published in 1958 as 1913 nian duyin tongyihui ziliao huibian. 6. Wu Zhihui, “Shu Shenzhou ribao,” 39; Wang Dongjie, Shengru xintong, 312–­15. 7. Kaske, The Politics of Language, 407–­12; Ramsey, The Languages of China, 7–­9; DeFrancis, Nationalism and Language Reform in China, 55–­59. According to Wang Zhao’s later reproachful account, the agitation of fighting with Wu Zhihui caused him to collapse. Wang Zhao, Xiaohang wencun, 1:51. 8. Kaske, The Politics of Language, 413–­15. Jing Tsu tells the riveting story of Wang Zhao’s “Mandarin alphabet” in Kingdom of Characters, chap. 1. 9. Tsu, Sound and Script, chap. 1. On Japanese influence in lexicon, see Masini, Forma­ tion of Modern Chinese Lexicon. 10. Kaske, The Politics of Language, 413. 11. Letter from Wang Pu, ca. September 1918, in Wu Zhihui Papers, KMT Party Archive, file 09997, 3 (hereafter WZH Papers). Guanhua zhuyin zimu bao (Phonetically annotated newspaper for the official language) was published from 1916 to 1925, with a name change in 1921, substituting guoyu for guanhua. 12. Yu Jin’en, Minguo zhuyin zimu, 136–­40. 13. Wang Pu, Zhuyin zimu guoyu jiangyi, 1–­3. 14. Ministry of Education order no. 75, November 23, 1918, in Li Jinxi, Guoyu xue jiangyi, xiapian 29–­31.

1 . D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones  3 01

15. 16.

17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

Cai Sujuan, “Jiuguo de zhuyin zimu”; Zhang Yilin, “Wozhi guoyu jiaoyu guan”; Zhong Jiu, “Zhuyin zimu.” Quoted in Shen Guochang, Shouben yu kaixin, 414–­15. Governor Yan set up 818 centers for promoting the phonetic alphabet, which enrolled more than twenty thousand students. Qian Xuantong, “Zhongguo jinhou zhi wenzi wenti,” 350; Qian Xuantong, “Lun zhuyin zimu,” 247. On Wu Zhihui’s interest in anarchism, see Richard Wang, “Wu Chih-­hui.” Wu Jingheng, “Bujiu Zhongguo wenzi,” 483–­508. Loh, “Chinese Translations of the Bible.” Bulletin 2 (Winter 1919), 1–­3; Bulletin 8 (Report 1918–­1922), in Phonetic Promotion Committee Records, The Burke Theological Library, Columbia University, box 1, folder 2 (hereafter Burke PPCR). “China’s Modern Goliath and Her David,” Burke PPCR, box 1, folder 8. Letters from A. L. Warnshuis, December 26, 1918, and February 10, 1919, WZH Papers, file 10006. Letters from A. L. Warnshuis, November 19, 1918, and December 2, 1918, WZH Papers, file 10006. Wu Jingheng, “Lun zhuyin zimu shu,” 39–­54; Fang Yi, “Huyu zhuyin zimu huiyi shimo,” 1–­16. Fan Xiangshan, “Zhuyin zimu zhi xiaoyong,” 54–­61. Lufei Kui, “Zhonghua guoyin liusheng jipian,” 76. Cai Yuanpei, preface to Zhuyin zimu fayin tushuo. Li Jinxi, Guoyu xue jiangyi, shangpian 15; Zhu Youcheng, “Xiangcun difang,” 4. Wang Pu, Zhuyin zimu fayin tushuo, 3–­4, 7–­9. On Hunan First Normal School, see Liyan Liu, Red Genesis. Reed, Gutenberg in Shanghai, 210–­13, 246–­49. Li Jinxi, Guoyu xue jiangyi, shangpian 5–­6, 134. Li Jinxi, Guoyu xue jiangyi, shangpian 12. With reference to vocabulary, Li showed a similar flexibility, saying that local expressions add “color and variety.” He suggested the future dictionary of the national language include “dialectical forms.” “Xiuzheng guoyin zidian zhi shuoming,” appendix, 2–­3. “Guoyu tongyi choubei huiyi’an sanjian,” 137–­42; Wu Jingheng, “Minguo ernian duyin tongyihui,” 1–­2. Letter from Fan Yuanlian, ca. September 1918, WZH Papers, file 09953, 3; letter from Chen Maozhi, December 16, 1918, WZH Papers, file 09961, 3. Education Ministry order no. 162, in Guoyin zidian, backmatter, n.p. Wu Zhihui refers to these criticisms in “Guoyu wenti zhiyi,” Shishi xinbao, January 6, 1920, 4; January 7, 1920, 4. The Commercial Press later published an abridged, pocket-­sized version for students, with about eight thousand characters (Jiaogai guoyin xuesheng zihui, 1930). Education Ministry order, January 12, 1920, in Zhengfu gongbao, no. 1409 (1920), gong­ wen; Culp, “Teaching Baihua,” 18–­19.

3 02  1. D ueling Sounds and Contending Tones

42. Li Gangzhong, “Zenyang caineng dapo guoyu de kunnan,” 4. 43. Shenbao, March 6, 1920, 7. 44. Wo Yi (anonymous), “Tichang guoyu de nanguan”; Fan Xiangshan, “Zenyang jiaoshou guoyu.” 45. Wang Jia’ao, “Gaodeng xiaoxue de guowen yinggai kuaigai guoyu,” 8. 46. Qian Xuantong, preface to Gao Yuan guoyin xue, xu’er 8–­10. 47. Hu Shi, “Guoyu biaozhun yu guoyu,” 1–­4. The Yellow Crane Tower is a 50-­meter-­high pagoda, built in the Han dynasty. 48. Hu Shi, “Guoyu biaozhun yu guoyu,” 5. The phrase “southern accent, northern tunes” recurs throughout this study. Although it can be rendered in shorthand as “mixed accents,” doing so elides the explicit geographical markers. Qiang and diao can be variously translated as accent, tune, tone, or intonation. 49. Jiaoyu gongbao 7, no. 8 (1920); 7, no. 10 (1920); 7, no. 11 (1920). 50. “Xuexiao jishi,” 29. 51. “Jiangsu shifan fushu xiaoxue lianhehui diqi ci huiyi baogao.” 52. Culp, “Teaching Baihua,” 18. 53. Zhuang Shi, Xinfa guoyu jiaoke shu, shouce, vol. 1. 54. Lu Yiyan, Zhuyin zimu jiaoshou, 8–­11. 55. Letter from Zong Shu, January 6, 1920, WZH Papers, file 09926, 3. 56. Lufei Kui, preface to Zhonghua guoyin liusheng jipian keben, 3–­6. By 1920 both Wang and Lu were recognized experts who frequently lectured on phonology and pedagogy. Shenbao, August 25, 1920, 11; August 28, 1920, 11. 57. Lufei Kui, preface to Zhonghua guoyu liusheng jipian keben, 7–­8. 58. Shenbao, November 2, 1920, 10; December 5, 1920, 11; December 7, 1920, 11; January 23, 1921, 10; January 14, 1921, 10; February 17, 1921, 10; March 1, 1921, 11. 59. Jiang Ying, “Wo duiyu Zhonghua shuju,” 1–­2. 60. Shishi xinbao, September 23, 1920, 1. 61. Fujian jiaoyu yuekan 2, no.  4 (1921), 33; Wang Yi, “Zhuyin zimu tongyi dufa de shiyi,” 4. 62. Li Jinxi, “Guoyu san dagang,” 1–­4. 63. Yang Shi’en, “Guoyin guanjian,” 1–­7; Wang Yi, 4. 64. Lufei Kui, “Zhongguo guoyin liusheng jipian yuanqi,” 77–­78. 65. Liu Zhengwei, Dufu yu shishen, 369. 66. Li Jinxi, “Tongyi guoyu zhong bashi fen zhiyi,” 4. 67. Zhang Shiyi, “Guoyu tongyi wenti” (1920). 68. Lu Ji, “Wen Zhangjun Shiyi.” 69. Zhang Shiyi, “Guoyu jiaoyu shang.” 70. Shishi xinbao, October 28, 1920, 3. 71. Li Jinxi, “Guoyu wenda yishu.” 72. Shishi xinbao, November 1, 7, and 8, 1920, 4. 73. Shenbao, November 2, 1920, 10. 74. Li Jinxi, “Zhi quanguo jiaoyuhui lianhehui shu”; Shishi xinbao, November 11, 1920, 3. 75. “Diliujie quanguo jiaoyuhui lianhehui da huiyi jue’an,” 1:262–­63.

1 . D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones  303

76. Shishi xinbao, November 7, 1920, 4; December 10, 1920, 4; January 6, 1921, 4; January 7, 1921, 4. 77. Li Jinxi, “Tongyi guoyu zhong bashi fen zhiyi,” 4. 78. Zhang Shiyi, “Guoyu tongyi wenti,” 1921. 79. Zhang Shiyi, “Zaida Lu Ji jun wen”; Zhang Shiyi, “Guoyu jiaoyu shang,” 4. 80. Wu Jingheng, “Guoyin wenti.” 81. “Tongyi yuyan zhi chubu.” 82. “Xiuzheng guoyin zidian zhi shuoming,” appendix, 1–­12. 83. Zhou Mingsan, “Guoyu wenti de wenda.” 84. Disan (Sun Disan), “Guanyu guoyin liusheng jipian.” Extant records do not reveal how many sets of Wang Pu’s records were sold. One indicator of circulation beyond the large cities of the eastern seaboard can be found in Chongqing. The Maritime Customs Service notified its local staff that the recordings imported from Paris were exempt from customs duties, on account of their educational purpose (CMA 352-­1-­1254). 85. Li Jinxi, “Tongyi guoyu zhong bashi fen zhiyi,” 4. 86. Li Jinxi, “Xinshi guoyu wenfa tigang,” 1. 87. Li Jinxi, “Guoyu de biaozhunyu yu yufa.” 88. Liu Ru, Guoyu jiaoxuefa jiangyi, 1–­2, 14. 89. Hu Shi, “Guoyu yundong de lishi.” 90. Zhang Shiyi, Xiaoxue “guoyuhua” jiaoxue fa, 15, 18, 21, 30–­42, 55–­60. 91. Jones, Yellow Music. 92. Li Jinhui, “Wo zai Zhonghua Shuju de rizi,” 34. 93. Ying Gong, “Zai guoyu jiangxisuo shujiaban”; Shanghai guoyu shifan xuexiao zhangcheng, pamphlet in Wu Zhihui Papers, file 03077. 94. Wang Pu, “Lianxi guoyu huihua de xinde.” See also Guangzhou zhuyin zimu xuexiao zhangcheng, 1921, WZH Papers, file 02912; Bing Linlai, “Fujian de guoyu jie,” 1; Guoyu jikan (Hubei), no. 1 (1924): 28–­29. 95. Miu Ershu, “Wo duiyu guoyu jiaoyu yanjiu,” 6–­8. 96. Quoted in Shen Guochang, Shouben yu kaixin, 415. 97. Li Jinxi, “Tongyi guoyu zhong bashi fen zhiyi,” 4. 98. Yue Sibing, “Jiangsu sheng jiaoyuhui.” 99. Liu Ru, “Kaocha guoyu jiaoyu biji.” 100. Liu Ru, Guoyu jiaoxue fa jiangyi, 73; Li Jinxi, “Guoyu san dagang,” 8. 101. Li Gangzhong, “Zenyang caineng dapo guoyu de kunnan,” 1. 102. Shen Fuchu, “Chu nianji sheng xuexi guoyin zhi ceyan.” 103. Wang Jia’ao, “Shixing guoyu jiaoxue hou”; Liu Ru, “Kaocha guoyu jiaoyu biji,” 1–­5. 104. Liu Ru, Guoyin zimu jiao’an, preface; Liu Ru, Guoyu jiaoxue fa jiangyi, 67; Liu Mengjin, “Zhuyin zimu wenti.” 105. Bulletin 3 (January 1920), 8, Burke PPCR, box 1, folder 1; Bulletin 4 (June 1920), 7–­8, Burke PPCR, box 1, folder 2. 106. Bulletin 4 (June 1920), 1, and Bulletin 8 (Report 1918–­22), 7, 17–­19, Burke PPCR, box 1, folder 2. 107. Bulletin 7 (July 1921), 7, 15, Burke PPCR, box 1, folder 1.

3 0 4  1. D ueling S ounds and Contending Tones

108. Bulletin 8 (Report 1918–­1922), 22–­24, Burke PPCR, box 1, folder 2. 109. Jidujiao tichang zhuyin zimu weiyuanhui, ed., Guoyin sucheng jiaokeshu. The English rendering of the title is from the text. Some 1.8 million copies of a primer annotated with the phonetic alphabet were also reportedly sold, most of them to Governor Yan Xishan in Shanxi. 110. Chao Yuen Ren, “First Green Letter,” 16:315. 111. Hu Shi, Hu Shi riji quanji (June 9, 1921), 3:106. 112. Chao Yuen Ren, Guoyu liushengpian keben (1922), xu 1–­2. 113. Shenbao, June 16, 1922, 14; December 6, 1922, 10; January 3, 1923, 13. 114. Shenbao, June 29, 1923, 17; The Peking Mandarin, 93. The text for Wang Pu’s recording remained in print through at least 1930 (seventeenth ed.). 115. Rulan Chao Pian Collection, Chinese University of Hong Kong, cataloged as Jiu guoyu liushengpian. 116. My thanks to Emily Thompson for suggesting this line of analysis, and for help in deciphering early gramophone technology. 117. In the familiar recitation of school children in Taiwan, the zhuyin syllabary is colloquially known as bo-­po-­mo-­fo (the first four symbols in the sequence). 118. Jiu guoyu liushengpian, disc 1, Rulan Chao Pian Collection, Chinese University of Hong Kong. 119. Jiu guoyu liushengpian, disc 2. 120. Chao Yuan Ren, Guoyu liushengpian keben, 40–­43. 121. Chao Yuen Ren, “Guoyu luomazi de yanjiu.” 122. The accompanying textbook is titled A Phonograph Course in the Chinese National Lan­ guage (1925). 123. Chao Yuen Ren, A Phonograph Course, xiii. Emphasis in original. 124. Chao Yuen Ren, “Third Green Letter,” 16:367–­68. 125. Chao Yuen Ren, A Phonograph Course, 36–­37. 126. Chao Yuen Ren, “Some Contrastive Aspects,” 103. 127. Zheng Chang, “Biaozhunyu yu guoyu biaozhun.” 128. Li Jinxi, “1925 nian guoyu jie ‘fangyu zhan’ jilue.” On Zhang Shizhao, see Jenco, Mak­ ing the Political. 129. Li Jinxi, Guoyu yundong shigang, 171–­72. Chao Yuen Ren’s recollection cited a source from the seventh century as the inspiration for the group’s name: “We few men decide and it is decided.” Chao, Chinese Linguist, Phonologist, 78. Some accounts later elided the elitist basis of the decision made by a “few men,” characterizing it as “discussion and deliberation by numerous people.” Ma Guoying, “Guoyin he zhuyin zimu.” 130. Li Jinxi to Wu Zhihui, ca. 1926, WZH Papers 02887. 131. Chao Yuen Ren, Guoyu lishengpian keben, 43. 132. Lin Yutang, “Xinyun zahua,” 196. 133. Cheng Shousong, “Jinri guoyu de jinxing guan.” 134. Wu Zhihui, “Shanghai guoyu shifan xuexiao faqi xuanyan,” ca. February 1924, WZH Papers, file 03077. 135. Fan Xiangshan, “Xiaoxue guoyu jiaoxue fa de jianglai.”

2 . I n S earch of Standard Mandarin 305

136. According to one observer, reactionaries in Fengtian province “signed the death warrant for the national language” in 1923. In neighboring Jilin it was hanging on by a thread. Qian Xuantong commiserated that a similar situation prevailed even in the cultural center of Jiangnan. Guoyu zhoukan, no. 5 (1925), 7–­8. 137. Letter from Li Jinxi to Wu Zhihui, ca. September 1927, WZH Papers, file 02887; National Language Promotion Committee meeting report, September 27, 1935, Second Historical Archive (hereafter SHA), 5/12284, 56–­61. 138. Chao Yuen Ren, “Some Contrastive Aspects,” 102–­3; Buwei Yang Chao, Autobiography, 195–­96.

2. IN SEARCH OF STANDARD MANDARIN 1. 2. 3.

4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

11. 12. 13.

14. 15. 16.

17. 18.

19.

“Zheng Xiaocang xiansheng jiaoyu wenti,” 5–­6. “Guoyu tongyi choubei weiyuanhui guicheng,” December 12, 1928; “Guoyu tuixing weiyuanhui guicheng” (1935), in SHA 5/12284, 63. Guoyu tongyi choubei hui, Guoyu Luomazi. The official scheme was finalized in a series of meetings in 1925–­1926. Li Jinxi, “Guoyu Luomazi gongbu,” 5–­9. Chao Yuen Ren, “Guoyu Luomazi de yanjiu”; “Guoyu Luomazi pinyin fashi.” Wang Yuchuan, “Guoyu Luomazi de yongchu.” Du Jin (Du Zijin), “Guoyin changyong zihui de chuban.” “Jiaoyubu xunling” (May 1930), in Xinzhu guoyu jiaoxue fa (1930), appendix 2. Di (pseudonym), “Zhuyin fuhao yu minzhong jiaoyu.” Ma Guoying, Xinjiu guoyin bianyi, preface. Zhang Shuliu, Zhuyin fuhao wenda, 2–­4; Ma Guoying, Guoyu zhuyin fuhao, 7–­8; Mu Xiude, Guoyu fayin, 8–­10, 32; “Zenyang xuexi guoyu?,” Shenbao (supplement), January 28, 1934, 21. Jiaoyubu, Zhuyin fuhao chuanxi xiaoce, 5, 45–­47, 50. Academia Historica 0010970004001012a–­0010970004001033a (February–­March 1930). Jiaoyubu gongbao 2, no. 11 (1930): 21–­23. This directive was sent to provincial and municipal education departments and forwarded to schools for implementation. CMA 130/1/11, 228–­29; Zhejiang jiaoyu xingzheng zhoukan, no. 30 (1930): 6–­7. “Quanguo guoyu yundong xuanchuan zhou,” 9–­10. Sha Weng, “Bushi guowen budong guoyu de guanli.” When Chiang visited Anyuan in 1926, he addressed a gathering of more than fourteen thousand people. As one worker later recalled, “We couldn’t understand a word he said.” Quoted in Perry, Anyuan, 130. “Gesheng shixian tuixing zhuyin fuhao banfa,” 30–­32; SMA Q235-­1-­6838, 5–­8. “Beiping shi tuixing zhuyin fuhao,” 17, 25–­28; Tan Jishi, “Tuixing zhuyin fuhao,” 4; SMA Q207-­1-­82, 1–­8. A number of counties and cities in Guangdong ignored a directive to send their employees to attend zhuyin classes. Guangdong sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 147 (1931): 161. Du Jin, “Guoyin changyong zihui de chuban.”

3 06  2. I n S earch of Standard Mandarin

20. Xu Langqiu, Zhuyin fuhao qianshuo, 68–­69. 21. “Qingdao shi tuixing zhuyin fuhao dahui xuanyan,” 42 and backmatter (n.p.); Shijiu niandu Henan jiaoyu nianjian, 845–­4 8. On the KMT’s literacy campaigns, see Luo, “China’s Literacy Myth.” 22. The shortcut method to literacy teaches the pronunciation of the zhuyin symbols, a process thought to require several days or weeks. Thereafter the person who has memorized the symbols and their corresponding sounds could “read” a phonetically annotated newspaper or street sign by sounding out the symbols. If, however, one’s native speech has little or no correspondence to guoyu, the sounds produced through this method would be meaningless. 23. Wu Jingheng, “Zenyang yingyong zhuyin fuhao.” 24. The revision committee included Qian Xuantong, Li Jinxi, Bai Dizhou, Xiao Jialin, Chao Yuen Ren, and Wang Yi. All except Bai (d. 1934) would play crucial roles in language reform on either side of the Taiwan Straits after 1945. 25. Jiaoyubu guoyu tongyi choubei weiyuanhui, Guoyin changyong zihui, iii. The preface was not signed. Li Jinxi later attributed the preface and editorial work of the dictionary largely to Qian Xuantong. “Qian Xuantong xiansheng zhuan,” 152–­53. 26. Jiaoyubu guoyu tongyi choubei weiyuanhui, Guoyin changyong zihui, iii–­v ii, xi–­x ii. In a letter ca. 1926, Li Jinxi reported to Wu Zhihui that he, Chao Yuan Ren, and others were working on the dictionary revision, “mostly using Beijing pronunciation as the standard,” but keeping rusheng “for the benefit of southerners.” WZH Papers, 02887. 27. Huang Zhishang attended Hunan First Normal School, where Mao Zedong was his guowen instructor for a short time. 28. Huang Zhishang, “Guoyin changyong zihui.” 29. SHA 5/12284, 57. 30. Wang Pu, Wang Pu de guoyu huihua, twenty-­n inth ed., 1930. The advertisement appeared in the back matter of Lu Yiyan, Guoyu Luomazi shiyong fa. One national pronunciation glossary, first published in 1919, remained in print until 1948. Fang Yi, Guoyin xuesheng zihui. 31. Yuen Ren Chao papers, MS83/30 carton 5, letter dated October 13, 1930. 32. E.g., Ma Guoying, Xin guoyin gaiyao; Lu Yiyan and Ma Guoying, Xin guoyin xuesheng zidian; Qi Tiehen, Xin guoyin jiangxi keben; Zhang Shoudong, Guoyin xin jiaoben. 33. Cong Jiesheng, Guoyin xue, 8–­9. 34. Ma Guoying, “Guoyin he zhuyin zimu,” 67; Xie Boming, “Tantan shuqi li xuexi guoyu.” In 1930 an audit in Kaifeng instructed bookstores to submit for inspection all zhuyin publications offered for sale, to verify correspondence to the new standard. Shijiu niandu Henan jiaoyu nianjian, 852–­53. 35. Li Jinxi, “Guoyin changyong zihui gongbu ji,” 191. 36. Li Bizhen, “Xiaoxue diji de shuohua jiaoxue wenti,” 17. 37. For instance, see Yue Sibing, Guoyu xue dagang, 22–­23, 64; Zhang Chunsheng, “Guoyu wusheng pinyin,” 330. 38. On rural education, see Cong, Teachers’ Schools; VanderVen, A School in Every Village. 39. Chen Xia, “Xiangcun xiaoxue guoyu jiaoxue,” 9–­10.

2 . I n S earch of Standard M andarin 307

40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53.

54. 55. 56. 57.

58.

59. 60. 61. 62.

Qin Liufang, “Xiangcun xiaoxue guoyu jiaoxue,” 8–­9. Zheng Naisen, “Zenyang zaocheng yi ge guoyu,” 13–­15; “Xiao xuesheng Zhou Jianzhong de riji,” 20; Gu Tingqi, “Cujin guoyu de jige banfa,” 13. Zhu Huayun, “Xiangcun xiaoxuexiao”; Xu Shunzong, “Guanyu xiaoxue guoyu jiaoxue”; Lu Zhuping, “Xiaoxue guoyu jiaoxue de tongbing.” Liu Baichuan, Xiangcun jiaoyu, 2:54–­55, 336–­37. Liu Baichuan, 336–­37, 56. As described in his journal of 1931, which covered his stint as principal of an affiliated experimental primary school, Liu’s daily preoccupations included staff recruitment, training, and retention; record-­keeping forms; corporal punishment and other disciplinary issues; and the format and substance of school assemblies. The national language merited mention in passing only a few times. Liu Baichuan, Yi ge xiaoxue xiaozhang de riji. Liu Baichuan, Xiangcun jiaoyu, 76–­79. Chen Xia, “Xiangcun xiaoxue guoyu jiaoxue,” 9–­10. Yu Ziyi, Xiaoxue jiaoxue mantan, 27, 30–­31. Xiangcun gaizao xunkan 2, no. 25 (1933): 11, 16. “Henan minzhong keben baogao shu,” 2. Li Jinxi et al., Fuxing shuohua jiaoben, 2, 66–­67. Zhong Luqi, Xiaoxue geke xin jiaoxuefa, 59–­62. Zhao Yuren, “Xiaoxue guoyu ke jiaoxue,” 238. This connotation, sporadically used in the 1930s, referred to motley versions of a common tongue with regional variations. For example, writer Mao Dun described three types of putonghua, based on Shanghai, Jiangbei, and northern speech, interspersed with elements of other dialects. Zhi Jing/Mao Dun, “Wenti zhong de dazhong wenyi.” In one instance, the Guangxi provincial government instructed schools to use putong­ hua as the medium of instruction. Guangxi sheng shizheng jilu, March 1935, 5. Zhao Yuren, “Jinri xiaoxue jiaoshi de quedian,” 173. Shen Yi, “Wei zhuyin fuhao jinggao zhongxue.” Huang Zhishang, “Guoyin changyong zihui.” Zarrow, Educating China, 26, 35–­40; Cong, Teachers’ Schools, 142–­43. An audit of primary schoolteachers in fifty-­five counties from 1928 to 1930 concluded that 823 out of 2,190 passed. Jiangsu sheng jiaoyuting xiaoxue jiaoyuan, 1–­5. CMA 192-­2-­118, 47–­49; Jiaoyubu gongbao 7, no. 37–­38 (1935): 23–­24. In 1936 the National Language Committee proposed that shifan students without the requisite zhuyin proficiency should not be allowed to graduate. There is no evidence that the proposal was enacted. Jiayubu gongbao 8, no. 39–­40 (1936): 5–­9. Jiaoyubu gongbao 2, no. 5 (1930): 13–­15; CMA 137-­3-­18, 70–­71; CMA 129-­1-­18, 91; Fujian jiaoyuting zhoukan, no. 143 (1933): 11. “Guoyu yundong zai Guangdong,” 7–­8. Jiaoyu duanbo, no. 83 (1936): 13; Jiaoyu zazhi 27, no. 1 (1937): 279; Jiaoyubu gongbao 9, no. 3–­4 (1937): 45–­47. “Xiaoxue jiaoyuan jianding guicheng,” December 31, 1936. The Education Ministry followed up with another order (May 20, 1937), requiring normal school students to pass

3 0 8  2. I n S earch of Standard Mandarin

63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68.

69. 70. 71. 72.

73. 74. 75.

76.

77. 78. 79.

80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85.

a zhuyin exam before appointment to teaching position. Jiaoyubu gongbao 9, no. 21–­22 (1937): 21. Li Jinxi, “Jiaoyubu ding guoyu kecheng,” 2–­3. Jimei zhoukan 20, no.  8–­9 (1936): 47. Other formats included debates and zhuyin contests. Xia Ji’an, “Bei xuanwei guoyu yanshuo daibiao yougan.” A teacher intervened and reprimanded the jokesters. Xia later became a well-­k nown literary figure. Liu Baichuan, Shiji de xiaoxue guoyu jiaoxuefa, 45–­51. Zhongyang ribao, April 6, 1937, 7. This discussion can only briefly address a complex subject. For the classic narrative, see DeFrancis, Nationalism and Language Reform, 87–­135; for a new interpretation, see Zhong, Chinese Grammatology. Qu Qiubai, “Zhongguo Ladinghua de zimu,” 3:351–­55. Zhong, Chinese Grammatology, 67–­76. Xiao Dichen, “Ladinghua nenggou buyao shengdiao ma?,” 185. Laotan (He Rong), “Buyao shengdiao de Ladinghua.” He Rong was a National Language Unification Preparatory Committee staff member and lectured at Beida. He later played a major role in the guoyu campaign in Taiwan (chapter 4). Li Jinxi, “Guoyu ‘bu’ tongyi zhuyi.” On dazhongyu, see Liu, Signifying the Local, 41–­45; Zhong, Chinese Grammatology, 85–­87. In 1932 Qu Qiubai and other members of the League of Left-­w ing Writers had opened the debate. Qu’s essay denigrated the May Fourth movement as a waste of time, calling its signature baihua the “new classical language.” Song Yang [Qu Qiubai], “Dazhong wenyi de wenti.” The difference between baihua and wenyan was akin to the difference between fifty and one hundred steps—­“equally dead.” “We do not need a dead classical language! We also do not need a dead baihua!” Ci Yu, “Yi ge zhongxue guowen jiaoshi.” Ye Laishi, “Dazhongyu yundong he Ladinghua.” Other points of view are reflected in a collected volume of essays published in 1935: Xuan Haoping, ed., Dazhong yuwen lunzhan. Cao Juren, “Da Wu Zhihui xiansheng.” Ji Guoxuan, “Dazhongyu daodi yingdang na na’erde hua zuo biaozhun?” Yue Sibing, “Dazhongyu de biaozhun shi Shanghai gongtongyu.” Yue’s proposal drew sharp responses, including from the editors of the National Language Weekly, who accused him of deliberately “stirring things up.” Postscript to Ji Guoxuan, “Dazhongyu daodi yingdang na na’erde hua zuo biaozhun?” Li Jinxi, “Dazhongyu zhenquan”; Yue Sibing, “Dazhongyu jue bushi guoyu.” Ni Haishu, Zhongguo pinyin wenzi yundong, 134–­37, 142–­4 4. For instance, when Xiao Dichen conducted “experiments with new writing” in Shandong, he meant GR. “Xin wenzi shiyan baogao,” 4–­6. “Women duiyu tuixing xin wenzi de yijian,” 195–­97. Zhi Guang, Xin wenzi rumen, 26–­31. Tao Xingzhi, “Xin wenzi he Guoyu Luomazi,” 130–­31.

2 . I n S earch of Standard Mandarin 309

86. 87. 88. 89.

90. 91.

92. 93.

94. 95. 96.

97. 98. 99. 100.

101.

102.

103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109.

Chao Yuen Ren, “Guoyu Luomazi.” The broadcast aired on Central Radio Station, February 7, 1936, at 5:30 p.m. Fidan, Chinese Travelers to the Early Turkish Republic. Zhang Xuezai, “Jianshe xin Tuerqi.” Wu Junsheng, “Tuerqi gaige wenzi de jingguo”; Suo Yuan, “Tuerqi de wenzi gaige”; Sui Qingzhou, “Cong Tuerqi de wenzi gaige yundong.” As Geoffrey Lewis has argued in The Turkish Language Reform, the changes were a “catastrophic success.” Lewis, The Turkish Language Reform, 27–­39. Kemal presented the National Assembly with the new alphabet as a fait accompli. Williams, “Tuerqi de wenzi geming.” The original account in National Geographic featured a lavish photo spread. The translator took some liberties but in the main reflected the spirit of the original. Wang Zengshan, “Tuerqi de wenzi geming.” Wang Yuchuan, “Shandong shengli minjiaoguan.” Although the Turkish model encompassed only script, Chinese observers invoked it as a lesson for the entirety of language reform. Qi Tiehen, Guoyu huaxiazi, 1–­2, 79. Shanghai xian jiaoyu yuekan, no. 47 (1933): 88; CMA 129-­2-­159, 137. The cost was 6.1 yuan plus postage. Advertisement for Bai’s recording: Shenbao, January 12, 1934, 4; February 2, 1934, 4; August 22, 1934, 4; September 3, 1934, 8. Similar ads appeared in education and student journals. Bai Dizhou, Biaozhun guoyin guoyu liushengpian keben, 53–­55. “Tongyi guoyu zhi xin gongxian.” The original recordings are in the Rulan Chao Pian collection, Chinese University of Hong Kong. Chao Yuen Ren, Xin guoyu liushengpian keben, jiazhong, zhuyin fuhao ben and yizhong, Guoyu Luomazi ben, preface and lessons 2, 6, 12, 13, and 16. According to Chao, sales of the GR primer exceeded those of the zhuyin version. The Kellogg Company borrowed a set of Chao’s national language records from Commercial Press in 1926 and played them on its radio station in Shanghai. Shenbao, January 28, 1926, 17. Chao Yuen Ren, Guoyu xunlian dagang. Chao was also affiliated with the KMT through his position at the Institute of History and Philology of Academia Sinica, a government research institute. In his freelance work as a composer, he wrote the music for City Scenes, a comedy produced by a CCP-­a ffiliated studio (discussed later). Chao Yuen Ren, “Guoyu yudiao,” speech broadcast on February 8, 1935. Chao Yuen Ren, “Jiaowang guozheng de guoyin.” Chao Yuen Ren, “Quanguo zhuanbo zhongyang guangbo diantai jiemu.” Wang Liaoyi (Wang Li), Jiang-­Zhe ren xuexi guoyu fa, 1–­2. BMA J2-­3-­302, 4–­7. BMA J2-­3-­302, 9–­27. Guangbo zhoubao, no. 9 (1934): 21.

3 10  2. I n S earch of Standard Mandarin

110. Liu Xuejun, “Guangbo yu guoyu.” 111. Chao Yuen Ren, “Quanguo zhuanbo zhongyang guangbo diantai jiemu.” 112. On Suzhou tanci: Bender, Plum and Bamboo. On Cantonese songs: Rong Shicheng, Yueyun liusheng. 113. “Boyin jiemu,” Guangbo zhoubao, no. 6 (1934): 33–­35; “Taidao shouting Minnanyu guangbo zhe rizeng.” In 1935 national language lessons disappeared from XGOA’s regularly scheduled programming. A Saturday segment reviewed the week’s important news in Cantonese. Guangbo zhoubao, no. 30 (1935): 1–­7. 114. “Gezuo diantai de tedian”; Liu Xuejun, “Guangbo yu guoyu.” In Britain, the BBC Advisory Committee on Spoken English (1926–­1939) confronted similar issues. Schwyter, Dictating to the Mob. 115. “Zhongyang guangbo wuxian diantai xunlian shouyinyuan jihua,” 7:146–­48. 116. Guangzhou shi zhengfu shizheng gongbao, no. 499 (1935): 39–­40, forwarding Communications Ministry public notice no. 1176 (dated April 25, 1935). 117. Wang Jiaju, “Guoyu tongyi yu jiaoyu boyin”; Cao Chuanfu, “Guoyu tongyi yu jiaoyu boyin.” Cao suggested that the lecturers should hand over their notes to someone “able to speak the national language fluently and correctly.” Chao Yuen Ren was undoubtedly the most “standard” speaker in the series. He delivered his “national language training” lectures in November 1935. 118. Guangbo zhoubao, no. 64 (1935): 7–­10. The phonograph course was probably Chao Yuen Ren’s 1935 rendition from Commercial Press. 119. Guangbo zhoukan, no. 9 (1934): 18–­19; Zheng Zhenwen, “Zhonghua minzu fuxing yu tuixing guoyu.” 120. “Dai you,” 453; Virgil Ho, Understanding Canton, 343. 121. Shanghai shi dang’an guan, comp., Jiu Zhongguo de Shanghai guangbo shiye, 114–­33; “Gezuo diantai de tedian,” 158. 122. Yu Ziyi, “Tan guangbo jiemu.” 123. Lang Qiu, “Wosuo jiandao de boyin jiaoyu.” 124. “Minying guangbo wuxian diantai”; Shenbao, March  30, 1936, 11. Twenty-­three private  stations in Shanghai were banned for “harmful” programming between 1935 and  1937.  Guo, “A Chronicle of Private Radio,” 385. Contemporaneous examples abound—­see Fortner, Radio, Morality, and Culture (Britain, Canada, and the United States); Neulander, Programming National Identity (interwar France); Parker, Purify­ ing America. 125. “Jiaotongbu zhidao quanguo guangbo diantai,” October 28, 1936, in SMA Q6-­18-­284-­16, 1–­2. The Communications Ministry also warned stations not to deviate from published schedules by more than 20 percent. The admonition likely stemmed from suspicion that schedules appearing to adhere to government regulations were intended to deceive. 126. Yu Ziyi, “Tan guangbo jiemu.” Another observer reflected that while English lessons attracted a consistent audience, “Japanese, French, bookkeeping, and national language lessons come and go, difficult to sustain.” Mao Zhizhong, “Jiaoyu boyin zhi ganxiang.” 127. Jones, Yellow Music, 86–­87. 128. Gexing huabao, no. 1 (1935): 16, 41.

2 . I n S earch of Standard M andarin 31 1

129. 130. 131. 132. 133.

134. 135. 136. 137. 138. 139. 140. 141. 142. 143. 144. 145. 146. 147. 148. 149. 150. 151. 152. 153.

154.

Jones, Yellow Music, 81–­82, 95. On the distinctive attributes of this genre, see Szu-­wei Chen, “Shanghai Popular Songs.” Dapangzi [pseud.], “Gongxian gei geyong jie.” Jean Ma, Sounding the Modern Woman, 5. Zhen Zhang, An Amorous History, 302–­2 8; Tuohy, “Metropolitan Sounds,” 200–­221; Yingjin Zhang, Chinese National Cinema, 73–­74. Zhang Shichuan, “Genü Hongmudan,” 2–­4; Zhou Jianyun, “Genü Hongmudan,” 10; Jiang Jianhou, “Wei Zhongguo dianyingjie zheng yikou qi,” 21. Foreign films outnumbered Chinese productions by a nine-­to-­one margin in 1929, a ratio that remained fairly consistent through 1936. Clark, Chinese Cinema, 7. American imports garnered a smaller market share (10–­20 percent) in Japan, where government intervention and a distribution system controlled by domestic studios prevented Hollywood domination. Baskett, The Attractive Empire, 107, 189n3; Kitamura, Screening Enlightenment. Zhou Shoujuan, “Tichang guochan de yousheng yingpian,” 22. Zhou Jianyu, “Genü Hongmudan,” 13; Jiang Jianhou, “Wei Zhongguo dianyingjie,” 21. Hu Die, Hu Die huiyi lu, 70; Shenbao, April 3, 1932, 11. Genü Hongmudan tekan, frontspiece; Hu Die, Hu Die huiyi lu, 72. Semenza, “Skillful Handling of Local Color.” Ge Gongzhen, “Genü Hongmudan queyou yikan de jiazhi,” 24; Hu Die, Hu Die huiyi lu, 68. Zhou Jianyun, “Genü Hongmudan,” 14. Genü Hongmudan tekan, frontspiece. Tang Xiumei, “Jieshao Genü Hongmudan,” 34; “Pingshu yingren de guoyu chengdu,” 54. Zhou Jianyun, “Genü Hongmudan,”14. Wu Tunan, “Youshengpian zhong de yuyan wenti”; Zhu Dake, “Sheng de wenti,” 42–­43; Zheng Zhengqiu, “Wei Zhongguo yousheng yingpian gaoge fangmian,” 8. Genü Hongmudan tekan, frontspiece; Hu Die, Hu Die huiyi lu, 72. Dagongbao, May 19, 1932, 7. Zhen Zhang, An Amorous History, 304. Lee, “The Urban Milieu,” 91–­92. Lee attributes the “overdone” style in part to the influence of spoken drama and the legacy of silent films. Pang, Building a New China in Cinema, 34; “Zimeihua dapo maizuo jilu,” 574. Shenbao, March 5, 1934, 19; “Zimeihua zhong shuang hudie,” Qianye yuebao 14, no. 4 (1934): 10; Zheng Zhengqiu, “Zimeihua de ziwo pipan”; Shenbao, March 17, 1934, 20. Yinghua 1, no. 7 (1934): 181. The film’s success spawned a sequel (also starring Hu Die) and more than a dozen remakes in the 1940s and 1950s. Wang, Remaking Chinese Cinema, chap. 2. Yeh, “Historiography and Sinification.” Zhen Zhang, An Amorous History, 81–­82, has characterized 1930–­1936 as a transition period featuring a mixture of all-­silent, semisilent, partial-­sound, and all-­sound films. Yeh, “Historiography and Sinification,” 90. Diantong, a short-­lived studio affiliated with the CCP, produced the film. The team that wrote the music and lyrics included Chao Yuen Ren.

3 12 2. I n S earch of Standard Mandarin

155. Jiang Qing was an aspiring actress in the early 1930s and appeared on the stage and in several films under the name Lan Ping. Her second husband, Tang Na, played the male lead in Scenes of City Life. Due to these “political problems,” the film was proscribed from circulation for many years in the PRC. Yeh, “Historiography and Sinification,” 91. 156. Pang, Building a New China in Cinema, 218–­19; “Malu tianshi yu dushi fengguang da butong,” 15. 157. Zhao Guoqing, “Zhou Xuan zhi mi,” 86–­89. 158. Ma, Sounding the Chinese Woman, 56–­57. 159. Zhang, An Amorous History, 308–­17; Ma, Sounding the Chinese Woman, 32–­34. 160. Zhongguo dianying nianjian 1934, 884–­97. Sources report slightly different figures for the number of movie theaters in the 1930s. 161. “Yousheng pian hebi jinjin yu quanbu duibai,” 20–­21. To find new talent with better linguistic proficiency, in 1936 Tianyi Studios announced an open call, specifying “fluency in spoken guoyu” as a qualification. The studio received 1,700 applications: 95  percent male, 40  percent claiming “fluent” guoyu ability, and 30  percent “a little” guoyu. Dagongbao (Shanghai), September 2, 1936, 16; September 4, 1936, 13. 162. Gong Jianong, Gong Jianong congying huiyi lu, 2:211–­14. Xu was married to Li Jinhui, whom she divorced in 1935 after the tragic death of their daughter Xiaofeng. 163. Yi Zhi, “Yanyuan de guoyu.” 164. Zhou Xuan, Zhou Xuan riji, 58, 123–­24. 165. Zhongguo dianying nianjian 1934, 558–­64. 166. Zhongguo dianying nianjian 1934, 570–­71; Zhang, Chinese National Cinema, 61. 167. Yingchi Chu, Chinese Documentaries, 48. 168. Yang Li, Gao Qingyuan, and Zhu Jianzhong, Zhongguo kejiao dianying, 11–­14. 169. Liu Baichuan, Xiangcun jiaoyu, 2:237–­39. In 1937 Chen Yousong opined that for schools to acquire the equipment needed to screen sound films was “a dream.” Yousheng de jiaoyu dianying, 3. 170. “Dianying jiancha fa,” November 3, 1930. 171. Xiao, “Anti-­Imperialism and Film Censorship”; Xiao, “Constructing a New National Culture.” “Superstitious” films included Alice in Wonderland, Frankenstein, Chinese martial arts, and ghost tales. From 1931 to 1933, 70 percent of banned films belonged to the category “martial arts-­magic spirit.” Wang Chaoguang, Yingyi de zhengzhi, 50. 172. “Wei shezhi dianyingpian,” 6; Yingxi shenghuo, December 24, 1932, 1. 173. Xiao, “Constructing a New National Culture,” 184–­85. 174. Ng, “The Way of the Platinum Dragon.” The film (no longer extant) combines the plot from the 1926 Hollywood silent film The Waiter and the Grand Duchess with Cantonese opera. Ng describes the fusion as typical of the “western costume-­Cantonese opera” genre. 175. “Bai jinlong shi shejin shengpian,” 2. 176. Dianying jiancha weiyuanhui gongbao 2, no. 25 (1933): 11, 34; “Tianyi gongsi Yueyu youshengpian.” 177. “Bai jinlong de fangyan,” 2.

2 . I n S earch of Standard M andarin 31 3

178. 179. 180.

181. 182. 183. 184. 185.

186.

187. 188. 189. 190.

191. 192. 193. 194. 195. 196. 197. 198.

199. 200. 201. 202. 203. 204.

“Guanzhong pinglun: Bai Jinlong”; Tang Xiaodan, Lubian shiling, 44–­45; Ng, “The Way of the Platinum Dragon,” 161. For Tianyi founder Shao Zuiweng, this pivot to Cantonese films laid the foundation for the Shaw Brothers empire in Hong Kong. Fu, China Forever, 135–­37. Shehui ribao, September 10, 1934, 2; Diansheng 3, no. 35 (1934): 685. The red boat in the original title (紅船外史) referred to the wooden vessels that served as lodging and transport for itinerant troupes. Cantonese-­speaking audiences would immediately recognize the reference, but others would not understand it. Diansheng 3, no. 29 (1934): 1. Diansheng 3, no. 33 (1934): 644. Diansheng 3, no. 36 (1934): 703. Wang Chaoguang, Yingyi de zhengzhi, 114–­18. Diansheng 3, no. 38 (1934): 744; Neizheng xiaoxi, no. 2 (1934): 117. Luo Gang elaborated on the changes in censorship policy and administration: Zhongyang dianjianhui, 587–­89. September 29, 1934, meeting, Zhongyang dianying jiancha weiyuanhui gongbao 1, no. 11–­ 12 (1934): 89. Mrs. Mai premiered in Shanghai in November 1934 and screened in Tianjin in 1935. Yinghua 1, no. 18 (1934): 409; Diansheng 3, no. 43 (1934): 844. “Ping hongchuan waishi.” Pan Zhongchu, “Guangdong diao Mai Furen”; “Mai Furen jianping.” Tang Na, “Cong dazhongyu fangmian zailun Yueyu shengpian”; Pang, Building a New China in Cinema, 179–­82. In 1936 Tang Na married Lan Ping (the future Jiang Qing). Their divorce became tabloid fodder the following year, when Tang reportedly tried to commit suicide. “Yousheng dianying yu fangyan,” 6. “Luo Gang lai Hu”; Diansheng 5, no. 48 (1936): 1283. Official notification of the ban: Zhongyang dianying jiancha weiyuanhui gongbao 3, no. 12 (1936): 8–­9. Diangsheng 5, no. 45 (1936): 1186; Dongfang ribao, December 26, 1936, 2; Diansheng 5, no. 44 (1936): 1165. Diansheng 5, no. 48 (1936): 1285. “Yueyu pian jinshe wenti.” “Dianjianhui li kongqi shifen jinzhang.” “Zhe queshi yi ge biantong miaofa.” “Jin Yueyu pian zhong zhi paipian mang”; “Fujianyu shengpian jinzhui Yueyu pian hou”; “Yueyu pian jiujin bujue.” On postwar developments, see Taylor, Rethinking Transnational Chinese Cinemas. Shenbao, June 14, 1937, 10. “Jinshe Yueyu pian dengyu jiaofei.” “Guoyu pian Yueyu pian duanbing xiangjie”; “Shao Lizi xiangchu biantong banfa.” “Dianjianhui weiyuan Dai Ce”; “Jiuwang yundong quankao nümingxing.” “Hua’nan ge dianying gongsi yizhi xingdong.” Jones, Yellow Music, 119–­10.

3 1 4 2. I n S earch of Standard Mandarin

205. In his best-­selling book, Zhao Yuren wrote, “Local dialects are not easy to destroy, or it can be said that they can never be destroyed.” Xiaoxue guoyu ke jiaoxue fa, 25–­26. 206. Yin Shusheng, “Women weishenme yao tuixing zhuyin fuhao,” 2. 207. Xu Langqiu, Zhuyin fuhao qianshuo, 17. 208. “Gesheng shixian tuixing zhuyin fuhao banfa” (1930), 32. 209. KMT Central Executive Committee, April  25, 1930, Guoshiguan 001090000​2004​ 009a-­4012a and NJ 2-­2725. 210. Chao Yuen Ren, Zhuyin fuhao zongbiao. 211. On Chao Yuen Ren’s pioneering field studies, see Tam, Dialect and Nationalism in China, 127–­34. 212. Wu Jingheng, “Sanshi wu nianlai zhi yinfu yundong.” 213. Chen Ximeng and Zhang Yongrong, “Fuzhou fangyin zhuyin fuhao chugao.” 214. Xue Yidan, “Fei guanhua qucheng ying ruhe tuixing zhuyin fuhao.” 215. “Xiuding runyin fuhao an,” 2; Chao Yuen Ren, “Wuxi fangyin kuanshi yinbiao cao’an,” 1–­2; Chao Yuen Ren, “Changsha fangyin zimu tongxin,” 1–­2. 216. For instance, in 1925 Qian Xuantong drafted a Suzhou phonetic, featuring thirty-­ one initial consonants and forty-­t wo vowels (“Suzhou zhuyin zimu cao’an”). See also Lu Ji and Fang Bin’guan, Suzhou zhuyin fuhao; Ding Bangxin, Yibai nianqian de Suzhouhua. 217. Lu Ji, Tuixing Suzhou fangyin zhuyin fuhao baogao shu, 10–­35; “Tuixing Suzhou fangyin zhuyin fuhao,” 8–­11. 218. Lu Ji, “Tuixing Suzhou fangyin zhuyin fuhao,” 8. 219. Bai Ding, “Cong Suzhou fangyin zhuyin fuhao shuodao shizi yundong,” 2. 220. Dagongbao (Tianjin), March 3, 1935, 3. 221. Tan Jishi, “Tuixing zhuyin fuhao,” 3–­4. 222. “Ge shengshixian tuixing zhuyin fuhao banfa” (1930), 30–­32. 223. Chuan Fu, “Diaocha fangyin de jingyan.” 224. Zhi Guang, “Guoyu he guoyu tongyi.” 225. Pan Gugan, “Guanyu ‘xin wenzi de quedian.’ ” 226. Zhou Bianming, “Xieshou yitong zoushang pinyin wenzi de dalu.” 227. Wang Yuchuan, “Dao xieshou zhilu.” Wang Yuchuan played an instrumental role in the national language campaign in postwar Taiwan (see chapter 4). 228. Gao Yupu, “Guoyu Luomazi”; Zheng Junshi, “Guoyu Luomazi de quedian.”

3. THE NATIONAL LANGUAGE IN EXILE Among many examples: Howard, Workers at War, Bian, State Enterprise System, Barnes, Intimate Communities; Soon, Global Medicine. 2. Chao Yuen Ren spent a few months in Kunming before leaving in August 1938 to take up a visiting professorship at the University of Hawaii. He would not return to China for thirty-­five years. 3. MacKinnon, Wuhan, 1938.

1.

3. T he National L anguage in E xile  31 5

4. Jiaoyu tongxun, no. 13 (1938): 3–­4; SHA 5/12293, 5–­6 (May 17, 1938); “Wunian jinian yu xiaoxue guoyu jiaoxue,” Huoli zhoukan 1, no. 1 (1938): 9–­10; Lu Chuanji, “Kangzhan jianguo zhongxin.” 5. Ministry of Education files, SHA, record group 5. 6. SHA 5/12305, 227–­30. 7. SHA 5/12305, 69–­70, 92. 8. SHA 5/12306-­1, 29–­30, 33–­36. 9. SHA 5/12305, 248–­9, 253–­62; 5/12306-­1, 33–­36, 54, 81; 5/12306-­2, 203–­5. In March 1939 Zhang requested a transfer to Guizhou to care for his parents. He was given a post at the provincial teacher training college (SHA 5/12306-­2, 163; 5/12300-­1, 41–­49). In 1947 he spent a short stint in Taiwan as a member of the National Language Committee. Taiwan Historica archives, Xingzheng zhangguan gongshu dang’an, 00303233190002. 10. SHA 5/12306-­1, 122, 188, 203; 5/12036-­2, 172, 176, 196, 200, 237. 11. SHA 5/12305, 41–­42. 12. SHA 5/12306-­2, 4. 13. “Xianggang ren yu guoyu,” May 11, 1939, 6. 14. SHA 5/12306-­2, 29–­32. 15. See numerous reports in SHA 5/12307-­1 and 5/12307-­2, spanning 1940–­1941. 16. SHA 5/12306, 50. 17. Xu Zhong, ed., Zhongwen Ladinghua keben, 66–­67. 18. “Xin wenzi yundong de dongtai.” 19. SHA 5/12291, 2–­8; 5/12307-­2, 11–­12; 5/12306-­2, 82. 20. Ting Xian, “Guoyuban chahuahui,” 7–­8. 21. Tongyi yuekan, no. 4 (1939): 14–­15. 22. Wu Shuzhen, “Lianxi guoyu,” 21. 23. Lu Zhiwei, “Guoyu jiaoyu de hunluan qingkuang.” 24. Zhou Rujie, “Ertong yanyu fazhan.” 25. “Jiuping zhuang buliao xinjiu,” 2–­3. 26. Gao Rongxian, “Xian jiaoyu yu tuixing zhuyin fuhao”; Xianzheng yanjiu 2, no. 6 (1940): 24–­26; Jiaoyu jianshe 1, no. 1 (1940): 70–­71; 1, no. 3 (1940): 115; 1, no. 4 (1941): 192–­94. 27. Song Enrong and Yu Zixia, eds., Riben qin Hua jiaoyu quanshi, 3:91–­92, 173–­76. 28. Ministry of Education directive, April 19, 1941, reprinted in Jiangsu xiaoxue jiaoshi 1, no. 3 (1941): 7. 29. SMA R48-­1-­852-­1, 1–­2, 11–­14; R48-­1-­460, 2–­3. 30. Zhu Ming, “Jiaming nengfou daiti zhuyin fuhao.” 31. Sui Shusen, “Zailai yici guoyu yundong,” 15. 32. Wang Yuchuan, “Xin wenzi wenti.” 33. Xiao Dichen, “Zhuyin fuhao bangzhu dushu.” 34. SHA 5/12289, 73, 85–­86. 35. Jiaoyubu, Minzhong xuexiao keben, 10; Yang Jinhao, Zhanshi ertong guoyu xuan. 36. Exams for national language classes tested written grammar and lexicon, with no assessment of spoken guoyu. Chongqing Municipal Archive (CMA) 81-­4-­1413, 81-­4-­1414, 81-­4-­2259.

316  3. T he N ational L anguage in E xile

37. Jiang Baigang, “Shuo songlang.” 38. He Rong, “Lun xiaoxue li yinggai jiao guoyu.” 39. Yu Ziyi (1886–­1970) was a prominent figure in progressive education. Before the war he had been the principal of the experimental primary school affiliated with Nanjing Higher Normal and a professor at Zhejiang University. 40. Yu Ziyi, “Liang ge yue jianban shejiao”; Yu Ziyi, “Jiaoxue zhuyin fuhao.” At a national language demonstration class, the medium of instruction was the local dialect. “Guoyu shifan jiaoxue pipinghui jilu, 45–­47. 41. Jiang Baigang, “Shuo songlang”; Yang Qifan, Zenyang jiao guoyu. 42. SHA 5/12291, 155–­56 (July 31, 1938). 43. Jiang Baigang, “Shuo songlang.” 44. Huang Cao, “Kangzhan qizhong xiaoxue guoyu”; Liang Shijie, “Zhanshi xiaoxue guoyu jiaoxue.” 45. Chen Xia, “Chubu de guoyu jiaoxue.” 46. Lü Chaoxiang, “Xiaoxue guoyu ke jiaoxue.” 47. SHA 5/12299-­01, 23–­29. Precedents include a chess game and a tangram puzzle featuring the phonetic alphabet. Zhu Wenxiong, “Zhuyin zimu qi”; Guoyu yuekan 2, no. 2 (1924): 2–­3; Zhao Yi, “Guanyu guoyin jiaoju.” 48. Dozens of examples in SHA 5/12291-­1; 12291–­2; 12291–­3. 49. SHA 5/12291, 12–­14. 50. CMA 344-­1-­4 49, 41; 344-­1-­592, 74–­75; 121-­3-­33, 149–­51. 51. Sui Shusen, “Guoyu yundong zai yici.” 52. McIsaac, “The City as Nation.” In its narrow sense, “downriver” referred to immigrants from cities along the Yangzi River, to the east of Chongqing. 53. Jingbao, January 16, 1940, 4. 54. Dong Tonghe, “Ruhe cong Sichuanhua xue guoyu.” See also Luo Xintian, “Kunminghua he guoyu.” 55. SHA 5/12295-­01, 12–­15. 56. Jiang Baigang, “Shuo songlang.” 57. Liu Xiaolang, “Jige xiaoxue shuohua jiaoxue.” 58. Li Dongyue, “Guomin jiaoyu jinzhan zhong.” 59. CMA 0129-­2-­113, 209; 0055-­6-­84, 100-­101; Xikang sheng zhengfu gongbao, no.  92 (1942): 46. 60. CMA 0129-­1-­240, 292–­93. 61. Guangdong jiaoyuting xunbao 1, no. 12 (1937): 27–­28; Sichuan jiaoyu 1, no. 1 (1937): 258. 62. Li Zheng, “Shifan xueyuan wenti.” 63. Chen Qihao, “Dangqian shifan xuexiao zhi.” 64. Cai Chongqing, “Jianyi shifanke de jige shiji wenti.” 65. Hunan jiaoyu yuekan, no. 4 (1940): 66–­69. 66. Jiang Jingguo [Chiang Ching-­kuo], preface to Yang Qifan, Zenyang jiao guoyu. 67. Liu Wenxiu, Zhongguo shifan jiaoyu jianzhi, 143–­53; Chen Jianheng, “Jinhou ernian xiao­ xue shizi.” 68. Israel, Lianda, 239–­49.

3 . T he National L anguage in Exile  31 7

69. There were a few notable exceptions. In May 1942 Northwest Teachers College organized a two-­month zhuyin seminar, responding to a government directive to provide “remedial instruction.” Guoyu xibei shifan xueyuan xiaowu huibao 42 (May 1942): 8. In 1944 the Education Ministry directed three teachers’ colleges to create a “national language” major. Jiaoyu gongbao 16, no. 7 (1944): 37–­41; SHA 5/12286-­2, 21. 70. Guoyu tuixing weiyuanhui di’erjie dahui baogao. The number of committee members expanded from fourteen to twenty-­five. Shenbao, July 22, 1940, 8. 71. SHA 5/12298-­1, 102. While in the Soviet Union, Jiang Tingfu helped to negotiate for the release of Chiang Kai-­shek’s son Chiang Ching-­kuo in 1936. He later became ambassador to the United States. 72. Jiaoyu tongxun 3, no. 39 (1940): 12–­16. The committee’s flagship journal National Lan­ guage Weekly resumed publication in October 1940, after a three-­year hiatus. Li Jinxi, “Fukan xuanyan.” 73. Wei Jiangong, “Guanyu Zhonghua Xinyun”; Guoyu tuixing weiyuanhui, ed., Zhong­ hua xinyun, preface 1. 74. According to the later assessment of members of the Taiwan Provincial National Language Promotion Committee. Taiwan diqu guoyu tuixing ziliao huibian, October 7, 1946 meeting, 2:13. 75. Chen Lifu and his older brother Chen Guofu led the rightwing faction of the KMT, known as the “CC Clique.” 76. Sun Fuyuan, “Zhonghua xinyun.” Thanks to Martin Heidjra for a helpful explanation. 77. For instance, in Laozi 老子 the philosopher and the book bearing his name, zi would be third tone, whereas for the colloquial term meaning father, zi would be neutral tone. 78. “Guoyin jianshuo,” in Zhonghua xinyun, 60. 79. Wang Tianchang, ed., Guoyu yundong bainian shilue, 141. 80. Tang, “Street Theater and Subject Formation.” 81. Mei Zhi, “Huju de jiben tiaojian.” 82. Ye Chen, “Guanyu xin xiju yundong.” In the late eighteenth century, French revolutionaries eager to draw peasants to their cause likewise carried out campaigns in local languages, following a template crafted by the Catholic Church. Bell, “Lingua Populi.” 83. “Minzhong xiju zhengda tejie,” 8–­9. 84. Hung, War and Popular Culture, chap. 2. 85. Lao She, “Zhizuo tongsu wenyi.” 86. Shi Liang, “Xiju xiaxiang fangyan wenti.” 87. Wen Yuan, “Gailiang dazhong xiju”; Zhu, Wartime Culture, 150–­53. 88. Hong Shen, “Minjian de xiju yishu”; Hong Shen, Kangzhan shinian lai, 33. 89. Written by Xia Yan (future deputy minister of culture in the PRC), Under Shanghai Eaves was one of the most well-­k nown plays of the Sino-­Japanese War period. Ni Haishu translated Wu Tian’s play The Victim into Dusk. 90. Kong Lingjing, “Xiezai Huaguang gongyan qian”; Kong Lingjing, “Lun fangyan ju.” 91. Chen Qidan, “Lüelun guoyu yu fangyan”; Chen Hexiang, “Fangyan ju.” 92. Yi Bei, “Tan fangyan ju.” Ah Q is the protagonist of Lu Xun’s 1921 novella. 93. Xu Mo (He Zengxi), “Fangyan ju wenda.”

318 3. T he N ational L anguage in E xile

94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100. 101.

102.

103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112. 113. 114. 115.

116. 117. 118. 119. 120. 121. 122. 123.

Li Shulun, “Lüelun Guangdong fangyan ju.” Tan Zhongxia, Yiye huanghou, 73–­75, 106. Fu, “Projecting Ambivalence”; Bao, Fiery Cinema, 1–­2. Fonoroff, “Hong Kong Cinema,” 302. “Yueyu pian da shuailuo”; “Guoyu pian dao Nanyang.” On the Shanghai film industry during the war, see Hu, Projecting a Nation, chap. 5. Fu, “Patriotism or Profit,” 73–­79. “Guoyu pian yu Yueyu pian zhi woguan”; “Guoyu pian maizuo zengqiang de jiaoxun xia.” In some cases, a version dubbed in Cantonese offered an alternative for audiences unable to understand guoyu. Dianying ribao, August 21, 1940, 3; October 26, 1940, 2; November 7, 1940, 3; March 8, 1941, 2. One anecdote recounted how actor Yin Xiucen punched Chen Yunshang’s language coach when he tried to correct Yin’s pronunciation. Yin was a Beijing native, and the tabloids attributed his muddied articulation to obesity. Shehui ribao, September 13, 1939, 4. Libao, August  13, 1939, 3; Dianying ribao, October  26, 1940, 2; November  7, 1940; March 24, 1941, 1; March 27, 1941, 4. Dianying xinwen tuhua zhoukan no. 17 (1939): 430; Diansheng zhoukan 8, no. 19 (1939): 841; Shanghai shenghuo 3, no. 4 (1939): 74; Dianying zhoukan, no. 31 (1939): 1048. Xiaoshuo ribao, May 9, 1940, 1; June 15, 1940, 1; Dongfang ribao, November 18, 1940, 1; Dianying ribao, June 21, 1941, 3. Fengbao, July 8, 1939, 1. Zhongguo yitan huabao, July 15, 1939, 1. Xibao, February 2, 1939, 3; February 7, 1939, 3. Stephenson, “Her Traces Are Found Everywhere.” Li Xianglan’s Japanese nationality was suspected by some but revealed only after the war. Fu, “The Ambiguity of Entertainment.” Zhang, Chinese National Cinema, 93–­94. Bao, Fiery Cinema, 288–­93. “Zai Yu jing ren zhong.” As John Alekna has argued, depending on their location, radio news likely reached more people in written form than aurally. Alekna, “Reunified through Radio.” Zhongguo guangbo gongsi dashiji, 35–­45; Zhang Xiaohang, Kangzhan banian guangbo ji, 24–­31. Listeners from as far away as Australia and New Jersey responded to Chong­ qing’s request for reception reports (CMA 4-­1-­85). Zhongyang ribao, March 29, 1940, 2. Qianxian ribao, March 1, 1945, 4. Li Jinxi, “Zhuyin fuhao zai kangzhan shiqi”; Guangbo zhoukan, no. 169 (1939): 11–­12. Minzhong xiaobao, October 10, 1940. Li Jinxi, “Saochu wenmang.” “Bazhong quanhui zhongyao jueyi’an,” 74. Pan Gongzhan, “Tuixing zhuyin shizi yundong.” Jiaoyu tongxun 4, no. 5 (1941): 4.

3. T he National L anguage in Exile  31 9

124. 125. 126. 127. 128. 129. 130.

131. 132. 133. 134. 135. 136. 137. 138. 139. 140. 141. 142. 143. 144. 145. 146. 147.

148.

149.

150.

Li Jinxi, “Saochu wenmang,” 16. SHA 5/12304, 79–­81, 90–­100; Chen Zhongyin, “Zhongxiaoxue jiaoyu.” Wu Zhihui, “Guoyu jiaoyu.” Reprinted in Xu Suling, Xinjiang neimu, 26–­27. Wu Jingheng, “Zhuyin fuhao zuoyong.” SHA 5/12300-­1, 34–­37 (April 1942). SHA 5/12289, 92–­94. The banner garrison in Ningxia, originally established during the Kangxi reign, was dismantled in the aftermath of the 1911 Revolution. In the 1940s former banner households remained a distinctive (and apparently belittled) speech community. In the late twentieth and early twenty-­first centuries, researchers found such “dialect islands” correlating to former Qing garrisons in the South, Southwest, and Northwest. Pan Honggang, “Qingdai zhufang baqi de ‘fangyandao.’ ” Li Jinxi, “Weishenme yao tuixing guoyu?” On surveys of border regions in the 1930s and 1940s, see Sun Zhe and Wang Jiang, Bian­ jiang, minzu, guojia. Li Xiaosu, “Bianjiang jiaoyu.” Zhang Tingxiu, “Bianjiang jiaoyu wenti.” Chen Xianyao, “Jianshe Xibei.” Kong Shihao, “Xin Xinjiang jianshe sanyao.” Li Xiaosu, “Bianjiang jiaoyu.” Zhang Jianzhong, Zhongguo jindai bianjiang jiaoyu shilun, 72. Li Yongyi, “Tuijin bianjiao.” Li Yongyi. Rui Yifu, “Xinan minzu yuwen.” DeFrancis, The Chinese Language, 254. Wu Yuzhang, “Xin wenzi zai qieshi tuixing zhong.” Wang Wenxuan, “Wo duiyu bianji bianjiang xiaoxue,” 10; Li Jinxi, “Weishenme yao tuixing guoyu?”; Li Jinxi, “Guoyu yundong yu guofang jiaoyu.” Jiaoyu tongxun 3, no. 39 (1940): 10. Jiaoyu tongxun 3, no. 39 (1940): 15; SHA 5/12288, 13–­14. In this case 回文 (Muslim script) refers to Chagatai, a branch of the Turkic language family related to modern Uzbek and Uyghur. The majority of the population in Xinjiang in the 1940s were Muslims who spoke related Turkic languages. Benson, The Ili Rebellion, 29. Xu Xihua, Zhuyin Xinjiang Huiwen changyong zibiao, preface. Xu’s Uyghur informants were Masud Sabri 麥斯武德 (head of the provincial assembly) and Isa Yusuf Alptekin 艾沙 (Legislative Yuan member). On the political context, see Jacobs, Xinjiang and the Modern Chinese State. This is a vast subject, beyond the scope of this study. For an overview, see Nie Pusheng, “Kangzhan shiqi qian Kunming de yuyanjia.” The Academia Sinica survey results were published in 1969. Yang Shifeng, ed., Yunnan fangyan diaocha baogao. There were nine members at the outset: Li Jinxi, Lin Yutang, Wang Li, Luo Changpei, Wei Jiangong, Wang Yi, Li Fanggui, Zhou Bianming, and Chao Yuen Ren.

320  3. T he N ational L anguage in E xile

151. SHA 5/12300-­2 , 2–­10. Li’s working draft, with revisions and explanatory notes, is in 5/12300-­4, 13–­40. 152. SHA 5/12288, 3–­12; Li Jinxi, “Lun quanguo fangyan yanjiu diaocha,” 1–­5. 153. SHA 5/12288, 19–­27. 154. The National Language Committee and the Education Ministry received queries from teachers in Guangxi and Gansu about the national union table. SHA 5/11296, 32–­37, 43. 155. The minutes and partial transcripts of the meetings are in SHA 5/12300-­1, 87–­88, 97–­98; 5/12286-­3, 68–­80. 156. Meeting transcript, April 2, 1943, SHA 5/12286-­3, 76. Wu Zhihui introduced the “straw sandals/leather shoes” analogy in an essay in 1927. Thereafter he invoked it regularly when discussing the functions of zhuyin. 157. SHA 5/12286-­3, 75. Two versions of the Union Table (abbreviated and detailed) were advertised for sale in 1946. It was not meant for popular use, as decoding the contents required knowledge of academic linguistics. Published in Zhongguo jiaoyu nianjian, 1947, 9:1175. 158. Wang Wenxuan, “Wo duiyu bianji bianjiang xiaoxue,” 9–­11. 159. Wang Wenxuan, 9–­11. For example, a “Xinjiang Muslim script” phrasebook followed the directionality of Arabic in layout (right to left, horizontal), but this could only awkwardly accommodate the corresponding terms in Chinese script. Xu Xihua, Zhu­ yin Xinjiang Huiwen. On directionality, see Mullaney, “Quote Unquote Language Reform.” 160. SHA 5/12301-­2, 189; Li Jinxi, “Kaifa bianjiang de diyijian shi.” 161. For example, Jiaoyubu, Han Meng hebi guoyu jiaokeshu; Mengwen guowen duizhao. 162. Li specifically named Tibetans, Mongolians, Uyghurs, Miao, Lolo, and Bai. 163. Li Jinxi, “Guoyu bianyu duizhao sihang keben jianyi.” 164. Li Jinxi, “Han Zang duizhao sihang keben” (ms., 1945); Li Jinxi, “Cong Miandian shuoqi.” 165. Correspondence reprinted in Cui Keyan, Zhongguo jinxiandai shaoshu minzu jiaoke­ shu, 237–­42. 166. Di Xinyou, “Xiaoxue zhuyin fuhao.” 167. SHA 5/12304, 140–­4 1; Zhongyang ribao, March 20, 1944, 3. Wu also composed a new zhuyin song for the occasion. The lyrics spelled out Sun Yat-­sen’s injunction to serve the people and Chiang Kai-­shek’s four ethical virtues. The verses of four-­ character quatrains invoked the syntax of the classical language. Wu Zhihui, Zhu­ yin fuhao ge. 168. Zhongyang ribao, March 22, 1944, 3. 169. CMA 65-­3-­241, 15; 81-­4-­3027, 33. 170. SHA 5/12308, 4–­7. 171. Chen Gongzhe, “Tuixing guoyu yundong.” 172. Fenghuo suiyue xia, 90, 139. 173. Wang Yuedeng, “Ruhe jiajin”; Fenghuo suiyue xia, 80. 174. “Minzu zhuyi de guoyu yundong,” 2. 175. Available at https://­w ww​.­youtube​.­com​/w ­ atch​?­v ​= ­d MMJ7b5SU30 (August 15, 1945).

4. Taiwan Babel  321

4. TAIWAN BABEL 1. A collective term for Southern Min (Minnan) dialects, Taiyu has been variously ­rendered in English as Taiwanese, Hoklo, Holo, and Hokkien. Contemporary parlance generally disavows the Taiyu-­Taiwanese equation for its exclusion of Hakka and indigenous languages. In the 1940s–­1950s Taiyu was often used as a synonym for Minnanhua, at times freighted with different connotations. I follow Klöter, “Language Policy in the KMT and DPP Eras,” in translating Taiyu as “Taiwanese,” the vernacular spoken by the majority of the island’s inhabitants. Where sources permit, I follow the word choice of historical subjects to understand the logic behind the categories. 2. SHA 5/5570, 97–­99. Scholars have variously translated the verb form zuguohua 祖國化 as nationalization, Sinicization, or motherland-­ization. Since zuoguo refers specifically to the “patrilineal ancestor,” I have rendered it as “fatherland.” 3. Zhang Boyu, Taiwan diqu guoyu yundong shiliao, 131–­32. 4. Zhou Wanyao, “Taiwanren diyi ci de guoyu jingyan.” 5. Lai, Myers, and Wei, A Tragic Beginning; Lai Tse-­han, “Er-­er-­ba shijian” yanjiu baogao. Censorship prohibited public discussion of the event for forty years. In the 1980s, memories of 2-­28 became a flashpoint in an emergent Taiwanese nationalism. 6. Xu Xueji, “Taiwan guangfu chuqi”; Phillips, Between Assimilation and Independence, 68–­69. 7. Shi Zhengfeng, Yuyan zhengce; Cheng, “Language Unification in Taiwan.” 8. Chen Meiru, Taiwan yuyan jiaoyu zhengce; Scott and Tiun, “Mandarin-­Only to Mandarin-­Plus.” 9. Tsu, Sound and Script, 145. 10. “Taiwan tuixing guoyu fang’an,” September 19, 1945, SHA 5/11294, 35–­36. 11. “Tuixing guoyu jiaoyu jihua,” SHA 5/12285, 6–­8; Zhang Boyu, Taiwan diqu guoyu yun­ dong shiliao, 134. 12. Lin Zhong, Guoyu guangbo jiaoben, 1–­5. Here Lin did not conform to the change mandated in 1930, which demoted zhuyin from “alphabet” (zimu) to auxiliary status (fuhao). 13. Lin Zhong, Guoyu guangbo jiaoben, 12, 32. 14. Li Wanju, preface to Guoyu guangbo jiaoben. 15. Cai Deyin, Guoyu fayin jiaoyu; Yang Ziying, Guoyu suhui pian. 16. Xue Ruiqi, Biaozhun guoyu; Kamiya and Shimizu, Biaozhun Zhonghua guoyu; Han Shilu, Guoyu fayin rumen. 17. He Rong, Qi Tiehen, and Wang Ju, Taiwan zhi guoyu yundong, 11. 18. “Taiwan jieguan jihua gangyao cao’an” (October 1944), 87; “Taiwan jieguan jihua gangyao” (March 1945), 110. 19. “Fu Tai daji guanjian,” 380, 394–­95. 20. Huang Yingzhe, Qu Riben hua. 21. “Women doushi Zhongguoren,” Xinshengbao, June 26, 1946, 6; He Zhaowu, Shangxue ji, 258–­59. He Zhaowu arrived in Taipei in 1946 and stayed six months. He found the weather disagreeable and the streets depressing. Fifty years later he recalled his ­a ntipathy toward the “Japanization” of Taiwanese society, as manifested in writing,

322 4. Taiwan Babel

22. 23.

24.

25. 26.

27. 28.

29.

30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35.

36. 37. 38. 39.

architecture, and personal habits: “Even the street signs were in Japanese, as if you have gone to Japan.” “Taiwan jieguan jihua gangyao”; Xue Renyang, “Taiwan jiaoyu”; Xinshengbao, Feburary 26, 1946, 1. “Benshengren wanquan nuhua le.” A private newspaper financed by Taiwanese elites, Minbao (People’s news) was a frequent critic of KMT policies. Publisher Lin Mao­ sheng disappeared after the 2-­28 incident, allegedly kidnapped by government agents. The paper was shut down in March 1947. Taiwan sheng canyihui diyijie, 35, 60–­62. In the intervening six days, Fan tried to control the damage in an interview with a sympathetic journalist. Taiwan New Life Daily summarized the key points of the speech, assuring readers that Fan had “no intention of smearing Taiwanese compatriots.” Xinshengbao, May 2, 1946, 6. Xinshengbao, May 8, 1946, 5; Zheng Muxin, Taiwan yihui zhengzhi, 66–­75. Taiwan sheng canyihui diyijie, 62; Zheng Muxin, Taiwan yihui zhengzhi, 78. The text of Fan’s speech was circulated to news outlets and appeared in the journal of the training corps, where the incident took place. Fan Shoukang, “Fuxing Taiwan de jingshen.” 范處長 の 失言問題, Xinshengbao, May  8, 1946, 4; “Huichang huaxu,” Xinshengbao, May 8, 1946, 5. Chen Cuilian, “Qu zhimin yu zai zhimin de duikang.” Subsequent reports in Minbao wondered about the “black market” behind the scenes prompting the assembly to “defend and protect” Fan. The journalist “congratulated” the director for his good fortune, since there was no audio recording of the speech. Minbao, May 8, 1946, 2. Publicly chastised for speaking in an incomprehensible garble, education director Liu Xianyun sheepishly answered that he had tried to learn the national language but failed due to “extreme clumsiness.” Lianhebao, July 18, 1957, 3. Huang Jilu (education minister from 1961 to 1965) spoke a Sichuan dialect that hardly passed for the national language. Hong Yanqiu loved to tell the story of Huang’s visit to a primary school in the mountains. After delivering a lecture, he asked a student: “Do you know how to speak guoyu?” The child replied, “Minister, what you speak is not guoyu.” Hong Yanqiu xian­ sheng zhuisi lu, 129–­31. Chen Yi’s remarks at press conference, as reported in Minbao, November 22, 1946, 3. Lian Zhendong, “Taiwanren de zhengzhi lixiang.” Reaction to Chen’s remarks: Min­ bao, November 28, 1946, 1. He Rong, “Taiwan sheng guoyu tuixing weiyuanhui gongzuo gaikuang.” Taiwan minzheng 1 (May 1946), 58; “Taibao rexin xue guoyu,” Minbao, November 6, 1946, 2. Cai Mingxian, “Zhanhou Taiwan de yuyan zhengce,” 26–­27. Taiwan National Archives Administration (hereafter TNA), 0036/111/1/1/002/0001, February 13, 1947. Wei Jiangong, “Guoyu yundong gangling.” Wei Jiangong, radio address published as “Guoyu yundong zai Taiwan de yiyi.” Wei Jiangong, “Guoyu yundong zai Taiwan de yiyi shenjie,” 8–­12. Wei Jiangong, “Guoyu yundong zai Taiwan de yiyi shenjie,” 10.

4. Taiwan Babel  323

40. The analogy invokes a married daughter’s return to her mother’s home on the third day of the lunar new year, an occasion for joyful reunion. 41. Wei Jiangong, “Guoyu de sida hanyi”; Wei Jiangong, “Taiyu jishi guoyu de yizhong”; Wei Jiangong, “Heyi yao tichang.” 42. “Taiyu yinxi huanhun shuo.” 43. SHA 5/12301/001, 33, May 1946. Xiao Jialin worked for the National Language Committee in Nanjing. 44. SHA 5/12295/002, 67; 5/12301/2, 6–­9. 45. SHA 5/12295/001, 40–­42. The aphorism invokes the Confucian idea that education is a lifelong process. 46. Taiwan Provincial Assembly Archives, 001-­31-­100-­35005, May 3, 1946 (hereafter TPA). 47. Wei Jiangong, “Taiyu jishi guoyu de yizhong.” 48. He Rong, “Cong Taiwanhua xuexi guoyu,” Xinshengbao, June 25, 1946, 6. 49. Wei Jiangong, “Heyi yao tichang.” See also Wei Jiangong, “Guoyu de sida hanyi”; Li Yintian, “Canjia di’erjie quansheng guoyu langdu yanshuo.” 50. SHA 5/12295/02, 67. 51. On mother tongue: Derrida, Monolingualism of the Other; Pollock, The Language of the Gods, 319–­20, 473–­75. On mother tongue in the contemporary Sinophone global diaspora: Tsu, Sound and Script, 105–­6, 168–­73. 52. Qu Qiubai, “Zhi Dixiong (er),” 3:332–­35. Li Jinxi’s first reference to mother tongue invoked Wycliffe and Luther’s translations of the Bible into the vernacular. See Li Chin-­ shi, Chinese Phonetic System, preface to English version of Guoyu xue jiangyi (1921). 53. Christopher Hutton has argued that “mother-­tongue fascism” anchored the language ideology of Nationalist Socialist thought. The racial science of the Nazi regime was derived from nineteenth-­century comparative philology and linguistics (Linguistics and the Third Reich). In Taiwan, the activation of the mother tongue ideology invoked racial, ethnic, and gendered hierarchies of difference (Chinese/Japanese/foreign, maternal/ paternal). 54. SHA 5/12301/001, 33. 55. Zhang Fangjie, “Cong Taiwanhua xuexi guoyu.” 56. “Taiwan sheng xingzheng zhangguan,” 374. 57. He Rong, “Fangyan wei guoyu zhiben.” Opinions differed on the effectiveness of mimicking the colonial regime’s compulsory tactics. Nan Tianli, “Guoyu yundong.” 58. Lin Shaoxian, Minzhong guoyu duben. 59. Guo-­Tai ziyin duizhao lu; Er Shu’an and Zhan Zhenqing, Guo Tai yin wan zidian; Zhan Zhenqing, Guo Tai yin xiao cidian; Zhuyin fuhao shiba ke. 60. Wang Shunlong, “Cong jin bainian de Taiwan Minnanyu jiaoyu,” 145–­46. 61. Zhu Zhaoxiang, “Taiwan guoyu yundong”; advertisement for Guo-­Tai ziyin duizhao lu in Guoyu ribao, November 29, 1948, 3. 62. Lin Liang, “Duoshu de ximi xiaoli.” 63. SHA 12295/2, 30–­31. 64. Shenbao, November 28, 1946, 8; Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongzuo baogao, 1947. 65. Heylen, Japanese Models; Tsu, Sound and Script, chap. 6.

324 4. Taiwan Babel

66. TPA 001-­61-­201-­35001, November 6, 1946. 67. “Guoyu tuixing de shishi,” Zhonghua ribao, January 26, 1947, 1; Guoyu tongxun, no. 2 (1947), 15–­16; Nan Tianli, “Guoyu yundong.” 68. Shenbao, October 17, 1947, 8. 69. He Rong et al., Taiwan zhi guoyu yundong, 20. 70. He Rong, “Lun mahu zhuyi de guoyu jiaoyu.” 71. SHA 5/12301/001, 33. 72. SHA 5/12295/002, 26, July 1, 1947. 73. He Rong, “Taiwan sheng guoyu tuixing weiyuanhui gongzuo gaikuang,” 37–­38; Guoyu tongxun, no. 14 (1948): 4; Guoyu tongxun, no. 3 (1947): 9. 74. Wu Shouli, “Wo yu Taiwanyu yanjiu,” 14. 75. SHA 5/12295/002, 26, September 1947. 76. “Tuixing guoyu faling shuyao,” 14–­15. 77. Wei Jiangong, radio address delivered on July 11, 1946. Published as “Xue guoyu yinggai zhuyi de shiqing.” 78. He Rong, “Fangyan wei guoyu zhiben”; He Rong “Guanyu guoyu de biaozhun.” 79. He Rong “Guanyu guoyu de biaozhun.” 80. Guoyin biaozhun huibian. 81. Taiwan sheng xingzheng zhangguan gongshu gongbao, no. 34 (June 8, 1946): 548, 552. 82. See also Wei Jiangong’s statement in 1946: “The standard national pronunciation we currently follow is that of the Commonly Used Vocabulary of National Pronunciation, promulgated by the Education Ministry on May 1, 1932.” Xinshengbao, July 30, 1946, 6. 83. Chen Yi to Chen Lifu, May  10, 1944, Guancang Minguo Taiwan dang’an huibian, 21:242–­51. 84. Xue Renyang, “Taiwan jiaoyu zhi chongjian,” 14. The 99 percent figure is exaggerated—­ the actual figure was 71.1 percent in 1944. Tsurumi, Japanese Colonial Education, 113. 85. Mo (anonymous), “Taiwan de guoyu yundong.” The original says, “100,000 guoyu teachers” (十萬), clearly a typographical error for ten thousand (一萬). 86. The majority of Japanese civilians departed in the spring of 1946. On the repatriation process, see Dawley, “Closing a Colony.” 87. “Taiwan sheng jiaoyu fuyuan gongzuo baogao,” March  1947, SHA 5(2)/592. A year earlier the director of education had projected a shortage of five to ten thousand primary school teachers and one thousand middle school teachers. Minbao, March 13, 1946, 2. 88. Hua Songnian, “Dangqian bensheng jige jiaoyu.” 89. Taiwan sheng xingzheng zhangguan gongshu gongbao, no. 20 (October 24, 1946): 323. 90. Shen Cuilian, Taiwan xiaoxue shizi, 56–­57; Minbao, April 15, 1946, 2; Zhongyang ribao, July 27, 1946, 2. 91. Nan Tianli, “Guoyu yundong.” 92. Wang Jiaji, “Bensheng guomin xuexiao.” 93. Guoyu tongxun, no. 2 (1947): 15. 94. Taiwan guangfu sanshi nian wenhua jianshe, 24–­25; Zhang Zhuojian, “Xian jieduan zhi Taiwan difang jiaoyu.”

4. Taiwan Babel  325

95. Minsheng ribao, June 20, 1948, 2; Guomin jiaoyu fudao yuekan 1, no. 1 (1947): 22; “Taibei nüzi shifan xuexiao.” 96. Taiwan sheng xingzheng zhangguan gongshu gongbao, no.  17 (1946): 263; TNA, 0037/029/1/4/105/0001. 97. Taiwan sheng guoyu tuixing weiyuanhui, ed., Taiwan sheng guoyu jiaoyu shishi gai­ kuang, 2. 98. Minbao, July 23, 1946, 2. The National Language Committee also decided to vet its own staff. Those “far from passing” were dismissed; those who “come close to passing” could remain after completing a training program. Guancang Minguo Taiwan dang’an hui­ bian, 2:14–­15. 99. “Hualian xian jiaoyu gaikuang,” 164:202–­9. 100. “Taibei xian jiaoyu gaikuang,” 164:128, 152. 101. Guomin jiaoyu fudao yuekan 3, no. 3 (1948): 45–­48; “Taiwan sheng guomin xuexiao,” 1:340–­41. 102. “Taiwan sheng jiaoyu fuyuan gongzuo baogao,” SHA 5(2)/592; Zhang Zhuojian, “Xian jieduan zhi Taiwan difang jiaoyu”; “Taiwan sheng zhengfu sanshiliu niandu gongzuo jihua,” TNA 0035/0412.30/4032.01/02/031. 103. He Rong, “Guoyu ribao yu guoyu yundong.” 104. Jiang Qi, “Bensheng shifan jiaoshi yundong.” 105. Chu Yingrui, “Yinian ban lai bensheng shifan jiaoyu”; Guomin jiaoyu fudao yuekan 2, no. 2 (1948): 38. 106. Fan Shoukang to Zhu Jiahua, August 26, 1946, Guancang Minguo Taiwan dang’an hui­ bian 37:246–­47. 107. Shen Cuilian, Taiwan xiaoxue shizi, 51–­55. 108. Minbao, August 8, 1946, 1; “Tainan shifan xuexiao;” “Taibei nüzi shifan xuexiao,” 253:116, 123, 143. 109. Shen Cuilian, Taiwan xiaoxue shizi, 54–­55. 110. Zhang Zhuojian, “Xian jieduan zhi Taiwan difang jiaoyu,” 12. 111. Tao Tang, “Xiaoxue guoyu shang de yi ge wenti.” 112. Wang Yuchuan, “Jiaocai bianji wenti.” 113. Wu Meijin, ed., Liushi fenghua, 293, 287. 114. Wang Yuchuan, Guoyu shuohua jiaocai ji jiaofa, 1–­2. 115. Wang Yuchuan, “Yizhong zhide zai Taiwan shiyan yixia.” 116. Wei Jiangong, preface to Guoyu shuohua jiaocai ji jiaofa, 1, 6–­8. 117. Wang Yuchuan, Guoyu shuohua jiaocai ji jiaofa, 12–­14, 23. 118. In 1948 Cai Yalin was one of eighteen recent Beijing Normal graduates selected to go to Taiwan. The provincial education director had requested thirty teachers, but the municipal government allocated travel funds for only eighteen. Tang Shixiong and Wang Guohua, eds., Beijing shifan xuexiao shilao, 657–­63. 119. Shiyan xiaoxue guoyu jiaoxue shiyan baogao, 1–­4, 6–­10; Cai Yalin, “Huiyi liang ci shiyan guoyu jiaoxue,” 100–­103. 120. Qi Zhixian, Xiaoxue guoyu jiaocai wenti, 28–­33, 36–­42, 66–­89. 121. Qi Zhixian, appendix 1; Qi Zhixian, Zhuyin fuhao jiaoxue fa, 1.

326  4. Taiwan B abel

122. 123. 124. 125. 126.

127. 128. 129.

130. 131.

132. 133.

134. 135. 136.

137. 138. 139.

Education ordinance 01642 (June 5, 1954), Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 60 (Summer 1954): 836; He Rong, Zhuyin fuhao jiaoxue fa, preface. Zhu Jiahua, “Xiezai chuangkan qian de jiju hua.” “Women de fukan,” 3. Wang Yuchuan, “Guoyu ribao de tedian.” Guoyu ribao, October 25, 1951, 3; Hong Yanqiu, Guoyu tuixing he Guoyu ribao, 11–­13. According to Hong’s account, Mandarin Daily News was slated to inherit the equipment and funding allotted to a similar paper (Guoyu xiaobao) published in Beijing in 1947. The Beijing predecessor sent only one dilapidated machine. Apart from a one-­time subsidy of ten thousand gold yuan (in practically worthless currency), the funds from the Education Ministry were never transferred to Taiwan. Fang Shiduo, Wushi nian lai, 172–­75; Hong Yanqiu, Guoyu tuixing he Guoyu ribao, 11–­13. “Sannian lai de Guoyu ribao.” Directives dated May 24, 1952 and July 23, 1952, in Taiwan sheng jiaoyu faling huibian, 51; Hong Yanqiu, Guoyu tuixing he Guoyu ribao, 15. In 1952 the daily circulation of the two largest (government-­a ffiliated) newspapers was about sixty-­one thousand. The circulation of the largest private daily was about twenty-­four thousand. Wang Tianbin, Taiwan baoye shi, 148. While other previous periodicals had featured zhuyin annotation, Guoyu ribao was the first daily to do so. By the 1960s the paper shifted its focus to a younger audience of students and children. Memoirs frequently mention “growing up with Mandarin Daily News” (Lin Liang, Jian­ zheng). The newspaper still enjoys a robust audience today, in both print and digital formats. Wei Zhen, “Liang ge zhengzhijia de guoyu.” Guoyu ribao, November 22 and 29, 1948, 3. The pronunciation of 容 in the 1920 dictionary is marked as ㄩㄥˊ just as Qi Tiehen explained (Guoyin zidian 3:2). See also Biao­ zhun guoyu zidian (1934, 3:4). Biaozhun guoyu cidian (1947, fifth ed.). The pronunciation under discussion appears on pages 54 and 146. Cui Hai named the title as Biaozhun guoyin cidian. A revised edition published in 1961 removed the “errant” pronunciation for this entry. Xinbian biaozhun guoyu cidian, 205. Guoyu tongxun, no. 13 (1948): 2, 4. From 1946 to 1948 an audit found a jumble of guan­ hua textbooks, “obsolete old zhuyin,” and colonial-­era leftovers of “Zhinayu” (支那語). “Few conform to the standard set by the Commonly Used Vocabulary of National Pro­ nunciation.” He Rong et al, Taiwan zhi guoyu yundong, 59. Editor, “Jige jieshi,” Guoyu ribao, October 25, 1950 (special anniversary edition, 11). Zhu Zhaoxiang, “Taiwan guoyu yundong.” Guoyu ribao, January 12, 1949, 3. Urination was a favorite punch line for humorous pieces. In another example, Qi Tiehen wrote about a misunderstood lesson from a guoyu textbook: “Kuang Heng [a historical figure] is poor but not impoverished in aspiration; from a young age he experienced hardship and worked diligently 從小便知苦用功.” The

4. Taiwan Babel  3 27

140. 141. 142. 143. 144. 145. 146. 147. 148. 149. 150. 151. 152. 153.

154. 155. 156. 157. 158. 159. 160. 161. 162. 163. 164. 165. 166. 167. 168. 169. 170. 171.

teacher misunderstood and explained that “Kuang Heng was such a diligent student, he studied while urinating” (February 21, 1949, 3). Xinshengbao, February 27, 1947, 2, 6; Shenbao, February 27, 1947, 5. Phillips, Between Assimilation and Independence, 83–­84; Minbao, February 16, 1947, 3. Xinshengbao, April 1, 1947, 2; Xinshengbao, March 23, 1947, 1; He Rong, “Lun jiajin tuixing yuwen jiaoyu.” Taiwan Historica Archives, 0040121001899001, February 14, 1948; Minsheng ribao, February 1, 1948, 2. Guoshengbao, May 19, 1947, 3. Hua Songnian, “Dangqian bensheng jige jiaoyu xingzheng wenti.” Guoshengbao, March 23, 1947, 1. TNA 0037/075.2/1/001/003, March 11, 1948. Reports from the mid-­1950s indicate that the phenomenon persisted. Minsheng ribao, January 28, 1954, 5. TNA, 0035/192.5/1/3/012, ca. 1947. Phillips, Between Assimilation and Independence, 90–­91; Guoshengbao, May 21, 1947, 1. Zhu Zhaoxiang, preface to Zhuyin Taiyu huihua. TNA 0037/00038/0037/01/057, October 1948. Minsheng ribao, February 9, 1948, 2; May 31, 1948, 4. Guoshiguan 003-­010102-­3459-­0002a, May  1948; 003-­010102-­2756-­0007a, November  1948. Taiwan Paper and Taiwan Shipbuilding reported that a small number of employees attended Taiyu classes on a voluntary basis. Lianhebao, September 18, 1951, 3. Guoyu ribao, January 6, 1949, 2. Lin Shaoxian, Shiyong Taiyu huihua. Guoyu ribao, June 1, 1950, 4; Minsheng ribao, June 14, 1950, 4; Taiwansheng zhengfu gong­ bao, no. 75 (summer 1950): 1124. Zhu Zhaoxiang, Taiyu fangyin fuhao, preface, 1; Guoyu ribao, January 9, 1951, 3. Minsheng ribao, August 8, 1950, 4. Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao 51 (Summer 1951): 628; Guoyu ribao, March 18, 1951, 4. Reiterated in similar directives in November: Guoyu ribao, November 11 and 22, 1951, 4. Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao 29 (Spring 1951): 468. Wang Yuchuan, “Yijian xiaoshi’er.” Zhu Zhaoxiang, Taiyu fangyin fuhao, preface 1. Hsueh Cheng-­Hung, “Guofu qian Tai qianhou,” 129. Directive dated May 28, 1956, in Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 51 (Summer 1956): 628; Zhongguo yuwen 6, no. 6 (1960): 97. Lianhebao, May 3, 1952, 2; September 9, 1952, 4; June 24, 1952, 2. Lianhebao, August 24, 1952, 5. Lianhebao, May 15 and 31, 1953, 4. Zhongguo ribao, June 28, 1956, 2. Taidong xinbao, September 6, 1956, 4. The series included Chao Yuen Ren’s well-­k nown Mandarin Primer, which Zhu Zhao­ xiang translated into Taiwanese phonetic (Taiyu duizhao guoyu huihua).

328 4. Taiwan Babel

172. Guoyu ribao, October 25, 1953, 3; September 21, 1954, 4. 173. Minbao, January 10, 1946, 1; Guoyu ribao, January 28, 1950, 4. 174. “Bingyi fa” (December 29, 1951), Sifa zhuankan, no. 10 (1952): 299–­301; “Bingyi fa shixing fa” (December 4, 1954), Sifa zhuankan, no. 47 (1955): 1869–­76. A two-­year term of military service became mandatory for men between eighteen and forty years old. Zhonghua minguo bingyi faling huibian. 175. Xinbing jiaji guoyu zhengzhi keben; Xinbing yiji guoyu zhengzhi keben. 176. He Rong, Guoyu zhuyin fuhao gailun; Guoyu yundong bainian shilüe, 258–­59. 177. Zhengqi zhonghua, March 3, 1956, 2; September 26, 1956, 2; March 10, 1957, 2. 178. Punishment for speaking dialect in schools became routine in the 1960s. Several subjects in Todd Sandel’s study discussed how the “dog tag” penalty functioned through the 1980s. Sandel, “Leading the Children,” 269–­78. Weber, Peasants Into Frenchmen, 313, describes similar tokens of shame in nineteenth-­century France, which persisted beyond World War I. 179. Huang Zhaotang, “Ichi Taiwan shōkō no shuki.” Silence as protest strategy differed from the “cultural aphasia” of native Taiwanese writers—­forbidden to use Japanese but unable to write in Chinese. Michelle Yeh, “On Our Destitute Dinner Table,” has characterized their plight as that of a “silenced generation.” 180. TPA 001-­31-­100-­36011, October 3, 1947. 181. Hua Songnian, “Dangqian bensheng jige jiaoyu xingzheng wenti.” 182. Minsheng ribao, July 29, 1948, 4. These practices endured into the 1950s, when commemorative architecture still featured Japanese writing. A provincial order directed local governments to erase all written traces of the colonial period. Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 2 (Autumn 1952): 21; no. 7 (Spring 1954): 95. 183. TNA 0038/7000/0001/01/011; 0038/0250/0001/02/025; 0038/031.2/1/002/011; 0038/209/1/​ 0001/036; 0038/311/01/1/014/0001 (December 1949). 184. Allen, Taipei, 82–­85. 185. He Yilin has argued that Taiwanese elites and youths strategically wielded “pro-­Japan” sentiments to express their anger toward the KMT government after the 2-­28 massacre. Kuayue guojing xian, 219–­57. 186. SHA 5/12295/2, 32, July 1947. 187. The essay first appeared serially in Mandarin Daily News (Guoyu ribao, June 11–­July 6, 1951) and was subsequently published as a pamphlet. He Rong, Taiwan xianzai haishi bu yinggai yong Riwen Riyu. 188. KMT archive, Zhonggai hui dang’an, 6.41/133, 4. 189. Minsheng ribao, May 4, 1952, 4. 190. Minsheng ribao, February 15, 1951, 5; Lianhebao, May 5, 1952, 2; February 19, 1956, 3. 191. Shanggong ribao, November  18, 1954, 3. See also Taiwan Historica Archives, 0043610019352002, October 22, 1952; Lianhebao, October 28, 1952, 3; Shanggong ribao, December 5, 1954, 4; Taidong xinbao, February 4, 1956, 4. 192. Lianhebao, May 22, 1955, 5; June 7, 1955, 3. 193. Lianhebao, June 11, 1952, 2; May 1, 1954, 3; Shanggong ribao, October 7, 1954, 4. 194. Lianhebao, January 7, 1955, 5.

4. Taiwan Babel  329

195. Lianhebao, September 6, 1954, 4. 196. Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 63 (Spring 1952): 661; Ziqiang wanbao, July 24, 1955, 3. 197. Lianhebao, June 22, 1952, 6. Sent ashore to procure food and water, the sailors were apprehended for illegal entry and released after eight months in prison. Lianhebao, ­January 8, 1953, 1. 198. Lianhebao, March 9, 1956, 3. 199. Lianhebao, December 7, 1953, 6. 200. Chao and Myers, “How Elections Promoted Democracy in Taiwan”; Liu Yanfu, ed., Tai­ wan xuanju shiwu. 201. Gengshengbao, February 7, 1956, 2. 202. Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 70 (Spring 1952): 734–­35; Taiwan Historica Archives, 0043610019352001, March 15, 1952. The directive was repeated in October 1954. Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 20 (Winter 1954): 250. 203. Lianhebao, November 29, 1952, 4; Taiwan Historica Archives, 0040710025246010, October 8, 1954. 204. Minsheng ribao, January 22, 1954, 2; January 21, 1954, 3; Ziqiang wanbao, July 19, 1955, 4; Shibao, June 1, 1956, 6. 205. Lianhebao, February 21, 1954, 1. 206. Taiwan Historica Archives, 0040710025246011, October  20–­23, 1954. In the 1960s ­government personnel were still reprimanded for speaking Japanese. Minsheng ribao, February 28, 1962, 2; July 18, 1962, 5; August 30, 1965, 7. 207. Taidong xinbao, August 3, 1955, 2. 208. Minsheng ribao, August  4, 1955, 4; Gongshang ribao, August  4, 1955, 4; Lianhebao, August 4, 1955, 5. 209. Lianhebao, May  14, 1955, 3. Four months later Qiu Pan Xiuchun was implicated in a case involving a young woman lured to be sold into prostitution. Gongshang ribao, September 26, 1955, 4. 210. Lianhebao, March 8, 1955, 5. 211. Minsheng ribao, March 5, 1958, 5. 212. Minsheng ribao, December 11, 1955, 4; Taidong xinbao, December 6, 1955, 2. 213. Minsheng ribao, April 17, 1957, 5; TNA 0046/A301/1/1/027 (May 9, 1957); Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 6 (Summer 1958): 83–­84. 214. Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 64 (Spring 1957): 810; “Guoyu yu gongwu.” 215. Minsheng ribao, March 5, 1958, 5; Wang Pingling, “Zhankai xuexiao juyun.” 216. Lianhebao, April 30, 1958, 2. 217. Zhang Boyu, Taiwan diqu guoyu yundong shiliao, 14. 218. This lively area of research in Taiwan has a bibliography too extensive to enumerate. English-­language scholarship has primarily focused on the indigenous rights movement from the early 1990s to the present. Stainton, “The Politics of Taiwan Aboriginal Origins” and “Aborigine Self-­Rule.” For a historical anthropology perspective, see Friedman, “Learning ‘Local’ Languages.” 219. The mountain regions were effectively exempt from the ban on Japanese writing. TPA 001-­61-­601-­39011, 1950; Ou Suying, Taiwan sheng canyihui shiliao huibian, 3:146–­47.

3 30  4. Taiwan Babel

220. 221.

222. 223. 224. 225.

226. 227. 228.

229. 230. 231. 232. 233. 234. 235. 236. 237.

238. 239. 2 40.

241. 242.

A provincial government order in 1953 directed personnel conducting official business in the mountains to first speak in the national language and use Japanese to translate “if the mountain compatriots do not understand.” Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 5 (Spring 1953): 47. Taiwan Historica Archives, 00337000001001, June 1946. The colonial regime segregated rebellious groups in their mountain settlements, in some cases with electrified fences. Education and policing were frequently combined, with military officers doubling as schoolteachers. Barclay, Outcasts of Empire. Guoyu ribao, November 28, 1948, 2; Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 27 (Summer 1950): 423–­24; no. 70 (Summer 1950), 1038; Shanguang zhoukan, September 19, 1953, 1. Mao Shouli, “Wodui shandi guomin,” Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 43 (Autumn 1949): 645. Chiayi xian Ali xiang dabang guoxiao, 5–­7; Morita Kenji, “Sengo Taiwan no sanchi shakai,” 85. Shanren (pseudonym), “Tantan shandi jiaoyu de wenti”; Zhongguo jiaoyu xuehui, ed. Taiwan sheng shandi jiaoyu shikuang, 40, 85; Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 45 (Spring 1954): 579. Lianhebao, July 8, 1954, 3; Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 67 (Spring 1956): 686. Shanguang zhoukan, no. 1 (August 2, 1952): 1. Academia Historica, 004-­0900-­007-­008x, March 27, 1958, 8–­9; Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 40 (Summer 1951), 481; no. 69 (Autumn 1952), 901; no. 77 (Summer 1953), 907–­8; no. 16 (Winter 1955), 179; Lianhebao, September 22, 1952, 3. Zhongguo jiaoyu xuehui, ed. Taiwan sheng shandi jiaoyu shikuang, 49–­53. Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 4 (1954): 69; no. 18 (1958): 259–­60. Lianhebao, August 10, 1953, 5. Shanguang zhoukan, March 21, 1953, 1; April 11, 1953, 1. See also Zhongyang ribao, June 25, 1952, 3. Peng Ruibao, “Xionglin shandi de guoyu jiaoxue”; Taiwan sheng shandi jiaoyu shikuang, 65, 71, 73. Lianhebao, August 6, 1952, 6; Shanguang zhoukan, March 20, 1954, 1. Kong Min, “Zai shandi tuixing guoyu jingyan yide.” Shanguang zhoukan, September 18, 1954, 1, 4; September 25, 1954, 1. Lianhebao, September 21, 1952, 3; Taiwan Historica Archive 0041232022271017, June 1953, 1–­4; Lianhebao, September 28, 1953, 3; Taiwan sheng zhengfu gongbao, no. 44 (Winter 1954): 586; no. 45 (Winter 1958): 682. Gengshengbao, April 3, 1955, 2. Gengshengbao, January 24, 1957, 4. Japanese remained a medium of spoken communication in some indigenous villages into the 1990s. Huang, “Ethnic Diversity,” 146. Shibao, January 13, 1959, 3. Chao was scheduled to be in Japan as a Fulbright research scholar from April to September 1959. Friends and colleagues persuaded him to visit Taiwan before heading to Tokyo. Liang Rongruo, “Tan guoyu jiaoyu qiantu.” Chao Yuen Ren, Yuyan wenti, 120; Fang Shiduo, “Guoyin biaozhun zihui.”

5. T he Common Language of New C hina 331

243. Qingzhu Taiwan guangfu sishi zhounian, 1:12–­15; Shibao, February 18, 1959, 3. 244. He Rong, preface to Guoyu jiaoyu. 245. Qingzhu Taiwan guangfu sishi zhounian, 1:59–­61. This argument, construing the Hanyu pinyin phonetic in the PRC as a form of Latinization, was true to the extent that pinyin adopted the Latin alphabet.

5. THE COMMON LANGUAGE OF NEW CHINA “Script reform” is the literal translation for wenzi gaige. Since its purview exceeded writing to include issues related to speech, I have rendered it as “language reform.” 2. Wu Yuzhang, “Kaimu ci” and “Wenzi bixu zai yiding tiaojian xia jiayi gaige.” 3. Yi Gaochao, “Mao Zedong de laoshi men,” 342–­43. 4. Ma Shulun, “Zhongguo wenzi gaige,” 4. 5. DeFrancis, “Mao Tse-­tung and Writing Reform,” 139–­42. Before his death, Zhou ­Youguang revealed to Peter Hessler that the decisive factor was Stalin, who reportedly told Mao that China should have its own “Chinese form of writing.” Hessler, Oracle Bones, 417. 6. Renmin ribao, February 5, 1955, 2. In addition, the committee started the process of winnowing variant forms. Chen Guangyao, Jianhua Hanzi ziti shuoming. 7. Three months later the State Council authorized a “simplified script scheme” for use. “Guowuyuan guanyu gongbu Hanzi jianhua fang’an de jueyi.” 8. “Ye Laishi daibiao de fayan.” 9. On the fate of the Cyrillic option, see Yan Li, China’s Soviet Dream, 70–­72. 10. Diyici quanguo wenzi gaige huiyi wenjian huibian, 237; conference resolution #8, 217. 11. “Zhonggong Zhongyang guanyu wenzi gaige gongzuo,” 8:91–­92; Tsu, Kingdom of Char­ acters, 203–­10. 12. Zhang Xiruo, “Dali tuiguang,” 39. 13. Zhang Xiruo, “Dali tuiguang,” 38–­39. Zhang averred that while the KMT’s “national language” movement contributed a modicum of value, its fate—­destined to fail—­ mirrored that of its sponsoring regime. 14. Zhang Xiruo, “Dali tuiguang,” 42. 15. The Education Ministry identified zhuyin zimu as an “essential tool” for primary schools and sent zhuyin recordings and textbooks to local education departments. 16. “Luo Ruomei daibiao de fayan” and “Xue Changshou daibiao de fayan,” 182–­93. 17. “Sun Peijun daibiao de fayan,” 177. 18. “Xue Changshou daibiao de fayan,” 184–­85. 19. “Luo Ruomei daibiao de fayan,” 189–­93. 20. Hu Qiaomu was later the chief editor of The Selected Works of Mao Zedong and supervised the drafting of the 1981 “Resolution on Party History.” 21. Hu Qiaomu, “Zai quanguo wenzi gaige huiyi shang de fayan,” 112–­13, 118. The published conference proceedings provided a précis of Hu’s speech but omitted the full text. It was distributed as an “internal document” (SMA B105-­7-­30, 16) and published in Hu’s 1.

3 3 2  5 . T he Common Language of New China

22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27. 28. 29.

30.

31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42.

43. 44.

collected works in 1999. See also Liu Yanglie, “Putonghua weishenme yi Beijing yuyin wei biaozhunyin?” Hu Qiaomu, “Zai quanguo wenzi gaige huiyi shang de fayan,” 115, 119, 108. “Wei cujin Hanzi gaige.” Participants included representatives from education, publishing, broadcasting, film, theater, music, and the literary world. Seven experts from the Soviet Union, Poland, Romania, and North Korea also attended. Xiandai Hanyu guifan wenti, 216–­17. The participants largely agreed to forgo the fifth tone rusheng and sharp/rounded initial differentiation. Xiandai hanyu guifan wenti, 228–­29, 179. Xiandai hanyu guifan wenti, 218–­21. Wang Dongjie, “Guanhua, guoyu, putonghua.” As Qu Qiubai put it, “The putonghua of China is not the so-­called national language of bureaucrats.” Song Yang (Qu Qiubai), “Dazhong wenyi de wenti.” Hu Shi famously offered a definition that equated guoyu with putonghua: “What we call guoyu refers to a putonghua that is largely the same, with only minor differences, in the region extending from the Great Wall to the Yangtze River, from the three eastern to the three southwestern provinces.” Hu Shi, “Guoyu yundong de lishi.” Zhang Xiruo, “Dali tuiguang.” This became the shorthand explanation, repeated throughout the campaign. Putonghua langdu keben, 1–­3. Zhou Tiejing and Xun Lianggong, “Women zenyang xuanze biaozhunyu”; Liu Zexian, “Putonghua yu biaozhunyin.” Xian Dan, “Beijing tuhua bing bushi putonghua.” Zhou Zumo, “Putonghua de zhengyin wenti.” Ni Haishu, “Yinggai ba putonghua de gainian.” E.g., “Wei cujin Hanzi gaige”; Lao She, “Dali tuiguang putonghua”; Wang Li, “Lun tuiguang putonghua.” Contemporary definitions of putonghua omit the phrase “shared language of the Han nationality.” “Wang Li daibiao de fayan.” Cao Shuduan, “Women you xinxin xuehao.” Zhao Minzhi, “Kefu yiqie kunnan.” Pepper, Radicalism and Education Reform, 192–­216. To make matters worse, “rejects” populated the teaching ranks. Eddy U found that Shanghai government agencies disposed of undesirable employees by transferring them to secondary schools, where they received haphazard training to become teachers. U, “The Hiring of Rejects.” Zhang Dihua, “Tan luanban”; White, Policies of Chaos, 136–­38. “Buxu qishi xiaoxue jiaoshi”; Chen Yuan, “Ba renmin jiaoshi de diwei”; Jing Shihua, “Fandui qingshi jiaoshi.” According to Peterson, most rural schoolteachers in Guangdong lived in destitution in the 1950s. Peterson, Power of Words, 62–­63.

5. T he Common L anguage of N ew China 333

45. A different kind of “chaos” originated from external sources, when government agencies “borrowed” teachers and school administrators for extended periods of time—­to perform clerical duties, staff adult literacy classes, collect taxes, or repair dykes. Village and district governments appropriated school grounds and classrooms for meetings or theatrical performances. Renmin ribao, March 17, 1953, 3; Jiaoshi bao, November 30, 1956, 1. 46. Tao Houmin, “Jianglai buhui shuo putonghua.” 47. Ping Zhu, “Introduction: The Study of Laughter in the Mao Era.” 48. Zhang Xiruo, “Dajia doulai tuiguang he xuexi putonghua,” 24–­26. 49. Zhou Shu, “Tuiguang putonghua zhong de sixiang wenti,” 7. 50. Rao Xiaowen, “Zai woguo fangyan fuza qingkuang xia.” 51. Zhang Gonggui joined the faculty of Nanjing Normal University in 1955 and led the dialect survey work for Shanghai and Jiangsu. 52. Quoting Renmin ribao editorial, October 26, 1955, 1. 53. Zhang Gonggui, “Yinggai jiechu xue putonghua.” 54. Yang Yiqiang, “Chaoxiao bieren xueshuo putonghua”; Tao Houmin, “Jianglai buhui shuo putonghua.” 55. Tang Tinggao, “Dadan xuexi putonghua”; Zheng Yi, “Tan putonghua de xuexi”; Zhu Boshi, “Yuwen jiaoshi”; Lin Handa, “Jiechu sixiang gulü.” 56. For an illuminating discussion of the affective differences embedded in the judgment bu haoting, see Blum, “Good to Hear.” 57. “Jiaoshimen yingdang chengwei tuiguang putonghua de jiji fenzi”; Zhou Shu, “Tuiguang putonghua,” 7. 58. Chen Shiyuan, “Jiao xuesheng jianghao putonghua.” 59. SMA B-­105-­7-­30, 3. 60. Jiang Xi, “Yingdang guli shuo putonghua,” 28. 61. “Jiaoshimen yingdang chengwei tuiguang putonghua de jiji fenzi.” 62. Zhang Zhou, Weishenme yao tuiguang putonghua, 18. 63. Zhu Boshi, “Yuwen jiaoshi.” Zhu taught at Central China Normal University from 1956 to 1987. 64. Zou Yiming, “Zai putonghua jiaoxue zhong.” The phrase is 难听的怪调. 65. “Lin Dafen daibiao de shumian fayan.” 66. “Guowuyuan guanyu tuiguang putonghua de zhishi,” February 6, 1956, published in Renmin ribao, February 12, 1956, and other forums. 67. Xu Shirong, “Jiaoxue Beijing yuyin,” 6. Xu Shirong (1912–­1997) was vice director in the Education Ministry’s putonghua division (1956–­1959), a member of the putonghua audit committee (1957–­1963), and the voice of putonghua lessons on Central Broadcasting Station. 68. Xu Shirong, “Jiaoxue Beijing yuyin,” 6–­7. 69. “Hubei sheng dier jie Beijing yuyin jiangshi lianxiban,” 113. 70. Zhang Gonggui, “Jiangsu sheng zhong xiaoxue.” 71. SMA B105-­7-­27/2, 3–­10; B105-­7-­27, 33–­35; B105-­7-­26, 13–­14.

3 3 4  5 . T he Common L anguage of N ew China

72. SMA B105-­7-­33, 1–­7. The first class of graduates, unable to find suitable positions after they returned home, could not put their extensive training to productive use. SMA B105-­ 7-­33, 63. 73. SMA B105-­7-­33, 23. 74. Shi Xiaoren, “Canjia putonghua yuyin yanjiu ban.” The Education Ministry discontinued the class in 1961, after conducting nine sessions with 1,666 graduates. Yao Xishuang, “Putonghua shuiping.” 75. Lynn White argues that the mass campaign approach to policy implementation reduced short-­term administrative costs and compelled compliance through fear and/or violence. White, Policies of Chaos, 8–­9, 17–­18. 76. SMA B105-­7-­32, 32–­34. 77. A Bi, “Jiaoxue putonghua.” 78. Jiaoshibao, August 3, 1956, 3; Chuyi Hanyu shijiao zongjie, 75–­78. 79. Zhang Gonggui, “Zenyang jiaoxue Beijing yuyin”; “Jiangsu sheng zhong xiaoxue,” 81–­ 82, 86–­87. The “analysis-­s ynthesis method” (分析综合), deemed highly “scientific,” received some attention but little traction. The approach requires disaggregating ­sentences and words into individual phonemes, analyzing their properties, and recombining them into words and syllables. Zhang Gonggui, Pinyin jiaoxue jianghua, 12–­13; Jiaoshibao August 28, 1956, 3. 80. “Beijing yuyin jiaoxue de jidian tihui.” 81. Xiaoxue putonghua jiaoxue, 2, 37–­38. 82. Beijing yuyin xunlianban jiaocai; Zhang Gonggui, Putonghua fayin duben; Yuyin jichu zhishi. 83. A new middle school language textbook, for instance, introduced “basic knowledge of  pronunciation” with thirty-­nine zhuyin letters. Zhang Zhigong, Chuji zhongxue keben, 39. 84. Chuyi Hanyu shijiao zongjie, 76, 79. 85. E.g., Zhu Xing, Zenyang xuexi putonghua; Yuyin jichu zhishi, 3. 86. “Changyong Hanzi pinyin biao (caogao).” 87. SMA B105-­7-­28, 60. 88. “Guanyu xiaoxue yinianji yuwen jiaoxue”; SMA B105-­7-­27, 28. 89. Zhu Xing, Zenyang xuexi putonghua, 7. 90. Jiaoshi bao, March 12, 1957, 3. 91. Jiang Cheng, Biaozhun yin shengdiao lianxi, 1. 92. Yuwen jiaoxue zhuanji, 81–­82. 93. Huang Qi, “Tan sisheng”; Xu Shirong, “Zenyang xuexi Beijing yuyin.” Chao Yuen Ren wrote his first essay on the topic using IPA (“A System of Tone Letters”). 94. Xu Shirong, “Zenyang xuexi Beijing yuyin.” 95. “Changyong Hanzi pinyin biao (caogao).” The audit committee released its first chart  of “variant pronunciations” in October  1957. After more than six months of deliberations, committee members were “approaching unanimity.” “Putonghua yiduci shenyinbiao.” 96. Shanxi sheng jiaoyuting zhongdeng xuexiao yuwen jiaoshi, 142–­54.

5. T he Common Language of New C hina 3 35

97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104.

105.

106. 107. 108.

109. 110. 111. 112.

113. 114. 115. 116. 117. 118.

119. 120. 121.

Xu Shirong, “Zenyang xuexi Beijing yuyin.” Jiaoshi bao, February 26, 1957, 3. Yue Sibing, Zenyang jiaoxue putonghua, 1–­17. Zhan Bohui, ed., Hanyu fangyan ji fangyan diaocha, 32–­35. “Gaodeng jiaoyu bu, jiaoyu bu guanyu Hanyu fangyan pucha.” Tam, Dialect and Nationalism in China, 170–­79; Li Rong, “Zenyang bianxie.” SMA B105-­7-­298, 13–­14. In 1960 the Language Reform Committee instructed the laggards to complete the surveys expeditiously. SMA B105-­7-­873, 1–­2. Zhan Bohui, ed., Hanyu fangyan ji fangyan diaocha, 36–­37. Although intended for nonspecialists, the handbooks assumed an audience with more than a primary school education. Zhan Bohui, “Youguan bianxie ‘xuehua shouce.’ ” Wang Liaoyi (Wang Li), Jiang-­Zhe ren zenyang xuexi guoyu (1936); Wang Li, Jiang-­Zhe ren zenyang xuexi putonghua (1955). Minor changes updated the text to reflect post-­1949 reality: putonghua replaced guoyu, and references to money were deleted to remove capitalist connotations. Wang Liaoyi, Guangdong ren xuexi guoyu fa (1951); Wang Li, Guangdong ren zenyang xuexi putonghua (1955). Zhao Zhiwu and Sun Chengzong, “Liaoning ren xuexi putonghua,” preface. Zhan Bohui, Wuhan ren zenyang xuexi putonghua, 9–­10. The well-­k nown proverb is cited in Sunzi’s The Art of War. Zhan Bohui graduated from Zhongshan University (Guangzhou) in 1953, where Wang Li was his teacher. Hu Qiaomu, 115, 118–­19; “Wei cujin Hanzi gaige.” Zhan quoted the same proverb in an article introducing Wang Li’s how-­to guides. Zhan Bohui, “Jieshao liang ben.” Zhan Bohui, Wuhan ren zenyang xuexi putonghua, 2, 10–­19. Zhang Weigang, “Fangyan diqu.” Although he did not reference it, Zhang’s views were surely informed by the years he spent proselytizing for the KMT’s national language (chapter 4). In the 1950s he taught in the linguistics department at South China Normal University and participated in the 1955 standardization symposium. A Bi, “Jiaoxue putonghua.” Gao Mingkai and Li Tao, Fuzhou ren zenyang xuexi putonghua, 111. Zhang Gonggui, “Tongguo fangyin lai zhangwo.” Zhu Xing, Zenyang xuexi putonghua, 5–­6; Bo Liangxun, “Beifang ren yao bu yao xuexi biaozhunyin.” Shi Chengji, “Zai fangyan qu jiaoxue yuyin.” Carolyn Cartier, Globalizing South China, 41, observes that South China has been mapped, at the largest scale, as half of the country south of the Yellow River. At the smallest scale, it is the area around the Pearl River delta in Guangdong. Zhang Gonggui, “Jiangsu sheng zhong xiaoxue,” 97. Zhang Weigang, “Fangyan diqu,” 6–­8. Peterson, The Power of Words, chap. 7. In 1960 provincial leaders experimented with dialect-­phonetics for literacy training, in defiance of the mandate to use the pinyin based on Beijing pronunciation.

3 3 6  5 . T he Common Language of New China

122.

123. 124. 125. 126.

127. 128. 129. 130.

131. 132. 133.

134. 135. 136. 137. 138. 139. 140. 141. 142. 143. 144. 145. 146. 147. 1 48. 149. 150.

XNCR’s equipment consisted of a microphone, a hand-­crank gramophone, some twenty music records, and a dictionary for checking the pronunciation of unfamiliar words. Xiao Yan, “Yan’an boyin shenghuo huiyi,” 111–­14. Peng Fangqun, Zhengzhi chuanbo shijiao xia, 60–­65. Tianjin ribao, June 23, 1949; Guangbo aihaozhe, no. 1 (1956): 30; Jie Li, “Revolutionary Echoes,” 41. Guangdong sheng zhi—­Guangbo dianshi zhi, 95–­96, 130; Zhao Kai, ed., Shanghai guangbo dianshi zhi, 196–­97, 333; Neimenggu guangbo dianshi zhi, 14–­18, 67–­70. Jie Li, “Revolutionary Echoes,” 31–­35; Liu, Communications and National Integration, 120. From 1955 to 1956, installed loudspeakers jumped from approximately 90,000 to more than 500,000. By the Cultural Revolution, 93 million loudspeakers blanketed the country, achieving an intensive degree of political penetration. Wu Xiaoling, “Guangbo gongzuo zhe he Hanyu guifanhua.” Ye Shengtao, “Guangbo gongzuo gen yuyan guifanhua.” SMA C43-­1-­69693, 70; Wu Xiaoling, “Guangbo gongzuo zhe he Hanyu guifanhua,” 4. Zhang Yanhui, “Wode sixiang jiancha.” The tone should be conversational, so that peasants feel that you are talking with them, not reproaching them from above. “Dui nongmin guangbo de yuyan.” Zheng Linxi, “Rang guangbo yuyan.” SMA B107-­7-­21/1, 12–­74. Guangming ribao, May 6, 1956, 2; Suzhou Municipal Archive I43-­001-­0099-­173; Xu Shirong, Putonghua yuyin jiaoxue. Those keen to review could consult the transcripts published in Teachers’ News or the companion textbook. Zhou Enlai, “Dangqian wenzi gaige de renwu.” SMA B1-­2-­1901/2, 63; B105-­8-­21/2, 12–­16. “Guangbo shiyeju guanyu tuiguang putonghua de zhishi.” Zhou Xinwu, “Putonghua guangbo jiemu.” “Dui nongmin guangbo de yuyan”; “Fahui guangbo zhan”; “Cong san fangmian gaijin.” “Nongcun guangbo zhong de jige wenti.” Yuan Zixi, “Zhongyang tai yu difang tai.” Xie Juezhai, “Riyi fazhan de guangbo shiye.” Hong Shichang, “Guangboyuan Liu Xiaoyun.” Wu Peide, “Pingfan de ren.” Xiaobing Li, A History of the Modern Chinese Army, 8–­11. “Jiefangjun zong zhengzhibu tongzhi.” Xu Xin, “Budui zhong.” Na Di, “Dajia doushuo putonghua.” Models abound in the Mao era. Among many examples: Hershatter, The Gender of Memory, chap. 8; Friedman et al., Chinese Village, Socialist State. “Jiji tuiguang putonghua,” Jiefangjun bao, February 18, 1956, 1. Na Di, “Ruwu yinian nei.”

5. T he Common Language of New C hina 337

151. Jiefangjun bao, February 16, 1956, 3. Seven years later a report from the Propaganda Department of the Guangzhou Military Region cited similar sentiments. “Budui liyong Hanyu pinyin,” 26–­27. 152. Wan Quan, “Laobing, zhe liang ge zi.” In 1956 the PLA’s Political General Department referred to those who enlisted before 1954 as “old soldiers.” “Zong zhengzhi bu guanyu zhuyi zai laobing zhongjian.” 153. Yang Qixun, “Dajia lai xue putonghua”; “Qilian de xinbingmen”; Zuo Guangyuan, “Xuehui zhangwo xunlian.” 154. Chen Wenbao, “Dongzu xinbing.” 155. Jiefangjun bao, June 5, 1956, 3. 156. Jiefangjun bao, February 23, 1956, 3. 157. Jiefangjun bao, July 28, 1956, 3. 158. On xiangsheng in the early PRC, see Link, “The Crocodile Bird.” 159. “Nanqiang beidiao.” 160. Li Hongchun, “Bu yinggai chaoxiao bieren.” 161. On Hundred Flowers, see Teiwes, Politics and Purges in China, 211–­74. 162. Li’s letter regarding the #51 Military Hospital fits Chu and Chu’s analysis of letters published in the People’s Daily, as an exposé inviting intervention. Chu and Chu, “Mass Media and Conflict Resolution.” 163. In the case of East Germany, Peter Sperlich is more skeptical about the question of authenticity. He shows how letters to the editor were deployed to register popular support for the regime’s policies or wielded as ammunition in factional struggles, with dual functions as channel for instructions “from above” and outlet for grievances “from below.” Sperlich, Oppression and Scarcity, 164–­73. 164. “Chaoxiao xue putonghua,” Jiefangjun bao, May 22, 1956, 3. 165. Liu Delan, “Jiaxiang de hua.” 166. Wang Li, “Tantan xuexi putonghua,” 15–­17. 167. She Hua, “Putonghua jiaoxue.” 168. SMA B105-­5-­1689, 42–­49, report dated November 1956. 169. Tuiguang putonghua jianbao, no. 1 (1956): 1. The perception “the high tide of putong­ hua has passed” peppered the discussion. Guangming ribao, January 16, 1957, 3. 170. SMA B105-­5-­1689, 46. 171. Xiaoxue jiaoyu tongxun, no. 18 (1956): 18; no. 21 (1956): 25. 172. A system of appointing cadres without qualifications or experience to lead schools engendered a crisis in secondary schools during the Mao era. With rampant conflicts, indifference, and abuse, teacher qualifications were abysmal into the 1960s. U, Disor­ ganizing China. 173. My thanks to Julia Kreblinska and Trenton Wilson for their suggestions on translating this joke. 174. SMA B105-­5-­1689, 47–­48. 175. Quanguo tuiguang putonghua gongzuo qingkuang jianbao, no. 5 (1956); no. 6 (1956). 176. SMA B1-­2-­1901/2, 37–­38.

3 3 8  5 . T he Common L anguage of N ew China

177. 178. 179. 180. 181. 182. 183. 184. 185. 186. 187. 188. 189. 190.

191. 192.

193. 194.

195.

196. 197. 198.

SMA B1-­2-­1901/2, 39–­40, 65. SMA B105-­7-­297, 8–­13. SMA B105-­7-­20, 6–­7. Chen Runzhai, “Genju shiji qingkuang.” Fei Weirong, “Xuexiao zhong weishenme bu zhongshi putonghua.” Yu Jinyan, “Gujun zuozhan.” See also Guangming ribao, February 13, 1957, 3; Jiaoshi bao, March 12, 1957, 3. Zhao Wanrong, “Yi ge huaji de baogao.” SMA B105-­7-­25, 1–­28. MacFarquhar, The Origins of the Cultural Revolution, 1:270–­95. A front-­page editorial in the People’s Daily, June 8, 1957, signaled the shift. SMA B105-­7-­25, 1–­4. SMA B105-­7-­25, 6–­7, 10, 13. SMA B105-­7-­25, 15–­22, 24–­28. Jiaoshi bao, July 5, 1957, 1; Wenzi gaige, no. 8 (1957): 49. Yu Ziyi did not attend the meeting in Beijing. In retrospect, Yu’s affiliation with the Association for the Promotion of Democracy spelled his doom. Leaders of United Front parties were among the first targeted during the anti-­r ightist campaign. Yu’s connection to nationally denounced rightists and senior members of the Zhejiang political establishment exacerbated his dilemma. Zhejiang ribao, June 4, 1957, 1. “Jianjue yu Yu Ziyi de youpai yanlun.” One accusation harkened back to writings from the 1930s and alleged that Yu peddled Dewey’s pseudo-­scientific theories. Zhu Qile, “Yu Ziyi de zhengzhi lichang.” A special issue of the journal Primary Education Bulletin documented the full extent of his crimes (November 1957). Nie Ruchuan, “Jiefa Yu Ziyi.” Yu died in 1970 and was posthumously rehabilitated in 1979. Seybolt and Chiang, “Introduction,” 3–­5. Chen Mengjia, the most outspoken critic of simplification, was sent to a labor camp in 1957 and committed suicide during the Cultural Revolution. Overall, more than one million people were punished as “rightists” in this campaign. Wang Li’s views on linguistics and higher education landed him in a world of trouble in 1958. Two of his essays were singled out for criticism as “poisonous weeds” during the anti-­rightist campaign. A dutiful self-­criticism won him a reprieve until the Cultural Revolution. Seybolt and Chiang, Language Reform in China, 260–­87; Zhang Gu and Wang Jiguo, Wang Li zhuan, 120–­22, 285–­86. Ministry of Education memo, August 21, 1957, in SMA B105-­7-­18, 25–­26; Renmin ribao, December 25, 1957, 7. Zhou Enlai, “Dangqian wenzi gaige de renwu.” Wenzi gaige, no. 12 (1958): 27; no. 16 (1958): 19. Other examples cited in Jiaoshi bao, June 20, 1958, 2; Suzhou Municipal Archive A03-­005-­0032-­156, 156.

5. T he Common L anguage of N ew China 3 39

199. “Jiasu tuiguang putonghua,” Renmin ribao, June 21, 1958, 7. 200. “Fujian yi ge xiang de qiji.” 201. Wenzi gaige, no. 7 (1958): 17–­18. Chen was skilled at agriculture and dedicated to eliminating the four pests. She reportedly carried a sparrow gun at all times. 2 02. Guangming ribao, September 22, 1958, 6. 203. Approved by National People’s Congress on February 11, 1958. 204. Chen Jinsi, “Da xianfeng tuiguang putonghua”; Chen Jinsi, “Xuexi Hanyu pinyin”; Zhou Xiaocheng, “Wushan jianwen.” 205. Renmin ribao, August 25, 1958, 7; September 6, 1958, 7. The provincial government published a book summarizing the Datian miracle, Tuiguang putonghua de hongqi. 206. Chen Runzhai, “Zhengqu putonghua tuiguang gongzuo.” 207. Lei Pu, “Shi qiji, yeshi baogui jingyan.” 208. The putonghua demonstration forums continued the trajectory of similarly named “teaching achievements” events as well as national language speech contests from the pre-­1949 era. The “observation and emulation” mode tallies with Denise Ho’s findings in Curating Revolution. Her focus on objects differs from the performers at the heart of the putonghua conferences. 209. Diyijie quanguo putonghua jiaoxue chengji guanmohui. 210. SMA B105-­7-­289, 98–­100; B105-­7-­289/2, 5–­16. Participation was restricted: students who learned putonghua since 1955; teachers “originally unable to use putonghua as the medium of instruction,” who now excelled. 211. Zhao Deshan, “Qingdao shunxing lu xiaoxue.” 212. “Quanguo putonghua jiaoxue chengji guanmohui”; Wenzi gaige no. 9 (1958): 1–­2; Anhui jiaoyu, no. 8–­9 (1958): 8. 213. SMA C21-­2-­1233, 1–­7; Guangming ribao, March 30, 1958, 2. 214. SMA C21-­2-­1233, 15–­19; Zhongguo qingnian bao, February 24, 1958, 1. 215. Dierci quanguo putonghua jiaoxue chengji guanmohui, 3–­4, 84–­87. 216. “Tongguo jiancha, tigao putonghua jiaoxue zhiliang.” 217. Wenzi gaige, no. 2 (1959): 6. 218. Mai Zhonglin, “Xiaoxue yuwen.” 219. Wei Jiangong, “Cong guoyu yundong,” 155–­58. 220. SMA B105-­7-­546, 1–­5; B105-­8-­46, 8–­9, 50–­57. 221. SMA A31-­2-­96, 5–­14. 222. SMA B105-­7-­882, 5–­12. 223. SMA A31-­2-­74–­74, 2–­8; A31–­2-­74–­82, 1–­3. 224. Mao Zhuxi de hao zhanshi—­Lei Feng, 48–­50. 225. Smith, “Rethinking the History of Maoist China,” 190. 226. Smith, “Talking Toads”; Wang, “The Dilemma of Implementation”; Diamant, Revolu­ tionizing the Family; Altehenger, Legal Lessons. 227. Shue, “Epilogue,” 375. 228. Schoenhals, Doing Things with Words; Ji, Linguistic Engineering. 229. “Zhongyang shouzhang zai Beijing daxue de jianghua,” July 26, 1966.

3 40  E pilogue

EPILOGUE 1.



2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

The draft version stated: “The State promotes the nationwide use of putonghua, in order to facilitate the development of cultural and education matters.” The final version omitted the second half of the sentence. Articles 4, 121, and 134 granted “all nationalities” the freedom to use their own spoken and written languages. Subsequent amendments (most recently in 2018) preserved these provisions. Xu Shirong, “Guojia tuixing quanguo tongyong de putonghua.” Lü Shuxiang, “Renzhen tuiguang putonghua.” “Zuo tuiguang putonghua de cujinpai.” Chen Xiang, “Lingdao zhongshi.” “Ba wenzi gaige de huoyan jixu ranshao xiaqu.” Zheng Linxi, “Zancheng ba tuixing putonghua xiejin xianfa”; Yang Chengkun, “Fenji tuiguang putonghua”; Xu Shirong, “Guojia tuixing quanguo tongyong de putonghua”; Zhang Ming, “Huiyi putonghua yuyin yanjiuban.” “Jiaqiang putonghua he Hanyu pinyin jiaoxue gongzuo”; “Jiaoyubu guanyu jiaqiang xuexiao putonghua.” Li Nan and Yu Jixiang, “Jiaoxue putonghua.” Xu Shirong, “Shizi jiushi dongli.” Chen Lianqing, “Nanqiang beidiao de liegen xing.” E.g., Jiefangjun bao, March 8, 1980. Jiefangjun bao, March 14, 1984. Ji Chuandong, “Xiangyin danggai.” Wang Li, “Quanguo gaodeng xuexiao wenzi gaige.” Wu Runyi and Yin Binyong, “Putonghua shehui diaocha.” “Yiwu jiaoyu fa” (1986), 540–­42. An exemption for schools with majority “ethnic minority” students permitted “the language in common use.” Putonghua shenyin weiyuanhui, Putonghua yiduci shenyinbiao. The committee, mindful of precedent and common usage, was reluctant to introduce too many changes. Shi Dingguo, “Tan putonghua yiduci.” Tang Yu, “Guanyu putonghua yiduci shenyinbiao”; Yu Zhongming, “Xiandai Hanyu Cidian”; Peng Hong, “Boyin guifan.” Yu Zhangrui, “Hu Qiaomu zai quanguo yuwen wenzi gongzuo huiyi”; “Guanyu woguo dangqian de yuyan wenzi gongzuo,” 40–­41. Rohsenow, “Fifty Years.” See Ping Chen, Modern Chinese, 159–­62, for a technical discussion of the second simplification scheme. Liu Daosheng, “Xin shiqi de yuyan wenzi gongzuo,” 24–­28; Ping Chen, Modern ­Chinese, 27. Li Zhongying, “Diaodong ge fangmian liliang,” 133; Li Yuqing, “Jianchi ‘shuangtui’ sanshinian,” 173, 177. Li Yuqing, “Jianchi ‘shuangtui’ sanshinian.” “Nuli zuohao xin shiqi de yuyan wenzi gongzuo”; “Guanyu woguo dangqian de yuyan wenzi gongzuo,” 41.

Epilogue  341

26. Li Ding, “Yong putonghua tongyi Shenzhen yuyan.” 27. Tang Ruizhen, “Ba shifan xuexiao jianshe”; Dai Meifang, “Zhazha shishi de zuohao,” 202–­8. 28. Chen Xiang, “Lingdao zhongshi.” 29. Dai Meifang, “Zhazha shishi de zuohao,” 202–­8. 30. (1) Quite standard with very few mistakes in lexicon, pronunciation, and grammar; (2) relatively standard with not-­too-­t hick dialect accent, relatively few mistakes in lexicon and grammar; (3) ordinary putonghua, comprehensible to people from different dialect regions. Liu Daosheng, “Xin shiqi de yuyan wenzi gongzuo,” 25–­26. 31. Lu Yunzhong, “Putonghua shuiping.” 32. Guojia jiaoyu weiyuanhui zhengbao, no. 12 (1992): 24–­27. 33. Liu Zhaoxiong, Putonghua shuiping ceshi dagang, 6–­9. 34. Tuiguang putonghua wenjian ziliao huibian, 107–­16, 125–­27, 163–­64. 35. Lu Kai, “Yunnan putonghua,” 40. 36. Tuiguang putonghua wenjian ziliao huibian, 163–­64. Those born before 1954 were exempt but encouraged to “work hard to elevate putonghua proficiency level.” 37. Lu Kai, “Yunnan putonghua,” 41–­42. 38. Tongdao Zhang, “Chinese Television Audience Research,” 172–­73, 244–­48. Rural television ownership increased from less than 1 per 100 households in 1980 to 17 in 1986. Jinglu Yu, “Chinese Television,” 72–­74. 39. “Guanyu guangbo, dianying, dianshi zhengque shiyong yuyan wenzi.” 40. Zhou Youguang, “Putonghua he xiandaihua.” 41. Zhang Jun and Zhao Yan, “Shilun guangbo dianshi,” 37–­39. 42. Sun Xiuzhang, “Dianshi xinwen boyin.” 43. Zhang Jun and Zhao Yan, “Shilun guangbo dianshi,” 37–­39. 44. Peng Hong “Boyin guifan,” 43. 45. Ying Zhu, Two Billion Eyes, chap. 4. 46. Gunn, Rendering the Regional, 124–­50. 47. Xu Jialu, “Kaituo yuyan wenzi gongzuo.” 48. “Dali tuiguang putonghua,” 1. 49. Xu Jialu, “Tigao renshi, qixin xieli.” 50. Zhou Youguang, “Putonghua he xiandaihua.” 51. On the shifting sociolinguistic terrain of the 1970s, see Kubler, The Development of Man­ darin in Taiwan. 52. “Guangbo dianshi fa” (1975), articles 19 and 20; Rawnsley, “Communication of Identities,” 153. 53. Chen Meiru, Taiwan yuyan jiaoyu zhengce, 1–­2, 94–­98, poem quoted on 71–­72; Sandel, “Linguistic Capital.” 54. Gates, “Ethnicity and Social Class,” 260–­66. When Gates taught English in the 1970s at a national-­level government agency, lower-­ranking bureaucrats spoke Minnanhua and switched to Japanese when discussing technical matters. Older department managers spoke no guoyu at all. 55. Cai Mingxian, “Jieyan qianhou Taiwan muyu yundong de faqi,” 48–­49.

342 E pilogue

56. Lianhebao, October 31, 1985, 2; Zhongyang ribao, December 20, 1985, 1. When the premier announced that the proposed law had been dropped from the legislative agenda, one editorial declared: “Good riddance.” Lianhebao, December 20, 1985, 5. 57. A descendent of the Song dynasty scholar Zhu Xi (twenty-­sixth generation) and a founding member of the DPP, Chu Kao-­cheng was notorious for his unruly behavior in legislative sessions. The foreign press nicknamed him Mr. Rambo. Shira, “Taipei Journal.” 58. Lifayuan gongbao 76, no. 23 (1987): 6–­29. 59. Lifayuan gongbao 76, no. 23 (1987): 34–­39. 60. Taiwan sheng yihui gongbao 59:4, 372–­73; Lianhebao, April 9, 1987, 2. 61. “Taiwanhua,” Lianhebao, April 10, 1987, 3. 62. Minjinbao zhoukan, no. 78 (September 9, 1988): 26–­27. On the early history of the DPP, see Rigger, From Opposition to Power, chap. 2. 63. Huang Xuanfan, Yuyan, shehui yu zuqun yishi, 56–­57. 64. The estimates for participants range from three thousand to more than thirteen thousand. Ten thousand is the most commonly cited figure. Zhongyang ribao, December 29, 1988, 10; Huang Xuanfan, Yuyan, shehui yu zuqun yishi, 58. 65. Kejia fengyun, no. 15 (1989): 16–­21; Lianhebao, December 29, 1988, 4; Zeng Lanshu, “Kejia yundong 30 nian.” 66. According to Lin’s account in “Manman Kejia lu,” twenty years later. 67. Stainton, “Aboriginal Self-­Government.” The group’s name was 臺灣原住民權利促進會, and its preferred English translation was the Alliance of Taiwan Aborigines. 68. The story of Wu Feng was removed from textbooks in 1988, and a village bearing his name was changed. 69. Yijiang Balu’er, “Yuanzhumin.” The “compatriot” in shanbao also irked, absorbing the indigenous peoples into an ideology of Han kinship. It took eight years of lobbying to dislodge “mountain compatriots,” with the first official switch to “original inhabitants” appearing in constitutional amendments passed in 1994. Chen Zhihua, Zhonghua Min­ guo xianfa, appendix 2, 461–­67; Lianhebao, July 29, 1994, 1. When indigenous representatives met with President Lee Teng-­hui, news coverage noted that he conversed with them in Japanese. Lianhebao, July 2, 1994, 4. Lee (b. 1923) learned Japanese in colonial-­ era schools and attended Kyoto Imperial University. 70. Minjinbao zhoukan, no. 2 (1988): 28–­29; no. 4 (1988): 1; no. 33 (1988): 24–­26. 71. Chen Meiru, Taiwan yuyan jiaoyu zhengce, 79–­81. Local initiatives for bilingual education were controversial and encountered considerable obstacles: Which language(s)? Where to find suitable textbooks and qualified teachers? 72. Jiaoyubu gongbao, no. 221 (May 31, 1993): 42. In 2001 a new nine-­year integrated curriculum required primary school students to study at least one “local language.” Scott and Tiun, “Mandarin-­Only to Mandarin-­Plus,” 60–­62. 73. Tse, “Language and a Rising New Identity,” 161; “Kejiahua chengle zhengqu xuanpiao liqi.” 74. Wei, Language Choice and Identity Politics, 21–­22, 39–­40. 75. Sandel, “Linguistic Capital,” 530–­31; Tsao, “The Language Planning Situation in Taiwan,” 346.

E pilogue  343

76. Dupre, Culture, Politics and Linguistic Recognition, 103–­9. The language equality law reappeared in a different guise in 2003 as the “Development of National Languages Act” and finally passed in diluted form in 2019 (https://­law​.­moj​.­gov​.­t w​/­L awClass​/­L awAll​ .­a spx​?­pcode​=­H0170143, accessed November  1, 2020). “Language equality” in mass transportation has been mandated since 2002, with trilingual public announcements. With English added for the benefit of tourists, every stop on the Taipei metro is announced in four languages.

BIBLIOGR APHY

ARCHIVES Academia Historica, Taibei 國史館 Chongqing Municipal Archive 重慶市檔案館 Phonetic Promotion Committee Records, The Burke Theological Library at Union Theological Seminary, Columbia University Second Historical Archive, Nanjing 第二歷史檔案館 Shanghai Municipal Archive 上海市檔案館 Taiwan Historica 國史館臺灣文獻館, Provincial Executive Government Office 行政長官公署檔案 Taiwan National Archives Administration 國家檔案館 Taiwan Provincial Assembly Archives 臺灣省參議會, Institute of Taiwan History, Academia Sinica Wu Zhihui Papers 吳稚暉檔案, KMT Party History Committee, Taibei 中國國民黨文化傳播委員 會黨史館

Yuen Ren Chao Papers, BANC MSS 83/30c, The Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley

P R I M A RY P E R I O D I C A L S Diansheng 電聲 (Radio movie daily news) Guangbo aihaozhe 廣播愛好者 (Broadcasting fans) Guangbo zhoubao 廣播週報 (Broadcasting weekly)

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Guangming ribao 光明日报 (Guangming daily) Guoyu ribao 國語日報 (Mandarin daily news) Guoyu yuekan 國語月刊 (National language monthly) Guoyu zhoukan 國語週刊 (National language weekly) Jiaoshi bao 教師報 (Teachers news) Jiaoyu tongxun 教育通訊 (Education bulletin) Jiaoyu zazhi 教育雜誌 (Chinese educational review) Jiefangjun bao 解放軍報 (People’s Liberation Army daily) Renmin ribao 人民日報 (People’s daily) Shishi xinbao 時事新報 (Current affairs news) Wenzi gaige 文字改革 (Language reform) Xinshengbao 新生報 (New life daily) Yuwen jianshe 语文建设 (Language planning) Yuwen xuexi 語文學習 (Language learning) Zhongguo yuwen 中國語文 (Chinese language)

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Zuo Guangyuan 左光远. “Xuehui zhangwo xunlian zhong de zhongda wenti” 学会掌握训练中 的重大问题 (Learn to grasp major issues in training). Jiefangjun bao, September 15, 1956, 3. Zou Yiming 鄒毅明. “Zai putonghua jiaoxue zhong chubu kefu le fangyan de yingxiang” 在普 通話教学中初步克服了方言的影响 (In teaching the common language, initially overcome the influence of dialects). Jiangsu jiaoyu 江苏教育, no. 17 (1956): 26. “Zuo tuiguang putonghua de cujinpai” 做推广普通话的促进派 (Be advocates of popularizing the common language). Renmin ribao, December 23, 1982, 3.

INDEX

Note: Page numbers in italic type refer to figures or tables. 2–­28. See February 28th Incident army. See military; People’s Liberation Army Assassination of the Qin Emperor (film), 142 Association for the Promotion of Democracy, 338n190 “Authorized Pronunciation List of Variant Words in Putonghua,” 280, 285 Bai Dizhou, 75, 89, 121 Bao, Weihong, 144 Beijing pronunciation, 17, 27, 39, 42–­51, 52, 55, 59, 62–­64, 68, 70, 74, 85, 220, 222–­27, 241–­43, 246, 248, 253, 259, 266, 267 Beijinghua, 45, 51, 61–­64, 75, 86, 88, 91, 99, 126, 129, 151, 171, 178, 214, 222–­27, 246, 251, 261, 286 bilingual education and publications, 157, 167, 293, 342n71, 342n72 blue-­g reen guanhua: attitudes toward, 47, 48, 91, 132, 161–­62, 176–­78; in drama, 138–­39; in educational settings, 6, 38–­39,

67, 115, 129; as means of communication, 26, 48, 90 Boatman’s Daughter (film), 102 Border Education Committee, 152 Bourdieu, Pierre, 295 “Brief Discussion of the National Pronunciation,” 137–­38, 179 Bright Moon Ensemble, 95 Cai Yalin, 186–­87 Cai Yuan, 91 Cai Yuanpei, 27, 32, 124 Cang Yinqiu, 143 Cantonese language, 23, 26, 51, 72, 80–­81, 98, 103–­9, 141–­42, 271 Cao Shuduan, 228–­29 Center for the Promotion of the Phonetic Alphabet, 27 Central Broadcasting Station (XGOA), 82, 90, 92–­93, 107, 144, 248–­50, 271, 333n67 Central Committee Propaganda Department, 103 Central Daily News (newspaper), 162

402  IND E X

Central People’s Broadcasting Station, 247 Central Studios, 103 Chao Yuen Ren (Zhao Yuanren), 16, 58, 58–­66, 69, 76, 86, 89–­92, 99, 110–­11, 114, 120, 137, 154, 155, 157, 166, 174, 185, 213–­15, 241–­42, 309n102, 314n2 Character Dictionary of Standard National Pronunciation, 178–­79 Chen Boda, 275 Chen Cheng-­hsiung, 290 Chen Cuilian, 169 Chen Duxiu, 29 Chen Guofu, 105, 317n75 Chen Jinsi, 268–­70, 278 Chen Jitang, 80–­81, 107 Chen Ken, 204–­5 Chen Lifu, 103, 105, 137, 145, 160, 179, 317n75 Chen Mengjia, 338n194 Chen Qidan, 141 Chen Qihao, 135 Chen Runzhai, 259–­60, 263, 269 Chen Shicai, 205 Chen Taiyou, 211 Chen Wangdao, 225 Chen Ximeng, 111, 114 Chen Yi, 166, 167, 169, 178–­79, 193, 270 Chen Youren, 72 Chen Youzhen, 273 Chen Yunshang, 142, 143 Chen Zengxun, 184 Chen Zhongzhang, 161 Cheng Shousong, 64 Chiang Ching-­kuo, 135 Chiang Kai-­shek, 17, 72, 73, 145, 152, 162, 197 China Central Television (CCTV), 285–­86 China Sunday School Union, 56 China Times (newspaper), 50 Chinese Academy of Sciences, 224, 243 Chinese Education Film Association, 103 Chinese National Language Records for the Use of Foreigners, 62 Chongqing, 119, 120, 122, 132, 136, 142, 144, 147–­48, 155, 160, 162, 165

Chu Kao-­cheng, 289–­90, 342n57 civil service, 11–­13, 196–­97, 206–­7, 284 civil wars, 22, 28, 45–­46, 64, 164, 166, 180, 184–­85, 188–­89, 220, 247 classical language, 21, 26, 54, 65, 72, 77, 89, 126, 188 Columbia Phonograph Company, 59, 62, 76 Commercial Press, 36, 50, 53, 58, 89 Commonly Used Vocabulary of National Pronunciation, 74–­76, 125, 137–­38, 178–­79, 190 Communications Ministry, 93, 94 comparative method (pedagogy), 155–­56, 165–­66, 174–­75, 184, 243–­47 Complete Collection of Household Treasures, 14 Conference to Unify Pronunciation, 17, 23–­24, 26–­28, 36, 44, 45, 160, 188, 190, 272 Confucianism, 23, 29, 63, 74, 130, 292 Confucius, 11, 214, 287 Confucius (film), 142 Cosmetics Market (film), 98–­99 cross-­cut method, 36 Cui Hai, 189–­90 Cultural Revolution, 275, 281, 282 curling the tongue. See retroflection Dai Ce, 109 Datian county, acquisition of putonghua in, 269 DeFrancis, John, 219; Nationalism and Language Reform in China, 7 Democratic Progressive Party (DPP, Taiwan), 289–­94 Deng Xiaoping, 276, 277, 279, 285 Dewey, John, 43, 61 Di Zhuojun, 82 dialect (fangyan and fangyin) phonetic notation, 111, 114–­15, 148, 155–­56, 165, 175. See also fangyan dialects: in PRC, 223, 243–­47, 249–­51, 267, 274, 286; in Taiwan, 18, 170–­76, 193–­98,

IND EX  403

204–­7, 289–­94. See also fangyan; pronunciation: local vs. national Diao Banhua, 143 dictionaries, 35–­37, 49–­50, 74–­76, 136–­37, 178–­79, 272, 280, 285 Dictionary of Modern Chinese, 280 dictionary of national pronunciation, 30, 35, 36, 56, 64, 214 direct method (pedagogy), 79, 165, 185–­87, 243 Dongfang Publishing, 190 DPP. See Democratic Progressive Party drama, 138–­41, 249 Edkins, Joseph, 15 education: bilingual, 293, 342n71, 342n72; experiments in, 43–­44, 127–­28, 184–­87; films produced for, 103; language standards as issue in, 21–­22; in PRC, 228–­30, 233–­47, 259–­64, 271–­73, 278, 280, 282–­84, 337n172; problems and shortcomings, 6, 37–­39, 76–­78, 129–­31, 148–­51, 182, 210–­11, 228–­30, 233–­34, 237–­38, 259–­63, 278; in Taiwan, 167–­70, 174–­87, 208–­10, 288, 293; teaching of pronunciation, 12–­13, 37–­39, 50–­55, 64, 71–­72, 76–­82; during War of Resistance, 120–­31, 133–­34. See also instructional approaches; manuals and handbooks; primary and middle schools; teachers; textbooks and primers Education Ministry: criticisms of, 38, 44–­45, 81; and curricula, 241; dialect survey required by, 115; and dictionaries, 36–­38, 49, 178; under KMT, 68; and National Language Committee, 215; and phonetic alphabet, 28, 29, 70–­72; and phonograph records, 40–­42, 62, 89; in PRC, 241, 249, 259, 266–­67, 271, 278, 283; promotion of national language by, 1, 23, 68, 81, 152, 160; proposals submitted to, 26, 47, 130–­31, 159; and radio, 93, 249; and Taiwan, 165, 172, 178, 182, 293; and teacher training, 50, 53, 135–­36, 148, 221–­22, 238–­39, 283; and

textbooks, 33, 157; during War of Resistance, 120–­23, 127, 129–­31 Entrance of Thy Words Giveth Light, 31 Esperanto, 29, 144 experts, 16–­17, 23, 35–­38, 219 extravocalics, 34–­35, 110–­11, 112, 114, 155, 174 Fan Shoukang, 168–­69 Fan Xiangshan, 32, 65 Fang Yi, 30 fangyan (local speech), 4–­5, 79, 110–­16, 113, 171–­75, 208, 213. See also dialect (fangyan and fangyin) phonetic notation February 28th Incident (2–­28), 164, 169, 184, 192–­93, 198, 289, 291, 321n5 Fei Weirong, 264 fifth tone, 24, 42, 62, 70, 74, 90 film: Cantonese, 103–­9, 142; censorship of, 104–­10, 144, 312n171; educational uses of, 103; in Guangdong, 102, 104–­5; in Hong Kong, 104–­5, 109, 142; national language issues in, 17–­18, 95–­104, 107–­9, 141–­4 4, 285; scarcity of speech in, 101–­2; in Shanghai, 96–­100, 102, 104–­9, 142–­4 4; sound in early, 96–­97; during War of Resistance, 141–­43 Film Censorship Committee, 104–­5, 107–­9 Four Modernizations, 277–­82 Frontier Education Committee, 159 frontiers, 18, 132, 150–­59, 165 Gao Jingting, Synopsis of Correct Pronunciation, 13–­14 genbun itchi movement, 10, 17, 22–­23 General Political Department, 252 Gong Jianong, 97, 99 GR. See Gwoyeu Romatzyh gramophone records. See phonograph records Great Leap Forward, 268–­73 Gu Shi, 48 Guangdong, 23, 80–­81, 102, 104–­5, 107, 121–­23

40 4 IND E X

Guangdong People’s Station, 247 Guangming Daily (newspaper), 227, 235 guanhua (official language): challenges to, 23, 24; educational uses of, 6, 12–­13; rebirth of, in twentieth century, 15; standardization initiatives for, 11–­16; uses of, 4; variations in, 13–­15. See also blue-­g reen guanhua Gunn, Edward, 285 Guo Bingwen, 43, 46 Guo Moruo, 145 guoyu (national language): in films, 18; pedagogical uses of, 6; putonghua compared to, 19–­20, 61, 80, 218, 272, 332n30; in Taiwan, 4, 18–­20, 170–­76; use of the term, 4. See also national language guoyu environment, 20, 77, 79, 92, 134, 211, 260 Gwoyeu Romatzyh (GR), 17, 61–­62, 69, 74, 82–­83, 85–­87, 90, 116–­17, 153, 157, 241. See also Latin alphabet Hakka, 163–­64, 174, 290, 291–­93 Hakka Rights Promotion Union, 291–­92 Hanyu (language of the Han people), 4, 153, 223, 247, 250, 258, 259 Hanzi (Chinese script), 4, 70, 124, 153, 261 He Rong, 84, 129, 166, 167, 173, 174, 176–­78, 187, 200–­201, 215 Heng Lixing, 124 Hirata, Shoji, 13 Hollywood films, 96, 106, 311n133 Hong Kong, 104–­5, 123–­24, 142, 282, 286, 287 Hong Shen, 97, 140 Hong Yanqiu, 191 Hou Hsi-­fan, 145 Huaguang Drama School, 140 Huang Hsin-­chieh, 292 Huang Zhishang, 75, 80 Huayu (language of China), 4 Hubei, 23 Hu Die, 96–­100, 103–­6, 142, 143 Hu Hanmin, 80–­81, 107

Hu Qiaomu, 222–­23, 331n20 Hu Shi, 27, 38, 51–­53, 58–­59, 86, 126, 188, 214, 332n30 Hundred Flowers movement, 257, 263–­64 Hung, Chang-­tai, 139 illiteracy. See literacy Illustrated Phonetic Primer, 57 Inner Mongolia People’s Station, 247 instructional approaches: comparative method, 155–­56, 165–­66, 174–­75, 184, 243–­47; criticisms of, 37, 237–­38; dialects as means of learning putonghua, 243–­47; direct method, 79, 165, 185–­87, 243; language of instruction, 6, 28, 39, 71, 107, 128–­29, 148–­49, 152–­53, 167, 170, 174, 176, 181–­82, 195, 271–­72, 278, 280, 288–­89; phonetic alphabet, 6; phonograph records, 26, 50, 89; in PRC, 237–­43; in Taiwan, 165, 167, 170, 174; to tonal differentiation, 39, 241–­42, 245; traditional, 28, 46, 130, 240. See also education; textbooks and primers interlinear notation, 111, 113 International Phonetic Alphabet (IPA), 111, 154–­55, 240–­41, 243 Japan: cultural influence on occupied countries, 10, 162, 163–­64, 167–­68; genbun itchi movement, 10, 17, 22–­23; resistance to influence of, 17, 30, 46, 138–­45, 149, 162, 192–­93, 198–­204, 212–­13; script of, 26, 126, 127, 149, 165; War of Resistance against, 18, 116–­62 Japanese language, 163–­64, 166–­67, 169–­70, 181, 192–­93, 195, 198–­204, 208, 210–­13. See also kokugo Jiang Lian, 253 Jiang Qing, 101, 312n155, 313n190 Jiang Tingfu, 136, 317n71 Jinling University, 103 Jones, Andrew, 52, 95, 109

IND EX  40 5

kana (Japanese script), 26, 126, 127, 149, 165 Kangxi Dictionary, 36 Kemal, Mustafa (Atatürk), 87, 147, 309n90 Kirby, William, 10 KMT. See Nationalist (KMT) regime kokugo (Japanese language in Taiwan), 163–­64, 167, 173 Kong Lingjin, 140 Kong Min, 211–­12 Korea, 162, 195, 203 Kula, Witold, 8 Kuo Kuo-­chi, 168 Language and Literature (journal), 116 language equality legislation (Taiwan), 294, 343n76 Language Reform Committee, 217, 219, 226, 241, 247, 259, 264–­65, 273, 280–­81 Lan Yaozhu, 251 Lao She, 139 Latin alphabet, 14, 23, 49, 61–­62, 69, 74, 87, 124, 131, 149, 166, 219, 222. See also Gwoyeu Romatzyh; Sin Wenz League of Left-­w ing Dramatists, 138 League of Left-­w ing Writers, 308n75 Lee Teng-­hui, 293, 342n69 left-­w ing cinema, 99, 105–­6 Lei Feng, 273–­74 Li Dongyue, 133 Li Hongchun, 256–­57 Li Jinhui, 49, 52–­53, 95, 312n162 Li Jinxi, 16, 33–­36, 40–­49, 51, 61, 63–­65, 76, 79, 81, 84, 85, 89, 114–­15, 116, 120, 136, 145, 147–­48, 151, 153–­57, 159–­60, 173, 174, 192, 218; Guoyu yundong shigang, 7; seven-­column textbook, 157, 158 Li Minghui, 52–­53, 95 Li Shulun, 141 Li Wanju, 166–­67 Li Xianglan. See Yamaguchi Yoshiko Liang Jianhua, 253 Liang Qichao, 189

Liang Rongruo, 213–­15 Lianhua Studios, 103 Light of Learning (newspaper), 45–­48, 50 Lin Dafen, 236–­37 Lin Jin, 242 Lin Kuang-­hwa, 292 Lin Qiongyi, 193–­94 Lin Sen, 145 Lin Shaoxian, 194–­95 Lin Tsung-­y uan, “A Fine for Every Sentence,” 288–­89 Lin Zhong, 166 literacy: fangyin phonetic and, 111, 114–­15; in Japan, 149; in the military, 251; phonetic alphabet and, 28–­29, 73, 128, 156, 159; regional languages as aid to, 6; Sin Wenz and, 83–­84; standard pronunciation vs., 160–­61; during War of Resistance, 145–­50 Liu Baichuan, 77–­78, 82, 307n44 Liu Daosheng, 281 Liu Daxiong, 123 Liu Delan, 257–­58 Liu Ru, 51, 54 Liu Xiaoliang, 133 Liu Xiaoyun, 251 loudspeakers, 19, 248, 250, 284, 286, 336n126 Lu Ji, 45–­46, 48, 114 Lu Qian, 136 Lü Shuxiang, 277 Lu Xun, 84 Lu Yiyan, 39 Lu Zhiwei, 125–­26 Lufei Kui, 21–­22, 40–­41, 43, 47 Luo Changpei, 122 Luo Gang, 106, 107 Luo Shaohan, 148 Ma, Jean, 95 Mackensie, Alexander, 56 MacKinnon, Stephen, 120 mahjong, 130–­31 Manchu language, 13, 23

40 6  IND EX

Mandarin: conceptions of, 2; origin and meanings of the term, 3–­4; scholarship on, 2, 7–­9. See also national language Mandarin Daily News (newspaper), 175, 187–­92, 195, 196, 209, 215, 326n131 Mandarin Experimental Primary School (MEPS), 184–­87, 204 Mandarin-­only policy, 18, 164–­65 manuals and handbooks, 27, 48, 70, 79, 129, 167, 184–­85, 243–­44, 269. See also textbooks and primers MaoSpeak/MaoStyle, 275 Mao Zedong, 33, 101, 218–­19, 223, 247, 268, 273, 275, 285 mass language (dazhongyu) movement, 84–­85 May Fourth movement, 2, 22, 139, 272 Mei Lanfang, 97 MEPS. See Mandarin Experimental Primary School Miao ethnic group, 119, 150 military, language issues in, 197–­98, 251–­58, 278–­79 Minbao (newspaper), 168, 322n23 Mingxing Studio, 98, 105 Minnanhua, 163–­64, 166–­67, 174, 194, 288, 290, 291, 293 missionaries, 29–­30, 35, 56–­57, 83, 111, 212 Mongolian ethnic group, 119, 157, 159 mother tongue, 164–­65, 173, 175, 2 91–­93, 323n53 mountains, indigenous peoples in Taiwan’s, 208–­13, 290, 292–­93 Mountain View Weekly (newspaper), 209 MovieTone (magazine), 105 Movie World (magazine), 107 Mrs. Mai (film), 106 Mrs. Virtue (film), 105–­6 Mulan Joins the Army (film), 142 music. See opera; popular music; yellow music Muslim script, 154, 157, 319n147

Na Di, 252 name rectification, 292 Nanjing Higher Normal, 43 National Assembly (Taiwan), 187, 204, 215 National Conference on Language Reform, 217–­23, 228, 237, 281 National Education Association, 73, 187 National Federation of Education Associations, 45–­47, 49 National Geographic (magazine), 87 National Institute for Compilation and Translation, 159 nationalism, national language in relation to, 3, 6–­7, 16, 120, 203, 295 Nationalist (KMT) regime: censorship practices of, 104–­10, 144, 312n171; China unified under, 17; directives of, 72–­73, 80; in exile, 18, 118–­62; national language promoted by, 17–­18, 68–­162; Propaganda Department, 105; radio broadcasts by, 145; scholarship on, 10; in Taiwan, 4, 18–­19, 163–­216, 288–­93 national language: civil service and, 11–­13, 196–­97, 206–­7, 284; comparative study of, 10–­11; components of, 48; conflicts and controversies, 3, 4, 6, 17, 19–­20, 22–­27, 62–­66, 82–­86, 116, 149, 185, 192–­207, 214, 224–­25; development of, 2–­4, 16–­17, 287; KMT’s promotion of, 17–­18, 68–­162; likened to foreign language, 3, 32, 51, 65, 79, 86, 106, 129, 175, 184; minority languages and, 119; nationalism in relation to, 3, 6–­7, 16, 120, 203, 295; origins of, 23; prevalence of, 1–­2, 298n4; resistance to learning and using, 5, 19–­20, 207, 277, 295; scholarship on, 7–­9; Sino-­Japanese War’s effect on, 118–­20, 132, 136, 138–­45, 151, 161–­62; in Taiwan, 4, 10, 18–­20, 163–­216, 287–­94. See also guoyu; Mandarin; pronunciation; putonghua; standards of speech; unification of national language National Language Chatterbox (record), 88

IND E X  407

National Language Education Advancement Association, 89, 93 national language environment, 20, 77, 79, 92, 134, 211, 260 national language films, 96 national language institutes, 50–­53 National Language Promotion Committee (China), 136, 137, 147, 154–­55, 163; Dialect Subcommittee, 155–­57 National Language Promotion Committee (Taiwan), 89, 165, 166, 172, 175, 177–­79, 181, 184–­87, 189–­91, 196–­98, 209, 215, 289 National Language Research Society, 28 National Language Unification Preparatory Committee, 28, 35–­36, 38–­39, 43, 49, 64, 68, 71, 74, 114, 116 National Language Week, 160, 162 National Language Weekly (journal), 84 National People’s Congress, 276 National Radio and Television Administration, 283–­85 National Resources Commission, 194 New China Dictionary, 272, 280 New Chinese Rhyming Dictionary, 136–­37, 179 New Method Series for the National Language, 39, 55, 57 New Phonograph Recordings for the National Language, 166 New Writing. See Sin Wenz New Youth (journal), 29 Ng Chiau-­tong, 198 Ni Haishu, 224–­25, 227 Nie Ruchuan, 266 northern speech, 13, 15, 23–­24, 27, 29, 33, 38, 41, 43, 60–­61, 71, 74–­75, 88, 97, 107, 110, 133, 220, 222, 245–­46, 272 opera, 12, 41, 88, 92–­94, 96–­97, 105–­6, 108, 249, 250 Ouyang Qiang, 253 Overseas Chinese Station (XMHC), 94

Pan Gongzhan, 147 Pan Gugan, 116 Pan Qingzhang, 172 parents, objections to national language from, 54, 55, 67, 77, 78, 195, 199, 228–­29, 260–­61, 265, 276–­78 Pathé, 40, 41 pedagogy. See instructional approaches People’s Daily (newspaper), 2, 224, 263, 277, 287 People’s Liberation Army (PLA), 250–­58, 273, 278–­79 People’s Republic of China: and education, 228–­30, 233–­47, 259–­64, 271–­73, 278, 280, 282–­84, 337n172; local languages in relation to the common language in, 223, 243–­47, 249–­51, 267, 274, 286; and the military, 251–­58; new constitution in, 276; and putonghua, 4, 19–­20, 153, 217–­88; and radio, 247–­51; teachers in, 234–­43, 246, 259–­63, 266, 271–­73, 278, 282–­84 Peterson, Glen, 247 Pettus, William, 63 phonetic alphabet: conflicts and controversies, 17, 34, 40, 44–­47, 49, 53–­54, 65; development of, for national language, 24–­35, 25; dictionaries’ use of, 36; instructional uses of, 6, 28, 40, 41, 46–­47, 53–­55, 65; KMT and, 111; and literacy promotion, 145, 147, 159; missionaries and, 29–­30, 56–­57; rationales for, 28–­29, 32; as replacement for script, 28–­30, 32 phonetic notation, 6, 17, 24, 111, 113, 147–­48, 153–­56, 160, 174. See also zhuyin fuhao Phonetic Phrasebook of Xinjiang Muslim Script, 154 Phonetic Promotion Committee, 30, 56 Phonograph Course in the National Language, 59 phonograph records, 40–­42, 47, 50, 57–­63, 66, 76, 88–­90, 240, 266 pinyin (phonetic spelling), 19, 217, 218, 222, 241, 269, 271, 273, 281

40 8 IND E X

PLA. See People’s Liberation Army PLA Daily (newspaper), 253, 256–­57, 278–­79 PLA Soldier (magazine), 252, 255 Platinum Dragon (film), 104–­5, 312n174 popular entertainment, 88, 92, 94–­95. See also drama; film; popular music; radio; television popular music, 58, 88, 94–­95, 103, 109, 214 Preparatory Committee. See National Language Unification Preparatory Committee primary and middle schools, 17, 21–­22, 26, 37, 39, 46, 55, 67, 71–­72, 77–­78, 81–­82, 129–­30, 135, 148–­49, 180–­82, 195–­96, 209–­10, 228–­30, 264 primers. See textbooks and primers pronunciation: chart, 146; civil service standards for, 11–­13, 196–­97, 206–­7, 284; conflicts and controversies, 23–­27, 42–­66; diagrams, 221; educational initiatives on, 12–­13; local vs. national, 6, 32, 39–­40, 43, 54, 67, 69, 72, 77, 89, 110–­16, 113, 223, 243–­47, 249–­51, 267, 286; national vs. Beijing, 42–­50; in PRC, 224–­25; radio and, 248; teaching of, 12–­13, 37–­39, 50–­55, 64, 71–­72, 76–­82. See also Beijing pronunciation; standards of speech Provincial Assembly (Taiwan), 168–­69, 174 Pu Gongying, 203 putonghua (common language): attitudes toward, 222, 244–­45, 261, 276–­7 7; concepts of “common” associated with, 19, 80, 83, 218, 226, 258; constitutional validation of, 276; dialects as means of learning, 243–­47; difficulties and resistance, 218, 228–­35, 239, 245–­47, 254, 256–­57, 259–­67, 269, 274–­75, 277–­79, 287; the Four Modernizations and, 277–­82; the Great Leap and, 268–­73; guoyu compared to, 19–­20, 61, 80, 218, 272, 332n30; historical roots of, 220, 225–­26, 258, 287; the military and, 251–­58; in PRC, 4, 19–­20, 217–­18, 217–­88; proficiency in, 1–­2, 228–­34, 279, 280, 283–­84; radio and, 247–­51

Putonghua Proficiency Test, 283 Putonghua Promotion Publicity Week, 287 Putonghua Pronunciation Audit Committee, 242, 280, 285 Putonghua Work Committee, 262 Qi Tiehen, 88–­89, 166, 189–­91 Qi Zhixian, 187 Qian Xuantong, 29, 36, 38, 49, 114, 137, 154 Qing dynasty, linguistic concerns of, 7–­8, 13, 22–­23, 33, 151, 171 Qiu Niantai, 167 Qiu Pan Xiuchun, 205–­6 Qu Qiubai, 83, 173, 308n75 radio, 90–­95, 144–­45, 166, 247–­51, 266, 283–­86, 288. See also loudspeakers Radio and Television Law (Taiwan), 288, 292, 293 records. See phonograph records Red Flag (magazine), 268 Red Vase (film), 143 Reed, Christopher, 33 Ren Guolun, 202 Ren Shenghan, 184 rightists, persecution of, 264, 266–­68, 338n190, 338n194, 338n195 Rohsenow, John, 280–­81 R-­suffixation (retroflection), 62, 63, 74–­75, 88–­90, 190, 224, 245 Ruan Lingyu, 108 rural schools, 16, 67, 76–­79, 121, 129, 133, 135 Scenes of City Life (film), 101 Schopenhauer, Arthur, 141 scientific approach, to national language, 44–­45, 175, 185, 240, 334n79 script: eradication of, 28–­30, 32, 39, 83, 124; Muslim, 154, 157, 319n147; reform of, 23, 218–­19; in Turkey, 87. See also Hanzi (Chinese script); kana (Japanese script); written language Shanghai, 33, 85, 94–­100, 102, 104–­9, 124–­25, 142–­44

IND EX  40 9

Shanghai Art and Drama Society, 140 Shanghai Broadcasting (XGAH), 94 Shanghai Station, 248 Shao Lizi, 108 Shen Fuchu, 55 Shenzhen, 282 Shi Cong, 254–­55 Shi Shusen, 131–­32 shifan schools, 134–­36, 183. See also teachers: training of Shouli, Wu, 177 Shue, Vivienne, 274 Simmons, Richard VanNess, 15 Sino-­Japanese War, 18, 116–­62 Sin Wenz (New Writing), 17, 83–­86, 115, 116, 124, 153, 218, 241 Sin Wenz Study Society, 124 Sit Gok-­sin, 104 Small Newspaper for the Masses, 147 Smith, Stephen, 274 Song Qun, 255 Songstress Red Peony (film), 96–­99 Soong Mei-­ling, 145 southern speech, 13–­15, 24, 33, 35, 38, 41, 43, 60–­62, 71, 97, 107, 132–­33, 161, 222, 245–­46, 272 Soviet Union, 10, 225, 243 Special Economic Zones, 282 speech: conflicts associated with, 3, 5, 6; writing conventionally privileged over, 2; written language contrasted with, 11. See also national language; pronunciation; standards of speech speech contests, 81–­82, 125, 194, 211, 271 Spring on Stage (film), 98 Stalin, Joseph, 225–­26, 331n5 Standard National Pronunciation and National Language Records, 89 Standard National Pronunciation Dictionary, 190 standards of speech: attitudes toward, 5, 263–­64; conflicting approaches to, 8–­9; difficulties and variations, 2, 6, 8, 32, 34–­35, 176–­78, 190–­91, 277, 280; in late

imperial period, 11–­15; the military and, 252–­58; as pedagogical issue, 21–­22; in PRC, 220, 223–­25, 227, 265, 274, 283–­86; radio/television and, 248, 284–­86. See also unification of national language State Council (PRC), 226, 237, 248, 253, 255, 257, 259, 265, 267, 272, 276 State Language Commission, 280–­81, 283, 285, 286 Story in a Cantonese Opera Company (film), 105–­6 Street Angel (film), 101–­2 Su Hong Yue Chiao, 290 Sun Fo, 86 Sun Yat-­sen, 86, 153, 167, 168, 189, 200, 291 Sun Yishan, 130–­31 Suo Yizun, Essence of Correct Pronunciation, 14–­15 Symposium on Standardization of Modern Chinese, 224–­25 Taiwan: education in, 167–­70, 174–­87, 208–­10, 288, 293; elites of, 164, 169, 202; indigenous peoples of, 208–­13, 290, 292–­93, 342n69; KMT rule in, 4, 18, 163–­216, 288–­93; language conflicts in, 18, 164–­65, 167–­70, 176–­78; languages spoken in, 18, 163–­64, 178; local languages in relation to the national language in, 18, 170–­76, 193–­98, 204–­7, 289–­94; mainlander-­islander relations, 164, 168–­69, 172, 193–­94, 288, 293–­94; the military and national language in, 197–­98; mother tongue in, 164–­65, 173, 175, 291–­93; national language in, 4, 10, 18–­20, 163–­216, 287–­94; slave mentality imputed to residents of, 164, 168–­69, 192, 200, 207, 212, 291; sociopolitical tensions in, 164, 200–­207, 289–­94; tensions over Japanese influence in, 10, 164, 167–­70, 192–­93, 198–­204, 212–­13 Taiwan Broadcasting Station, 166 Taiwanese language, 167, 170–­76, 185, 191, 193–­96, 288–­94, 321n1. See also Taiyu

410  IND E X

Taiwan New Life Daily (newspaper), 167, 169 Taiyu, 163, 171, 194–­95, 199, 290, 321n1. See also Taiwanese language Tam, Gina, 5, 243 Tang Na, 106, 312n155, 313n190 Tang poetry, 23 Tao Houmin, 230 Tao Xingzhi, 43, 84, 86, 114 teachers: attitudes of, toward national language, 37, 55, 65, 71, 77, 234, 246, 264, 278; on the frontiers, 152; perceptions of, 183, 229–­30; in PRC, 234–­43, 246, 259–­63, 266, 271–­73, 278, 282–­84; proficiency of, 12–­13, 65, 76–­81, 133–­34, 148, 180–­83, 229, 234–­37, 239, 278, 283–­84, 337n172; students’ inability to understand, 12–­13, 184, 195, 210–­11, 236; in Taiwan, 176, 179–­83, 208–­10; training of, 39, 44, 50–­53, 80, 81, 133–­36, 183, 221–­22, 237–­40, 246, 259, 266, 282–­84; during War of Resistance, 120–­23, 132–­36, 152. See also instructional approaches Teachers’ News (newspaper), 259 television, 283–­86, 288, 293 textbooks and primers, 13–­15, 28, 33, 37, 39, 42, 68, 157, 159, 166, 184, 194, 209, 240. See also manuals and handbooks theater. See drama Thom, Robert, 14, 299n37 Three Character Classic, 130, 159 Three Principles of the People, 168, 197 Tianyi Studio, 98, 104–­5 Tibetan ethnic group, 157, 159 tonal differentiation: Beijinghua and, 51, 225; conflicts and controversies, 9, 38, 85; disregard of, 34, 39, 63, 83–­84; in early language unification, 24; GR and, 69, 85; instructional approaches to, 39, 241–­42, 245; instructions for, 137; local vs. national, 148; notation of, 24; in phonograph records, 41–­42, 63, 89; in PRC, 241–­42; on the radio, 90. See also fifth tone; tones, number of

tonal spelling, 69 tones, number of, 14–­15, 23, 24, 34, 38, 41, 49, 51, 56, 60, 89. See also fifth tone; tonal differentiation Tsu, Jing, 165 tuhua (earth talk or local speech), 4–­5 Turkey, 10, 17, 87–­88, 147, 309n90, 309n93 Twin Sisters (film), 99–­101 unification of national language: early twentieth-­century initiatives for, 26–­27; education as component of, 6, 21–­22; ideological rationale for, 2, 5, 22–­23, 28, 151–­52; issues in, 17, 19, 21–­26; KMT and, 127–­31, 147; practical outcomes sought with, 28–­29, 281–­82. See also national language; standards of speech Union Table of Analytical Chinese Phonology and Comparative Phonetic Association, 155–­56, 160, 320n157 Union Table of Phonetic Notation, 111, 114, 154, 155, 174 United Daily News (newspaper), 290 United Front, 266, 338n190 Uyghur ethnic group, 18, 154, 157 Voice of China (radio), 145 Wade, Thomas, 15 Wade-­Giles romanization, 167 Wang Dongjie, 225; Shengru xintong, 8 Wang Hanlun, 143 Wang Jingwei, 123, 126, 145 Wang Li, 91, 156, 225, 228, 244, 258, 266, 279, 338n195 Wang Pu, 24, 27–­28, 33, 36, 40–­42, 47, 50, 53, 57–­60, 58, 66, 75–­76; National Language Conversation, 121 Wang Xianzhai, 97, 99 Wang Yi, 43, 49 Wang Yuchuan, 88, 116–­17, 127–­28, 185–­86 Wang Zhao, 24, 26 Warnshuis, A. L., 30

IND E X  411

War of Resistance. See Sino-­Japanese War Wei Daoming, 193, 194 Wei Jiangong, 114, 136–­37, 160, 165–­66, 170–­71, 173, 176–­78, 185, 218, 272 Wei Na, 172 Wei Que, 264 wengai (language reform), 217 Williams, Samuel Wells, 15 written language: privileged over speech, 2; reform of, 23; speech contrasted with, 11; in the vernacular, 2, 22, 37. See also script Wu Feng, 292, 342n68 Wu Guozhen, 194 Wu Tian, Dusk, 140, 317n89 Wu Xiuqin, 150–­51 Wu Yuzhang, 153, 217–­18, 271 Wu Zhihui, 16, 24, 27, 29, 30, 35–­37, 39, 48–­49, 53, 64, 65, 68, 73–­74, 91, 111, 114, 137, 149–­50, 156–­57, 160, 190, 192, 214 Wu Zhuzhen, 125 Wushan, acquisition of putonghua in, 268–­70 XGOA. See Central Broadcasting Station XGOY (radio station), 145 Xia Peizhen, 97 Xia Qi’an, 82 Xia Yan, Under Shanghai Eaves, 140–­41, 317n89 xiangsheng (comic performance), 255–­56 Xiao Dichen, 83 Xiao Jialin, 172 Xie Jiguang, 133 Xinhua News Agency, 1 Xinhua Radio (XNCR), 247, 336n122 Xinhua Studio, 142 XNCR. See Xinhua Radio Xu Jialu, 287 Xu Jian, 205 Xu Lai, 102, 312n162 Xu Mei, 1 Xu Mo, 141

Xu Shirong, 218, 237–­39, 242, 249, 276–­78, 333n67 Xu Suling, 149–­50 Xu Xihua, 154 Xuan Jinglin, 100 Xue Changshou, 222 Yamaguchi Yoshiko (Li Xianglan), 144, 318n109 Yan Xishan, 28–­29, 53 Yang Buwei, 61 Ye Chen, 139 Ye Laishi, 219 Ye Zizhi, 180 yellow music, 94–­95, 103 Yi ethnic group, 119 Youth League, 270, 271 Yu Jinyan, 264 Yu Kuo-­hua, 289–­90 Yu Ziyi, 79, 94, 129, 266, 316n39, 338n190 Yuan Muzhi, 101 Yuan Shikai, 23, 27–­28 Yue Fei (film), 142 Yue Sibing, 85, 243, 308n79; National Language Conversation Practice, 121 Zhan Bohui, 243–­45 Zhang Baoquan, 121 Zhang Binglin, 23 Zhang Fangjie, 174 Zhang Gonggui, 231–­32, 240, 245 Zhang Qingchang, 118, 119 Zhang Shankun, 142 Zhang Shiyi, 43–­49, 52, 55, 63 Zhang Shizhao, 63 Zhang Weigang, 121–­22, 245, 315n9 Zhang Wentong, 123 Zhang Xinzhu, 101 Zhang Xiruo, 220–­21, 226, 231 Zhang Xiwen, 186–­87, 204 Zhang Yongrong, 114 Zhang, Zhen, 99 Zhao Deshan, 270

412 IND E X

Zhao Minzhi, 229 Zhao Yuanren. See Chao Yuen Ren Zhao Yuren, 79–­80 Zheng Baolai, 204–­5 Zheng Xiaocang, 68 Zheng Xiaoqiu, 100–­101 Zheng Zhengqiu, 100 Zhong Luqi, 79 Zhong, Yurou, 83 Zhonghua Books, 21, 40, 47, 50, 52, 59, 76, 89 Zhou Bianming, 156 Zhou Enlai, 249, 267, 270 Zhou Jianyun, 97 Zhou Xinwu, 249 Zhou Xuan, 95, 101–­3

Zhou Youguang, 218, 285, 287–­88 Zhu Boshi, 236 Zhu Jiahua, 188 Zhu Ming, 127 Zhu, Ping, 231 Zhu Zhaoxiang, 191–­92, 195–­96 zhuyin fuhao (phonetic appended symbols), 70, 89, 90, 110–­11, 114–­15, 127–­28, 131, 134, 135, 137, 145, 147–­50, 152–­57, 160, 165, 186–­89, 197, 200, 209 zhuyin zimu (phonetic alphabet), 6, 17, 24–­34, 25, 70, 72–­73, 125, 220–­22, 221, 229, 238, 240–­41, 245 Zong Shu, 39–­40 Zou Yiming, 236